tabaqui | More 'Song of the Treadmill' part four of maybe more like eight...

More 'Song of the Treadmill' part four of maybe more like eight...

Monday, November 12th, 2007 05:30 pm

Oh, so nice today! Rain, and wind, and thunder, and the leaves are all colors and the air smells so *good* and...*is happy*. I love Autumn.

To all my flisties who have sent the Monstrous a card or letter - thank you thank you! She really is enjoying them. You guys are the *best*.

Now, part four. I know i have *other* commitments, too. I'm just...being slow. Forgive me! All will be written.
Previous parts.

And yeah - looks like it's gonna me more like eight parts than five. :)

It was a mark, Sam thought, of how long he'd been with the angel – how long he'd been alone. In the morning he actually felt shy, surrounded by seven new faces and seven rough, drawling voices that all seemed to have something to say to him. Jostling for a place at the table, he kept his head down and ate and felt a little better when Dean deflected questions and got the ranch hands thinking about other things – telling stories and catching him up, making jokes about Sam-dog and the ranch's owner, Popeye.

Sam just heaped his plate and ate, marveling at fried apples and onions, scrambled eggs with cheese and venison sausage and biscuits and gravy and pie. Everything tasted so fucking good, he felt like he could eat all day. Breakfast was over and coats were being pulled on when the door opened and Popeye himself – Mr. Segar – hobbled inside.

He was bent and skinny and nearly crippled by arthritis, two blackthorn canes in his gnarled hands. His toothless mouth masticated the stem of a stubby pipe and wisps of gingery hair stuck out from under the wooly edge of his knitted cap. Sam had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"Winchester – saw that boat of a car of yours. Gonna dowse me a line for my new fence, then?"

"Yessir, Mr. Segar."

"Good, good. What're you needing in trade, then?"

"Basics, mostly. I've got some silver to trade. I need salt, some herbs – some of those beeswax candles the missus makes." Dean was winding a scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into the front of his over shirt.

Popeye nodded, chewing, the pipe bobbing up and down, little puffs of smoke drifting up from it. "We can fix you up, boy. Who's this tall drink'a water, then?"

Sam straightened under the gimlet gaze. "I'm Sam. Sam Winter. Just – I'm helping Dean on a job."

"Got some mih'ni along the Greybull River, maybe – gonna check it out," Dean explained.

Popeye eyed Sam up and down, shifting stiffly on his canes. "Know about water spirits, then?"

"Yessir."

"Good, good. Mr. Freedman – you've got it all in hand, then?"

"We're good to go, sir." Jeremiah Freedman was the foreman, a bulky black man with grey in his hair and a seamed network of scars all down the left side of his face and neck. "Just about to saddle up."

"Good, good. Gentlemen – be careful."

A chorus of 'yes, sir' followed Popeye's limping departure. Freedman turned around and clapped his hands together. "All right. Let's get our gear and get moving. Sun'll be up in half an hour and we've got work to do. Winter – you ever laid fence?"

"I, uh –"

"He's staying back," Dean interrupted, working his hand into a battered leather glove. "Cook's got some chores for him around here."

"Cook?" Freedman lifted a scarred eyebrow and Cook nodded and Sam felt, for one moment, like he was seven and being told to go play, Dad and Dean had something important to talk about. Even though the thought of digging post-holes in that wind made Sam shiver. Freedman took his coat down off a rack of deer antlers. "Good enough. Time's a wastin'." There was a general crush and confusion for a moment as everyone hurried to get wrapped up and out the door, the youngest hand – a rangy blond boy no older than nineteen – snatching a last piece of pie. Dean stepped up close to Sam, settling a knitted hat down over his ears.

"You stay here and do what Cook says. Don't think you can sneak off, and don't think I forgot your...story. We'll talk tonight."

"Dean, Jesus, I'm not gonna –"

"Just shut up and do the work. I'm low on essentials or I wouldn't even be here. You're not off the hook." Sam-dog was pushing between them, little grumbly snarl coming up out of his throat and Sam took a step back – nodded. Really – what else could he do?

"Yeah, sure, whatever. I'm not your enemy, Dean."

"You're not my brother, either." Dean stared at him for a long moment, his eyes nearly bottle-green in the lantern light, a faint blue shadow of stubble in the hollows of his cheeks. Scar across his lips that Sam wanted to ask about – wanted to touch, God...wanted to know what other scars – what other marks. What other life this Dean had had, alone with their father for so many years.

The other men were out the door – clumping across the porch and down the stairs, and Dean gave a little nod to Cook and followed. Sam-dog sprinted ahead, letting out one joyous yap. Sam watched them go – turned to catch the speculative look Cook was giving him.

"So –" Sam said, trying a little smile.

Cook pulled out his tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. "So. Ever split wood?"

Sam let the axe in his hands fall with a soft thunk to the ground. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, the borrowed sheepskin coat smelling like gun oil and cedar, soft and rough at the same time. The L of bunkhouse and storage building was stacked high with chunks of sawn logs that Sam was methodically breaking down into smaller pieces. It was harder work than he remembered, and his shoulders and belly ached from the weight of wood and the swing of the axe.

