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justinedelargeAuthor: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 2000
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just for fun.
Summary: Ever wonder how Dean started talking dirty? The genesis is in the way Sam and Dean make their feelings for each other physical. This story has dirty talk, all the feels you can handle, infinite love and even a plot that develops into a nail-biting narrative, with the best kind of hurt/comfort.
Chapter Summary: Reggie takes the boys out for burgers. He learns something unsettling. Sam does not have an easy time on his first public outing since he was kidnapped. Dean confronts Bobby. John takes a small step toward trying to make up for what he caused.
PLUS your comments help shape the narrative! Truly interactive. Some of you have mentioned things that made me think, "Yeah, actually, that must happen," and I've changed my plan to include them.
Entire work so far starting at chapter 1 can be read here:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/411362
Reggie stared at Dean so intently, he felt like a bug on a pin. He went to signal the waitress for the check, and jerked his hand clumsily, knocking over the coffee can full of utensils.
Sam jumped like he’d been shot, recoiling against his seat so fast he would have tipped over backward if Dean wasn’t on him in a heartbeat, grabbing his flannel to hold him up.
“Sam?”
Sam’s face was white, his breathing ragged.
The corners of Reggie’s mouth went down, and he swore. “Get him out of here.” He tossed Dean the keys to his car. “Quick. I’ll be right there.”
Sam began curling in on himself, muttering something under his breath. Dean hustled Sam out the door, as Reggie went to pay the check.
Dean got Sam into the back seat of the Dodge Challenger, and slid in next to him. Sam was hyperventilating again, still chanting the unintelligible sounds.
“Shhh, Sammy. I’m here. It’s ok. You’re safe.”
Sam looked around the car, wild-eyed. “Uh-uh. Nope.” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes tight shut, rocking back and forth, and muttered the sounds again.
Dean pulled Sam into his arms. “You’re safe. I got you. No one’s gonna hurt you. I’m right here.” He stroked his hair. Gradually, Sam’s chant became understandable.
“…coming for me Dean’s coming for me Dean’s coming for me Dean’s coming for me…”
Dean leaned over Sam, shielding him with his body, arms wrapped around him, tears spilling down his face uncontrollably. “That’s right, Sammy. I came for you. Remember? I came for you. I took them all out. Killed every one of them. Remember? Sam. Sammy. I came for you.”
Dean looked around to see if Reggie had emerged from the restaurant, and seeing no one, he pressed his lips to Sam’s mouth. “Come on, baby boy. Remember. I came for you.”
Sam’s breath stuttered, caught its rhythm again. “Dean?”
“Right here, Sammy. Not going anywhere.”
Sam swiped his arm across his eyes. “You came for me.”
“Damn right.”
“Killed them.”
“You remember now?”
“Watched you. Kill them.”
Dean’s expression was a strange mix of controlled fury and desperate love. “I’ll kill anyone who hurts you, Sam.”
Sam leaned into Dean, burying his face in his chest, his breathing gradually slowing.
When he let his head fall back against Dean’s shoulder, exhausted, Reggie emerged from the shadowed side of the restaurant where he’d stopped in his tracks at the sight of Sam and Dean in the back of the car.
A gentle smile played over his lips, as he limped toward the car and got in.
Dean handed him his keys.
“He better?”
Dean nodded.
“That’s gonna happen for a while. PTSD. Sounds might set him off. Other things.”
“Did it happen to you?”
Reggie rubbed his moustache. “Oh yeah.”
“You seem ok now.”
Reggie started the car. “I had someone who helped me get through it.” He glanced at the two young men in the back seat of his car. “You just keep taking as good care of him as you’ve been doing. You’ll get him through this just fine.”
~
When they arrived at the house, Dean helped Sam upstairs and settled him in the recliner. “Be right back up. Five minutes.” He checked his watch, kissed Sam on the top of his head, and ran downstairs.
Reggie had filled John and Bobby in on Sam’s panic attack triggered by the loud noise.
“Well, Fourth of July’s gonna be a barrel of laughs.” Bobby’s smile was grim.
“He’s young. He can get past this.” Reggie accepted the shot of whiskey Bobby shoved into his hand. “What, you don’t believe in water?”
“I live on whiskey and my dry sense of humor.” Bobby poured a generous shot in a glass and handed that to Dean. “That’s for both of you.”
John grabbed Dean’s hand. “I’ll be right up.”
Dean headed toward the stairs. Reggie limped after him.
“Hold up, Dean.” He examined Dean’s face carefully. “I didn’t say anything to your dad about your dream. And I’m not going to until I know more.”
Dean frowned. “It was just a dream.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What are you saying?”
“Intense dreams like what you described, dreams of death or chaos, with vivid sensory detail… sometimes that’s what happens around a supernatural presence.”
Dean’s blood went cold.
“Now, I don’t mean to scare you. But you need to know. I need you to keep an extra close eye on Sam. And you call me if you have another dream like that. You call me the second you wake up. Got it?” Reggie thrust a piece of paper with his phone number on it into Dean’s hand.
“Some weird stuff going on. I need to call in a few favors. Find out what I can.” Reggie picked up the knives from the table next to the couch where they’d left them, and handed them to Dean. “And keep these on you. All the time.”
Dean went upstairs and sat next to Sam on the loveseat recliner. They shared the glass of whiskey, Sam still shaking, until it was all gone.
A knock at the door.
“Come in.”
John entered. “Hey, Sam.”
