With the Strength of Lions - Part One (Sparta Verse)
Part One
For a moment, the slow hush of the river beneath the low bent trees was all the sound there was. Beyond that, the hum of the forest played a scratchy green sound in Sam's ears as he hunkered low in the water, bare feet braced against the gravel and stones, feeling the slow, cool rush of water over this thighs and hips. As he peered over the edge of the line of willow sticks, he could see that there were three fish circling around, all alive, fat and sassy, and they would make the best cookout ever. Ever.
It had been so hot that Dad had driven them that morning to a wide place in the river, many miles below the falls, for an impromptu fishing trip. Then, Dad had showed him and Dean both how to catch fish with their bare hands. How to stand in the water until your body became the temperature of it, to lower your hands slow and keep them there. To tickle the water like river grass, to trick the fish into thinking they were safe, hiding in your hands. It had been fun, even just standing in the water where it was cool, a break from the neverending training in the pressured heat that sucked all the air out of Sam's lungs.
But Sam had grown antsy and Dad had banished him for spoiling the stillness and sent Sam upriver, where the water was low over the stones, and where his fidgeting and splashing wouldn’t bother anyone. Sam didn’t mind. He had the silence all to himself, with the water all around him, soaking him cool to his bones, and the green trees overhead, cutting off the aching heat of the sun.
He’d meandered ankle-deep along the banks, and when he’d gotten past the first bend in the river, far enough so that he couldn’t see or hear Dad or Dean, he’d built the weir. He'd figured it was just the idea of it that Dad wanted to teach, how to catch fish with no hooks or bait, to clean them against a log, and then cook them over an open fire. The idea of it.
It was just a little weir, after all, built out of broken and bent willow sticks and it had caught three fine fish in almost no time. He watched them swim around, and though no other fish came, he still hoped Dad would be pleased.
It might have been ten minutes later when Dad came striding up the middle of the river, carrying a burlap sack, water splashing up to darken his jeans all the way up his thighs, walking through it like it was nothing. Sam stayed where he was, enjoying the coolness; as soon as the fishing trip was over, as soon as Dad got them back to the cabin, he was liable to make him and Dean run a few miles. They’d gotten out of it that morning, but Sam didn’t think for one moment that Dad had forgotten.
Dad came up to him and stopped, water surging around him. His jeans were wet all the way up, and he was dripping water from his hair. He looked at the weir; there was no way he didn’t know what it was.
"Sam," said Dad. He pulled the sack into folds between his hands, as though he meant to start folding it. "When I said with your bare hands, I meant with your bare hands."
"But I did use my hands, to build the weir,” said Sam. He stood up. The water sluiced down his bare legs from his shorts; his shirt stuck to him.
Dad stood there scowling for a minute, then he peered into the weir. Sam peered in too, just as one of the fish flapped its fat tail against the surface of the water. It wouldn’t be fair if Dad made him let the fish go, just because he’d not thought of the idea himself. It wouldn’t be fair if Dad got mad because Sam couldn’t do it the same way that Dad and Dean had.
He unfolded his hands to show Dad. “I didn’t have a knife, I didn’t have anything, honest.”
“Where’d you learn how to do this?” asked Dad, still looking at the weir. His voice was low in that way he had when he was considering something that might prove useful.
“Well, it was that book on Indians, how to live like an Indian, the one-”
“The one you made such a fuss about turning back in to the library in New York?”
Yes, New York, in a little town called Red Hills, which is where Sam had stumbled upon a collection of books someone had given the old library, all of them to do with Mohawk and Iroquois and Abenaki Indians. The Indian tribes knew such cool stuff back in the old days, how to build canoes and make moccasins and, yes, catch fish in a weir.
Dean had made fun of him for being so obsessed, and Dad eventually made Sam give the book up, even though no one else was interested in checking it out. Sam had tried to memorize as much as he could before he’d turned it back in. That was two summers ago; at least he’d remembered how to build the fish trap.
Sam waited, looking at Dad, trying not to move and distract Dad from thinking, even though, quite suddenly, his thigh started itching like crazy.
“Well,” said Dad. “You understand the difference between the letter of the law and the intent of the law?”
Sam started to shake his head yes, but then he had to shake his head no. He had no idea what Dad was talking about.
Dad tipped his chin to his chest and seemed to be smiling, but Sam couldn’t be sure. Then Dad lifted his head and ruffled Sam’s damp hair, and handed him the burlap sack. “It means we’re eating these fine fish of yours, because Dean and I didn’t catch a thing.”
Trying to hide his smile, Sam dipped his head, too.
*
They stood in a damp circle with the sun streaming through the trees overhead while Dad showed him and Dean how to kill and gut fish. It was kind of gross, but interesting too, if you didn’t mind your hands stinking like fish bile. First you sliced their heads off as fast as you could, and then you sliced them open, even if they were still flipping their tails. Then you had to pull the guts out and fling them into the woods. Then you cut off the spine and the tail and flaked off the scales with the edge of the knife until all you were left with was white slabs of still-warm fish.
“You have to scale them fast, so the oil from the skin doesn’t get into the meat, you see, Sam?”
Sam stood as close as he could to Dad’s elbow as he demonstrated on the first fish, and then he let Sam and Dean do one each. Dean had cleaned a fish before, so he was all confidence and speed, but this was Sam’s first time, so he took it slow. He did each part carefully, as carefully as if he were handling a live gun, enough so that Dean started to get antsy.
“Don’t be such a girl, Sammy, it’s not going to bite you,” said Dean, giving him a whack to the back of the head.
“He’s fine, Dean, you go build a fire if you want something to do,” said Dad. He clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder and smiled down at him with dark eyes. “Take your time, Sammy, there’s plenty of good meat and rushing it could ruin the flavor.”
Same swallowed his pleasure and turned back to cleaning the fish, keeping his fingers away from the blade as he cut and trimmed, till he was left with the white slabs.
“What kind of fish are these, Dad?” Sam asked. Dad had told him before, but he’d forgotten.
“Bluegills, I think,” said Dad, “anyway, they’ll be good eating, catching them and cleaning them like this.”
“How do we cook them?” Sam asked now. He was done with his fish so he gave it a little pat and then wiped his hands on his shirt.
“On sticks, like the Indians,” said Dad. He pulled out some sticks with pointed ends that he’d gathered and cut.
“Actually,” said Sam, not meaning to interrupt, but unable to stop himself. “The Indians built little grills, racks of woven sticks and stuff. Sometimes, they baked them in clay, but that was only if-”
Dean laughed out loud at this and fell over in the dust as if overcome with Sam’s geekiness, but Dad just snorted and clapped Sam on the shoulder again.
“That’s fine and true enough, but we’re going to do it this way, so everyone gets a stick they can hold over the fire.”
