Soldier Son - Part 2 (Sparta Verse)

[lovesrain44]

Dad went. As fast as he could, careful as he could. While Sam knew that, even as he watched the tiny little loops forming along his torn flesh, knitting it together, each loop felt like Dad was pulling a fire-hot iron cord through him. The needle was huge when it was in him, even though it seemed no bigger than a curved piece of wire in Dad’s hand. At one point, he felt like he was going to fall over, was swaying back and forth, when Dean turned Sam’s face away, and covered his eyes with his calloused palm. Then Sam couldn’t see any more, could only feel, his free hand clenching and unclenching against Dean’s waist, hot tears soaking into Dean’s t-shirt.

“I’m going to have bruises,” said Dean.

Dad made a sound in his throat, and then Sam heard the snip of the scissors, and the coolness of air across his skin as Dad lifted his hand away. Only when Dad was tying up the ends of the long bandage covering the stitches did Dean let him go, let him look. The bandage was white, with a little butterfly knot at the end and Dad ran his hand gently along the length.

“That should hold for a few days.”

Sam’s arm thumped with the pulses of his heart like it was pressing against bone. Dad led him to the leather chair, made him sit and propped his feet up, lurching the handle of the footrest out. Sam felt like it banged his head but he didn’t say anything because quicker than that, Dad would remember who had broken the window and when he whipped Sam, he knew he couldn’t take it, especially not with his last whipping less than a week old. His arm hurt so bad, and he felt cold all over, even as his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

“Clean up that glass, Dean,” said Dad, and Sam had to squint to see what he was doing. Something at the counter with a loaf of bread.

“Sammy can't-” said Dean, on the floor, kneeling, picking up glass pieces and throwing them in the trash.

“I know that,” said Dad, his voice snapping. He walked over to Sam with something on a plate and knelt down by the arm of the chair. “Sam,” he said. “Look at me for a minute. Okay?”

Sam made himself look, but he felt like crawling into the cushions and hiding there till somehow the window was magically fixed and it was cooler. Much, much cooler.

Dad’s hand touched his forehead, pushing away Sam’s damp hair, and then he put the plate up on the armrest. “Eat this.”

Looking at it, Sam saw that it was bread and butter and sugar, folded in half. Little lumps pushed up through the bread. He reached for it, and saw Dad nod, his face still, dark eyes tracking Sam’s every move.

“I crushed up some pain pills, opened the antibiotic capsule. There’s plenty of sugar there, Sam, so eat the whole thing for me, okay?”

Oh. That’s what Dean had meant, why Dad had snapped. Sam had never been able to swallow pills, even baby aspirin, so he either ground the pills between his teeth, or sometimes, Dad would crush them for him and put it inside of a sugar sandwich. Like this. It tasted good, even though it sometimes made even sugar bitter, but Dad was looking at him like he expected Sam to refuse, and was preparing in his mind his contingency plan.

Sam turned in the chair, his skin sticking to the leather, took the sandwich and ate it. Dad stayed by his side the whole time, watching him, making sure it went down. Sam licked the corner of his lip where the last fragment of powder lingered and tried not to make a face. It tasted awful, but then it always did, and then Dad put his whole palm on Sam’s forehead now and took a deep breath. A little bit of sweat ran down in front of his ear, glistening against the tan of his skin. “Okay,” he said. Then he stood up and took the plate back to the sink.

Dean was finished picking up glass and had swept the floor and for a moment, as the air grew squalid and dark outside the open door, the air moving as though pushed by a current.

“Dean, come here.”

Dead did as he was told, as he always did, and Sam’s heart began to thump even harder at the thought of it. Dean would make it clear who had broken the window and then Sam would be in trouble. He wanted to run, but his head felt light and his legs felt like lead, and there was no way he could run far enough, fast enough to get away from Dad.

“Mind telling me what happened?”

Dipping his chin, Dean studied his feet.

Dad flipped on the light over the sink. “Dean.”

This made Dean lift his head so he could look Dad in the eye and talk man to man, which is how Dad liked it, how Dad insisted it be.

“Sam wanted to look at the crossbow,” said Dean, and Sam’s stomach clenched like a fist. “So I let him, but then he wouldn’t give it back.”

It was true, all true. That’s what made it more horrible.

“And then?” Dad’s voice was almost soft.

“So I took it and then I pushed him.”

