Soldier Son - Part 1 (Sparta Verse)
The light woke him, a silver sharpness followed by blackest silence. Sam sat straight up in bed, heat falling like a blanket, and waited. He counted with his breath, one, two, three, and then, his heart hammering, heard the thunder rolling up the sides of the hills, bouncing away, bouncing back. Sweat danced on his scalp, he was only barely conscious of Dean in the bed next to him, sleeping away, dreaming as if to the softest lullaby. That was Dean, immune to the casual noise of a thunderstorm, but if Sam said so much as a word, he would be awake. And then teasing: you're not afraid of a storm, are ya, Sammy?
Sam shook his head in the darkness, felt some sweat slip into his eyes. He wasn't afraid of storms, nor of the dark. It was the black silence, in between the lighting and the thunder, that grabbed his heart and wouldn’t let go. There was something so quiet and still then, reaching out. He'd been scared of it as long as he could remember and never told Dean. Because Dean would let it slip to Dad, and then Dad would concoct some exercise, some lesson about not being afraid of that space, the blankness.
Light shattered the room into daylight, and Sam clamped his teeth into his lower lip, just as there was another flash of light and a huge boom. He could smell the rain on the wind, and waited, hands hot against the mattress, his stomach heaving like he'd been running too far, too fast, in hot weather. The backs of his legs felt raw against the rough sheets, and sweat pooled down between his thighs. Sparks flew across his window and he heard something go snap and sizzle. And then it was quiet. And totally dark. Silent for a moment, and then the rain came down. A shush sound, like a curtain falling.
Something was wrong. Sam crawled out of bed, held on to the iron bedstead and crept towards the door. If Dean or Dad caught him up, he'd say he was going for water, a drink of water because it was so hot. Who knew what time it was, maybe it wouldn't matter that it was so late.
But as he opened up the bedroom door to the main room, he realized something was wrong. The light on the clock on the stove wasn't glowing as it normally was. The hum of the refrigerator was silent. The fan that sat on the side table next to the couch where Dad slept wasn't making any noise at all. His heart thumped, feeding the tingling in his hands and legs. He could smell something, it was like burning, like when the engine of the Impala got too hot.
Sam licked his lips. Maybe he needed a flashlight. That would help. Then he could go back to bed and get some rest before morning. Tomorrow, Dad was going to pick up the crossbow for Dean, and when he came back, well, it would be the happiest day of Dean's life. Which was fine for him. Sam would probably have to do extra miles while Dean learned the crossbow. Which was fine too. Sam would rather not touch another crossbow as long as he lived.
As he crossed the floor towards the shelf against the wall, he thought he heard something behind him. Then, with a start, he realized someone was standing next to him, reaching out. With a squawk, Sam jumped back, sweat building in the backs of his knees, along the inside of his elbows, anywhere that heat could pool.
"Sammy," came the whisper. It was Dad. "What are you doing up?"
His knees knocked as he looked up. Dad's hand landed on his shoulder, not hard, but quick. Sam'd been doing his best to stay under Dad's radar, so, naturally, here he was, right in the bullseye. It'd been a week since what Sam referred to as the crossbow incident, which for some reason, when Dad overheard him talking to Dean, made him laugh out loud. It wasn't funny, and Sam refused to join in, scowling, crossing his arms over his chest. Which made Dean laugh, even though he didn't know why Dad was laughing. They'd been in an open field under a hot, clear sky, setting up an obstacle course and Sam had never wanted to throw something at both of them so badly. The field had been littered with stones along the edge. He'd almost reached for one, he'd--
"Sam."
That was an order. Sam could hear it in his voice. "I--" he said. "The light, um, I can't see--"
His hand brushed against Dad's side as he pointed, realizing only a second later that it was really, really dark, and that Dad wouldn't be able to see what he was pointing at. So he said, "On the stove."
A second later, Dad's hand went away, and Sam could almost see the outline of his shoulders as he moved towards the window and the stove. If it wasn't also cloudy and raining, he might be able to see the expression on Dad's face. As it was, everything was black lumps. Lightning flickered outside, setting the clouds to a swirling grey lace, lighting up Dad's profile as he looked out the window. Sam didn't realize he'd moved until a second later, when the thunder came, and he was, standing next to Dad and shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
"Power's been blown," said Dad. "And the generator, too. Damnit. Don't open the fridge till I get the generator fixed."
Suddenly Dad shifted, and his hand was on the back of Sam's neck. "You're not scared of a thunderstorm, are you, Sammy?"