That was okay by Sam, there was pretty much nothing funner than sitting in front of a fire with a stick, roasting a large chunk of fish at the end of it. Especially since Dean made really good fires; he knew how to lay the little smudge of moss and scraps just so, and how to lay the sticks and logs so the whole thing lit up right away and was very pretty while it burned.
When the fire was good and going, they all sat in the dust next to it, which was a little hot in the middle of the day, but it was still nice to be sitting still and roasting fish, in the shade instead of running or eating leftovers in the cabin. Sam watched Dad and Dean stare at the fire, each in their own thoughts, but by the set of their shoulders they were as relaxed as Sam was.
Sam made sure to turn his fish every thirty seconds so it would get nicely crisp and brown on each side. They didn’t have salt or butter to season the fish but that was part of the lesson: how to eat something when there is nothing else to eat.
“Is it done?” he asked Dad because he wasn’t sure how long fish should cook.
“Two more minutes, Sam; turn your fish, Dean.”
Dean turned his fish, and Sam counted to thirty four more times, and then, after the nod from Dad, pulled his fish out of the fire and laid it on a rock that Dad had collected to use as plates. There was a little dust on the rock, but that was part of the lesson too, how not to be too finicky. Dad and Dean did the same while Sam waited for the fish to cool. But he was hungry, so he dug in with his fingers wincing at the heat, and shoved a chunk of fish in his mouth. It was so hot, he had to open his mouth to cool it while Dean laughed at him, till Dad chuffed Dean gently on the back of the head to get him to stop.
As for the taste? It was amazing, it tasted wild and fresh, and even without salt and butter, there was a nice tang to it, maybe because the fish had drank river water all its life, and ate fresh bugs or whatever it was that fish ate. It was delicious, and Sam finished his first piece quickly, and then reached for the pile of raw fish for some more.
“Two pieces each,” said Dad, while reaching for his own second helping.
Dean didn’t like fish all that much, but even he ate two full helpings, like Sam did. Then they squabbled over the last little piece sitting there. Dad said he was full, and Sam pushed the fish towards Dean, to be nice. Dean smiled at him while he cooked the piece, turning it ever thirty seconds like Sam had, and then he split it with Sam even though it was no more than a mouthful for either of them. Then he ruffled the back of Sam’s head, like Dad had done.
To clean up, all they had to do was leave the rocks at the river’s edge where Dad said the raccoons would come and finish the scraps they had left. Then Dad got the plastic gallon milk jug from the trunk of the Impala and let Sam be the first one to fill it up with water from the river and pour it over the flames to put them out. Sam felt important as he hauled the water up the bank and tipped the bottom of the gallon jug to pour the water in a perfect circle. The fire sizzled and spat and the smoke twisted and got in their eyes, but Sam manned it out and didn’t stop pouring till he was out of water.
Then Dad kicked dirt over the sticks and charcoal and Dean hauled and poured the second gallon till the fire wasn’t even smoking, though Sam could still smell the smoke in the air. When Dad was satisfied the fire was out, he put even more dirt on it, and had Sam and Dean do the same till they were all covered with dust.
"Can’t risk a forest fire,” Dad said. “These woods are too pretty to burn.”
Sam looked around him. The woods were pretty, he’d thought so when they’d first driven up, but he never thought he’d heard anyone agree with him, let alone Dad.
"Okay,” said Dad, “time to go home.”
They piled into the Impala, dusty, smelling like river water and fish, with streaks of grime on their faces and in their clothes, stains that would never come out. Dad talked to Dean all the way back to the cabin, while Sam rolled down the back window and leaned out as far as he could to catch the breeze and the sweetness of the afternoon air.
It was the best day ever.
*
Sam felt the current of the water rush past his ankles. The river above the falls was a little faster than it had been at the spot where he and Dad and Dean had gone fishing a few days back. It wasn’t as nice a piece of river either, but he wanted to have a day like the fishing trip had been, so when he and Dean had been on an afternoon run through the woods, Sam had turned off the main path and had followed a narrow bit of dirt that he knew led to the river, running as fast as he could. When he heard Dean following him along the path, Sam had gone in the water without saying a word, thinking that if he went in, Dean would have to follow.
The water was darker here, the bottom beneath his feet less sure. As he walked away from the bank, he had to pinwheel his arms a little to stay upright. Looking backwards over his shoulder at how far he’d come, he wondered if this might not be the best idea, after all.
But the air beneath the leaves, over the water, was silky and green compared to the scythe-cut sharp field where the shooting targets were. Even the dark, still porch of the cabin wasn’t as cool as the air over the river. He felt the sweat drying along the back of his neck like a sure, clear glaze of ice, and it was the coolest he’d been all summer (except for the fishing trip), so he took another step. And then another, catching the breeze from the top of the water against the back of his knees and sighing.
“Sam!”
Sam didn’t turn his head; he would just pretend he didn’t hear. After all, the rush of the river was loud enough to block a whole lot of sound so that even Dean shouting at him might not be heard. Come to think of it, the birds in the trees were pretty loud, too. Nope, he couldn’t hear a thing.
“Come back out of there, you know what Dad said!” Dean was really raising his voice, as if he expected the loudness of it could draw Sam right out of the river and up the short bank obediently to Dean’s side.
And yes, Sam knew what Dad had said, Dad always had plenty to say and none of it was fun. None of it was about any opportunity for Sam to do something he liked. He was sick and tired of running and sparring, of chopping wood and fighting with Dean all the time. And most of all, he was tired of being hot. Just sick and tired of it. Now that he wasn’t hot, he was going to stay that way. The water was up to his knees now. He leaned forward to gather the green water into his hands and splash it over his head. The water trickled down his hair and behind his ears, as cold as snow.
“Sam!”
Come to think of it, he was sick and tired of Dean’s voice, too. It was starting to sound just like Dad’s with the same bossy tone, barking out orders day and night, and never once offering to take Sam to a schoolyard or a local athletic field where he could play soccer for an afternoon or something. Well, Sam had had enough.
He took three more quick steps, rising up on his toes to push off a flat rock that teetered beneath him, and then landed with both feet in what felt like a deep bowl of sand that sent him in water past his hips. Sand started sifting into his sneakers. But it was solid enough, he’d landed fine, and he turned to look at Dean and smirk at him, to show him how fun this was and maybe Dean would just give in and join him. They could both get cool in the water, they’d both say they’d took a run through the woods like they were supposed to, and Dad would never find out. He didn’t have to; it was ridiculous that they had to run every day, anyway.
Dean was standing at the very edge of the water, looking at it, and then looking at Sam. He shook his head.
“You better come out, it’s pretty fast,” he said. His voice was low, but Sam heard it anyway; there was no point in pretending; he always heard what Dean said.
