Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/203046.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Other(s), Sam_Winchester/
      Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      AU, Pre-Canon
  Series:
      Part 1 of Lodi_series
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-05-22 Words: 38689
****** Lodi ******
by roxymissrose
Summary
     Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in
     New Jersey
     originally posted 4-21-2009
     art by taliosi_x
[lodi book cover by talios_x_]
book cover by taliosi_x
Lodi
It starts out with a bike.
When Sam thought back to places that they'd lived—any place they'd stayed
longer than a few weeks—Lodi always came to mind. That year in Lodi, New Jersey
had been real educational; it had helped him, in a lot of ways—helped him grow
up, helped him to decide about college. His future in general, really. It'd
been a damn funny year. Sort of equal parts suck, and. Not suck at all.
 
Lodi. He remembered the Impala rolling down this narrow dirt-edged road, and
coming to a stop in front of the saddest looking little dump, surrounded by
other houses just as crappy. He remembered Dad leaning his head on the steering
wheel for a second before turning, smiling into the backseat.
 
1
April showers might bring spring flowers but it also brought mind numbing
boredom, brought being stuck inside—in the car, in motels on the way—when Dad
finally does come to a stop, Sam's so fucking ready to get out he could just
about claw through the side of the car.
"This is it, boys."
Sam's staring open-mouthed out the window, not exactly horrified, more kind
of…puzzled. The place they've stopped at squats on a tiny square of pale tan
sand, the sand that's pretty much everywhere here. But…it's a house. Not a
great house, but a house, not a god-awful, pay-by-the-week motel, not a trailer
barely wide enough to fit his shoulders….
It boasts a tumble-down attempt at a fence, a sickly strip of garden trying to
live in the shadow of a couple of pine trees, and a mailbox on top of a post so
stupidly high, the mailman is either a giant or one pissed off dude. The house
number's painted on the side, and also painted on one of the house's fake
shutters. The place is kind of white where it's not patched with scabs of gray
exposed wood. The front door is out of place—a pathetically cheerful red.
There's a porch though. It looks in better shape than the house itself, and for
some reason, the porch is blue, a weird shade of blue that Sam doesn't think
he's ever seen before. He thinks that’s kind of nice, not the blue, the having
a place to sit outside in summer—if they're there that long. He's spent the
summer on the east coast before—it sucks.
Dad's giving him a look that's a cross between hopeful and annoyed or
something, before he's back to staring at the dump again. "It's going to be
fine," Dad says, and Dean nods. Of course.
But Sam's watching Dad, waiting for it—and there it is—that thing in his Dad's
eyes when he looks over whatever place they'd be camping in. It's like his
heart's tearing. Sam has never really tried to imagine who his mom had been,
and he bet not even Dean really knew, but he got the sense early on, just from
watching Dad, that the way they were living would have hurt her, bad.
He's never talked to Dad about it because he has no idea how to talk about the
fact that once Dean and him had had a mom, someone else who loved them.
Besides, most of the time, Sam didn't think it was important. What counted was
making sure what'd happened to Mom wasn't going to happen again. That's what
Dean said.
"Come on, doofus. Grab a bag and get inside, all ready." Dean's shouldering a
duffle, and Dad's dragging a trunk up the stairs and Sam watches them move in
step, like they'd trained to do it.
This is what happens when Sam drags his suitcase up the porch steps: Sam
catches the edge on the porch stairs and stumbles across the threshold into the
house. "Fucking figures," he says to himself.
                                    ~~~~~~
The inside of the house is as inviting as the outside. It's been closed up for
a while, looks like--dark, smells of body and floor polish and dust.
"Why don’t you get the curtains, Sam—Dean, get the windows open, okay?" Dad
heads into the kitchen. "I'll check the appliances, supposed to be usable…."
Sam pulls the heavy drapes open on the picture window—the only window—in the
living room, and lets light into the joint, and the air swirls with glittering
clouds of dust from the drapes….
There's a short hallway ending in a bathroom, and on either side of it, a
bedroom. Dean's going to take Dad's the minute he's out of town, no doubt. Sam
can't wait. The need for privacy is just one of the things eating at him, and
lately, it's beginning to take priority…he tosses his bag on the floor of the
smallest room. There's a set of bunkbeds and a dresser against one wall.
Miracle of miracles, there's also a desk in the room, and Sam smiles. There at
least is a place he can put the laptop that a Mr. Milo Minderbinder's credit
card bought for him, a place he can stack the few books he's allowed to carry
around with him. And a little lime-green plastic dinosaur from Burger King that
he would kill for, if forced to, but no one needs to know that. The closet is
narrow and shallow, but good enough for them--between it and the dresser,
there's plenty of space for their clothes.
Dean squeezes by, and opens the skinny window at the end of the room, and
flicks the switch on the wall. "Jesus."
The overhead light has no shade and it’s hanging right over the top bunk of the
bunk-beds.
"Fuckin'…what the fuck is up there, a hundred watt bulb? Christ, that's gotta
go…" Dean scowls at Sam like it's his damn fault the last occupants were blind.
Sam ignores him, stands at the end of one of the beds and purses his lips,
staring at the lower bunk's mattress. He's not sleeping on that thing until
he's checked it out, like thoroughly. Dean tosses a pair of socks at him.
"Princess—it's fine, okay? Relax."
Relax. Sam snorts. Dean's a pig. He could sleep on a corpse and be fine. He
could go without showering for days and not give a shit. Dean's disgusting.
Disgusting Dean is spread all over the lower bunk, barefoot and shirtless.
Smiling up into the top-bunk's underside. Sam yelps, "Dude—what the fuck—I'm
taking the lower bunk."
"Guess what—I had a vote and you lost. Upper bunk, bitch."
Sam hates his brother. His brother is a dick, a jerk, an asshole. Disgusting.
Sam threw his bag under the desk, and hisses," The desk is mine, illiterate
bitch."
"Dude, take it. Who gives a fuck—" Dean throws himself off the bed and stomps
out, and Sam just seethes. How come Dean can say nasty shit and walk off with a
smile, and Sam's always left feeling like the guilty one?
In retaliation for the bitchy way Dean's behaving Sam kicks the fucking ugly
1970's fake birds-eye maple bed post, and then has to bite his lip bloody to
keep from screaming like a girl—that fucking hurt like a motherfucker.
                                    ~~~~~~
2
Dad's got something going on down south; something that he explains will bring
him home on some weekends but send him back during the week. Dean's eighteen
and old enough to take care of things, or at least, he's old enough that the
neighbors could give a shit it's just two kids in the house. Looking at the
neighborhood, Sam figures they could probably cook crack in the front yard and
sell guns out the back and no one would give a shit.
The thing Dad's after is bad, Sam can't remember the name of it, but it attacks
in cycles of the moon and it goes after kids, so Dad's going to go after it,
that's how Dean explains it when Sam goes stomping through the little
kitchen—waking up to find Dad gone and Dean hanging sleepily over a cup of cold
coffee.
When Dean tells him that, Sam feels an increasingly familiar mix of pride and
exasperation that lately, seems to tip a little more to frustration and anger.
He gets that someone has to do it but…frustration cramps his gut and he runs
his hand through hair a little too long. He really does get that Dad has to go
but sometimes Sam's just fucking tired of these other people who get his Dad's
attention. He's jealous that Dean seems to get it this whole deal with no
problem and no resentment--the only thing that bugs Dean is that Dad leaves him
behind, leaves him to be stuck taking care of his little brother, so Sam's made
it his business to learn, quick, fast, and in a hurry, to take care of his damn
self. He cooks, he does laundry, he cleans the house—he's good at it, and
doesn't give a shit what it seems to say about him.
Sam is man enough to admit he likes it clean, damn it, and so does Dean, he
just won't say because he's not as secure in his masculinity as Sam is.
                                    ~~~~~~
 
The end of May was hot but not humid yet, that was still coming, Sam knew. He'd
checked the weather averages for the area and knew it was coming but right now,
it was kind of perfect, warm and bright.
Sam's sitting on the porch, on one of the kitchen chairs, rocking forward on
its front legs and he's got a book propped up on the railing. He's thumbing
through the book, taking notes for a report with one hand and chewing the edge
of the thumb of the other one. Sam is thinking how he's kind of lonely, the
book is boring—he's already read it and done an essay on it at the last school.
He's wondering if he can get Dean to hang out with him later. He's wondering if
this need for attention is babyish, 'cause it's definitely a one-sided need.
Dean doesn’t seem to want to hang out with *him*.
Dean, who's currently in the back yard with that busted out old car they
inherited with the place, doing something and not doing it alone. Sam sighs.
For a long time now, Dean's been working really hard at…at being a dick. He's
doing a great job. He's a big dick.
A girl comes out of the back yard, five foot one thousand miles of leg and
tight, tight tee shirt over bouncy boobs and long blonde shiny hair. Her smile
is wide and kind of hot; she's red-cheeked, flushed, sweaty, mouth all swollen.
Sam bites the inside of his mouth and hates Dean a little. Dean's lips—his
eyes--are shiny. She saunters off down the walk and Dean smiles. "Working on
cars can be fun, Sammy." Dean's eyes are locked on the girl; she looks older
than his brother.
"Sam," he snaps back, and hates Dean a little more. Fuck you.
Girls fall out of the sky for Dean, easy as pie. Easy-peesy. Girls have always
been around. They come, they go. For the most part, Sam's used to it. Girls
aren't the be-all, end-all for him that they are for Dean, but he's not worried
about it. Sam's not one to just kind of hope stuff goes away…problems mean
research, and by this point, Sam knows a lot in theory about what he's feeling.
Knew enough that he wasn't deeply worried about it; Sam's only real worry was
about Dad's reaction, or Dean's, to his maybe being gay. So far it's a feeling,
a possibility. He hasn't had any practical experience. It's just…longing…so
far. He's not going to tell Dean or Dad just yet--but.
As far as Sam's concerned, this whole thing, these longings, this confusion,
it's just one more proof he's not like Dean or Dad—he was *so* not like them.
Even so, some days, he thinks that he maybe he could actually talk to Dean
about it. Dean has his moments--he can be a decent listener, you just have to
give him time to get the assshole out of his system—it's kind of his default
position. It's okay. Sam deals, practiced at it, from the time he was Dean's
only friend. When Sam lets himself think about it--how they used to be--he
imagines Dean must have been embarrassed that the only friend he had was his
little brother.
Sam sighs, remembering how he held onto that friendship like…like a prize. He
deserved it; he was…sort of owed it, right? For not being able to have a simple
life like everyone else? Being Dean's best friend gave him something and he'd
held onto the ghost of that friendship way after the real thing died.
Sometimes, it seemed like Dean was doing the same thing.
Sam blinks and realizes that Dean's been staring at him, his face kind of
squinched, eyeballing him like he's a bug. "You. Go get the scissors."
"Fuck you," Sam says. He doesn't move an inch. Dean doesn't scare him…much.
Dean just grins and says, "You've got five minutes to meet me in the back, or
I'm shaving your head in your sleep." And he saunters away, fucking dick. Sam's
pretty sure Dean won't do it, but there was that one time Dean had stained his
lips blue with Kool-Aid while he was sleeping….
It's a lot longer than five minutes before Sam strolls out to the back yard,
because Sam's not a pussy.
A lot longer, like—maybe ten.
Dean's sitting on the kitchen chair Sam'd had on the porch. He's smoking a
cigarette and looking comfortable, eyes closed and face tilted to the
sun…relaxing. Sam holds his breath to watch him.
He grins around the butt when he opens his eyes and sees Sam standing there,
and Sam coughs to cover the flutter and squeeze of his belly when Dean
grins…every day, he prays that Dean stays blind to what he's feeling. Sam makes
a face--the one Dean calls Bitch Face like he's so funny--stalks up to Dean and
thrusts out the scissors and comb. "Be careful, ass-wipe. I don't wanna look
like a GI Joe wanna be." Like you, goes unsaid.
Dean snorts. "You wish you could be as cool as GI Joe was." He slams Sam down
into the chair and runs the comb through Sam's hair, yanking when he has to
pull snarls and ignoring Sam's yelps. He does it until the hair runs freely
through the comb's teeth and tickles Sam's neck and cheeks. Sam lets a little
sigh out, and relaxes…he gets that Dean is trying to give him something after
all. He's not stupid enough to throw it back in his face.
"Told you you need a cut," Dean murmurs, and runs the comb up under the hair at
the back of Sam's neck, follows it with warm, slim fingers. Sam shudders but
Dean doesn't stop, doesn't seem to see it.
Sam tries…not to lean into Dean's touch, not to shiver when his fingers drift
over his heat sensitized skin. His eyes drift shut and he sways with Dean's
touch anyway. At least he can blame the sun, the heat makes him drowsy; he
licks his lips and tastes salt, feels moisture trickle in the creases of his
neck, his arms.
Dean stops, lights another Newport and snorts when Sam fakes a cough and
whines, "Second hand smoke, you dick."
"Shut the fuck up," Dean murmurs and runs his hand over Sam's neck, around his
temple, checking on his barbering job. Dean hums, and pulls the now much
shorter hair back from Sam's forehead. For what feels like a long, shatteringly
silent moment, Dean holds Sam's head against his hip. "Good now?" he asks, low
and smooth. Sam nods his head. Fuck, he's terrified of speaking. Of moving.
Sam's got his hands in his lap and he hopes to God it looks casual.
"Good," Dean says, and ruffles his hair, flinging cut pieces up into the air.
"Go get the hair off, and I'll start dinner."
Sam's startled enough to yelp—"You? Dinner?"
"Hell yeah—hotdogs, hamburgers on a flaming grill—manly man's cooking, bitch."
Sam huffs and jumps up, he runs to the house and turns back when Dean calls his
name.
"You're a good kid, Sam," he says, his face all soft, and his eyes…Sam flips
him off, like Dean expects him to.
                                    ~~~~~~

One day, they're hanging around the back yard, spread out over a couple of
folding chairs, those net kind no one in the world still sold and Sam says, "I
want a bike, so I can…go." He waves his hand vaguely and Dean's eyes lock on
the movement with a frown. "Get out when I need to. And you can be private."
And I can think about this thing called my life without worrying about you.
Dean wrinkles up, and his voice dropping all flat and annoyed, he says, "And
where are we getting you a bike from?"
Sam eases his legs out straight on either side of the lounger, twists his heels
in the sand. He grabs a beer out of the cooler next to the lounger, tosses one
to Dean and with a smirk, takes the other himself. He ignores Dean's automatic
disapproving protest, cracks the beer and Dean says, "Ass-hole. If Dad shows up
outa nowhere, your laptop is mine. You'll be too dead to care." Sam sticks his
tongue out at him and Dean tips his bottle at him. "And I'll use it for what
it's *meant* for--free porn, Virginella."
They sit quietly for a while, listening to the rug rats running up and down the
street, screaming. They both tip their heads to the sound before relaxing.
Laughter. He watches Dean, rolls the bitter-sweet, and above all, *cold* brew,
around in his mouth. He's thinking.
After a while, he notices Dean staring at him, brows still wrinkled. Sam sighs.
"I'm not *asking* for a bike, idiot. I'm just saying, I'd like to have one."
"Oh," Dean says and wrinkles some more. He holds the Bud he's got in his hand
up to the light, watches the sun dance in the glass, licks away a little drop
starting to slide down the bottle's neck. Sam watches and grinds his teeth….
"Oh." Dean says again. "…and that's different how?"
Deep breath and Sam tries to explain what he means. "It's like saying—well,
like saying you want to fuck—I don't know—Eva Mendez? It's not like it's going
to happen, but you can want it anyway, see? You think about it, you dream about
it…how perfect it'd be, how fucking right…but you don’t expect it. 'Cause you
know. It's never gonna happen. And it doesn't, y'know, hurt. 'Cause it's just a
dream." Sam thinks that's a perfect example of what he means. Or maybe he's had
a few beers too many, suddenly he's not that sure what he said made sense at
all...
And for some reason, Dean goes all stiff, and his face crumbles up. He throws
the empty at Sam, lumbers up out of his chair and stalks away, muttering "You
wish you could fuck Eva Mendez." But he was sometimes hard-to-get and could be
a real rude fuck that way, Sam thinks, and ignores it.
"Recycle, bitch," he yells at Dean's unresponsive back.
                                    ~~~~~~

June was crowding up on Sam, its humid breath breathing down his neck. Two more
weeks and school would be out and then, all they'd have was the hanging around,
waiting for Dad to show on weekends.
The town's outside an Army base, the school's full of military dependents, so
Sam and Dean aren't even a blip on the radar for once--a hell of a relief. It
makes it easier to talk to people in a town full of transients, easier to pass
off why they look the way they do, or dress the way they do. In a school full
of dozens of accents, they didn't stick out, and that's all Sam ever asks for.
In fact, he kind of likes the school. People are a little more relaxed here,
kind of less concerned about what you wore and what you had…helped that
everyone was poor as shit out here.
The week before school's going to let out, Dad comes home. Dad and Dean go over
the particulars of the current case, talk back and forth about it. Dad says he
does that because sometimes Dean picks up on things he misses by being too
close to the case. Sam sees that it also makes Dean feel less out of the loop,
and he's sure Dad knows that. The two of them make notes and add important
stuff to the journal, which means Sam hangs out and eavesdrops on them. Dad
tells Dean he's not going to be there when Dean graduates. Sam watches Dean's
face as they talk about it--doesn’t get it. Graduation is supposed to be a big
deal, but it's like Dean doesn't give a shit that Dad doesn’t give a shit. His
face is calm as it always is talking to Dad. His eyes don’t change.
This is the thing…the thing that makes Sam want to lock the door on his Dad.
Dean knows he's Dad's good soldier, his lieutenant. What he doesn't know is if
he's Dad's *son*. How it is Dad can't get that, if fourteen year old Sam can?
 
If it was just the two of them, Dean and Sam, Sam would make sure Dean was
happy. That he'd know how much Sam cares, and how valuable he is because Sam
would show him every day….
Right--*sure* he would, and right after that, Dean'd give him a wedgie while
giving him a swirlie and then, duct-tape him to the bathroom floor for being a
big fucking girl.
                                    ~~~~~~
 
They go out to eat while Dad's home, and Sam figures it's the closest Dad's
going to get to saying "atta boy Dean—good job graduating after going to like,
a million schools, and managing not to fuck it all up. I'm proud." And maybe
it's not so bad, 'cause he can see it makes Dean glow a little. Hell, Dean's
face is a fucking open book—how can Dad bring himself to break his heart? But
at least…Dad's trying.
Dad pays cash, smiling at Sam as he does. Sam blushes a little, and he's gotta
admit it's nice of him to give Sam's aversion to theft some acknowledgement.
Dad picks up a twelve pack on the way home, and him and Dean sit in the back
yard, smoking Newports and getting not exactly shit-faced but comfortably numb
out there, laughing low and secret in the dark. Sam's drowsing in the top
bunk—too young to join them, but it's okay--in a way, hearing Dad and Dean out
there, murmuring and chuckling, is like being in the backseat of the car,
nearly asleep and feeling like he's being rocked…he keeps a notebook and writes
about His Life and calls the Impala the only cradle he's ever had.
He loves that car as much as he loves his family….
Sam drifts off to sleep to the sound of his family's voices.
                                    ~~~~~~
The next morning, the garbage can is full of bottles and there's an empty pack
of Newports on the porch rail. It's squashed flat, and the bottom of the pack's
torn out….
Dad's hit the road again.
A few days after Dad leaves, Dean comes up the walk with some guy, which
surprises Sam because Dean's not much for bringing anyone home who isn't going
to end up in his bed at some point. Besides having the wrong parts to interest
Dean, this guy doesn't look much like the jerks Dean usually gravitates
to—though Sam has to admit he kinda likes that Mike asshole who comes over from
time to time to smoke with Dean. He looks…Sam swallows against the sudden sharp
pain in his chest. This guy is…*hot*. Sam blushes and drops his head. This guy
is hot like the sun…he's only ever seen one other guy so fucking hot.
"Hey Sam, about that bike, my buddy here is gonna hook us up." Dean's got a
hand cupped over his buddy's shoulder, and the guy's bent a little with his
hand out, and Sam just stares at it. Like…what the hell, he wants to shake his
hand?
"Hey," Sam says and shoves both hands in his pockets and gives a little
relieved sigh of thanks he's wearing the longest, baggiest tee shirt he owns.
Coverage, it's everything.
My Buddy is smiling at him and…oh geez.Sam's pinned to the porch step by bright
green eyes and long, floppy hair…all these spiky white teeth…maybe he's a
vampire, Sam thinks. Really, if vampires were real, he'd be kind of worried
right now….
"So, your brother says you want a bike. All you have to do is get a frame. I
like working on bikes. That's what I do at the store in summer. I work at the
store with Dean." The job that keeps Sam in comics and chips, that one.
Sam is still staring open mouthed because he just can't wrap his mind around
how *hot* this guy is and why is he hanging around Dean and Dean says, "Sorry,
my brother's slow. What Pat means is, scrounge up a decent frame and we'll get
the parts to get it working, okay, Raymond?"
Sam just squints at Dean, who thinks he's so fucking ha-ha funny. "Fuck you."
Pat grins even wider at Sam. Sam weaves from the force of it. "Actually,
m'name's Patrick. Yeah, folks throw out good stuff on trash day. We just have
to get there early enough. Betcha anything this summer, we'll find you a bike,
little dude."
Patrick smiles again and Sam wants to die. And he wants to kick him in the nads
for calling him 'little dude' and he wants to…to climb him like a fucking tree.
It's burned on his brain, this vision of white teeth, and red lips prettier
than Dean's and green eyes bigger than Dean's and lashes longer than Dean's and
he's got dimples and his hair curls around his face in long black waves, and
he's wider, and taller and Sam's pretty sure he could come in five seconds flat
with this guy on his mind and his dick in his hand…
"Yo, Sammy! Hello?" Dean's glaring at him.
"Bike, sure. Sure, bike."
"Told you—slow." Dean steers Patrick away, looking over his shoulder and his
eyebrows are shouting, what the *fuck* is wrong with you?
Sam flips him off and plops lower on the stairs as he watches them both walk
away. Fuck, he thinks. How much of an obvious fool had he just been? Sam slides
his hands into his pockets and pets himself…Patrick. It feels *good* to want
Patrick. It's a fucking relief, it's a god damn blessing and he's going to want
Patrick so hard he's never going to think about anyone else, ever.
 
