'Song of the Treadmill' - part eight!

[tabaqui]

Wow, it's chilly! I love it. I have my slippers on. :) Wednesday we went out to the country and cut down a cedar tree. Now we have a lovely, lovely tree in the living room that smells *so* good. We had so much fun, climbing rocks and wandering through the woods and finding *just* the right tree.

Then i had a moment of stupid and ate salad with our dinner, which i should not do. Raw veggies + me = bad. So i was sick all day Thursday, what fun. Sheesh.

This time around, i have a pimp. An amazing, really *different* SPN fic, seen from an outsider pov and just *not* what you're expecting. Go and read Strangers in Gilead. You will love.
Plus - witling is writing more Spander! Wheeee!
*looks at Azure*
*vows to write more very, very soon*

Anyway - more fic! darkhavens was my lovely beta, as always, and sweptawaybayou cheered me. Thank you, my lovelies.

Enjoy! Previous parts are here.






Sam couldn't sleep – no surprise – so he lay on his back and started at the yellowed plaster ceiling of the room Dean had shown him to. There were three beds crammed into it, and two battered dressers. A random assortment of weapons and books and wards drawn on the walls by some clumsy, childish hand. 'Jo and Lily were here' carved into one windowsill, with stars and a heart.

*Hell on Earth. Most of the people dead and demons – God, like nothing I've ever seen – walking free. What am I supposed to do here? Why am I here? This is so fucked.* Sam finally got up, too wired to just lay there. He wore the sweatpants and thermal Dean had tossed to him – two pair of socks against the cold. He dragged the flannel on, too, and stepped out into the hall. Sometime after midnight the clouds had blown away and now moonlight shone in through the window at the end of the hall, the beam as white as salt.

Sam walked silently to the stairs and hesitated at the top. He could see, down through the rails, the wavering light of Bobby's lantern. Still up – still working – and Sam didn't want to distract him. After a moment's more hesitation he turned and climbed up instead.

The attic stairs were narrow – boxed in – and Sam tread carefully, hoping the wooden risers wouldn't give him away. As his head cleared the floor level he could see the attic room that was Dean's. Moonlight cut across the floor in three bands, sharp as knife blades. The space itself was small, the roof slanting steeply in from both sides, the center space wide enough for a bed and dresser and a set of bookshelves. A bar of moonlight fell across the bed, sparking white-blue lights off of Sam-dog's fur. Dean's face was in deep shadow.

As Sam stepped onto the attic floor, Sam-dog lifted his head, watching with bright eyes from his position across Dean's legs. A moment later Dean's head came up, too, and Sam stopped.

"What is it? Something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I...I'm sorry, I just – I'll just –"

"Jesus, Sam." Dean pushed himself up onto one elbow, rubbing at his eyes and Sam slunk a little closer, ducking his head and feeling ridiculously like he was a little kid again. Sam stopped at the foot of the bed, his hand reaching out to curl around the low curve of the old-fashioned bed frame. It was ice cold, the pale paint worn away and showing the dark, oxidized iron underneath in patches.

"I'm sorry. I can't sleep, is all. Those...things..."

"They fuck with you." Dean shifted under the layers of covers, pushing at Sam-dog, who squirmed unhappily, moving about an inch. "Stupid dog." Sam-dog yawned hugely and laid his head down, and Dean sighed. "Just – don't think about it. It only gets worse if you go over all the details. You'll feel better in the morning."

"I'll feel better in the morning?" Sam couldn't stop the bark of incredulous laughter. "I didn't just – break up with my girlfriend or, or forget somebody's birthday!"

"No, you just saw your very first Hell's angels." Dean sounded irritated, snapping out the words. "Just – try to forget about it."

"Jesus, I can't! What in hell are we supposed to do? They can't just – roam around. Do they kill people? What do they want? Fuck, there's so much –"

"Oh, God, please just shut up." Dean scrubbed wearily at his eyes again and Sam's mouth snapped shut on his next words.

