tabaqui | "The Song of the Treadmill" - part three of five-ish...

"The Song of the Treadmill" - part three of five-ish...

Friday, November 9th, 2007 03:22 pm

Oooooooh, the woe. Stupid, stupid allergies. Attacked out of the blue at four a.m.. Took half a dose of cold meds, as that's all i've got. *Still* a bit woozy and cotton-mouthed. Bah! Stupid meds.

Of the good - i got an eye exam today. New glasses soon! Yay, sight! :)
Onto the fic!

darkhavens aka my luffly beta.

sweptawaybayou aka my luffly cheering squad.

Part One
Part Two

They drove for hours, north-west along rutted roads and roads with broken tarmac, pot-holed and uneven. From time to time snow fell, sideways slant against the car's streaked glass. Dean didn't turn the heat on, or if he did it didn't reach the back seat and Sam finally tugged one of the worn blankets over himself, huddling in. The blanket was Army-green wool, smelling of dog and wood smoke. Sam watched the dog and the dog watched him back and somewhere near Casper, Wyoming – as far as he could tell – Sam fell asleep.

He woke with a jerk, reaching out in blind panic as the entire car seemed to buck up off the road. Dean was muttering under his breath, a steady string of curses as the road bottomed out into what appeared to be a dry streambed.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon, c'mon, worst part's almost over, you know you can do it, God damn you, Popeye, you old bastard, would it kill you to grade your fucking road? C'mon, c'mon, there we go..." The car labored up a rise, whining, and then just as suddenly the road smoothed out and they sailed downhill again, the headlights showing a red dirt road with washboards of snow in the ruts.

Sam pushed himself straighter in the seat, shoving the blanket aside and rubbing his fingers back through his hair, trying to wake himself up. Sam-the-dog was sitting up in the seat, tongue hanging, and spared Sam a disinterested glance over one silky-black shoulder. Sam-dog was some sort of Shepherd mix, with fringed ears and a thick ruff. He reared back and put his paws on the dash, making a low, rumbly bark and Dean reached over and tangled his fingers in the ruff, tugging and scrubbing.

"Almost there, Sammy."

"Almost where?" Sam asked, and Dean jerked his hand off the dog's neck, surprised.

"Where we're going. I need to restock, and they're always good for the basics." The car slowed as Dean turned, easing them over a wide expanse of cattle-guard. "These people trust me. Don't fuck this up."

"I know how to behave, Dean," Sam muttered, and Dean made a snorting noise.

"You better," Dean muttered, and then fell silent, concentrating on getting them over a low, concrete bridge that spanned a rocky ditch. The wind had picked up, blowing hard enough to rock the heavy car on its shocks. The land all around them was treeless, as far as Sam could tell – there was no moon, and no lights at all until they crested a small rise. Below them was the dim glow of fire, what looked like the flame of a lantern. Sam sat forward, watching it, and Sam-dog dropped his paws back to the seat, tail thumping against the back.

They drove into a shallow valley and Sam could finally make out a two-story clapboard house sheltering in the lee of a line of cottonwood trees. A lantern was burning in the window and Dean stopped the car in a graveled patch by the porch. He turned off the car and twisted in his seat, looking back at Sam.

"Don't say anything about – anything. Just let me talk. And your name's Sam Winter."

"Sure, okay." Dean pulled his keys from the ignition and slid out of the car and Sam got his own door open, struggling with it. The wind hit like a hammer, driving straight through jacket and jeans, making his ears and nose ache almost instantly from the cold. It was snowing, too – little spits of hard crystals that stung Sam's exposed skin. "Jesus!"

Dean opened the back door and hauled out a duffel, spinning it across the roof of the car and into Sam. "Make yourself useful."

Sam hitched the duffel up onto his shoulder, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. *Not his brother, doesn't trust me, just...give him time...* Except Dean was his brother. Everything screamed Dean and safe and family, no matter the differences in the details. Sam had been with the angel for so long... He'd forgotten. Forgotten Dean in half a hundred ways; tiny things that all blurred away and were replaced, minute by minute, by this Dean. Things slotting into Sam's memory as if they'd always been, and he was helpless to stop it – didn't even want to. He just wanted Dean.

