Someday Never Comes 4

[roxy]

Bobby sent them out back to a spot he'd cleared out of the yard, hay bales with targets pinned to them made one side of the range, and a home-made obstacle course made the other. It was hot and dusty out there, the sun turning the cars around them into beacons. They learned to compensate for sudden blinding flares—Bobby said he'd done it on purpose but Dean figured he'd just been too lazy to shift the wrecks around…soon they fell into the familiar pattern of shoot, load, shoot, wait for Sammy to stop bitching about the heat and the dirt and how stupid it all was and shoot some more. Caleb walked over to Sam and said something quiet to him, and Sam nodded. He didn't even shrug Caleb's hand off his shoulder, and smiled a bit when Caleb patted him on the back and left him to pop off a few more shots. He flat out grinned when Caleb called time, and raced off to the house, done for the moment. Turning fourteen might have given him a few more inches height, and a better reach, but it hadn't made him like PT or target practice anymore than he used to.

Dean though, he liked it out there. He worked out by himself plenty of times but liked working out even better when Caleb trained with them, always eager to get praise from Caleb. Caleb was good at instructing--he was even handed with them both. He always found something good to say, and if he had to correct them, he did it in a way that made Dean want to work harder—even Sam would grudgingly accept praise from Caleb, and Dean noticed that Sam would work a little harder too, with Caleb around. Like he'd done today, shooting past the point he'd wanted to.

Dean had turned out to be a dead shot, took after Dad, Caleb said. Caleb said he was better than Dad but Dean doubted that. Still, it made him blush and fight a grin whenever Caleb said so. Sam was pretty hit-or-miss when it came to accuracy. It was the same with knives—Sam's first few throws were always pretty good but his accuracy dropped off fast and no amount of practice improved that drop-off. Caleb reminded Sam that he was young still, and not to worry about it too much, he was sure to improve as he got older. But the fact was, Sam was never going to have to go on a hunt and test that ability. Likely if Bobby had his way, neither Sam nor Dean would ever put these particular skills to the test.

Dean of course, had his own ideas, but he kept them to himself. Someday, he was going to go after the bitch that had ruined their lives and taken their mom away. Hell, it took their dad too, just as surely as if the monster had killed him personally, and no way was a Winchester going to walk away from that. Dean thought about it a lot, how it would go. He figured one of these days, when Caleb pulled out of the yard, he'd ride right out with him and finish what John Winchester started. He made plans, what he'd take, what he'd need, how he'd live, and kept it to himself because he knew Sam would probably kill him if he knew, hell, Bobby too.

Caleb broke into Dean's thoughts again, coming up behind him quiet as a cat. He leaned over Dean's shoulder, passing him off a Miller. He clacked the chilly bottle against Dean's and upended it. Dean grinned, rolled the icy wet bottle across his forehead and cheeks—mock-glared at Caleb. "Uncle Bobby know you cracked into his cooler?" He waved the bottle and Caleb laughed.

"Fuck yeah. You don’t steal a man's beer, Dean-o."

"You don't," Dean said and winked. He strolled over, joined Caleb where he leaned against his yellow Mustang. They parked there for a while, sipping beer, shoulder to shoulder and not saying much…Dean tried to keep his eyes off that upper story window and not think about anything except the thin, bitter taste of beer in his mouth.



Graduation was great—and weird. First because there was a part of him surprised to have done as well as he did, let alone graduate. His first couple of years in school had been…rocky, to say the least. Until he realized that it actually did matter, and that Bobby hadn't just been saddled with a couple of kids—he'd really wanted them. They'd really found a home with him.

And now, this. He was out of high school, maybe going to a local college in the fall—maybe. It was cool. Uncle Bobby kept coming up to him, patting his back, making like a guppy. Every time Dean had been sure the man was about to speak, he'd just shake his head and wander off--in general, acting like he had a screw loose.

Sam seemed a little puzzled too, but just shrugged—no more idea than Dean did what was up with Bobby. But later that evening, sitting at the diner and enjoying what Sam called Dean's victory dinner; in fact while Dean was shoveling in the first of two slices of the best damn peach pie ever, Bobby had given him a gift. Shoved a crappily wrapped box across the table toward him. Inside, Dean found a big ass Casio engraved with his graduation date. It was the kind cops wore: big, black, and blocky--he'd have to take a tire iron to the damn thing to fuck it up. A warm hand clapped his shoulder and fuck if Uncle Bobby wasn't about a spring breeze away from breaking into tears. Dean would never admit in a million years that he was feeling kinda that way himself.

