tabaqui | 'The Song of the Treadmill' - Sam/Dean - Adult

'The Song of the Treadmill' - Sam/Dean - Adult - five of eight

Thursday, November 15th, 2007 06:15 pm

Hello, flist!

Monstrous continues to get mail, and she really is enjoying it. I'm sorry i don't have her on here saying her 'thank yous' in person.. Anyway - you guys are the best.

It got *cold* here overnight, which is awesome. Alas, it seems to have brought me and Cat both low, especially heinous considering yesterday was Cat's birthday. We had pizza and red velvet cake and a low-key get-together of family and friends. I'll put up a picture when i can.

On to the fic! Sorry this is a shorter entry...it's just how it worked out. Enjoy!
Previous parts are here.

It took a while, to tell Dean everything. Sam had somehow lost his ability to tell a linear story and he found himself backtracking all over the place, giving Dean useless details about the life he'd never lived. About his first hunt and his first girl and the first time he'd driven the Impala – the first time he'd stood up to their dad. While Sam talked, Dean sorted the silver he'd brought – left a half-dozen choice pieces in a box under the workbench and then loaded up his mostly empty hold-all with boxes and boxes of ammo. Most of it was re-loads; brass shells re-packed with gunpowder and iron and slotted into worn boxes; marked with crosses or runes or gleaming slickly with holy oils.

He moved slower, though, as Sam got to the part about the demon. About the Colt, and their dad – about the deal that had started it all. By the time Sam was telling Dean about his own deal – telling him in a wobbly voice about his own Dean dying, Dean was sitting on the hay bale next to him, rough-knuckled hands dangling between his knees, head bowed. Gaze fixed on the muddy floor or his muddy boots – on his own hands, the ring on his finger, *...the same, that's the same...* worrying it with a chipped thumb nail.

"This is the first time I've ever just...stopped. It's never been like this before. I've always had something to do. Some way to help." Sam paused, rubbing his hand over his face – over stubble that was finally starting to grow. Struggling to stifle the yawn that threatened to unhinge his jaw. "I don't know...what to do."

Dean didn't respond for a long moment, motionless except for the slow back-and-forth of his thumb across the ring. Finally he stirred – took a deep breath. "He really...made a deal? For my – for your Dean's life? Died for him?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. God, you were...Dean was so mad. So fucking mad. Dad meant – everything to him."

"Yeah." Dean sighed – looked away, his hand coming up to rub back through his hair. "Yeah."

Sam watched Dean scan the workbench – kick at a clump of mud and hay on the weathered floor boards and felt a sick coldness creeping into his gut. "Dean? Is Dad – is he alive, here? Is he?"

Dean stood abruptly, shoulders coming up around his ears, practically. "No, he's not."

"Oh." Even to his own ears, Sam's voice sounded ridiculously small – ridiculously lost. *Dad's been gone for so long...it shouldn't hurt so much. Shouldn't still fucking hurt...*

Dean turned sharply, his expression cold – almost cruel. "He died when I was fifteen. He fucking...blamed himself for Sam dying, he blamed me... It was a trap, we were the bait and it was suppose to fucking work but the fucker went for Sam instead of me and I – I didn't –" Dean lashed out suddenly, driving his fist into the warped boards that served as a divider of sorts between the workbench area and the stalls. One cracked under his fist, dry snap, and he stood there, shoulders hunched.

*Bait? Jesus...Christ. Dad would never... God, what happened, what – made him...* "Dean, I –"

"Just shut up," Dean muttered. He let his fist fall back to his side and Sam saw the smudge of blood on the dusty grey of the board.

"Fuck – are you okay?" He pushed himself to his feet, reaching for Dean who flinched away, hard. "Your hand –"

"It's fine." Dean snatched up the hold-all – gestured to a stack of burlap feed sacks that were filled with salt. Already starting to walk away. "Grab three of those. We're out of here before sun-up."

"Hey – hey!" Sam stepped in front of Dean – used his height to loom in the way, forcing Dean to stop his head-long flight or mow Sam down. Dean let the hold-all drop again, head going down in that 'I'm gonna deck you' posture. "I told you everything. I've got some questions, too, Dean."

"What the hell do you want to know?" Dean shifted on his feet, not meeting Sam's gaze. Bloodied hand clenching against his thigh. "You wanna know what my life was like, growing up? You wanna know what it was like to see – to see you...fuck!" His fist lashed out again, splintering the same board and Sam winced. And got right up into Dean's face – into his space. Forgetting that this Dean wasn't that Dean and that he could get a black eye or worse for this. Working on instinct, impossible to ignore.

Sam reached out, catching Dean's fist and pulling it toward himself – forcing Dean to pivot on his feet, following. Sam cupped Dean's battered hand in his own, breathing in gun-oil and leather and sweat. Familiar and comforting. Old scars were visible under the fresh smear of blood, little cross-hatchings and one bigger one, crooked and raised. Sam's thumb rubbed gently along the ridge of it, unthinking – automatic. Lifted his gaze to Dean's, the heat of their bodies mingling. "I'm sorry," he all but whispered. Talking past the ache in his throat. The longing. "I know it sounds crazy but it's true. I'm your brother and...and there has to be a reason I'm here. That I stopped. There has to."

Dean met Sam's gaze for a long moment, emotions that Sam couldn't identify crossing his features. Finally, Dean slowly tugged his hand free and Sam let him, even though at that moment he'd have given anything to pull Dean closer. To just hold on. Feel that familiar, stubborn heartbeat against his own.

"You figure that – that angel sent you here on purpose? You think it knows something?"