Sam shook his head in return, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “Who’s the baby now, huh?”
“I’m not a baby,” said Dean, retorting before he clamped his mouth shut, realizing that saying you weren’t a baby meant that you obviously were. “I just got more sense than you.”
“And I’m cooler than you,” said Sam. He swept his palms along the surface of the water, and lifted them up, drops trailing from the sides of his fingers. “See?”
Sam could see Dean relenting, just a bit, as he looked at the water, and then over his shoulder towards the cabin, as if checking for Dad. The cabin was more than a mile away from the bank, and since it was the very place Dad had told them not to go in the river, it would also be the last place he would think to look. Sam could see all these thoughts going across Dean’s face and he felt the happiness bubble up inside of him. Dean was going to come in, they could have some fun. And, more importantly, Dean was going to be on his side for once.
Dean’s foot moved an inch in the water, his sneakers still on, like Sam, and Sam turned towards the other bank, wanting to get deeper, up to his waist, to be in position when Dean came close enough to dunk. Of course, it was a foregone conclusion that Dean would be able to shove Sam’s head under the water first, he was older and taller after all, but even that would be part of the fun. Sam wouldn’t mind, if it would make Dean laugh and not be so mad at him all the time. Except for the fishing trip, Dean hadn’t liked him all summer.
“Sam.”
That was Dean. Sam could hear the indecision in his voice, and Sam lifted his foot to turn back around to watch Dean come in with him, just as a cold push of water rammed against him and he went down, his head going under the surface, catching him off guard. He sputtered for air, and pushed himself up with his hand, grinding his skin against something rough, a buried log, maybe or a gritty patch of stone. The river dragged him along, scraping his legs across the sharp rocks along the bottom. The water rushed past his ears and as he lifted his chin above the water, he realized he couldn’t grab on to anything and that the river was starting to carry him downstream.
“Sam!”
Sam could hear Dean’s voice perfectly clear this time, sharp like a knife over the surface of the water. Sam scrabbled for something to hold onto. His eyes were just about level with the bank, where Dean started walking into the river, moving towards Sam as the water got thunderously loud in his ears, the pull of it getting stronger, making it very hard to stand up.
Just as Dean was in up to his knees in the water, something smashed into Sam’s back, causing him to spread into an arch as the water boiled against his chest and into his mouth and nose. He was coughing even as he could hear Dean yelling at him to turn around, so he tried doing that, and found himself hugging a large, sharp-edged rock, pressed against it as the water sliced into his back. He spat the sand and water out of his mouth and tried to take little breaths.
He hunched his shoulders and hung on because he could see it right away, he was stuck. Even without Dean or Dad explaining it to him, he could see it. If he stayed on the rock, he had a pocket of air to breathe in, as the foaming air cut around him on either side. But if he moved to the side of the rock, he would get torn into the dark pocket of water beneath the foam, where he wouldn’t get any air at all. He would drown. But how long could he stay like this? His hands were raw and his toes were already numb from hooking against the rock, and where had his sneakers gone?
Somewhere to his left, he could hear splashing, and looked up to see Dean’s white face, with his freckles standing out like dots, not five feet away from him. The swirling water was foaming past Dean’s thighs, and his hands were out as if he meant to grab Sam and rescue him like Superman or something. But they were many, many feet away from where Sam had gone into the river, and though the bank on either side seemed a little closer now, the narrowness of the channel meant that the river was rushing faster, past rocks and unseen deep parts where the water churned and churned and never saw daylight. How could Dean possibly pull him out of that?
“Go get Dad,” said Sam, shouting past the roar of the water. He was sure Dean heard at least part of that, because Dean looked back over his shoulder, towards the bank, as if measuring the distance.
Dean opened his mouth, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see that he was talking, but Sam couldn’t hear a thing. The worst of it was, Dean didn’t move, didn’t go back to the bank at all, not to get Dad, not to save himself. Maybe he was stuck.
But if he was, there was no one to get Dad, and if they got swept down the river, Dad would never know what happened to his boys. He would always wonder where they had gone. Of course, being Dad, he would probably be able to follow their tracks and figure out what had happened that way; he’d know they’d gone in when they weren’t supposed to, and worse, he’d know that Sam had gone in first, against some very specific orders. He’d be pissed beyond imagining, so maybe it would be better if they got sucked away by the river.
Sam looked over his shoulder again, and breathed through his nose as the water drummed on his face and neck. He could see Dean’s face, whiter than iced paper, his eyes huge and green, as green as the leaves overhead. He wasn’t saying anything, just looking at Sam with his eyebrow doing that little quirk that it did when he was thinking hard. Maybe he was thinking that his kid brother was an idiot for getting them into this jam, and Sam certainly wouldn’t blame him.
But Dean wasn’t trying to save himself, that was for certain, and whether it was because he was stuck or because he was going to stay and die with Sam, that meant that Sam wasn’t going to die alone. But he certainly was going to die; the realization hit him hard, as his chest filled up with a cold dread, like an icy hand had clenched at his heart. His eyes got hot, he didn’t want to cry, he didn’t want Dean to see him crying, he wanted to be brave like Dean was. But he was going to miss Dean, miss him forever. Miss him forever, more than anything. More than soccer, even.
Sam looked away from Dean, and back at the rock, and felt himself slip forward a little. A lot, with the water pushing at his back. He felt his breastbone press against the edge of the rock as the water rushed up the back of his neck, icy against his spine. His hands started to skid on the sides of the rock, and somewhere, beneath the surface, something was scraping against his thigh, over and over; it would hurt if his legs weren’t so cold.
He heard a noise, and turned his head towards Dean again. But Dean wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at the bank. At the bank, many, many feet behind them, where Dad was standing.
Sam turned away again. He wouldn’t miss Dad, that was for sure. Besides, he was so cold he couldn’t even shiver, so what did it matter?
He heard shouting. Dean was saying something like hold and on, but the two words didn’t make much sense over the roar of the river, and what was Dad doing anyway. Sam heard the splashing before he felt Dad’s touch and as he was lifted into warm, hard arms, and after one astonished look at Dad’s tanned face, he curled his arms around Dad’s neck and his legs around Dad’s torso and hung on like a monkey, as water streamed down his arms and legs.
Dad started walking upstream, one arm beneath Sam’s bottom, the other curved around his back, a firm hand cradling his head.
“Hold on,” said Dad in his ear, above the roar of the river. “If I go down, just hold your breath and keep holding on, you hear me?”
Sam nodded against Dad’s neck. “Yes,” he said, and then realized he was whispering. Dad hated that. “Yes, Dad,” he said, a little louder.
As Dad moved, Sam could see that Dean was still standing in the water. Stranded there, water up to his hips now, balancing sideways a little, his one hand under the water as he propped himself against something to hold himself in place. Dad walked right past Dean, and never slowed down, never even looked at Dean.