Sam watched the two of them with a smile. Under the table his boney knee cap was a solid, warm, press against Dean's own. Dean pressed back. This day, it felt right, felt good. Grounding.

"I got something for you, too." Sam passed him a gift of his own. "Uncle Bobby helped me find it," he said.

Dean unwrapped a necklace, a little horned face on a leather thong. He liked it immediately, but made a face at Sam. "What's this?" he asked.

Sam reached across the table and before Dean could marvel at how long his arms had grown, he punched Dean in the chest. "Ass. Bobby said it's real old, the symbol of a protector—" Dean looked over at Bobby, and he nodded. Sam went on—"it's to remind you that no matter where you are, do the right thing. Not that you'd have trouble remembering to do that. And you know you love it," Sam said.

Dean grinned, dropped it over his neck. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, Sammy, I love it, serious."

Sam nodded. "You're welcome."

Bobby wanted to talk future with Dean but Dean held him off. He didn't want to think about the future—he'd just shed high school and while school was okay and all, he wanted to think about the summer and just…doing nothing for a bit. He had a few feelers in to local garages…maybe he'd break down and enroll in Kilian too, like Bobby'd been nagging him to do.

He also celebrated finally getting out of school another way--at the carnival that sprang up in the church's parking lot that June. Normally, he wouldn't have been caught dead there—carnivals stopped being a big deal when he was twelve—but things were different now. A tiny ass town like this didn't give back much in the way of entertainment and grownups usually had their eyes on the kids like they were going to erupt into werewolves at any second. But the carnival—well that was good, old-fashioned, clean fun and folks tended not to notice when you slipped away into the dark, or whether what you had in a giant plastic fun cup was coke or…not so much. At least that's what Sheila swore up and down was the case.

Sheila was pretty nice. Anyway, Dean had kind of talked himself into that opinion. She was easier to hang out with than most girls. She was cute: tall, nearly as tall as him, dark-haired, with pretty cat-eyes and a wide smile. She had a habit of tossing her head when she laughed and it made her long, dark pony tail dance over her shoulders. She listened to him talk about cars and sports and acted like it was interesting—she could hold her own in a conversation about them at any rate. They went to school dances together, and hung out around town, and here they were going to the church carnival together. He guessed that meant they were dating. Sort of. She seemed to think so, and it was less trouble to just go with it.

Which was why he ended up stuck at the top of an apparently non-functioning ferris wheel that was entirely too big for the penny ante operation this carnival was. Sheila had insisted it'd be cool, and he'd feel kind of scammed if she hadn't seemed to be just as nervous as he was desperately pretending he wasn't. She grabbed his arm and shrieked like mad when the damn thing creaked a bit before stopping again—but she let him quiet her with a kiss, mostly because it gave his mouth something to do besides screaming. Little soft pecks grazing her lips segued into long, sweet, slow, hot kisses that shot right to his dick. She just hummed in his mouth when he coaxed her hand from his shoulder to his crotch, rocked hard on his fingers when he snuck them between her legs. He'd done this, he knew how this went.

Sure, Shelia was really nice. This was really nice, and he liked her but there was something missing there…some spark. When she wasn't around, he didn't miss her and he knew that was screwed up, considering. Heck, he missed Caleb more than he missed Sheila. He missed Sammy more than her when Sam stepped out to the corner to hang out with his mean little crappy friends for a fucking hour….

Sheila chose that moment to pop the top button on his jeans and he was grateful that they were baggy—lots of room for her to slide her little fist inside. He might not miss her but he appreciated her being there on top of the ferris wheel with him at that moment. She had a sure grip, her hand smaller than his, a lot smaller than Sam's…he started a bit, such a clear picture of Sam grinning at him throwing him off his stride. It was weird and a little creepy that Sam should even cross his mind right then. Sam, he thought, Sam's hand--orgasm snuck up and punched him in the gut. He felt the burn as his face went red, his breath jerked out in spastic puffs, he had to ride out a sick, slick, roll in his gut before he could breathe again. He pushed it away and concentrated on getting Sheila off before the ferris wheel started its journey around to the ground.

Sheila was nice enough to ignore the all of a half minute it took him to get off….

The ferris wheel finally let its captives loose and they made a break through the impatient crowd. Dean was a little unsteady on his feet but feeling pretty good, Sheila leaning all over him and both of them grinning like goofs as they went. When Sam came running up a few seconds later, he was waving some scruffy stuffed—thing—and sporting his own grin, like a thousand suns lighting up his face, and aimed at straight at him, Dean felt an irrational rush of guilt, and kind of pushed Sheila off of him. Dean tried to ignore the quick flash of triumph in Sam's eyes. Made a fuss over Sam's marksmanship instead.

