[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 9 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Nine Author:kuwamiko Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Bobby, Missouri Rating: R-NC17 Spoilers: nothing major (set in pre-series AU) Summary: Two years ago Dean disappeared. Now John and Sam have gotten him back. But how will the three of them deal with the unexpected changes his trials in the time between have effected? Warnings: Nongraphic references to non-con sex and underage prostitution. Violence. Language. Incest (duh). Author's Note: This is AU, utter self indulgence, and has massive Dean!whumpage. Will contain Wincest eventually. Set about a year before the pilot, with some major differences. [chpt 1] [chpt 2] [chpt 3] [chpt 4] [chpt 5] [chpt 6] [chpt 7] [chpt 8] [chpt 9] [chpt 10] [chpt 11] [chpt 12] [chpt 13] [chpt 14] [chpt 15] [chpt 16] [chpt 17] [chpt 18] [chpt 19] [chpt 20] [chpt 21] [chpt 22] [chpt 23] [chpt 24] [chpt 25] [chpt 26] [chpt 27] [chpt 28] [chpt 29] [chpt 30] [chpt 31]
"Do Dandelions Roar"
- Chapter Nine - by KnM
Dean balked at the stairs.
Sam wasn't sure whether he should be surprised or not, but really, he was just too tired to feel much one way or the other.
"C'mon, Dean," he coaxed, using his larger size and greater strength to maneuver his brother up the first few steps.
Dean went, both hands clutching at Sam's forearm, then froze and looked over his shoulder in panic as Bobby and John slammed back into the house, shedding rainwater and bringing a frigid gust of wind in before the door closed behind them.
"Go on up, Sam," John instructed, dragging a hand over his damp face and shaking his head with a dull spatter, then moving to take his drenched jacket off. "I'll bring your stuff."
"Trying," Sam muttered, fighting exasperation. The last thing he needed to do was lose patience with Dean, when his brother seemed to be doing so much better. He hooked one arm around Dean's waist from behind and rested the other hand over Dean's rapidly beating heart, offering his arm for Dean to continue to cling to, since that seemed to help. With some gentle persistence, he managed to propel his brother up the stairs.
And maybe this was a good thing, the thought occurred to him. Because if Dean was frightened of the stairs, that would presumably curtail any wandering he might otherwise be inclined to indulge in after Sam fell asleep. Or at least keep him from going outside.
Once they were all the way upstairs and standing in the hall Dean calmed a little, though he still stayed close to Sam, his eyes wide and worried, darting about. He was in yet another place that was unfamiliar to him.... But at least they'd be staying here a while, even if Dean didn't know that yet. Sam hoped that Dean would do better now that they stopped somewhere and settled, instead of traveling by day and spending every night in a different hotel.
And he still held out the hope of Missouri's promise to help in the morning. He could wait one night. He didn't want to, but since he had been given no choice he could. Tomorrow, though.... Well, Missouri had promised!
"So I did," the woman herself murmured beside him, and Sam started, then grimaced. Even with instincts grown rusty from two years without Hunting, he had to be really out of it to have missed their hostess coming up behind him. Missouri shot him a sympathetic look, then gestured down the hallway. "Second door on the right is the bathroom," she informed him. "And the door just past that is yours. John, you're across the hall from the bathroom."
John, who had just reached the head of the stairs with his arms full of luggage, nodded. "Thank you."
Sam led Dean to the room Missouri had indicated. It had a neatly made queen size bed with a ruffled cover. There was a dresser on one side of the room and a desk on the other. The walls were pale peach and the decor was... well, Sam didn't know if Missouri had ever had any children, but this room had definitely been designed with a feminine flare.
Still, it was a room, a place to sleep with a nice big bed, somewhere they'd be coming back to night after night, and he wasn't going to be so ungrateful as to complain. Even if the porcelain figurines of shepherdesses and ballet dancers on the dresser top made him feel huge and ungainly.
Leaving Dean staring at the figurines with an expression of odd fascination, Sam went to the doorway and accepted his share of the luggage from his father. He still had things back at his apartment -- he was going to have to decide what he was going to do about that stuff. There was nothing he wasn't going to be able to live without, but a few things that he'd like to get back....
"Try to make sure your brother stays in bed," John said to Sam, hefting his own duffel over his shoulder and dragging a hand over his face. He looked about ready to fall asleep where he stood. "And don't worry about getting up too early in the morning. I know we all want to see what Missouri can do for Dean, but you both need your rest. It's been a stressful couple of days."
Sam nodded, biting his tongue to refrain from commenting that for Dean it had been a stressful couple of years -- that wouldn't do any of them any good. "You too, Dad," he said, trying to smile and failing miserably.
He missed the impossibly tall, powerful, infallible father from his childhood, the one who was never at a loss, always knew what to do, and made sure that he and his sons did it. Finding that John was human was simply a side-effect of becoming an adult himself, Sam knew, but he couldn't help wanting that all-powerful figure to return and make everything all better. To make Dean all better.
Dean had been the same in his eyes, too, back then. Even though Sam had been loath to admit it as a teenager, he'd always been able to depend on his older brother. Even if it was only to depend on him to be an asshole.... But Dean had never let him down when it came to anything important, and as a young adult now, Sam could see that. Even Dean's obnoxious behavior, sometimes, had been a bizarre but effective way of shielding Sam from certain aspects of reality.