“Through the window?” Dad’s eyebrows rose and there was a horrible glitter in his eyes. “You pushed your brother through a window?”

“I didn’t mean to, not through the window, Dad, honest. I just pushed him is all, I didn’t know-”

“Didn’t know what, Dean? How hard you were pushing? How close he was to the window?”

Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face, but he could see his brother’s shoulders roll forward, and his hands grabbing the cloth of his jeans to hold them still.

“I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just wanted-”

“That crossbow has been a damn time bomb-” started Dad, and then he stopped. Looked over at Sam and then back at Dean, eyes black and snapping, and he was taking off his belt. “Get over here.”

Sam started to move, but then Dad grabbed Dean by the back of the neck and pulled Dean over to the kitchen table. With one foot, he kicked the chair out of the way, and made a snapping noise with his fingers to tell Dean to bend over.

Sam’s mouth opened, just on the verge of saying it, of reminding Dad that he was the one who had broken the window, not Dean, but Dad was leaning forward, saying something to Dean and Sam couldn’t get the words out. Dad folded the belt in half and then he whipped Dean twenty times, hard and fast, Dean’s back curved over the table, his whole body as still as stone. Sam stayed where he was, skin against the leather chair growing hot and sticky, breath coming shallow as the prickles rose up from his gut. He knew he was next, figured he was next, but then Dad pulled Dean to a standing position and put his belt back on.

Dean’s face was white, and he looked at Sam with tears standing in his eyes, so bright, Sam could see them from all the way across the room.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he said. His t-shirt, ratty around the edges and bloodstained, was dark under his arms.

“Fine,” said Dad. “Put on some God damned shoes, and get something to nail over that window before the rains come. Pronto. Then change your shirt. I’ll get some supper going.”

Dean walked past Sam without another word, creating a little current of air as he opened the screen door, not letting it slam when it closed behind him. In another moment Sam knew he would hear the pounding of a hammer and nails as Dean did the impromptu repairs, but suddenly Dad was standing over him, holding out his hand and helping Sam stand up and walk to the table. When Dad sat him down in his chair, Sam knew, with certainty, that he wasn’t going to get a whipping. At least not today. Not for this. Although it didn’t quite seem fair that Dean should take the entire blame, and he opened his mouth to talk, but his mouth was dry, blocked.

Dad went to the kitchen sink and washed up, bending forward to sluice water over his neck, letting it drip down to darken his t-shirt. Then he stood there, looking out the window for a minute, like Sam wasn’t even there, and then he turned, scowling, to look at Sam.

“Beef broth, then,” he said, and Sam shook his head.

“I’m not hungry. Just want to go to bed.”

Dad didn’t even hesitate getting out the little saucepan and opening a can of beef broth with the can opener. Sam could smell the salt as he poured it in, and heard the pounding outside the window as Dean went at it. Watched while Dad went to the clothes box by the couch and slipped into a clean t-shirt.

“No, Sam,” said Dad, almost ignoring him as he came back. Except that he had another t-shirt in his hand and lifted Sam's arms over his head to strip off the bloody one and exchange it for the clean. Then he tossed both garments in the direction of the bathroom.

“But I’m tired,” Sam said, feeling exhaustion pulling at him like strings as he lowered his arms. He looked up at Dad as he pulled the store-bought pasta salad out of the fridge. The only thing saving them both from sweating into two puddles was the breeze coming through the open window over the table.

“And I need you to stay up for a little bit till I can give you more pills, make sure you’re okay, and then you can go to bed.”

“But I want-” He started to get up, pushing his good arm against the surface of the table, when Dad whirled on him, slamming a large hand down next to his smaller one.

“Sam, I mean it. You’ll do as you’re told, or so help me-”

The pounding outside had stopped and the light from that window was completely blocked by plywood.

Sam sat back down, shrinking against the wall, feeling some kind of blackness behind his eyes, which were hot, but he didn’t want to cry. He wanted to scream, wanted to push past Dad and then past Dean coming up the stairs, obedient, having put away the tools he’d used, having done what he was told. It wasn’t fair, it had been an accident, Dean didn’t deserve to be punished for that.

“You better settle down, or arm or no arm, I’ll be taking my belt off again, you understand me?”

Sam felt his scowl pull at his whole body, but he didn’t have the energy to stand up and say I hate you like he wanted to, so he turned and laid his forehead on the table and curved his good arm around his head. Felt his stomach turning.