That night, after one of his better showers, Sam stares at himself in the
medicine cabinet mirror; he has to stretch up on his toes to do so. He sees a
skinny kid with a skinny neck, and squinty eyes and a pointy chin, floppy dull
brown hair…fuck. It was plain as the enormous nose on his face; even if by some
miracle Patrick turns out to be gay, or bi, Sam doesn't have an ugly snowball's
chance in hell…all he can hope for is that someday, maybe some loser'll take
pity on him.
Shit.
Why couldn't he have gotten any of the DNA that went into making Dean? Fucking
Dean. How come Dean didn't get the bobble head gene? It wasn't fair--why
couldn't Sam have gotten that mouth? Sam shivers, and presses against the sink
edge, as he reaches blindly for his toothbrush.
                                    ~~~~~~

Sam's writing in his journal, well, he had been writing in his journal, only
just now he's noticing that what he's actually doing is doodle Patrick's name
all over the margins of his paper. "Shit." He yanks the page out and starts
writing again. He's trying to write a story, a personal story this time, a
story based on real life, not a long drawn out barely understandable adventure
featuring a kid who just happened to be named Sam, and his Pokemon friends. Sam
grins, remembering making Dean read chapter after chapter of that thing…he
remembers too that Dean never told him he was too busy to read it. How was his
brother so awesome and such a dick too? Like right now, he was probably out in
the woods with his skank friends somewhere, getting high, instead of being home
eating dinner and helping him clean up—
Bangbang
The door is shaking in the frame, scares the hell out of Sam. He jumps over the
arm of the sofa and feels for the stubby little Taurus tucked neatly in the
drawer of the lamp table. He scurries over to the door, and whisper-yells,
"Dean, zat you?"
"Hey, dude--can you let me in, it's Patrick."
Patrick?Sam tucks the gun away, unlocks the door and steps back. His hand is in
his pocket, on a take-out packet of salt--he doesn’t ever take shit for
granted. "What do you want, Patrick?" Sam sizes this apparition up—looks like
Patrick, but his face is all red and snotty and wrinkled, screwed up like a
baby's. He's ugly looking this way. He stands in the doorway, his hands
plucking at his jeans, silent and breathing heavy. Sam whispers Christo under
his breath--just in case--Patrick doesn't flinch. He's just staring at Sam and
still breathing like he's running.
"Dean home?"
Sam shakes his head no, and Patrick says "Oh," only it sounds a little more
like he just got stabbed. "Okay. I'll see ya," but before he can turn around,
Sam's yanking at his arm, using all his weight to stop a very determined
Patrick from leaving. He's got to know what the fuck is up with Pat.
"Come in, Patrick, what the hell is wrong?"
Patrick slumps, sort of stumbles in, and looks around the little living room
like he's shocked to find himself there. He wipes his face, and shrugs a couple
of times before croaking, "Nothing, nothing's wrong, just…" His words tumble
out and die. He's back to plucking at his jeans again.
"Go sit in the kitchen," Sam orders and Patrick blindly obeys.
Sam makes Patrick sit, and fixes him tea, very hot, with lots of sugar and
milk, debates putting a shot of whiskey in it, but when Patrick looks up at him
with watery green eyes and tries to smile, Sam decides Patrick doesn't need the
booze so much as just…kindness. While Patrick hunches over the cup, hands
wrapped around it like it's the middle of winter instead of the start of
summer, Sam gets a blanket and tosses it over his shoulders. Patrick hisses,
and Sam yanks the blanket back, and before Pat can move, lifts his t-shirt up.
Sees that Pat's shoulders are kind of red—there's a couple welts on his back.
He raises his eyebrows. Figures. If there's anyone around more damaged than
them, Dean'll find them and bring 'em in like stray dogs…He drops the shirt and
steps back.
"Just don’t ask," Patrick says and Sam nods. Not like he'd planned to. He's not
stupid, and it's not like he doesn’t know the dozens of varieties of bad shit
out there—monster and human.
After a while, Patrick thaws enough that his voice stops shaking and they talk,
start making plans for the bike they're going to build once they find the right
frame. They're still talking about it, each in his own corner of the couch when
Dean finally comes home. His friend Mike is peering kind of blearily over
Dean's shoulder.
"What's going on here?" Dean asks, his face going lightning quick from red-
cheeked and lax, to sharp--angry when he sees Patrick laughing next to his
brother on the couch. Sam rolls his eyes. As if he had a right to worry what
might be happening to Sam, if he's out getting fucked up.
"Patrick's going to spend the night—" Sam starts to say, but Pat interrupts.
"No, I'm not, Dean, I'm going now—"
Sam talks right over him, because Pat's just being nuts. "He's staying, because
it's better if he does," and Dean looks Patrick over. He frowns at what he
sees, and slowly nods agreement.
Patrick looks from one brother to the other. "What, you're going along with
him, just like that?"
Dean's relaxed again, his expression loose, clouded, but Sam's pretty sure it's
an act now…Dean shrugs. "If Sammy thinks it's the thing to do, then, yeah. You
can stay."
Mike pushes past Dean's shoulder and looks Patrick over--winces. "Patrick,
man."
Patrick shrugs. "He was—he was pissed off at something."
Mike just sighs, slaps Dean on the back and winks at Sam. He disappears into
the dark.
Nothing is good about this evening except this one thing—the way Dean checked
out Sam's assessment of the situation and agreed with him—it makes Sam feel
grown. The way Patrick is looking at him makes him…well, a little hard, really.
Patrick's staring at him like he's not just Dean's little brother, like maybe
he's more. "I…okay, then. Thanks guys, um…thanks."
Dean hangs over the back of the couch and palms the back of Sam's neck. He
squeezes a little, and Sam goes from a little hard to really getting there—he
grabs a pillow into his lap as unobtrusively as he can. Can't do anything about
his flaming ears but hope no one pays attention. "Good job, Sam." Dean says,
and then slaps him in the back of the head before moving off. He calls back
over his shoulder, "There better be food, bitch."
It's like magic. Whenever his brother does something that makes Sam think he
just might die of how perfect he is, Dean does something ass-holey. Thank God.
They crowd together on the couch and watch some more TV, eat some popcorn, and
talk a lot of shit, and when Patrick falls asleep on the couch, it's Dean who
covers him in an old summer weight blanket, and rubs his shoulder. Sam watches
from the doorway of their bedroom and feels jealous. Dean hasn't done that for
him in ages. Sure, he made Dean stop because he was too old for it but
still…Dean should *want* to, at least. Dean looks up, catches Sam looking at
him and smiles a little. His eyes are wide and deep and…and Sam has to look
away. Oh. Fuck. "G'night, Dean."
"I'll be in in a few minutes, Sammy."
Sam wanted to tell him not to call him Sammy but it felt like his tongue was
glued to the roof of his mouth—he was speechless.
                                    ~~~~~~
What happens is this--Patrick practically moves in with them. Sam notices he's
sweeping up Patrick's hair-bands everywhere, not to mention his hair, and
that's just gross. Sam buys Patrick a toothbrush the morning after he goes to
brush his teeth and finds the brush is wet…he doesn’t throw up, but it's close.
He forgives Patrick because he doesn't know any better and besides, Patrick can
make food out of any-fucking-thing. It's amazing.
Dad comes home a couple of Fridays after Dean graduates and finds Patrick
snoring on the couch. Dad raises his eyebrows and jerks his head toward the
truly frightening noises coming off the couch. "Dean?" is all he says, and Dean
throws Sam a look and steers Dad out the door to the backyard.
Sam sighs. He'll miss his brother. Figures that after he burns Dean's bones and
buries him, he'll write a lot of nice things about him in his journal. And of
course, while he waits for Dad to kill Dean, he's crouching on the floor under
the open bedroom window, listening in. All he can hear is the rumble of Dad's
voice, the slightly higher pitch of Dean's. He clearly makes out 'throw-away'
though, and 'hit'. There's a bit of silence, then Dad's rumbling again and then
it gets kind of loud, and Sam hears, 'made it your responsibility'. He thinks
that's kind of unfair to Dean, since he was the one to make Patrick stay….
Dean's in the kitchen drinking OJ from the carton when Sam strolls casually out
of the bedroom. Dad's in his room, probably already knocked out, and Patrick's
not around. Sam feels a lick of panic and Dean shakes his head. "Calm down,
Mary Elizabeth, his step-dad's not home, so he went to make sure his mom's
okay."
"Dad said it was okay for Patrick to stay?"
"Yeah." Dean sighs and sets the empty carton down on the counter. "For a few
days anyway…I don't think that's going to work for Pat though. Wish…wish we
could really help, y'know?" Dean gets a look on his face that's way too old for
the eighteen he is, and Sam can't help it, he walks up to him and throws his
arms around his brother; he leans his head on his shoulder and says, "Patrick's
the same age as you, Dean. He doesn’t have to stay there. He has choices."
Dean's kind of frozen for a moment and then, raises his arms and hugs Sam back,
even rubs his shoulders like he used to a long time ago. "Yeah…maybe. I hope he
gets that."
Next morning, Patrick's making eggs for Dad and they're talking—at least, Pat's
smiling a little and Dad's telling him kind-of-funny stories about being on the
road. Dean walks in on them and frowns, shoots Sam a look, but Sam plays it
off. He's watching Dad grin and thinking this is so much fucking better than
that time he sneaked the cat home...
                                    ~~~~~~

On Dean's days off from the store, they walk the neighborhood, looking for bike
frames. So far, they've found a pretty cool lamp, a coat tree, and a coffee
table. They'd looked like assholes dragging that coffee table home but it
really fits in the living room and gives them a place to prop their dinner
plates on. Dean really gets into this trash trolling thing--he loves digging
through other people's shit and Sam starts to understand that nothing much in
the whole world embarrasses Dean. People see him going through their garbage
and he just grins and waves. And he's so fucking pretty they kill themselves
waving back.
Sam wonders if there's some kind of universal balance…if so, it's chock loads
of unfair. Why the fuck is he stuck being the ugly balance to his too fucking
hot brother? I've got personality he thinks. lots pf personality. And I'm
smarter.
Sometimes, he feels like smacking the hell out of himself.
 
Summer gets warmer, and Sam gets lazier. Since school's out, it knocks out part
of his schedule. He gets up in the morning and writes himself lists—to-do lists
for the day. He likes making them. Follow through was a little spotty. Didn't
matter, it was the making of the lists that counted….
He takes the bus into town with Dean and Patrick, who is back at his mom's
house again. They head off to work, and he heads to the library, eager to see
if anything new has come in. He's studying the science fiction titles when he
hears some kids talking, about a boy who's gone missing, and stores it in the
part of his mind that keeps track of the lists. He finds an Asimov he's never
read before, and tucks it under his arm. It's going to be a good day….
Later that afternoon, Patrick comes by and asks Sam if he wants to go with him,
walking along the railroad track. Patrick assures him that trains haven't run
on the tracks since he was a little kid, and it was perfectly safe to walk down
them, "Look at all the grass and stuff growing over them," but Sam smiles at
Pat pityingly. Pat just doesn't know—there's no part of the world that's safe.
He follows Patrick though, right down the center of the tracks. It's hot and
sunny, and every step they take from tie to tie stirs up dirt in the gravel,
crushes the drying grass under their feet. The air smells like dust and hay,
iron. It's a good smell, kind of sweet. He likes the way the heat feels beating
down on his back, like a hand on his shoulders and every couple of steps he
closes his eyes, to see if his feet can find the way. If Patrick sees him, he
doesn't say—he talks about other things. They walk the track in step, their
feet hitting the ties, one two three one two three….
Patrick tries to sing, but he's got a horrible voice, and Sam begs him to
please God shut up, which as far as Patrick's concerned means 'sing louder'.
They walk out, farther than usual. They're skirting the outside of the army
base now, and Patrick tells him that behind a thick stand of trees is an old
part of the base that no one ever goes to. In the middle of a thicket of
brambles and vines and weed trees are tumble-down wooden huts—shotgun style
buildings. Most of them have sunk to the ground, walls cracked and split, their
roofs sway-backed and listing into the waist high weeds but there are a few
still standing, almost intact. Through the glassless windows, they can see some
are still fitted out with old furniture. They stand in a gaping door way and
look at rusted old metal desks, piled high with rotting papers and cardboard
boxes melting slowly away. It makes Sam feel cold, and kind of empty, and then
he realizes…the places they leave, sometimes without warning…they must look
like this to a stranger's eyes. Sad and lonely. He shivers, and Patrick glances
at him.
"Weird, hunh? It looks like they just got up and walked away from it." Pat
shivers, too. "It's like the people are still here, doing what they were when
all this just…stopped. We just can't see them…"
Sam cuts his eyes at Patrick. "You mean like ghosts? Do you feel a chill?"
"Chill—are you kidding? It's freakin' ninety degrees out here, dude. Ghosts,"
Patrick laughs. "Sheesh."
"Hey, you're the one stressin' about invisible people—you're making fun of my
ghosts?"
"Your ghosts?" He snorts. "Come on. Let's get back to the house before your
brother comes hunting us."
They start the long walk back. The sun's higher now, and it dazzles his eyes
when it hits pieces of broken bottles, cans, hiding in the overgrowth. Patrick
was walking at a pretty good clip but he starts to slow a little, glancing at
Sam on and off…finally, he stops. Clears his throat and says, "I have to tell
you something but promise you won’t freak out and…well, promise you'll listen."
Sam feels a little weak in the knees, his stomach tightens. Oh, oh, this is
going to--he tries not to smile, tries not to bounce like he wants to. For once
in his life—for once, maybe he's going to get something--
"I hope you won’t hate me. But…I'm kind of…oh man, I like your brother. Like
like. You know?"
Sam stares at Patrick, open-mouthed and hurting all over. Pierced right through
the heart, a clean shot through and through. He's trying to swallow and breathe
and *think* and Pat won't shut the fuck up.
"I'm sorry, he doesn't know, but I…he's amazing, you know—well you know, I'm—"
"Faggot," Sam says, and Patrick jerks, so Sam says it again, louder.
Patrick backs up. "I know you're just upset, you’re just scared, don’t be—
Sam calls him a faggot again and runs all the way back, he runs until he has to
leave the tracks, ends up bent over in the bushes and dry-heaving. Praying
he'll pass out because it hurts so bad.
When he makes it home, he holes up in the bathroom with Dean banging on the
door and cursing at him to get out. Sobbing, he curls over the sink, looking at
the giant fucking liar in the medicine cabinet mirror. Stares into his own eyes
like he's looking at a stranger.
                                    ~~~~~~

He thinks about it, but it doesn't get better. Patrick was supposed to save
him, help him get over Dean, not steal Dean away and that makes no fucking
sense he knows, but still….
As for Patrick, he doesn't say anything but he looks at Sam with these wet,
worried eyes, doesn't even have the decency to look pissed off at what Sam
said. No, he just watches him like Sam's an unexploded bomb, probably can't
sleep nights sweating, hoping and praying Sam won't tell Dean he's got the hots
for him—
So of course, Sam *tells* Dean.
Not entirely on purpose. Kind of by accident.
Sam's hanging out with Dean, sitting on the porch. It's hot, sticky hot, and
they're both shirtless, giving in to the demands of decency by wearing shorts
and resenting having to. Just breathing and trying not to move because moving
means sweating and sweating means sticky, itchy skin…sweat's rolling slowly
down Dean's chest, curving around his nipples. So slow it's like Dean's teasing
him on purpose and he has to fight to keep his tongue in his mouth. And
suddenly it just bursts out. "Patrick's gay. For you." And winces—that came out
louder than he'd expected.
Dean jerks and turns toward Sam. "He what? For who?" Dean looks surprised; a
little worried about Sam's sanity, but not much else.
Sam leans back against the steps, tilts his head towards Dean and what he's
feeling now is…kind of let down, maybe even a little pissed off. He'd expected
disgust, and anger—for Dean to swear he was going to stomp Patrick's ass into
the dirt, some reaction that meant nothing would ever, *ever* happen between
those two in a million years….
"Hunh. That's weird," Dean finishes, looking sort of confused but not
particularly upset or even interested.
Sam, on the other hand, is completely pissed off now. "You—that's all you have
to say? You aren't going to do anything?"
"Like what? I don’t give a shit."
"But…but…he *likes* you! Like, wants to touch you and…and do stuff. With you!
To you! Whatever!"
Sam's so vehement, Dean rears back from him. "Dude, first of all—trained in
hand-to-hand, so no one's doing anything I don't want. Second, you have to be
gay too for it to matter, right? And third—what the fuck, dude? What happened
to that 'we're-all-one-world, peace-love-and-understanding' shit? What, you're
anti-gay now?"
Sam snaps, "Oh fuck you!" and runs into the house. Rolls up in his sheets in
the top bunk and pretends like he's not there.
What happens next is all kinds of weird. Suddenly there are more girls around,
they're even hanging out in the house and that's never happened before. They're
drinking beer on the porch and watching TV in the living room. They're in the
fucking shower late at night. In the morning sometimes, there'll be some bitch
standing in the kitchen wearing one of Dean's shirts, and making him breakfast
and Sam *hates* that—it makes him furious. He doesn't like these girls acting
they live they live there—like they belong or something. Dean walks around
smiling, and Patrick won't stay anymore. He comes in and out, just kind of
stews in his own misery and Sam fucking hates all of it, especially since he
suspects that maybe, possibly, this shitty new development is his fault.
He begins to get used to it, this flagrant show of Dean's heterosexuality…it's
something to think about. He thinks about it a lot, leaning against the shower
wall, panting into the steam. Nightly, Dean pushes aside the shower curtain,
and steps in the shower with him. "Those girls don’t mean a thing, they can't
do for me what you can, Sam" before sinking to his knees….
In the Real World, Dean stops at banging on the bathroom door and yelling "Come
on, Mary Ellen, fucking get the fuck out of there, willya? Some of us gotta
piss!"
                                    ~~~~~~

"This boy that lives down the street from Mike is missing," Patrick says.
"That's the second boy since school let out." Patrick is talking to Dean, very
pointedly not talking to Sam. Sam's in the kitchen, filling a basket with rolls
and hotdogs and stuff to grill with, and of course, he eases to the doorway,
eavesdropping because little brothers are supposed to. It's the law, he tells
himself.
Dean shrugs, mutters, "Yeah, well…this neighborhood sucks. I'd get out too if I
lived here." But when he sees Sam in the doorway, he shoots him a slightly
worried look.
Sam shrugs. Could be something, could be nothing…he feels an itch in the back
of his skull. Maybe.
Patrick is manning the grill, and making a point of still being pissed off at
Sam. He's been kind of cold and stand-offish. He won't look at Sam. But he
cooks him a hotdog just the way Sam likes it, and puts mustard and catsup and
relish and mayo on it, tops it with a slice of cheese, even though he always
claims it makes him gag to do it. Dean's watching Patrick fix Sam's hotdog;
he's got his arm around some short, blonde, grinning pixie of a girl. Sam
notices that he's not asking Patrick to make her anything—he feeds her himself.
So Sam's staring at the plate Pat passed him—this hotdog dripping with
condiment gunk, melting cheese oozing out of the bun, some chips piled on the
side, the fucking bun's even grill-toasted and then he looks at Dean with his
girl and her naked hotdog tossed in a bun, all alone on her plate. He goes over
to stand next to Pat, who ignores him…until Sam sniffs. Stupid allergies. But
Patrick mistakenly thinks he's crying or something just as stupid. Sam wants to
tell him not to be an ass, but what comes out of his mouth is, "I'm sorry and I
never meant that, what I said. It was fucked up."
Patrick looks all serious, his huge green eyes just fill up, and he puts one of
those giant hands on his shoulder. "I know you didn't. It's all right." His
expression is this mix of sorrow and accusation and what's really annoying--
forgiveness, like you're kind of stupid but I get that you're trying, so…okay.
It makes Sam want to kick him, but in the same instant, he knows, he kind of
loves Patrick. Almost as much as he loves Dean.
Sam sets his hotdog with everything down on the table. "No, it's not all right.
I upset you." And throws his arms around Pat and hugs him, like he's never
going to stop. Pat huffs—and hugs him back, like he's not going to let go
either. Sam inhales. Patrick smells nice, like hay and sun and boy. And Sam's
got to let go and back off, quick. He can hear the girl laughing, and she says
something and Dean tells her to shut up. Doesn't matter. Patrick is smiling at
Sam, and patting him like Sam's done something brilliant and it's like the
fucking sun coming out after a storm. Friggin' allergies….
"Hey, you guys done?" Dean's glaring at…both of them? Whatever. Sam's feeling
better and Patrick's smiling at him and…the hot dog tastes *great*.
                                    ~~~~~~

Patrick and Sam are sitting outside talking about Dean. Yeah, it kind of hurts
seeing what he wants reflected in Patrick, but thing is…thing is, as much as he
likes Patrick and wants to be liked back by Patrick, Dean's always there,
sitting between them whether he's there or not.
He's their favorite subject.
It's early evening, kids are still running the street, the sky's starting to
shade into purple and it's humid as shit--naturally. Pat's still wet from a
shower and it's not likely he's ever going to dry. His t-shirt is sticking
crookedly to him, wet from the hair hanging down his back, wet from the
sweating air. There's a strip of golden skin gleaming between the rucked up hem
of his t-shirt and the waist of his shorts. He's rubbing at a mosquito bite and
he's bitching about it. Sam is nodding and staring at Pat's hand, how more and
more skin is showing and…reminds Sam of that strip that shows when Dean wears
that fucking ugly Stones tee with the tongue, the one that's too short but he
won’t get rid of it, even though there's a rip at the neckline, and man, every
time he moves it rides up higher, you can see all these little freckles and
God, he loves the way the freckles flirt with the thin trail of hair leading to
his…
There's a silence so deep and profound that he feels like his ears have
imploded. Patrick's gawking at him, cheeks flushed pink and his mouth just
hanging open and fuck oh fuck, he's been talking about his brother's body out
loud…oh fucking hell….
Patrick blinks eyes big as manhole covers."…oh…my…God. Now I get it. That's
why…that's why you were so upset when I said—" Patrick's hand drifts to his
mouth, covers it and all Sam can see now are his eyes. "Sam—"
"No, no, no, shut up!" Sam's already scrambling backwards, trying to get up the
stairs, and Patrick's grabbing at his ankle, trying to pull him back down.
"Sam! Sam…" and there it goes, that horrible look, that expression of sorrow-
revulsion, and God…forgiveness….
"Leave me alone!" Sam kicks him, connecting hard with Pat's ribs, then jerks
his foot out of his pain-weakened grasp. Pat grunts, but lumbers up after him,
chasing Sam through the house, barreling through the bedroom door before Sam
can lock it. They end up crashing on the lower bunk, just barely missing
bashing each other's brains out on the top bunk's frame. Pat's on top of Sam
and Sam…he's *burning* with the shame, the horror of it, that someone knows his
deepest, darkest, most awful secret.
Patrick strokes him, murmuring over and over, "Sammy, don't cry, it's a phase,
it's okay, you'll grow out of it, he won’t know, no one but me, it'll pass,
Sammy, it'll be all right, I promise…."
Sam lies under him and hopes he'll die. When Patrick cradles his cheeks in his
hands Sam cries harder, and kisses him. Patrick tries to pull back at first,
and then, gives in. It's a not much of a kiss, just a soft press of lips that
feels like it goes on and on, warm, and so—so comforting. When Pat lets him go,
he gasps softly, and Patrick tucks him under his chin. "Sammy, there's so much
going on with you right now, yeah? All these confusing changes, I know. But
it's going to get better. Things will start making sense again--you'll be
okay."
"You keep saying that—it's never going to be okay! God, my life is so
miserable. I wish I was dead." Great…fantastic…it's even more embarrassing that
his voice rises and cracks—he sounds like a shrieking little girl.
"Oh, Sam, no you don't, please don’t ever say that. Your brother would die if
something happened to you."
Sam pulled away, rolled to his side away from Patrick. "Don’t talk about Dean."
Patrick pulls him back, and does that horrible holding his face thing that
makes Sam want to cry. "You're an idiot. Your brother loves you, maybe not the
way…" he swallows hard, and his eyes are almost welling over. "Well, the way
you want, but he does. And trust me; loving your brother is not the worst thing
I've heard. Or seen."
                                    ~~~~~~
Sam finds out what's worse the next time they go to pick up Patrick from his
step-dad's house.
Patrick's stumbling across the lawn. He peers around like he's not sure what's
happening, keeps trying to move…when he sees the car, when Dean shouts his
name, he looks like he's going to pass out. The headlights light him up like a
horror movie--he's so bloody, his face is puffy, he looks like--like he was
boxing blindfolded. "Oh, hi," he says when Dean grabs his arm.
Dean curses, pushes him toward Sam, and Sam drags him into the car just as the
step-dad comes out on the lawn, screaming and yelling, cursing Patrick, cursing
Dean. He storms towards Dean, fists ready, certain he's going to beat Dean like
he beat Patrick—mistake.
Pat's step-dad lashes out, clips Dean on the chin but Dean goes with it, is
swinging out of the way as the force of the miss makes the guy stumble. Dean's
quick as a snake and kicks him in the back of the leg—knocks him down. He's
standing over the guy, foot in his neck…and then he's dropping down, straddling
the guy and pushing his face into the dirt. Pulls out the Colt he got for his
birthday. Jams it under the guy's jaw and he's leaned over him, whispering
something in his ear…it looks like a creepy parody of intimacy, one that's got
Patrick gasping quietly, and gripping Sam's hand in a way he knows is gonna
bruise like…Sam swallows hard. "It's okay, Pat, it's okay," and it's the only
thing he can say. Kind of hard to believe when Patrick's mother is screaming on
the front steps….
They're watching this take place from the backseat of a car driven by one of
those girls Dean's screwing. She's muttering, "oh my god oh my god," under her
breath over and over. She catches him looking and she says, "I swearta God, I
didn't sign on for this shit—nobody dicks that good…."
Before Sam can tell her exactly what kind of whore she is, the dome light comes
on, startling him--Dean's got the door open and shoving himself into the car,
face flaming red with fury, shaking a little. He growls at the girl to drive
and she presses her lips into flat pink lines and does what Dean says. Sam
feels like throwing up.
"Dean, what the fuck were you thinking...what if you'd shot him…"
"For fuck's sake, Mary Alice," Dean snaps, tosses Sam the gun. "It's not
loaded—I'm not stupid. I knew I could take him without that," he mumbles. He's
staring at the house. His eyes are on fire. He's scowling in a way that sends
shivers up Sam's spine. For the first time in—in *ever*--he can clearly see his
dad in Dean. "You're not going back there," Dean says to Patrick and his voice
is flat—final.
Patrick keeps his eyes locked his knees and nods. "Okay."
                                    ~~~~~~

