tabaqui | Sweet Charity - 'Treadmill' timestamp - 'The Lad That Loves You True'

Sweet Charity - 'Treadmill' timestamp - 'The Lad That Loves You True'

Wednesday, March 4th, 2009 04:29 pm

Okay, so, this was written for

wolfling, and the request was a timestamp of The Song of the Treadmill. It doesn't adhere 100 percent to the request, but close enough, i hope! Beta'd, of course, by the lovely

darkhavens.

The title is from A.E. Housman's More Poems.

They leave the lake house in spring, when the first curls of green are unfolding from the mud, acid-bright and growing fast – so fast, Sam swears he can hear them, sub-sonic rustle, reaching for the light. Dean hauls out a pair of old clippers and gives himself a hair cut, snipping away the long, wavy locks he let grow over their hibernation.

It's like a page becoming a knight, suiting up, and Sam feels a little pang at that. Sorrow that the relative ease of their time in the lake house is over. That the days and nights of just...living...have to end. He's never wanted to chop wood or darn socks more in his life, but Dean's cheerful – excited, even – and the Chinook wind that blows around the eaves carries a promise, silver-green and full of life, and Sam gives in with a sigh and a smile.

Dean digs out different clippers next and buzzes Sam-dog down to a quarter of an inch, working at the little tangles that even the most dedicated brushing never seemed to totally eliminate. Sam-dog bounces and twirls afterward, as if he, too, is feeling it. Feeling lighter – livelier. Feeling Spring in his bones like a bubbling pot, cooking up newness.

Sam declines clippers and scissors both, content to pull his hair back into a braid that hangs down to the tops of his shoulder blades. Dean calls him Tonto and Chief and Scout, but at night, in bed, he pushes Sam's fingers away and undoes the braid himself, running his fingers through the curling strands again and again – lifting it to his nose and mouth and just breathing, eyes shut, until Sam's on the edge of frenzy, shuddering at the press of Dean's chest to his back – the unconscious, subtle roll and push of Dean's hips to Sam's buttocks. The solid, brand-hot length of Dean's cock just there, teasing, while Dean murmurs into Sam's hair all the words he won't say in the light.

They drive out at dawn, the house shuttered and still behind them, the smoke of their last fire wisping away into a sky that's pastel-fragile, pinks and yellows and robin's egg blue, clear and clean and so, so far. Sam-dog barks, just once, as they turn out of the gate – onto the road – and then they're driving west, and leaving the sun rise behind.

They're on the road for about three hours, 54 to 59, and Sam fidgets in his seat, knowing where they're headed but not really sure why. Dean has fallen silent, intent on the weather-cracked road, nursing the car over ruts and potholes, fingers squeezing the steering wheel.

Lawrence isn't deserted. It's not even much decayed, and Sam watches the graceful homes that surround the University go by in a sort of daze, tracking how the sidewalks have heaved up and the trees crowded in. A few people are out, digging or repairing or walking, and every one of them lifts a hand to the car – to Dean – little grins of familiarity and apparent liking. Dean waves back, window rolled down now, mild spring air putting a flush of color across his cheeks. Little smile on his face, but the tension still there.

The iron spars and stone pillars of the Oak Hill cemetery aren't as much of a shock as they should be. Sam feels like he's sinking a little – drowning a little – as the rows of tilting headstones and wind-blasted cedars flicker past, rotting snow still caught in low spots and the lee of monuments – drifts of leaves years deep, but somehow it doesn't look abandoned or neglected, just...at rest.

They drive through the gates and putter along what used to be a paved road but is now barely a track in the tumble of weeds and grasses. The dry, delicate stalks of Queen Anne's Lace and long-burst milkweed stand up straight from the mare's nest tangle of bluestem and foxtail and needle-and-thread that run riot over what was once clipped and cared-for turf. A small flock of sparrows dart up, disturbed, and then the Impala is slowing – stopping – and Sam isn't sure what to do.

"Come on," Dean says, answering that question, and Sam slides out of the car and shuts the door, stretching for a moment as Dean lets Sam-dog out and tells him to be good, fingers digging into the bit of mane the clippers left. Sam-dog whuffs once, tail scything slowly through the air. He doesn't do his usual mad run, but sticks close as Dean starts to wade through the weeds, striking out diagonally from the car and the track toward a tall, twisted cedar.

"Dean, are you sure...?" Sam asks, and Dean throws him a look over his shoulder, equal parts anxiety and irritation, and Sam shuts up. Follows him, hands in his pockets and his feet sinking a little into the thawing earth. New boots, new jeans, new coat, all scrounged from various places on their way to Dean's lake house and not showing much in the way of wear, just yet. Sam expects that will change soon.