And then, some of it had just been Dean being an obnoxious older brother; Sam was under no illusions where that was concerned. He would gladly put up with Dean at his worst if he could have the old Dean back.... But that wasn't an option right now.
"G'night," John said, tipping his head to peer past Sam's bulk in the doorway. Sam shifted out of the way, in case their father wanted to say goodnight to Dean as well, but John just shook his head slightly, his mouth drawing down, and trudged across the hall to the room that Missouri had directed him to.
Sighing, Sam turned back into the room. It felt almost as though John was making an effort, conscious or not, to distance himself from Dean. And that was dangerous and stupid. He'd give his father enough credit to assume that it wasn't an intentional decision, but he thought that it was a bad idea, for both John and for Dean. Even though the selfish side of him didn't want to share Dean with anyone, the rational side of him knew that Dean needed his father as much as he needed his brother, if not more. And John needed Dean; he'd finally gotten his son back after two years of anguished uncertainty. He couldn't just turn his back and walk away now.
Well, maybe it just seemed that way because John was tired. If it was still going on tomorrow Sam would call him on it. Or, better yet, get Missouri to talk to him about it. He had a feeling his father would listen to Missouri before he listened to Sam. And that was fine with him; he didn't feel like getting in another fight with John. He'd a feeling Missouri might just knock their heads together... literally.
The bags were too damp from the storm outside to put on the bed so he opened them on the floor, kneeling to shift the clothing -- his own worn and well-loved and Dean's still new and stiff -- into the dresser drawers. Dean had moved to stand before the window, staring out at the night, so he was no longer in the way.
Sam was so weary that he almost didn't hear the muted thump as something small fell from the folds of one of his hoodies onto the pale carpet. Sharp-eyed, he plucked it up; Dean's pendant. He'd thought it was safely in a drawer back at his apartment! He felt a sting of horror, that he could have misplaced it like that. But here it was, as though it was meant to be.
Pursing his lips, he rose, clasping it so tightly that it dug into his palm. He'd returned Dean's ring to him, even though it made his own hand feel naked. He wondered if Dean could be trusted with the pendant and its leather cord. And then he felt stupid for the thought. Dean might be a little lost right now, might not know who he was or be able to communicate with them, but he wasn't suddenly lacking or anything. And maybe seeing the charm again would help Dean to remember.
Well, he could hope.
"Hey, Dean," he said, striding across the room. "Look what I found."
Dean turned from the window as Sam neared, and tilted his head. Sam did a better job of smiling this time, and he held up with pendant. "See? You remember this? It was yours. I gave it to you... back when we were still kids." Of course, Dean was a kid again, now, wasn't he?
It wasn't really a disappointment when there was no flicker of recognition in Dean's dark green eyes. Sam had already expected it. He was just glad that Dean didn't seem to be afraid of his closeness, that his brother didn't shy away when Sam very carefully looped the cord around his neck.
"There," he said, placing his hand over the charm where it rested on Dean's chest. He could feel the thumping of Dean's heart beneath his palm, his fingers spread wide over Dean's slim chest, and he savored the heat of his brother's flesh through the thin material of his teeshirt. It hit him all over again -- he had Dean back! After two long, agonizing years, he finally had Dean back!
Fighting the urge to drag his brother into a tight hug, because that way lay trouble, Sam just stood and smiled down at him, knowing he looked a little goofy, but just so filled with gladness that he felt like he might burst.
Dean's hands crept over his own, thick lashes fluttering, and somehow their faces were too close, and wasn't Dean too short to reach up to Sam? But Sam couldn't be leaning down, because he wouldn't do that.... Then Dean's soft lips were underneath his, and it wasn't a kiss, it wasn't, it was just an overspill of love, that was all. And then the door opened, and Sam jumped back, eyes wide.
Missouri was standing in the doorway, and even though Sam's pulse was running triple time, pulsing in his temples, and his lungs felt too full, his chest too tight, her soft eyes and gentle expression went a long way to calming him.
"I-- We--" He couldn't really come up with any words, any excuse for what was inexcusable, but she was a mind reader, right? So even though he didn't know what he wanted to say, she knew, didn't she?
"Are you boys going to be all right in this room?" she asked, closing the door softly behind her. Sam stood stupidly before the window, Dean butting up against his chest, cheek against his pectoral, and his thumb pressed to his lips. Sam closed an arm around his brother and tried to concentrate on Missouri's question.
"I-- Y-yeah." He cleared his throat, not sure if he was comforted or unsettled by the normalcy of this conversation. "Yeah, it's fine. I mean, if Dean were himself, he'd be giving you all kinds of hell for it, probably insist on sleeping on the sofa instead of Bobby, but, well, if Dean were himself...."
He spread his free hand helplessly, the other hand clasped over the sharp jut of Dean's shoulder. He should push Dean away, put some space between them, especially after what Missouri had walked in on, and yet he couldn't bear the thought of it.
Missouri was nodding, her face now reflecting sadness and regret. "If he were himself, you wouldn't be here right now," she finished for him.
