tabaqui | Stuff! And 'The Song of the Treadmill'

Stuff! And 'The Song of the Treadmill' - six of...who knows. :)

Monday, November 19th, 2007 06:36 pm

Hello! First, here's a little note from the Monstrous Bebe:
Hello everyone, Elfie here!
Just watnted to say thanks to all the people who sent me postcards,letters, and cards. Thanks for the things inside the cards stickers and candy. I liked seeing postcards from new places, they were really cool, thanks again :D <3

Sincerely,

Elfie

So there you go! :)

I was sick over the weekend - fever and whatnot, so lame, and now i'm back to allergy...stuff, my voice all froggy and coughing a freakin' lung up. Annoying as all hell. *sigh* Anyway...more fic!
Previous parts here.

For the second time in as many days, Sam found himself stacking wood in the snow, but it wasn't so bad. It felt good to move – felt good to do something, after sitting and answering Bobby's questions for three solid hours. Going over every detail of his life, his deal and Dean's and his time with the angel.

None of it had seemed to make Bobby all that happy, and he'd been muttering about 'damn Winchesters' and 'damn angels' under his breath when Sam had snagged the extra coat hanging by the back door and followed Dean out into the snow. Dean had watched him telling Bobby his life's story as if listening to a fairly unbelievable, mostly entertaining story. Sam chose to ignore the times when Dean had looked as if he'd been punched in the gut; breathless and stunned, eyes wet.

Bobby usually had help, it seemed, but his help was off in Rapid City getting supplies, so it was up to Sam and Dean to haul in wood and feed the dogs – make sure the ram pump that supplied water to the house was running smoothly. Bobby had a forest of those triple-bladed windmills in his back field, whirring lazily through the thickening snow-fall. Where he gets the power for the computers, Dean said. That and the tankless water-heater, because even Bobby, it seemed, was a sucker for a good, hot shower.

When Dean lifted the lid off a galvanized garbage can on the back porch and clanged it against the side of the can, a pack of twelve or so dogs – including Sam-dog – came running from all directions. Sam scooped food into a series of rusty bowls as Dean rubbed their snow-damp heads and called them names. Sam-dog put his paws up on Sam's thigh for a moment and Dean looked a little pissed, but it made Sam grin, feeling a little smug and a little relieved at the same time. He got the feeling that if Sam-dog didn't like him, Dean maybe never would, either.

Sam watched Dean comb a knot of ice out of Sam-dogs fur – watched him push the lid down onto the garbage can and pick up the broom that was propped next to it, brushing at the snow that had accumulated on the uneven steps that led down from the porch. Watching that familiar, unfamiliar face, lost in memories.

"So, what, that some kind of trance thing you got going or am I just that pretty?" Dean said, little smirk twisting his mouth and Sam felt his face flush hot with embarrassment.

"No! I mean –"

"No I'm not pretty?" Dean said, and Sam could swear to God he pouted.

"What? Yeah, you – I mean – no –" Dean started laughing and Sam scooped a handful of snow off the railing and tossed it at him. "Shut up, you jerk."

Dean sputtered a moment, snow in his mouth and caught in his lashes, staring in shock at Sam. Then he grinned, and it was that old, evil grin that had meant trouble for Sam since they were both kids. "Oh, you bitch. It's so on." Sam didn't even have time to duck.

Twenty minutes later they were both soaked, snow-covered and out of breath, skidding through the drifts in the yard, tripping over buried junk and the dogs, dodging snow balls and the occasional icicle. Sam-dog, in particular, was barking in hysterical abandon, leaping up to try and catch snowballs and tackling Dean to the ground three times, fringed tail waving furiously.

"Damnit, you stupid dog, you're gonna make me lose!" Dean growled, grabbing Sam-dog by the ruff and shaking him, grinning into the panting, black-furred face.

"Get him, boy! Get him!" Sam yelled, frantically packing a snowball and trying to evade two mixed-breed dogs of Bobby's who seemed intent on eating whatever he picked up.

"What in hell is wrong with you boys! You're gonna get the pneumonia!" Bobby was standing on the top step, glaring in disapproval. "You dogs, git! Go patrol!" The dogs disengaged, trotting away across the yard and into the haze, heading for the smashed-car walls. Sam-dog waited, panting, until Dean sent him off with a hand-wave.

"Damn. You've really got 'em well trained, Bobby," Sam said. He surreptitiously tried to lob his last snowball at Dean, but it fell short.

"The same obviously can't be said for the two of you. It's lunch time." Bobby turned and stumped back into the house and Sam started brushing snow off his arms, shivering a little. Dean pushed himself up off the ground, groaning.

"Fuck. I think I fell on a damn engine block or something. Shit." He flexed his knee and grimaced – limped up onto the porch, stomping his feet and shaking the snow out of his hair.

"Guess we pissed him off, huh?" Sam asked, and Dean snorted.

"Bobby? Hell no. Fuck, when I was a kid, he always had a crowd here. Orphans and runaways and every kind of lost boy or girl. Hell – Ellen sent Jo here for a summer or two when she was gettin' too big for her britches. Bobby's everybody's uncle."

