All is revealed!! Kamikaze remix - 'These Rags of Memory' - gen

[tabaqui]

Wheeeeee!

My kamikazeremix author has been revealed! theladyscribe is the author who took 'Thou Born to Match the Gale' and teased out a neat little bit of 'other' pov, inhabiting the oc of the story and letting us see through his not-quite-human eyes. To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane [The What's Your Sin Remix].

And i've changed my author tag at the comm, but i want to post the story here, too, so i can have it in my tags.

The original story was Homeless Hits a Bit Close, by essenceofmeanin. A darkish little slice-of-life piece, about the 'less glamorous' side of hunting. I was so thrilled to get her as my author, and i only had to read the story over once to be hit with a big 'ole bunny.

Beta'd by darkhavens, of course.
Enjoy!

Title from Edwin Arlington Robinson - Collected Poems.
V. The Town Down the River 22. Alma Mater.






Sam remembered this.

Or, actually – he'd imagined it so many times, he thought he remembered it. But in truth, he'd never seen it with his own two eyes. Just pictured it in his head, for fleeting moments and obsessive nights. Lurid detail and vague, fuzzy flickers.

The dumpster was solid green, battered on the corners, sticky along the edge. Thick odor of food left to sour in the heat. It was half-empty. Or half-full, if you were gonna be an optimist. Sam wasn't sure if he was.

*"Hey, Dean – what's optimist mean?"

"It means if somebody gives you a shovel and pile of horse shit, you start digging."

"I don't get it."

"Because, Sammy – gotta be a horse in there somewhere!"

And Dean had cracked up laughing at Sam's expression, slapping his thighs and rolling around on the bed until Sam just rolled with him, musty bleach smell of hotel-white sheets, Dean's worn flannel and flannel-soft jeans.

*I'd settle for a burger,* Sam thought, and took a deep breath. Leaned in over the dumpster's edge, digging. Two ripped bags and three un-ripped ones and then – jackpot. Loaf of bread, mold-spotted green on one end, perfect on the other. He yanked it free with a grunt of satisfaction and dropped it into the Safeway bag he'd plucked out of the weeds three blocks earlier. It fell haphazardly over the torn net bag of bruised apples – the jar of peanut butter that someone had opened and dug into and that Whole Foods had, considerately, set on top of the dumpster. Organic, no sugar, no salt. Oily and dense and someone else's germs in there but...

But he could scrape that part out and it would be fine. Just fine.

He's twelve the first time he remembers it really mattering. Twelve and a half, almost, sitting in their room at the motel, idly drawing stars and spirals and boxes in his homework. Hungry because you don't get seconds when you're doing the free school lunch; hell, you barely get firsts. The 'fridge gave out its last real food item two days ago and there's nothing but mayo on the top shelf, two inches of milk in the jug and salt-and-pepper on the stove. Sam wonders if he could just eat the mayo with a spoon – imagines a cold, slippery-thick dollop of it going down his throat and swallows hard. No, maybe not.

Dean is slumped in the chair opposite Sam, gaze flicking distractedly from his hands to the TV. Back and forth, back and forth, worrying the tape-patched strap of Sam's backpack. Looking pissed off and twitchy like he does – like he has been – and Sam just keeps his head down, making little explosions in blue ballpoint ink.

"I'll be back later," Dean finally mutters, kicking up out of his chair like it's done something to him personally. Slam of the door and the little scrape-tick-click of him jiggling the loose doorknob and then nothing. Doug and Porkchop on the TV, something about math homework and Sam clicks it off, ignoring the persistent, tooth-sharp ache in his belly.



Sam hadn't planned for this.

Or, actually – he'd planned for years, but the best laid plans, as they say.... He hadn't planned on Dad finding his paperwork – hadn't planned on that fucked up, blow-off-the-roof argument that had ended in slammed doors and curdling silence and him with his duffel and his bag and his shoes, out the door and down the road a whole month and a half early. He'd walked for four hours, letting the persistent Oklahoma wind dry his face and then Dean had been there. The car's engine was like a disgruntled dog, rumbling displeasure and the heartbeat-steady thump of AC/DC. Sam had walked a stubborn half-mile further before coming to a dead stop, shoulders slumping and his duffel dragging down into the dirt.