But he felt – good. Felt like he was filling out his skin – waking himself up. Felt like all that time with the angel, falling in and out of the lives of other selves was only a dream. A space of greyness and loneliness that he never, ever wanted to go back into. Not if he could stay.

He went over to the half-cord that was already stacked along the bunk house wall and retrieved the thermos that Cook had sent him out with. It was full of honey sweetened tea and he drank two cups before screwing the lid back on and going to manhandle another piece of wood off the haphazard pile. He was just picking up the axe again when Cook opened the back kitchen door.

"Grub's on, Winter. Better c'mon in."

"Awesome. What about – everybody else?"

"They're on their way in – hear that?" Cook tipped his head a little, listening, and after a moment Sam thought he could hear something over the wind. Sam-dog barking, he was pretty sure. "Bring some wood in," Cook added, and shut the door. Sam knocked a little mess of snow and wood-chips off the head of the axe and put it on top of the woodpile for later. He stacked his arms full of split logs and snagged the thermos, then kicked lightly at the door. A moment later Cook opened it up and Sam stomped his shoes clean and went inside.

Wood on the woodpile, thermos on the sink and hands washed, Sam stepped out onto the front porch, shivering in just his shirtsleeves. From the west came more barking and then a rhythmic thumping that it took a moment to recognize. Hooves – horse's hooves. Sam watched as a string of horses came around the corner of the barn, snow caught in their manes, their riders huddled down over their necks. Sam-dog was running to and fro like he was herding sheep and sharp gesture from one man – had to be Dean – sent him skimming across the ice-dotted yard to the bunkhouse.

"Hey, boy – hey...Sammy," Sam said, feeling foolish. Sam-dog sniffed at his outstretched hand and nosed it briefly, then turned and focused his attention on the horses. Everyone dismounted and someone swung the barn door open, holding it against the wind as horses and riders filed inside. The last man went in, too, and shut the door.

"They'll be a little bit yet," Cook said, startling him, and Sam turned. "They gotta un-tack 'em and rub 'em down – give 'em some'a that warm mash I made. Best come inside."

"Yeah, okay. C'mon, Sammy. You want to eat?" Sam-dog looked back and forth for a moment and then trotted inside, and Sam went in, too, happy to be out of the cold.

The second half of the day was a repeat of the first and Sam was exhausted by the time Cook called him in for dinner. The rest of the men filed in in a blue twilight, still joking and talking but subdued. Worn out from a day spent setting fence posts and stringing wire. Even with a machine to help, it was hard work, and the cold and constant wind seemed to just drain you flat. Sam sat down with a wince and a sigh, feeling every muscle in his back protest.

There were chop steaks with a thick vegetable broth ladled over them, roasted potatoes and more bread and blackberry cobbler. Everyone ate in near-silence, but the coffee and tea after seemed to perk them up and Cook and two others rolled cigarettes and talked while the rest moved onto the couches and started a low-voiced debate over what movie to watch. It was barely six o'clock but Sam felt ready to just burrow into his bunk and not come out until morning.

Dean had other ideas, though.

"Hey, Cook – I'm gonna go get my re-stock. Popeye say anything?"

"Nah – he knows you won't short us. Take what you need. He said there's a book along in with the silver that you might want."

"Great." Dean finished doing up his coat and shot a look at Sam. "C'mon, Winter."

*Hell. Just wanna sleep...* "Sure, yeah..." Sam hauled himself up off the bench and into his borrowed coat and hat – followed Dean out into the thick, iron cold of the night. A faint purple lingered along the horizon but the yard itself was dark, only light from the house and bunkhouse showing in the whirl of icy snow. Dean went to his car first and pulled a clanking canvas hold-all from the trunk, then they both trudged back to the barn, slipping inside via a smaller door that was off to one side.

The barn was warm – lit by the first electric light Sam had seen. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool and damp horse, hay and straw and grain and manure. A black and white cat blinked owlishly at them from the top of a hay bale and Dean walked down the center aisle, stopping for a moment to murmur to the bright bay horse-head that poked out over the stall door.

"I didn't know you could... I've never seen you ride a horse," Sam said, and Dean rubbed the horses' nose one last time and stepped away, heading for what looked like a workbench at the back of the barn.

"Comes with the job. Can't always rely on roads or gas, either." Dean dropped the hold-all onto the bench and unzipped it – started pulling out piece after piece of tarnished silver. Plates, a couple candlesticks, some fancy utensils and what looked like a sugar bowl and creamer.

"Where'd you get that?" Sam asked, and Dean shot him a look.

"Found it in this house up near Detroit."

"You mean you stole it?"

Dean stopped in his examination of a silver soup spoon. "The people were dead, man. Not like they needed it. Silver bullets don't come from the Bullet Fairy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know, but – Jesus, Dean!"

Dean dropped the spoon and grabbed a handful of Sam's coat – shoved him backward so he sat down, hard, on a hay bale. "Shut up. Empty house, dead people – we take what we need and move on. You should know that."

"I don't know that," Sam said, craning his neck to look up at Dean, and Dean crossed his arms and leaned back against the workbench, looking down at him.

"Then tell me what you do know. Tell me who the fuck you really are and why you think you're my brother."

"I am your brother."

"Prove it."

Part five.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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