"No," he said, because truthfully the answer was no. He wasn't afraid of thunderstorms, he was just afraid of the space between. And maybe he was thinking a little too hard about that part because his voice rippled out of him, like a sad door stuttering on its hinges.
"Sammy," said Dad. It was a question, and it wanted answers.
"No--" Sam began again, but as he stared out of the black square of window over the sink, lightning flashed diamond hard across his eyes, and the silence followed like a great yawning mouth. He moved away from the window, away from Dad. But Dad moved even quicker, and even in the darkness, grabbed on to Sam's arm and held tight. The grip was like a finger trap, and his bare feet couldn't make enough purchase on the wooden floor to get him anywhere. He sank into stillness, feeling the blood pound through his arm, chin tucked against his chest.
"What are you doing up anyway?"
Sam swallowed and listened to the thunder, the rain on the leaves outside the windows.
"Sam." Dad shook him.
"I'm getting a flashlight," he said.
He felt Dad's hand ease up on his arm.
"I don't think so," Dad said. "You don't need a flashlight to go to bed. Which is where you should be, right now. So march."
"But--but I want a flashlight. I know where they are."
"Doesn't matter. Now, get to bed."
A bolt of lighting cast the kitchen into daylight, and Sam could easily, just for a second, see the scowl on Dad's face. It told Sam everything he already knew, that Dad was well on his way to irritated, already thinking of fixing the generator, and certainly not worried about his youngest who only wanted a flashlight to keep the silence away.
His throat tightened, and he thought about getting a flashlight anyway, maybe if he went and got one right now, there was not much Dad could say about it. So he moved, shifting sideways, feeling with his bare feet along the boards.
"It's just a crutch, Sam," said Dad. Not moving. Dark now, in the darkness.
"I don't care."
"And I said no."
If he'd waited, if he'd been more quiet, if he'd just gotten the flashlight before Dad had gotten up, none of this would be a problem. He knew that. It was just a flashlight, for Pete's sake, it wasn't going to save him from any monster, he knew that. But it would save him from the quiet between the flash and the thunder, and so he reached for it.
Dad grabbed him again, right around his upper arm and yanked. Hard, spilling Sam backwards, the hand slippery, making him stumble.
"It's just a flashlight," said Sam, snapping at the dark, yanking his arm away, "just a stupid, freaking flashlight, so why can't I have it?"
"Keep your voice down."
"You're the one who's shouting!"
But Sam realized he was shouting too now, and backed away, the bottom of his feet damp, his heart clenching up like he'd run too far, too fast.
"So help me, Sam--you get to bed. Now."
It was so dark and so hot that his hair, salty with sweat, slipped into his eyes and for a moment, he really couldn't see. But he knew that he had to move and move fast, out of arm's reach, out of the way. The edge of that voice told him that Dad was keeping his temper in check, but one more spark would set it off; Sam didn't want to test it. Not so soon, and not in the dark. His face and the backs of his legs still hurt, and the last thing he wanted was for Dean to wake up and stumble from the bedroom to ask, sleepily, what was going on.
He grabbed hold of the first thing he came to, the wall beside the bathroom door, and ran his hands along the plaster till he got to the bedroom door. As fast as he could, he whipped it open and then closed it behind him once he was safely inside. The air, almost motionless, settled on his skin, pulling out every last bit of calm. He wasn't shaking, he told himself he wasn't shaking. But it wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. What difference did a little flashlight make? If Dean had wanted a flashlight, Dad would have given it to him, no questions asked. But he, Sam, was not allowed. It just wasn't fair.
"'am?"
Dean. He'd woken up, Sam could hear him moving against his pillow.
"Water," he said, keeping his voice soft. "Got some water."
"'t me some, will ya?"
Sam stood there for a minute, but Dean was back asleep before he could reply.
*
When Sam got up the next morning and stepped into the kitchen, it smelled like a week's worth of old garbage. Dad was standing at the fridge, running his hands over the rubber seal, testing it.
"Is that breakfast?" he asked, coming closer. The smell was amazingly bad. He resisted the urge to reach inside of his shorts to ease his underwear away from a particularly hard welt on his butt that lived just under the curve of the elastic. It'd been troublesome for the last week, and Dean had started making fun of him doing it. Sam had made sure to wear his longest shorts so that no one would have to look, but it didn't keep it from hurting; his backside and legs were still dark with bruises only now turning to blue.
"It was," said Dad, straightening up. "Where's Dean?"
Good morning, Sam.
Good morning, Dad.
Sam sighed. "Bathroom," he said instead.