Dean had just watched him through the open window, bruise already discoloring his jaw where Sam's wild swing had landed. Sam hadn't been aiming for his brother – hadn't been aiming for anything at all. Had just been... *Drowning, suffocating, sinking....*

Sam lifted a hand to run it back through his sweaty hair and then stopped, because his hand was grimy and stank and he couldn't shower until after dark and Jesus fucking Christ.

*Really didn't think this one through, did you, smart guy? Dean would fucking kill me....*

Except Dean wouldn't, because Dean wasn't there, and Dad wasn't there, and that was just fucking fine, he didn't need them to be there, all they did was stir up trouble, draw attention – might as well just paint a giant bull's eye on their backs and be done....

Sam sniffed and rubbed his nose on his shoulder – switched the Safeway bag to his other hand and trudged toward the sidewalk. *Only three and a half weeks to go. Three and a half weeks and then I'll have a dorm room and a meal card and a job...* And thank God for his last high school counselor. Because of her, Sam had filled out forms to be on the Federal Work-Study program, because 'full ride' didn't actually mean 'full ride'. *Three and a half weeks.*



Dean has been gone an hour – maybe a little more. It's dark outside – twilight fading fast under the low, grey sky and Sam contemplates drinking the last of the milk. But Dean... Dean is out there in the wind and the drizzle, getting food. Holding out his hand and begging, maybe, and Sam remembers doing that. Remembers standing in line in a church basement, hiding behind Dean when the ladies smiled at him, brittle and too bright and too eager to rush in. Asking questions Dean wouldn't answer and making little clucking sounds of displeasure when Sam tripped over his unknotted shoe laces and slopped the glass of blue-white skim milk. Sam can count, same as Dean, and he knows the money's gone – knows Dad is two days overdue and where else is Dean supposed to get them dinner and breakfast?

Sam gets up and drinks a couple of glasses of water – holds his breath against the roll of nausea and sits back down. He's three chapters ahead in his English and two in History so he just closes his books and shoves them away – lays his head down. Take a little nap and then Dean will be back, Dean will....



Sam hated summer.

Or, actually – he hated the lull in classes, when his campus job stopped paying and his meal card ran out. When most everybody had gone home and he was stuck waiting out the two or three weeks before he got his first summer-job paycheck, sleeping in the empty dorms because he could pick the locks and slip inside, unnoticed. Camping out in his old room because it felt like less of a cheat than taking somebody else's. Rolling out his Goodwill sleeping bag and cracking open a window – timing the security patrols so he could take a fast shower when nobody would notice the noise and the steam.

He made the rounds of the grocery stores and restaurants with his head tucked down and his eyes on the ground. Wondering if the ratio of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Lutheran or the 'Everyone welcome!' fish fry at Our Lady of the Rosary. Remembering all too well the look of mulish fury on Dean's face when they'd walk by other such places in other cities, Dean telling Sam to stay inside and do his homework and coming back with food in mis-matched grocery bags and the rot-tang of dumpsters on his coat – sludge on his shoes. Washing his hands until they were red and sore and Sam never, ever told him about the hamburger with the cigarette butt under the bun, or that the week-old doughnuts had acquired fur inside the hole.

He got it, now. That sick, hot feeling of helplessness and wounded pride that made you want to just lash out. Dean couldn't work 'cause he was underage – under-parented. Couldn't drop out and couldn't leave Sam for night shifts or weekends and Sam remembered watching Dean's hands. Watching them move over gun barrel and kitchen stove with equal ease – over the car's engine or Dad's clawed skin. Hands that could do anything – anything at all – reduced to grubbing in other people's cast-offs.