"He's still in there, isn't he?" Sam blurted, suddenly uncertain and needing Missouri to verify it for him. "I mean, he's still Dean... underneath? Or, inside, or whatever? I mean, the Melusine didn't take away who he was, right? She just... did something... and now he's lost, but you're going to help him find himself again! Right...?"
Missouri smiled at him, the warmth of it easing his mind even before she answered. "That's right, Sam. Your Dean is still here. He won't ever again be exactly as you remember, because he's been hurt, over and over again in many different ways. And he's going to be struggling until you find some way to remove the mark that the Melusine left on him. But he isn't gone. Nothing has been lost that can't be found -- I just can't tell you how long it's going to be before he puts all the pieces together again. And you have to be prepared for the possibility that he might not get everything back. But, yes, he is still your Dean, and tomorrow we'll work on helping him to remember that."
"Thank you so much," Sam breathed, and when his knees threatened to give out on him, he sank down onto the mattress, dragging Dean with him, since neither of them was willing to let go of the other. "Thank you, Missouri."
"Thank me once I've actually helped," she instructed, though her eyes were crinkled kindly. "But that is what I intend to do. Beginning tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Sam echoed, and hope warred with weariness in his heart. Weariness was winning, just at this moment, but he thought that the hope was going to help him to sleep more deeply tonight. Storm or no storm.
Missouri had one hand on the doorknob, but she made no move to let herself out. Her eyes were fixed on Sam's, and he met them, even though he should probably have been ashamed, after what she had walked in on.
"You're doing the right thing, Sam," she said, surprising him. Her voice was quiet and he had to strain to hear it. "Even if it feels like the wrong thing, even if you and your father think that it's the wrong thing, it isn't. Dean needs you right now, needs your touch. Don't be afraid to give him what he needs. Not what he wants, mind, but what he needs. You know the difference, and you won't hurt him. If you try too hard one way, you're going to do more harm than good."
"He doesn't-- He doesn't know me," Sam responded before he thought, feeling as though he had slipped through the looking glass and there was no WAY that Missouri was saying to him what it sounded as though she was saying... was she? "He wants-- But he doesn't want it! He just thinks...."
Missouri had a strange quirk to her mouth, an odd light in her eyes that Sam couldn't read. It wasn't amusement but it was something similar, and he felt that she really did love he and his brother, even though she hadn't seen them since they were babies. "Don't be so sure about that, Sam. Oh, you're mostly right. But the little part of you that's wrong? You need to pay attention and fill in the blanks."
"I'm too tired," Sam said with blunt honesty.
Missouri actually chuckled. "Then do what your instincts tell you is right," she advised. "And ignore everything else."
"Okay." Sam blinked, confused.
"Good night, Sam. Good night, Dean."
"G'night...."
Then, silently closing the door behind her, she left him in the room, alone with his brother. And Sam found that he was struck as much by what she hadn't said, as what she had.
"Fill in the blanks, huh?" he grunted. That almost sounded like something he could do. But Dean was a warm breathing weight against him and the bed called. He would get them both in their pajamas -- tonight a teeshirt and a pair of boxers would be good enough for Dean -- and tomorrow, when he was more rested, he'd give it some real thought.
Because, really, right now all he was good for was getting some sleep.
"Come on, Dean. Let's get ready for bed."
***
Missouri hadn't mentioned that the sofa was actually a pull-out bed. Bobby figured that he'd made the right decision; especially once he actually got settled and discovered that the mattress was reasonably plush, not too lumpy. The promise of a good night's sleep, a shower, and fresh coffee in the morning went a long way toward making up for having to play peacemaker for the past two days. Though it was going to be a long time before he agreed to do any of the Winchesters any favors again in the future.
Oh, who was he kidding? If John needed him for any reason Bobby would bitch and groan, but he'd come. If Sam needed him, he'd be there. And if, for any reason, Dean needed his help....
Bobby felt his heart clench at the thought of that poor boy. God, Dean had been through so much, and had such a long way to go yet. Who could help him, other than Missouri?
He was no coward, but Bobby found that he was actually glad that he'd be missing out on the beginning of Dean's healing. Missouri had said it wasn't going to be easy and he believed her. Maybe by the time he returned with the Impala, Dean would remember him. He certainly hoped so. It hurt him to see those clear green eyes fixed on his face with no hint of recognition -- he could only imagine how agonizing it was for John and Sam.
Well, Missouri would be able to help them. It was a lot to put on her shoulders, especially when she hadn't asked for the task, but she seemed more than willing to take on the responsibility and had promised that she could help. He did feel a little bad for sticking her with the other two Winchesters, but it wasn't as though there was any choice. Where Dean was, John and Sam would be. That was a given and it was as it should be.
Sighing heavily, Bobby settled between sheets that smelled a little of dust and a little of lavender. They smelled like someone else's home, but at least he wasn't on a hotel bed. Bobby was as close to comfort as he was going to be until he got back to his own place.
Of course, he'd be turning right around and bringing the Impala back here.... But there'd be time to spend a night in his own bed. None of the Winchesters would begrudge him that.
Thunder rolled overhead, the blinding florescent of lightning dancing against the curtains over the windows, but Missouri was right, the storm would pass by morning.
