fic post !
This is an entirely new thing for me (but not professionally new): I've taken up translating. I've never seen a story with Dean/Adam since Jump the Shark aired, and when I read this story on a Russian SPN forum, I decided my English friends must read it too.
ENJOY!
(cover by me)
When you stick in the knife (Rustles)
Author&link: Ижду
Paring: Dean/Adam, implied Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Warnings: torture. angst.
Wordcount: ca 4500
Special thanks for inlaterdays for quick beta.
Of course Sam starts noticing things. How can he not? He knows Dean too well. The cocky turn of his head, the watchful squint of his eyes, the self-assured swagger when he exits another roadside diner. Dean studies the scenery lazily or just fixes his eyes determinedly on the strip of the highway ahead. It’s as if there are still only two of them driving in the Impala, sharing the French fries in the cafeteria, breaking into another crypt or a haunted manor. „Keep close”, „Bring me some pie,” Move your ass”, „Rise and shine.” That pretty sums up Dean’s communication with Adam.
Dean looks past Adam like he couldn’t care less, just like he doesn’t care whether their motel room has yellow or blue wallpaper. Dean’s not a man for details. The walls could be bare, for all he cared. When he can’t ignore Adam completely, his mouth cringes fretfully while he keeps looking straight ahead. If he took the time to look, he’d notice what Sam does.
Dean’s betrayed by the small things. How he warms his hands around the mug of black coffee at breakfast, when Adam’s reminiscing about his first and last school dance in Wisconsin. How Dean twirls the key-ring on his fingers when they check in into another motel room and Adam’s licking his lips, which have chapped in the cold. Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the shotgun’s butt end when Adam gets knocked on the head by a loose ceiling board. His darting looks in the rearview mirror to check Adam sleeping, twisted awkwardly, head thrown back against the duffel with his clothes, mouth slack with fatigue, half open.
Sam's face's wire tight, he stares stubbornly at his notebook; he too only tries to look forward. Or at the ribbon of the road, or through the motel’s window, or at the fire devouring old bones; on the Formica table surface, two coffee mug imprints are side by side. When it’s his turn to fetch the grub, he spends an inordinate amount of time in front of the sandwich display, wavering between the Ranch dressing and garlic mayo.
When he’s back with the sandwiches, he finds Dean and Adam both in the room he shares with Dean. Sam closes the door behind himself noiselessly, startles Dean with soft steps. His older brother' s lips are swollen and despite the water sprinkled on his hair, it’s a ruffled mess. He shoves a local newspaper at Sam and says he’s found a new job, a ghost of a girl from the local orphan house that kills the mothers who abandon their children. His crumpled tee is untucked, Sam watches a water drop on the back of his neck.
Adam remarks that sometimes ghosts are more human than the humans. Sam looks at Adam, says that killing humans is not a human thing. Adam snorts and insists that parents who abandon their children deserve the punishment. Dean folds the newspaper neatly and puts it on the table. Then points at the plastic starfish-shaped clock on the wall and stretches out dramatically.
***
Dean gets stabbed in the chest by the pitchfork real bad when they go after that ghost. It happens in a blink, seconds before Sam finds the pendant with the girl’s hair buried beneath an oak-tree and burns it. He and Adam drag Dean to the car, he cusses and demands that they leave him the fuck be. He passes out the moment they put him on the backseat. Adam shakes all over as he keeps holding Dean up, and he keeps telling Sam to drive carefully and keeps saying that they need to go to the hospital. Like...now. And please, because Dean keeps losing blood and it doesn’t look good. No hospital, because it has been worse, and they don’t have insurance and Dean will get better. At the motel Adam drops onto the chair, still fiddling with the packet of salt in his fingers. His face is grayer than Dean’s and his lips are brown, the color of Dean’s coagulating blood.
„Wash up and go to your room,” Sam says curtly. Adam obeys, then pauses at the porch. A muscle jumps beneath his jaw.
Sam adds evenly, „Never talk to demons, ghosts and all the evil things. That girl didn’t hear you, and Dean could have died while you were at it.”
Adam shuts the door behind him noiselessly.
Dean’s passed out on the bed with his stained jeans and boots on. Sam watches him from across the bedside table. Dean isn't picky. He doesn't care if the bed’s unmade and the mattress is hard. If the sheets obviously have not been changed after the last guests, that the coffee is like dirt and that the beer is warm. When he does care, he’s quick to act.
Sam can’t figure out how they manage to mess around in twenty minutes...
***
More and more Sam doesn’t hurry back to his brothers, he stays late at the library or in the archives, or making inquiries, and when he comes back, with a nervouse swell in his stomach, he sees lights are out in Adam’s room. Just in case, Sam wanders the streets for another half an hour. He has a feeling, a weird suspicion, that his brothers might need privacy. He wonders what it would be like if he walked in on it, and whether he even wants to know.
If Dean moans. If he pushes Adam against the wall. If he says anything at all. What excuse would he use to go to Adam’s room? „Dude, I must've left my.....” or if he needs any excuse at all. If he makes Adam wait. If Adam is fidgeting on the kitchen stool, chewing on his hangnails, staring at the door?
Maybe, possibly, Adam’s put up a fight before the first time. He might have thrown a few good punches at Dean. Adam is strong, and Sam has trained him well. About a month ago Dean came back from a bar with his nose bleeding. Adam locked his door and stayed inside the whole evening.
Maybe Adam was the first to come to Dean. He must have noticed them being alone together again, making suspicious noises in the parking lot. Dean pushed Sam away, walked away mid-tug for another - as if he hadn't have enough - drink. Sam didn’t follow. Wouldn't beg. Not anymore.
So Adam must have been caught the best moment. Knocked on Dean's door when Sam was with Ruby. Stuttered, bit his lip, flushing from his neck up, like fireworks. Or simply nosed into Dean's loose shirt collar, cold nose, hot breath. Dean thrust his hand into Adam's open jeans. Pushed his little brother on his back and when Adam bristled, Dean's arm was holding Adam to him, pulling them to lie down together.
***
And it was quiet in the room. Just like now.
Sam's back after he's cleaned the Impala. Dean’s breathing evenly, shifts in his sleep.
Sam sits down beside him on the mattress, carefully. He swallows dryly as he watches the bandages on his brother's chest, white like a heraldic cross of valor in the darkness of the room.
