Can't Rain All the Time
Sam sinks down against the wall, hands fisted in his hair, eyes closed against the tears of frustration that want to spill over. Behind him, he can hear Dean arguing with their dad, audible even over the rush of traffic zipping past their meagre front yard.
“Dad, he’s only 16. We decided he wasn’t going in the field for another year or two--does it really matter if his hair is a little long?”
Sam flinches at the sound of glass shattering against the wall near his head, the sound of pure rage in John’s voice.
“Get out of my way, Dean. This isn’t about his hair. It’s about his attitude. You know as well as I do that he skips out on his lessons. Refuses to practice. Thinks he’s too good to be a part of this family. I won’t put up with it anymore.”
“Dad, don’t--”
There’s an undercurrent of fear in Dean’s voice now, Sam can hear it even if John can’t. A low grunt, a muffled thud, the door rattling and shaking in it’s frame, and Sam wants to scream but he doesn’t. He does his best to tune out Dean’s low, frantic voice and John’s bellows as he pushes himself up on shaky legs and pulls out his knife out of his bag instead.
“Dad.”
Sam can’t see around Dean--his brother is still taller and broader than he is, though not by much. Dean’s standing in the doorway, hiding Sam while trying to disguise his defiance, and he doesn’t budge, even when Sam shoves at his back.
The sound John makes when he hears Sam’s voice is barely human. He shoves Dean out of the way and grabs Sam’s arm to drag him into the open.
“Sam, no…” It’s Dean’s voice, broken and angry and hurt.
Sam hates that sound more than anything in the world, but done is done. He stares up at his father defiantly, forcing himself not to react to the dull gleam of satisfaction in John’s eyes as he takes in the damage Sam has done to himself.
“At least one of you has some sense,” John says finally, letting Sam go with a hard shake. Sam’s arm aches with finger shaped bruises John leaves behind but he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t rub at them. Just glares at his father’s back when he turns away.
Dean is still on the floor where he’d fallen, still staring at Sam with his heart in his eyes when John stops in front of him.
“On your feet,” John snarls. “I won’t put up with defiance, Dean. From you or him. Get out back and run drills til I tell you to stop.”
“Yessir.” Dean stands slowly, automatically starting to strip out of his overshirts and boots, but John stops him.
“Just like that, Dean,” he says cruelly, and fear squeezes Sam’s heart. Their dad likes to brag that he never lays a hand on his sons, doesn’t need to. Why would he when he can force them to run drills fully clothed in the Alabama summer until they pass out? Or beat them senseless as a ‘training exercise’?
get up, Dean, there's nothing wrong with you. Gotta be able to fight even when you’re hurting, son, that’s part of hunting
“I’m meeting Bobby for a hunt in Michigan, some kind of water spirit,” John tells Sam as Dean begins his first set of exercises. Beads of sweat are already dampening Dean’s hairline, dragging down the carefully styled spikes he’d created that morning. “Be gone for a coupla weeks, maybe longer.” He stomps ponderously off to his room, and Sam hears him cursing under his breath as he rummages through his scant belongings for whatever he plans to take with him, the sound punctuated by long swallows and the occasional crack of the whiskey bottle against the wooden nightstand next to John's bed.
It’s not long, maybe half an hour, before Sam can’t stand the sound of it anymore, can’t stand knowing that John is likely drinking himself into a stupor as Dean kills himself in the backyard. He moves out onto the porch, watching Dean as he works through one set of drills after another. Both of his shirts are already soaked through but he doesn’t slow or falter, his eyes fixed on whatever distant place he goes to in times like this. Sam thinks about joining him since he’s the reason Dean is in trouble, but he knows his brother wouldn’t approve, and neither would John. And he knows Dean might need him by the time John finally lets him stop.
Another hour goes by and Sam now is starting to get worried. Dean doesn’t look good--he’s sweating less than he was despite the heat and humidity, his face flushed and splotchy, eyes glassy and fixed on something only he can see. Sam hasn’t heard anything from John since coming out onto the porch so he reluctantly leaves his post, hoping his father isn’t passed out on the couch or on the bed. Instead, he finds is that John is just...gone. His bag, the car, his bottle--all just gone.
Sam doesn’t wait another minute. He’s out the door in seconds, stopping only to grab a bottle of Gatorade from the ancient fridge.