And just as Sam was wondering why Dad had rescued him first, Dad must have slipped, because suddenly he couldn’t quite catch his breath, and his head was under the water, banging against the stones. It would have hurt worse, but there was something behind his head, cushioning the blow.
Quicker than that, Dad stood up again, spitting as Sam coughed water out of his mouth. There was a low growl in Dad’s chest that Sam could hear against his heart, Dad’s breath hard in his ear as he struggled against the heavy flow of the river. Walking, step by step, his stride pausing as his boots struggled to find purchase against the rocks and gravel. Until, with three quick strides, Dad was at the bank, at the exact sloped spot where Sam and Dean had first gone in the water.
Dad uncurled Sam’s arms from his neck, and peeled Sam’s legs from his waist and dropped Sam to the ground. Without stopping, Dad walked into the river again, and Sam could see was wet up to the neck, and that his eyes were hard and focused, and that he was walking towards Dean, coming in at an angle, marching through the deep spots, not stopping till he had his arm around Dean’s shoulders. They walked back together, using the force of Dad’s legs to break the rush of the river, and Dean’s energy to move them forward.
When they arrived at the bank, Dad suddenly let Dean go, like he’d done with Sam, and then he turned away, standing there with his back to them both, breathing hard. He propped a hand up along a tree, fingers digging into the bark, his hand fisting and unfisting over and over. His head was bent forward, and he didn’t look at them. Sam saw something bright and red seeping along the back of Dad’s forearm. He felt the back of his own head, which had the beginnings of a sore spot, and he thought maybe it had been Dad’s hand cushioning the back of his head when Dad had slipped. Maybe.
“Dad?” asked Dean. He stood there dripping, looking at Dad. Ignoring Sam.
Sam made himself stand up, since no one was going to help him, obviously. He was soaked through, and the heat of the air along the bank and under the trees hit him like a blow, burning through his icy cold skin as the water streamed from his t-shirt and shorts. He started to shiver. He had no socks, no shoes, and his feet were raw. He thought of the mile long hike through the woods with the stones and pokey pine needles, not to mention Dad barking at his heels the whole way, and sighed. It was going to be terrible, no matter what.
It was very still for a minute, though Sam thought he could hear as the water plopped from the bottom of Dad’s jeans onto the tops of his boots. If they didn’t get the boots dried properly, they would be ruined. But maybe they were so soaked they were ruined anyway, even though Sam was starting to get the feeling that his boots were the last thing on Dad’s mind.
Dad turned around. Slowly. He kept his left hand low at his side, but Sam could still see that it was mashed up, all purple and red. Dad looked at Dean, and then he looked at Sam as his water dripped from his hair, down the sides of his face.
“Where are your shoes?” he asked. His voice was level, though his eyes glinted, and Sam looked down at his feet.
His feet were bare, and spotted with dust. They were raw from the rocks in the river, but they weren’t bleeding. His toes were warming up, and he wasn’t going to die. At least not today.
“Uh,” he said. “The river. They’re in the river.”
“Good sneakers, Sam,” said Dad. “Wasted through your careless, reckless-”
Sam frowned. He remembered that Dad said the sneakers weren’t much good for running on blacktop, and Sam hadn’t liked them all that much. “Maybe I need new sneakers anyway,” he said. Then he shrugged his shoulders, feeling the damp cloth along his sides fold up. “Maybe.”
Dad closed his eyes, and then opened them, shaking his head at nothing. Dean moved forward, his mouth open like he wanted to say something, but then Dad shook his head at Dean and looked at Sam.
“You can’t walk through the woods like that,” he said. “Come here.” Then he bent down on one knee, and gestured to Sam, so Sam walked forward and climbed on Dad’s back. He should have been too big for this, but he had no shoes and Dad was always going on about the dangers of going barefoot, so. Dad curved his arms backward to support Sam’s legs and bottom, and Sam circled his arms around Dad’s shoulders as Dad shifted his weight and stood up.
“Dean, you walk ahead,” said Dad.
Sam saw Dean’s jaw move like he was trying to not say something, but then he did what Dad said, like he always did, and headed up the path through the woods towards the cabin. Dad was close on his heels, going almost at a trot, as if he had too much energy to hold back. Sam hung on, feeling Dad’s heartbeat through his ribs, feeling the warmth of his skin, smelling the dampness of Dad’s dark hair. Sam was still dripping, but warming up, as the hot air swirled around them, feeling like a sauna as his shirt steamed along his back. By the time they reached the cabin, they were just about as damp as they had been in the river, only hotter.
At the bottom step of the cabin, Dad released his arms and lowered Sam to the ground in one quick motion.
“Inside,” he said.
Dean pounded up the stairs, and Sam followed him, slipping past the just-closing screen door, where he could smell the dark still air that told him Dad had been sharpening knives.
They walked towards the kitchen table where the whetting stone and knives and a little rag sat in a row. Dad walked up right behind them, flicking on the kitchen light with his undamaged hand. Before Sam could sit down and rest his shaking knees, Dad pulled out his chair at the kitchen table and sat down. His shoulders hunched, and for a minute he didn’t say anything as he looked at the wooden floor, damp from their shoes, from the water still dripping from them all. Then he straightened up, his shoulders going back, his mouth in a firm line. His eyes were dark as he looked at each of them in turn.
“So? One of you want to tell me what happened?” He waved his good hand at them both with an almost dismissive air. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”
Sam clamped his jaw shut. He wasn’t going to admit to anything. It was an accident, anyways. If he’d not gotten stuck in the river, then Dean wouldn’t have come in after him, that’s all. He realized he was shivering now, in the relative cool of the cabin, but he didn’t want Dad’s attention focused on him, so he wrapped his arms around his waist and tried to keep still.
“I’m-it’s my fault,” said Dean.
Sam rolled his eyes, feeling the anger well inside of him, because of course Dean would say that, would not only start confessing right away, but would say that he’d done it. He’d take the blame, like he always did.
Dad’s eyebrows rose in his forehead.
“Sam wanted to go in the river,” said Dean, continuing, though he had to pause and take a swallow. “He wanted to so-so I let him. And then I w-went in after him, so I could go wading too.”
As lies went, it was a whopper because it wasn’t even close to how it had happened. And it wasn’t even a good lie, as far as Sam could see. Dean should have said something like, Sam slipped from the bank and I had to go in and rescue him, something like that. Something that would make neither one of them to blame. Something Dad could understand, that Dean had to rescue his little brother, once again. If Sam took some ribbing about being clumsy enough to slip, well, he could take that. He had in the past and would again in the future. It was all fine by him.
Master Fic Post
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://lovesrain44.dreamwidth.org/3635.html.