„Sam?” Dean’s voice is weak. His eyes are still closed.
„How are you?” Sam moves in closer, to see his face.
„I’m fine. Head feels like a drum. You gave me something?”
„You’ve lost some blood.”
„I’ll live.”
Sam recalls how wide Adam’s eyes went when the pitchfork was pointed at him, hanging in the air. Dean’s face, white, jaws clenched. His arms, straining, a vein popping out on his neck when he tried to push the sharp ends away. The squish and slide of the soles of his boots on the slippery wet leaves when he was thrown and fell. Adam ran up to him, tore his jacket open, studying the wound.
„Need some water?” Sam reaches for the plastic bottle.
„Yeah.”
Sam puts the bottle to Dean’s dry lips, holds it steady.
„We could go to the hospital in the morning.”
„It's just a scratch. It'll heal.”
„Then we need to hole up for a few days.”
„Yeah. I’d go for it.”
Sam screws the bottle cap back.
„You were too slow today, Dean.”
„Not me. That punk.”
„No. He’d have ducked down.”
Dean harks in the back of his throat.
Sam leans in, presses his cheek against Dean’s. His brother’s ears are burning.
„Don’t.” Dean says. „You reek of her.”
His face is placid and smooth. Sam suppress the desire to punch the table lamp, draws back to keep the distance while his heart is running like a rabbit's.
"Lemme help you with those boots," Sam says then.
***
Sam's done enough recon on Dean's face to tell you he's got a hundred and thirty six freckles all together. Adam's freckles have faded since he taggs along and he has gray shadows under his eyes in the bleak morning.
„I brought these,” he puts paper bags on the table.
„Thanks,” Sam gives him half a smile.
„What’s in there, Sammy?” Dean’s hoarse, from the sleep or from the pain. He tries to sit up, grabs the saggy pillow for the back up, winces.
„Breakfast.” Sam rustles through the paperbags, hands a container to Adam.
„What’s in there?”
„Scrambled eggs and sausage,” Adam pulls down his sweatshirt’s sleeves to cover the fading marks on his wrists before he takes the food from Sam.
„That’ll do.” Sam nods. „Dean, you want some?”
„Sure.” Dean cranes his neck, studies the bandages on his chest. „Fuck, this was close.”
Adam fumbles with the hot container, cusses at the stuck lid.
‘Let me,” Sam takes the carton from him, opens it swiftly. Adam doesn’t immediately take the food back.
„I fucked it up yesterday.” He looks at Sam.
„Yeah. It can’t happen again.”
Adam nods, and falls on his food.
„The girl...she was...she was like alive,” he adds between the forkfuls of eggs.
„She was a ghost, she’s killed seven people. She nearly killed Dean. Angry spirits are the most dangerous ones. We don’t sit and negotiate with them. You must move in and kill next time, you get it?”
„Listen to the Big Daddy, baby girl, or he’ll send you to bed without supper.”
„Shut up, Dean.”
They finish the meal in silence. Adam watches them both. A tense silence, Sam breathes, the traffic outside, a jackhammer in the distance.
„May I ...have a look at the wound?” Adam looks at the footing of Dean’s bed. A flush charges his face with color.
„I’ll go buy a newspaper,” Sam says as he exits.
***
But that was then. This is now, and things are different. Very different.
Without Ruby, everything sucks. Sucks so bad, hurts so bad. There is molten metal churning in his veins. Burning out his every cell. Turning his spinal cord into ashes. Seeping into his cracking head.
Jesus. It’s all in the blood.
Sam shuts his eyes tight, bangs his head against the hard pillow.
How long has he been here? An hour? A week? A decade?
Sometimes Dean comes, brings food, opens up a bottle of water, lets him drink, holding up his head. So careful.
Funny. Deja vu, right.
***
Sometimes, Sam chides himself, he’s blown his cover so stupidly. But he’d have died of thirst if he hadn’t bitten into that bitch’s throat. Sometimes, he wonders how things are up there. It must be very very quiet up there.
Sam hears the iron lock slide home when someone enters the bunker and closes the door. At first, he thinks it’s Dean. In a second, he knows he’s wrong. You don’t have to be a brainiac to guess. You don’t even need to turn your head.
Adam moves smoothly, but cagily. Tennis shoes tread softly, as if on broken glass Sam waits for Adam to come closer. He does, stands at the headboard, not knowing where to put his hands, then puts them in the pockets of his windbreaker.
„Hi,” he says as he looks at Sam guardedly.
„Hi.” If Sam could move his head, he’d have nodded. Adam sweeps the nearly empty bunker with his eyes and opens his mouth slightly, as he always does, when taken aback. His lips are raw with bites.
„So, how’s it going?” Sam asks his younger brother.
Adam fixes his eyes back on him.
„It’s...going fine. We’re hanging out up there...Bobby gave me books on demonology to study, old books. Dean’s washing the Impala.” He stumbles in the middle of the sentence, then adds, awkwardly. „It’s raining, actually.”
Sam grins at the ceiling. Not because it all sounds bad, 'cus Adam got these wide hazel eyes that read like a high school girl's diary. His eyes give everything away, too earnest and well-doing. Damn, Sam can’t turn his head fully and look at Adam.
„I’ve cleaned your guns.” Adam smiles nervously, drops his eyes to the floor. ”I shouldn’t have...probably.”
„It’s okay.„ Sam does try to nod this time. „What else Dean and Bobby are going to do? You know...about...me?”
Looks like Adam is set to chew through his lip.
„I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”
„Okay.”
The minutes stretch. He wishes Adam would get out rather than just keep standing there. Sam tries to find distraction from his own body by studying cracks in the ceiling. They’re like capillaries.
„I can bring you some painkillers,” Adam offers.
Lord Almighty. The last person to answer his prayers. The desperate hope is wrecking through Sam worse with every second, his skin drawn tight and shivers scampering up his spine.
„Untie me.” Sam asks very quietly.
„I can’t”.
„Adam.”
The ceiling cracks start to seep blood. Sam doesn’t know how to put it better.
„You don’t understand.” Sam gnashes his teeth.
Adam watches him like a small animal ready to bolt.
„I can’t!”
„The pills wont help. You gotta let me outta here.”