He felt a wave of irritation and then guilt wash over him. Dean looked exhausted, his voice rough and his eyes smudged with shadow, his skin nearly translucent in the bleached light. "Fuck. I'm sorry." Sam came around the foot of the bed, surprised that the air was warmer. There was a strip of brick wall that radiated a low heat and Sam realized it was the chimney of the fireplace down in Bobby's study. "A lot of information in my head today, you know? About...how things are here. It's a lot to take in." Sam crouched down, resting back against the warm brick, tucking his hands down between his thighs.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes going shut for a moment. "Yeah, sure. I get that. But you can't just...dwell on it. For all you know, you could be yanked outta here tomorrow, so..."

"So you – believe me?"

Dean just looked at him – shrugged a little, his fingers twisting in the yarn ties that decorated the quilt he was under. "Yeah. I still don't...know about the brother thing. I mean – Sam... My Sam's six years old, you know? Can't color in the lines and never fucking shuts up. You're just not...that."

"I was, once." Sam shifted – slid down, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, right hand gripping his left wrist. "My Dean wouldn't let that car of his stay in that condition for five seconds."

"Don't exactly have a lot of leisure time for primping," Dean said, but his voice held a note of longing.

Sam had to grin – he knew Dean would slave over his 'baby' if he could. "Yeah, so you say. Admit it – you're in love with her."

"She's never let me down," Dean muttered, and Sam sobered in an instant. He scooted forward, putting his hand on the edge of the mattress, eye to eye with Dean on the weirdly low bed.

"I wouldn't, either."

"So you say," Dean echoed. He yawned, glancing up and around. "The last time I had somebody up here in the middle of the night, I got laid."

"In Bobby's house?" Sam sputtered, and Dean laughed softly.

"Hell, yes. He's not a fuckin' Puritan. There's condoms down there, right next to the spare knives and extra tooth brushes."

"Jesus. Did he – I mean, does he do some kind of 'birds and bees' speech?"

"Oh, God, yeah. 'No means no, never without a rubber, don't for God's sake let me see you.'"

"Oh, man." Sam snorted laughter and Dean grinned at him. "I can't believe it. So did you...always use a rubber?"

Dean's eyes went wide and then narrowed a little. "Not every time. If you're asking if there's any Dean juniors running around, the answer's no."

"Yeah. None in my world, either. But – some of the other Deans – they had family. Had a son or a daughter...one had five."

"Five? Fuck's sake."

"You were happy. I mean – he was."

"Can't even imagine." Dean flopped back onto his pillow and Sam shifted again, leaning his elbow on the mattress. Resting his chin on his wrist, looking up at the whorled curve of a deserted hornet's nest that was hung up in the corner. Other trophies – rocks and weapons and what looked like a possum skull – were lined up on the bookshelf next to piles of spiral notebooks and a scattering of photographs. Everything was blurry and indistinct in the white-blue haze of the moonlight, the faces in the pictures nothing more than smudges of white and black, the skull chalk-white except for a crude pentagram painted on the forehead.

"Was this always your room?"

"Yeah." Dean shifted around on his back, looking at the bookshelves too, and his elbow bumped Sam's fingers. "Me and Sam stayed up here a couple of times. It was like being in the crow's nest of a ship. On a really windy day, you can feel the whole frame sway a little. After... It was quiet up here. Private. I needed that."

"Yeah. Sam reached out, hesitant, and laid his fingertips against Dean's thermal-clad arm. Rubbing just a little, tiny circles on the waffle-weave cloth.

Dean didn't move, and then he did, sitting back up and staring down at Sam. "What are you doing, Sam?"

Sam snatched his hand away, curling his fingers into a fist – sitting up, pulling back. "I'm sorry. I just... I really miss...you. Him. God, it's been so long, I can't even... I don't know if you're exactly like him or totally...different, I can't remember anymore. It's like – you are him, until you say something that's just...wrong and..." Sam blinked hard – rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, willing himself to calm. Blinking back stupid, treacherous tears. "I just miss you, man. I miss you so fucking much..." His voice cracked and he leaned forward again, burying his face in the quilt – in the crook of his arm. Embarrassed and pissed at himself, throat aching with words he couldn't say – heart aching with longing and loneliness.