They walked back to the house together, just him and Sam, side by side on the side of the road. The heat had both of them slick with sweat, sticking their clothes to them in uncomfortable patches, in uncomfortable places. Sam's smell seemed to surround Dean, a mix of summer dust and chlorine, armpit and dried grass and a weird hint of vanilla cookies. It made him grin at Sam, pull him close and Sam lit up like a candle and leaned happily into him. Dean felt so good he didn't even stop Sam from slipping a hand into the back pocket of those baggy jeans. Dean pretended he didn't feel Sam's fingers slide and press against him and they both pretended that Dean wasn't half-hard all the way home.



Caleb was working a long job in Texas so Bobby had to take up the slack, which he did with not a lot of enthusiasm. With Bobby, there was a lot less PT and more working with knives, target practice—learning to work together. Dean thought they were starting to work really well together…not that he wanted Sammy doing what Caleb or other hunters did, but it was good to know his brother could protect himself if he had to.

pop-pop-pop

Puffs of hay flew into the air, the target pinned to the bales flapped a bit and settled. Sam had his gun pointed at the ground, safety on and turned a little away from the target, as Bobby strolled over to the mortally wounded hay bale. He held his hand up; thumb extended, and then spread out three fingers—Sam scored three bulls-eyes. "Good job, Sam," he called, "look at that, you're getting to be a regular sharp shooter.!"

"How 'bout that, Annie Oakley?" Dean whooped and avoided the foot headed towards his calf with a pleased laugh. He pounded Sam's shoulder, and then yanked him right into his chest. "See? Caleb was right—you needed to grow into it—dude, wait until he gets back. He's gonna be so proud of you."

Sam's smile dimmed a bit, and he shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever," he said. He cut his eyes toward Dean and asked, "You really care what Caleb thinks, don't you? It's real important hunh? Kinda like what Dad thought of you was important."

Dean dropped the arm that had curled around Sam's shoulder and took a step back. He looked away from Sam, ignored the tight feeling in his chest. He didn't remember all that much about his dad anymore, at least not the little things. It was all broad strokes and vague feelings now, except for the sure knowledge that he'd failed his dad in the worst way possible. He forced a scowl. "What're you talkin' about? What do you even remember about Dad—"

"I remember enough. I remember that you were always trying to get him to approve of you. You never grew out of that, hunh? Just transferred it to someone else like him."

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean sighed. Why can't you ever just…fuck it. Why can't…this…just be enough?"

Sam glared at him and stomped back to the house, Bobby watching him and giving Dean an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Ah, he's just PMSing," Dean growled. "The bitch," he muttered under his breath, and ignored the tired roll of his uncle's eyes. "Whatever."


That evening, Dean was washing up at the bathroom sink, ready to go out on what had become increasingly rarer dates since he and Sheila had parted ways. The door creaked open even wider, and Sam was there, slowly moving closer, almost tip-toeing, as if Dean couldn’t see him creeping in. He came to a stop at Dean's side, leaning against the counter with one elbow cocked. He was quiet, caught up in watching Dean pull the razor slowly over his chin, cutting wide, smooth swaths in the cream, mowing down barely visible stubble. Sam watched the performance with his mouth slightly parted, the pink tip of his tongue just visible. Dean swallowed, tried not to lose concentration but nicked himself when Sam licked his lip. Sam's thumb came up to press against the tiny wound. "I'm sorry," he murmured and Dean knew it was supposed to be several sorries for several things. He was awesome enough to forgive, because he was—

in the time it took to blink, Sam was pressed against his side, his eyes tilted and shining, his cheek close to Dean's. "Tsk. Cut yourself," Sam said and his voice was a curl of heat in his ear.

Dean shivered. Sam's eyes blinked slowly, like he was afraid of losing sight of Dean. He put the blood flecked tip of his thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean. Dean watched, couldn't look away as Sam curled his tongue all over the tip of his thumb, pushed it between his lips and with a soft pop, pulled it out shining with spit. Dean dropped his hand to the crotch of his jeans without thinking, sliding it across the cotton-soft denim—the touch jerked his brain back online. Sam smirked, his line of sight dropping to Dean's crotch, back to his eyes and Dean blushed so hard, so suddenly, he broke out in sweat. The little fuck had been doing it on purpose. He was always doing something….

Sam sighed, leaned back against the counter, and Dean couldn't stop his eyes tracing the healthy bulge tenting the front of his jeans. "Don't go out, Dean." he said but Dean took a step away, backed up against the bathroom wall, shaking his head.