„I won't.” Adam looks frustrated, but he doesn't sound frustrated. He sounds stoic. Sam hears an echo of all the 'Yes sirs' that Dean gave John when what he really meant was 'This is fucked up'.
„I need it.”
„I can’t, Sam.”
The solid, John-like note in the younger brother’s voice doesn’t fit with his confused features. The room is filled with the sounds of their ragged breathes.
„Why? You think I’m a monster too?”
„No, I don’t think so.”
„What’s your problem then?”
Adam takes a small step back. Sam can see him better now,
„Dean’s brainwashed you real good.”
„Dean says it’s better this way.”
And that’s it! It blows his roof off. Lord Almighty, you be damned with your angels, demons and heavenly plans. Sam’s laugh is hollow, it bounces off the impenetrable walls. Sam’s neck and face get red, his eyes tear up. Adam looks petrified.
„Yeah, it’s better this way, I bet. Sudden noises don’t give you the creeps. You don’t have to check your watch. No need to hide the hickeys. Dean's never been prouder of you. He can feed you his dick twenty four/seven, right, little bro?”
„Sam!”
The cry sounds so like his own, it resonates from far childhood. Surprise. Hurt. Pain. What else. Anger. The words uttered...they were different though. Sam recalls the words, stops laughing abruptly.
It’s so quiet, in the eye of the storm that is he.
„Fuck each other through the floor, you two, I don’t care. Just let me go!”
„No.”
„Please.”
„No.”
„ Let me go, you fucking bastard!
***
Sam arches, in a desperate attempt to break free, break away from pain and Jesus, he loses the moment of transition. He doesn’t even catch the words immediately.
„Sammy Sammy Sam. Didn't Daddy teach you that yelling is not a sign of good manners?”
The words are uttered without hurry, like the speaker has all the time in the world. Sam’s ears are clogged and he doesn’t recognize the voice at once. The quiet, nasal twang.
Adam jumps back, out of his sight. A tall, gangling shadow to Sam’s right can’t be real. He can’t. Ruby gave him his blood back then, her black whorish blood so that he could kill this sick son of a bitch.
„No.” It takes the last gulp of air out of his lungs, but Sam doesn’t give a fuck. „No.”
Alistair smiles. That’s enough. Enough for Sam to make another gulp; it's all Sam can do right now to shout,
„Run, Adam, run!” And Adam bolts to the door but doesn’t fling it open, turns back and cocks his gun and oh Jesus, please, I knew you wouldn't listen to me, but Jesus, please....
John has always taught them that there must be something to cover your back. They both have taught Adam to back up to something. A wall, the door or a partner.
„Dean. Bobby. Someone!” Sam thrashes, he nearly overturns the bunk, comes close to breaking his neck.
The tall man doesn't hurry. Doesn't bleed, doesn't feel the bullets. He has no shadow. He exerts no effort when he grabs Adam’s arm and bends it backwards. When he crashes the boy’s forehead into the wall.
It’s pointless to scream for help now.
***
Adam’s lips have turned gray. His eyes, his skin, his freckles are gray. Only the split brow is a bright splotch. It paints the gray face crimson. Sam sees the boy, spread-eagled on a demon’s trap and he’s glad he cant turn his head and see everything.
„Yes yes yes,” Alistair watches in the same direction, his knobbly fingers scratching the stubbled chin. „The family traditions of Winchesters are ....untouchable. Crucifixion, right? Tell me...Sammy, if I’m blocking the view for you.”
Sam gnashes his teeth, he needs to retort. Nothing smarter than „I’m Sam” is in his brain.
Alistair comes up to him, his razor caresses his cheek. For a second, relief washes over Sam. „Yes, motherfucker, yes, do this,” he thinks. „Me, take me, not him.” Alistair cuts the belt on Sam’s neck, he can turn his head free now.
„You wanna be there, Sam? You wanna.” The short hairs of Alistair's beard prickle Sam’s ear. Sam shudders with disgust.
„You’ve always wanted to be there. But poor Sammy, they’ve left you down here, all lost and alone. And you don’t get to wear a crown of thorns. I feel for you Sammy, I do, so much.” Alistair straightens up, „But unfortunately, to be a martyr…it’s not in your stars.”
He turns to Adam. The boy’s lips are trembling. Sam sees from here how his brother tries to muster himself, clenches his jaws. Bunches his shoulders, looks out of the corners of his eyes. He always does this, when he argues about how they reading the map, what to order for dinner, what room to take. The effect of his glare, though, is diminished by the blood, a red track from his brow down his cheek. His hair is damp with sweat. Yet he watches Alistair as if he’s ready to strike. Sam clenches his hands into fists.
Alistair comes up to the devil’s trap.
„You know, Adam...one of your brothers, he’s been in Hell. Nah, not this one...not Sammy. Dean-o.” Alistair speaks as if he’s too lazy to open his mouth to utter the words. „Dean’s spent thirty whole years in Hell..."
He croons the words like a nightmarish lullaby,
"He tried so hard to justify the proud name of Winchester and not to break. His - your -Daddy, he didn’t break. And Dean...Dean did. He was......like my dream-come-true. Got me so...fully invested."
Alistair's leer leaves little to the imagination,
"So...where was I...Dean held out for thirty years. John...three times thirty years. Old buddy John...”
The red track of blood on Adam’s face dries up, darkens. Alistair cuts the crust away, neatly.
„You wanna join the initiation ceremony? You wanna...” The razor’s butt cuts into Adam’s chin, propping his head up, „…learn how long you’ll hold out? So you shall, boy. And Sammy...Sammy will cheer for you. Yes, Sammy?”
Alistair half-turns into Sam’s direction. Watches him as he puts the blade through Adam’s palm. Adam pushes the air of his scream through his eyes, lips...his entire body. Sam catches the air and screams for them both.
Alistair twists the blade. Adam throws his head back, hits the iron three times before he squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring as he inhales. His nose is running. Alistair wipes his face clean. Pulls the blade out from his palm. Goes to the other outstretched arm. The chains clink. Adam tries to flinch away.
„Adam.” Sam tries to raise himself up a bit. „Adam. Look at me. Look at me!”
Adam forces his eyes to fix on his older brother and Sam hears his teeth click once.