“Sam?”

Sam licked his lips and then nodded. “Yes, I hear you. Can you please leave me alone now?”

Sam could feel Dad’s body tighten as he stood there and then the screen door slammed. Dean’s footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he walked into the bedroom to change his t-shirt.

“What’s for supper, Dad?” asked Dean when he came out again, and Sam could imagine, with his eyes closed, Dean rubbing his stomach, like everything wasn’t awful, like he’d not just gotten punished for something that he’d not actually done.

“Pasta salad,” said Dad, and Sam could hear Dad rummaging in the fridge to pull stuff out, someone washing vegetables, chopping at the counter, doctoring the salad up. Sam waited till his head cleared, and his stomach settled a bit before sitting up. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and realized that his arm didn’t hurt quite so much, and the back of his legs didn’t hurt at all, but that he wasn’t going to be able to eat anything without throwing up. Pain pills did that. He’d forgotten.

He watched Dean take the trash out, and change his shirt, and when Dad laid plates and utensils on the table, Sam made himself useful placing them around. Otherwise, he was going to start talking, saying what he felt, saying stuff that would make Dad mad. It was already an awful day, why make it worse.

Dean washed up at the sink and sat down, and Dad placed a mug of broth and a plate of crackers in front of Sam. Sam looked up at him and could see it in Dad’s eyes. Dad meant business; he didn’t even need to say it. Sam pulled the mug towards him with his fingers and waited while Dad sat down and served himself and Dean from the bowl. They ate silently. Sam was quite fond of pasta salad normally, but tonight he didn't have the stomach for it. Instead, he sipped on the broth, and put a cracker in his mouth, and then sipped on the broth again. It was hot, but not too hot, and salty. His stomach danced around a bit, but he kept it down. Felt the warm air push across his forehead as the storm outside the window came closer.

Halfway through supper, Dad put down his fork and looked at Dean, mouth pulled into a frown.

“Nobody touches that crossbow until Sam’s stitches come out. You hear me?”

Dean flinched with his whole body, but he didn’t say anything. He was sucking in his lips, making them a thin line, and Sam ducked his head.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam said, feeling even worse about it than he had before.

“Shut up, Sam,” said Dean, his voice cracking. He had tiny pieces of sawdust in his hair, and the back of his neck was dusty.

“Dean.”

That’s all Dad needed to say. That’s all Dad ever needed to say to Dean and Dean would hop to or toe the line or march or whatever it was Dad wanted.

Sam pushed his plate and mug away and rested his head on his arm on the table.

“Sam, pick your head up.”

“Can I be excused?”

There was a long silence. Dean stopped chewing, and Sam could actually hear Dad breathing in and out, slowly. Twice.

“No. Pick your head up.”

He knew what that was about. It wasn’t about what was wrong, or what hurt. It was pushing through it, bucking up, like a good soldier. Dean did it as easy as anything, always. Sam took his head off the table and looked over at him. Dean had started eating again, hardly fidgeting in his seat at all though he looked at little white, a little glassy eyed. Which was probably due to the thought of having yet another whole week, maybe more, where he couldn’t use his precious crossbow, and not the whipping.

“We’ll spend the extra time finishing the obstacle course, and set up the field for the crossbow,” Dad was saying now, scooping up the last of his supper with his fork. He pushed a bit of broccoli on there with his thumb and then licked the oil off. “Dean, you’ll be on the scythe, and Sam, even with one arm you can collect rocks and help me make a target.”

“Why?” Sam asked. “What difference will the rocks make?” It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of, and he knew it showed on his face because Dad pointed his fork at him.

“Did I say you could ask why?” Glaring.

Sam glared right back. “Why?”

“Sammy,” said Dean, “could you just-”

“You’re excused, Sam,” said Dad.

Sam got up from the table and staggered to the couch with more gratitude than he knew how to express. His head wanted to go down, it was just that simple, and as he sank into the cushions and laid his head in his arms, he felt the beef broth come up. But he swallowed, it was just too much trouble to move, and Dad would just make him some more and make him drink it. Just too much trouble. Everything in his body felt like it was swimming and his head felt as hard and as heavy as a bowling ball. He could hear the table being cleared and then Dad telling Dean to do the dishes. Then he heard Dad’s footsteps coming closer just as the thunder started rumbling right outside through the screen door.

“Sam,” Dad said. “Sit up.”