*Nobody gives a fuck that you're pre-law, 4.0, head of the class. Suck it up, Winchester.* The woman who worked at the little coffee shop beside the record store was on the back step, having a smoke, and her gaze flinched away from him as he passed her. It hurt, but it had hurt Dean more.


When the door opens, Sam jerks around, his mouth ready to smile. But it's not Dean, it's Dad. Wrinkled shirt and wrinkled face, his hair flattened a little from rain, his boots muddy. Half smile behind the beard that falters and fades when Sam only stares.

"Son. Where's your brother?"

"Dean's out," Sam says, anger surging up and twisting his gut. Making the water in it roil, uneasy and sick-making.

"What in hell's he doing out at this time of night? He should be –"

"Should be what?" Sam says, and turns in his chair. Bites his lip and glares at his notebook, his finger twisting and twisting into the fringe of loose threads that surround a rip in his jeans. His knee rough under the soft fuzz, week-old scrape.

"He should be here." Dad's duffel thumps to the floor, but his boots are nearly silent on the thin carpet as he crosses the room – comes to a stop by Dean's chair. Scarred hand on the back of it, dirt under his nails and the cuff of his coat wet.

"He's getting dinner," Sam says, staring hard at his dad. Staring like a fucking basilisk, Dean says, and Sam wishes.... "We're out of food."

Dad's face smoothes out, blank and inscrutable, and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to make him react. Make him – make him....

"Out for how long?" Dad asks, and Sam finally hears the hoarseness in his voice – sees the bloodshot rims of his eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched, held awkwardly still. Hurt, Sam guesses. Hurt somehow, and just like that, the anger sinks away, leaving Sam feeling hollow inside – bones like sticks and his head too heavy – eyes gritty.

"Couple days. Dean's taking care of it, Dad," Sam says, and Dad musters up that half smile – reaches out and squeezes Sam's shoulder gently. Runs his warm, callused fingers up the back of Sam's neck and into his hair, rubbing.

"Dean takes good care of us. He always...." Dad's hand drops away and he sits down, moving slow. Sam leans forward, arms crossed, resting his chin on his wrist. He watches his Dad rub a hand back through his hair and then Dad leans forward, too – mirrors Sam's pose, his eyes half-lidded. "Guess we'll just have to wait for him to get home, huh, kiddo?"

"He'll be here soon," Sam says, and Dad smiles again. Takes in a long breath and lets it out on a sigh, his eyelids dropping down to slits. Sam does the same, feeling weighted to his chair – stuck there by an invisible force – a bell jar of silence and pressure. Doesn't know anything until Dean's fingernail pops against his ear, savory smell of cooked chicken and Dean's knee against his under the table, heat and weight that says 'here' and 'safe' and 'home'. Dad's hand on Dean's shoulder, just the same.



The table under Sam's elbows shook and Sam jerked back to here-and-now, startled. Moved his feet as Dean's carelessly trampled them and sat back in the slippery vinyl embrace of the booth.

"You look like you're sleeping sitting up, man."

"Nah, I just... Was just thinking about...stuff."

"Brunette or redhead?" Dean asked, little wiggle of his eyebrows and Sam huffed a small laugh. Picked the menu out of the coiled stainless holder that was behind the napkins and examined it.

"Ha, ha. Hey, they've got Cream of Wheat."

"That stuff looks like –"

"Don't even," Sam warned, and Dean subsided, smirking. Getting his own menu out and glancing at it, fingers tapping out a ragged beat on the red-and-orange speckled Formica tabletop. "They've got buckwheat pancakes, too."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned, making an exaggerated 'yuck' face. "That's like eating horse-food or something. Look at the choices here, man! You can get anything your strait-jacketed little soul desires. Spanish omelet, French Toast, and that American classic – pigs in a blanket!"

"Heart attack in a shroud," Sam countered, and Dean grinned at him. Kept grinning while they got their coffee, ordered their breakfasts and ate. When they were done, Dean put down a twenty and a five with a little pat of satisfaction, and Sam followed him out the door, into the sun.