„Adam,” Sam pushes out the words hurriedly. „Adam, don’t be afraid. It’s gonna be all right, you hear? Look at me, it’s gonna be okay. I will get you out of here.”
Alistair unhurriedly cuts the long sleeve of Adam’s shirt in two, baring the forearm, veins visible under the skin.
„You son of a bitch! Let him go!” Sam cranes his neck, forehead thick with veins, with effort. „You don’t need him! He's not one of us!”
„Oh...don’t be so sure of yourself, Sammy. Look at this,” the demon points at Adam’s good hand, the fist tightly clenched. „You seriously believe...he is not one of you, Winchester boys?”
Adam’s breathing is ragged, as if he’s drinking the air in deep, hungry gulps. Sam can’t wait for something else to happen, prays for Adam to finally pass out.
„You’re so...silent.” Alistair looks Adam’s frame all over. „You did listen to what your brothers told you: don’t ever negotiate with the demons. Well, I’m not a demon. I’m more...like a family friend. Ask Dean. We’ve been...coworkers. We bonded. So you talk to me...I’ll let you go. Word of honor.”
Adam spits, but the saliva stretches, sticks to his sodden shirt. Alistair cocks his head.
„Just like Dean-o...spectacular good manners.” Alistair hums through his nose. „I’m offering you a deal, Adam. Let’s have... a man’s talk. Just the three of us. You need to tell Sam what else Dean's taught you so well. Come on…We’ll keep it in the family!”
Adam is the first to look Sam in the eye this time.
„Well?” the demon presses the blade to Adam’s wrist. „Let’s...shake hands, shall we?”
Adam doesn't make a sound. It strikes Sam suddenly that maybe Adam is speechless from fright.
„No? It frustrates me so, that communication problem of yours.” Alistair looks faintly amused, or maybe faintly irritated. „Well then. Sammy, you have a good view? I will indulge you.”
Alistair moves, smooth and sinister, like your worst nightmare, to stand behind Adam’s shoulder, without breaking eye contact with Sam.
„You’ve guessed it right, Sam, your brothers hit it off hard. You've thought about it. Don't lie to the liar...You...wanna know the details, don't you?” Alistair looks at him giddy, like he gets to unwrap a present, gets to untie the ribbons and peel back the paper and touch something that was specifically chosen for him,
„Dean would come after him. Dean will see Adam’s not there, he will come...” for the first time Sam’s voice is strong.
„Why so sure? Am I not my brother's keeper?” Alistair rambles, pulls Adam’s head back by the hair, Sam sees clearly how the blade traces the Adam’s apple. „But yes, he was. He wouldn't let you out of his sight. Wanted to watch after you that night, another night you wasted rolling with that whore. A strange night that was...when our buzzhead Dean’s mixed up the doors. But he would..he would never...act on it. Won’t he, Sam? Unless Adam...”
Alistair drags the tip of the blade from ear to the hollow at the base of Adam’s neck, leaving a red line,
„These still waters run so deep and dirty.” Alistair pats the top of Adam’s head, smiles abstractly. „Almost deep enough to reach Hell. You naughty boy. He and Dean...didn’t they waste the time..."
"You’re a boy of tact, Sam. You should have never come back. You should have stayed with Ruby. Stopped spoiling...” Alistair is purring now, the words are almost unintelligible. „...the family reunions. Look at him now,” Alistair plays with Adam like he’s a doll.
“Look Sam. So...ingenious. So...pretty.” Adam has a doll’s empty eyes. Alistair twists his head to the right, bares Adam’s neck with pale, barely visible marks, fading to blue as the vein is pulsing under the skin. „Sam. Do you copy?”
„Mmmm....” Alistair smacks his lips, an obscene mimicking of Dean’s mannerisms. „Here Dean was kissing, and nibbling the skin and then...lost it, right? He stopped caring ? And then, other times, they used to...” Alistair keeps licking his lips, as if sampling the skin as he’s undoing Adam’s belt, „…have fun with this thing. And you know...Adam would smile all the way through it. Isn't that right, Adam?”
Alistair walks away from the trap, drags the end of the belt across Sam’s neck, the leather is still warm.
„Right”, Sam thinks. Demons usually lie, but he knows. Adam was smiling as he was standing in front of Dean, bare-chested, arms hanging loose by his sides. Anticipating as Dean would take them, draw them behind his back, tie them with the belt, all while not stopping nibbling on his neck. Dean would fill Adam's bed like he fills every space he's in. He would position Adam just how he wants him - on his back, legs spread wide. Wider. Adam would keep on smiling, unable to even play along, to fake the fear.
How would Sam know? He has never been there. He hasn’t.
„That injustice must be righted.” Alistair says.
The ceiling is crashing down on Sam.
Dean pushes him away, because he stinks of Ruby.
And Adam smells of motel shampoo and strawberry bubble gum. Dean kisses the wrists, swollen under the leather.
Adam is quiet when Alistair cuts off all marks Dean has left on his skin.
And Sam is quiet too.
Dean doesn’t come to the rescue.
Alistair quits rambling eventually, just keeps humming a tune and wipes the bloody blade on the hem of his shirt.
Only Adam is still watching Sam. His still chest rises and falls and then rises again. The rhythm isn't quite steady. But his stare makes Sam feel strange. As if he is squeezing Sam’s hand harder and harder until Alistair finally rips his stomach open and then Adam has strength to scream, „Sam!” before he drowns in thick, sticky, black air.
***
Sam is elbow deep in blood. There is a knife in his right hand.
No Alistair. What would be his business here?
When Sam finally got to sink the knife into Adam’s pliant gut, he didn't even have time to cry out. He just lay there, surprised and wide-eyed, as always.
Dead.
And his mouth was soft and slack.
***
Sam drops the knife, but hears no sound.
His skin is clean, his fingers and his elbows.
Adam is not here.
Sam recalls, they have left him in Minnesota, his ashes gone with the wind.
Sam’s alone, dead to the world, exhausted in the bunker. Sam swipes his tongue over his teeth, shudders in disgust. As if he can still feel Adam's blood in his mouth, on the back of his tongue, in his nose.
Handcuffs click softly against the bedframe as he sags back.
Relieved. Only unseen rustles in the dark keeping his company.