Silently wishing Dean and Sam, John, Missouri, and himself a quiet night of uninterrupted slumber, Bobby allowed himself to drift off.
Before he fell asleep, a thought struck him with remarkable clarity. Lawrence, Kansas was where the Winchester's lives had been torn apart twenty-one years ago. It was only fitting that they return here to knit Dean back together. Harsh and ironic, but fitting.
Fate always had had a shitty sense of humor.
***
He let out a thin, breathy whine as the man pushed into him, hard fingers locked around his wrists, pressing his hands into the mattress, grinding aching bruises into his flesh. Tears stung in his eyes, catching salty hot in his lashes, but he held them back, refusing to allow them to fall freely.
It was all right to cry when it hurt, he knew, but he was brave. He was strong. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that this would always hurt him, inside where it counted, even when it didn't hurt his body so much anymore. Sometimes they left bruises but sometimes they were gentle, and that hurt him even more. He wouldn't cry, though. He was stronger than that. He had to be stronger than that.
He only wept when he realized that it felt good. He didn't know what to do when his body betrayed him and took pleasure from the violation, and he was lost.
That was when he pulled inside himself and found a safe place to hide. And whoever was fucking him at the time never even seemed to notice. That was the way it was, though. They were here for his body, not for him. Never for him.
And that was why they never noticed when he just... went away.
He didn't start awake. It was like a quick slide, one moment locked in dreaming, the next moment aware that it had been a dream but not knowing where he actually was, and then his eyes flickered open and he registered the warmth surrounding him, and he knew that he was where he had been several times in his recent yesterdays.
He breathed in deeply. The large body wrapped around his smelled of sweat, a little stale but not unpleasant. He could also smell a faint bitterness that he identified after a moment as coffee, and a trace of spice -- cinnamon -- on the man's breath, where it gusted hot and moist against his cheek. If he turned his head he could kiss those lips, and he had before, hadn't he? But the man hadn't liked it and so he wouldn't do it while he was asleep. He had been forced so often into doing things he didn't want; there was no way he would do that to someone else.
Still, it was tempting, he wanted to, wanted to feel that warmth against his mouth, flesh against flesh, wanted to take the slow, steady exhalations into his own body, wanted to feel closer to this baby, boy, man that he had known, had always known, who filled up his yesterdays even though he couldn't hold onto them.
Needing to remove himself from the temptation, since he couldn't take the desire out of himself, he carefully squirmed out of bed. The man who had been the baby he had held was so deeply asleep that he didn't even stir, his soft features remaining untroubled in the darkness. And he knew that he had made the right decision.
They were in a new place now, but this one was different than the others had been. He wasn't quite sure how he knew that, but he felt it in his bones. There was an air here, a difference that was immaterial, indescribable, but real nonetheless.
It had passed the middle part of the night. There was rain pressing, pushing, pattering against the glass of the window. It wanted inside, but if he let it in then it would wake the man in the bed and he needed his sleep. So he just told it silently that he couldn't let it in, and then let it slip away into the yesterdays that he couldn't recall.
Stripping off his clothing, he let the night caress his skin. He trusted the night, the darkness. Here, it wouldn't hurt him. He was safe and the shadows were cool against his body, wrapping him up and hiding him from the bad dreams that still lived in his head. He wished briefly that he could pick and choose which yesterdays filled him, but he'd learned not to wish for impossible things, so the thought was a passing one.
Naked, he padded across the room on silent feet. Finding himself before the dresser again, he peered through the darkness at the frozen, immobile figures on its top.
They were like... little people. Only they weren't, they weren't real, they weren't alive. They were made of something slick and hard and shiny, and he wondered why they existed, since they couldn't do anything.
It made him think of himself, though, when he wasn't being used, when he wasn't allowed to go anywhere or do anything, and he still didn't understand these little people, but he felt a strange sort of kinship to them. They weren't like him, but he had been like them, a little bit, before he had been rescued.
He turned away, discontented, his dream tugging at him and he didn't want to return to that yesterday. He would leave the little not-people in their frozen poses, forever standing, bending, turning. Maybe someday they would break free and move, but he wouldn't be here looking at them.
Walking away from the dresser, he ran his fingers along the ornate, carved board at the foot of the bed. The wood was smooth and cool. He liked touching it.
This was a good room, he felt safe in it. It wasn't too big or too small, and it was filled with furniture. The bed was soft and nothing bad had happened in it. The floor was soft too, the carpet thick and not worn by strangers' feet. It felt good under his toes.
It was an unfamiliar sensation, feeling secure and comfortable, and he didn't know what to do with it. Things swelled up inside him until he couldn't stay still any longer.
He opened the door carefully. Unlike the bedrooms they had stayed in before, this didn't open to the outside. It opened into a long, dark, quiet hallway. There were other doors, but he didn't think he should open those. He tip-toed to the head of the stairs, but then he had to back away and head the opposite direction. It was too high, too steep, and he was so afraid that he would fall down.
The door at the end of the hall opened and he froze, like those little not-people on the dresser. He was being Bad, was up without permission again, and he'd been caught.
The lady that this house belonged to came out into the hallway and now he wasn't alone in it. It wasn't dark anymore either. There was a warm golden light behind her and she was wrapped up in fuzzy pink. She blinked at him but didn't seem surprised that he was there. After a moment she smiled a little and shook her head.