Dad's home finally—Sam doesn't stop to think about it, analyze it, question
it—Dad opens the door, and Sam is throwing himself into his arms and holding on
tight. His fists are twisted in Dad's shirt, he's pressing his face so tight to
Dad's chest, he can't see. He can smell smoke and sweat and metal—Dad. He's
gripped him up like that so Dad can’t push him away like he expects/dreads, but
instead, Dad drops his bags and one hand flies up to cup the back of Sam's head
and the other arm is tight around Sam's body, just as tight as he needs it to
be.
"Sammy?" his dad says, and, "Dean, what the fuck?" not even worrying that he
was cursing in front of Sam. "Sammy--" his dad says again, stroking his head.
"Dad…" Dean doesn't say much more but gently prods Patrick to stand in front of
him. Pat won’t look at anyone, just looks ashamed like it's his fucking fault
or something.
"Holy—Dean, what the *hell* went on while I was gone—did you do that?" Dad
sounds pissed off, but his hands are still gentle on Sam, rubbing gently on the
little dent at back of his skull, like he used to do when Sam was a little kid.
He tries to get even closer and Dad oofs when he hits him in tender places.
"Easy, Sammy…"
"No! Dad!" Dean almost yells. "'Course not--Sam, let go of Dad for a bit, okay?
I need to talk to him."
Sam reluctantly lets go, and Dad lets him go, just as reluctantly. "Okay."
He watches them walk outside and that leaves him alone in the kitchen with
Patrick, who's a horrible mural of black and blue and red. Sam grabs some paper
towels from over the sink, wets a handful and gives them to Patrick. Patrick
just stands there, his head hanging down, and squeezing the towels into a
sodden lump until Sam huffs and grabs them back, starts wiping at the blood
still crusted on Patrick's forehead.
"Sorry," Patrick mumbles. "Hope your pop doesn't hit him too much." He looks as
worried as his swollen face will let him.
"My dad's not going to hit him at all! Dad doesn't hit us." Well—not much.
"He's sure not going to hit him now." They stand at the back door, and watch
Dean talking animatedly to Dad, and Dad's getting more and more pissed off.
He's looking bigger and bigger, kind of like a really hacked off grizzly.
Finally he shouts, "I said we're done!" and Dean jerks back, his mouth a tight
press of anger. They come back to the house, into the kitchen.
"Sit," he barks at Patrick and Patrick goes white as salt and throws himself
into a chair. He's cowering, rolling his shoulders in like he's trying to
squeeze his six foot frame into a much smaller shape, and apologizing for
having Dean and Sam out late, for bleeding in their house, for breathing too
loud, just when he gets to the part where he's apologizing for breathing at
all, Dad's face crumbles up a little, but when he reaches out to soothe
Patrick, he nearly flinches to the ground. "Jesus…kid…"
Dad folds his arms across his chest and steps back, looks Patrick up and down
and glances at Dean. "You do this?" and indicates the bandages, the cream—all
the attempts to repair the damage.
"Yes sir." Dean lifts his chin. "I checked him over good—he needed a couple of
stitches under his chin. I stuck a butterfly on his forehead but he
looked…okay, otherwise," Dean finishes with a bitter chuckle, and Dad doesn't
say anything. Dad checks Patrick over himself and pronounces him in decent
shape—turns to Dean. "Good job," he says. "You're lucky, Dean's good at this,"
he tells Patrick and Patrick makes a noise meant to be a laugh.
"Oh, yes, lucky…I should go now, sorry…."
"You're staying here. And I'm going out." Dad grabs something out of one of the
duffle bags and heads back toward the front door. Dean hurries to catch up.
"Nope. You stay here and get these guys settled down."
"Dad—you need to let me come with you. Dad—" Dean says, and goes silent, just
lays his hand on Dad's arm. Sam can see he's not holding Dad back, he's asking
him with his eyes. Dad sighs, glances at Patrick, who's been real quiet during
all this. Patrick doesn’t speak, he just nods and Dad looks tired. "Okay.
A few hours later, Dad and Dean are back home, looking grim. They don’t talk
about it, but a few days later, it's all over the neighborhood, Patrick's step-
dad's fallen down a flight of stairs and got a little banged up. Sam goes with
Patrick when he picks up some clothes from his mom's house.
                                    ~~~~~~

Sam's doing his early morning stroll of the street, it being garbage day and
all. At this point, he's not even looking for a bike anymore, not really. He
likes walking the neighborhood as the sun rises. He likes listening to the
street wake up. Walking by some houses, he can smell coffee, smell bacon
frying…it's hot enough already that some places have their doors open and he
catches snatches of conversation, music...he imagines the families in those
houses. Sam's not naive, he knows that not being a Winchester doesn't make your
life perfect—Patrick and few of Dean's other friends are proof of that but
still…he promises himself that one day, he's going to be that guy, the one who
wakes up knowing that the worst thing he'll have to face that new day is other
people and he gets that other people can be bad, but there was no fucking way
they were worse than the stuff that hides in the darkness—no possible way.
He's thinking about that, and thinking about how he was going to manage to fit
Dean in his shiny new life when he spots a little round table on the curb and
thinks it would look pretty good next to the couch, or maybe in a corner of the
bedroom. He props it on his shoulder and walks back towards the house, and
that's the end of his musing for the day.
First thing he sees coming up the walk is a strange truck parked in the
driveway, next to the Impala. Dad's still home then…someone was visiting? Dad
comes from around the back of the truck, wiping his hands on a grease streaked
rag—catches sight of Sam and smiles. "Hey son, what ya got there?"
Sam sets the table down and stiffens his back. "A table. For my room." He hears
the belligerent note in his voice and Dad sighs. Sam tries not to wince…he
doesn't even know why he sounds like that.
"It's a good table," is all Dad says. He runs his hand over the truck fender.
"So, what do you think about her, Sammy?" He smiles a little and Sam comes
closer, smiles back. Sort of. He looks inside the cab and nods. Clean…rugs and
upholstery a little worn, but intact…
"Looks good. This for Dean?" He gazes at Dad and he's kind of surprised that
Dad blushes a little—he didn’t think the old man was capable.
"Nah. It's mine." He stops and lets the words sink into Sam's mind.
It takes a second…"Yours? You mean…oh man—Dean's going to lose his mind." He
can’t help it—he grins full out at Dad. "Awesome!"
Dad grins back. "Awesome," he echoes.
By the time evening rolls around, it's hotter than hell outside; the breeze
teasing the air doesn't do more than lift dust off the dead lawns and fling it
around a little. Sam's still outside with Dad when Dean comes strolling up the
street, his blue work vest is tucked in the back of his jeans, the sides and
back of his red t-shirt streaked black with sweat. He's obviously hot, crabby
with the frustration of dealing with clueless customers he's not allowed to
knock out, tired from walking. He barely grunts at Sam and Dad, and he walks
past them and the truck, casting it a suspicious scowl. Dad waits until Dean's
about to walk through the front door before he speaks.
"Dean."
"Sir," he says, and turns to face Dad. Sam knows the look on his face. Dean's
quickly scanning all his actions of the past couple of days, trying to search
out where he screwed up. He glances at Sam and Sam bites his lip to keep from
laughing, earning him a deeper scowl.
Dad tosses him a set of keys. "Thought you'd want to take your vehicle for a
drive." Dean looks at the truck, awed and pink-cheeked and not just from the
heat now. "Mine?"
Dad shakes his head. "Not that one."
Dean's face falls for a second before smoothing out. "No?"
He's not getting it, Sam knows, and is almost bursting with glee. He knows he
looks like he has to pee but he tries to smooth out his face, look as casual
and disinterested as Dad does.
"Keys are for that one." Dad points at the Impala, and Dean…screams.
Really. High pitched, girly, the kind of sound usually accompanied by hand-
flapping and jumping up and down. Sam closes his eyes in pure and utter joy,
the better to savor the moment, to commit it to memory. Dean will never, *ever*
live this moment down, not in a million, million years, or at least as long as
Sam draws breath. Even Dad looks kind of startled. Dean coughs, he's the
brightest red Sam's ever seen him. "Ah, bug, swallowed—must have swallowed a
bug." Dad makes a noncommittal noise, but it gets lost when Dean throws his
arms around Dad and babbles out his thanks—rushes to the car. Dad laughs.
"You're welcome." Winks at Sam and heads inside. Sam watches Dean for a few
minutes…he's smiling, just glowing like the sun. It's nice to see. When he
glances up and catches Sam watching him, instead of flipping him off or making
some kind of face he just smiles.
Suddenly, there's this something in his throat that makes it hard for Sam to
swallow.
                                    ~~~~~~

Later on that evening Dean and Dad spend a long time in the driveway, talking
in low voices and glancing towards the house. Sam grits his teeth. Admits to
himself that he sort of can't wait for Dad to leave, and he's not going to feel
bad about wanting that, either. He came, he helped, he even made Dean smile,
and Sam's damn grateful and now, he wants him to leave so he can have Dean
back, like it should be. Sam's really shit at pretending he doesn't care, so
Patrick takes him by the hand and pulls him into the back yard. He sits him on
the lounger and stares at him with those eyes, full of—of—puppies and kittens,
and Sam wants to smack him. He's waiting for Patrick to drone on and on about
having patience and 'appreciate your dad a little more and 'don't let this Dean
thing eat you up'. But what he does is kiss him. It's nice, just as nice as the
other day, and then suddenly, nice doesn’t begin to describe what it feels
like. When Patrick pulls away, Sam's lips are wet and tingling, he's sighing,
and when Patrick finally lets go of him, his dick is throbbing.
Patrick strokes Sam's hair, the back of his neck, holds Sam's head against his
collarbone, the ends of his hair tickle Sam's nose. He whispers "Your dad and
Dean have a different relationship—not more, just different. He doesn't get
you, but not 'cause he doesn't try. It is mostly you, Sam, you won't let him.
Because of what you're feeling…."
 
Sam gets really fucking annoyed. First of all, Patrick doesn’t know shit about
them and also, why can't Patrick just let that—*that* what they talked about
go? Why does he have to ruin everything? There's a noise, the sound of a screen
door slamming and they leap apart. No one is there, and then a second later
Dean comes out smiling, holding car keys.
"Hey, Pat, feel like taking a ride?" The smirk on Dean's face slides into an
expression of awed wonder—"Man, I still can't believe he gave it to me."
Sam gets to watch the tail lights recede after he's told to 'be good' and the
lounger ends up at the end of the yard sporting a few new dents and Dad's
yelling out the back door to "knock it the hell off, what's wrong with you?"
and Sam wants to know too. He scrubs at his face, smearing wet over his cheeks
and hands. What *is* wrong with him? Why can't he stop feeling like this?
                                    ~~~~~~

Sitting in Dean's bed, his sheets pressed against his nose so that every warm
breath he takes in gets filled with Dean's smell, Sam's thinking. Has been
thinking. He was so pissed off at Dean, and a little at Patrick for taking off
with him, it takes him a while to realize that Patrick had kissed him. Not like
the last time, when Pat just let Sam kiss him. Sam was—is--a little stunned by
the kiss. That and he'd been so turned on, he'd felt a little nauseous. Was
that normal? And what does the kiss mean, exactly? He's thinking about it so
hard, he almost doesn't hear Dad knock on the door frame and ask if he can come
in. Sam shrugs. What—he's going to say no?
"So…I'm heading out, son. I'll be gone for a little longer this time."
"We'll be fine." We're not babies.
"I know you'll be fine. I just wanted to let you know it's going to be a
while." He steps closer to the bed and lays his hand real careful over Sam's
sheet draped foot. "Hey. I love you, you know that right?"
Sam drops his head so his bangs cover his eyes. Nods.
"Okay," Dad says, pats his foot before moving away. "Okay, so, I'll see you in
a couple of weeks."
A couple of weeks lands them in July. Sam nods again. "We'll be fine, sir," he
says and Dad sighs under his breath.
"Yeah." He walks back out and closes the door and Sam sobs a time or two before
wrestling himself under control. Hates himself for crying, hates that he's not
really sure why he's crying.
                                    ~~~~~~

Morning comes, and he's been up for hours before he hears the bathroom door
slamming, the toilet flushing….
Dean comes strolling in the bedroom, rolling the pink A-shirt he's wearing up
over his stomach, scratching and yawning. The t-shirt was white last week—it's
pink now because Dean didn’t know anything about separating white clothes from
colors…he does now. He's noisily chewing on a PBJ sandwich. If that's his
breakfast, Patrick must be at work. Sam's crouched on the edge of his desk
chair, eyes glued to the laptop. He glances quickly at Dean and away. He
notices that the boxers Dean's wearing look like a pair of Dad's, too big. That
there's a tear in the A-shirt and the pink is uneven. That Dean's freckles are
darker, and his hair's gone lighter, probably from working in the sun…doesn't
notice anything else at all.
"What's up, Mary Agnes. Whatcha doin'?"
"Screw you, Stimpy. Nothing, just effing around. This missing kid thing…it's
been on my mind." Dean strolls over and leans on Sam, dribbling crumbs all over
his shoulder. He reads what's on the screen, his eyes flitting rapidly back and
forth.
"Hunh. I don't know…it's sort of not a big deal. I mean, kids take off.
'Specially kids around this neighborhood. This is one of the crappier places
we've ever been, you know?"
Sam nods. He did know. Hell, they'd spent weeks in a motel that rented the
rooms around them by the hour and it was still better than here. The people
around here had even less hope than the hookers at that hotel. Here, they bled
out kids' lives like they were worthless. It was sad, in a chills-down-your-
back way. Like when he'd catch Patrick staring across the yard at nothing, just
staring….
"Are you working on pinpointing the area they go missing?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Well, duh. It's not like I'm some ignorant kid—"
Dean loops his arm around Sam's neck and pulls up until Sam's cursing and
coughing, his fingers scrabbling against the desk, and Dean is snickering.
"You *are* a kid," he says, lips a half inch away from Sam's ear and his voice
so low, Sam feels it in his chest. "Fourteen doesn’t make you grown. No matter
how fucking tall you get, you're still a snot nosed brat. Always will be." Dean
suddenly drops him back in the chair and ruffles his hair hard enough to make
Sam's scalp feel like it's burning. "Let me know if anything you find makes
sense."
He strolls out of the room, and Sam's left shaking in the chair, pressing down
on the tented front of his pajama bottoms, breathing fast.
"FUCK." He tilts his head back, shoves his hand under the waistband and
squeezing his dick a few times, comes. He gets up, cursing that his legs are as
shaky as a foal's. He manages to strip off the pants, wet with thick fluid,
without falling down, and tosses them under the bed. Fucking Dean, he hates him
so fucking much.
                                    ~~~~~~

Patrick wants to walk to a lake out in the woods, a place where the
neighborhood kids hang out. Since Dean's at work, Sam goes with him. They
follow the long line of chain link fence that separates the housing area from
the woods and empty fields surrounding them. It's weirdly quiet, like being in
a bubble. Sam's gotten used to the constant noise in the neighborhood and the
field seems like it's full of this…expectant quiet. Like any minute all hell's
gonna break lose. It's probably the eerie sound the cicadas make that make it
seem so--this low deep thrumming that goes on and on. Sam's kind of slogging
along. He's sweating, dripping wet right down to his boxers and beginning to
regret agreeing to go on this stupid hike, even with the promise of a swim at
the end of it.
"Tell me again why the fuck we're walking?" he sighs, imagining how nice it
would have been to drive to the lake, instead of cutting through the weeds, and
slowly getting covered with stickers and dust and….
"Cause we couldn't do this in a car," Patrick says, and carefully strips a
handful of blackberries from the arching canes that grow all along the fence.
He pops them in his mouth one after another, snickering at Sam's aghast
expression. "Seriously, it's okay. They're good."
Sam's a kid who's spent most of his life in various motels, trailers,
apartments…he has a hard time with the concept of food popping out of the
ground. In his mind it comes clean and fresh or nearly so on a Styrofoam tray
surrounded by plastic. Not possibly bug infested and covered with weed killer
and dirt…
"Here," Patrick says and plants his thumb in the middle of Sam's chin and pulls
down before he can say a word—he pushes a berry into Sam's mouth with a long,
thick finger and tips his jaw shut. "Good, right?"
Sam blushes—he's hard in an instant, still feeling Pat's finger brush his
tongue, his lips nearly on his. He nods carefully, and Patrick gives him
another, and another, until Sam's mouth is full of sweet juice, and he's
licking his lips. Patrick pops a fat dark berry into his own mouth and smiles.
He slips his hand to the back of Sam's neck and pulls him close. Presses his
mouth to Sam's and passes him the berry, already leaking juice from the
pressure of his teeth….
Sam moans as Patrick strokes his tongue over his, smooth and sweet, the pulp of
the berry transferring back and forth until Patrick pulls back to let Sam
swallow--breathe. He sighs and leans his head against Sam's shoulder. "Hey…I
hardly have to bend anymore," he whispers.
"Bitch," Sam whispers back, "you don’t have to bend at all…" Patrick laughs.
His mouth travels up and down Sam's neck, licking, nipping. Sam can't hold
still, his dick is pulsing with every nip. He's making sure to keep angled away
from Patrick—it's fucking embarrassing how hard he is, bad enough he's making
these stupid noises—
"Fuck." Patrick jerks away from him. "I can't—we better go back—go to the
lake—stop this, I mean." He says that, but he's staring at Sam like he'd eat
him alive if he could. It scares Sam a little, how hard he's staring, how he's
trembling. Sam glances down and the bulge Patrick's trying to hide settles it
for him.
"Don't. I want you to keep going."
Patrick shakes his head. "No, that's not…I think it'd be the wrong thing to
do," he says. It's ridiculous how wistful he sounds, and Sam smiles. Kinda
makes him feel like he's the experienced one and Patrick is the naive boy.
Braver, almost cocky, he steps forward. "Oh, really?" Sam kisses Patrick again,
feeling how hot the inside of his mouth is, and how now the berry juice is a
bit sour and he has to chase it in the corners of Patrick's mouth to find
it…and then it's gone, only a faint taste of…nothing really, a taste of
nothing….
Patrick moans into his mouth and Sam's hips jerk, totally out of his control,
it startles him. A fleeting memory of coming after Dean trapped him in the
crook of his arm draws a long, loud moan out of him and Patrick mutters, "Shit,
shit," into his neck. He pulls away and Sam feels how hard it was for him to
do, because it feels like every cell of *his* body is yearning towards Pat….
"Come on, the lake, Sam…" The rest of their walk passes in a weird kind of
haze…Sam only has the impression of time passing, of heat, of the sound of
breathing and the feel of his breath hot and dry in his mouth….
The far end of the lake is shadowed under overhanging trees; no one is there
this time of day. Patrick takes his hand, tugging him into the cooler shadows.
Electric shivers zing along his nerves—anticipation makes him stumble. He's
blushing, he's sweating, he knows what Patrick wants. Knows what he wants.
"Turn around, Sam," he says and Sam's confused, but okay, he follows Patrick's
gentle urging. His back is pressed to the length of Pat's body. It's hot, but a
different hot from being in the sun. Patrick pulls him tight; his dick rides
the seam of Sam's shorts, pressing into the cleft of his ass. Sam wants to
press back, and he wants to pull away…Patrick rolls his hips and Sam gasps at
the quick, sharp, *jolt* that runs right to his dick and floods outward,
filling him. Suddenly, Sam's not so sure he wants to take it this far, there's
no going back, no do-overs if he chooses this. He's trying to tell Patrick that
but his mouth is so dry he can't speak.
"Sit," Pat says, but it's almost a question really, so Sam nods and they drop
to the grass. The second the grass tickles the back of his legs, Sam hesitates,
starts to lurch upward. "I—I--" He knows there are *bugs* lurking in the
grass—ticks, fleas, ants—crawly things in general. No way was something
crawling up his shorts….
"Really?" Patrick says, and his voice is soft and amused. "You're going to
worry about a few ants when you could be…" He slides his fingers smooth and
quick up under Sam's shirt and flicks his nipples.
Sam yelps—holy shit—that's. Good. It felt—good. He drops to the ground between
Pat's legs, leans against him. "Do it again?" Pat asks and Sam just kind of
shivers all over and moans. "Take that as a yes," he chuckles softly, and does
do it again, and again, and again until Sam is straining back against Pat's
chest and feeling like he's five seconds from coming. This is a different
Patrick all together, sexy and smooth and it's…nice. Real nice.
Patrick unzips his shorts, soothing him, and freed, his dick strains against
the cotton of his boxers. Pat stops him when Sam tries to pull his pants down.
He scrapes his finger nails gently against Sam's skin, rippling his hair,
raising goose bumps on his skin and making his dick leak so much it's just
embarrassing. He's never had anyone touch him like this, it's—incredible. His
head is swimming, his heart pounding. Pat's soft, soft lips are drawing his
earlobe into his mouth and Sam's just fucking astonished that it's so damn
good. Every time Patrick licks, sucks on it, Sam's hips jerk up like he's got a
wire to his dick from his earlobe. He can feel a growing damp spot in his
boxers that seems to fascinate Patrick, he draws a finger over and over the
hard arch of his dick, rubs his fingers over and around that spot, all the
while snuffling into Sam's neck, and groaning each time Sam gasps. He whispers,
"Hold on," and slides his hand into Sam's boxers, eases them down. "Oh. Wow…you
really look hot," he says, and just like that, Sam comes--he didn't even feel
it building, it just blindsides him. Like getting beat up and liking it—
He drops back into Patrick's arms. Pat holds him until he's back in the Land of
the Brained, then pulls his t-shirt off. He wipes Sam clean with it, smiling at
him like Sam's done something amazing. He's still hard, and Sam reaches out to
him but Patrick shakes his head. He flicks the snap on his shorts open, slides
them down just enough so he can wrap his hand around his dick and begins to
jerk off, quick—efficient. Sam watches him, winces. It's just. It's not right.
Pat's so…methodical. So business-like. Jerks off like he doesn't expect
anything else, anything better. So Sam tips forward and presses his mouth to
Patrick's jaw. He puts his hand on his bare, warm chest, right over his heart.
His palm slips a little in the sweat. He feels Pat's big sweet heart pounding
behind his ribs. Wishes he knew what to do to make it better for the boy. Maybe
if he talked dirty to him, like they did in pornos. Sam opens his mouth and
what comes out is goofy and drippy, but the words won’t stop. "You're so good,
you’re such a good person, so kind…."
Okay, so…seriously lacking in sexy, and Sam feels like a dork, but it makes
Patrick sob, like really loud, and he arches up and comes so hard it looks
painful—spurts all over his stomach, it drips and pools in his hair. He
collapses back into the grass. For a moment, he looks dead, and Sam panics.
"PAT--"
Patrick slowly opens one green glazed eye. He smiles, a sloppy, sexy, lazy
slide of a smile. "I'm here, I'm here, I'm good. Oh boy, am I good." Sam
punches Patrick in the arm and then settles down in the grass next to him. He
smiles, replaying the scene over in his mind. Sex. This counted, right? He
wasn't a virgin either now.
A few seconds pass before he realizes that Patrick's been stroking his hair.
"Come on, boy. Time to swim, yeah?"
They swim, lazy strokes back and forth across the lake, they wash Patrick's
shirt, lay it on the grass to dry. They kiss, unhurried and sweet, resting
under the trees until finally Patrick makes Sam get up. "We gotta go. Dean will
kill us if we don’t show up soon."
The sun feels less like an iron and the air's not quite as wet now as they head
out back home. Sam still feels a little like he's floating, and he can't stop
sneaking looks at Patrick, who kind of shuffles between looking pleased, and a
bit uncertain. Sam reaches for his hand and he grabs Sam's.
Sam looks over his shoulder towards the lake. He can see someone standing there
and he has this brief intense flash of embarrassment—what if they saw? Sam
squints and just makes out the figure's a woman. As if she senses Sam looking
back, she raises her head and watches them walk away, hands on her hips and her
head tilted just a bit….
                                    ~~~~~~