Dean shakes his head when he sees Sam coming toward him, lips pressed tight as he continues his task. “Not stopping, Sammy,” he pants, wiping away the sweat creeping toward his eyes. "You know what he'll do." to you is unspoken, but Sam hears it anyway, his heart clenching in his chest with how much Dean loves him, and how little he deserves it.
“He’s gone, Dean. Took the car and left without even saying good-bye.”
It takes a moment for Sam’s words to penetrate, but when they do Dean sinks slowly to the ground. Sam follows him to his knees, holding out the bottle and making sure that Dean drinks slowly. When it’s empty, he stands back up, pulling Dean with him, letting Dean lean on him as much as he will.
“You’re gross,” he tells Dean as they limp back toward the house, and gets a ghost of a smile for his efforts.
“Nothing wrong with a little manly musk, Sammy,” he says, voice low and cracked, and Sam laughs a little too loud. Heat radiates off Dean like asphalt in the desert, and Sam just wants to get him inside and cooled down. He’s beyond furious with their father, but he’ll think about that later. Right now all he cares about is Dean.
Once they’re inside, Sam starts helping Dean out of his sweat soaked layers. Both shirts come off, boots and socks, but Dean bats Sam’s hands away when he reaches for Dean’s belt.
“‘M not an invalid, Sammy,” he mumbles, swaying, and Sam tries to be patient as Dean fumbles his way out of his jeans so that Sam can finally drag him off to the shower.
The cool water seems to revive Dean a little. He leans against the tile while Sam strips out of his own clothes, head down and back arched as the water sluices over him and Sam feels a surge of relief when Dean looks up and smiles at him.
“Dad’s gone off to Michigan,” Sam says, pushing Dean’s head back under the water. Dean shakes the water out of his eyes and opens his mouth, swallowing a few mouthfuls. “I’ll get some more Gatorade from the store when we’re done, okay?”
“First you gotta let me fix your hair, though,” Dean says wistfully, running his fingers through the ragged ends. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”
Sam smirks at him, wanting to lighten the mood a little. “You’re just mad ‘cause you won’t have it to hold on to,” he says, and Dean gives one of his few remaining curls a sharp tug.
“Damn right,” he says with a wink, and leans in to kiss Sam gently, resting his forehead against Sam’s after. “But I know how much you liked having it long, too. I thought Dad would come around, but…” Dean shrugs helplessly, no anger for himself or what John put him through, only for Sam. Sam doesn’t let him pull away, kisses him again and again until they both forget, briefly, why they’re here like this, their bodies saying what their mouths can’t.
“Bed,” Sam whispers eventually, when the water turns from cool to cold. “Wanna fuck you, Dean, please?”
“Hell yes,” Dean says, voice rough and eager as he reluctantly lets go of Sam long enough to reach behind them and turn off the water. They take turns drying each other off with the threadbare, mismatched towels, leaving them in a sopping heap on the floor as they stumble through the house to their bedroom, unwilling to stop touching long enough to make the journey quick. Dean tackles Sam onto to the bed as soon as they pass the doorway, turning them at the last minute so they fall together and make the bed creak and groan. Sam shoves him over, slides across Dean’s hips so that they fit together perfectly, the way they’re meant to.
“Changed my mind,” he pants, head falling back as he rocks against Dean. “Just like this--Dean--God--” Sam moans when Dean wraps his hand around them both, buries his other hand in what’s left of Sam’s hair and drags him down for a deep, messy kiss. It’s perfect, exactly what they both need, frantic and hot and desperate to be together any way they can.
Afterwards, Sam doesn't want to let go, and Dean doesn't make him. Sam hasn’t forgotten what his father did, but he can put it away for now, focus on Dean, the sharp clean smell of their love painting his skin, the beat of his heart under Sam’s palm, the taste of salt when Sam hides his face and the tears that still want to fall against his shoulder. Dean holds him, strokes his hair and pretends he doesn’t hear until Sam’s ready for him to.
“It’s gonna get better,” he promises, voice thick with exhaustion, eyes slipping closed. “I swear it won’t always be like this.”
Sam pulls the sheet up over them both as he wraps himself around Dean, thinking about the thick stash of college brochures and the growing pile of cash he keeps hidden in the bottom of his duffel. About the list of GED requirements and technical schools at the very bottom, just in case. “I know it won’t,” he whispers softly. “I promise.”