The bathroom door opened, and Dean made a face as the smell of the open fridge hit him.
"What the he-- what happened?" He too came closer to the smell, as if it was too much for him to resist. "Oh, man, what died?"
"The generator, for one," said Dad. "Dean, get a plastic bag and clear this mess out of here. Sam, get some paper, make a list."
Dean was already reaching beneath the sink, the obedient one, which didn't stop him from complaining. "How come Sam gets to make a list?"
"His handwriting's neater."
Sam tried not to smile at this as he got some paper and a pencil from the drawer and sat at the table as far as he could from the open fridge. It felt a little funny sitting in Dad's chair, with his back to the wall where he could see everything in the little cabin.
"Milk," said Dad, "bread, butter, eggs, cheese…." Dad paused for a minute, and Sam wrote everything down. Then the list continued with the usual things like lunchmeat and mayonnaise, all the things that hunters ate. Then Dad moved back and let Dean at the fridge. "I'll get some baking soda too, we're out of that, and you boys can give this thing a good clean out."
"Can't I come?" asked Dean.
"Not this time," said Dad, and the unspoken message was clear. Sam had gotten himself knee deep in trouble the last time, so he wasn't to be left alone. "You look after your brother."
Naturally Dean didn't argue. Sam bent over his list, touching the back of his teeth with his tongue, not minding spending time alone with Dean. Looking forward to a day without Dad.
"Can we have nectarines?" he asked.
"Sure," said Dad. "If they have them."
Sam wrote nectarines down, and then he thought of something; it would be funny if he wrote it down. On the very next line, in clear, careful letters he wrote Otter Pops. It might make Dad laugh, maybe he would get them, but if Sam asked outright, Dad was sure to say no. This way was better.
Dean looked over his shoulder and whispered, "Marshmallow fluff," so Sam added that next. Not that it was likely to happen that Dad would buy any treats at all, not with them in training, but it never hurt to try.
Dad took the list from Sam and moved towards the living room, gathering his journal, jingling his keys in his hand. There was a gust of air as he opened the front door, a slight wind sweeping through the screen door. It smelled like more rain.
“You boys, get some dry cereal for breakfast, do your chores, and then a run, and then, when I get back with the new crossbow, after I fix the generator, we can try that out.”
Dean smiled at Sam, looking over his shoulder at Dad getting ready to go. He couldn’t wait. Had been waiting. Which was no one’s fault, really, though Sam had apologized at least three times till Dean had told him to shut the hell up. It was okay. Dad had promised to get an even better crossbow for Dean this time. Something stronger. Sam-resistant. Sam tried not to think about it.
“Can we go swimming if we get finished?” Sam asked.
Dean's shoulders went up, even as he pretended to ignore the question. According to him, you weren’t supposed to ask for things, but Sam didn’t agree. If you never asked, you never got. “It's hot. I want to go swimming.”
Dad sighed, and Dean became very involved in the fridge. “Sam, here, hold this," he said, handing him a packet of cheese folded in tin foil that might still be good, trying to stave off the argument. Sam put the cheese on the table with a thump.
Dad jingled his keys in his pocket, checking his journal to see that a pen was tucked inside of it. He didn’t raise his eyes from the journal as he spoke. “We’ve talked about this, Sam.” Using that low voice that seemed to indicate that Dad’s patience on the subject was already thin. “The path down to the river at the bottom of the falls is too steep, you’ll just have to wait till I have time to clear it so it’s safe.”
Sam scoffed.
“And above the falls, nice as it may seem, that smooth water is a sure sign of the power of the water over the rocks, and you’ll just get yourself killed.”
“So the answer is no?”
Dean shook his head, like he was trying to warn Sam. It was too late, the question was already out there.
“The answer is no. For the last time. You want to get mouthy and ask me again?”
Sam held his mouth closed by force of will alone. Glaring at Dad as he went out the door.
“Bye, Dad,” said Dean to the retreating back, the slamming screen door.
He waited a minute till they could hear the Impala growl to a start and then snapped a glare at Sam. “What is wrong with you?”
Sam didn’t even bother to pretend he didn’t know what Dean really meant. “I was just asking, is all.”
“You always ask,” said Dean. Leaving half of what he wanted to say unsaid. “You never-” But then he stopped, because Sam knew he'd tried explaining this before, and it never made any sense. According to Dean, asking was greedy; you didn’t ask. You waited till you’d been given it. Till you’d earned it.