"Now, Dean, honey, you shouldn't be wandering around out here in nothing but your skin. You'll catch your death of cold."
She didn't look anything like the one in the water who had worn the guise of a woman. She was dark all over. And round. And she was kind, with love beating in her heart. She would never do anything to hurt him, would never make him do anything he didn't want to. He trusted her and he wanted to be Good for her.
Being Good meant going back to bed and not walking in her hallway without any clothes on. He knew that, even if he couldn't remember anymore why those things mattered.
She tipped her head again and he thought that she was going to say something else, but then the door behind him, the one to the room he had left, flew inward and the man who had been the baby burst out.
"Dean--?! Oh. There you are." The man sighed, running a hand though his sleep-mussed hair. "And you're naked again."
He knew that he'd been Bad, but he was pretty sure that the man who'd been the baby wasn't angry. He sounded more exasperated than anything else.
"I'm sorry, Missouri," the man apologized as he went over and pressed against him, gripping a handful of the man's teeshirt and butting into his warmth. A powerful arm came around him and he hoped for a kiss, but the man was still talking. "Did Dean wake you?"
"Not so to speak." The lady made a face that wasn't a smile; it was a grimace but she was too polite to do it properly. "Let me just say that three of my guests tonight have very loud dreams."
"Can't be me, since I slept through Dean getting out of bed, stripping, and leaving the room." The man sounded bitter and angry, but at himself. He looked up, concerned, patting that broad chest in a move that seemed almost familiar to him.
"Now, Sam," the dark lady began, tugging her pink robe more closely about her chest, but the man interrupted, his tone harsh.
"How come I keep sleeping through it when he gets up? Shouldn't I wake up? I should wake up! If I care so much about Dean--"
"Don't you blame yourself, Sam." The dark lady stepped forward and put her hand on the man's shoulder, even though she had to reach way up to do it. "Your mind remembers Dean, your subconscious knows that you're safe with him. And you've been exhausted. It's no wonder that he's able to sneak out of bed without waking you."
"Hmph."
"Just you take your brother and you get back to bed," the lady instructed, making shooing motions with her hands. "Go back to sleep, both of you, and don't you get up until you're both ready to rouse in the morning."
"Yes, Missouri."
She smiled at both of them and meant it, and then she vanished back into the room behind her, closing the door, and taking the warm golden light with her.
"Okay. C'mon, Dean."
He let the man guide him back into the bedroom they shared, and stood still when he insisted on levering him back into the clothes he had shed so recently. He was a little scared when the man who had been a baby bound their wrists together with a scarf before settling them both back on the bed. But he trusted the man, had held him when he had been a baby, and he knew that the man wasn't going to hurt him.
In fact, the man fell asleep almost immediately. And the scarf was tied lightly enough that when he cuddled close, he could pretend that it wasn't there at all.
In return for the binding, though, he stole one delicate kiss. Then he went back to sleep like a Good Boy. Because that was what the man who had been the baby wanted him to do.
***
Sam was -- understandably, he thought -- a bit leery about the shower. Fortunately for his peace of mind Dean seemed to be doing better, and when he turned on the water and instructed his brother to bathe himself, Dean quickly stripped out of his teeshirt and boxers and hopped in. Sam thought back to that first shower they had shared; not the sexual aspect, but just the fact that Dean had barely been able to stand upright, much less wash himself. And he felt a surge of relief and hope, because this brought home to him how much better Dean was doing in only a handful of days.
Actually, he kind of wanted to climb in the shower with Dean, since they had slept longer than he'd expected or intended, and it was already a quarter after ten. He had the feeling of having slept too much of the day away and he wanted to get downstairs and see what Missouri had planned for Dean. Not to mention he hadn't had a shower in two days and was feeling kind of scummy.
But he just didn't dare to bring his own naked body that close to his brother's. That just.... It wasn't entirely because of Dean that he was nervous. He didn't want to dwell on the matter, not even after Missouri's odd, unexpected approbation last night, but it wasn't all on Dean. And at least Dean had the excuse of not remembering Sam.
Still, while he couldn't shower with Dean, neither could Sam leave him alone too long. He stayed in Missouri's generous bathroom, the door firmly closed and locked between the two of them and the rest of the house. After a few minutes of hovering he realized he'd gone to bed without brushing his teeth the night before, and he took a moment with the toothpaste and mouthwash to get the worst of the fuzz off. Ugh.
"Dean, hurry up," he called after he finished, leaning over the sink and peering into the mirror. It was fogging around the edges but he could still see the bruising around his eye, the worst of it ringing the socket.
It wasn't too bad, not too noticeable in the morning light. His Dad had hit him, but Sam was certain that at the last minute John had pulled his punch; as much as he could in his fury. He'd done the same, the instant he'd realized his fist was headed toward his father's face. They hadn't meant to hurt each other, he knew. But it was such a Winchester thing to do. They couldn't talk about the pain they were both experiencing upon seeing what had been done to Dean, so they'd lashed out physically at the nearest person. Which had happened to be each other. Well, and Sam had picked the fight. But it had been coming, would have happened eventually; if not over Dean's hair, then over something else.