After a long moment he felt a feather-touch to his hair. Tentative touch that grew bolder – that settled into a slow, careful stroking. Little rub behind his ears and a tug of the hair there and Sam smiled against the quilt. "I'm not your dog."

"Act about as stupid," Dean said softly.

"It's not stupid to miss somebody."

"I'm right here, Sam."

Sam lifted his head and studied Dean for a moment. Traced the familiar shape of jaw and cheekbones, the unfamiliar ridge of the scar across his lips – the too-prominent jut of his collarbone through the open neck of his thermal shirt. He smelled right – like smoke and gun oil and leather. Like spice and musk, warm and familiar and so just...Dean. Dean stared back, the arm he was leaning on giving a faint tremor, angled wrong and stressed.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, and Dean blinked, his gaze dipping down to Sam's hand, curled so close to his own.

"What?"

Sam took a breath and knotted his fist into the quilt – pulled himself up onto his knees and leaned in. Going slow because fast would be a challenge – an attack. Going slow so Dean could push him off – make him stop. Dean didn't, though. He watched Sam with half-lidded eyes – watched until Sam closed his own eyes, too close and just too much.

Dean tasted like mint toothpaste and whiskey and the scar felt strange under Sam's tongue. The kiss seemed to go on forever and then Sam was leaning back. Trying to catch his breath and not really succeeding.

"I thought you were my brother," Dean whispered, and Sam wanted to cry.

"I am. I am, Dean, but –" Dean's hand snaked out and curled around the back of Sam's neck – tugged him close and then Sam was being kissed back, heat and the wet slick of Dean's tongue – little click of teeth and the rasp of Dean's chin on Sam's – his fingers knotting in Sam's hair and his thumb pushing Sam's head over just a fraction.

Sam didn't know what to do with his own hands – dug his fingers into the quilt and just hung on until Dean finally pulled away. Forehead to forehead and Dean's inhale was a little shaky, his voice a little rough.

"Go to bed. Go back to bed, Sammy."

"Okay," Sam breathed. He couldn't stop himself from a last, quick kiss – a brush of his thumb over the corner of Dean's mouth and then he pushed himself to his feet and went back to bed.


In the morning, Bobby was blear-eyed and cranky, irritably making biscuits and gravy and whacking Dean's knuckles with a spoon when he reached for the bacon. "The animals aren't gonna feed themselves," he snarled, and Dean just laughed and managed to snag a piece anyway, ducking the spoon and heading toward the hallway and the coats.

Sam's jeans had dried stiff but it felt good to be in clean clothes. Outside, the sky was champagne and saffron and soft plum and on impulse, Sam climbed up the ladder again, to where they'd stood the night before. The wind hit hard when he cleared the edge, pushing like a strong river current, cold as ice. Where the demons had been was nothing – an amber haze of fields and trees, covered in snow, the sun just over the horizon, fat and bright. The cars, though...

Sam turned slowly, the rebar bumping his hip. Surveying the cars, which from his new vantage he could see had been laid out in a giant pentagram, with a further, huger circle enclosing it. Thousands of cars and trucks, crushed flat and linked by chain and sheet metal and rebar, I-beams and cable.

"Holy fuck!" Sam yelled.

"Pretty damn cool, huh?" Dean called. He was feeding the dog pack, fending off wet paws and wet noses, the scoop dribbling kibble all over the porch.

"It's totally cool!" Sam took a last look – took in a deep, deep breath of air. It was so cold it hurt, crinkling the hairs in his nose and making his chest ache – burning in his throat. But it was clean, making his skin flush and his blood seem to fizz and he all but skipped down the ladder. He jogged across to Dean, who was slogging through the snow toward the barn. Aware that his mouth was stretched wide in a completely idiotic grin but he couldn't help it. He felt good. He felt...right. Like he was supposed to be here – like he'd finally settled, and everything was gonna be okay.

"Dude, you haven't even had any coffee yet. Don't tell me you're a morning person."