Dean returned to his task, shaking his head, and Sam grabbed a box of dry cereal and munched on that, using his hands, twitching his back against the ladders of the chair where Dad usually sat. When Dean was finished and tied the trash bag closed, he grabbed a handful of cereal, and stood there, next to Sam, chewing on it with his mouth open, trying not to breathe through his nose. Dean had left the fridge open to air, and the kitchen still smelled like old food.
Sam got up, went into the bedroom, and pulled on yesterday's t-shirt, checked the laces on his sneakers. When he came out, Dean was just doing the same, one leg propped up on a chair.
“Run?” Dean said now, wiping his hands on his jeans. Running was best before it got hot, Sam knew this, plus there was no getting out of it. Even if the backs of his legs still felt a whole lot more like dead wood than living flesh. At the very least, he had a mostly Dad-less day ahead of him, so that had to be counted as something good.
When Dean walked out the door, Sam was close behind. They left the cabin unlocked, without even hooking the screen door. There was nothing to steal, the guns were all secured in the Impala, and besides the cabin was too far out in the woods for a casual thief to want to chance it. Besides, Dad had said it would look funny if they locked up and no one else did. It was a lesson about blending in, about being one of the locals. The disguise of the common man.
And now the morning run. They both knew the route, and Sam knew how to ramp up after fifty feet or so, how the sweat kicked in, and the sun sparkled through the green leaves overhead. Damp dust beneath his feet. His breath coming strong and smooth inside of a hundred yards, and he knew he could run forever. Beside him, Dean kept pace, sweat making his hair dark. Smiling at Sam.
Sam could keep pace for the first two miles, but on the way back, would lag behind. But then, he was only thirteen. He couldn’t keep up, but he could do the whole distance. He'd overheard Dad once tell Dean that Sam would have legs one day. Long ones. Thoroughbred legs. But for the moment, he had a Quarter horse heart. Sam didn’t know what this meant, but he longed to ask.
Meanwhile, the earth was solid beneath his feet, his path sure, two miles to town, two miles back. The was breeze nonexistent, the sweat now sticking his shirt to him, the air like a thick blanket, rising up from the moss-speckled ground, moist like the river, but everywhere and all around.
“Dean?” asked Sam, not quite panting. At pace, at Dean’s side.
“Yeah,” said Dean, concentrating on the road ahead.
“Do we have to run the whole way?”
“Yeah.”
“Dad’s not here,” said Sam.
That much was obvious. But what Sam was not saying, not exactly asking, was less obvious. Dad’s not here, so let’s not run. If they both didn’t do it, then that would make it okay. Why did they have to run every day anyway?
The torment of an order unfollowed, however, would whisper in Dean’s ear until he confessed it to Dad. Sam waited a moment, his eye catching the first traffic light in town, the way the clouds packed in the sky, lowering down on the wooden and brick buildings, and in his mind’s eye, Dean's face. Confessing to Dad.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Dean, slowing down, allowing Sam to catch his breath. “We gotta do this run.” And not just because Dad said so, that went unspoken between them, but because a run was good training. You never know where you might need your legs to take you. So run, Dad said, and run they did.
At the first sidewalk corner, they paused a minute to catch their breaths, to check their time on the town hall clock. Sam heard thunder in the distance, rolling through the valley like low drums. Everything felt cloaked in hot wool.
“Take your time coming back,” Dean said, catching Sam's eye, smiling, doing the big brother tease. There was no way Sam could keep up at this point, it wasn’t nice to tease, but Sam’s wasn’t bothered by it. Read the unwritten message underneath, almost as if he knew that one day, if Dad was right about his legs, he would outpace Dean with absolutely no effort at all. “And if it’s raining, we’re off the hook for any outside chores.”
“Pray for rain,” said Sam, with a grin. Anything to get out of cutting wood.
“You wish,” said Dean, and sprinted off along the paved road headed east, and then along the chalk road that edged the forest, and then right into it. The cabin was hidden in the woods, but anyone local would have known right where it was. Dean didn’t bother to be circumspect about it, that would only attract more attention than Dad would want.
Sam followed behind, slow enough so that the dust in Dean's wake had time to settle. He didn't mind running, once he got started, but it was the principle of the thing. He used to do wind sprints for soccer, and that made sense, because of the stop and go action of the game. It didn't make sense to run non-stop for four miles, when a monster could surely catch up to a man over a far shorter distance than that. And, if it couldn’t catch up because it shambled like a zombie, then there was no point running.