For a moment, the slow hush of the river beneath the low bent trees was all the sound there was. Beyond that, the hum of the forest played a scratchy green sound in Sam's ears as he hunkered low in the water, bare feet braced against the gravel and stones, feeling the slow, cool rush of water over this thighs and hips. As he peered over the edge of the line of willow sticks, he could see that there were three fish circling around, all alive, fat and sassy, and they would make the best cookout ever. Ever.
It had been so hot that Dad had driven them that morning to a wide place in the river, many miles below the falls, for an impromptu fishing trip. Then, Dad had showed him and Dean both how to catch fish with their bare hands. How to stand in the water until your body became the temperature of it, to lower your hands slow and keep them there. To tickle the water like river grass, to trick the fish into thinking they were safe, hiding in your hands. It had been fun, even just standing in the water where it was cool, a break from the neverending training in the pressured heat that sucked all the air out of Sam's lungs.
But Sam had grown antsy and Dad had banished him for spoiling the stillness and sent Sam upriver, where the water was low over the stones, and where his fidgeting and splashing wouldn’t bother anyone. Sam didn’t mind. He had the silence all to himself, with the water all around him, soaking him cool to his bones, and the green trees overhead, cutting off the aching heat of the sun.
He’d meandered ankle-deep along the banks, and when he’d gotten past the first bend in the river, far enough so that he couldn’t see or hear Dad or Dean, he’d built the weir. He'd figured it was just the idea of it that Dad wanted to teach, how to catch fish with no hooks or bait, to clean them against a log, and then cook them over an open fire. The idea of it.
It was just a little weir, after all, built out of broken and bent willow sticks and it had caught three fine fish in almost no time. He watched them swim around, and though no other fish came, he still hoped Dad would be pleased.
It might have been ten minutes later when Dad came striding up the middle of the river, carrying a burlap sack, water splashing up to darken his jeans all the way up his thighs, walking through it like it was nothing. Sam stayed where he was, enjoying the coolness; as soon as the fishing trip was over, as soon as Dad got them back to the cabin, he was liable to make him and Dean run a few miles. They’d gotten out of it that morning, but Sam didn’t think for one moment that Dad had forgotten.
Dad came up to him and stopped, water surging around him. His jeans were wet all the way up, and he was dripping water from his hair. He looked at the weir; there was no way he didn’t know what it was.
"Sam," said Dad. He pulled the sack into folds between his hands, as though he meant to start folding it. "When I said with your bare hands, I meant with your bare hands."
"But I did use my hands, to build the weir,” said Sam. He stood up. The water sluiced down his bare legs from his shorts; his shirt stuck to him.
Dad stood there scowling for a minute, then he peered into the weir. Sam peered in too, just as one of the fish flapped its fat tail against the surface of the water. It wouldn’t be fair if Dad made him let the fish go, just because he’d not thought of the idea himself. It wouldn’t be fair if Dad got mad because Sam couldn’t do it the same way that Dad and Dean had.
He unfolded his hands to show Dad. “I didn’t have a knife, I didn’t have anything, honest.”
“Where’d you learn how to do this?” asked Dad, still looking at the weir. His voice was low in that way he had when he was considering something that might prove useful.
“Well, it was that book on Indians, how to live like an Indian, the one-”
“The one you made such a fuss about turning back in to the library in New York?”
Yes, New York, in a little town called Red Hills, which is where Sam had stumbled upon a collection of books someone had given the old library, all of them to do with Mohawk and Iroquois and Abenaki Indians. The Indian tribes knew such cool stuff back in the old days, how to build canoes and make moccasins and, yes, catch fish in a weir.
Dean had made fun of him for being so obsessed, and Dad eventually made Sam give the book up, even though no one else was interested in checking it out. Sam had tried to memorize as much as he could before he’d turned it back in. That was two summers ago; at least he’d remembered how to build the fish trap.
Sam waited, looking at Dad, trying not to move and distract Dad from thinking, even though, quite suddenly, his thigh started itching like crazy.
“Well,” said Dad. “You understand the difference between the letter of the law and the intent of the law?”
Sam started to shake his head yes, but then he had to shake his head no. He had no idea what Dad was talking about.
Dad tipped his chin to his chest and seemed to be smiling, but Sam couldn’t be sure. Then Dad lifted his head and ruffled Sam’s damp hair, and handed him the burlap sack. “It means we’re eating these fine fish of yours, because Dean and I didn’t catch a thing.”
Trying to hide his smile, Sam dipped his head, too.
*
They stood in a damp circle with the sun streaming through the trees overhead while Dad showed him and Dean how to kill and gut fish. It was kind of gross, but interesting too, if you didn’t mind your hands stinking like fish bile. First you sliced their heads off as fast as you could, and then you sliced them open, even if they were still flipping their tails. Then you had to pull the guts out and fling them into the woods. Then you cut off the spine and the tail and flaked off the scales with the edge of the knife until all you were left with was white slabs of still-warm fish.
“You have to scale them fast, so the oil from the skin doesn’t get into the meat, you see, Sam?”
Sam stood as close as he could to Dad’s elbow as he demonstrated on the first fish, and then he let Sam and Dean do one each. Dean had cleaned a fish before, so he was all confidence and speed, but this was Sam’s first time, so he took it slow. He did each part carefully, as carefully as if he were handling a live gun, enough so that Dean started to get antsy.
“Don’t be such a girl, Sammy, it’s not going to bite you,” said Dean, giving him a whack to the back of the head.
“He’s fine, Dean, you go build a fire if you want something to do,” said Dad. He clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder and smiled down at him with dark eyes. “Take your time, Sammy, there’s plenty of good meat and rushing it could ruin the flavor.”
Same swallowed his pleasure and turned back to cleaning the fish, keeping his fingers away from the blade as he cut and trimmed, till he was left with the white slabs.
“What kind of fish are these, Dad?” Sam asked. Dad had told him before, but he’d forgotten.
“Bluegills, I think,” said Dad, “anyway, they’ll be good eating, catching them and cleaning them like this.”
“How do we cook them?” Sam asked now. He was done with his fish so he gave it a little pat and then wiped his hands on his shirt.
“On sticks, like the Indians,” said Dad. He pulled out some sticks with pointed ends that he’d gathered and cut.
“Actually,” said Sam, not meaning to interrupt, but unable to stop himself. “The Indians built little grills, racks of woven sticks and stuff. Sometimes, they baked them in clay, but that was only if-”
Dean laughed out loud at this and fell over in the dust as if overcome with Sam’s geekiness, but Dad just snorted and clapped Sam on the shoulder again.
“That’s fine and true enough, but we’re going to do it this way, so everyone gets a stick they can hold over the fire.”