The shower door opened and Dean stepped out onto the mat, dripping liberally over the fluffy ivory faux fur. He obviously hadn't seen any sunlight during the two years he had been missing and he was distressingly slender. Not to the point that it looked unhealthy, but Sam was used to seeing his brother's limbs corded with muscle, bronzed by the sun. Now he was reedy, his shoulders still relatively broad but his hips appearing even more slim than last time he'd been this age. His creamy flesh was flushed with the heat of the shower still running behind him, his hair plastered around his sharp cheekbones. He blinked at Sam through dark, water-starred lashes, and Sam grabbed a towel.
"Dry off," he said, hoping that Dean had been finished bathing and hadn't just jumped out because Sam had said so. "And then wait for me while I shower, okay?"
Without waiting for a confirmation -- he was sure he wouldn't have gotten one anyhow -- Sam stripped and slid around Dean and into the shower stall. The warm water felt wonderful as it streamed over him, hitting tense muscles and sluicing the stresses of the past several days away along with the travel and sleep sweat.
He didn't intend to take long. He'd told Dean to wait, but it made him nervous to have his brother out of his sight for any period of time. Even though they were in the home of a mind reader who would presumably be able to tell if his brother was going to get into mischief... there was just something about not being able to hear over the pounding of the water that made him anxious, and it wasn't as though he could talk to Dean while he was washing -- well, he could talk, but he certainly wouldn't get a response.
He finished in record time; probably one of his quickest showers ever, since he'd grown from a child who hated bathing to a teenager who viewed the bathroom's locked door and shower stall as essentially his only refuge, the one spot of privacy in a life dominated by an older brother that made it his business to be nosy and obnoxious.
Of course, now, he could just see that most of Dean's behavior had been nothing more nor less than unrestrained overprotectiveness. But when you were thirteen, eternally hard, and trying to jerk off without alerting any family members to the fact, the shower had been an essential sanctuary.
When Sam turned off the water and stepped out of the stall Dean was sitting on the toilet seat. He was dry but still naked, and Sam was passingly glad that Missouri had those plushy covers on the lid and tank that he had always thought were so ridiculous. They matched the faux fur mat and it was undoubtedly better under Dean's bare rear than chill porcelain would have been.
As Sam stepped onto the mat Dean leapt to his feet and grabbed a dry towel to hand him. His eyes were not at all shy where they roamed and Sam flushed vibrantly. He hadn't woken up the last two days with a hard-on and had been able to write that first morning off as a bizarre aberration, but right here and right now his cock decided it was going to think about rising to the occasion. And no matter what Missouri had or hadn't said, Sam was not comfortable with that.
"Dean, get dressed," he instructed, pointing at the pile of clean clothes he'd had the foresight to bring with him, as he wrapped the towel securely around his waist, making sure the bunched bit clasped within his fist fell directly over his crotch, hoping to hide the worst of it. Didn't want his brother to get the wrong idea, after all.
Those wide green eyes slid over to the clothes, and Sam held his breath for a moment, wondering whether Dean would do it. So far he had shown great reluctance when it came to wearing clothing. On the other hand, he'd followed just about every direct order he'd been given, when he hadn't been too panicked to do so.
There was a definitely displeased swell to Dean's lower lip but he just ducked his head, dark-wet hair falling to hide his eyes, and he moved to do as he'd been told.
Sam let out his breath, relieved that during this short one-sided interaction his potential hard-on had decided to silently vanish. He'd spent the past year chasing normal, and that didn't include being aroused by your older brother who'd been there for every moment of your life and then been de-aged so that he was the younger brother, and who'd been trained to perform sex acts with God knew how many strange men....
Sam shuddered. Dwelling on that last was more than enough to kill any inappropriate response his body might have been considering, and he hurried to tug on his own clothes and toweled his hair until his head hurt, trying to escape the thoughts and images that his imagination threatened to overwhelm him with.
Feeling a little dizzy as he lowered the towel, he cast his gaze to Dean. He'd pulled on the teeshirt and boxers that Sam had chosen for him, but was just holding the jeans in one hand. Sam opened his mouth to admonish him, but then he took note of the fact that Dean's other hand had crept behind his neck, and he was fingering at the short hairs at his nape.
"Miss your hair?" Sam asked huskily, plucking the jeans from Dean and bending to meet his eyes. Dean's gaze was distant but quickly focused on his brother's face. Sam smiled, aware that it was something of a sad smile. "It'll grow back out, okay? Here. Step into these."
This time it wasn't a struggle to get Dean into the jeans, even though Sam was dead certain that the blank expression on his brother's face was masking a whole hell of a lot of reluctance. Buttoning and zipping them for Dean was a little dangerous, but Sam was quick, and then he straightened, patting Dean's shoulder the way he remembered their father doing when they were younger, before he had gone off to college.
"Come on. Let's go and see if Missouri is ready for you."
There was a knot in Sam's stomach as he helped Dean down the stairs and then followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen. There was no sign of their hostess, however. Just one John Winchester sitting at the table with an empty mug that had held coffee in one hand, his gaze fixed on the middle of nothing.
"Dad?"