He did. For once he did, he couldn’t manage anything else. Parts of him had started to go numb.

Dad had a washcloth in his hand and wiped Sam's face with it. “Too much pain medication, I think,” Dad said.

“My stomach hurts.”

“Dean didn’t have this reaction,” said Dad. He took the washcloth away, then took Sam’s arm and traced the length of the bandage with his fingers. “Looks like this is holding.”

“I’m not Dean,” said Sam, muttering. Looking up at Dad through his eyelashes, thinking for a moment he saw two Dads, and neither of them happy.

“I can see that,” came the reply, rather low, like Dad was trying to keep from laughing.

Sam didn't think that it was very funny, but stomping across the wooden floor, Dean came over, wiping his hands on his jeans, attentive even with splotches of sweat already on his t-shirt and his backside probably feeling like a block of wood; Sam wanted to hit him. And then the rain started, sizzling hard against the ground.

“Dean, check the windows on the car."

Dean went out like an obedient dog, slamming the screen door behind him.

Sam jutted out his chin. “I didn’t throw up,” he said.

A current of air raced through the room, and Dean came flying in again. Sam knew with the thunderstorm, if it was a heavy one, he’d be spending the night, once again, waiting for the silence to get him. Then he realized Dad had asked him a question.

“What?” asked Sam, trying to focus, his stomach doing a slow stroll up his throat.

“Were you going to?” asked Dad again.

Sam nodded and looked down to see that he was gripping Dad’s wrist and digging in his fingernails.

“Going to,” he said, feeling his chin shake and his mouth coat itself with spit.

With one arm looped around his middle, Dad hauled him off to the bathroom just in time for Sam’s head to be over the toilet when his stomach did a gigantic rollover and everything came up, splashing. He scrambled to keep from bumping his arm against Dad’s ribs, but it didn’t work, he couldn’t get his feet under him in time, so as he spat up throatfulls of brown liquid, his body started screaming.

“Leave me ‘lone,” he tried, squirming away, but Dad held him by his waist. Then his stomach did another heave that made his spine crackle as he tried to breathe through it. He heard Dad say something to Dean about a cold washcloth, and realized that all three of them were now in the hot, narrow bathroom. He rested his head against the toilet seat and looked up at them while his stomach collected itself for another go.

“Get out,” he said, low in his throat. "Will you get the fu-" Then he stopped.

Nobody moved.

Then Dad reached over and flushed the toilet, took the washcloth from Dean, and placed it on the back of Sam’s neck. Or tried to. Sam squirmed away, and then lurched to his knees to hurl one more time. Dean reached up to the little window and opened it, and Dad handed him the washcloth so he could wipe his face. He ached all over and his arm throbbed, but his stomach was empty, so at least that part of him didn't hurt.

"You done?"

Sam nodded and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet as Dad used both hands beneath his arms. He thought about otter pops, and then he said it. "I want an Otter Pop. Little Orphan Orange."

"Well, there aren't any," said Dad, and what followed in the silence after his statement as he led Sam back to the couch was obvious. The boys were in training and treats were not allowed. Not even little ones.

"Dean, get him some water," said Dad, and then he motioned with his hand that Sam should lay back down.

Sam took in the sticky leather of the couch, hung his head, and sighed. With the storm rolling in good and proper right over their heads, the dampness and the humidity were like an unwanted weight. He thought about snow and he thought about winter, but it didn't help.

"Sam, sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not going to fall," said Sam, in return, but he sat down because his knees told him to. Not because Dad told him to.

He sat down and rested his head against the arm of the couch. As soon as he did this, his head started to swim, and the room felt like it was swaying back and forth, back and forth, like a lazy summer swing. But as long as he kept his mouth shut and didn’t think about food, didn’t move, he was going to be okay. He told himself that.

“I’m hot,” he said, finding himself saying this aloud without any intention at all to speak.

Behind his closed eyelids, he felt movement. Someone put the rotating fan near his head, on low, and someone else put a cold, folded washcloth on his forehead. It felt icy, almost painful, for a full minute, and then it started to feel better. He heard the clink of a glass being set on wood. Someone sat at the other end of the couch and hauled Sam’s feet up onto a lap and began wiping his foot and ankle with another cold cloth. Sam squinted his eyes open, expecting to see Dean, but it was Dad. He tried to jerk his foot away, but Dad gripped his ankle and held on.