That was okay by Sam, there was pretty much nothing funner than sitting in front of a fire with a stick, roasting a large chunk of fish at the end of it. Especially since Dean made really good fires; he knew how to lay the little smudge of moss and scraps just so, and how to lay the sticks and logs so the whole thing lit up right away and was very pretty while it burned.
When the fire was good and going, they all sat in the dust next to it, which was a little hot in the middle of the day, but it was still nice to be sitting still and roasting fish, in the shade instead of running or eating leftovers in the cabin. Sam watched Dad and Dean stare at the fire, each in their own thoughts, but by the set of their shoulders they were as relaxed as Sam was.
Sam made sure to turn his fish every thirty seconds so it would get nicely crisp and brown on each side. They didn’t have salt or butter to season the fish but that was part of the lesson: how to eat something when there is nothing else to eat.
“Is it done?” he asked Dad because he wasn’t sure how long fish should cook.
“Two more minutes, Sam; turn your fish, Dean.”
Dean turned his fish, and Sam counted to thirty four more times, and then, after the nod from Dad, pulled his fish out of the fire and laid it on a rock that Dad had collected to use as plates. There was a little dust on the rock, but that was part of the lesson too, how not to be too finicky. Dad and Dean did the same while Sam waited for the fish to cool. But he was hungry, so he dug in with his fingers wincing at the heat, and shoved a chunk of fish in his mouth. It was so hot, he had to open his mouth to cool it while Dean laughed at him, till Dad chuffed Dean gently on the back of the head to get him to stop.
As for the taste? It was amazing, it tasted wild and fresh, and even without salt and butter, there was a nice tang to it, maybe because the fish had drank river water all its life, and ate fresh bugs or whatever it was that fish ate. It was delicious, and Sam finished his first piece quickly, and then reached for the pile of raw fish for some more.
“Two pieces each,” said Dad, while reaching for his own second helping.
Dean didn’t like fish all that much, but even he ate two full helpings, like Sam did. Then they squabbled over the last little piece sitting there. Dad said he was full, and Sam pushed the fish towards Dean, to be nice. Dean smiled at him while he cooked the piece, turning it ever thirty seconds like Sam had, and then he split it with Sam even though it was no more than a mouthful for either of them. Then he ruffled the back of Sam’s head, like Dad had done.
To clean up, all they had to do was leave the rocks at the river’s edge where Dad said the raccoons would come and finish the scraps they had left. Then Dad got the plastic gallon milk jug from the trunk of the Impala and let Sam be the first one to fill it up with water from the river and pour it over the flames to put them out. Sam felt important as he hauled the water up the bank and tipped the bottom of the gallon jug to pour the water in a perfect circle. The fire sizzled and spat and the smoke twisted and got in their eyes, but Sam manned it out and didn’t stop pouring till he was out of water.
Then Dad kicked dirt over the sticks and charcoal and Dean hauled and poured the second gallon till the fire wasn’t even smoking, though Sam could still smell the smoke in the air. When Dad was satisfied the fire was out, he put even more dirt on it, and had Sam and Dean do the same till they were all covered with dust.
"Can’t risk a forest fire,” Dad said. “These woods are too pretty to burn.”
Sam looked around him. The woods were pretty, he’d thought so when they’d first driven up, but he never thought he’d heard anyone agree with him, let alone Dad.
"Okay,” said Dad, “time to go home.”
They piled into the Impala, dusty, smelling like river water and fish, with streaks of grime on their faces and in their clothes, stains that would never come out. Dad talked to Dean all the way back to the cabin, while Sam rolled down the back window and leaned out as far as he could to catch the breeze and the sweetness of the afternoon air.
It was the best day ever.
*
Sam felt the current of the water rush past his ankles. The river above the falls was a little faster than it had been at the spot where he and Dad and Dean had gone fishing a few days back. It wasn’t as nice a piece of river either, but he wanted to have a day like the fishing trip had been, so when he and Dean had been on an afternoon run through the woods, Sam had turned off the main path and had followed a narrow bit of dirt that he knew led to the river, running as fast as he could. When he heard Dean following him along the path, Sam had gone in the water without saying a word, thinking that if he went in, Dean would have to follow.
The water was darker here, the bottom beneath his feet less sure. As he walked away from the bank, he had to pinwheel his arms a little to stay upright. Looking backwards over his shoulder at how far he’d come, he wondered if this might not be the best idea, after all.
But the air beneath the leaves, over the water, was silky and green compared to the scythe-cut sharp field where the shooting targets were. Even the dark, still porch of the cabin wasn’t as cool as the air over the river. He felt the sweat drying along the back of his neck like a sure, clear glaze of ice, and it was the coolest he’d been all summer (except for the fishing trip), so he took another step. And then another, catching the breeze from the top of the water against the back of his knees and sighing.
“Sam!”
Sam didn’t turn his head; he would just pretend he didn’t hear. After all, the rush of the river was loud enough to block a whole lot of sound so that even Dean shouting at him might not be heard. Come to think of it, the birds in the trees were pretty loud, too. Nope, he couldn’t hear a thing.
“Come back out of there, you know what Dad said!” Dean was really raising his voice, as if he expected the loudness of it could draw Sam right out of the river and up the short bank obediently to Dean’s side.
And yes, Sam knew what Dad had said, Dad always had plenty to say and none of it was fun. None of it was about any opportunity for Sam to do something he liked. He was sick and tired of running and sparring, of chopping wood and fighting with Dean all the time. And most of all, he was tired of being hot. Just sick and tired of it. Now that he wasn’t hot, he was going to stay that way. The water was up to his knees now. He leaned forward to gather the green water into his hands and splash it over his head. The water trickled down his hair and behind his ears, as cold as snow.
“Sam!”
Come to think of it, he was sick and tired of Dean’s voice, too. It was starting to sound just like Dad’s with the same bossy tone, barking out orders day and night, and never once offering to take Sam to a schoolyard or a local athletic field where he could play soccer for an afternoon or something. Well, Sam had had enough.
He took three more quick steps, rising up on his toes to push off a flat rock that teetered beneath him, and then landed with both feet in what felt like a deep bowl of sand that sent him in water past his hips. Sand started sifting into his sneakers. But it was solid enough, he’d landed fine, and he turned to look at Dean and smirk at him, to show him how fun this was and maybe Dean would just give in and join him. They could both get cool in the water, they’d both say they’d took a run through the woods like they were supposed to, and Dad would never find out. He didn’t have to; it was ridiculous that they had to run every day, anyway.
Dean was standing at the very edge of the water, looking at it, and then looking at Sam. He shook his head.
“You better come out, it’s pretty fast,” he said. His voice was low, but Sam heard it anyway; there was no point in pretending; he always heard what Dean said.