Comments

[marciaelena.livejournal.com]

I *knew* this was your story. Your writing style--plus your thanks to beta D, hee!--gave you away.

I still don't have any coherent feedback for you. Going hungry is a terrible thing, especially for children, and it's heartbreaking to see wee!Dean--and later, Sam--having to beg and steal and look through the trash to feed themselves. The more I think about it, the more I realize what an awful father John was. He may have had his reasons, but I don't think they should excuse raising his sons the way he did, being absent so much of the time and leaving all of the responsibility essentially on Dean's shoulders.

[gretazreta.livejournal.com]

Oh yeah. That's just excellent.
There's so much to talk about here, but I think I like the end the best, the sense of redemption in eating, the explanation of how Dean is the way he is, walking out into the sun because no matter what, things are better now.

Ugh, your description of the dumpster food was almost too vivid. YUKKY.

But I think the thing that I really take away from it is that the one gift that Dean's given Sam is that sense of resilience. Brilliant.

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

That was gut-wrenching, and heart-breaking, and the shifts in time made it even more heart breaking.

That putting down the money, that little pat...man, you almost killed me there.

These Rags of Memory

[yourlibrarian]

I enjoyed the way this wove back and forth across different memories, stitching together pieces of Dean's character and how it shaped Sam's.

Re: These Rags of Memory

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! This is my first remix and i was so incredibly nervous about it! It was fun, though - must do again!

[tabaqui]

*hugs*
Thank you, bay-bee! Oh, i'm so glad this came out good. :)

[tabaqui]

Thank you so very much! You make me sound so terribly smart and clever. :)

I don't like to think of this as canon, but i *do* like to think that the boys *could* survive this way if they had to.
Just...*cuddles them*.

[tabaqui]

Heeee!
I wondered if anyone would guess. :)

I...hrmm. I love John. As a character he drove the story forward, gave them the impetuous to do the things in their lives that made them who they were - gave them skills and knowledge and courage and *manners*, heh, and responsibilities. As a man, he was deeply, deeply flawed. I think he probably carried some trauma with him from Vietnam, that resurfaced in an ugly way after Mary died. And then the boys had to cope with not only a widowed and grieving father, but a soldier in the throes of PTSD.

I can't hate him, or think of him as a 'bad father'. Look how the boys turned out! They so obviously love and respect him, and he loves them, even though his decisions are not always the best ones....

Sorry! Don't mean to lecture. I really do like John and even though this story shows him in a bad light, i like to imagine that canon was way, way different.

[marciaelena.livejournal.com]

Oh, don't worry, you weren't lecturing. I hope you won't think *I'm* lecturing, I just love discussing different aspects of the show and the characters.

I love John too, so in many ways it's hard for me to look at him objectively and actually *say* that he was a bad father, but when I *do* I find that he really was. Yes, I know he was just a man and had flaws, and both the war and then the manner of Mary's death left him scarred, and that those things deeply influenced him and the way he raised his sons. And I know he meant well, that in his mind it wasn't only revenge driving him, but also the need to protect his sons, to make them strong and resourceful, capable of handling anything, and he certainly did that, but at the same time he also harmed them, Dean in particular. From the moment John put baby Sammy in Dean's arms and trusted him with his brother's life, he started to take away Dean's innocence little by little. Have you ever noticed how when they're sitting outside watching the house burn, John is cuddling the baby in his arms but *isn't* touching Dean at all? I know he was in shock, and that since the fire started in Sam's nursery he might've been feeling more protective of him, but still, his other son--who is barely more than a baby himself and has just lost his mother--is sitting right next to him and John isn't offering him any comfort, isn't feeling the instinct to protect *both* his sons?