10
Sam's shoving dirty clothes into the avocado washer crowded up in a little room
off the kitchen, pretty fucking grateful even after all these months to have
it, that and the gold dryer have become his favorite things about the house.
The place might still smell like old newspaper and the ghosts of long departed
German Shepards, but not having to go to a Laundromat is like Christmas every
day—the only drunks they have to worry about are themselves. He measures out
detergent, sets the timer and he thinks….
Thinks about the possible 'job' he hasn't really talked to Dean about, about
dinner tonight, and about this…thing, this…whatever was between him and
Patrick. It's not like it's going anywhere or doing anything. Nothing's
changed. Except Patrick smiles a lot more now. And there's the occasional
unnecessary touching when they're doing dishes, or washing the car, stuff like
that. Maybe giggling at the breakfast table. Maybe when they're sure no one's
looking, a few swiped kisses. Because without even having to discuss it, they
decide keeping it from Dean is the smart thing to do.
Of course, that kind of complicates things too, because he's not used to lying
or hiding from Dean, not like this, and it also makes Patrick hyper aware of
himself around Dean, and that means the whole thing really starts to end up
being about Dean. Dean, Sam thinks, is like this huge thing standing on the
horizon. Blocking out Sam's sun, being Sam's sun. Making him feel guilty every
time he looks at him. Dean. He imagines saying it, imagines it coming out of
his mouth in a groan—whispering it into his skin. "Dean."
Dean. Who right now, he can *feel* is behind him. Fuck. "Um. Hi?" Dean, who's
looking at him like he's a crazy person for talking to himself. Dean watches
him shove wet clothes into the dryer for a few seconds before sighing and
rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looks at Sam like he's got something to say,
and he's not quite decided…speak, or not….
"Sam…I…ah, forget it." Dean starts to walk away and Sam slams the dryer door
shut and follows him.
"Wait--what was it you wanted?"
"I don’t want anything. I don't want anything." Dean repeats and looks
so—something, worried, upset--Sam reaches out and tries to grab Dean's shoulder
and Dean pushes him away, like *hard*—hard enough to stagger him.
"Ow! What the fuck? That *hurt*."
Dean turns bright red, looks embarrassed. He makes a big thing about taking a
cigarette out, lighting it, exhaling. By the time he's exhaling smoke, he's
looking a little calmer. "You. You better be careful. You hear me?"
"Dude, careful of what?" Sam glares at him, rubbing his shoulder, mostly
because it makes Dean's nose wrinkle and his eyes go dark, not so much because
it hurts, which it doesn't. Too much. "You know where I am all the time. And if
you don’t, Patrick does." And now that he's saying it, it seems unfair. He's
not some little kid; he shouldn’t have to check in with them all the time. He's
a little freaked he's saying that out loud—he braces for another punch, but….
Dean's nose wrinkles some more, and he looks like he's biting into a lemon. He
turns away. "Yeah, I know." He glances down at his hand and flips the cigarette
though his fingers. "So…found anything new with that kid thing?"
Sam gapes—for Dean, that was the lamest change of subject ever. "No-oo, sorry…I
kind of got distracted."
Dean looks at him—into him, and Sam feels his gaze right in the pit of his
stomach. "I know," Dean says. "You shouldn't…you can't let stuff sidetrack you,
y'know?"
Sam nods. He has no idea what Dean is talking about. It's not like they were
decided about whether the missing kids meant a job or not, so far it's just
been an idea, one that he'd gotten the impression Dean was humoring him with—as
in, 'shut up and leave me alone'.
Sam's been kicking around the idea about telling Dean what happened at the lake
with Patrick and him, but in the end, he decides not to. He's just not sure how
to talk to Dean about something so personal and besides, it's not just his
decision whether to talk about it or not. He figures he can talk to Dean about
his definitely confirmed sexuality, though. He doesn't need to go into detail
and it should be easier to do now, simpler now that he's managed to attach
himself to someone not his brother. Sam tries not to think about how really
fucked up that sounds even in the privacy of his own head.
                                    ~~~~~~
Dean's sprawled in the lounger, laying in it with his shirt pulled behind his
neck, exposing…skin, lots of skin; Sam sighs—Dean is Sam's whole definition of
sex and no one has to tell him how fucked up that is.
Sam's eyes are tracing the long silvered trail of a scar starting under one
nipple and curving around ribs when Dean opens his eyes, locks his gaze on Sam-
-who freezes. Knows he looks guilty—feels like he's been caught with his fist
in the cookie jar. Dean gazes back, his eyes looking a little clouded, maybe
still sleepy. He's got a hint of a smile on his lips…Sam sighs with relief when
Dean finally drops his gaze. "Som'thn you need, Sam?" Dean asks in a sleep
thick voice.
"I need to talk to you."
Dean throws sleep off instantly, sharpens all over and gives Sam a once-over
with his eyes that feels like he's using razors to do it. When he sees that
Sam's not bleeding or broken, he relaxes before growling, "This better be damn
good." Reaches down and grabs his cigarettes from under the lounger, flicks the
top of the big, old fashioned Zippo he's scrounged from somewhere. "What is
it?" he asks.
Sam opens his mouth, thinks, closes it, opens it, and finally--shrugs. How does
he start? What should he—
"What, damn it—I could be sleeping—"
"I'm gay. Pretty sure. Like ninety per cent sure. More. Yeah, I think it's more
like—"
Dean's staring at him, the cigarette smoldering unnoticed on his lip, and Sam
wonders how it is that the smoke isn't making him squint, because it always
makes Sam squint, *and* cough, and isn't it weird that no matter where he sits,
and whatever way the wind's blowing, as soon as Dean lights up, the smoke finds
him—and not because of his enormous nostrils sucking up all the air like Dean
always sa—
"The *fuck* are you talking about—no, never mind. You're not gay."
"Yes, I am," Sam says reasonably.
"No you're not."
"Yes," Sam repeats emphatically, "I am." And why the hell is Dean arguing about
this? "You think it's okay for Patrick but not for me?" —fuck, fuckfuckfuck. He
was pretty sure it was a big damn bad idea to bring Patrick into this.
Dean proves it by surging up off the lounger like he's ready to kill and barely
holding himself back—his lips are white from pressing them together. Dean's
eyes bore into his. He looks like he's about to take a shot at Sam. It's worse
than yelling when Dean speaks again, so hoarse, so…flat, emotionless. "Patrick?
Did he touch you, is that why you think—I'm going to kill him."
"No, Dean! It wasn't Patrick. I knew way before he--Patrick had nothing to do
with it."
Dean talks right past him, ignoring him. "That day at the lake right? I knew
it, you were acting funny, I knew something was wrong—I'm supposed to take care
of you, make sure you're safe—"
And Sam just kept replaying Dean's words in his head. Dean noticed? He noticed
something was different? He watched Sam like that, enough to tell…Sam shivered.
"Where is he? Did he hurt you? Make you do stuff?"
"No, you fuckbrain! You're not the only one trained to defend himself. He did
what I wanted him to do—hell, we barely did anything." Sam wishes he could hit
something, scream—hates the whine he hears in his voice. Hates that he said a
hell of a lot more than he fucking wanted to.
Dean's face twists in disgust. "I don’t want to know this. God." He throws the
cigarette down and grinds it out, viciously. "God."
"You don't know anything. Patrick…is a good person. He cares about me. Looks
after me—he takes care of me—" and that, Sam thinks, was probably the stupidest
thing he could possibly have said to *Dean*, the worst thing….
There's a look on Dean's face that hurts like a slap. He looks like Sam's
stabbed him—fuck, he looks like his heart's torn out. And then, anger rushes in
to fill all the empty parts of Dean's expression, good solid anger—thick, and
practically steaming, so hot Sam felt blistered—"Take care of you? Take care?
What the fuck—he shows you some attention and you're on your knees with your
mouth open? Is that it? Is that what it takes? Tell me!"
Sam's knees won’t lock up; his legs aren't going to hold him. He stares at this
stranger, his brother. "Dean?" The way Dean's looking at him, like he's shit.
Sam doesn't get it--he really thought Dean wouldn't care. His arms drift up to
cross over his chest, he's really cold….
The screen door creaks as Patrick flings it open, startling the both of them.
"Oh, there you are," he smiles, and looks confused—for a half second. Patrick's
had an instinct beat into him. When Dean lifts his head and stares at him,
Patrick's already moving into a defensive position, his eyes locked on Dean's.
Instinct's telling him that dropping his eyes right now will probably get him
killed.
Dean's had better training than Patrick, though. Faster, harder, a killer by
training….
Dean's standing over him, his knuckles bleeding from impact with Patrick's
teeth. "You fucking pervert, you sick-ass mother-fucker—he's a kid!" Dean raves
on, ignoring Patrick shouting at him, trying to explain, and Sam's hanging from
Dean's raised arm, slamming into his side when his brother wants to kick
Patrick.
Pat's up, furious, tears pouring down his face, and Sam knows they're tears of
I want to beat your fucking ass, but Patrick loves Dean too, and it's obvious
his heart is shattering, he loves Dean and Sam loves Dean. And Dean hates them
both right now. He storms into the house, and a few minutes later, they hear
the impala roar away.
Patrick scrubs his face, smearing blood from his swollen lip all over his chin,
his cheeks. "You told him? Why in the hell did you do that? Where you…trying to
make him jealous?"
Sam feels like throwing up. "NO!" No. No way, that's not the reason and it
sounds lame even to himself. "That wasn't…I just wanted him to know, about me
being gay and then. And then shit blew up."
Patrick laughs, and Sam winces. He spits a scary amount of blood onto the dead
lawn and looks at Sam. Stares really, just…stares. "How the fuck are you sure,
Sam? Dean's right—you're a kid, just barely…just."
Sam looks at Patrick like he has two heads. "Do you think…think you're that
hot? Come on."
Patrick does a double take, startled into laughing, a real laugh this time.
"Okay, so maybe not… but I wasn't sure at your age. Not so sure now…"
Sam sighs. "Oh, I'm sure all right. Pretty damn sure. I didn’t say
anything…much, Patrick. He just assumed all kinds of stuff. And then there you
were." and he was mad, shit, so mad.
Patrick loops his arm around Sam's neck, it's warm and feels good, and in spite
of the heat, Sam's shivering, feels cold right down to his bones. He pulls him
in until their heads are tipped together, touching. "It's okay," he says but he
looks worried. "He was mad, hunh?" That's all Patrick says. He rubs up high
between Sam's shoulders, scratches soft at where the hair's curling at the back
of Sam's neck. He sighs and goes inside the house, leaving Sam alone with his
thoughts.
                                    ~~~~~~

11
When Dean comes back, he's quiet. Locked up inside himself. Patrick offers to
leave and Dean tells him to shut up. Sam just sits at the kitchen table staring
into the wood-grain. It's going to get better, because it has to.
There's an uncomfortable silence in the house. Lots of avoiding of each other.
Patrick would rather be elsewhere, he tells Sam, but since his mom has told him
he probably shouldn't come back home, his options are limited. Sam feels bad
about it. He knows that they're to blame, his brother and him, but Patrick
tells him it's okay. "I couldn't live there anymore anyway."
Sam starts to hate hearing Patrick say 'it's okay'….
After what feel like the millionth time Dean walks past him without saying a
word, Sam decides enough is enough and jumps up into Dean's way. Dean gives him
a look and turns to go in the opposite direction. Sam grabs his arm. "Please.
Stop it."
Dean looks at the floor, over Sam's shoulder, and finally settles for looking
at a point just over his head. "I'm sorry…what I said. And I get it. You don’t
need me."
Sam just stares at him, mouth open, eyes wide…"And you call me a princess, you
asshole?" Okay, the effect is spoiled a little, Sam thinks, by his damn voice
cracking and him actually sounding a little like a princess. Dean stares at
him, eyes narrowed and dark--suddenly, the ice thaws. His expression doesn't
change but it's there…in his eyes. His lip quirks, and Sam fights not to smile,
too. His hand loosens, enough so Dean can shrug it off if he wants to. He
doesn't. Sam feels like…like his insides are flying. Dean finally smiles. He
covers Sam's hand on his arm with his own, and says fondly, "Whiny little drama
queen."
Sam can feel his eyes getting watery but Dean doesn't tease him or comment on
it. He just tightens his grip on Sam's hand, before dropping it. "Just…be
careful. Be good."
"Dude." Sam draws back, but he's still smiling. "I'll be as good as you were at
my age. Promise."
Dean turns bright, bright red, and laughs, kind of. "God," he says and walks
away.
Patrick is standing by Dad's bedroom door, hands wrapped up in the hem of his
t-shirt, and Sam's wondering if he's going to speak or throw up. Dean stops,
his shoulders one tense line—Sam can see muscles jumping and twitching, he can
read the desire to hurt in the curve of Dean's arms. Patrick opens his mouth
and for a moment nothing comes out and then, he says, "Dean," like someone's
cut his throat.
Sam decides if Dean doesn’t say something to Pat, he was going to kick his ass
himself, possible concussion or not. Dean holds up one hand, and Patrick closes
his mouth, ready to turn away. Dean says, "Pat…if I thought you were trying to
hurt him, you'd be dead already." And then he leans close, and says something
that makes Patrick's eyes fall closed, and his mouth twitch downwards. He nods.
When he opens his eyes again, he looks at Sam like all the world that Dean's
not holding up, is on Sam.
                                    ~~~~~~

Sam feels this…crawling under his skin. Like tiny talons are scratching at his
skin from inside of him, trying to work their way out. It's been this way for
days. He's got this incredible need to get out, get away from Patrick and Dean.
He feels like he's stuck in the middle between the two, slinking around each
other, smiling and smiling and Sam feeling all the time like at any minute he
was gonna have to throw himself on the hand grenade….
Sometimes, he wishes they'd fuck each other, then he'd know he had no chance at
all, and he could stop thinking about Dean all together.
Spread over his bed, alone in the house since both the guys are at work, he can
think about that in a completely different way….
Breath heavy in his throat and chest, and he's slowly stroking, feeling heat
sliding back and forth over his palm, his dick feels heavy and when he tightens
his fingers, he feels pulsing all through him…in his mind, Dean is blowing
Patrick and it's unbelievably hot, imaging him sliding his lips back and forth
over Patrick's thick dick sends painful bolts of lightning racing through him,
bolt after bolt. His hips fly up off the bed, and he whispers to himself, "now
now now…" Patrick's hair is wet, clinging to his shoulders, his mouth…throws
his head back and moans, curses, loud and dirty like he never is in reality…Sam
tries to imagine himself there, but it keeps slithering away. He can't put
himself between them. He tries to imagine himself behind Dean, watching his
dick slide in and out of him…it changes, slips around, Dean's fucking him,
Patrick…Sam speeds up, tightens his hand. Warm slick joins the slightly sticky,
horribly fruit scented stuff Patrick left in the bedroom, and suddenly
remembering Patrick giving him a hand-job makes his balls tighten—one second
from coming, and then DreamDean is groaning in his ear, fuck me, I need you to
fuck me....
Sam opens his eyes and groans. His throat is killing him, raw as if he's been
strangled, he feels like he came his brains out and he feels like he could
sleep for a million years. It's good to be home alone. He wipes up the mess and
shoves the tissues under the mattress and mulls over his fantasy. The three of
them. Why couldn’t it be that simple?
What the fuck, if the world was that simple, his Dad would be a—an accountant,
Dean'd be in college and the worst Sam would have to worry about would be acne,
not what to do if the salt lines break.
                                    ~~~~~~

He wakes up from a crystal-clear dream in which Dad had been trying to tell him
how to make a snow angel, disappointment increasingly darkening his face. In
the dream, he'd been on his back, wind-milling uselessly on the snow. The sky
had hung low and dark over him, full of boiling clouds…he blushes when he
pinpoints himself as the source of pathetic whimpering noises. He forces
himself to breathe. Thinks about Dad and what he's doing now, wondering if he's
thinking about them, worried about them. Sam snorts. Not effing likely. He
bites his lip at the sharp stab he gets in the center of his chest…ignores it.
He's got to get out of the house. Be…away, out of the heat, away from the
feeling he's shrinking inside his skin. Away from all of those guys. He sneaks
a couple of bottles out of a six pack of Genesee Dean's got shoved behind the
milk and OJ and tosses them into a little nylon cooler. The thought of Dean
finding his beer gone makes him hesitate for like—a split second. Screw him.
Screw Dean and screw himself for wanting Dean to approve of…of anything Sam
wants. He bet if Patrick was an eighteen year old *girl*, Dean would be all
over him, congratulating him and shit…bastard. A fucking annoying little voice
at the back of his mind whispers, it's not so much the guy thing—it's the
eighteen, hello,but he stabs it to death and keeps walking.
 
It doesn't take as long to get to the lake as it had when he went with Patrick,
and nowhere near as fun. The sun's dipping and the air's just a little bit
cooler by the time he gets there. The lake's perfect, no one around but a
couple of kids, looking about middle-school age. He tosses the towel he'd
thrown around his neck on the ground--quickly, secretively, tucks a couple of
bottles into the water to cool. He jumps in, his breath leaves him in one
explosive gasp—cold! But quickly, it becomes a good cold. The water feels great
and once past the fact it's a nasty brown color, it's really kind of nice…the
water laps his sides as he floats on his back, drifting…and no matter what
bullshit Patrick tried to hand him about it being good for you, makes sure he
doesn't get any of the brown water in his mouth.
Cedar water, that's why it's brown, it won’t hurt you. Yeah, fuck you Patrick,
he thinks. This shit isn't getting in his mouth. Sam snorts to himself and
kicks his heels….
The kids are screaming, flailing about in the water, showing off for each
other. A few older kids are sitting at the shoreline, sibs maybe, from the way
they’re watching the young ones, and keeping their eyes out on the road across
the field, too. The lake's not exactly a sanctioned swimming spot—just one
everybody knew about and came to, year after year. It's one of those places
that belongs to kids, whether grown-ups like it or not. Sam kicks his heels,
swirls his arms a bit to get himself moving, letting the sounds of the kids
guide him around the lake. After a while, it sinks in how quiet it's gotten. He
flips to his stomach and swims away to the center of the lake. The kids are
dots in the field, walking away.
After another slow glide around the lake, he gets out and flops down in the
grass. Feels tired and stretched out but in a good way. He spread-eagles in the
sun, waiting for his shorts to dry. The bottles join him and before long, he's
feeling kind of one with the universe. It feels good, too—between the swimming,
the warmth of the sun, the Gennys, he's practically melting into a fantastic,
wonderful nothingness. His eyes are shut and his face is turned up to the light
and for a few fantastic minutes, he lets it all go, all the training, all the
lessons, everything Dad and Dean try to beat into him day after day—for a few
minutes, he's just that guy, that average kid he dreams about, laying in the
grass, almost sleeping, just being….
A shadow comes between him and the sun and a chill washes over him—he's already
rolling away, coming to his feet with his hands fisted and ready, blinking
hard.
"Yo, yo, chill out, little man--sorry! It's just…" a small blonde woman with a
huge smile and giant brown eyes is…twinkling at him, her laughably tiny hands
up to show they're empty. "Wanted to make sure you weren't, like, dead,
y'know?" She laughs, and wrinkles spring up in the corners of her eyes. She's
entirely friendly looking, broadcasting 'big sister' vibes. Sam relaxes, just a
fraction—undines and naiads and nixies were pretty too. Though they tended to
dress a little less like Mardi Gras floats—she's gotta be human—anything
supernatural wouldn't be caught dead dressed like she is.
Along with chains of glass beads and feathers and bits of things he can't
identify, and long dangling earrings that catch the light, she's got an
unfinished wreath looped around her neck, a chain of daisies it looks like
she's weaving into a strand of ivy. "Waiting for my kid, so I figured I'd walk
around while I do. We love this lake. You?"
"I'm just swimming—I'm not waiting for anyone," he says for some reason. Her
big brown eyes shadow for a moment, her smile dims before coming back full-
wattage.
"Yeah? Just having a good time on your own, hunh? That's great. My kid, he's a
little like you. He takes off sometimes, says he needs to have some alone-
time." She chuckles. "I don’t blame him. He's a strong-willed little guy."
"My dad calls it mule-headed."
She laughs out loud, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, second
only to when Dean laughs, like really laughs, without thinking…she beams at
him. "Yeah, I can see that. What does your mom say?"
Sam starts to lie, and suddenly it's all just bursting out of his mouth. "My
mom's dead. She died in a fire when I was little. I don't remember her. Just
what Dean's told me and that's not much, he was four when she died. He
remembers that she was pretty, though, and soft, and that she hugged a lot, and
sang songs to him in the tub—something about a baby whale or what--" Sam's just
talking a mile a minute to the Mardi Gras float lady, and she's nodding and
laughing in all the right places. Her round cheeks and round eyes, her round
little face with its pointy little chin makes Sam fall a little in love with
her—
"Family." She's saying. "That's what's most important. Family." She plops
herself down on the ground and waits for Sam to do the same. "Nothing like
screwing it up to let you know how important it is. I had, used to have…pretty
bad problems." She stops and Sam gestures to her go on. "I really love my kid,
more than any damn thing, but I still had—other things--that were eating up my
life. I thought as long as I kept my kid separate from it, it'd all work out,
you know? So I made a—like a *box* in my head, put everything to do with my kid
in it, separate from the other stuff I was doing and I thought that was how to
keep him safe."
Sam thinks he should feel weird about someone who would discuss such an
obviously very personal story with a stranger--a kid, at that. Was more than
likely a little nuts, but there was something so sad, and reaching out about
her, so…gentle. "Yeah, I think sometimes my Dean's—my brother's like that.
Keeps all his feelings in *this* box over here, and then duty and stuff in
*that* box over there, and—yeah, I get it."
She smiles and the smile says 'no you don’t'but it doesn’t make Sam mad like it
does when his dad does it.
"You know what the problem with that is? It's like…like…you know how a pearl's
made? Like that. There's this sharp, pokey, can't-forget-it thing getting
steadily covered over, all the sharp edges that won't let you stop thinking
about it get smoother and smoother, until after a while, it doesn’t bother you
at all, this box in your head. You don’t feel it anymore and you know you did
the right thing, 'cause it's all neat and shiny, even pretty…right up until the
day when it all blows up." She grins at him. "And that kind of screws up my
little pearl metaphor seeing as how oysters don’t normally explode."
She chuckles and Sam laughs too, at the suddenness with which her tale ends, at
the little joke. "So where's your kid now?" he asks and gets the sudden deep
feeling that this very nice lady has been waiting for someone who's not ever
coming back.
She glances at him and smiles at him, soft, sad, and says, "How about you Sam,
who's coming for you? I want to help you. You have no one to love you, so
alone—" she reaches out and takes his hand between her two, and for a moment,
he's surprised how tiny, how soft they are. The contact feels electric, a warm
wave of comfort sweeps over him, but suddenly it fizzles away and now, he's
angry. How could she *say* that? He *does* have love.
She drops his ice-cold hand. "Oh, I was wrong--you have so much love around
you, so deep—deep as the sea…." She draws in a trembling breath, shakes her
head. "Oh Sam. Oh Sam…I'm so sorry. You poor boys."
"What do you mean? Is something…something wrong? Is something wrong with Dean?"
He feels his chest clench as the ice moves up his arms and settles there.
She flows to her feet, chiming musically as her various pendants and beads and
chains clash together. "I don’t know what you mean, honey. Listen; run along
home before it gets dark. I know you're a big strong man, but I'll feel a lot
better knowing you're home."
"Okay," he says. "It was nice meeting you. Hope you don't have to wait much
longer." He gets to his feet and it's like the world is on roller skates…his
stomach flips a time or two, and he can just barely feel the touch of icy
fingers on his arm. "M'okay, really, m'fine…" the touch is gone and his feet
take him in the general direction of home. He's halfway there before he
realizes with a pang he not only left his towel, he also left the bottles on
the sand. He hopes that the lady grabs them…God. How stupid was that, to forget
the bottles. Now he feels really, really bad. He's also kind of startled that
it's so dark—time really passed fast, but then, he had such an interesting
afternoon….
                                    ~~~~~~