Sam shook his head in return, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “Who’s the baby now, huh?”
“I’m not a baby,” said Dean, retorting before he clamped his mouth shut, realizing that saying you weren’t a baby meant that you obviously were. “I just got more sense than you.”
“And I’m cooler than you,” said Sam. He swept his palms along the surface of the water, and lifted them up, drops trailing from the sides of his fingers. “See?”
Sam could see Dean relenting, just a bit, as he looked at the water, and then over his shoulder towards the cabin, as if checking for Dad. The cabin was more than a mile away from the bank, and since it was the very place Dad had told them not to go in the river, it would also be the last place he would think to look. Sam could see all these thoughts going across Dean’s face and he felt the happiness bubble up inside of him. Dean was going to come in, they could have some fun. And, more importantly, Dean was going to be on his side for once.
Dean’s foot moved an inch in the water, his sneakers still on, like Sam, and Sam turned towards the other bank, wanting to get deeper, up to his waist, to be in position when Dean came close enough to dunk. Of course, it was a foregone conclusion that Dean would be able to shove Sam’s head under the water first, he was older and taller after all, but even that would be part of the fun. Sam wouldn’t mind, if it would make Dean laugh and not be so mad at him all the time. Except for the fishing trip, Dean hadn’t liked him all summer.
“Sam.”
That was Dean. Sam could hear the indecision in his voice, and Sam lifted his foot to turn back around to watch Dean come in with him, just as a cold push of water rammed against him and he went down, his head going under the surface, catching him off guard. He sputtered for air, and pushed himself up with his hand, grinding his skin against something rough, a buried log, maybe or a gritty patch of stone. The river dragged him along, scraping his legs across the sharp rocks along the bottom. The water rushed past his ears and as he lifted his chin above the water, he realized he couldn’t grab on to anything and that the river was starting to carry him downstream.
“Sam!”
Sam could hear Dean’s voice perfectly clear this time, sharp like a knife over the surface of the water. Sam scrabbled for something to hold onto. His eyes were just about level with the bank, where Dean started walking into the river, moving towards Sam as the water got thunderously loud in his ears, the pull of it getting stronger, making it very hard to stand up.
Just as Dean was in up to his knees in the water, something smashed into Sam’s back, causing him to spread into an arch as the water boiled against his chest and into his mouth and nose. He was coughing even as he could hear Dean yelling at him to turn around, so he tried doing that, and found himself hugging a large, sharp-edged rock, pressed against it as the water sliced into his back. He spat the sand and water out of his mouth and tried to take little breaths.
He hunched his shoulders and hung on because he could see it right away, he was stuck. Even without Dean or Dad explaining it to him, he could see it. If he stayed on the rock, he had a pocket of air to breathe in, as the foaming air cut around him on either side. But if he moved to the side of the rock, he would get torn into the dark pocket of water beneath the foam, where he wouldn’t get any air at all. He would drown. But how long could he stay like this? His hands were raw and his toes were already numb from hooking against the rock, and where had his sneakers gone?
Somewhere to his left, he could hear splashing, and looked up to see Dean’s white face, with his freckles standing out like dots, not five feet away from him. The swirling water was foaming past Dean’s thighs, and his hands were out as if he meant to grab Sam and rescue him like Superman or something. But they were many, many feet away from where Sam had gone into the river, and though the bank on either side seemed a little closer now, the narrowness of the channel meant that the river was rushing faster, past rocks and unseen deep parts where the water churned and churned and never saw daylight. How could Dean possibly pull him out of that?
“Go get Dad,” said Sam, shouting past the roar of the water. He was sure Dean heard at least part of that, because Dean looked back over his shoulder, towards the bank, as if measuring the distance.
Dean opened his mouth, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see that he was talking, but Sam couldn’t hear a thing. The worst of it was, Dean didn’t move, didn’t go back to the bank at all, not to get Dad, not to save himself. Maybe he was stuck.
But if he was, there was no one to get Dad, and if they got swept down the river, Dad would never know what happened to his boys. He would always wonder where they had gone. Of course, being Dad, he would probably be able to follow their tracks and figure out what had happened that way; he’d know they’d gone in when they weren’t supposed to, and worse, he’d know that Sam had gone in first, against some very specific orders. He’d be pissed beyond imagining, so maybe it would be better if they got sucked away by the river.
Sam looked over his shoulder again, and breathed through his nose as the water drummed on his face and neck. He could see Dean’s face, whiter than iced paper, his eyes huge and green, as green as the leaves overhead. He wasn’t saying anything, just looking at Sam with his eyebrow doing that little quirk that it did when he was thinking hard. Maybe he was thinking that his kid brother was an idiot for getting them into this jam, and Sam certainly wouldn’t blame him.
But Dean wasn’t trying to save himself, that was for certain, and whether it was because he was stuck or because he was going to stay and die with Sam, that meant that Sam wasn’t going to die alone. But he certainly was going to die; the realization hit him hard, as his chest filled up with a cold dread, like an icy hand had clenched at his heart. His eyes got hot, he didn’t want to cry, he didn’t want Dean to see him crying, he wanted to be brave like Dean was. But he was going to miss Dean, miss him forever. Miss him forever, more than anything. More than soccer, even.
Sam looked away from Dean, and back at the rock, and felt himself slip forward a little. A lot, with the water pushing at his back. He felt his breastbone press against the edge of the rock as the water rushed up the back of his neck, icy against his spine. His hands started to skid on the sides of the rock, and somewhere, beneath the surface, something was scraping against his thigh, over and over; it would hurt if his legs weren’t so cold.
He heard a noise, and turned his head towards Dean again. But Dean wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at the bank. At the bank, many, many feet behind them, where Dad was standing.
Sam turned away again. He wouldn’t miss Dad, that was for sure. Besides, he was so cold he couldn’t even shiver, so what did it matter?
He heard shouting. Dean was saying something like hold and on, but the two words didn’t make much sense over the roar of the river, and what was Dad doing anyway. Sam heard the splashing before he felt Dad’s touch and as he was lifted into warm, hard arms, and after one astonished look at Dad’s tanned face, he curled his arms around Dad’s neck and his legs around Dad’s torso and hung on like a monkey, as water streamed down his arms and legs.
Dad started walking upstream, one arm beneath Sam’s bottom, the other curved around his back, a firm hand cradling his head.
“Hold on,” said Dad in his ear, above the roar of the river. “If I go down, just hold your breath and keep holding on, you hear me?”
Sam nodded against Dad’s neck. “Yes,” he said, and then realized he was whispering. Dad hated that. “Yes, Dad,” he said, a little louder.
As Dad moved, Sam could see that Dean was still standing in the water. Stranded there, water up to his hips now, balancing sideways a little, his one hand under the water as he propped himself against something to hold himself in place. Dad walked right past Dean, and never slowed down, never even looked at Dean.