/end
Im planning to translate soon another - J2! (yup, Russians write RPS too!)- fic. I hope this was a smooth reading.
ENJOY!
(cover by me)
When you stick in the knife (Rustles)
Author&link: Ижду
Paring: Dean/Adam, implied Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Warnings: torture. angst.
Wordcount: ca 4500
Special thanks for inlaterdays for quick beta.
Of course Sam starts noticing things. How can he not? He knows Dean too well. The cocky turn of his head, the watchful squint of his eyes, the self-assured swagger when he exits another roadside diner. Dean studies the scenery lazily or just fixes his eyes determinedly on the strip of the highway ahead. It’s as if there are still only two of them driving in the Impala, sharing the French fries in the cafeteria, breaking into another crypt or a haunted manor. „Keep close”, „Bring me some pie,” Move your ass”, „Rise and shine.” That pretty sums up Dean’s communication with Adam.
Dean looks past Adam like he couldn’t care less, just like he doesn’t care whether their motel room has yellow or blue wallpaper. Dean’s not a man for details. The walls could be bare, for all he cared. When he can’t ignore Adam completely, his mouth cringes fretfully while he keeps looking straight ahead. If he took the time to look, he’d notice what Sam does.
Dean’s betrayed by the small things. How he warms his hands around the mug of black coffee at breakfast, when Adam’s reminiscing about his first and last school dance in Wisconsin. How Dean twirls the key-ring on his fingers when they check in into another motel room and Adam’s licking his lips, which have chapped in the cold. Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the shotgun’s butt end when Adam gets knocked on the head by a loose ceiling board. His darting looks in the rearview mirror to check Adam sleeping, twisted awkwardly, head thrown back against the duffel with his clothes, mouth slack with fatigue, half open.
Sam's face's wire tight, he stares stubbornly at his notebook; he too only tries to look forward. Or at the ribbon of the road, or through the motel’s window, or at the fire devouring old bones; on the Formica table surface, two coffee mug imprints are side by side. When it’s his turn to fetch the grub, he spends an inordinate amount of time in front of the sandwich display, wavering between the Ranch dressing and garlic mayo.
When he’s back with the sandwiches, he finds Dean and Adam both in the room he shares with Dean. Sam closes the door behind himself noiselessly, startles Dean with soft steps. His older brother' s lips are swollen and despite the water sprinkled on his hair, it’s a ruffled mess. He shoves a local newspaper at Sam and says he’s found a new job, a ghost of a girl from the local orphan house that kills the mothers who abandon their children. His crumpled tee is untucked, Sam watches a water drop on the back of his neck.
Adam remarks that sometimes ghosts are more human than the humans. Sam looks at Adam, says that killing humans is not a human thing. Adam snorts and insists that parents who abandon their children deserve the punishment. Dean folds the newspaper neatly and puts it on the table. Then points at the plastic starfish-shaped clock on the wall and stretches out dramatically.
***
Dean gets stabbed in the chest by the pitchfork real bad when they go after that ghost. It happens in a blink, seconds before Sam finds the pendant with the girl’s hair buried beneath an oak-tree and burns it. He and Adam drag Dean to the car, he cusses and demands that they leave him the fuck be. He passes out the moment they put him on the backseat. Adam shakes all over as he keeps holding Dean up, and he keeps telling Sam to drive carefully and keeps saying that they need to go to the hospital. Like...now. And please, because Dean keeps losing blood and it doesn’t look good. No hospital, because it has been worse, and they don’t have insurance and Dean will get better. At the motel Adam drops onto the chair, still fiddling with the packet of salt in his fingers. His face is grayer than Dean’s and his lips are brown, the color of Dean’s coagulating blood.
„Wash up and go to your room,” Sam says curtly. Adam obeys, then pauses at the porch. A muscle jumps beneath his jaw.
Sam adds evenly, „Never talk to demons, ghosts and all the evil things. That girl didn’t hear you, and Dean could have died while you were at it.”
Adam shuts the door behind him noiselessly.
Dean’s passed out on the bed with his stained jeans and boots on. Sam watches him from across the bedside table. Dean isn't picky. He doesn't care if the bed’s unmade and the mattress is hard. If the sheets obviously have not been changed after the last guests, that the coffee is like dirt and that the beer is warm. When he does care, he’s quick to act.
Sam can’t figure out how they manage to mess around in twenty minutes...
***
More and more Sam doesn’t hurry back to his brothers, he stays late at the library or in the archives, or making inquiries, and when he comes back, with a nervouse swell in his stomach, he sees lights are out in Adam’s room. Just in case, Sam wanders the streets for another half an hour. He has a feeling, a weird suspicion, that his brothers might need privacy. He wonders what it would be like if he walked in on it, and whether he even wants to know.
If Dean moans. If he pushes Adam against the wall. If he says anything at all. What excuse would he use to go to Adam’s room? „Dude, I must've left my.....” or if he needs any excuse at all. If he makes Adam wait. If Adam is fidgeting on the kitchen stool, chewing on his hangnails, staring at the door?
Maybe, possibly, Adam’s put up a fight before the first time. He might have thrown a few good punches at Dean. Adam is strong, and Sam has trained him well. About a month ago Dean came back from a bar with his nose bleeding. Adam locked his door and stayed inside the whole evening.
Maybe Adam was the first to come to Dean. He must have noticed them being alone together again, making suspicious noises in the parking lot. Dean pushed Sam away, walked away mid-tug for another - as if he hadn't have enough - drink. Sam didn’t follow. Wouldn't beg. Not anymore.
So Adam must have been caught the best moment. Knocked on Dean's door when Sam was with Ruby. Stuttered, bit his lip, flushing from his neck up, like fireworks. Or simply nosed into Dean's loose shirt collar, cold nose, hot breath. Dean thrust his hand into Adam's open jeans. Pushed his little brother on his back and when Adam bristled, Dean's arm was holding Adam to him, pulling them to lie down together.
***
And it was quiet in the room. Just like now.
Sam's back after he's cleaned the Impala. Dean’s breathing evenly, shifts in his sleep.
Sam sits down beside him on the mattress, carefully. He swallows dryly as he watches the bandages on his brother's chest, white like a heraldic cross of valor in the darkness of the room.
„Sam?” Dean’s voice is weak. His eyes are still closed.