12
He stumbles into the backyard, and freezes, blinking in surprise. He can't
believe he made it back so quickly. And there's Dean, staring at him, his eyes
wide and mostly all Sam can see is green, green, beautiful sea green...Dean
takes a step, takes another, and then suddenly, he's wrapped around Sam, arms
around him so tight that for long seconds Sam can’t breathe, and all he can
hear is the pounding of his own heart. Then Dean shifts and Sam hears him
saying something--feels like he's been saying it a few times.
"Sammy." Hoarse, trembling, lips right against his ear—his breath is warm and
it hits Sam like a sledge hammer. Dean. He slides his hands up Dean's arms,
automatically reaching for his shoulders and then Dean's pushing him *away* so
hard he hits the ground, right on his tail bone and it hurts like a
motherfucker. "Ow, sonofabitch! What'dya do that for?"
"Where the *FUCK* have you been? We've been all over looking for you, you
little shit!" Dean's so mad, he's so mad he's almost crying.
Sam is not getting this. He's been gone this long before…The whole town isn't
big enough to get lost in. "I was at the fucking lake. You couldn't look at the
lake?"
"We looked all over there, and in the woods, and in the fields and…" Now it's
Patrick shouting at him, looming over him, and Sam's pretty sure he actually
has been crying.
"What is wrong with everyone?" He climbs to his feet again, wincing because
damn it, his ass really hurts, and he's getting pissed off with everyone. "What
the fuck?" he yells, and Pat's head shoots up like he's been shot—his face is
screwed up and red and he looks like shit. Patrick is one ugly crier, Sam
thinks, and then suddenly his head is wobbling crazily. Patrick's got Sam by
his t-shirt, shaking the hell out of him, ripping the shirt. "Hey! Clothes
aren't free, you dick—"
"Where have you been? You never leave without telling anyone where you're
going!" Patrick's still shaking him like a rag-doll and really, Sam is getting
furious. This sucks.
"Fuck you, 'mom,'I'm allowed to have a life too—"
Okay, all this shaking around? Between the sun all day, and the water, and the
walk home and maybe those crappy couple of beers, his stomach decides enough
and surprise!--empties itself suddenly and violently. Sam's gasping, bent over,
hands on his knees and gaping at his vomit covered shoes. Here he is, stinking
of vomit and his gut aching, but that doesn't seem to matter to Patrick, who
keeps on--and unfairly so, Sam notes--screaming at him. Like he's two or
something. Like he's been a very bad boy. "Stop it, Pat; you're going to make
me—" vomit again, yeah, just like that….
Patrick pushes him away, his face even more crumpled up, he yells, "Jerk—jerk,
you're such a selfish jerk! You only think about yourself!" Patrick looks like
he's going to explode or something, and as Sam struggles to stay upright, it's
finally starting to break through the bleary fog dulling his brain, just how
incredibly upset the guy is….
Dean comes out of nowhere, grabs Patrick's arm and pulls back. He's hanging off
of him, calling his name again and again. That's when Sam realizes Patrick was
about to clock him and he staggers back, shocked—and starting to get scared.
Dean drags Patrick up the porch steps, and hisses at Sam, "Get your stinkin'
ass in the shower." He whips around and leads Patrick inside the house and
Sam's standing in the backyard, shoes wet and puke gluing his shirt to his
chest. His head is pounding, his throat is burning. His skin is freezing,
*he's* freezing, from the inside out. His teeth start chattering as he drags
himself into the house.
What the fuck just happened?
He does take a shower, not because Dean said so, because he wants to. He's
under the hottest water he can stand, and he's still cold, but at least the odd
feeling of being too drunk is gone, and by the time the water starts to run
somewhat cooler, he's thinking clearly again, and he's marginally warmer.
When he gets out, he heads toward the kitchen.
Dean's sitting there with a cup of coffee, looking too much like Dad. Sam sits
quietly at the table with him, his hands still and flat on the table top. Just
sitting. After a minute or two, Dean's hand comes up, tightens into a fist, but
he just bounces it, soft and careful, on top of Sam's hand.
"We were really worried, that's all—I was worried. I thought…maybe I've been
too hard on you. Maybe…"
"Dean. I would never just *leave*."
Dean nods, but doesn’t say anything, doesn't really meet Sam's eyes. He starts
to take his hand away, but Sam grabs it, squeezes…watches Dean's face. When
Dean just gives him this tiny, tiny smile, he relaxes—but doesn't let go of his
hand. "I *was* at the lake," he says. Dean watches him, nods. "And…I spent the
afternoon talking to a ghost."
Dean just closes his eyes. "Fuck, Sammy."
                                    ~~~~~~
"So…she thinks she's doing a good thing. I think…she's taking these kids who
have no one, and making them part of her family. Or bringing them peace. She
was around the water both times I saw her. Maybe she's taking them down into
the water?"
Dean nods, wide eyes on Sam. He's milk-white and it takes some effort for him
to relax. Sam gets it; he's started to feel chilled again. Like it suddenly hit
him, telling Dean what happened, that he could have been one of those vanished
kids….
"Okay. Okay." His voice wanders off; he licks his lips…and asks the question
that Sam suddenly realizes is the only important one, to Dean. "She. She
thought you were—unloved?"
"I was really upset, Dean. Really…but when she touched me, she said I was
surrounded by love. Deep love." Sam blushes and looks away from Dean, until
curiosity drags his eyes back to his brother, and Dean blinks, his eyes dart
around the kitchen, his ears turn red. He grabs one of the Gennys sitting
almost forgotten in front of both of them, drinks deep…and then he's all
business again.
"Yeah. Okay. She thinks she's saving kids, kids that no one loves." He flips a
bottle cap between his fingers and Sam watches the hypnotic movement, Dean's
fingers are graceful, clever…."I think I should talk to Dad." Dean leans back,
stares at the ceiling like the answer to everything is printed on it,
mindlessly flipping the cap and Sam's getting hard watching him, flip, shift,
flip, fingers flashing in the light. "Patrick…might come in handy here,
y'think?"
Oh yeah, for sure he thinks, his fist squeezing, sliding up around the neck of
the bottle, lost in thought--sweaty, slick, hands-and-tongue, Sam-sandwich
thought. His face flushes hot and red, and he's infinitely thankful there's no
such thing as ESP. Patrick might come in handy…wait…what? Sam comes back to the
everyday world with a jolt "Hunh?"
 
And then Dean's words click together like Lego's and make sense—a stupid kind
of sense. What he's hearing--can't be what Dean seems to mean. "Are you nuts?
How could you--and besides. He doesn't know about this stuff. We're not doing
this to him."
Dean sits back and his eyes are everywhere but on Sam. "So we tell him. And
then we stop this thing."
"No, we're not telling anyone anything. Besides, you know Dad would kill us
both. We leave the civilians out of it." Sam stands so fast he knocks his chair
back, pissed off that Dean would even suggest exposing Patrick to this shit.
Dean's knocking the bottle cap against the table, jittery and tense, and Sam
know he's not as comfortable as his expression says he is about using Patrick
as bait.
"What about the kids, hunh, Sam? We're going to be right there. He'll be safe
with us. It's not like we haven't done this before. You have, I have—we've both
been bait, right? And we can do it on our own, I know we can. C'mon, Sam—it'll
be—"
He stops, biting his cheek and Sam leaps into the silence. "You're forgetting
one thing, shit-for-brains. She won’t take him. She's after the kids who have
no one. He has *us*." He stares at Dean, willing him to see in his eyes what he
won’t say out loud, wants Dean to get angry—hurt, he wants it to hurt. He has
me.
Dean narrows his eyes, gets that stony look and his eyes look black, like deep
water. It scares Sam just as much as it makes him mad and he's never been able
to figure out why, or how not to be scared of it…Dean blinks and nods slowly,
thoughtfully—says," Well. Let me talk to Dad."
                                    ~~~~~~

Dean comes home at lunchtime the next day. He's got an open bag of ketchup
flavored chips, hands them off to Sam with a grin. "Lunch," he says and heads
into the kitchen. Sam looks down at the chips…asshole.They are his favorite
flavor though, even if they are half-eaten….
He wanders out into the kitchen, nonchalantly as possible—Dean's on the phone,
makes the shhhsign with his eyes. Must be Dad on the line. He glides over to
the fridge, rummages quietly and tries not to make it too obvious that he's
eavesdropping. He drinks Kool-aid out an old Gatorade bottle and watches Dean
from the corner of his eye as he takes notes, talking low and serious with Dad.
The yellow afternoon light streaming through the window turns the kitchen
colors bright and hard-edged, makes crisp, sharp shadows and Sam looks at Dean
and gets this weird feeling—he wishes he could make Dean look like this
forever. Forever young, not growing to look careworn and ground down like Dad
does most times. He squints at his brother, imagining Dean in Dad's
place—living for nothing but hunt, and run, and never stopping—Sam's eyes prick
and ache. Well, fuck that, he thinks. This Thing that's taken Dad, this Thing
that's probably going to take Dean, it's not going to take *him*.
The problem with that plan is that even as he tries to frame his mind around
the idea of leaving Dean behind someday, the thought of losing him makes his
gut cramp. It's ridiculous and impossible and just not…doable. He shakes his
head, and gulps down Kool-aid until he chokes and he's got a reason for red,
watery eyes.
"Hey, Sam." Dean hangs up the phone and turns back to the papers on the table,
his pendant clicking against the table top when he reaches for a notebook.
"That was Dad," he says, ignoring Sam's weak, wanting to be snotty, 'duh'. "He
wants us to wait on the ghost thing until he comes home…he wasn't wild about
getting Pat involved, but we think he can handle it." He smiles at Sam. "Asked
about the car, too." His grin falters. "What's wrong?"
Sam wipes his face. "Nothing. Nothing, I'm going—um—to lie down. Read.
Something."
Dean looks a little disappointed. "You don’t want to sit with me?" Before Sam
can even respond, the look is gone and he's gathering up the notebook, the
notes, and heads for Dad's room. "Fine. Talk to you later."
Sam watches him walk away. Fine.
                                    ~~~~~~

A couple of days, a week go by, with no word from Dad yet about what to do
about the ghost. Sam's been worrying about her. Not worrying about her hurting
people--well yeah, that--but also worrying about *her*. It's sad, and awful,
what she's done to herself without knowing. It's awful what she's doing to
others. And he knows she needs it--that the right thing to do is put her soul
to rest, but it kind of sucks. There's something in her that makes him…like
her.
                                    ~~~~~~

Dean and Sam are side by side in the kitchen, washing dishes. It's quiet, so
quiet, the fan agitating the air sounds loud, unnatural. Under that, Sam can
just make out the murmur of the television talking to itself in the living
room, maybe Leno, maybe Dave…Dean huffs, and starts speaking. Unlike Sam, he
doesn't like the quiet.
Sam lets him run on a bit as he concentrates on the dishes, and sort of free
flow thinks…he dunks a mug in the pan of soapy water, rinses it and sets it on
the drain-board for Dean. Interrupts Dean's dramatic reenactment of Silence of
the Lambs, complete with voices, with a question. "Hey—when's Dad coming home?"
Nudges Dean's ankle with his toes when he doesn't answer fast enough. Dean
frowns and moves out of toe range, throws Sam a look when he snickers and
flexes his toes at him.
"Ha, ha, monkey foot. Dad…well, there's been a little…um. Glitch. The thing is
moving. Not supposed to be moving but it is. Maybe Dad spooked it." Dean says
that reluctantly because it means somehow Dad's screwed up, and in Dean's
world, that just doesn't happen.
Sam huffs and hands Dean another wet mug to dry. "Well, that's just great. So
fuckin' typical of both of you not to say something to *me*. So now, what?
We're stuck here alone and he has no idea when he's coming home--what about
money, what about *our* job, we're supposed to just sit tight like good little
soldiers or—"
Dean slams the mug back into the dishpan and a wave of soapy water slops over
its edge, splashing Sam and the floor. "God—shut up! You're worse than a
fucking girl! Bitch, bitch all the mother fucking time—it's like you got
permanent PMS, or something."
Sam curses and yanks his soaking t-shirt off—he's wet all down the front of his
shorts too and that just seems to piss Dean off more. He throws the dishtowel
at Sam's head and stomps out of the kitchen. Sam stares after him, wet, pissed
off, and seriously reconsidering any feeling he has for Dean that don’t start
with kickand end with his ass. "You fucking misogynistic bastard," he screams
after him.
From the open doorway he can hear Dean shout back, "I don’t even know what the
fuck that means, you dick!"
"Liar!" Sam yells back, just as Patrick walks in the backdoor.
"Oh crap, did I miss 'Winchester Family Hour'? Darn," he says and walks past
Sam, rolling his eyes.
"Hate you too," Sam mutters, kneels to wipe up spilled water.
                                    ~~~~~~

He's still pretty much pissed off when Dean comes in early the next morning and
wakes him up with a coffee and a couple of donuts. "Here. I filled the coffee
full of that girly flavored fake milk and sugar."
Okay, so it's a peace offering of sorts, and really—staying pissed is eating up
too much energy and Dean doesn't give a shit about him being mad anyway—so. Sam
takes a donut and the coffee because…he's a nice guy, and he's not going to
turn his back on Dean when he's sort of trying. And of course, hates himself
for rolling over just like that. He shrugs. Whatever. The coffee's good.
They're sitting on the porch side by side, drinking their coffees and watching
the sun rise bright and yellow. Dean leans closer than he has to, bumps their
shoulders and grins at Sam, and Sam…hates the way his pulse speeds up, the way
he grins back and just how good it makes him feel. They sit quietly, drinking,
when Sam remembers it's trash day…he's about to ask Dean if he wants to walk
along with him when Patrick comes strolling around the corner.
"Yo, lazy butts! You're up--finally." Since it's barely six, Sam flips him
off…and then notices what he's holding. A bike….well most of a bike. It's a
frame, grimy and patchy with rust. There's a seat post with no saddle, and it's
missing pedals and the chain looks iffy but…"And here you go." Patrick holds
the bike out, like he's giving Sam a puppy or maybe just his heart. "It might
look like crap now, but give me a week or two, and this thing's gonna look
brand new, promise."
Sam looks at Dean and Dean looks at Sam. "Unh, Pat," Dean says. "Gotta talk to
ya, man."
Patrick drops the bike; it bounces once on its rotted tires and falls over.
"What—you don’t want the bike now? You're getting him a new one…or. Something's
wrong?" he asks Dean.
"No, no…I…me and Sam, we need to talk to you. About us. About…what we do."
Patrick's mouth drops open...his eyes dart from Sam to Dean, and a deep flush
floods his cheeks, his neck…all the way to his chest, and Sam watches,
fascinated by its progress. "…what…you…do?" Patrick says at last, his voice
hoarse, faint….
Sam wonders what the hell is with Patrick, until Patrick meets his eyes and it
hits him—oh fuck! No! "What our *family* does—our um, our family business!"
"Family business, hunh?" Dean looks Sam up and down before grinning. "Yeah, I
like that. Family business. So, Pat…" he stops and gives Patrick a puzzled
look. "Wait, what did you think I meant?"
"Oh, ha! Nothing…so. What? Tell me what you do." Patrick's eyes are bright,
inquisitive…and Sam's impressed. He had no idea Patrick was capable of
projecting so much earnest bullshit.
In the end, it went a lot better than Sam thought it might, but then, Sam had
been expecting total disaster and Patrick running from them screaming, so…over
all, not bad. Pat's not running, but he is smirking a lot, obviously thinking
Dean's bullshitting him and Sam's in on the game. But Patrick's cool—he pays
attention, and promises to protect himself from what he refers to as the
ghostie. Dean looks at Sam, and Sam shrugs. Better forewarned than walking in
cold. He gets that now, Patrick is his responsibility.
                                    ~~~~~~