"Oh. Oh, well that's...kinda surprising."

"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised and then considering – took off his coat and shook it, a hard snap. "Your Bobby not...like that?"

"No, he... Well, he wasn't – mean or anything, just... Kind of the confirmed bachelor type, you know? He didn't mind when Dad took us there but...no way he would have let us stay all summer."

"Huh." Dean looked at his coat and shrugged – reached for the door, pulling it open and giving his boots one more hard stamp. "Bobby pretty much saved my life, when Dad...when he died."

"Really?" Sam shed his own coat and carried it over the threshold and into the back hall – hung it up where he'd found it and copied Dean by taking off his soaked sneakers. His socks were wet, too, and his jeans to the knee, and there was an icy trickle of melting snow trailing down his sternum.

"You boys go get some dry clothes!" Bobby called. The thick, savory smells of soup and fresh baked bread were coming from the kitchen and Sam's mouth was watering. He gave Dean a helpless look.

"I don't have, uh... I don't have any other clothes."

"I wondered what that smell was," Dean muttered, hopping on one leg to pull a sock off.

Bobby appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking exasperated. "Jesus Christ. There's some stuff upstairs, Dean knows where."

"Hey, thanks Bobby –"

"Double time!" Bobby snapped and Dean grabbed Sam's arm and hauled him out of the hallway and up the narrow back stairs.

"Jeez, just trying to say thanks."

"He doesn't wanna hear thanks." Dean led the way to a small room on the south side of the house, picking up a lantern and lighting it on the way – hanging it on a hook just inside the door. Sam remembered the room from when they'd been kids, poking through the haphazard junk that Bobby had stuck inside. Old fans with broken blades and string-less tennis rackets, sheets of mildew-spotted music and a rotting accordion. This Bobby had three big dressers full of clothes, as well as a sagging clothes-line hung with shirts, jeans, coats and jackets. The sizes ranged from kid stuff to adult, boys and girls and Sam just stood there in the doorway, staring at it all.

"Wow."

"It's just rotting on the shelves otherwise," Dean said, picking through a drawer full of sweatpants. "Probably doesn't have any jeans to fit your lanky ass." Dean tossed a pair of sweats at Sam and Sam caught them absently, looking at the ranks of little t-shirts and the line of boots and sneakers against one wall. "Here, this too...and socks..." Dean tossed a thermal shirt and a flannel at Sam, too, then lobbed a brand-new package of socks at him. "You'll have to get underwear yourself – you're probably one of those tighty-whitey wearers," Dean smirked, waving Sam toward another open drawer. "I'm gonna go change."

"Yeah, okay. Dean, hey –" Sam reached out and put his hand on Dean's arm, stopping him in the doorway. Dean's flannel shirt was damp under Sam's hand – chilly. "Dean, I wanted to ask you... How did – how did Dad die?" Dean shivered under his fingers – took a half-step away, his back connecting with the door jamb. All the animation had bled out of his face and his eyes were dark. Shadowed by old pain and Sam wished he hadn't asked. "Man, I'm sorry, I – don't –"

"No, it's...it's not like every hunter doesn't know. Common knowledge. He never...got over you dying. Never got better. Got so much...fuckin' worse after that. We never stopped, you know? For the next fucking...five years we never...stopped." Dean shook his head – lifted it, finally, looking Sam in the face. Shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. "He was drinking a lot, and I was trying to keep him...straight, you know, and....a demon got him. Possessed him. We lucked out 'cause I got it trapped, got it caught between salt and iron and I was...gonna exorcise it, for what that's worth but..." Dean blinked hard – took a sharp, shaky breath and let his head tip back, knocking it gently into the scarred jamb behind him. "It was out to gut as many hunters as it could. Before I could – get it outta Dad, it made him shoot himself. Cold iron round to the head." Sam winced, hard, his stomach curdling into a cold knot and Dean laughed softly, pushing away from the jamb and taking a step out of the room – pulling away from Sam's hand. "It said he'd been thinking about it a lot – for years. Said the wrong son died – he could have stood it if only you'd lived instead of me."

"Demons lie, Dean, you know they lie, come on –"

"Yeah, I know, Sam." Dean shook his head again and his eyes glittered in the lantern-light, gold flecks in muddy green, melted snow or maybe tears making his lashes stick together, shreds of black satin. "They lie, they tell the truth, they twist everything up like a fucking corkscrew. Doesn't matter. I knew he wanted to be dead with you and Mom. He was just...just sticking around until he knew I could make it on my own. Making sure I knew enough, you know? He cared that much, at least."

"Dean, no –" Sam reached automatically, wanting to pull Dean close – to wrap around him and just hold on – show him, God, that he was worth so much more than the lackadaisical, faltering attentions of a man who'd given up. Given in.

Dean flinched away from his hand – took a step backward and then another, visibly shoving every emotion – every reaction – down behind iron bars – locked doors. "Your John Winchester, Sam. Your Dean. Not me. Not – mine. It's – it's okay." He took another breath – turned around, ignoring Sam's attempt to reply. "Bobby hates to keep food waiting. Hurry up."