“Sammy.” That was all Dad said. He said it like he said Dean’s name when he wanted instant obedience and no questions asked. Sam closed his eyes and relaxed his legs and let it happen. Let strong hands wipe down both of his feet and his ankles, his calves all the way up to his knees, making him feel many degrees cooler. Then Dad stopped, the washcloth draped across Sam’s toes, and Sam let himself drift.

Dean came up. Sam could tell by the footsteps.

“Did you clean up the rest of the puke in the bathroom?” asked Dad.

“Yeah,” said Dean, and Sam cringed. Had he thrown up on the floor? He wanted to say something, but it was easier not to. "Sam keeps saying he's hot at night."

“I’ll get some box fans next time I’m at the store,” said Dad, his voice a faraway rumble that reminded Sam of water across gravel.

Sam drifted on the silence that followed, but sensed Dean was still standing nearby.

“I’m sorry Dad, about the-”

“Then learn from it,” came the reply, without any gentleness now. Sam could picture Dean’s shoulders sagging, the chin ducking down, and he wanted to shout at Dad to stop, to leave Dean alone. He knew Dean hadn’t meant to do it, why couldn’t Dad see that? But no, he had to grind it in, punch the lesson home.

Dean’s footsteps and the slam of the screen door told Sam that Dean had gone out to the front porch to be alone, extra thuds on the wooden risers told him that Dean had gone down them, was perhaps headed out to the field, to crouch low and sit in the grass and feel the storm pass overhead. Dean wasn’t afraid of anything, and certainly not thunder or lighting, let alone the silence in between. Sam envied him that.

Dad stayed with him, sitting on the couch for a good long while, watching TV, keeping the washcloths on Sam's feet and head cold. Then he got up and went into the kitchen, and Sam heard him at the counter, opening the fridge. He came back and patted Sam on the shoulder, and when Sam opened his eyes, Dad motioned for him to sit up. He was holding a little plate with sugar sandwich, folded over.

"Twice as much sugar," he said, "and half as much pain meds. Eat up."

Sam sat up, took the sandwich and ate it, it tasted of sugar and butter and hardly anything bitter like it had before. His stomach lurched around a bit, but if he held still, he knew he could keep it down. As he finished, Dean came back in again, his shoulders damp with rain, but still not happy.

"And drink some water, too," said Dad, holding out the glass.

Sam took the glass in two hands and took several gulps, wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

"Bed, Dean," said Dad, and Dean nodded and went into the bedroom. "You too, Sammy, and if you wake up and your arm hurts, wake me."

"Yeah," said Sam. Nodding.

Dad hauled him to his feet, and Sam went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and pee, a little awkward using only one arm, and as he walked into the bedroom, he saw that Dad had taken another beer and had gone out on the front porch again to drink it, the wind whipping the screen door closed behind him. Sam walked into the bedroom: Dean was lying there under a single sheet with the light on the nightstand still on, waiting for Sam, still not smiling. Sam walked to Dean's side of the bed, and stood there, listening to the rain stream outside the open window.

"It's not your fault," he said.

"It is," said Dean, looking at him, lips still drawn, eyes half hooded. "I shouldn’t have-"

It was like trying to carry a rock up a hill only to have it come rolling down on you again. "Dad shouldn't have whipped you," he said, "it was an accident."

"But I pushed you, Sam."

"An accident. It was an accident." Sam said this with certainty. He knew Dean hadn't done it on purpose, why didn't Dean? Dean obviously needed something to make him feel better, because words weren't doing it. The medicine was kicking in now, his arm felt numb, and his lips, and his welts didn't hurt at all. His mind was going muzzy, but he still felt a stab of anger at Dad drinking a beer, treats for grownups, but none for his sons. Not even stupid Otter Pops.

"Hang on," he said. "I'll be right back."

Sam opened the bedroom door slowly, and checked. Beyond the now dark living room, Dad was still on the porch, the lightning flickering his outline into clarity. Shoulders curled forward as if he were leaning into the darkness, into the rain. Sam crept to the cupboard and got out the honey, reached into the drawer for a spoon. It took both hands to open the jar, which hurt his stitches a little, but it would be worth it. He dug in for a big spoonful of honey and hurried it into the room. Dean looked at him as he walked in. In a second he knew what Sam had, what he was up to.

"I don't want that," he said.