13
The lake is key—it's not likely she wanders too far from the lake, they figure.
They head straight to it, and begin searching along the shore, poking around
the tree roots and underbrush, poking into little hummocks and between rocks
that might hold bones, depressions, sunken spots in the ground that might be
graves….
They work their way, as the sun drops, up one side of the lake and then the
other. After a while, it's dark enough to use flashlights. The smell of the
water is stronger at night, a weird combination of wet bark, locker room and
cinnamon…and the light attracts every fucking blood-sucking thing with wings.
There's a constant high-pitched whine in his ear, not to mention the low,
steady stream of cursing coming from his brother. Dean is getting eaten alive.
At least that makes him smile.
They're not finding signs of anything that might be what they're looking for.
What they are finding are tons of non-returnable bottles and cans and Sam just
doesn't get it. "Other states have returns, why doesn't this one? What a waste.
People say they're recycling—"
And Patrick echoes him, "--they're not recycling—"
Dean whirls around and shines the flashlight right in his eyes. "Shut. Up.
Bitches." he hisses, and stomps off, swinging the flashlight over the ground in
wide arcs.
"Dick," Sam whispers. Patrick looks at Sam with a little smile and shrugs. He's
got an iron crowbar over his shoulder and a salt shaker in his pocket. He looks
equally skeptical, and amused, obviously thinking this is the Winchester
version of snark-hunting. Sam doesn't speak again, just walks next to him,
every once in a while slipping his hand into Patrick's back pocket. Not really
copping a feel. Well. Maybe a little.
"What are we looking for, again?" Patrick says, and kind of leans back into the
touch of Sam's hand.
"Ghost, female," Sam says, "and it really is serious, Patrick. You have to keep
your mind on the hunt. Make sure that you're alert, and not just for
supernatural stuff, okay?"
"Then you're gonna have to get your hand out of my pocket and off my butt,"
Patrick mumbles, and Dean swings around, fixes them both with a basilisk glare.
He moves ahead, and Sam pats Patrick on the back and moves up to talk to Dean.
"We're never going to find anything out here in the dark, Dean. We should come
back in the day time."
Dean huffs, and finally, nods agreement. "I think we're going to have to go a
different avenue all together. We're not going to find anything in the daytime
either. Her bones are probably all over the place. What's left of them." Sam
figures Dean's thinking the same thing he is, little finger bones spread
everywhere, invisible in the mud….
"Um. We might be able to find a spell that'll show us where the bones
are…maybe?"
Dean's staring over Sam's shoulder, hasn't heard a word he's said. His eyes are
wide, and his face whiter than the weak light accounts for. He breathes,
"Shit", so softly Sam can barely hear it. He whirls around….
Patrick is surrounded by a blue light, it arcs and shimmers around him. His
head's tilted like he's listening to someone, and he's smiling, like he's
hearing something wonderful. He lifts his hand and waves idly at them, his
smile growing. He doesn't have the crow bar….
Sam gazes harder into the blue glow, and he begins to see...right. It's her,
the Mardi Gras lady. Dean shoves Sam behind him, quick and startling; Sam goes
stumbling before he grabs Dean's shoulder. "That's her—that's the ghost."
"Shit," Dean says again. "Fuckin' hippie chick dead girl…"
Patrick walks away but not before giving them a look—a look that makes Sam feel
like he's betrayed Patrick in some way-- sad, so deeply sad. Patrick lets the
ghost take his hand and they walk away.
Sam is frozen in place. This isn't right—he told Dean she wouldn't take
Patrick. She can't be taking Patrick. It's not—that's not what she does, she
takes the kids who have no one—unless he was wrong about her motivation--
Dean's already running after them, and somehow he's got a shotgun in his
hand—the pistol grip sawed off Sam thought Dad had taken with him. He's running
but not fast enough. She's almost at the lake with Pat, whispering in his ear,
stroking his shoulder, and Pat's nodding, walking into the water, slowly but
surely walking himself under the surface. She kisses his cheek, and Sam can see
his eyes are closed, still smiling—fuck, he looks *happy*. Her hand tightens on
Patrick's shoulder and now he's in water up to his chest and sinking under the
weight of her hand and Dean fires.
*Brahm*The sound echoes, she flickers, she's gone….
Dean and Sam drag Patrick out of the water, he's confused, coughing and calling
for his mom, and fighting them, trying to get back in the lake…that makes Sam
want to throw up, or spit, or—or punch Dean in his head, just keep punching and
punching…
"Okay, okay," he hears Dean yelling, "I get it! Punch me after we get Pat out,
damn it."
They pin Patrick down on the bank until he stops flailing about. He's okay,
just wet, and freaked, disoriented. Dean jumps into the water, dips under a few
times before coming up and sitting with them on the bank. "I can't see shit.
We'll come back--*I'll* come back--tomorrow and check around. She's under there
somewhere." His teeth are chattering. "Damn, water's cold as a bitch…."
"You won't be able to see shit even in the daytime—that water's too dark.
Besides, if her bones are in there, they're spread all over the bottom of that
lake. It's got to be about forty years gone by, you think?"
Dean nods. "Forty at least—head band and love beads? This poor bitch has been
waiting a pretty long time…and you're right. We won’t get her bones. I was just
hoping it would be simple." He shakes his head. "Might be there's a ritual for
this, an exorcism? She's doesn't seem to be a vengeful spirit—more confused,
hanh?"
Patrick sits up slowly while Dean's talking, is looking at him, with a kind of
dawning horror. "You used me. You used me like—cheese for a rat."
"Dude, don't be stupid. We wouldn't…" Dean sounds pissed off, but he's not
looking in Patrick's eyes. That's one of his tells and Sam knows, Patrick knows
that, too.
Patrick is staring at Dean. "No. You knew…you knew she wouldn't come for Sam…or
you. You're *family*," he spits. He's shaking, shivering so hard his teeth are
clacking together painfully loud. Sam holds him, wraps his arms around
him—Patrick is freezing.
"Hey, Dean." Sam nudges his brother. "Help me get him in the car—he's shaking
to bits." Patrick stutters out bitter laughter, does his best to make it into
the car without too much help.
                                    ~~~~~~
It takes the both of them to get Patrick out of the car; by the time they pull
up in the driveway, he's shivering so hard he can barely walk. Sam remembers
how cold he'd been after touching the Mardi Gras Lady, how the cold seemed to
get worse instead of better, and how a hot shower had helped somewhat—
He tells Dean, and Dean shrugs. "Okay."
Patrick keeps trying to talk, but they won’t let him, they shush him, stagger
together up the porch stairs, reeling and slamming against posts and the
doorway like bumper cars…
They manhandle him into the bathroom, and Sam says, "Strip him down, I'll get
the shower." And Dean just keeps taking orders from Sam, without a word.
Patrick tries to stop Dean, but he ignores him, drags Patrick's shirt off. The
tee-shirt hits the tiles with a squelch.
"Can you get your shoes off, Pat?" he asks, and Patrick struggles to move—it's
like he's still underwater. Dean sighs and says, "Okay, just—hold onto my
shoulder, and lift your foot if you can."
It's hard to get the soaking sneakers and socks off, even with Sam helping to
hold Patrick up. By the time Dean's done, Patrick's breathing like he's run a
race--skin's so blue, it's scary. Sam pulls Patrick up against him, hissing at
the chill. He wraps his arms around Pat and wills his heat into him but
Patrick, he's trembling so hard Sam almost feels like he's trembling too.
Dean's there too, his arms come up and wrap around Patrick, surprising Sam and
startling Patrick. Patrick looks so confused that Sam grabs Patrick by his
ears, and kisses him, has to. It's just a quick press of lips, he doesn't want
Dean going all homophobic on him, but Dean surprises him again. "It's okay, you
know," he says slowly, "to…kiss. I don’t care. 'sides, he's your…y'know,
whatever…" he trails off, but Sam feels the way he does when Dean actually
remembers like, his birthday or something—
He kisses Patrick again, and Pat moans, but it's strictly out of pain—the
cold's still shredding him to bits, and Dean says, "Hey, come on--gotta get the
rest of his shit off and get him in there."
Sam rolls his eyes—didn't he already say that? Problem is, when Dean tries to
take Patrick's shorts off, Patrick pushes him away, yelling, "Stop! Stop it!"
He glares, shoves Dean hard enough to send him into the sink when he tries
again. Dean yelps--curses when his elbow smacks into the sink, but he's trying
hard to hold his temper in check. Sam can see that Patrick's not really getting
what's happening—like Pat's not fully there.
"Dean…" Sam crowds him back against the sink. "He's not…he's not really
fighting *you*."
Dean stiffens against Sam for a second, but relaxes, gives Sam a short, quick
nod—he gets it. His eyebrows quirk up—his whole body is broadcasting why me?and
Sam has to smile a little. It's always going to be you, dude.
Dean steps out around Sam, and smiles. "Pat! Hey, come on, Pat, it's just us.
We're all taking our stuff off, man, relax. Look—I'll go first, okay?" Dean
toes his sneakers off, steps back and shoves his shorts down, kicks them out
onto the floor with one foot, and whips his shirt over his head. It plops on
top of Patrick's tee-shirt, covers it....
Sam takes a deep breath, counts to five and prays for strength, or at least, to
not get hard—and shucks off his clothes too. Standing next to Dean, wearing
nothing but threadbare boxers with little candy canes all over, he feels
stupid, and little, and…cold. Dean holds his hands out wide, does a quick turn
and smirks like it's no big deal that he's almost naked, even though his ears
are a hot red. "Here we are, nothing to hide, okay? All right, Pat? Now you?"
Patrick nods, tremors making his movements spastic, uncertain. Dean huffs,
rolls his eyes. His expression is impatient, but he's very gentle, his hands
careful, as he eases Patrick's shorts open. "I'm going to take your shorts off,
okay, Pat? Will you help me?" Dean's trying to hold Patrick's eyes; his words
are slow and clear, precise. Even his movements are slow and precise, like he's
trying to calm a stray dog--one who's not certain if he should bite, or run.
Sam's strung out between jealous and turned on. He's pretty sure it's just
going to get worse.
As soon as his shorts are off, Patrick turns to Sam. "Sam, don’t leave, okay?
Stay here, all right?"
"Not going anywhere, Patrick. I promise. I'm right here."
"She tried to take me." His eyes are huge, and vaguely horrified, like a kid
remembering a bad dream. "Cold. Just—so cold inside. Hurts." He slides his
hands down his hips and grimaces. His boxers are streaked with slime, and he
peels them off. He's naked, shivering, and when he holds his hand out to Sam,
it makes his heart break—and the guilt pile up. Patrick is fucking beautiful--
slimy, blue, and so fucking scared and he's still beautiful. Dean makes some
sound that makes all the hair on Sam's body stand on end, wonder if Dean shares
his opinion.
Fuck me,he thinks, and refuses to look at his brother. Instead, he helps Pat
step over the edge of the tub, into the spray of steaming water. Patrick yelps
and flails, shocked by the heat, struggling to keep his balance on the slick
surface—
Sam hears Dean mutter, "Shit," under his breath and then he's stepping in with
him, and kind of crowds Pat under the water-- keeps him there. The water, of
course, instantly soaks his underwear and turns the cotton transparent. There's
an incredible moment of stillness inside Sam's head—and then a sudden explosion
of Oh, God, no and Fuck, yes and oh my *God*, yes! No!Because this is like his
best fantasy come true. Because Dean is there with him. Because Patrick's
naked, and this is the most he's seen of *him* since the first time at the
lake. Everything they do happens blind in the dark. Hand-jobs. Sliding against
each other mostly clothed. Coming in his shorts. He's never been like this,
exposed, naked. Seen. So, it's been equal parts frustrating and pretty good,
because any kind of sex is good sex…but all that skin he's not allowed, all
that beautiful skin….
"St—starting to warm up some, Sam," Patrick stutters, and tries to smile. Water
beads on his lashes, runs into his mouth.
Really. It's fucking unreal. It's cruel, is what it is. Sam hates Dean a
little--again. Maybe hates Patrick, too.
Patrick stops talking and concentrates on not slipping--Dean's rubbing him with
a washcloth like he's rubbing down a horse, but at least he manages to *sound*
gentle. "That's good, Pat. Right Sam?" Dean says. Looks up and meet's Sam's
eyes. His hand floats up Pat's side, rubbing wide circles and Patrick shivers,
but this an entirely different kind of shiver, one Sam knows. Patrick arches
into the touch, when he shivers again his dick flexes, starts to lift…Sam bites
down hard on his lip, his fingers twitch.
Dean looks startled, starts to pull back and Patrick grabs his hands. "No, not
yet."
"Whoa, whoa, careful, dude. You're going to knock us out of the tub."
Elbows knock against the tile, water splatters all over and Sam's thinking that
cleanup is going to be a bitch…wonders about himself, really. Sam pulls himself
together, manages to croak, "He ah…he needs more… to get warm." Sam swallows
and wipes beads of water off his chest…his feet stick to the wet floor as he
moves closer….
"Hunh?" Dean gapes at him, and then his eyebrows draw together, and he's
shaking his head--has that look he gets when he's about to "Hell no,"
something, but Patrick relaxes into Dean's grip, like he trusts him. Dean
lick's his lips, bares his teeth. "Yeah. Okay."
Time stops. Sam thinks what a fucking stupid cliché, but there's no better way
to describe it. Time's stopped, and all it will take is one word to make it
tick again and everything will be like it was but he can't say it, and that
moment passes. Patrick leans back against Dean. Wet, bare skin slides against
skin, and it changes everything. Sam sees it, how it changes--in Dean's eyes,
the way his fingers flex, the way Patrick moves--
Dean's hand hovers, then lands on Pat's waist, squeezes hard and Patrick moans.
Dean glances at Sam before moving his hand up Pat's spine, and then he's using
both hands and pulling Patrick against him. Patrick's hard; his dick is
straining upwards, bobbing and dipping in the spray and he makes this move that
has Sam throbbing…it's like this isn’t Patrick at all, this is some kind of…sex
thing, incubus, just…not Patrick. Whatever, it makes Dean jerk, he grunts, the
smallest noise, rolls his hips against the pressure. Patrick sighs Dean's name
and asks for more. Dean touches him all over, light, uncertain, fleeting, but
when he gets back to Pat's hips, he's surer, drops his hands to Patrick's ass
and presses, pulls him apart, and Patrick coughs out a moan, "Oh fuck yeah…do
that. Fucking touch me there--"
Dean's head's down, he's blinking hard against the water, mouth open so he can
breathe and…he's looking--glaring at Patrick's ass like it's fucking math, dick
sticking out of the slit of those soaking, see through, boxers. Got his thumbs
hooked in Patrick, pulling him wide. He slides a couple of fingers in and
Patrick shouts. Too much, too soon.
Sam licks his ash-dry mouth and stammers—"Conditioner. Helps. I. You know--"
Not going to tell Dean he uses it to jerk off in the shower, besides Dean
probably knows all about that, and…he looks so fucking stoned…won't meet Sam's
eyes, but he nods and squirts conditioner in his hand, on his dick, and
Patrick's ass, so much, too much….
Sam thinks, with a wild laugh, they're going to step in slick and break their
necks before they can even—Dean shoves his dick in Patrick, one push, so hard
and fast that Sam flinches, Patrick yells and there's a wet double smack as his
hands hit the wall. Dean's face is twisted in a grimace as much pain as
pleasure, and he's cursing.
Sam's never…he didn't know. Patrick's never even hinted he wanted that, and
he's never, ever sounded like that, not with Sam. This huge, aching wave builds
in his chest, sharp and sparkling and blows through him. It hurts, it's like
being on fire inside and choking on it, like—fuck, he's also harder than he's
ever been, ever, and the two kinds of hurt make him wish his heart would just
stop already. It's not fair, it's not fair…"Not fucking fair…."
Dean's head jerks up, and at the same moment Patrick howls--he's bent over,
slamming back against Dean like he wants him to come out of his throat. Water's
splashing everywhere, fucking floor's swimming with it…. Sam's not part of
this, he feels dirty watching. Rejected. Dean has no idea he's in the room
anymore, and it's Sam's fault. He made this happen…he wipes his hand over his
eyes, hard enough to hurt and presses his other hand over his straining dick,
palm over the wet spot spreading there, hating. Fuck it. He's leaving,
shouldn't be there—he doesn't want to be there. Screw Dean and screw Pat and—
God. Shoves his hand into his shorts.
Fuck,Sam thinks, fuck me. Watches Patrick, the way he scratches at the tile
wall, his mouth open and sobbing, his dick swinging with every stuttering
lurching fuck into him. He watches Dean, and…Dean looks like he's unraveling,
he doesn't look like it's good. He looks on the rough edge of losing it, his
lips twisted and pinched red between his teeth, and the awful, raw sounds he's
making--Sam screws up his free hand and presses it in the hollow of his throat
so hard, he can barely breathe and when he sucks in air, it sounds like he's
sobbing. Dean's head swings towards him like a blind man's, and he calls his
name—no, he begs, with his name….
So, Sam reaches out, pulled to Dean like a golem, a puppet, a thing with no
choice and no free will and when he gets close, Dean pulls one hand off Patrick
like it hurts to do it, grabs Sam by a handful of hair and drags him closer, so
quick Sam's afraid he's going to fall into the tub.
The moment Dean has him, pulls him, so hard Sam feels hair popping from his
scalp and feels Dean's nails rake his tender scalp, when Dean plants his mouth
over his and bites almost as much as he kisses, Sam feels…wild, released, free.
Free like finally, *finally* the glass around him is broken and he's breathing
for the first time ever. Dean kisses him fiercely, rips at him, gasps in his
mouth, vicious and painful, just like Sam's always imagined it would be—Dean
fighting him into coming—Sam moans, and Dean jerks all over and comes. He's
inside Patrick, coming as he's moaning Sam's name and it's pretty fucking
amazing.
Water's still pouring all over everything, Dean's gasping for breath, still
deep in Patrick. He licks water off Sam's chin, slides his hand under the wet
cotton hiding Sam's dick. Fingertips graze the head, smear a little pre-come
around--
Kind of embarrassingly, that's all it takes. Sam clenches all over so hard that
his lungs lock up, and his eyes squeeze shut, his lips peel back from his teeth
and he's making the most awful sound he's ever produced and it just makes him
even hotter. It's wonderful, and scary, and it's the biggest, deepest, hottest,
orgasm he's ever had.
When he can breathe again and remember how to open his eyes, he's got his hand
clenched around Dean's like it’s a lifeline. Like it's the only real thing in
fantasy land. Solid and warm, and slimy with his come…Sam smiles at him. Any
minute now Dean's going to lose it, and Sam doesn't give a flying fuck. He's
too happy. He has no idea how Patrick feels right now, but he's feeling
generous enough to hope it's this good.
He shivers. The fucking water's gone cold….
 
Anyway, they end up all three of them in Dad's bed, wrapped up in a nest of
towels and sheets and the smell of come, and sweat. They're lying on their
sides, barely fitting together on the bed. Patrick's out like he's drugged, so
deep in sleep he's snoring….
Dean's got his hands around Sam's face and even though he's so careful, it
hurts. But it's okay, it hurts in a good way. Dean's kissing him, kissing slow,
deep, trying to touch every place inside. It's the most amazing kiss Sam's ever
had and he's not going to think about all the fucking practice Dean's had, just
concentrate on this. Dean makes noise kissing, like he's eating something good,
pleased little noises, hungry little noises. Hungry little noises from the back
of his throat, it goes on and on and Sam's wracked with slow, aching waves of
pleasure, building, and building until he feels if Dean just breathes on his
dick, he'd come again.
Dean smirks, licks Sam's mouth and says, "Good to be that young, hunh?" and
brushes his belly against Sam's dick.
"Fuckin' old man," Sam gasps. It's perfect, and scary. He keeps waiting for the
implosion but Dean's just…okay. Fine with it. Sam stops thinking when Dean
wraps his hand around his dick, and strokes like he's got all day. Sam's
writhing all over the bed, moaning, and kicking Patrick, who sleeps through
everything, including Sam screaming into Dean's chest and coming all over him.
                                    ~~~~~~
14
Sam's leaning against the sink, eating handfuls of cereal out of the box, when
Dean comes stumbling in.
"Hey, Billy Sue Bob, what're you doing up?" He's peering out of one sleep-puffy
eye, and Sam's pretty sure those are his underwear Dean's wearing, and he's
rubbing at his face so hard, Sam snickers, if he keeps that up, Dean's going to
rub his nose right off. Sam stuffs his cheeks with Corn Pops and waits for Dean
to really wake up. Waits for the freaking to start.
Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. He digs his fingers in his ears and says, "Ew.
Don't smack when you chew."
Surprise makes him stop chewing all together. He's standing there with his
mouth open, he probably looks like a guppy but—seriously, Dean's reaction isn't
quite what Sam's been expecting—hell, a fucking *lack* of reaction is
definitely not what he expected. But, y'know. Good. Good. Dean'll just play
this whole thing off and act like nothing happened about ten times last
night....
But then because sometimes he's so fucking stupid, stupid shit falls out of his
mouth. "How long? How long did you know?"
Dean hesitates, blinks hard. Shocks the fuck out of Sam by smiling--by knowing
just what Sam means. "Always?" he kind of laughs and then, "Eh. Since you gave
me that Mother's Day card," he says. He pulls open the fridge and grabs the
milk, tips the carton to his mouth. He drinks, watching Sam from the corner of
his eye. Sam thinks it's…fucking surreal. Okay. He can do it Dean's way.
"Fuck you. I was five," Sam snorts. "I didn’t know you couldn't be my mom." His
grin loses some light. "It's just…you kinda were. You were always there. You
made my lunch and kissed boo-boos and gave me bedtime stories, tucked me in,
and…fuck, you loved me. And then—suddenly I was invisible."
"Dude, shit." Dean drops the carton on the counter, looks away. "I was
*twelve*. Twelve, you start…feeling things different. You change. You start
figuring stuff out...." He shrugs, like it's so fucking plain he doesn't need
to speak.
"Yeah, well, I was eight, thought you hated me. I couldn't figure out what I
did wrong."
"Always blaming yourself, Sammy." Dean rubs at his eyes with the heel of his
hand. "I couldn't hate you ever, idiot." Sam sidles over and leans into Dean's
side. It feels good when Dean throws his arm around him. "If I lost you…it'd
kill me."
A shiver racks him. He pulls away so he can look into Dean's face.….
Dean punches him. "What? Stupid. I just mean like…ah, you know what I mean."
Sam grins, and wraps himself around Dean. "Yeah. Me too."
                                    ~~~~~~
Sam's cradling his chin in his palm, elbow on his desk; he's been staring at
the screen for what seems like forever. There are bits of paper all over, with
cryptic little notes scrawled on. He's in his own private world at the moment.
There's a plate holding a dried out bologna sandwich next to his elbow, there's
a coffee cup with a series of rings laddering up the inside and a pool of oily
coffee sludge at the bottom…he's been there a while. He picks through the cups
and bottles dotting the surface of his desk. Miraculously, one of the bottles
is still somewhat cool, he grabs whatever it is and gulps. He uses the tee
shirt he's yanked off and dropped on the floor to wipe his mouth. Seriously—he
needs a fan. Maybe he can talk Dean into buying one for this room since Dad's
going to be home soon and then, no air-conditioned bedroom for Dean-o either.
There's a quick tattoo of knocks at the room's door, and Dean strolls in,
letting in a blast of game show and the sound of the washer walking the laundry
room floor. Sam blinks. He's been working so long, he's kind of forgotten about
everyone else.
"Hey." Dean hooks his chin on Sam's shoulder and goose-bumps race over his
skin. Dean's always been pretty casual about getting in Sam's personal space,
only now…it feels different. And just as he's thinking that, Dean rests his
nose against the back of Sam's neck, inhales. "How's it going—damn. You're
disgusting. Look at this desk."
"Can't help it. Patrick keeps bringing me stuff, and I keep forgetting to eat
it," Sam shrugs.
"Forget to eat?" Dean says, somewhat horrified. "How the fuck do you forget to
eat?" Dean mutters, and picks through the pile around Sam's laptop, searching
for something edible. Sam huffs, tries not to grin at the small grunt of
satisfaction Dean makes when he finds a peanut butter sandwich that hasn't
gotten crunchy at the edges. "So. Progress?" He crams the sandwich in his
mouth, his hand resting on Sam's bare shoulder as he eats.
"Well…kind of. Maybe. I'll let you know."
Dean wipes crumbs from his mouth and Sam's shoulder, leans over to kiss his
neck. "Okay, babe." He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Don’t forget dinner time. I'm
gonna mow the fucking lawn."
Babe? Sam's insides are twisting in a weird combination of thrill, fear, and
happiness. Dean is taking to these changes like…like every hope and dream he'd
ever had and not *once* has he said this is wrong, or this is weird or fucked
up—hell, even Sam's been thinking it's a least a little fucked up—maybe a lot
fucked up. And Patrick…Patrick keeps giving him this Look like he's done
something wrong, he's walking around like…like the earth's about to open up and
suck them all down to a fiery death, but…well; it's not stopping Patrick from
climbing into bed with them, is it?
                                    ~~~~~~
They're trying to be quiet as possible. It's late, and they've been out in the
dark of the back yard for a while…no idea where Dean is, this is Patrick's time
anyway….
The street lights are blown again, so it's pitch black out and no one can see,
but sound travels forever, and for this neighborhood, it's pretty quiet
tonight, no one's screaming, no screen doors are slamming, no engines roaring,
cars gunning up and down the road…the sound of them breathing is trapped
between them, Patrick's little moans, his breath hitching when Sam drives his
hips forward, feels like they're wrapped up in the sound. Patrick's rocking up
against him, slow, careful, because the lounger they're spread out on has seen
better days, after having had the shit kicked out of it, it's kind of on its
last legs…creaks ominously when Sam shifts to line them up perfectly. Sam
groans…Patrick's all about dragging it out, and making him beg to come, the
bastard. He's too careful, too gentle…Sam bites down hard on Patrick's neck.
His skin is hot under Sam's tongue, sharp-salt with sweat.
"Ouch--slow down, Sam…slow down…" Sam shivers as Patrick's warm breath skates
over his ear, wide, rough hands circle his waist. Sam likes when Patrick holds
his waist—his hands are bigger than Dean's and if Sam plays it right, sometimes
he can get Pat to tighten up until it's just shy of painful. At the moment
Patrick's holding his waist too carefully, but he's slipping one hand down,
tracing slippery, slick lines along the slope his spine, the curve of his
ass…Sam kind of gets in the way, trying to help pull their clothes loose,
Patrick slaps his hands away, and Sam thinks that's pretty funny. He lies there
snickering as Pat works their shorts down, and complains about doing all the
work. It's great to have Patrick in a playful mood; Sam's kind of missed it….
He heaves a sigh of relief when Patrick has their shorts open—finally--and
then, slick and sweat and determined lust makes the slide against each other
just right. It's pretty fucking good and then it gets better--he feels
Patrick's fingers press between his cheeks. Wherever Patrick touches, sweat
springs up, rolls down Sam's skin and tickles—just a little. Just until Patrick
pulls another gasp out of him. The pad of his finger rocks against his hole, it
fits perfectly there. Patrick's being mean as usual and won’t press in farther;
he just kisses Sam, deep and wet, and strokes tiny shallow circles over his
hole and Sam's wiggling and whining, trying to get more. But Patrick is
Patrick--just so fucking frustrating—
Thank god, Sam thinks, when Patrick reaches the point that not even he can hold
back—he sinks his finger in until his palm is cradling Sam's cheek. Finally.
After all the god-awful teasing, it doesn’t take long for Sam to reach the edge
of coming, shuddering so hard that he's afraid the lounger is finally going to
yield to metal death. Patrick finger-fucks him, sucks his tongue like it’s a
dick and suddenly Sam's not worrying about the lounger, or the neighbors, or
any damn thing except how it feels when he lets go, how Patrick's finger feels
inside him, the hot and slick feel of his come flooding across his belly. And
then there's the way Patrick sounds when *he* comes, and how his dick flexes
and throbs between them and how wonderful the slide is…wild thoughts fly around
in his head. Weird little dreamlets that rise and pop…Dean and Patrick and him
living far way being together, Dean kissing him and telling him I love you so
much forever, and the sound of birds, and Dean, and rolling in big piles of
fluffy, ticklish feathers, Dean, and Dean….
Sam jerks. "Nunh?" what the fuck?
His head is plastered to Patrick's chest, his cheek is in a puddle he's pretty
sure isn't sweat, and that's just damn embarrassing. He can feel Patrick
chuckle as well as hear it. "You fell asleep." He sounds amused and
pleased…"I'm flattered."
"Did not! And if I did, it's not 'cause of you, dude. I'm just tired—shit, I've
been awake for days."
"Umhmm." Patrick's hands stroke up and down his back, big wide bands of heat
smoothing up and down his spine, soothing even though it's hot as hell, and so
humid it's like breathing through wet cotton. He's starting to drift off
again—well, not again because he wasn't asleep the first time, he was just
resting his eyes a little….
"You know what? I'm happy," Sam mumbles into Patrick's sticky chest. "Really
happy…."
Sam says it like he can't believe it, like if he says it louder, something or
someone will leap in and snatch it from him.
"S'good," Patrick's voice rumbles in his chest, vibrates pleasantly against
Sam's ear. "I'm glad. You weren't at the beginning of the summer. I can tell
you are now."
Sam's more than happy to let Patrick pet him, but after a bit, the tacky,
squelchy itch between them drives him upright. "Well, you’re happy, too, right?
Isn't this like the best thing that could have happened—to both of us? Dean's
like—he's like this magnet, holding us all together."
He doesn't get an answer right away. Patrick's quiet as he pulls his shirt off,
he wipes them down like it's the most important thing in the world. When he
does speak, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with what Sam was saying.
"The summer's almost over," Patrick says. "Kids are coming into work, buying up
school supplies. I see lots of guys I went to school with, getting ready for
college. I'm looking at still being here next year." He shakes his head. "I
don’t know what's going to happen."
"But Patrick, the important thing is this, right? Us? I mean, we've figured out
something no one else has. We can be happy."
Patrick heaves a sigh. "Your dad's coming back home again, Sam. What happens
then?"
Sam doesn't want to hear that—for once in his life, things are going his
way—why the fuck is Patrick trying to dump on it? He punches him in the chest
and pushes himself off of Patrick's lap. "Dad's got nothing to do with this.
Don’t even—don’t say anything to Dean about Dad." He grabs Patrick's face,
willing him to read everything in his heart, please get it, Patrick, please.
"Dean will--it'll ruin everything--promise me."
"Hey, calm down…" Patrick covers Sam's hands with his. "Sam. It's coming. It's
all going to end, you know that."
Sam shakes his head, hard. "No, no it doesn't have to. We love each other. We
can find a way to make it work."
Pat pushes Sam gently away. "Sam, I get that you love him—I know he's loved you
for forever. But this…thing that's going on? Hasn't changed things much at all.
Not really, not the way you're hoping." Patrick lurches up off the lounger and
eyes it sadly as it lists, almost falling to the ground. He shakes his head. "I
gotta start dinner. You want spaghetti?" He stops at the porch stairs and runs
finger tips across the frame of the bike leaning against the porch post. Sam
can almost feel the touch on his own skin; Patrick touches the bike so
carefully.
Patrick turns at the door, says so very seriously, "I love you both." A switch
flicks and his dark drawn expression lightens, his whole face shines, bright
and unconcerned…" Hey Sammy, summer's almost over. I think we should work on
that bike tomorrow, don't you?"
                                    ~~~~~~
Sam knew of only one way of sending a ghost to rest—burn the bones.
And that right there was their problem. Major problem. No way are they finding
bones in that lake, not unless they come up with some brilliant way to drag the
bottom, all on their own. Right. There had to be some other way, some kind of
exorcism they could perform, some rite to get her to move along. Shit. Dad
would probably know just the thing—if they had his journal, they could probably
find something that'd work. Which is why Sam's looking so fucking hard for an
answer—he's got to find something before Dean thinks to ask Dad. Because if he
does, Dad's going to give them hell for even thinking about going against his
orders, or worse, he might just come home before Sam's ready, and ruin
everything….
So, he's been sitting at his desk day and night, practically mainlining coffee,
blearily searching site after site on line. Most make him snort with laughter,
a few scare him. People are freaky….
Patrick comes in later in the evening and hands him a plate quietly and Sam
realizes, Patrick's been quiet for a while. Sam looks up at him. "You okay?"
not still thinking about the other day?
Patrick smiles and brushes the hair off Sam's forehead. It's getting longer;
it's about time to ask Dean for a trim….
Pat shrugs, still smiling. "I'm good," he says. "Getting anywhere? I want to
know that she…she won't be doing that…thing to anyone else."
Sam swallows, drops his eyes. "Patrick, we're going to make it so she doesn't
come after anyone, ever again. Promise." and takes a big dry bite of the
sandwich.
"I know you guys can do it. I trust you, Sam," he says as he leaves the room.
Fuck, really? Sam thinks. Because he can't imagine why Patrick should. Sam
stares at the screen and chews his way slowly and methodically through whatever
kind of sandwich it is and never tastes a bite.
                                    ~~~~~~
Around midnight, he comes across a summoning spell for spirits who've crossed.
Thinking that it's kind of a stupid idea, and wondering what the point of
*that* is, he checks it out. Skims through it and something catches his eye….
"The departed can be called to advise, to impart wisdom, or to enlighten". Sam
blinks. Okaa—ay…that…what if…
What if they can bring her what she's wanted all these years? Maybe if she gets
her heart's desire, she'll finally rest….
He studies the spell, and it's simple—*stupid* simple. There aren't any weird
ingredients, thank goodness. Just shit he can practically yank out of the
kitchen cabinets. Stuff Patrick's bought and put in there, next to the boxes of
generic mac and cheese and Hamburger Helper. Well… except for the blood.
That's…not such a good thing, he knows that, but summoning supernatural beings
could be…sometimes you needed something to give them. A gift. Dad and Dean
would lose their minds if they knew the spell called for blood--human blood,
specifically. After all, that would have been too damn easy, right? Spell
couldn't have called for a few teaspoonfuls of beef blood? Oh well, he thinks.
It's not really such a big deal, they're just calling it and sending it back
and even with human blood in it, the ghost won't be that strong…besides, Sam
knows without a doubt, he can handle it.
He copies out the few lines of Latin they'll need to say, and writes up the
list of herbs….
                                    ~~~~~~
When he tells Dean what the plan is, he looks at him like he's crazy. "And how
is this supposed to work? What's to keep any of the spirits in the lake from
popping out—if we're even on the right track here?"
"She's looking for her son—that spell will use her as the focus because her
desires are strong—strong enough to keep her lakeside all these years, to keep
her looking…okay, I know it's a long shot but Dad's gone on less."
Dean shakes his head, "Sam, that's different. Dad's got more experience--" He
holds up his hand to stop Sam. "But I think we're up to this, between the
two—three—of us." and then his eyes crinkle up, and he gets that completely
goofy and totally fucking sexy smile, the one that makes his whole body looks
like it's smiling. "Okay, Genius Boy. We'll do it your way."
Sam fights to keep from wiggling all over like a crazed puppy--Dean agreeing
with him, it's like getting an all over body massage *and* a happy
ending—"Yeah, fucking right I'm a genius. This is what we're going to need…" He
hands Dean a list as he's rummaging around in the fridge—pushes him aside and
grabs the beer he's looking for. "Here. Sit, read."
Dean tilts the bottle at him in thanks, and sits at the kitchen table. He
smoothes the wrinkled sheet of notepaper flat against the table top, running
his fingers down the page as he reads. Nodding, tapping the bottle against his
lip, and then, "A brazier? What—like a firebowl?" He hands the list back to
Sam, who frowns.
"Uh, yeah—but only about this big—" He sketches a small, vaguely bowl-shaped
space in the air with his hands. "We don't have anything like that…" Dad didn’t
mind using holy water, Latin, semi-automatics and blessed bullets—all in the
name of killing things that needed to be dead. *Actual* magic, though--casting
spells, scrying, things like that--he drew the line there. They didn’t have
magical supplies. Sam had no damn idea where to *get* magical supplies. Not
like there was a Magiks Are Us in the neighborhood.
Dean's playing with the bottle, rolling the neck between his fingers and
thinking and Sam's watching his fingers and thinking…not about the spell.
Suddenly Dean thumps the bottle against the table top, and Sam jumps guiltily.
"What? What is it?"
"Grill—a disposable grill." Dean grins wide. "We got 'em at work—unless it
needs to be out of a specific metal or something?"
Sam does a double take—fuck, that was a pretty good question, and one he hadn't
thought of…Dean narrows his eyes, reaches up and pulls Sam's hair a bit. Okay,
Dean's not stupid; Sam feels kind of like an asshole for acting so surprised.
He'll apologize later. He saw something on line he's been wanting to try
anyway….
Checking the spell doesn't reveal that the brazier *needs* to be iron or brass
so he figures all the spell needs is a container and fire and basically, some
raiding of the kitchen cabinets. Easy. And if he doesn't tell Dean everything,
it's just to keep him from worrying. Hell, Dean would—has done—the same. It's
one of the ways they have for looking out for each other. He smirks at Dean
when he tells him the good news, runs his tongue slowly along his lower lip,
hopes like hell it looks sexy and not like he's got something stuck on his
lip…this at least, he doesn't have to hide, not anymore. "Tell me again I'm a
genius," Sam says. He *knows* he's a genius.
"Tell you what," Dean grins, and yanks Sam between his spread knees. "I'll let
you show me what a genius you are." He rubs his thumb over Sam's damp lower lip
and he opens by instinct and Dean presses his thumb inside where the skin is
wet and slick. Sam closes his mouth around Dean's thumb and sucks hard, flicks
his tongue against it and bites the tip.
"Oh. Shit—" Dean groans. "Hell yeah, you are a genius,."
Sam spits Dean's thumb out and laughs. "Dude, so fucking easy. Come one—we got
a ghost to bust, right?"
"What? Dude. Ghost buster--please. You're embarrassing yourself."
                                    ~~~~~~