At first John was probably just lost, not really knowing how to handle his kids without Mary, but after the initial shock became obsession, that side-effect to overprotect Sam at any cost, at Dean's expense, became a tendency that only worsened with time. It's canon that while Dean knew about the supernatural world at an young age and knew how to handle guns, Sam didn't. It's canon that John was gone for days at a time, leaving Dean in charge of keeping his brother safe and fed. So I don't think it's that much of a stretch to imagine that instances like in your story happened in canon too.

The boys do love and respect their father, but I think that if--when--they allow themselves to be honest about it, they both harbor a lot of resentment towards him, too. Again, it's canon that Sam often butted heads with John because he was dissatisfied and angry about the kind of life they led. And Dean, he calls his father an "obsessed bastard" or something of the kind in the dream episode. His outburst at the end of ELAC and his emotional arc during season 2 also indicate a lot of anger at the burden his father left him before dying--save Sam or kill him. Which is really just a stepup in their family dynamics, John heaping too much responsibilty on Dean's shoulders and leaving him to deal with it.

John thanks Dean right before dying about being the one who kept their family functioning when he couldn't, so I think that even he recognized his shortcomings as a parent.

So, in conclusion, yeah, I know John's intentions were good. But you know what they say about good intentions. In their case, that's frighteningly literal.

[realtsunamigirl.livejournal.com]

Lovely as usual, my dear.

I loved the little touch with the furry donut and burger with the cigarette butt. You really got down into the idea of the dumpster diving not just being dirty for the soul but the physicality of it, the grime and the effort. (Although I think that you me ratio not ration in this sentence Wondering if the ration of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Luthera)

Makes me want to wash my hands just reading it and that is a good thig by the way:-)

You also caught me in a spot that I had never considered before. What did Sam do during the summers? I always thought that summer work would cover it, but when you have absolutely nothing to start from...huh. Hadn't gone there before.

I have got to watch season three so that I can read your current SPN work.

*sigh*

Poor deprived me;-D

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! I love getting into the 'nitty gritty', as it were, of dumpster diving. The practical side which, yes, means sticky hands and smelly clothes and other people's germs.

I love to imagine all the details of Sam's life at Stanford. I imagine by his third year or so he wasn't so desperate, but at eighteen, nineteen - you make mistakes, don't always plan ahead.

Yes! Watch season three!
*bounce*
:)

[tabaqui]

Everything you say here is true. And probably canon. I just...can't hate John. I can't. He's as broken as his boys, and as lost as they are, and no matter that i'm angry with him a lot of the time...

I just love the man. I'm glad that they know he fucked them up. That they're *not* soldiers blindly following orders. I loved it when Dean stood up for himself, yelled at him, talked back. I loved it when Sam wanted to apologize, and when John *did*.

I guess i love my boys fucked up more than not, heh. But yeah - can't hate him, even though maybe i should.

[marciaelena.livejournal.com]

Well, like I said, I love him too. Even when I'm angry with him. Just like Sam and Dean do. And, at least where the show is concerned, it makes for more interesting storytelling having them all be so screwed up and lost. But whenever I think of them as more than just fictional characters--and I know that sounds a bit crazy, but it's hard for me not to when I love them so much--it hurts SO much.

Should John have done better by his sons? Yes, definitely. But I think the real question is, *could* he have done better? Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he did the best he could, and how can I hate him for that? Like you, I can't. All I can do is ache for him too.

[embroiderama]

This is fantastic. I loved the original story and this really fleshes out that world wonderfully. Gah, boys.

[randomstasis.livejournal.com]

oh, excellent! (I thought this might be yours- reasons as cited above*g*)
i loved the original, it seemed very likely, and made me want to cuddle Dean. this is a nice counterpoint of the other POVs
Sam remembering what Dean taught him is great, and that he never told Dean about the inedibility of the food he scrounged- protecting Dean as he can
especially good how Sam is so angry at John, but it just drains away when he realizes he's hurt
and then Dean's popping him on the ear, making littleof what he's done, as usual.
But you managed to show so much of his feelings, how those memories Sam's been running over in his head have ground all the way down into Dean, with that satisfied little pat to the money in the diner.
Lovely.