When he got to the cabin, he pounded up the wooden steps, his feet echoing through the floor as he hit the top riser, sweat pouring down the sides of his face as his body came to a halt. Then he swung open the screen. Dean was getting a glass of water and Sam tromped in beside him, reaching for the glass. Dean handed it over, untasted, like it was instinctual. He watched as Sam drank it all down, in one breath and then got himself another glass. Drinking the water, he smiled at Sam over the rim. When he was finished, he set the glass down, and said, “Chores.”
*
It didn't start to rain, so they chopped wood. Or rather Dean chopped wood like the obedient son, hefting the axe over his head, cutting through logs till the back of his shirt was black with sweat. Sam piled the logs in the cord they were building, and collected the chips in the metal trash can. They didn't have gloves, and Sam always thought they should, but when he'd said something about it one time, Dad had replied that calluses built character and that was the last of that idea. It almost made sense to want to toughen your hands for hunting, but what if you didn't want to be a hunter? Soccer players never used their hands, so it wasn't going to matter to Sam. But he couldn’t tell Dad that.
Then they picked up stray branches in the yard from the storm the night before. Then they went in and Sam swept the floor while Dean washed the dishes. They both made up their shared bed together, and Dean folded back the sheet on the couch, and plumped up the pillow.
Then a gust of wind raced through the open windows and it started to rain.
They did what they so seldom got to do when not on the road, which was a whole lot of nothing. Sure, in the Impala, there was nothing much to do either, except respond to Dad’s pop quizzes, or play License Plates (though Sam felt to old, really, to be playing that one), or Bug, Bug, Punch, though Dad tended to frown on that one after one sock in the arm too many, mostly on account of the fact that Dean would practically leap over the seat in his exuberance to get at Sammy, and thus block Dad’s view in the rearview mirror. Or Sammy would yelp too loudly, or something. Mostly they just sat, doing nothing. Which was completely different than sitting around the cabin doing nothing. There was the TV, which they turned on right away, and even though it was only something about waterfalls in Russia on PBS, it was in color and was something. They played a few card games like Spit and War, sitting on the couch together, and ended up flinging the cards at each other, until the whole thing turned into 52 Pickup.
Then they had lunch, or what passed for it, cold tuna out of a can with no mayonnaise and no bread. There wasn't even any milk to wash it down with.
“What’ll we do now?” asked Sam, brushing the crumbs from the table on the floor. “It’s still raining.”
“Maybe we could go out looking for berries,” said Dean. He put the washcloth down and looked out at the rain through the window. And then at Sam, holding the broom in his hands, the end of which seemed twice as tall as he was as he tried to push the dirt from the floor into the dustpan.
“In the rain?”
“Yeah,” said Dean. “’fraid you’ll melt? Cause you’re not that sweet, you know.” That was the old joke from The Wizard of Oz, that the witch melted in water because she was made of sugar.
Sam rinsed their forks in the sink and put them in the drainer. Dean closed the window over the kitchen table, in case the rain shifted direction and whistled for his brother. Walked out the door without looking back, knowing that Sam would be right close behind, thundering down the steps to be at his side. Which he was. Dean smiled at him, and Sam looked up and smiled back.
The second they were out from under the shelter of the porch, they felt the rain. Which was, in the summertime in Alabama, like a lukewarm shower. It came straight down too, not like in Colorado, where it came down sideways and was so cold it might as well be snow. Or New York, where it shot down like grey arrows and drilled into your skin. This was okay, this was nice.
“Where are the berries, Dean?”
“Towards the path to the river below the falls,” said Dean. “I mean, we won’t go down it, right? But they’re along that way. I saw them when Dad and I walked through the woods our first day here.”
Sam tried not to frown at the memory of being left at the cabin in case the phone guy showed up, and he’d been pissed as Dad and Dean had driven off. Dean had said that someone had to stay behind, right? Sam was the most logical one, most of the time, but it got old. He shook his head and followed behind Dean, not saying anything. Their clothes became dark in the rain, and the dust beneath their feet, so powdery and light that morning, stuck to the bottom of their sneakers and began to run with miniature rivers of its own.
Sam liked the feel of the rain running behind his ears, along his neck, down his spine. He liked the coolness, especially welcome after the muggy heat that sank into the bones and made it hard to move around fast. It was easier in cooler weather, to do all the running and jumping and leaping that Dad wanted. Too bad the jobs Dad chose weren’t always in cooler climates. Not too far north, like Minnesota in winter or something, but-
“Hey, Dean?” asked Sam.
“Yeah?”
“What kind of berries? Ones to eat, right?”
“No, dorkface, poison ones.”