John glanced up and sort of smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "'Morning, boys." He waved them in and stood. "There's coffee and there's bacon and potatoes keeping warm in the oven. They should still be fresh; Missouri cooked everything less than half an hour ago. Guess she knew you'd be getting up soon." He shrugged broad shoulders and set his mug in the sink.
"Where is Missouri?" Sam asked, leading Dean to the table and sitting him down gently.
"She has a reading," John replied, crossing to place his hand on top of Dean's head, thumbing at the damp strands, his expression softening but still somehow guarded. "She was able to cancel all her afternoon appointments and the ones she had lined up for the next several days, but she had to take her first few morning people."
Sam nodded. Even though he was impatient and wanted to get started right away, they had burst in on Missouri unannounced, and she had every right to earn her money and keep her good name with her customers. There was no reason they should expect anything else. Besides, this gave Dean -- and Sam -- time to eat.
"I'm going out," John said briskly and Sam blinked at him.
"Aren't you--"
But without waiting for another word, their father was already on his way out the door.
"What the...?" Sam scowled, feeling his brow furrow. Then he sighed and shook his head. He couldn't know what it was like for John to be back in Lawrence, so he wasn't going to judge. Though he desperately hoped that his Dad wouldn't come back smelling of alcohol. He didn't think he would, not with Dean the way he was, but....
"Oh, Sam, you're up." Missouri bustled into the kitchen, pausing to drop a quick kiss to Dean's brow before she moved to pull a couple of plates down from a cupboard. "Like your father told you, there's food in the oven. I still have two more readings, but I'll be done before noon, I promise. And then my time and energy is all going to your brother."
Sam took the plates and shifted uncomfortably while she grabbed hot-pads and drew a wide pan laden with bacon and sausage and tater tots out of the oven and placed it on the stove top. His impatience was warring with the guilt of knowing that they were already a major intrusion to Missouri's life, and she turned to smile at him.
"It's all right, Sam. I understand. Don't fret about busting in here and disrupting things; I don't mind. But I do need to do these readings. One of them is my most regular and most generous client and the other is a friend who actually does need my help."
Sam nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He felt better, but also felt the powerful need to change the subject. Also, he'd just realized-- "Where's Bobby?"
"Oh, honey, he already left," Missouri said in a tone of voice that was both sympathetic and underlined to him the fact that he should have already known that.
"Dammit!" Sam wasn't surprised but he was upset. "He didn't even wait to say good-bye!"
"He wanted to say good-bye to you, Sam," Missouri assured him, taking the top plate and piling food onto it generously. "But he was glad to have a chance to leave without saying good-bye to Dean."
"Did he tell you that, or did you read his mind?" It wasn't until the words were out his mouth that he realized how obnoxious and antagonistic the question had sounded.
Missouri quirked a brow at him as he flushed, but he knew that she was aware that he hadn't meant to be offensive, was just lashing out a little because he was hurt. And not even by Bobby -- he totally understood where their old friend was coming from -- just by life and recent circumstances in general. It sucked and there was nothing any of them could do about it. He certainly didn't blame Bobby for avoiding a situation that would have been awkward and hurtful. He knew Bobby was no coward, he hadn't been running away. It had been as much to spare Dean and Sam as it had been to spare himself the discomfort.
"He told me," Missouri said mildly. "And, Sam, honey, I know you're hurting and I forgive you, but you are going to have to learn to mind your manners in my home."
"Sorry." He fidgeted, considering blaming his upbringing, blaming his father, blaming Dean who he had looked up to and imitated until he'd reached his teens... but it had really been his own fault, his own lack of a mental filter, and he was honest enough to accept the blame.
Missouri smiled in a sweet way that forgave all. "Well, I have to get to my next reading," she said, handing Sam the spatula and turning the oven off with a quick flick of her wrist. "You and your brother eat and I'll be with you just as soon as I can be."
Sam couldn't argue that and he realized suddenly that he was starving. As Missouri left the kitchen he placed Dean's plate before his brother and his own next to it. There was plenty of coffee and he got Dean some too. He had the passing thought that Dean might be too young to have it, but he remembered his brother drinking plenty of it last time he'd been fourteen. Heck, Sam had been drinking coffee when he'd been fourteen, and it certainly hadn't stunted his growth at all. There was milk in the 'fridge but Dean hadn't been very interested in that the night before, and Sam wasn't sure where Missouri kept her cocoa, nor was he comfortable with the thought of going snooping to find it.
Dean seemed perfectly happy to have coffee, inhaling it along with his food. Sam was briefly tempted to put cream and sugar in for his brother, teaching him a little civility this time around, but Missouri was going to help Dean and he'd give Sam hell for that when he remembered who he was. Besides, he knew Dean preferred his coffee black and he wanted to do everything he could to make his brother feel happy, to give him what he wanted, even if he didn't remember that he wanted it.
Once they finished eating Sam did the dishes, remembering Dean doing the task last night. Then he went into the living room and perused the bookshelves. Despite the fact that he felt on edge, had been constantly on edge ever since his father had called him at Stanford, he found a volume of poetry that sucked him in. He turned on the television for Dean, but found he wasn't too surprised when it failed to hold his brother's attention.
As Sam read, Dean wandered around the house; even going so far as to venture upstairs, carefully clinging to the railing the whole way. He made it back to their bedroom before Sam missed him, and after Sam had pounded up after him, he followed obediently enough back downstairs.