They walked, heads bent against the wind, not up onto the porch, but around the house instead, crossing a small yard and heading for another mote of lantern-light. There was snow on the ground but it was scoured nearly gone, packed to concrete hardness by the wind and the cold. Sam-dog darted around and around them until Dean whistled again.

"Get going, Sammy," he said and the dog streaked away, panting. They came to a long, low building with a covered porch and steep roof, two mud-encrusted four-wheelers sitting in front of it. Dean climbed the porch steps and knocked. After a moment the door creaked open, spill of golden lamplight cutting across the muddy porch. The man standing inside was short, barrel-chested and bald, wearing jeans and a dingy-white tunic like a chef. He held a shotgun, the barrel slantwise across his chest.

"Deus" he said, his gaze flickering from Dean to Sam and back again. Sam tried not to move, shivering, blinking wind-tears out of his eyes and feeling the moisture drying in freezing rivulets on his cheeks.

"Deus est valde," Dean replied. 'God is Great.' "Hey, Cook."

"Winchester. It's damn late."

"You're up, though," Dean said, hint of amusement in his voice, and the man – Cook – grunted.

"Course I'm up. I'm always up." He stepped backwards, the barrel of the shotgun sinking a little and Dean went in.

"Watch your step," he murmured, gaze flicking down and Sam saw the trough that had been carved into the threshold, gleaming-full of salt. He stepped carefully over it and Cook shut the door and for a moment it was like being deaf. The room was still and so warm – deliciously warm and Sam took in a few shuddering breaths, nose running now that he was inside. The place was mostly in shadow, but leftward, Sam could make out a couple of worn-out couches and battered tables and what looked like a pretty impressive entertainment system. To the right was a long table with benches down either side and beyond that a kitchen. There were no walls or dividers, just long, grey planks underfoot and rough plaster on the walls – exposed rafters and a few racks of deer antlers and antelope horns. Coats were hanging off some of them and the air was spicy with the smells of wood smoke, leather and hemp rope.

Sam let Dean's duffle down onto the floor by a couch and went straight to the big, black-iron wood stove that purred against one wall, holding his hands out to the tangible waves of heat that rose off up of it. Dean was already there, rubbing his hands and undoing his coat – letting the heat in. A cast-iron pot was steaming gently on the back, letting out wafts of something savory. Cook settled his shotgun onto two pegs on the wall and joined them.

"I guess you'll be wantin' something to eat, then?"

"If you've got it to spare," Dean said, and Cook laughed softly.

"Don't feed me that line, Winchester. You know I do. Wash up and sit down, there's stew."

"Yes, sir." Dean shucked his coat, draping it over the end of the bench. Sam shed his own jacket and then joined Dean at a big stone sink against the porch-side wall. The hot water made Sam's fingers tingle and he hissed softly, flexing them to make the blood flow. Dean's elbow and shoulder bumped into Sam's and Sam worked intently at getting his nails clean, trying not to react. Trying not to just grab Dean and hold onto him for dear life. Dean didn't even seem to notice, just dried his hands and went to sit down. Sam dried his own hands and found a bandana in his pocket – wiped his nose and shoved his fingers back through his wind-knotted hair and then made his way to the table. God, he was hungry.

"Who's your friend?" Cook asked, setting two steaming bowls in front of them.

"Name's Sam Winter. Just – helping me out on a job over on the Greybull." Cook made a little 'mm-hmm' sort of sound, thumping down a cloth-wrapped loaf of bread and a plate with a crooked slab of hand-made butter. Sam tore off a hunk of bread and smeared butter on it – picked up a spoon. The stove put out a gentle heat at Sam's back and the stew was thick and savory, full of chunks of tender meat. He dragged the bread through the gravy and took a huge bite, eyes nearly shutting in total sensory bliss.