"It...has to. I mean – doesn’t it?"

Dean sighed – scrubbed his wounded hand back through his hair, wincing a little. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does." He edged past Sam, press of shoulder and hip. "Here." Dean hauled up a bag of salt and pushed it into Sam's hands – helped him balance it on his right shoulder. "There's only one man I know that can talk to angels." Another bag on the other shoulder, and Sam staggered a little – leaned gratefully into the momentary pressure of Dean's hand, steadying him.

"Yeah? Who's that?"

Dean slung a third bag onto his own shoulder and snatched up the hold-all of ammo and silver. "Bobby Singer."

They left as they came, in darkness and hard wind, the scour of frozen crystals changed overnight to fat, sticky flakes that made Dean curse, hunched over the wheel and fighting the treacherous drift of his tires. Sam was in the back seat again, feeling vaguely put out and a little bit nauseated, stuffed full of brown-sugar pancakes and venison sausage. Dean had a brown paper parcel full of more sausages in the trunk for Bobby.

A Bobby who wouldn't know Sam – a Bobby who would be different. Sam was excited and depressed by turns and eventually dozed off, waking with an undignified flail to the cold press of Sam-dog's nose on his neck.

"Wake up, sunshine," Dean called cheerfully, opening his door and standing up out of the car. Sam pushed the wet nose away and scrubbed his neck with his shirt-collar – shuddered at the blast of snow-thick air, wishing for the coat he'd left behind with Cook. Sam-dog scrabbled back across the seatback and out, barking. Another bark answered him, low and rough.

Sam untangled his feet from the coil of rope in the foot well and pushed his own door open – stood up, squinting. The wind was blowing steadily, driving the wet flakes into the back of Sam's neck and down his collar. The clouds overhead were a dull pewter that lightened to silver where the invisible sun struggled to shine through. All around them – on every side – were cars. Crushed flat and stacked one on top of the other, fastened together by lengths of chain or cable. They formed walls that fanned away into the haze, black and rust and dirty silver and Sam gaped at them for a moment before shutting the door and hurrying after Dean.

Bobby's house sat in the middle of it all, peeling blue paint and chipped white trim, rows of old hubcaps bleeding tears of rust down one wall. A bulky Rottweiler stood at the top of the porch stairs, stubby tail wagging at Sam-dog, who was acting the fool in the falling snow, snapping at the clumps of flakes and skidding through small drifts.

"That dog of yours don't got a lick of sense," a voice said, and Sam looked up – Bobby.

*He looks the same. Same beard. Same face. Same fuck-ugly hat.* Sam wanted to grin – wanted to walk right up and slap the man on the back. It was a moment before he noticed that Bobby was balanced on one foot, crutches tucked up under his armpits. Not hurt, because the right leg of his jeans was empty, folded and pinned up neatly to the back of his thigh. Maimed – altered. *Fuck, oh fuck...*

"He's one'a yours, Bobby – what's that say about you?" Dean was halfway up the stairs, tired grin on his face, and Bobby snorted.

"Means you spoiled him since he was a pup, and you know it. Friend of yours, there?" Bobby nodded at Sam and Sam realized Bobby had a gun in his hand – that the Rottweiler hadn't budged to greet either Dean or Sam-dog and Sam stopped dead in the yard, looking at Dean.

Dean looked back at him, an expression of baffled irritation on his face, so Dean it made Sam's chest hurt.

"He's...ah, hell, Bobby. He says he's my brother."

Inside was a lot the same. The same Sam-tall stacks of books shoved three-deep against the walls, the same ancient rugs showing the warp and woof on the most-walked paths. The same curling blossoms of Devil's traps on the ceilings and walls and – looking carved in – the floors. Bobby watched Sam cross them with his eyes squinted in concentration and then settled himself into a duct-tape patched office chair on wheels.

That was different, as was the long table littered with computer parts and two whole, working systems. They had the same sort of cobbled-together look that Sam remembered from Ash's computer, ages ago, and Bobby pushed his crutches into the corner between table and book-stack and eyed Sam up and down.

"Sam Winchester died –"

"When he was six. I know. I'm not him, I'm...another Sam."

Bobby stared a little harder, lips pursed. "Huh. Wanna beer?"

"Not really. How about a shot of holy water, straight up?"

Dean chuckled from his stance over against the door-jamb and Bobby shot him a disgusted look. "Been telling him my secrets?"

"No way, Bobby. He says he knows from the – from where he comes from. His own Bobby."

Bobby looked interested and affronted at the same time, as if the thought of him not being the Bobby Singer was an insult. Sam stifled the insane urge to giggle. He was feeling a little punchy. Bobby gestured toward a rickety ladder-back chair that was sitting opposite him. "Boy, you better sit down and tell me the whole tale. Dean – get him his shot."

Sam sat carefully down in the chair, wary of splinters. The thing looked one incautious flop from disintegration.

"He's not a demon, Bobby," Dean said, but he poured out a measure of water into a chipped shot glass and put it in Sam's hand – headed toward the front door. "Cook sent some venison sausage and Popeye had a book you might like to see. Got anything to eat?"

"There's stuff in the kitchen, you know where to look." Bobby watched as Sam downed the holy water – it was tepid and flat-tasting – and then leaned back in his chair. It creaked alarmingly. "Tell me everything...Sam."

Sam sighed – took a breath – and did.

ETA: I'm having weird mail issues, and some emails/notifications seem to have wafted away into the ether. So if you don't hear from me when normally you *would*... Poke me. :)

Part six.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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