Then he was gone, up to the room he claimed as his, third floor, and Sam felt his knees go and he slid down to the floor, the socks falling out of his arms, the shirts bunching against his chest. Sickness like a knife to his gut, his throat aching with words unsaid – tears unshed. It took him ten minutes to get back on his feet and out of his wet clothes – five more to force himself back down to the kitchen. Bobby and Dean were both already there, eating and talking and ignoring him completely and Sam forced the soup and bread down a throat that barely wanted to swallow.

Later, in the blue-ice twilight before dusk, he and Dean went out to the barn and fed the goats and the chickens and the two huge Missouri mules – pumped the trough full of water and tossed fresh hay into the pens without a word. Bobby had grudgingly hooked up his ancient washing machine and showed Sam how to use the power wringer that was attached to its side. Now his and Dean's clothing was steaming gently on a line behind the stove, dry by morning, if they were lucky.

As they finished up in the barn and were heading back toward the house, Sam stopped in the carriage-tall doorway. Gritting his teeth and close to shaking because he just couldn't say – nothing. Dean made an irritated noise and tried to step around him and Sam swung around, hands coming out of his pockets and knotting in Dean's coat. Pushing Dean back into the door because he just knew, if he didn't pin Dean down and make him listen, he wouldn't get two words out.

Dean's reaction was a hunter's reaction, arms coming up to knock Sam's apart and off him, feet planted wide for balance and Sam stepped into it, thigh between Dean's and his hip knocking painfully into Dean's hip, chest to chest and his forearms on Dean's shoulders, hands tangled in the leather collar.

"Fuck, you bastard –"

"Dean, stop. I just want you to listen to me." Dean surged up against him, wiry strength that was a lot like Sam's own Dean. Body under his a little thinner – more whipcord and bone, less dense muscle. "Just - listen."

"Hell of a fuckin' way to ask," Dean gritted, fingers digging into Sam's shoulders, trying to wrench him away.

"You never listen unless I make you listen. Just – Dean. Listen. Just listen. It's not okay, Dean. It's not okay that he gave up. It's not okay that he didn't fight for you, too. It's not – it's just not fucking okay. You're worth more than that, Dean. You're worth a whole fucking lot more than that. You always were."

Dean's eyes were wide, bottle-green and moss, gold and brown. Lashes so long they made shadows and the high, sharp curve of his cheekbone catching the last of the light, a soft blue sheen on his winter-pale skin. He looked like a ghost – like a spirit, barely real, and Sam swayed forward a fraction of an inch, wanting with everything in him to kiss life and color and love into Dean's chapped mouth. Into his worn-thin soul.

"I'm not – I'm not him. I'm not your brother."

"Maybe not by blood but you are. You're my brother in all the ways that matter and he was worth everything. He was worth my fucking life, and you are, too. You are too."

Dean didn't say anything for a long moment, just hung there, pinned against the barn door, his hands going slowly lax on Sam's shoulders – curving around in something closer to a caress. Shaking from the cold, or from Sam's words – from his proximity, maybe, Sam couldn't tell.

"You have to believe me, Dean. You just...you have to, okay? You have to."

"Yeah, sure, Sammy, sure. I believe you," Dean said, his voice cracking just a little and Sam sighed – felt himself slumping down, his hold loosening, and Dean pushed him gently away. "I'll get right on that," he muttered, and Sam let him go. Closed the barn door and waded through the snow after Dean, avoiding Bobby's unhappy look when Dean went away upstairs without a word.

"You boys fight?" Bobby asked, and Sam slumped down in a blanket-draped recliner, pushing his cold feet toward the fireplace.

"No, we didn't fight. He told me about how his dad died."

"Oh, hell." Bobby sighed – pushed his chair away from the computer table, groping in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. "What in hell he'd do that for?"

"I asked him," Sam said, and Bobby shot him a hard look, fishing shot glasses and a bottle out of the drawer.

"What'd you do a damn-fool thing like that for?"

"I just – I wanted to know. It's fucked up, Bobby."

"I know that. That boy about near killed his own self, after that happened. Took him a year to settle down enough to come here and then I had keep sneakin' parts outta the car to keep the little shit here. He worked through it, eventually." Bobby poured two healthy shots and Sam levered himself up from the recliner and took one – held it in his hand, looking down at the dark amber liquid.

"It's not true, is it? That Dad – that his dad wanted to die?"

Bobby sighed – capped the bottle. "I dunno. John went off the rails, from what I hear, when that Mary of his died. Acted like a crazy man about half the time. Didn't give those boys much leash and he put way too much on Dean. After Sammy died, well... It was like a little slice of Hell in that Chevy, most times. I figure maybe it was puttin' him out of his misery, when he died."

"But not Dean's," Sam said, and Bobby shook his head slowly, looking up at him.

"Nope. Not Dean's at all." The whiskey burned like fire, going down. Burned like loneliness and heartbreak and bitter, bitter failure. It made Sam choke, and cough until he cried. At least, that's what he told himself.

I'm still going daily to Project Download, are you?

Part seven.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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