And just as Sam was wondering why Dad had rescued him first, Dad must have slipped, because suddenly he couldn’t quite catch his breath, and his head was under the water, banging against the stones. It would have hurt worse, but there was something behind his head, cushioning the blow.
Quicker than that, Dad stood up again, spitting as Sam coughed water out of his mouth. There was a low growl in Dad’s chest that Sam could hear against his heart, Dad’s breath hard in his ear as he struggled against the heavy flow of the river. Walking, step by step, his stride pausing as his boots struggled to find purchase against the rocks and gravel. Until, with three quick strides, Dad was at the bank, at the exact sloped spot where Sam and Dean had first gone in the water.
Dad uncurled Sam’s arms from his neck, and peeled Sam’s legs from his waist and dropped Sam to the ground. Without stopping, Dad walked into the river again, and Sam could see was wet up to the neck, and that his eyes were hard and focused, and that he was walking towards Dean, coming in at an angle, marching through the deep spots, not stopping till he had his arm around Dean’s shoulders. They walked back together, using the force of Dad’s legs to break the rush of the river, and Dean’s energy to move them forward.
When they arrived at the bank, Dad suddenly let Dean go, like he’d done with Sam, and then he turned away, standing there with his back to them both, breathing hard. He propped a hand up along a tree, fingers digging into the bark, his hand fisting and unfisting over and over. His head was bent forward, and he didn’t look at them. Sam saw something bright and red seeping along the back of Dad’s forearm. He felt the back of his own head, which had the beginnings of a sore spot, and he thought maybe it had been Dad’s hand cushioning the back of his head when Dad had slipped. Maybe.
“Dad?” asked Dean. He stood there dripping, looking at Dad. Ignoring Sam.
Sam made himself stand up, since no one was going to help him, obviously. He was soaked through, and the heat of the air along the bank and under the trees hit him like a blow, burning through his icy cold skin as the water streamed from his t-shirt and shorts. He started to shiver. He had no socks, no shoes, and his feet were raw. He thought of the mile long hike through the woods with the stones and pokey pine needles, not to mention Dad barking at his heels the whole way, and sighed. It was going to be terrible, no matter what.
It was very still for a minute, though Sam thought he could hear as the water plopped from the bottom of Dad’s jeans onto the tops of his boots. If they didn’t get the boots dried properly, they would be ruined. But maybe they were so soaked they were ruined anyway, even though Sam was starting to get the feeling that his boots were the last thing on Dad’s mind.
Dad turned around. Slowly. He kept his left hand low at his side, but Sam could still see that it was mashed up, all purple and red. Dad looked at Dean, and then he looked at Sam as his water dripped from his hair, down the sides of his face.
“Where are your shoes?” he asked. His voice was level, though his eyes glinted, and Sam looked down at his feet.
His feet were bare, and spotted with dust. They were raw from the rocks in the river, but they weren’t bleeding. His toes were warming up, and he wasn’t going to die. At least not today.
“Uh,” he said. “The river. They’re in the river.”
“Good sneakers, Sam,” said Dad. “Wasted through your careless, reckless-”
Sam frowned. He remembered that Dad said the sneakers weren’t much good for running on blacktop, and Sam hadn’t liked them all that much. “Maybe I need new sneakers anyway,” he said. Then he shrugged his shoulders, feeling the damp cloth along his sides fold up. “Maybe.”
Dad closed his eyes, and then opened them, shaking his head at nothing. Dean moved forward, his mouth open like he wanted to say something, but then Dad shook his head at Dean and looked at Sam.
“You can’t walk through the woods like that,” he said. “Come here.” Then he bent down on one knee, and gestured to Sam, so Sam walked forward and climbed on Dad’s back. He should have been too big for this, but he had no shoes and Dad was always going on about the dangers of going barefoot, so. Dad curved his arms backward to support Sam’s legs and bottom, and Sam circled his arms around Dad’s shoulders as Dad shifted his weight and stood up.
“Dean, you walk ahead,” said Dad.
Sam saw Dean’s jaw move like he was trying to not say something, but then he did what Dad said, like he always did, and headed up the path through the woods towards the cabin. Dad was close on his heels, going almost at a trot, as if he had too much energy to hold back. Sam hung on, feeling Dad’s heartbeat through his ribs, feeling the warmth of his skin, smelling the dampness of Dad’s dark hair. Sam was still dripping, but warming up, as the hot air swirled around them, feeling like a sauna as his shirt steamed along his back. By the time they reached the cabin, they were just about as damp as they had been in the river, only hotter.
At the bottom step of the cabin, Dad released his arms and lowered Sam to the ground in one quick motion.
“Inside,” he said.
Dean pounded up the stairs, and Sam followed him, slipping past the just-closing screen door, where he could smell the dark still air that told him Dad had been sharpening knives.
They walked towards the kitchen table where the whetting stone and knives and a little rag sat in a row. Dad walked up right behind them, flicking on the kitchen light with his undamaged hand. Before Sam could sit down and rest his shaking knees, Dad pulled out his chair at the kitchen table and sat down. His shoulders hunched, and for a minute he didn’t say anything as he looked at the wooden floor, damp from their shoes, from the water still dripping from them all. Then he straightened up, his shoulders going back, his mouth in a firm line. His eyes were dark as he looked at each of them in turn.
“So? One of you want to tell me what happened?” He waved his good hand at them both with an almost dismissive air. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”
Sam clamped his jaw shut. He wasn’t going to admit to anything. It was an accident, anyways. If he’d not gotten stuck in the river, then Dean wouldn’t have come in after him, that’s all. He realized he was shivering now, in the relative cool of the cabin, but he didn’t want Dad’s attention focused on him, so he wrapped his arms around his waist and tried to keep still.
“I’m-it’s my fault,” said Dean.
Sam rolled his eyes, feeling the anger well inside of him, because of course Dean would say that, would not only start confessing right away, but would say that he’d done it. He’d take the blame, like he always did.
Dad’s eyebrows rose in his forehead.
“Sam wanted to go in the river,” said Dean, continuing, though he had to pause and take a swallow. “He wanted to so-so I let him. And then I w-went in after him, so I could go wading too.”
As lies went, it was a whopper because it wasn’t even close to how it had happened. And it wasn’t even a good lie, as far as Sam could see. Dean should have said something like, Sam slipped from the bank and I had to go in and rescue him, something like that. Something that would make neither one of them to blame. Something Dad could understand, that Dean had to rescue his little brother, once again. If Sam took some ribbing about being clumsy enough to slip, well, he could take that. He had in the past and would again in the future. It was all fine by him.
Master Fic Post
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://lovesrain44.dreamwidth.org/3635.html.