Dean was obviously trying not to smile. He even wiped his eyebrows with his thumb, as if trying to swipe aside the rain, but it was no use. His mouth curled up, like it had a mind of its own, and the joke was out.
“Oh, sure,” said Sam, pretending to smack him in the arm. “Poison ones. You eat ‘em first, in that case. I’ll watch.”
They followed the path as the rain slowly let up, branches snagging on Dean’s jeans a bit when the path narrowed, low brush smattering his thighs with rainwater. Behind him, Sam followed closely, humming under his breath, and when Dean looked back, grinning, rain dripping from his chin.
At the spot where the trail headed down the cliffside and towards the river, they could hear the sound of the falls, like a faraway roar echoing through the trees. They stood under the trees for a moment, listening, and Sam felt spots of rain as they fell from the leaves on the tall trees overhead. He looked where Dean was pointing to the clump of bushes to the right and to the left of the main trail.
“Blackberries and raspberries,” he said. “Watch for prickers and stickers, and for Pete's sake, don’t eat anything that you don’t know.”
Sam considered this. Raspberries were Dean’s favorite, but Sam liked them too. There were only so many raspberry bushes, and tons of the blackberry, and Dean was waiting so that Sam could choose first. He reached out to the closest bush, a raspberry one, and plucked the biggest, reddest, mist-speckled berry right off. And popped it into his mouth. He tipped back his head, bangs falling back from his forehead, closed his eyes, patted his tummy, and pretended to moan with pleasure. Then he moved to the left of the path. Where the blueberries were.
“More for me,” he said. “You can have the raspberry.” Just to be nice.
For a second, Dean looked like he wanted to call bullshit, but then he shrugged and let it go, and stepped off the path to crouch down next to the raspberry bush, gingerly putting his hand in through the spiked branches as the drops of rain from the leaves on the trees splatted all around them, and the red smell of the berries rose in the hot air.
*
When they got back to the cabin, they were soaked to the armpits and covered in scratches and berry stains. The sky was just edging towards twilight, and since the rain had gone, the air was getting thick again. Warm, as if making up for the coolness of the afternoon. Dad shouldn’t be too much longer, had said he’d be back before dark.
"He's late. Should I get supper on?"
"Get what on," said Sam. "There's nothing to eat.
They walked up the wooden steps, looked around the cabin and realized they’d left the TV on. Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked back at him.
“I won’t tell if you won’t," he said.
Dean frowned. That wasn’t exactly right, but it was just the TV after all. They turned it off when they were supposed to most of the time, and that was okay, wasn’t it? Didn’t hurt anybody, really. He looked at Sam, his eyebrows drawing together. “Just this once,” he said.
*
When the Impala pulled up along the long, chalk-covered road, bringing a swirl of gasoline smell and the heat of the engine, Dean raced out to meet it. Sam followed behind, lagging, stopping on the top step to watch as Dad turned off the engine and got out. The door squeaked as he did this, and then, after he shut it, there was nothing in the air but the sound of the ping of the engine as it cooled and the wind in the leaves.
Dean was practically quivering in his skin as he approached Dad, his arms opening up, and Sam could see that he was smiling. Dad was trying hard not to smile, though, like he wanted to be stern but couldn’t.
“Did you bring it?”
“Course I brought it,” said Dad. “Unload the car first.”
It was one more delay for Dean, that he seemed to take very well. There was no way Sam could have, had he been this excited about something. But Dean just shrugged, and jerked his head at Sam to follow, as he began unloading the back seat of the car, taking in groceries and boxes of supplies. Sam joined in, doing his part, but the evening was quickly growing dank and still as another storm started to form over the trees. Up the stairs and down the stairs they went, with Dad watching for a minute before he went inside to grab some tools and took the part he needed and went out around the side of the cabin to fix the generator.
“It’s in the trunk,” Dean said to Sam at one point, as they crossed paths at the doorway. “I know it is.”
Where else would it be? But Dean was so excited he didn’t realize how stupid he sounded. Sam knew he would never get this excited over a weapon, ever. There were better things, funner things to want. Not some black, boring, spidery looking killing machine. But Dean was strange like that.
They brought in and put away the dry goods; Sam noticed that there were neither Otter Pops nor marshmallow fluff, but he didn't say anything. Dean gave a quick swipe at the insides of the fridge with a solution of baking soda and water and then they put all the groceries away. It was so hot, and there was no wind coming through the open windows, Sam took off his socks and sneakers so that he could pad across the wooden floors in his bare feet. Dean did the same, savoring the cool of the planks as the damp rose through the windows and the screen door. Sam could taste the moisture on his tongue.