They don't walk too far – too long. The cedar tree, with its dark fur of needles and close grown branches, shelters two grey-white stones and Sam falters and stops six feet away, heart pounding. Pretty sure he has no desire whatsoever to see those stones – those names. Sam-dog sniffs busily at the stones and then settles, upright, his gaze fixed intently on Dean.

Dean moves with purpose, bending to yank back the mat of weeds and grass around the closest stone, methodically clearing a space about two feet wide in a fan in front of it. There are little, bright green points of some plant coming up, half-inch above the surface, and Dean's hand hesitates for a moment when he sees them. They look to Sam's untrained eye like some spring flower, maybe crocus or daffodil. He can't imagine Dean ever planting them.

Dean finishes his clean up, the uprooted stuff in a heap and Dean himself crouched down in front of the marker, his face solemn and still and wistful. Sad, but not devastated. Not...agonized. Sam's grateful for that, in a weird kind of way. Unsure, really, if he could take Dean breaking down. Selfish, he thinks, wincing, and then Dean's talking.

"Hey, buddy. Back again, just like I promised. You would not believe the crazy year I've had." Dean's smile is fleeting and he goes down on one knee, hand pushing into his inner coat pocket, digging. He pulls something out and leans forward, settling it carefully at the base of the stone. "Found another one, man. Guess you lucked out, huh? Anyway...just, wanted to say hi. Tell you...I miss you." Dean's voice wobbles and he falls silent, staring hard. Muscle in his jaw flexing and Sam wants to walk away. Wants to give him space and privacy and time but Dean glances up just then, something shattered and yearning in his gaze and Sam stays, rooted.

"I...found somebody to hunt with. So you don't have to...don't have to worry about me, okay? I'm good. I'm...really good." Dean is motionless for a long moment, and then he reaches out and pats the stone, pushing himself to his feet, all coiled power and grace, and Sam feels his heart catch-step-kick, watching him. He can see what Dean really is all the time, now. Can see the saint, the angel, the savior. Can see his brother, honed to such a fine and sparkling edge, a tool made beautiful by the love poured into the making.

"You take care, buddy. I'll be back next year," Dean says. He turns and contemplates the other marker for a moment. Lifts his hand to his mouth and kisses the tips of his fingers – presses them to the stone, soft edges and the bloom of green-grey lichen. "Love you, Mom," he says, merest thread of a whisper, and then Dean is walking to Sam - walking past him - shoulders a little hunched and his gaze averted. Trying, like he always does, to keep his emotions from spilling out all over Sam. Trying to keep the messiness all inside.

Sam lingers for a long moment, gaze tracing the curves of weathered grey, catching and resting on a glint of something in the grass, and he can't help himself. He steps forward and crouches down, untangling the thing from a little knot of grass and leaf.

It's a lead figure, a bit squashed but quite clear. Paladin on a horse, sword lifted, jaunty plume arching up from his helmet, his horse caparisoned and armored and prancing. Remnants of paint cling to it, red and gold and white, and Sam leans forward and places it carefully at the edge of the cleared space – the stone. Trying so very hard not to see Samuel Winchester cut deep and dark and much too final.

Then he's up and moving, catching up to Dean, who's leaning on the car, one foot cocked up onto the muddy tire, his hands jammed down into his coat pockets. Watching Sam with a shuttered gaze, all the vulnerability and raw grief looped quite clearly around him, but only for Sam to see.

Sam walks right up to him – into him – and catches Dean's mouth in a soft kiss, one hand on the back of Dean's neck, fingers pushing up through the velour-plush fur of hair. His other hand is on Dean's hip, thumb rubbing at the point of bone, light and insistent. Kissing and then pulling back a little, just enough so he can see Dean's eyes.

"So, what's the plan?"

Dean breathes for a moment, and then he leans in and rubs his cheek against Sam's, kissing the corner of his mouth. Smiling, the smoke of unhappiness dissipating with the quick, bright breeze. "Popeye expects me for spring lambing. Gotta bless the barns – make some good-luck oil for the lambs."

"You anoint lambs, Father Dean?" Sam asks, shiver of laughter in his voice, and Dean gives him a half-hearted push, grinning now.

"With mint jelly," Dean says, and then reels Sam in for a third kiss. A fourth, a fifth – more. Kisses bright as the day, light and full of promise – full of giddy joy – and Sam pictures Dean solemnly blessing a bleating, struggling lamb and throws his head back in a laugh.

When Dean joins him, it's the most beautiful sound ever.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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