Sam turned reddened eyes toward his father. “Hey, Dad.”
“Reggie tells me you people were staring at you because of the bruises.”
“Yeah. I look like an After School Special on child abuse.”
John knelt next to Sam. “I should have done this sooner. I don’t know why—anyway, I know a trick that’ll make the bruises go away a lot faster.”
Sam looked up at his father. Dean had to turn his head at the smile he gave John. “Yeah?”
“It’s kind of smelly, though. Think you can handle it?”
~
John insisted on doing everything himself. He spread a plastic tarp over the bed, and laid a faded brown comforter on top of that. Next, he appeared with a bucket full of a pungent smelling liquid, and a shopping bag full of all the washcloths and thick, clean rags that Bobby had in the house.
“What is that?” Dean wrinkled his nose.
“Vinegar.”
“Seriously?”
“It works.”
Dean clenched his teeth. “Fine.”
John had Sam strip to his boxers and lay down. One at a time, he soaked the clothes in vinegar and laid them over Sam, everywhere there was bruising. Which is to say, everywhere.
Dean stood in the corner, arms crossed, anger and jealousy crackling off him like sparklers.
John lay a soft, warm blanket over Sam. “Just need to do your face.” He soaked more rags, wrung them out and lay them carefully across Sam’s chin, cheeks, nose and forehead, making sure they were not so wet they would drip vinegar into his eyes.
“Now I’m craving salad.” Sam smiled up at his father.
“Hey, want me to read to you while you soak?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to hear?”
Sam was quiet for a moment. “You never did finish reading me The Wind in the Willows.”
John flinched. “I’ve been a pretty crappy father, haven’t I.”
Sam opened his mouth to protest. But John shushed him. “I know I have. And I’m sorry. I meant to do better. A lot better. But I’ll make it up to you.”
Sam was so enraptured by being the center of John’s world that he didn’t even notice when Dean slipped out of the room.
~
Reggie had left. Bobby was downstairs looking at drawings Reggie had given him of new symbols to add to his devil’s traps to punch up their protection. “Come here and look at this, Dean. It’s a Sumerian glyph that’s supposed to ward off even the highest-level demons.”
Dean slumped on the couch.
“Dean.” Dean wouldn’t look at Bobby. “You gotta let him try.”
Dean snorted. “Like a little old wives’ tale is gonna help Sam. Like it’d even be a start.”
“It’s a start for John. Something he can grab onto. Find his way in.”
Dean raised his head and looked Bobby in the eye.
“Bobby. How could you.”
Bobby jerked his head back like he’d been slapped.
“My dad? That, I kinda get. Kinda. He’s a son of a bitch. But you…” Dean paused, trying to hold it together. “You. Not you.”
Bobby didn’t shy away. “I did a lot that I’m not proud of.” He rubbed his beard. “A lot that was flat-out wrong. And I’m gonna have to find a way to live with that. But you gotta understand, Dean. We were close. Closing to finding the demon that killed your mother. And John… he just couldn’t take it easy. It was like…” Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “…like this one thing was between us and that demon. Finally having it in sight. And John just… he wouldn’t stop. And me… God help me, I didn’t stop him.” Bobby poured himself another shot of whiskey, and he’d clearly had a few already. “I helped him. Jesus, Dean, I helped him.”
Dean went to Bobby, stood behind him and put his arms around him. Bobby broke down in sobs, frantic, hopeless sobs that stripped him down to bare bones and howling regret.
“And to think they did to Sam what we… oh, Jesus, Dean… how am I gonna live with that?”
Dean held Bobby tighter. “You deal with it by taking care of Sam. Whatever he needs. Whatever you can do for him. You take care of Sam. Forever. You got it? You atone.”
Bobby cried harder. “Don’t even deserve to keep drawing breath.”
“Bobby. Don’t you dare.” Dean knelt in front of him. “We need you. Me and Sam need you. You’re…” Dean glanced up towards the room he shared with Sam, to make sure John wasn’t standing at the top of the stairs listening, watching. “You’re like the dad we wished we had.”
Bobby’s chest heaved, like he’d driven out all the air in his lungs.
“We need you, Bobby.”
“I’ll do it. Take care of you two. Best I can. Make up for what I done.”
“Swear?”
Bobby wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Swear.”
“You mean it?”
“Look me in the eyes. Tell me if I mean it.”
Dean looked Bobby in the eyes, and saw the soul-deep agony he felt for his part in what they had done, and what happened to Sam. Saw how deep the wound was.
“I forgive you.”
Bobby’s face lit up—then fell. “Don’t. Don’t you forgive me. I haven’t earned it yet.”
“You will.”
Dean poured himself a shot of whiskey and sat in front of the fire, and would not say any more.
Upstairs, John read out loud to Sam about how Mr. Toad stole the motorcar. Dean forced himself to stay where he was, to not make an excuse to go into the bedroom, to offer to take over or just sit on the edge of the bed.
He wanted nothing more than to do just that, or to smack the book from John’s hands and scream at him to get away from Sam, that reading a few pages wasn’t going to earn him a Father of the Year trophy. But he kept seeing the expression on Sam’s face as John tended to him, took care of him, sat next to him. And he knew that soon, very soon, Sam would be strong enough to hear the truth, and he’d never have that pure, innocent delight in John’s presence again.
And as he sat on the couch, his mind drifted to that question that kept gnawing at him.
How did Spivey know exactly what John and Bobby had done?