Dad came in, streaks of grease on one arm. He handed Dean the keys to the trunk, and looked down at his bare feet. For a moment it looked like he wanted to say something about that, but then he shook his head. “Go to it, son,” he said.
Dean raced out, and Sam stood on the porch and watched him come back, cradling the crossbow that was wrapped in a towel in his arms.
As Dean came up, a huge smile on his face, Dad came up behind Sam and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let Sammy see,” said Dad, although it was supposedly another week before Sam was supposed to get his privileges with the crossbow back.
Dean unfolded the towel so slowly that Dad practically laughed.
“You going to rock it to sleep, boy?”
Shrugging, Dean unfolded the towel the whole way, and held up the crossbow, smiling one of his rare, huge smiles. His eyes glittered like green stones as he looked up. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Yeah,” said Dad. “See that you take better care of this one, Dean.”
The rain was starting to splatter on the porch, so they went inside. Dad walked to the fridge and then grabbed a beer, which couldn’t have been very cold, and then went outside again.
“Give me five,” he said, “and I’ll get some supper on.”
The screen door slammed behind him and through it, Sam could see Dad sitting on the top step, barely out of the rain, shoulders hunched forward in his sweat-circled t-shirt. Atlanta was a long way to go to get a crossbow for just one boy, but then, it had been for Dean, so Sam figured Dad felt the effort had been worth it.
“Let me see,” said Sam, reaching for the throat of the crossbow.
“Not like that, idiot,” said Dean, pushing his hand away.
“I’m not going to ruin it,” said Sam, because as Dean glared at him, that’s what it looked like he was thinking.
“I know,” said Dean, after a second, “but you’re gonna hold it wrong, do it like this.”
Dean took one of Sam’s hands and wrapped it around the butt. Then, handing it over, he took Sam’s other hand and wrapped it around the shaft. “Like that.”
It was incredibly light, for all it was so wicked looking. The black surface looked almost dusty, though Sam supposed that was on purpose, since the last thing a hunter would want was the gleam of a weapon shining out through the darkness, alerting one’s enemy to one’s location. He twanged the fingers of the string, strung but not quite taut.
“Don’t do it like that, dork,” said Dean, reaching. “Give it.”
Sam jerked the crossbow out of reach, holding it close to his body. Irritation rose like spikes at the thought of Dean getting something so new, when there hadn't been anything for Sam in the boxes and bags. What Dean wanted, Dean got, and he hadn’t even had to ask for it.
“No,” he said, “I’m still holding it.”
“You’re only going to drop it.”
“Dad said you had to let me see it.” Sam's voice rose.
“See it, not fondle it.” Dean took a step closer, backing Sam behind the open door, towards the wall.
There wasn’t anywhere to maneuver, so Sam stood his ground, keeping the crossbow close. “I’m not fondling it,” he said.
“Boys,” said Dad from the porch. “I said five and I mean five.”
Dean ducked his chin, mouth curled in a frown. “Knock it off Sam, and give it to me.”
“After I see it.”
“You are seeing it. Hell, you’re practically hugging it.”
“Better than jerking off over it.”
Now Dean’s eyes narrowed, but instead of saying anything mean back, he reached out with one hand to grab the crossbow, and with the other, he pushed against Sam’s chest with the palm of his hand. Hot and hard; Sam could feel Dean’s anger through the force of his hand, and then Sam’s feet slipped on the floor, damp from the rainwater coming in through the half-opened window. Sam saw Dean’s eyes widen as Sam’s arm went straight through the pane, glass cracking with the weight of his fall. Then he stopped himself, head slamming against the wooden sash.
There were thundering footsteps across the front porch as Sam, unthinking, pulled his arm backwards through the spikes of glass. His arm hurt. He looked at Dean, blinking.
“I broke the window,” he said, and he knew that was bad. There was no money for new windows, and never mind the hassle it caused to replace it.
The screen door slammed open, Dad’s boots hard on the floor as he swung the door back to see.
“What the holy hell?”
Sam looked up at Dad, sweaty and angry in the half-darkness of evening.
“I broke the window,” he said again. Then he looked down at himself, one arm cradled against his t-shirt that was now turning dark. His bangs fell over his eyes like a curtain and he tried to shake his head to move them out of the way, but this made him dizzy. He unclenched his fingers, just for a second, and it was like unkinking a garden hose; blood swelled from the long cut like fresh, warm juice.
“Dean,” said Sam, but his voice, breathy, made it come out Deeeeeeeeeeean.