„How are you?” Sam moves in closer, to see his face.
„I’m fine. Head feels like a drum. You gave me something?”
„You’ve lost some blood.”
„I’ll live.”
Sam recalls how wide Adam’s eyes went when the pitchfork was pointed at him, hanging in the air. Dean’s face, white, jaws clenched. His arms, straining, a vein popping out on his neck when he tried to push the sharp ends away. The squish and slide of the soles of his boots on the slippery wet leaves when he was thrown and fell. Adam ran up to him, tore his jacket open, studying the wound.
„Need some water?” Sam reaches for the plastic bottle.
„Yeah.”
Sam puts the bottle to Dean’s dry lips, holds it steady.
„We could go to the hospital in the morning.”
„It's just a scratch. It'll heal.”
„Then we need to hole up for a few days.”
„Yeah. I’d go for it.”
Sam screws the bottle cap back.
„You were too slow today, Dean.”
„Not me. That punk.”
„No. He’d have ducked down.”
Dean harks in the back of his throat.
Sam leans in, presses his cheek against Dean’s. His brother’s ears are burning.
„Don’t.” Dean says. „You reek of her.”
His face is placid and smooth. Sam suppress the desire to punch the table lamp, draws back to keep the distance while his heart is running like a rabbit's.
"Lemme help you with those boots," Sam says then.
***
Sam's done enough recon on Dean's face to tell you he's got a hundred and thirty six freckles all together. Adam's freckles have faded since he taggs along and he has gray shadows under his eyes in the bleak morning.
„I brought these,” he puts paper bags on the table.
„Thanks,” Sam gives him half a smile.
„What’s in there, Sammy?” Dean’s hoarse, from the sleep or from the pain. He tries to sit up, grabs the saggy pillow for the back up, winces.
„Breakfast.” Sam rustles through the paperbags, hands a container to Adam.
„What’s in there?”
„Scrambled eggs and sausage,” Adam pulls down his sweatshirt’s sleeves to cover the fading marks on his wrists before he takes the food from Sam.
„That’ll do.” Sam nods. „Dean, you want some?”
„Sure.” Dean cranes his neck, studies the bandages on his chest. „Fuck, this was close.”
Adam fumbles with the hot container, cusses at the stuck lid.
‘Let me,” Sam takes the carton from him, opens it swiftly. Adam doesn’t immediately take the food back.
„I fucked it up yesterday.” He looks at Sam.
„Yeah. It can’t happen again.”
Adam nods, and falls on his food.
„The girl...she was...she was like alive,” he adds between the forkfuls of eggs.
„She was a ghost, she’s killed seven people. She nearly killed Dean. Angry spirits are the most dangerous ones. We don’t sit and negotiate with them. You must move in and kill next time, you get it?”
„Listen to the Big Daddy, baby girl, or he’ll send you to bed without supper.”
„Shut up, Dean.”
They finish the meal in silence. Adam watches them both. A tense silence, Sam breathes, the traffic outside, a jackhammer in the distance.
„May I ...have a look at the wound?” Adam looks at the footing of Dean’s bed. A flush charges his face with color.
„I’ll go buy a newspaper,” Sam says as he exits.
***
But that was then. This is now, and things are different. Very different.
Without Ruby, everything sucks. Sucks so bad, hurts so bad. There is molten metal churning in his veins. Burning out his every cell. Turning his spinal cord into ashes. Seeping into his cracking head.
Jesus. It’s all in the blood.
Sam shuts his eyes tight, bangs his head against the hard pillow.
How long has he been here? An hour? A week? A decade?
Sometimes Dean comes, brings food, opens up a bottle of water, lets him drink, holding up his head. So careful.
Funny. Deja vu, right.
***
Sometimes, Sam chides himself, he’s blown his cover so stupidly. But he’d have died of thirst if he hadn’t bitten into that bitch’s throat. Sometimes, he wonders how things are up there. It must be very very quiet up there.
Sam hears the iron lock slide home when someone enters the bunker and closes the door. At first, he thinks it’s Dean. In a second, he knows he’s wrong. You don’t have to be a brainiac to guess. You don’t even need to turn your head.
Adam moves smoothly, but cagily. Tennis shoes tread softly, as if on broken glass Sam waits for Adam to come closer. He does, stands at the headboard, not knowing where to put his hands, then puts them in the pockets of his windbreaker.
„Hi,” he says as he looks at Sam guardedly.
„Hi.” If Sam could move his head, he’d have nodded. Adam sweeps the nearly empty bunker with his eyes and opens his mouth slightly, as he always does, when taken aback. His lips are raw with bites.
„So, how’s it going?” Sam asks his younger brother.
Adam fixes his eyes back on him.
„It’s...going fine. We’re hanging out up there...Bobby gave me books on demonology to study, old books. Dean’s washing the Impala.” He stumbles in the middle of the sentence, then adds, awkwardly. „It’s raining, actually.”
Sam grins at the ceiling. Not because it all sounds bad, 'cus Adam got these wide hazel eyes that read like a high school girl's diary. His eyes give everything away, too earnest and well-doing. Damn, Sam can’t turn his head fully and look at Adam.
„I’ve cleaned your guns.” Adam smiles nervously, drops his eyes to the floor. ”I shouldn’t have...probably.”
„It’s okay.„ Sam does try to nod this time. „What else Dean and Bobby are going to do? You know...about...me?”
Looks like Adam is set to chew through his lip.
„I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”
„Okay.”
The minutes stretch. He wishes Adam would get out rather than just keep standing there. Sam tries to find distraction from his own body by studying cracks in the ceiling. They’re like capillaries.
„I can bring you some painkillers,” Adam offers.
Lord Almighty. The last person to answer his prayers. The desperate hope is wrecking through Sam worse with every second, his skin drawn tight and shivers scampering up his spine.
„Untie me.” Sam asks very quietly.
„I can’t”.
„Adam.”
The ceiling cracks start to seep blood. Sam doesn’t know how to put it better.
„You don’t understand.” Sam gnashes his teeth.
Adam watches him like a small animal ready to bolt.
„I can’t!”
„The pills wont help. You gotta let me outta here.”