"Yeah, sure, sure you do." Sam held out the spoon to him. It glinted like it held a pool of gold. "It's honey, like you gave me."

"Sam," said Dean, flopping back his the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, his jaw pushed forward. "I don’t want it. Take it away."

"But Dean, it'll make you feel better."

Dean rolled over towards the window, turning his back on Sam. "Take it away."

Sam switched the spoon to his left hand and poked Dean with a finger. Predictably, since Dean hated this, he turned and faced Sam, almost sitting up now, eyes blazing.

"Don't you get it, you moron? I almost cut you to ribbons, I don't deserve it so will you fucking get it away from me?"

Sam's mouth fell open as shock rippled through him. He'd not known Dean felt this bad, and he shouldn't, because Sam was the one who had-

The door to the bedroom opened, bringing with it the wind from the front door. And Dad. "What in the hell is going on in here?"

Sam tried to hide the spoon, but as Dad flicked on the overhead light, he felt the stickiness along his left wrist, looked down to see the honey soaking the white bandage yellow. There was a moment of utter stillness, even the storm seemed to pause to take a breath, and Sam felt the horrible day well up in his throat. The back of his eyes grew hot, and he just felt tired all the way to his bones. He couldn't walk a straight line without messing it up, and by the look on Dad's face, those dark eyes taking in the whole room in an instant, he knew there was no hiding from it.

"I-" he began, but Dad marched into the room, reaching out for Sam, and Sam couldn’t move away fast enough.

"What the fuck is this?" asked Dad, and Sam could smell the beer on his breath, the dash of rain that he'd brought with him, and the heat of his anger, pushing through his skin. "Sam, I am so tired-" Then he stopped, holding Sam's arm in his hand, dark fingers curling around the bandage. "You've got honey everywhere. Dean, get up and clean this floor before the ants come."

Dean crawled out from between the sheets, barelegged except for his briefs, Sam could see the ladders of welts across the backs of his thighs for a second before Dad pulled him into the kitchen and flicked on the light over the sink. Sam could hear Dean rummaging in the bathroom for a washcloth; Dad gripped him, mouth working, and Sam tried hard not to let his knees knock, and fought the knot in his throat, but then Dad pulled out the scissors from the drawer, he couldn't help it.

"No, Dad, please-" Hot tears ripped down his face as he tried to pull away.

Dad's eyes flickered like he was going to lash out, like the time in the fruit stand and Sam jerked and pulled, but Dad had him by the wrist. Sam felt like a squirrel in a leg-trap, panic ripping at his heart, everything inside him fluttering, banging at his ribs.

"Don't-" Sam said, his voice catching in his throat.

Suddenly, Dad let him go, and as Sam backed himself against the edge of the fridge, he put the scissors on the counter. "Sammy," said Dad. Not moving. Not reaching out. "I'm only going to cut that bandage off and put on a new one. You've got honey all over, I'm just going to--I'm not going to hurt you." His voice was low, and he was standing absolutely still.

Sam brought the back of his hand to his mouth to cover it, tasted the honey there, looked down, realized he'd dripped it along the bandage, and some was on his leg. Honey would make the sheets sticky, he knew that.

Dad tipped his head, the way he did when he was waiting for an answer or a response, and it wasn't gentle, but it was sure. Sam knew that look, the waiting posture that Dad got when a ghost might appear or a boy was on the verge of doing as he was told without having to be told twice.

He took a deep breath that jagged his lungs against his ribs and made himself walk to the sink to stand right next to Dad in the near darkness. Still shaking.

"Here," Dad said, reaching for Sam's left arm. "Put your arm up here, and keep it steady."

Sam placed his arm along the edge of the counter, and only realized that he was still gripping the spoon, the now honeyless spoon, too tightly when Dad used his fingers to pry it free and let it fall into the sink with a small clank. Then Dad reached over Sam's head for the scissors and eased the point beneath the bandage.

"Hold very still," Dad said, looking down at Sam, and Sam looked up into dark eyes, Dad's head bent very close, and did as he was told. He could see the sweat on the back of Dad's neck, and the stain around the neck of his t-shirt, and smell the day's sweat on him, from the ride from Atlanta in the heat, from making supper, from sitting on the leather couch.

