tabaqui | The Song of the Treadmill - part two of five or so....

The Song of the Treadmill - part two of five or so....

Wednesday, November 7th, 2007 10:18 am

Flist! Lovely flist. Vis-a-vis that post i made a week or so ago... The Monstrous Bebe has been getting mail! And she loves it! But you didn't sign with your LJ name!! Who are you? 'Maz' and 'Winnie' - step forth!

And thank you so much. :)

Now on to part two! Beta'd by

darkhavens, as always.
Part One.

Sam stayed there, hunched over for a long time. Long enough for the cold to sink right in and freeze him – long enough for his legs to cramp and his knees and ankles to ache from the press of rough gravel. Long enough – for the first time in forever – to need to piss. To need to eat, and the half-remembered sensations were terrifying and uncomfortable.

Eventually, Sam levered himself to his feet and staggered across the parking lot. Relieved himself against a withered tree, wrinkling his nose at the heavy, acrid smell. Ruthlessly crushing the insistent little voice that whispered that this was Hell, it was over, his contract had run its course and he was...

*Lost here. Stranded...oh, God. It can't be. It has to be something else...* "Angel? You...there?" But the sky was empty. The air was, so cold it burned inside Sam's lungs, tin-rust taste of snow and the thick tang of burning wood. Blowing hard, cutting to the bone and Sam zipped his jacket to his neck and shoved his hands down into his pockets – did the only thing he could think to do.

The Impala was on the far side of a rust-bucket pick up and Sam felt his heart drop into his stomach at the first sight of...her. Filthy, faded – a set of scratches from bumper to bumper like claw marks, a dent in the middle of them, in the middle of the driver's side door. Her tires were balding and the inside was a tumbled mess of dirty clothes and blankets, rope and shovels and other gear.

"Jesus...fuck, Dean." The door groaned when he opened it and that, at least, was right. The interior was stained – familiar rust-brown of old blood, crumbled streaks of dried mud. Stained and torn, patched with duct tape. Worn out and not right, not right, and Sam almost shut the door again. Almost walked away. But all he knew was his family – all he knew was Dean and Dad and their eternal fight and he just couldn't leave.

Once, he'd done it. Once, he'd turned his back and walked away, fear making him snarl and snap like a cornered dog. Once, he'd thought he could live without them and time had proved him wrong. Sam sighed and slid into the seat, feet scuffling over carpet worn to the weft, matted with dead leaves. The interior the same and alien at the same time, unsettling and comforting both. It smelled of gunpowder and sweat and earth – of stale laundry and steel and he shut the door. Shoved his chilled hands into his pockets and hunched himself down into the seat. Head tipping back and eyes going shut almost on automatic, sudden exhaustion like a heavy wing, smothering him. Between one blink and the next, he was asleep.

The double click of a gun being cocked *Way too fucking close, oh shit...* woke Sam with a start and he jerked and then froze, icy circle of steel pressed to his temple.

"Dean –"

"Get the hell out of my car," Dean snarled, and Sam lifted his hands – squirmed across the seat, his feet tangling against each other. Then his sneakers were on the ground and Dean's hand was twisted in the front of his jacket. Sam was hauled bodily upward and around and sent stumbling back with a hard shove. Dean stood there, weapon steady – eyes cold – and for a moment Sam felt...

*God, I'm so fucking tired...I'm just so tired...don't even care...shoot me, go on...sleep forever...* Dean never missed, and Sam was pretty sure it wouldn't hurt much. And maybe it showed, right then. That bone-deep weariness that the angel, it seemed, had been staving off for years. Showed all too clearly because Dean's head tilted, just a little. Puzzled and then exasperated, his hand dropping to his side.

"Fuck. You're not even trying, man. You don't even fucking care."

"What?"

"I'm pointing a gun at you. And you looked like you wanted to give the barrel a blow-job."

Sam laughed. Painful little cough that sounded like breaking glass. "God, you're gross."

"Listen, I don't know who you are. I don't care. I won't help a suicide, though. So just – fuck off to wherever you came from and –"

"I can't."