„I won't.” Adam looks frustrated, but he doesn't sound frustrated. He sounds stoic. Sam hears an echo of all the 'Yes sirs' that Dean gave John when what he really meant was 'This is fucked up'.
„I need it.”
„I can’t, Sam.”
The solid, John-like note in the younger brother’s voice doesn’t fit with his confused features. The room is filled with the sounds of their ragged breathes.
„Why? You think I’m a monster too?”
„No, I don’t think so.”
„What’s your problem then?”
Adam takes a small step back. Sam can see him better now,
„Dean’s brainwashed you real good.”
„Dean says it’s better this way.”
And that’s it! It blows his roof off. Lord Almighty, you be damned with your angels, demons and heavenly plans. Sam’s laugh is hollow, it bounces off the impenetrable walls. Sam’s neck and face get red, his eyes tear up. Adam looks petrified.
„Yeah, it’s better this way, I bet. Sudden noises don’t give you the creeps. You don’t have to check your watch. No need to hide the hickeys. Dean's never been prouder of you. He can feed you his dick twenty four/seven, right, little bro?”
„Sam!”
The cry sounds so like his own, it resonates from far childhood. Surprise. Hurt. Pain. What else. Anger. The words uttered...they were different though. Sam recalls the words, stops laughing abruptly.
It’s so quiet, in the eye of the storm that is he.
„Fuck each other through the floor, you two, I don’t care. Just let me go!”
„No.”
„Please.”
„No.”
„ Let me go, you fucking bastard!
***
Sam arches, in a desperate attempt to break free, break away from pain and Jesus, he loses the moment of transition. He doesn’t even catch the words immediately.
„Sammy Sammy Sam. Didn't Daddy teach you that yelling is not a sign of good manners?”
The words are uttered without hurry, like the speaker has all the time in the world. Sam’s ears are clogged and he doesn’t recognize the voice at once. The quiet, nasal twang.
Adam jumps back, out of his sight. A tall, gangling shadow to Sam’s right can’t be real. He can’t. Ruby gave him his blood back then, her black whorish blood so that he could kill this sick son of a bitch.
„No.” It takes the last gulp of air out of his lungs, but Sam doesn’t give a fuck. „No.”
Alistair smiles. That’s enough. Enough for Sam to make another gulp; it's all Sam can do right now to shout,
„Run, Adam, run!” And Adam bolts to the door but doesn’t fling it open, turns back and cocks his gun and oh Jesus, please, I knew you wouldn't listen to me, but Jesus, please....
John has always taught them that there must be something to cover your back. They both have taught Adam to back up to something. A wall, the door or a partner.
„Dean. Bobby. Someone!” Sam thrashes, he nearly overturns the bunk, comes close to breaking his neck.
The tall man doesn't hurry. Doesn't bleed, doesn't feel the bullets. He has no shadow. He exerts no effort when he grabs Adam’s arm and bends it backwards. When he crashes the boy’s forehead into the wall.
It’s pointless to scream for help now.
***
Adam’s lips have turned gray. His eyes, his skin, his freckles are gray. Only the split brow is a bright splotch. It paints the gray face crimson. Sam sees the boy, spread-eagled on a demon’s trap and he’s glad he cant turn his head and see everything.
„Yes yes yes,” Alistair watches in the same direction, his knobbly fingers scratching the stubbled chin. „The family traditions of Winchesters are ....untouchable. Crucifixion, right? Tell me...Sammy, if I’m blocking the view for you.”
Sam gnashes his teeth, he needs to retort. Nothing smarter than „I’m Sam” is in his brain.
Alistair comes up to him, his razor caresses his cheek. For a second, relief washes over Sam. „Yes, motherfucker, yes, do this,” he thinks. „Me, take me, not him.” Alistair cuts the belt on Sam’s neck, he can turn his head free now.
„You wanna be there, Sam? You wanna.” The short hairs of Alistair's beard prickle Sam’s ear. Sam shudders with disgust.
„You’ve always wanted to be there. But poor Sammy, they’ve left you down here, all lost and alone. And you don’t get to wear a crown of thorns. I feel for you Sammy, I do, so much.” Alistair straightens up, „But unfortunately, to be a martyr…it’s not in your stars.”
He turns to Adam. The boy’s lips are trembling. Sam sees from here how his brother tries to muster himself, clenches his jaws. Bunches his shoulders, looks out of the corners of his eyes. He always does this, when he argues about how they reading the map, what to order for dinner, what room to take. The effect of his glare, though, is diminished by the blood, a red track from his brow down his cheek. His hair is damp with sweat. Yet he watches Alistair as if he’s ready to strike. Sam clenches his hands into fists.
Alistair comes up to the devil’s trap.
„You know, Adam...one of your brothers, he’s been in Hell. Nah, not this one...not Sammy. Dean-o.” Alistair speaks as if he’s too lazy to open his mouth to utter the words. „Dean’s spent thirty whole years in Hell..."
He croons the words like a nightmarish lullaby,
"He tried so hard to justify the proud name of Winchester and not to break. His - your -Daddy, he didn’t break. And Dean...Dean did. He was......like my dream-come-true. Got me so...fully invested."
Alistair's leer leaves little to the imagination,
"So...where was I...Dean held out for thirty years. John...three times thirty years. Old buddy John...”
The red track of blood on Adam’s face dries up, darkens. Alistair cuts the crust away, neatly.
„You wanna join the initiation ceremony? You wanna...” The razor’s butt cuts into Adam’s chin, propping his head up, „…learn how long you’ll hold out? So you shall, boy. And Sammy...Sammy will cheer for you. Yes, Sammy?”
Alistair half-turns into Sam’s direction. Watches him as he puts the blade through Adam’s palm. Adam pushes the air of his scream through his eyes, lips...his entire body. Sam catches the air and screams for them both.
Alistair twists the blade. Adam throws his head back, hits the iron three times before he squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring as he inhales. His nose is running. Alistair wipes his face clean. Pulls the blade out from his palm. Goes to the other outstretched arm. The chains clink. Adam tries to flinch away.
„Adam.” Sam tries to raise himself up a bit. „Adam. Look at me. Look at me!”
Adam forces his eyes to fix on his older brother and Sam hears his teeth click once.
„Adam,” Sam pushes out the words hurriedly. „Adam, don’t be afraid. It’s gonna be all right, you hear? Look at me, it’s gonna be okay. I will get you out of here.”