Dad started clipping, each snip loud and metallic, the metal cool against Sam's skin. The scissors never once snagged his skin or his stitches, and Dad cupped Sam's hand in his rather than bracing it down. He was quick too, and the bandage soon fell into the sink in a folded, sticky clump. Then Dad ran a soft thumb over the black, curling thread woven into his skin. "See?" he said, "still clean. It's healing well, but you need to stop-" Then Dad stopped, and Sam nodded his head at the unfinished sentence. Stop screwing around, otherwise it won't heal.

Dad pulled a dishtowel off the hook, wet it, and began wiping Sam's hands and wrist. He wet it again and wiped Sam's arm, and bent down to wipe Sam's leg. Then he straightened up, cupping his hand under Sam's chin, looking for honey. "It's like you rolled in it," he said, almost to himself. Sam tried to duck his chin but Dad was wiping his forehead with the towel, his cheek.

Dean came up behind them, silent on bare feet.

"Get another roll of bandage, Dean," said Dad, as he checked the other side of Sam's face, turned up the wrist on Sam's other arm. "I think I got it all."

Dean got the bandage and handed it to Dad, who unrolled it a little and began winding it around Sam's forearm, covering the black stitches with a swath of white. Dean took up the scissors and cut the edge away while Dad held it taut. Then Dad tied a little butterfly knot at the end, and tucked the bow neatly away. The tips of Dad's fingers were dark against the white as he tapped the edge. "That'll hold, provided you don't wrestle a bear."

This made Dean smile, Sam could see it out of the corner of his eye, but he was too tired to respond like that As he looked up at Dad, Dad wiped his forehead with the t-shirt over his bicep, eyes closing as he looked away.

"Get him another clean shirt, Dean," said Dad, "and get him to bed."

"Yes, sir," said Dean.

Then Dad walked over to the screen door, opened it, and went out onto the porch. Walked down the stairs and into the darkness, into the silence between the lightning flash and the bark of thunder. Sam could hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel, his heart pounding. He didn't realize he'd started towards the door, until Dean grabbed him.

"Sam," said Dean. Pulling.

"But-" He didn't want Dad walking out into the darkness, into the space between, but he couldn’t explain it to Dean any more than he could to Dad.

"Give it a rest, Sam," said Dean, giving his good arm a hard yank. "Bed. Now."

Sam let himself be pulled into the bedroom, let Dean help him tug off the honey-dappled t-shirt, and on with a clean one that Dean got from the laundry box. Dean pointed at the bed and Sam crawled in on his side, holding his bandaged arm close to his chest as Dean flicked off the overhead light and crawled in next to him. Then Dean turned out the lamp on the nightstand, and in the darkness, Sam could hear and feel him thump his head down on the pillow.

Even with the rain, it was still warm; even with the sheet kicked off, Sam felt like he was melting into a lukewarm pool of water. That was the drugs, he knew, but it didn't stop his mind from racing around and around, over the fact that it had been the worst day ever. As bad as the crossbow incident, as bad as the day Dad told Sam they were moving from Greeley and leaving the soccer team far behind. Everything was wrong, now especially, now that Dean still couldn't learn how to use the crossbow, and no matter what he said, it was, and would always be, Sam's fault.

"Dean?" he asked, turning his head on the pillow, towards the lump that was Dean. "Are you awake?"

"Sam," said Dean, his voice hard. "I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to talk to you, so just go to sleep."

Lightning flickered across the valley, jumping through Sam's skin. For one second, he could see Dean's profile, even a smatter of freckles, and the small glint of something in his eyes. The silence came, like a sliver of blackness, and on the heels of that, thunder booming through the trees.

When it was quiet again, quiet except for the rain shushing through the leaves, he reached out to pat Dean's arm.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, low. "Really, really sorry."

Dean raised his arm to make Sam's hand fall back, but he did it slowly, almost softly, rather than shoving it off. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Hunters need patience."

"Not this much," said Sam, pushing his head back into the pillow. "It's crazy for Dad to--"

"We're not talking about it," said Dean, "now go to sleep and I mean now."

Dean rolled to face the wall, and Sam sighed. It was the worst summer ever, and there wasn't anything he could do to make it better. Nothing to do to change the look in Dad's eye or his determination to have both his sons be hunters. Sam rolled to face the window. He could watch the storm that way, and keep his eye out for the silent darkness to make sure it didn't come through the window, and listen to the thunder bark across the stones and along the river, echoing like blood pounding in his ears, hot damp air racing across his skin, promising more running, more sweat, more summer. More hell.

~fin
Master Fic Post