"Would that be so bad?" Sam asked, scooping up snow and packing it.

"Don't you fucking dare, man. I will bring you down." Dean's voice was menacing but a smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. Sam just laughed and let the snowball drop – helped Dean kick packed snow away from the barn doors and haul them wide. "Here – get eggs," Dean said, pushing an old, rusted lunch box into Sam's hands.

"What? But..." Sam eyed the perched chickens with trepidation. Their beady little eyes glared back. "Man, I don't really like...chickens."

"Don't be such a pussy," Dean said, taking down a lead rope and opening up one of the mule's stalls.

"This sucks," Sam muttered, and stomped toward the chickens. He only got pecked six times.



"At least you didn't break any eggs." Bobby snatched the lunchbox out of his hands and plucked one out –broke it over a panful of sizzling bacon grease. Sam rolled his eyes and went to wash chicken shit off his fingers, ignoring Dean's 'brock brock' noises.

Breakfast was good and they ate in near silence, shoveling down eggs, biscuits and gravy, bacon and cornbread. Bobby had goats' milk – that Dean wouldn't touch – and Tang. Sam had loved Tang when he was little, picturing the astronauts drinking it, looking up at the sky and imagining himself up there, someday. Now, the metallic, artificial flavor was weird, but Sam drank some anyway, trying not to notice Dean watching him.

When the food was gone and the dishes done – Bobby drinking coffee and directing Sam and Dean in the proper care of cast iron skillets – they all gathered in Bobby's study. He had the piece of paper from the night before on his table, only now it was covered with a dense scrawl of angelic letters and sigils, black ink spiraling out from the center of both sides, crowded up against the edges.

Bobby had them cut a nick in their thumbs – and one in his – and they each carefully stamped a section of the paper. It reminded Sam of his original contract with the angel and the thought made him shudder a little.

Bobby squinted sideways at him, sucking the blood off his thumb. "You know you need blood for things like this. The way it is."

"I know. I just don't like it." Bobby shrugged and then took the paper – started folding it and Sam watched in astonishment as it was turned into a paper airplane.

"Jesus. You're – kidding me, right? A paper airplane? That's how you summon angels?"

"Watch and learn." Bobby handed the plane off to Dean and swung himself over to the front door and Sam and Dean followed. The wind was blowing steadily, crosswise over the porch and Bobby went to the far end and leaned out over the rail – held out his hand for the plane.

"Works every time," Dean said, leaning against the house, arms folded. Grinning at Sam, who shook his head.

"It's insane."

"Shut up, the both of you." Bobby held the plane up to his lips, whispering something, then he tossed it lightly into the wind. It hovered for a second, looking as if it might simply crash to the snow but suddenly it swooped upward, spiraling higher and higher, moving fast. Snow spun up with it and Sam watched the little column of whirling white loft the plane above the roof – above the wall. Up and up until it disappeared altogether and he was left blinking at the high, blue curve of the sky.

"Couple, three days and it'll be here," Bobby said. He looked cold in his flannel and down vest and stumped back inside.

Dean pushed away from the wall and slung his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulling him toward the door. "C'mon, man. Don't tell me you don't trust Bobby."

"I've never seen anything so freaking...bizarre." Sam stopped short of the door, turning under Dean's arm to face him. Wondering if he should just let it lie – if this was one of those times to not talk. But he really just...couldn't. "Dean...last night –"

"What about it?" Dean asked. His voice was soft but his eyes were half-lidded again, his gaze sweeping slowly over Sam's face. His hand on Sam's shoulder, heavy and warm through Sam's layers of shirts.

"Is it...are you...c'mon, man. It's weird. You gotta think it's weird or...sick or...just – crazy."

"Do I?" Dean looked at him for a long moment, little smile on his face. His thumb rubbing slowly over Sam's collarbone. Suddenly he leaned closer and kissed Sam, longish press of cold, chapped lips to Sam's mouth, tickling dart of his tongue. "You worry too much," he said. Turned and walked away into the house, and Sam just stood there, staring after him until the cold was too much and he had to go inside.


Part nine.