"What'd you bring Patrick for lunch?"
They're going at a pretty good clip down a side road that'll bring them out to
the main highway--and Dean and Patrick's giant place of employment. There's not
much to see on the road, the scenery basically consists of pines and skeletal
trees, occasionally a house falling down into waist high weeds. Before the base
cut backs, it had been a busy, well maintained road. It's not used as much now,
but it was a good drive in the summer, isolated enough that it was fairly safe
to fly down and that was fun to do, with the tape deck banging and the windows
wide open, screaming along to the music—
The air whipping through the car windows smells like hot sand and pine, a kind
of clean scent. Sam likes having the windows open much better than the AC,
likes how it dries the sweat curling his hair, dries his skin without making it
feel all tight and itchy. Dean repeats his question and rolling his eyes, Sam
reaches over and turns the radio down—yeah, not shouting over Paranoid. Ignores
Dean's automatic bleat of protest. He looks down into the bag on his lap.
"I didn't make him lunch, it was just in there—" He'd grabbed the bag from the
fridge before they left. The neatly creased bag with Patrickcarefully printed
across the top made him laugh, it was so fucking *him*--if they'd had stickers,
he'd probably pop a few on. Such a fuckin' girl. Only Patrick could get away
with shit like this, he thinks, and peels open the bag. "Looks like tuna fish.
Ew. I hate tuna fish."
"Dude, you're not eating it, he is. I'm going to pick up my check too, as long
as we're there. Get the grill from Pat while I do that—he's working the patio
shop this week. I fucking hate patio." He frowns a little and Sam reaches over
and lets his fingers drift over Dean's leg, just short of tickling. Loves it
when Dean's frown melts into a smirk.
Sam pretends to watch the scenery flash by and spells his name many times on
the inside of Dean's thigh. Because it makes Dean snicker. Because it's a fact,
that thigh is his. And so's the other one, and every fucking thing between
them. Sam smirks too and lets his hand wander higher, slowly spelling Samuel
Winchester until his fingers are pushing up the edge of Dean's shorts. He
watches Dean's face change the higher his fingers move. Soft hairs bend, give
way under his fingertips—he can just feel the edge of where hair begins to
thicken—scratches there. Dean's breaths come quicker, harder. He helpfully
shifts his leg outward a bit, making it easier for Sam to trace the outline of
his dick. It starts to fill. He cups Dean and squeezes, carefully, firmly.
"Fuck!" Dean jerks all over and Sam, Sam smiles. This is good, this is…fuck,
this is better than good…Dean's sweating, even with the wind whipping through
the windows, sweat's on his lip, beading up on his neck. His grip on the
steering wheel shifts, knuckles white… "Sam, careful, shit. I don’t want to
pile us into a tree."
Sam pushes down, grinding his palm into Dean's thigh. He's hard now too,
watching Dean flinch and gasp. There's something lurking, building in him, and
it feels hot and thick and really, really, good. "So pull over. Come on,
there's a couple of spots we can pull over, no one's going to be out in the day
time." He feels like. Fuck, like he's so high. He closes his eyes and revels in
it—this feeling. This knowing that Dean wants it as much as he does, and that
he wants it from *Sam*.
They're flying even faster now, the wind is stripping the air from his mouth
and he knows it's crazy what he's doing, but he does it anyway, leans into Dean
and runs long, hot licks up his arm, right into his armpit, tasting salt and
the bitter tang of deodorant and clean skin, and pushes his fingers far enough
under the shorts leg that he can feel Dean's dick lift to meet his touch—
"Stop!" Dean snorts, tries to jerk away--laughs and groans and then curses as
the car screeches across the road. "Motherfuck—you're going to kill us--all
right. I'm—pulling over—"
His brother's breathless, still laughing, but it flies apart when Sam bites
him, a hot spot over his ribs, sucks sweaty cotton into his mouth, sucks until
he knows Dean's skin is going to bruise and fuck yeah, he likes doing it.
Dean jerks the wheel hard and they fishtail through gravel, and slide to a stop
on the roadside. Sam's stomach slams up into his heart, fucking scared and so
turned on. He's giggling, high and tight because it's hard to breathe, Dean
snickers, and then he swats him in the back of the head. "Yow, you jerk!"
"You little *fucker*," Dean snaps. "We could have hit a tree or something."
Sam grins. "Yeah, but we didn't."
"Who *are* you? What have you done with the Sam who actually uses his brains?"
Dean growls and then they're bouncing down a dirt road apparently made of ruts
and lined with boulders, which leads to nowhere—nowhere being a slight clearing
in between trees. Dean jams the car into park, and jerks his seat belt off. He
reaches out and grabs Sam's. "Get it off, come here," and pulls him into his
lap, thumbs digging hard into the muscle of his thighs. The way he's kissing
Sam is different than any way he's kissed him yet. It's almost kind of scary
and for a second, doubt scritches at the back of his mind…and then he's going
fucking crazy. Dean's got his fingers digging into his ass, practically
dragging him over his dick. The way Dean's moaning and throwing his hips up,
Sam's sure—Sam *knows* he'd be better than any girl Dean's ever had—he could
prove it to him, if Dean would only *let* him. Dean yanks and pulls at Sam's
shorts down and they end up somewhere on the floor…he spreads Sam's legs as
wide as possible and all the while sinking down until he's lying on the seat
and Sam's just about sitting on his chest, then….
Sam's head smacks hard into the roof, and then he's banging a fist against
it—fuck fuck fuck--he watches his dick disappear into Dean's mouth. Sam feels
like he's not getting air—he can't even remember how to breathe. All he can
feel is the wet tight heat of Dean's mouth, the slick wet inside, the sudden
tight squeeze as he pulls off and sucks hard—Sam jabs Dean once or twice in the
back of his throat and gags him before they figure out a nice, firm grip on his
hips will keep Sam from choking Dean on his dick. It goes a lot smoother after
that.
Sam's caught, can't look away--Dean's lips are so red and so wet, slippery with
spit and precome. He keeps making these little grunting sounds. When he pulls
off to gulp air, Sam's dick slaps his belly—Dean laughs low and dirty and sucks
him right back down. Sam's pretty sure it's the laugh that does it—it just says
Dean knows he owns him and it's so hot he can't hold back. He doesn't know if
he should pull out or not, but Dean decides for him, lunges forward and takes
Sam as deep as he can and that's just—too much. He lets go with a horrible
cracking yell…thank God he's too fucked up to care. He's dripping wet--they're
both fucking dripping, it’s so damn hot in the car--so Sam's sure he can play
off the tears as sweat, and lets them go. It was incredible, amazing and…shit.
Never, ever thought this dream would come true….
Dean pulls off finally when Sam shoves him away. His voice is hoarse but he
looks pleased with himself. "Didn't even taste it." He's grinning at Sam like
he's done something clever and Sam gets it…Dean has no idea this is a first for
Sam. He probably thinks Pat…yeah. No.
Sam sits right on his dick and hopes it hurts. He wipes his dripping face with
both hands--the whole inside of the car stinks like sex and stale smoke, like
Dean.
"Didn't even taste it." What the fuck--Sam doesn't get it. If he was Dean, he'd
want to know, he'd want it right on his tongue and on his lips and in the back
of his throat so he could walk around and taste and breathe Dean all day…"I
wanted you to taste me," he says and Dean's eyes flicker away…Sam's not sure he
likes that but he's still feeling electric sparks, still feeling hot all over
and most of all, wanting more. He wants Dean to feel this way. He reaches out
for Dean's dick but gets pushed away.
"Nah, I got it," Dean says, and starts to jerk off. His eyes are dancing all
over Sam, he's moaning under his breath, real quiet like he's trying to keep it
to himself. It's not long before he's speeding up, Sam figures probably because
he's been staring at Dean so damn hard—impossible not to look away because he's
just so pretty when he's about to come. He tightens all over and makes a sound
Sam loves—Sam slaps his hands away and before Dean can stop him, Sam's got him
in his mouth and he sucks—hard. He feels an explosion of warmth and pulls back
so Dean comes in his mouth, on his tongue. Sam won’t let him get away, he sucks
him dry, ignoring his weak pushes, ignoring everything but this—the way Dean
feels, his taste, his smell, everything. Belongs to him—Dean's *supposed* to
belong to him.
He's licking his lips and feeling pretty damn good. He smiles at Dean who's
most certainly not returning the smile. He looks…Sam's not sure how to read it.
He's not smiling back, not at first, and when he does, it's one of those
smiles. All teeth, and nothing else. When Dean thinks he's not looking Sam sees
him glance around the car, like he's not really sure how they got there.
                                    ~~~~~~
At least Patrick is happy to see him, he grabs the bag and smiles at Sam like
the sun's just come out. Dean mumbles something and takes off to do what he has
to, and Sam gets the grill, and then he sits and watches Patrick work. Pat's
got a smile for everyone, kind and helpful and—it's kind of sickening, Sam
thinks. Maybe he should check Patrick, fling a little holy water on him just to
be sure….
Dean comes back and bypasses Sam, there's a small group of guys out on the
street, wearing the vests and smoking and looking kind of self-consciously
bored and Dean jerks his chin towards them with a grunt. Sam interprets this to
mean, "I'm going off to do some macho posturing, don't fucking embarrass me by
acting like you know me." Sam catches his eye and deliberately runs his tongue
around inside his mouth. Yeah, you dick, I can taste you. It pisses him off
that Dean doesn’t blush, not the fucking least bit. He does drop his eyes
though, before walking away. Sam watches him and gets that easy, drowsy,
cottony feeling he's had for the last couple of days, only it sharpens a
little, loses some of its unformed edges....
The customers taper off and Patrick finally gets his break. He comes over to
where Sam's sitting, clutching that silly lunch bag and all pink faced from the
heat and no doubt from the effort of smiling non-stop. He sits next to Sam.
"Hey, you." He checks to make sure they can't be overheard by a stray passer-
by. "We're still doing this thing tonight?" he whispers, and Sam wonders if
Patrick realizes how it looks, him leaning toward Sam with pink cheeks,
whispering, his hand on the bench between them. Sam smiles…Patrick. He's
just…clueless.
"Oh yeah. We're ready." Sam nods. "You scared?"
"No, not really, not anymore. I hope it works…" He stops, and looks—really
looks at Sam. He says, "Sam--what happened? Where's Dean? What did you do?"
"Dean? What--nothing! What are you talking about? And why is it always my
fault? Jesus, I don’t know." He squirms a little and feels Patrick's eyes on
him like twin lasers. It takes him a moment or two before he's pretty sure his
voice isn't going to break. "Patrick, I think I screwed up. But I'm not sure
how. He's always…. Fuck." Sam slams his hand down on the bench and manages to
bite back the hiss of pain that bubbles up. It's just so fucking frustrating,
all of it. "I won’t *break*. You know? I won’t break."
It's like Patrick's inside his mind or something. He shakes his head, and when
he gazes up at Sam again, he looks annoyed—and sad. Or pitying, something…"Sam.
You're just—so impatient. You fucking Winchesters. You think you're the only
real things in the world. So fucked up and I'm just trying to hang on. God, you
make me tired, the both of you." He looks tired, sad. Sam just wants to go
home, get this shit over and then, just…breathe again.
"Here comes your brother—I'll see you later, okay?" Patrick tosses a wave at
Dean and walks away before Dean can catch up with him.
And Dean glares at him—seriously? Sam's had about enough of the both of them.
                                    ~~~~~~
 
Patrick's lying on the bottom bunk, and Sam is leaning over him, using a Bic to
carefully ink a six pointed star over his heart. He's squirming a little
because Sam's finger brushes over his stiff nipple repeatedly. "Don’t move,
damn it," Sam mutters. He pushes a hand against Patrick's shoulder to hold him
still and leans closer, darkening the lines but really, he's just messing with
Patrick, teasing him, smelling him—Patrick always smells so good. Patrick's lip
quirks up, he knows damn well what Sam's doing. At least, it lightens the mood
between them. Now if Sam could just get Dean to lighten up….
When they're done and helping a silent Dean load the car, Patrick takes Sam by
the shoulder, tells him he needs to speak to him…in a steady voice pitched only
to Sam's ears, he says, "The beginning of the summer, I told you I had a thing
for your brother and I'm feeling like it kind of launched all of this, somehow,
or maybe it was when you told me that…I don't know. Anyway, that's how I felt
then but now I want to tell you this just in case…"
"Don't tell me anything, it's all going to go just as we planned."
Patrick just keeps talking right over Sam. "I want you to know that I don’t
have that thing anymore, and haven’t for a while. And I'm really sorry. Okay,
let's hurry, up, Dean's waiting."
the *fuck*?<?i ??????????????????> Sam's left looking at Patrick's back as he
hurries to catch up with Dean. Now, what the fucking hell was that supposed to
mean? He jogs to catch up. Patrick has his own way of being an enormous pain in
the ass. In fact, Patrick was pretty damn Winchestery himself when he wanted to
be….
                                    ~~~~~~