Food, actual food, that he hadn't needed or wanted in years. It was incredible – overwhelming – and he couldn't help the little noise of appreciation that groaned out from between his teeth. He reached for the tall glass of milk Cook had set down for him and stopped in mid-reach, his mouth full of bread and butter and stew. Dean and Cook were both staring at him, grins on their faces. He chewed and tried to swallow, mumbling around his mouthful. "What?"

"You maybe wanna be alone with your supper?" Dean asked, and Cook made a low, mocking whistle.

"I ain't never had anybody get that excited over my cookin'," he chuckled, and Sam realized that maybe he'd gotten a little louder than he thought.

"I...uh –" He swallowed the rest of his mouthful and drank a gulp of milk. "It's been...a while since I had something home-cooked."

"Oh, aye." Cook scratched at his belly and wandered over to the stove. "The life of a hunter's hard, that's for sure." He shoved a couple of thin logs into the stove and clanged the door shut – came over and settled himself into the only real chair at the table. It had a deer hide thrown over it, and a dull-red glass ashtray in front of it. Cook dragged a leather pouch out of his pocket and started to roll a cigarette, his fingers quick and sure with the thin leaf of paper and crumbly tobacco. "My dad told me he'd knock me down and lock me in the cellar if I ever ran off to hunt."

Sam almost choked on his stew at that, eyes going wide, but Dean didn't seem surprised. He was eating in that head-down, elbows-out manner he'd perfected at fifteen when Sam's appetite had kicked into overdrive and nothing edible was safe. Or...hell. This Dean hadn't had a brother at fifteen. God knows who, exactly, he'd learned to defend his food from.

"Now, why would we want you out hunting when you can make food like this?" Dean asked, little smile on his face and Cook shook a match out of its box and struck it on the top of the table.

"Flattery'll get you seconds," Cook said, grinning. He drew in a deep lungful of smoke. The tobacco was sweet – a little spicy. Much nicer than what Sam was used to and he got another piece of bread and tried to eat a little more slowly. "My dad died in aught-two. When that big plague happened. Guess there wasn't nothing anybody could have done about that."

"There wasn't," Dean said. He stabbed a little too hard at a chunk of meat and ate it, frowning. "Some things even hunters can't kill."

"I know that, Winchester," Cook murmured. He got up and dished Dean out some more stew – settled again, puffing slowly on his cigarette and then rolling himself a second one. When Sam was mopping the last of the gravy out of his bowl, Cook pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. "There's pie, if you want it. Apple or cherry."

"Damnit, Cook – why didn't you say so before I had more stew?"

"You know there's always pie, Winchester." Cook stuck his cigarette in the side of his mouth and went over to the corner of the kitchen, taking two pies out of a pie safe and plunking them down on the table. "You want cheese?"

"Fuck yes," Dean said, hacking out a huge wedge of apple pie and dumping it into his scraped-clean bowl. He pushed the pie an inch or two toward Sam. "Pie?"

"Uh – I'm gonna try the cherry."

"More for me." Dean cut a bite of pie and then sat there, waiting, fork suspended in mid air. Cook rooted around in the big, stainless 'fridge for a minute and came back to the table with a cheese cloth bag in his hands. It was full of chunks of pale-white cheese and Dean took it with a pleased little sound. He shoved his forkful of pie into his mouth and then fished a piece of cheese out and ate it, too. Sam just watched, fascinated. His own Dean wouldn't have touched pie with cheese – he was an a la mode man.

"Jesus, gonna choke yourself." Cook sounded pleased, though, and Dean grinned, his cheeks bulging.

"S'sso f'ckin' gud..." Sam had to shake his head, laughing a little, as he got his own pie and fell to. The cherries were firm, sweet-tart and perfect, the crust flakey. It was heaven.

When they were done – and Sam was actually feeling slightly sick from so much food – Cook gathered up plates and utensils, the stubby end of his cigarette still stuck in the corner of his mouth. "You know where the bunks are. We'll be up at five – puttin' a new fence in up at Crooked Tail creek. You up to finding the lines?"