Alistair unhurriedly cuts the long sleeve of Adam’s shirt in two, baring the forearm, veins visible under the skin.
„You son of a bitch! Let him go!” Sam cranes his neck, forehead thick with veins, with effort. „You don’t need him! He's not one of us!”
„Oh...don’t be so sure of yourself, Sammy. Look at this,” the demon points at Adam’s good hand, the fist tightly clenched. „You seriously believe...he is not one of you, Winchester boys?”
Adam’s breathing is ragged, as if he’s drinking the air in deep, hungry gulps. Sam can’t wait for something else to happen, prays for Adam to finally pass out.
„You’re so...silent.” Alistair looks Adam’s frame all over. „You did listen to what your brothers told you: don’t ever negotiate with the demons. Well, I’m not a demon. I’m more...like a family friend. Ask Dean. We’ve been...coworkers. We bonded. So you talk to me...I’ll let you go. Word of honor.”
Adam spits, but the saliva stretches, sticks to his sodden shirt. Alistair cocks his head.
„Just like Dean-o...spectacular good manners.” Alistair hums through his nose. „I’m offering you a deal, Adam. Let’s have... a man’s talk. Just the three of us. You need to tell Sam what else Dean's taught you so well. Come on…We’ll keep it in the family!”
Adam is the first to look Sam in the eye this time.
„Well?” the demon presses the blade to Adam’s wrist. „Let’s...shake hands, shall we?”
Adam doesn't make a sound. It strikes Sam suddenly that maybe Adam is speechless from fright.
„No? It frustrates me so, that communication problem of yours.” Alistair looks faintly amused, or maybe faintly irritated. „Well then. Sammy, you have a good view? I will indulge you.”
Alistair moves, smooth and sinister, like your worst nightmare, to stand behind Adam’s shoulder, without breaking eye contact with Sam.
„You’ve guessed it right, Sam, your brothers hit it off hard. You've thought about it. Don't lie to the liar...You...wanna know the details, don't you?” Alistair looks at him giddy, like he gets to unwrap a present, gets to untie the ribbons and peel back the paper and touch something that was specifically chosen for him,
„Dean would come after him. Dean will see Adam’s not there, he will come...” for the first time Sam’s voice is strong.
„Why so sure? Am I not my brother's keeper?” Alistair rambles, pulls Adam’s head back by the hair, Sam sees clearly how the blade traces the Adam’s apple. „But yes, he was. He wouldn't let you out of his sight. Wanted to watch after you that night, another night you wasted rolling with that whore. A strange night that was...when our buzzhead Dean’s mixed up the doors. But he would..he would never...act on it. Won’t he, Sam? Unless Adam...”
Alistair drags the tip of the blade from ear to the hollow at the base of Adam’s neck, leaving a red line,
„These still waters run so deep and dirty.” Alistair pats the top of Adam’s head, smiles abstractly. „Almost deep enough to reach Hell. You naughty boy. He and Dean...didn’t they waste the time..."
"You’re a boy of tact, Sam. You should have never come back. You should have stayed with Ruby. Stopped spoiling...” Alistair is purring now, the words are almost unintelligible. „...the family reunions. Look at him now,” Alistair plays with Adam like he’s a doll.
“Look Sam. So...ingenious. So...pretty.” Adam has a doll’s empty eyes. Alistair twists his head to the right, bares Adam’s neck with pale, barely visible marks, fading to blue as the vein is pulsing under the skin. „Sam. Do you copy?”
„Mmmm....” Alistair smacks his lips, an obscene mimicking of Dean’s mannerisms. „Here Dean was kissing, and nibbling the skin and then...lost it, right? He stopped caring ? And then, other times, they used to...” Alistair keeps licking his lips, as if sampling the skin as he’s undoing Adam’s belt, „…have fun with this thing. And you know...Adam would smile all the way through it. Isn't that right, Adam?”
Alistair walks away from the trap, drags the end of the belt across Sam’s neck, the leather is still warm.
„Right”, Sam thinks. Demons usually lie, but he knows. Adam was smiling as he was standing in front of Dean, bare-chested, arms hanging loose by his sides. Anticipating as Dean would take them, draw them behind his back, tie them with the belt, all while not stopping nibbling on his neck. Dean would fill Adam's bed like he fills every space he's in. He would position Adam just how he wants him - on his back, legs spread wide. Wider. Adam would keep on smiling, unable to even play along, to fake the fear.
How would Sam know? He has never been there. He hasn’t.
„That injustice must be righted.” Alistair says.
The ceiling is crashing down on Sam.
Dean pushes him away, because he stinks of Ruby.
And Adam smells of motel shampoo and strawberry bubble gum. Dean kisses the wrists, swollen under the leather.
Adam is quiet when Alistair cuts off all marks Dean has left on his skin.
And Sam is quiet too.
Dean doesn’t come to the rescue.
Alistair quits rambling eventually, just keeps humming a tune and wipes the bloody blade on the hem of his shirt.
Only Adam is still watching Sam. His still chest rises and falls and then rises again. The rhythm isn't quite steady. But his stare makes Sam feel strange. As if he is squeezing Sam’s hand harder and harder until Alistair finally rips his stomach open and then Adam has strength to scream, „Sam!” before he drowns in thick, sticky, black air.
***
Sam is elbow deep in blood. There is a knife in his right hand.
No Alistair. What would be his business here?
When Sam finally got to sink the knife into Adam’s pliant gut, he didn't even have time to cry out. He just lay there, surprised and wide-eyed, as always.
Dead.
And his mouth was soft and slack.
***
Sam drops the knife, but hears no sound.
His skin is clean, his fingers and his elbows.
Adam is not here.
Sam recalls, they have left him in Minnesota, his ashes gone with the wind.
Sam’s alone, dead to the world, exhausted in the bunker. Sam swipes his tongue over his teeth, shudders in disgust. As if he can still feel Adam's blood in his mouth, on the back of his tongue, in his nose.
Handcuffs click softly against the bedframe as he sags back.
Relieved. Only unseen rustles in the dark keeping his company.
/end
Im planning to translate soon another - J2! (yup, Russians write RPS too!)- fic. I hope this was a smooth reading.