"Sure you can." Dean tucked his lower lip between his teeth and whistled, a piercing pair of notes that started low and ended high. "Just – turn around and walk away."

"No, Dean. I really...really can't." Sam took a step forward and the gun came up again, steady. Aimed right at Sam's gut.

"You probably won't die if you can drag yourself into the Roadhouse in time."

"Dean. Please, will you just – will you just listen? I know – I sound crazy but I'm not. I'm you're brother. I can prove it."

"I told you," Dean said. Soft, precise – utterly devoid of any emotion. "My brother's dead. Car, Sammy."

Sam jerked, shocked – jerked again, a step back as a large, dark shape streaked out of the shadows and jumped up into the car. "You have a...you have a dog? Dad never let us...you named your dog Sam? I think I'm kinda insulted."

"I think you need to go home," Dean said, and he tucked his gun away, shutting the passenger door and walking around the back of the car, keys in his fingers, jingle and chime.

"When you were four and I was six months old, our mom died. A demon killed her – pinned her to ceiling in my nursery, cut her open – set her on fire."

Dean stood frozen, one hand on the door of the car, staring across the pocked roof at Sam. "When I was two and you were six, Dad took you shooting for the first time and you hit every target." Sam took a step toward the car and the dog in the front seat barked once. Sam hesitated, even though the window was rolled up. "When I was five and you were nine, you broke your wrist falling out of a tree at Bobby's yard. We were playing Star Wars." Dean just kept staring and Sam licked his lips – tried to steady his voice. It wobbled, just the same.

"When I was six and you were ten, a striga –"

"Killed you. The striga killed... Killed Sam."

"No Dean, Dad stopped it. He came in and stopped it and we got it. It took sixteen years but we killed it."

"Sam died," Dean said, and his voice was harsh – rasping. He groped for the door handle and Sam stepped up fast, ignoring the growls that turned to barks, putting his hands on the roof of the car, palms open.

"I'm not - that Sam. I'm not...your Sam. But I am your brother. Dean – I am. I lived. Somewhere else, I lived."

"That's bullshit," Dean said, and yanked the door open. "Stifle it, Sammy," he said, afterthought, and the dog stopped barking.

"No it's not. Dean –" Sam stopped. Took a long, hard breath, fighting the exhaustion and the twisting ache of an empty gut. Fighting the hopeless loneliness that rushed up and smothered him like a wave, dark and cold and heavy. "Please, just – just let me tell you everything, okay? Let me tell you and then... Then you can decide. Okay?" Dean's expression was shuttered – blank – but his eyes...

His eyes held something of the same weariness and defeat. The same loneliness. He looked down at the car's roof, staring at the dirt-dusted metal. Seeing – something.

"Dean...please?"

"Fuck." Dean brought his fist down on the car's roof, and then he was striding around the back of the car again – pushing Sam up against the cold steel side. Doing a brisk, impersonal weapons-check, and tucking Sam's knife away into his own pocket with a little huff of breath. "That'd feel just awesome in my neck."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Sure you don't. Think I'm stupid?" Dean stepped back and Sam turned around, hitching his shoulders a little to settle his jacket back into place. "Sammy rides shotgun," Dean said, little smirk of his scarred mouth and then he was walking away again, around the car and opening his door – sliding down into his seat. Sam just stood there for a second, staring, and then he opened the back door and shoved his way inside, pushing dirty laundry and a ragged blanket across the seat – stepping on coiled, muddy rope.

"Can't believe you'd do this to your car," he muttered, and Dean turned the key and revved the engine hard. It roared steady and strong, running as smoothly as Sam had ever heard.

"She's not a fairy princess, she's a workhorse. She knows what's important." The tires kicked up gravel as they sped out of the parking lot and Sammy-the-dog wuffed quietly, his chin on the seatback and his eyes fixed on Sam.

"Where are we going?"

"Someplace safe – a place I trust," Dean said, flick of a glance back at Sam in the rearview. A glance that clearly said 'People I trust, because I sure don't trust you.' Sam got that. He'd do the same, if he were in Dean's shoes. It didn't make it hurt any less, though.

Part three.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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