"Sure. I can do the blessing an' everything if you've got the stuff." Dean stretched tall, back bowing and his eyes going shut, jeans inching down and shirts pulling up. Baring a strip of pale belly, line of dark hair and the shadow of his hip. And Sam was suddenly hit, like a fist to the gut, with yet another long-lost sensation. Lust.

*Oh, God, oh fuck... Not...now. Probably never.* That sobering thought was enough to make the sudden, heated rush of blood abate a little, and Sam gathered up his jacket, standing expectantly while Dean finished stretching and walked over to the door. He opened it and whistled, that same low-to-high call he'd used before. Then waited, the tips of his boots just behind the trough of salt. The cold air coiling through the doorway made Sam shiver. Cook was over at the sink, running water and humming to himself and Sam slumped against the back of the couch, yawning.

A moment later there was the click of nails on ice and wood and then Sam-dog trotted through the door, neatly hopping over the trough and laughing up at Dean in that silent, open-mouthed way that dogs have. Dean shut the door, clicking the deadbolt over and then he bent down and rubbed Sam-dog's head all over, crooning to him.

"You got a little something for a good dog to eat, Cook?"

"Oh, I got a bone or two," Cook said, wiping his hands down the front of his tunic. He pulled a covered dish from the pie-safe and held out a meat-rich lump of bone – looked like half of a leg bone. Sam-dog looked at the bone and then at Dean, fringed tail waving madly.

"Go get it, Sammy," Dean said, and the dog bounced happily to Cook – took the bone carefully and then went over to the corner by the stove. For the first time, Sam noticed a worn-looking Navajo-style blanket folded there, and he had to grin when the dog curled himself down onto it and put one paw on the bone, gnawing contentedly.

"Thanks," Dean said, and Cook waved him off, going back to his dishes. Dean yawned hard, then he picked up his coat and swung his duffel up onto his shoulder – walked into the shadows at the other end of the room. Sam followed him, going quietly through a doorway and into a room with a wide, tall fireplace, embers and the tag-ends of logs smoldering like a bed of smoky rubies. There were bunks there, lost in shadow, and the soft, regular breathing of sleeping people. Dean dropped his duffel beside an empty bunk just inside the door – rummaged for a moment in a side pocket and pulled out a toothbrush. "They've got spares in the bathroom," he said quietly, and Sam nodded.

The bathroom had a row of sinks and spotted mirrors and Sam glanced their way and then stopped altogether, staring. He was – he looked...

"You look like shit. Is that your usual look?" Dean asked, squeezing paste onto his toothbrush and sticking it into his mouth.

Sam shook his head slowly, not really answering just...denying. He did look like shit. He looked old, although not in the wrinkles-and-grey-hair way. He just looked...worn out. Pale as paper, too thin, stubble and his hair longer – more ragged than ever. His eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his clothing hanging on him. *No wonder Ellen was freaked. I look like a junkie or something. Like a fucking revenant. Jesus...* He was still there – he could see himself, like a strange, blurred image under his own skin. It was kind of creepy. Sam looked around and found a box full of new toothbrushes on a shelf – brushed his teeth and washed his face and stumbled back to his bunk. Dean heeled off his boots and stripped out of his clothes – pulled on ragged long-johns and thick socks and climbed into bed, leaving Sam standing foolishly at the foot of it, staring at him. He was suddenly – overwhelmingly – exhausted.

"Aren't you gonna... Aren't we gonna talk?" he asked, the words blurred on his sleep-clumsy tongue and Dean huffed out a breath, exasperated.

"No. I'm tired. Go to sleep, for fuck's sake. Tomorrow." Dean burrowed under the covers, back turned toward the room and Sam nodded owlishly – managed to get boots and jeans off and then just crawled inside his own bunk, snuggling into clean sheets and wool blankets, the pillow under his head soft but not too fluffy. He punched it once and then, like turning a page, was out.

Part four.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

Page 1 of 2 << [1] [2] >>

Navigation

Active Entries