Sam was convinced that his brother was looking for Bobby, and he had to resist the urge to call their friend. What would he say? Hey, Bobby, not looking to make you feel guilty, but Dean really misses you.... Yeah, and that wouldn't make him a whiny bitch. Not at all.
Actually, it was just as likely that Dean was looking for their Dad. Sam just had a feeling that Dean had been searching for Bobby. Whether he was right or not, well, only Dean knew.
After retrieving his brother, Sam didn't really know what to do. He didn't dare to read anymore. He turned off the tee vee because Dean definitely wasn't watching it. They were sitting side by side on the sofa and Sam struggled to think of something, anything to say. There were so many things bubbling in his head, but he didn't know what would help, what would hurt, and he had no idea if Dean would even pay any attention if he spoke.
While he remained suspended, lost in contemplation, he suddenly found himself with a lapful of warm breathing younger brother. Drawing in a sharp breath, his head jerking automatically back as slim arms ringed his neck, Sam froze. If Dean tried to kiss him--
"All right, boys, you stop messing around now."
Sam lifted Dean bodily off his thighs, sending Missouri a silent but not unheard prayer of thanks for the interruption. She met his eyes with an expression of sympathy, then smiled at Dean.
"Come on, honey. Come with me." She held out her hand and Sam held his breath. He needn't have worried, as Dean trotted right over, slipping his fingers into Missouri's. She brushed bangs out of his eyes with her free hand. "You have a feel for the place now, Dean? Know you're safe? Are you ready to talk to me?" she asked softly, her gaze fixed on his. Dean stared back, attentive but not seeming to be on alert.
Sam felt left out but in a good way; in a way that made him confident that Missouri was going to be able to connect with his brother. His veins sang with hope, and he bit his lip to keep from leaping over and joining them. He wasn't being excluded, no, but neither was he welcome. They were in their own little world.
"We'll be in my reading room, Sam, honey," Missouri told him, her dark eyes soft and gentle as they shifted in his direction. "Tell your father that, if he gets back before we're done. We won't be too long; I'll be cooking lunch at one forty-five. All right?"
Sam nodded even though that last query hadn't really required a reply, then watched them walk away from him. It was hard, almost as hard as leaving for college the first time had been. He wanted, needed to grab Dean and hold on. But he reminded himself that Missouri was going to help Dean, was the only one who could help Dean. Sam would only get in the way.
For the first half hour he sat on the sofa, fidgeting. For the second half hour he tried to read some more of his book. After reading every line at least twice and not processing any of it, he finally gave up. He could try calling his Dad, but he'd turned his phone off the last time he'd used it and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was afraid to turn it back on. Besides, John probably wouldn't answer, or would be pissed at him for interrupting him in... whatever he was off doing.
It got to the point that he found himself contemplating taking a nap, even though he was sure that he wouldn't be able to sleep, just in the hopes of finding a way to pass the time.
He discovered that he was wandering, much as Dean had been doing that morning, aimless, exploring the house that he found himself in. Everything was neat and clean; maybe a little dust on the higher shelves, but he was quite a bit taller than Missouri. Around one-thirty he was feeling hungry, despite the late breakfast they'd had. But getting Dean healed was more important, definitely more important, and Sam wasn't about to interrupt.
He was hovering outside the door to Missouri's reading room, not due to a conscious decision, but there he discovered himself. He gnawed at his lower lip, running sweaty palms over his thighs. He felt inexplicably anxious.... It just felt wrong to be apart from Dean this long, even though he was with Missouri, who Sam trusted without reservations.
It was after one-thirty. He had been patient. Oh, God, he wanted to know what was happening on the other side of this door. He wanted to know, but he didn't. He wanted... he didn't want....
He found that he was pacing, and there were at least two squeaky boards that he kept stepping on, and Missouri had to know he was out here, must be distracted by his inwardly spiraling thoughts. He raised a hand to knock, but instead found himself grasping the knob and pushing the door open.
He couldn't speak, was barely able to keep breathing in and out, as he peered into the room. It was a warmly cluttered room with a desk, a sofa, a chair... but his gaze was drawn immediately to his brother, who was sitting bare-foot and crosslegged on the sofa. Missouri was sitting near, on the chair, looking over at Sam with something mournful and nothing surprised in her eyes.
"Dean," Sam murmured, without meaning to. His brother looked different somehow. He couldn't really describe it, but there was something more alive, more intense in Dean's face. He looked as though he hurt, and this wasn't a good thing, of course, but it was so gratifying to see a change from the blank incomprehension.
"I'm sorry, Missouri," Sam stammered, taking one uncertain step into the room, his eyes never straying from Dean's. "I just.... I couldn't...."
"That's all right." She didn't seem too put out. "Dean." She reached forward, grasping one of the boy's hands. "Dean, honey, do you remember who this is?"
Sam couldn't drag his gaze away from his brother. "Dean...?"
"Sammy," Dean whispered, his voice no more than a breath of sound. His eyes were wide and wounded, and there was the recognition that Sam had been craving in their liquid depths. But then his next words drove out any gladness or triumph that he might have felt. "You left."
Sam turned and exited the room, closing the door with careful silence behind him.