Dean took a step towards him, but his toes met the sea of glass sparkling at Sam’s feet. Neither of them had shoes on.
With a shove, Dad pushed past Dean and scooped Sam up with one arm, crushing his ribs, sending bare legs flying. Dad’s boots crunched on the glass as he marched to the sink, setting Sam back on his feet beyond the ring of glass on the floor.
“Stop gawping, Dean, and get the first aid.” He took Sam’s shoulders in his hands. “Now, Sammy, let go and let me see.”
“No,” said Sam. He felt hot all over. And then cold, like a sharp wind was blowing through him. He could see the glitter of rain against the broken window, he was in such deep, bad trouble there would be no getting out of it. Not ever. His voice hitched up into a sob. “It hurts.”
Dean came up and set the first aid kit on the counter and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. The air was hot and thick with the earthy tang of blood. Dad washed his hands at the sink, and dried them.
“I know it does,” said Dad, bending forward now, voice low. “I need to look so we can decide bandage or stitches.”
“No stitches,” said Sam, voice breaking. “No.”
But Dad just shook his head, eyes shuttering half-closed in that way he had when he was going to do what he had to do, even if it was bad. His big hands were brown and cool against Sam’s skin as he cradled Sam’s arm, fingers curling as he pulled Sam’s death grip apart. Then he prodded the cut with blunt fingers as Sam’s blood seeped down his elbow.
“Nothing major cut here,” he said. "But we're going to need stitches."
Sam jerked his arm free and blood splatted against the cabinet and the window.
“Dean,” said Dad, in a very low voice, making Sam shiver and pull away. But Dean was right there, holding him, pressing him against the edge of the sink.
Something rose in Sam’s throat that felt like a scream that thudded back down in his gut like something else. His heart pounded like a million fists all going at once, thumping through his arm like something was hammering on it. Dad grabbed his arm and Sam tried to move away but was trapped against Dean’s side. Then Dad ran the water cold, and pulled Sam's arm under it; it felt like a hot burn, like his skin was being sucked under bone. When Dad poured peroxide over the cut, Sam tried to climb through Dean, up Dean, anywhere he could go to get away from the acidy feel, the sizzling red bubbles forming along his arm.
“Will you fucking just hold him?” demanded Dad, snapping.
“I am,” said Dean, and Sam could feel his chest move as he spoke.
“I said hold, not dance.”
Dad was threading the curved needle with new black thread, or trying to. He muttered a curse, then tried again. There was blood on his arm and his side, and Sam knew what he was going to do. Didn’t want any of it.
“I don’t want to be here.” It was no consolation that Dean’s arms shook as they held him.
Dad finally threaded the needle and rolled the end of the thread between his fingers to smooth it. When he turned towards Sam, Dean’s whole body jerked and Sam's along with it, Dean's ribs against his shoulder.
“Don’t you have-?”
“We’re all out,” said Dad. “We used the last of it on you. I’ll give him something after.”
For a second, Sam didn’t know what Dad was talking about, but as Dad clamped his hand down on Sam’s wrist, he knew. There was no numbing shot, nothing to kill the pain. He was going in cold, and Sam was going to feel every inch, every last stitch. He was frozen there as he felt the first, icy slide of the needle, and for a second everything went white. But Dad’s hand loosened as though to get a better grip, and Sam grunted and turned, bumping into Dean, feet slipping on the blood-damp floor.
Dad grabbed him by the back of the neck, fingers digging into muscle and bone, holding him still. Sam’s eye caught the glint of the needle still in him, thread swaying across his arm like a thin, dark snake.
“Damnit, Dean, if you don’t hold him, it’ll tear, and that’ll hurt worse. I don’t want to have to tie-for Christ’s sake, just hold him.”
A shiver ran up and down his entire body, and for a moment Sam considered fighting. Dean’s hand was curled around his jaw, one thumb wiping away tears he hadn’t realized were there.
“Sammy,” said Dean, soft. Coaxing. But when Sam lifted his face, Dean looked as scared as he felt.
Sam knew what Dad didn’t want to do. Dad didn’t want to have to tie him down so that he couldn’t move. It wasn’t a sure thing that he wouldn’t go ahead with that anyway, if Sam continued to fight. His mind told him that there was no getting out of this, even as his body shook. Blood was starting to dry in ragged dark brown pools along the sink’s edge. He swallowed and looped his other arm around Dean’s waist, nodded against the sweat-soaked dampness of Dean’s t-shirt, and held on.
"Okay, go," said Dean.
Part 2;