(And yes, John's parenting skills are not as good as Dean's, certainly not in these situations, but then, whatever else is wrong with him, he didn't grow up like Dean did, either, so he never learned that skill set- or those attitudes!
A fault, yes, but not so much his fault, imo. Love John too!)

[randomstasis.livejournal.com]

oh, yeah-"the author who took 'Treadmill' and teased out a neat little bit of 'other' pov"
So not Treadmill, lol!

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! The original was very cool, yes, and i was worried about doing it justice.
:)

[tabaqui]

Thank you thank you!
:)

I loved making the original a point of memory, a 'sticking point', as it were. Something that changed both the boys in different ways.

*loves on John*

[tabaqui]

I'm......not sure what this means?

[essenceofmeanin.livejournal.com]

okay... the love.

not to be dramatic, but one of my primary worries when i chose this story for my kamikaze was what would happen in translation. 'homeless' is very dear to my heart since it was based off a section of my own life. you captured it so perfectly -- that mix of fury and humiliation buried down beneath everything else, the shrug and the thought 'well, i can eat this' even when it's clearly not edible. oh god, some of the sensory details like eating the mayo off the spoon and the week old donuts had me gagging. it's a compliment. but that's the kind of thing you do.

also, i loved so very much the sympathy in which you portrayed john. "Out for how long?" just broke me. i do love john, and it's easy to take his part in this as negative or being a bad father but i don't think he was. he was just as much a victim of circumstance as his boys. (and actually, as far as his parenting skills go, i still think the meta from too_rational sums it up well: John Winchester was good enough a father for both his sons to know he loved them, and bad enough a father for them both to believe he loved the other one more.)

another thing that breaks my heart in this story is sam. his protective instincts toward dean when he lies about the cigarette butt and even when he reassures his father both serve to underscore the essential love of their family. he's so practical in this, too.

one of the things that i have always adored about spn is the americana aspect of the show. sometimes a part of our unconciousness -- traveling dusty backroads like modern day gypsies. homelessnes is the antithesis of the american dream, which -- as sad as it would be to see our boys like this -- fits in neatly with ethos of our show.

*takes a deep breath* hope you don't mind me rambling. in conclusion, you did an amazing job. i love it!

[tabaqui]

*heaves a huge, happy sigh*

This fb? Just makes my freakin' month, man. Seriously. My biggest concern in all this was doing the original story - whoever's story i got - *justice*. Making it different enough to be my own, but building and tweaking and branching off from the original in a way that showed off all the stuff that made it good and inspired me in what *i* was writing.

And i just loved the *tiredness* of them, in your story. They were just exhausted, physically and emotionally and mentally. Working so hard to keep things together, working to make things in their own life right, working to hide the anger and the despair and the fear...

So i am so, so pleased that my 'translation' works for you.

I just *cannot* not feel sympathetic toward John. He does his very best, most of the time. Does his worst sometimes, too, but he's human, and fallible, and yeah - the boys *love him*. They have their issues, but they *love* him. That speaks so loudly to me.

Our boys *are* homeless. They don't deserve to be. I feel like, after all this time, they don't care about it so much, and are okay with a lot of it but...yeah. They're homeless, and they live on the fringes. Outsiders who work for all those on the inside, and nobody will ever know, or see.

*hugs you hard*
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
:)

[(Anonymous)]

just- i was confused at first- the scene inthe remix is not from Treadmill, as you said in your intro, but Born to Match the Gale
it just made me laugh when I figured it out!

[tabaqui]

AH!
Sheesh. I kept *thinking* Treadmill. Aren't i an idiot? Sheesh.

Ah, now part of my cannon

[kayto1.livejournal.com]

This story fills in part of my canon (cannon?) background on Dean - explains his gluttony!
Thanks,
loved it the original and the remix!

Re: Ah, now part of my cannon

[tabaqui]

Heee!
Thank you!
:)

*canon, yes*