"Gotta. Gotta.You need to—don't do that, Sammy." His head was spinning, trying to sort out a dozen conflicting, confusing feelings—"Why would you do that?"

Sam didn't speak. He just left as quietly as he'd entered. Dean sank against the wall, closed his eyes. This thing was spinning out of control and he didn't know what to do. Wasn't stupid enough to lay it all at Sam's feet either.…


The summer after Dean graduated, he was still at home, just…there. Kind of dragging his feet for some reason. He'd thought about school, applying somewhere out of state, but ended up picking up classes at the community college between working at the Goodyear dealer in town—the classes were mostly to keep Bobby off his ass, the job sucked but it was only temporary while he—tried to figure out what he really wanted.

That summer Sam turned fifteen, and was even more confusing than he'd been at fourteen, if possible. Sam kept bouncing between Dean being the greatest thing ever and Dean being the biggest jerkoff ever, like Dean lived to give him shit. Yeah, well. Fuck him if he couldn't take the occasional joke, Dean thought. Was his job as a brother, to keep him on his toes. He heard Sam banging around upstairs in the bathroom, could hear him slamming drawers and closets in their bedroom like he was upstairs with the kid, instead of standing alone in the kitchen. Thought about all those times he'd left the house, raring and eager to get out, tearing off on dates when Sam's eyes begged him not to go.

So he was getting a taste of what it'd felt like now that Sam was about to leave on his first semi-official 'date.' Kinda sucked, yeah, but he'd get over it. This was a good thing, and he wasn't about to fuck it up for Sam by being all weird and shit.

He parked himself out on the porch with a lukewarm can of Miller, his eyes on the driveway. Watched an old station wagon some kid's parent had the bad karma to be driving roll down the drive. The troop of kids inside the ugly thing fluttered and flopped around like little baby birds, and the screen door behind Dean cracked open and out flew a shower pink Sam. Dean watched the kid smooth back the damp, unruly wings of his hair into something like tame. A cute girl in the front seat smiled shyly at his brother and he smiled back. It was corny and sweet like a movie out of the fifties or something and Dean gagged for a second, kind of wanted to yell at her a little bit, but that would be mean and creepy and…pointless. The way Sam looked back at the girl made Dean want to go to bed, just pull the covers over his head and sleep until he was a human being again.

Just before he got in the car, Sam looked back towards the porch and gave Dean a smile that knifed through the little ball of 'sorry for himself' that he had clogging his chest. Dean spent the rest of the night trying to figure out just what kind of smile it was, telling himself that it wasn't anywhere near as vindictive as his memory was making it.



He fell asleep and dreamed that Sam wanted to go swimming. It was summer and they were wearing the cut-off jeans and converse knock-offs that was their summer uniform. Sam carried their towels and told Dean all about a delicious lunch he'd had—pie made out of cheese and eggs and did Dean think he could try to make it for them, and why didn't Bobby come swimming with them…they walked and walked and never did find the lake which was odd, it wasn't more than a mile or two from Bobby's, but they kept walking in circles and whenever Dean tried to point that out, Sam would start in about some other thing he'd eaten….

Dean woke up, sweating and sore all over, his muscles stiff and tense. The dream reminded him of days spent just like that. It'd been—nice, in a way. He yawned, rubbed his eyes and carefully stretched until his muscles felt less brittle. Thought how much he missed those days, when it was just him and Sam and all they thought about was cartoons and ice-cream and getting Uncle Bobby to take them to the movies.

When Sam came in later that night, he gave Dean's bed a wide berth, even though he had to know damn well Dean was awake and waiting for him. He undressed quietly in the dark, the sound of his breath and the ticking of their alarm clock the only sound. There was the shuffle of Sam's bare feet on the floor, and Dean tensed, waiting, but what came next was the creak of Sam's bedsprings and the feathery sound of him settling in his blankets . So he was curled up in his own bed. Good, Dean thought, he was glad of the space and not having to deal with Sam's smothering heat and having all of his blanket to himself. He lay in bed and waited for Sam's breathing to even out and deepen into the snuffly snoring that always sent Dean to sleep but it never seemed to come.
Part five

Comments

[ronny-of-yore.livejournal.com]

Bobby's birds and the bees speech to Dean last chapter was too awesome for words. And, holy crap, secret-plotting!Sammy is just all kinds of devious. Loving the development. :D

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

Hah! See, bobby's awesome at *everything*! *GG*

[tabaqui]

Ah, boys. Things are starting to get...complicated.

:)