15
So they're on the shore, warded as well as they can be—salt in their pockets,
and nails, for the iron—the nails shift bad sometimes and stab the shit out of
their legs—but Sam's thinking it's kind of worth it, whenever Dean flinches and
muffles a pained yelp. They stand, waiting for evening, talking softly about
nothing special...the lady's going to come, they have no doubt, they expect her
to because of her connection to Sam. Sam's not worried; he's got plenty of
protection plus the unshakable belief that she won't—can't--hurt him. He's
pretty sure she'll come because she seemed to like him. As for the rest of it,
he's hoping things go fast, real fast.
It's been dark for an hour or so, but of course it's still sticky hot, Sam
feels like he's wearing a wet wool blanket and all the world's a giant steam
room. The lake smells no better at night than it does in the day, Sam wishes
they were farther back, where the smell of honeysuckle growing on the chain
link fence overpowers all the other smells…he sighs. It's just…the smell of the
lake reminds him of the last time they'd been there, the good and the bad of
it. Even though he has no bad feeling towards her personally, after what
happened, or almost happened, to Patrick, he's certain that what they plan
tonight is the right thing to do.
                                    ~~~~~~
Finally the sun is completely down, and Dean sets up the grill and lights the
coals. He's got a little smile on his face and his eyes are warm, crinkled a
little at the corners, like he's forgotten why they're here, like he's about to
whip out the burgers and franks. When Dean smiles, Sam can't help but smile
too, but he is beginning to wonder if maybe Dean just plain likes burning
things up…
Patrick stands off to the side, clutching the various herbs they're going to
have to toss in the flames. Sam's rehearsed him on the order each little
plastic baggie of herbs he's holding, has to go into the coals. He's holding
those bags like they're filled with gold, or the meaning of life. His eyes are
closed and he's muttering something…Sam can barely hear it. "Chamomile, lilac,
the wort stuff, than bay…." Good. He doesn't want to worry about Pat, not when
he has to speak the summons and not fuck it up--plus toss in the last
ingredient. A nervous laugh bubbles up his throat. Yeah, the secret
ingredient….He sticks his hand in his pocket and rolls the tiny plastic tube,
holding a few drops of his blood, between nervous fingers. When the coals get
hot enough, and Patrick's done his bit, tossing this in finishes it.
Which is why he's got Dean guarding his back and Patrick's the one who's
standing next to the fire. Because Patrick won’t have any idea what the blood
means. Well…that, and he's a fucking lousy shot
"Hey, fire's going good—you ready?" Dean's voice at his ear makes him shiver.
The arm round his shoulder feels cool and then hot, but it's good, especially
when Dean squeezes. Comforting. "Don’t worry, okay? It's going to go perfect. I
feel it." Sam feels it too. It's like the night is huge, and small at the same
time. Like there's only enough room for him, and for Dean. He opens his
eyes—surprised that they were closed, surprised that he's leaning against Dean,
and Dean's hand has moved from his shoulder, to cup his hip, slide up under the
edge of his tee shirt. He pulls it back slowly, trailing fingertips across
Sam's super heated skin, and says, "Go—"
Sam smiles, a smile all for himself and suddenly there's Patrick, staring at
him, all lit up orange with the glow of the little grill. Sam blushes, he'd
kind of forgotten about Patrick.
Dean walks away back into the shadows, leading with the shotgun loaded with
salt rounds. Patrick moves to stand next to Sam, waiting for his signal to
begin—but first, he pulls Sam towards him. "You know what I was trying to tell
you earlier, right? I was trying to tell you--" He crams the baggies of
chamomile, and bay leaves, and lilac into the crook of his elbow, takes Sam's
palm and presses his lips against it, and it's coincidence he kisses the spot
Sam had cut into earlier, to fill the little tube.
"Oh, how did you cut yourself?" Patrick asks, and tsks, kisses the little cut.
His tongue worries at the edges of it. Sam's kind of amazed at how very not
painful that is….
Behind him Dean calls out, "Come on, Mary Beth, the fucking 'squitos are trying
to empty me."
Right. This is it. Time to work. Sam licks dry lips. He starts the spell—a
little short of breath, a little excited, and scared too, it's the biggest
thing he's done to date—and he's doing it without permission, and he's doing it
with Dean, backing *him* up. Following Sam's lead. That probably shouldn't
excite him as much as it does, he's thinking….
The herbs burning smell good, the coals flare up with each new addition.
There's a shimmer of neon blue out on the black surface of the lake, and then a
sharp gust of icy wind rolls over the lake and blasts between them, past them,
and into the woods. Patrick sways in the wake of it, and Sam can hear Dean
cursing—he's okay.
"Yo, Sam…" Patrick whispers hoarsely. "Was that her—oh, *fuck*!"
She's there on the shore, glaring at them—flickers, and she's closer, close
enough that Sam can tell she's pissed as hell, her small hands are knotted on
her hips and her eyes—the warm brown eyes he remembered are flecked with
orange, seem to whirl. Sam hopes like hell he hasn't screwed everything up.
He's muttering frantically, trying to spout the Latin fast, but accurately--
Patrick's emptied all the little bags, but one.…
"Sam," she says, drawing his name out in a way that lets him know she's angry,
and disappointed in him—but she doesn't come any closer to them.
Patrick throws bay leaves into the aromatic fire--following the directions,
Sam's scratched 'come' on each leave that goes into the coals, and she comes
all right—zipping up the shore, she makes a beeline straight for Dean.
Sam almost passes out, he wants to scream, but his training outs—he doesn't
break the ritual, keeps on even when she stops in front of Dean. She sights
down the barrel of the shotgun, and smiles, nothing at all like the smile she'd
given to Sam. "You're so much like your brother, you guys, you scare the shit
out of me…" she draws back, "it might be better if I made you come with me."
She shakes her head, and looks less like a scary-ass spirit bent on killing and
more like a frustrated mom. Glaring at Dean, she says, "You're an idiot. You're
surrounded by love, not just your brother's…you just have no idea, do you?"
Sam is quickly muttering the Latin, trying to read it fast, without stumbling,
clear but quick, and then he throws that little vial of his blood into the
center of the grill and it flares like mad, blue and yellow and green--he jerks
his head at Patrick who jumps back away from the grill like it’s going to
explode, his face creased with worry. "Sam, come away—"
There's a shimmering in the air, and Sam thinks—he's not sure—thinks he can see
thin black ribbons of shadows that aren't their's, twisting at the edges of the
fire light, but maybe not, because Dean's staring down the shore, not at the
fire. Right at the edge of the water, a boy not much younger than Sam stands
up, yawning. His long limbs unfold slowly, like he's been napping; he rubs his
eyes, and looks up. Smiles.
She turns toward them, anger twisting her face into the frightening mask again.
"What've you done, you boys? What did you—" She stops, and wonder lights her
from inside, makes her round, brown eyes glow like gold. "Oh, my baby—at last!
You're here." The boy nods and says something that Sam can't hear, but it makes
her expression shatter, she looks…horrified, raises her hands to her face.
"Help me, please," she whispers.
The boy holds out his hand. She looks at Sam for a long time and nods. He steps
away from the fire, ignoring Dean's angry shout, and goes to her. She presses a
kiss he can't feel on his forehead. "Sam, don’t be so impatient," she says,
"Chill man, soak up some life."
She takes her son's hand, and they step into a bright light, or they become a
bright light—it's hard to see just what happens. All Sam really knows is she's
*gone*, they're both of them gone, completely and forever. Everyone's safe, and
his little sacrifice worked without backfiring on him—thank God.
Patrick is shaking like he's about to fall down. He looks stunned, and a little
confused. "That's—that's it? It's done? That's all there is?"
Sam gapes. "All there is? *All* there is? Are you fucking kidding--"
Dean comes up and throws an arm around Patrick's shoulder. "Yeah, that's it.
Sometimes it doesn’t take more than that. Those are the good ones."
Ass. He murmurs a short prayer of thanks, like the spell instructed, and burns
the paper he'd written the summoning spell on in the grill and then he tosses
the contents into the lake as far as he can throw them. The coals and ash throw
up a much bigger fountain of water than they should—the hiss of the dying coals
is loud enough to make them all jump. He kneels in the warm, wet sand, and
washes the grill in the lake, washes his hands and makes Patrick wash his hands
too
And that's it. They're standing on the shore and Sam sighs. "Well, here we are.
Dad's gonna kill us when he finds out. No, not us—he'll know. He's going to
kill me."
"Believe me, it'll be both of us, and he'll kill me harder because I'm the
oldest," Dean snorts. "But after that, he'll be proud of you, Sam, I promise.
You did good." He turns to Patrick and slaps him on the back. "And you. You
handled that like a Winchester," he says and Patrick jerks like he's being
electrocuted.
"Oh God, like a Winchester…" He shudders. "Don't—don’t say that."
                                    ~~~~~~
They collapse in a pile on Dad's bed, wrapped around each other, too worn out
to do more than sleep. The covers are on a pile on the floor, and the miserable
little window AC unit is wheezing its heart out, struggling to cool the air…it
sucks out some humidity but the room's still an oven and even so, they're
touching everywhere they can, hands and knees and feet, like they can't bear to
be separated and Sam wants more, he's just too drained, too weak….
Sam wakes up and for a second he has no idea where he is, and there's the tail
end of this dream he had flickering in his head. It was kind of pointless, but
what he remembers of it is weird…it's him walking down the hallway in the dark,
and he stops to peek into Dad's room, Dean's on the bed asleep, and Patrick is
there too, his back to the door. Patrick rolls to face him and he mimes shh.
Climbs off the bed, grabs Sam by the hand and pulls the door shut as he pushes
him out. Says, 'Come on, I want to show you something.'
'Show me what?'
Patrick tugs Sam along, and suddenly, they're in a garden. In the sun,
Patrick's eyes are the same color as Dean's. 'Look,' he says, and points into
the middle of a square of big green peppers. There's a huge bright yellow and
black spider, bigger than the span of Pat's hand. Sam remembers jerking back in
surprise, and then, hanging over it, fascinated. 'Why'd you show me this?'
Pat shrugs. 'I thought you'd like it.' He grins. 'Dean would just pick up a
rock and kill it.'
Sam nods, 'yeah, screaming all the way.' Patrick grins, draws a knuckle along
the line of Sam's cheek, before walking back to the house and Sam thinks maybe
he disappeared before going inside--
What the hell—spiders? He blinks and tries to stretch but he feels too heavy.
Spiders. He hates spiders—more likely that he'd smack it with a rock than Dean
would. Showing him the thing seems like something Patrick would do though….
Another few minutes pass before he realizes that it's just him and Dean in the
bed, Dean face down and one arm hanging off the side of the bed. The weight
Sam's been feeling is Dean's leg—he's pretty much trying to fill the empty
space where Patrick had been. The shades are still down so Patrick must have
woken much earlier. Probably not in the bathroom, Sam can't hear the shower….
He rolls out of bed…he's not looking forward to this day, he's got this feeling
it's going to be a shit ass day…maybe because of the dream about spiders. Or
maybe because he knows that after last night, there's no way Dean's not going
to call Dad—no fucking way. Fuck, he's pretty much got to--maybe mange some
damage control before Dad comes home.
Patrick's not in the living room and he's not in the kitchen either, and Sam's
disappointed. He was hoping for pancakes. He must have left for work already.
Before Sam can head back to bed, Dean wanders into the room, yawning and
scratching. He's got last night's jeans on and nothing else, but for some
reason, it feels to Sam like he's wearing armor. Dean looks…he looks kind of
gray…a little shaky. He doesn't say a word; he just eyes Sam up and down with a
little frown, that one he gets when he's being all thoughtful. Makes Sam wonder
what it is Dean's seeing—maybe he's thinking Sam looks crappy, too. He sure
feels it.
"Fuck, that really took it out of me. Weird, hunh?" Dean leans against the door
frame. "I've done ghosts a couple of times with Dad, but this one was…pretty
fucking weird. It was just so…aware."
"Yeah, yeah, it was intense." Sam rummages through the fridge, pulls open
cabinet doors, just pretty much focusing on anything but Dean. "Oh, hey--Pat
forgot his vest. Wanna take it to him, maybe get breakfast?"
"Yeah…lemme get my cigarettes…" Dean wanders out to the living room. Sam's
halfway through making coffee when he comes back into the kitchen. Smoke
naturally makes its way straight to Sam and Dean grins an apology, chuckles
when Sam flips him off. He's heading to the back door when his cell spits out
Zepplin—it's Dad. He winces and Sam's stomach just—falls. Shit. That really bad
feeling just got worse….
Dean practically slams through the screen door out into the back yard, "Dad,
listen, I've got to tell you something—"
Sam stands in the kitchen, torn between rage and sorrow…he's not so fucked up
that he thinks the conversation could ever be Dad, guess what, we found out
just how great three together can be—did I tell you about Pat and Sam? How
about me and Pat and Sam….
Yeah. Not unless he wants Dad to shoot them all and bury them somewhere out in
the woods….
Sam hears Dean practically shout Dad,and pleaseand then…silence. He comes to
the back door and hears him say, "Yes sir. Yeah. Yes sir." Daddy's little
soldier. Fuck him. Fuck everyone.
                                    ~~~~~~

Sam's got his back up against the closed bedroom door, pissed as hell—his
head's pounding, he can even feel the throbbing pulse in his clenched fists. He
looks around his fucking, choking hot closet of a bedroom, and
blinks…something's off.
The bedroom is clean—like, cleaner than it usually is. He's not a slob, but two
people in a closet sized space…hard to keep things from kind of spilling over.
The bunks are neat, the dresser top is spotless. It's the mess of hair stuff
that's gone…in fact Sam can see the bottles of hair gunk Patrick uses piled up
in the wastebasket…his mouth goes dry.
Maybe it went bad—does that shit go bad?
He opens the drawer they gave to Patrick the time he finally admitted he had no
place else to go but here with them--it's empty. But that makes no sense,
because there's no reason for Patrick to take his stuff out of the drawer. Sam
swallows, feeling a little sick.
Bathroom's the same—none of Patrick's stuff, not even a hair-band. There's
always hair-bands under the sink, in the shower….
                                    ~~~~~~
Dean's watching TV, one of those stupid shopping channels. What the fuck is he
doing—"Dean—?"
Turns out he's not so much watching the show as curling over himself on the
edge of the couch, gripping his knees like he's about to lose them. He glances
at Sam and he looks all hollowed out, like someone's punched him in the gut—or
like someone's ripped his guts out. His mouth's moving—he gulps and—
Sam narrows his eyes. Yeah, well, right now, Dean's going to have to suck it
up. Sam doesn't have room to worry about what Dad's said to make Dean shrivel
up like that—"Patrick's not here."
"'Course not—he's at work. What? Isn’t he?"
Sam shifts forward until his knees are knocking up against the back of the
couch. Dean huffs, "Sam—"
"He's not…" Sam mutters. He twists, feels like his skin is too tight,
uncomfortable and prickly and the way Dean's looking at him isn't helping. "His
stuff's not here. His stuff's all gone, he's gone."
"For shit's sake, Sam, his vest's there on the chair, right? He's not going to
leave that."
Sam can't help but stare at Dean like he's beyond stupid. "Dean. There's
nothing else here but that." Asshole.
His brother's looking at him, his gaze is bouncing from Sam's eyes to his
mouth, back and forth, like he's thinking hard, trying to fit puzzle pieces
together…"Okay," he says. "Come on, get in the car."
They waste time going to Patrick's mother's house. Sam just manages to keep
from kicking the door off its hinges. Dean kind of crowds in front of him,
keeping Sam behind him, and somehow he talks to the woman as if she deserves
being treated like a human being. Sam's disgusted, impatient and furious with
both of them—Dean for being decent to her, and her for being—worthless. She's
worthless--just flinches and looks everywhere but at them as she tells them she
hasn't seen him, not in a long while and she thought he was staying with them,
shouldn't they know what happened to him?
"You--*bitch*."
"Sammy!" How did Patrick manage it? How did he care about this bitch? Before
bitch is completely out of his mouth, Dean's shushing him, wraps his fist up in
his collar and practically marches him off the steps, silent and fuming all the
way into the car. They're about five minutes down the road before Dean finally
reacts in some way Sam can understand. He slams his fist against the steering
wheel and curses—just a loud string of words, all of them starting or ending
with 'fuck'—he's pretty loud. After a minute or two, he takes a deep breath and
says, "Sorry, Sam. You know I wasn't mad at you, right?"
Sam waves his arms and then just slumps until his knees are tight against the
dash. Sure, he knows that. It's just…it felt like Dean was taking the bitch's
side...but. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I just wanted to…shit. I wanted to punch her
lights out."
Dean exhales, tosses Sam a little half grin. "Me too."
                                    ~~~~~~
At work, one of Dean's buddies tells them Patrick was a no-show, probably
fired, and wasn't that a bitch, 'cause Pat's a great guy—
They check everywhere they can think of, every place Patrick might go—they even
get Mike to ask around, because he knows people who know people. He gets back
to them before the afternoon's begun to shade toward evening, and Sam figures
that's not a good sign. No one's seen Patrick. Patrick's gone. Patrick's
grabbed his shit, packed his bag and left them without a word, without a sign.
Sam's so mad—he's so mad he smashes his fist against the dashboard, and it
hurts so good, he does it a couple of times—Dean winces, but he doesn't stop
Sam from hitting his car. Sam wishes with all his heart Patrick was in front of
him, so he could kick the mother-fucking shit out of him.
Dean doesn’t say anything about Pat leaving except, "Patrick's grown", and
"it's just time", and "not everyone can deal with this shit"…and Sam doesn't
believe that's the reason—it couldn't be. Patrick wasn't that weak—Patrick was
way braver than that.
There's not even time to breathe or process what's happening because when they
pull up in the drive, there's Dad, sitting on the front porch. He's staring
down the drive toward them, smoking and looking thoughtful. It's fucking eerie,
Sam thinks, how much he and Dean look alike…what similar expressions they
have…how much they *are* alike…his stomach does a tight little unhappy flip.
What's coming next is not going to be good. He can hear Dean's quiet, unhappy
sigh. Yeah, it's going to suck balls….
At least Dad's not looking murderous. "Boys," he says, calmly and evenly, when
they stop in front of him. Dad's looking at him so hard, Sam feels like he's
trying to unpeel him with his eyes. Takes Sam a few seconds to get that Dad
only has eyes for him--he doesn't even glance at Dean. "Where's Pat? Dad asks,
and Sam shrugs.
"Gone…somewhere." He shrugs again and Dad just nods.
"Well." He says. In fact, that's all he ever says about Patrick, ever. Another
long few minutes pass and Sam tries not to glare---or look away. He can just
feel Dean standing next to him, doing his stupid version of parade rest—makes
Sam want to punch his lights out, it really does.
"Want to talk to you, boy," Dad drawls and flips his butt down the driveway.
"Yes sir," Dean snaps out, and Dad shakes his head.
"Nope. Not you Dean, you go on in, I'll talk to you later, tell you about this
hunt…" He shakes a fresh butt out of his pack—holds the pack out to Dean.
Okay—what the fuck? Dean's not—he's not in trouble but I am? Sam tries to think
faster, think his way around this before Dad catches him unprepared. He licks
his lips, and hopes this whole shit's not going to hurt too bad.
"Sit down, Sam."
God help him—he's going to die….
"What you did was careless, and dangerous, and disobedient."
Sam feels the hairs on his spine, all the way up to the back of his neck,
rise—the way the anger pours through him, he really feels like he's going to
pass out. Before he can unlock his jaws, Dad speaks again.
"Sam…" He lets out this long sigh, this irritating, 'you-fucked-up-big' wash of
noise. "You've got to get past this thing where you think I'm picking on you.
I'm not. I'm tryin' to save your life. Keep you safe. It's a damn hard job son;
I don't need you making it harder."
Yeah, well fuckin' excuse me for being here. Making your job harder.
Dad rolls the cigarette in his fingers. "I had a long drive up here, and
somewhere around Virginia, I decided not to kill you—"
Sam jerks a little, not sure whether to laugh or scowl so he settles for
snorting….
"'Round about then, I began to admire your solution. That was…elegant."
Okay, that was about the weirdest thing he's ever heard Dad say and there have
been…some pretty weird things have come out of his mouth. Sam peeks at him
through the curtain of his bangs. "Yeah?"
"Oh yeah." Dad shakes his head. "Gotta tell you son, that was a new one on me.
You're still balls deep in hot water but I'm impressed." He inhales and shots a
rapid succession of smoke rings skyward, watches them drift apart. "We'll talk
about what your punishment will be later—we're going to be busy right quick."
"What? I mean, yes, sir—what?"
"Leaving at the end of the week. We're going to meet up with Jim, and then,
I've got a job, this one's just me, Dean…and you, I'm thinking."
Sam barely hears him. Impressed? Sam's trying to sort out how that makes him
feel, Dad being impressed—with him. Pissed off, but still, impressed. Sam
decides he feels….cheated almost, which is crazy as fuck because he's not a
masochist but still. He was ready for a fight. He was ready for a knock-down,
drag out, never-speak-to-him-again, fight with Dad. And now. Now what?
Now, Patrick's gone, they're leaving, and there's not enough time to look for
him and what if he comes back and they're not here?
                                    ~~~~~~
That night, Dean drops on the bottom bunk and he starts talking, his voice low,
even. "I cleaned up the room. Before Dad went in it. There was nothing in it of
Patrick's… I uh…I changed the sheets. Shoved everything into the laundry. We're
clean."
Clean. Sam lays on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dean
speak, and he knows. Everything that made life worth living this summer—it's
over. He was losing again. Dean was quiet and then, "Dad and I are going out to
the lake in a bit. We'll be back." The bunk creaks and Sam can't help it, he
breaks--starts begging.
"Don’t do this Dean, please don’t do this. It'll be fine—no one needs to know,
you and me, don’t. Don't do this to me, okay? Please? Please, Dean?"
"Sam—" he hisses, "I'm doing this for you, don’t you get it? I'm saving
you—this is for you." He stomps out of the room.
As quietly as he can, Sam goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower…he
drops to the floor, presses his back against the cold, hard side of the tub. He
pulls his knees up, and tells himself he's just waiting for the water to warm
up, and cries so hard, he nearly throws up. When he can breathe in again
without wanting to scream, he's grateful. Done. He's thinking this is the end
of it; this is the part where he can stop thinking and just…be.
That lasts right up until he leaves the bathroom.
Dean stops him in the hall, hesitates a moment before he runs his hand over
Sam's bangs. "You need a haircut." Sam gets it. This is Dean playing normal.
Right. Like they ever knew what the fuck that was. Sam grabs his wrist, holds
on and leans into Dean's space—applies as much pressure as he can, grinding the
bones in his wrist until Dean winces, curses—"Damn it, Sam--stop."
Sam holds him and it occurs to him…Dean won't pull his hand loose; not until
Sam lets go. It just makes Sam want to hurt him, and at the same time, makes
him sad. He loves Dean. He loves him…"Don't touch me. If you don’t need me,
then don't. Just…stop." He loosens his fingers and Dean yanks his hand away,
jerks up his chin up, and he smiles. It's an ugly smile, hard, and hurt, and
trying hard to be cold. "You're such a bitch, Sam. You're such a fucking
bitch."
Sam's right behind him, eyes on him as he leaves the house, carefully not
slamming the front door.
Dad peers around the kitchen doorway. "Where’s your brother going?" he asks.
"To say goodbye to all his…girlfriends, of course." Sam smirks.
"Dean." His dad shakes his head, but he's smiling, and it's all over his face,
what are ya gonna do, right? Sam blinks, and holds on…. "Well, wanna watch a
movie? He's not going to be home for a while."
For one perfectly clear second, he sees years rolling past and jealousy gnawing
and eating away at him like a cancer and he has to get away or die…"Sure Dad,
sounds good…beer?" if Dean can smile through it, so can he.
Dad looks him up and down and then he winks. "Sure, get us a couple of beers,
Sammy. We earned it."
"You're fuckin' right we earned it," he mutters under his breath.
                                    ~~~~~~
 
"Sam… "
Sam comes awake all over, all at once. He freezes in place, takes him a moment
to figure out he's still in the living room, sacked out on the couch and a
sheet that had probably covered him was pleated around his knees.
"Sam…you awake?"
Sam sighs. Yes, he's awake, and Dean's not doing him any favors by leaning over
him and whispering in his ear. He smells like weed and alcohol and smoke.
Dean's too messed up to notice that Sam is awake. He strokes his arm, light,
lingering touches that make Sam hard in an instant, fucking bastard.
"Sammy…I'm so sorry…" Dean is stroking his back now, and his fingers slip over
the waistband of his boxers. He leans right over Sam, his breath warm against
his cheek. "Sorry." And Sam imagines he can feel the tip of Dean's tongue trace
the swell of his cheek. He must be imagining it, because Dean's still talking
to him, and Sam still feels the wet trail running down his cheek. He feels hot
gusts of air, down his neck, skirting over his shoulder, and down the center of
his spine, and he can't help but groan, just managing to keep it down,
inside…he flexes, a little, full of…hope, need. Dean's lips stop right at the
waistband of his boxers, linger, and open. His tongue presses there, hot and
wet, soft…his fingers press down where spine curves into the swell of his ass,
move under the waistband and stop at the top of his cleft. It burns like a
brand and then… and then Dean's moving away. It takes every bit of strength Sam
has not to scream, to grab Dean back. He's saying it again, "Sam, sorry, so
sorry…" and he's gone. Sam waits until he hears the bathroom door snick shut,
and he's jerking off right there on the couch, knowing it's over makes the
blood boil in his veins, makes him so desperate. He's sorry too, sorry this
happened, sorry he's got to live with it. His hips lift, he comes like scalding
water over his hand….
And then, he's just relieved that it's over. Dean…Dean's right. This is the
end.
                                    ~~~~~~
Dawn comes, grey and wet, heavy, just as it has every day since they dropped
here—only now there's a chill underneath it, a clammy feel to the wet. Walking
through the house is weird--his footsteps echo through the house. The smell of
wet dog is stronger now that all their stuff is out. The place feels empty,
feels…like its guts have been torn out. Sam twists a worn out hair-band around
his wrist. He had happy days in this house, miraculously happy days. And
looking around, he can't even feel it, like it was a dream someone else told
him.
He follows Dean and Dad across the dead grass, it's so fucking quiet he hears
the grass break underfoot. He hears gravel scratch bit against bit, the screech
of the trunk opening, thump of bags dropped inside. Morning, this morning…he
feels every cell in his body cling, stretch…hurt. Hurts not breathing.
Dad slaps the truck roof. "Sammy, pick a vehicle and let's roll." Sam decides
he wants to drive with Dad, because Dean won’t look at him and that's
fine—fucking better than fine, it's just what Sam wants. And then curses
because he's not supposed to be caring—he's a brick, a rock, he's made of ice
and not caring one fucking bit.
Right before they pull off Sam notices—he sucks in a breath that makes his
lungs ache and he breaks into coughing. Dad's reaches across the seat and grabs
his knee, asking him "What? What's wrong, what do you see?"
Sam shakes his head. But he feels like ice, he feels stupid for freaking, and
he can't tell Dad, it's that bike—his bike—leaning against the wonky fence.
Still scabby looking with rust, still ugly as fuck but with a brand new seat,
new pedals and new chain…"Nothing Dad, just really tired—gonna close my eyes a
bit." Sam balls up his jacket, shoves it against the window and buries his face
against it, and wishes like hell he'd gone with Dean after all, because at
least with Dean, he could let go of this burning ache in his throat….
                                    ~~~~~~
There are some things they never talk about.
Things change, they grow up. Reach for what they think they want—they pull
apart and they come back together again and normal…Sam's getting that normal's
fucking overrated and never been in the cards for them anyway.
They never went back to Lodi. Sam's never wanted to, has never asked if Dean's
ever thought about it. Doesn't even know how to ask him. Closest they ever came
to Jersey again was crossing through Pennsylvania, and neither one of them
suggested a side trip to the Garden State.
Of course, none of them ever mentioned the boy again, but for years afterward,
in his dreams, Patrick would come bounding through the door, and fling his bags
down and hold out his arms and call, "Hey, Sammy, I'm back—I'm home."
4-21-2009
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!