fic!
Title - The Curve of Earth Devours
Characters - Sam & Dean
Rating - PG
Word count - 1,720 words
Spoilers - Coda to "What Is and What Should Never Be".
Summary - He dreamt of monsters in a warehouse, of Dean, driving next to him, smiling. Impossible things.
Kudos - to ink_stain and sevenfists for the beta-fu.
Sam is staring at Jess's mouth before he even realizes he's awake. She's curled up facing him, her knees touching his, a hand tucked under her cheek. Her mouth is slack in sleep, a perfect pout, and Sam relishes the sense-memory of kissing it, kissing her awake or to sleep. He doesn't move, watches her pale lashes against her round cheeks, drinks in the familiarity of her minutiae, asleep in his childhood bedroom, a dozen feet away from Mom, sleeping alone.
He dreamt of monsters in a warehouse, of Dean, driving next to him, smiling. Impossible things. When he gets up and pads quietly down the hall, he finds Dean's old room empty, the small bed unmussed.
-
Mom makes them eggs in the morning before they leave for the airport. Sam watches her hug Jess, both of them smiling so big, clinging like family. Sam waits his turn, happy.
In the plane, Jess falls asleep on his shoulder, her fingers tangled in his. He watches the progress of the flight on the little screens suspended from the overhead compartments, how the flight path arches over America to follow the curve of the earth. He thinks about Dean, randomly, and wonders what excuse he'd give this time for not coming to Mom's birthday dinner when he lives only halfway across town.
-
They're back in Lawrence for a couple weeks over the summer. Jess is back in Mom's arms, both of them squealing, eyes wet, about the baby. Jess has already started wearing these flowy, roomy blouses even though she's barely showing yet. They cinch right under her breasts and make her look fleshy, full, motherly. Sam can't take his hands off her, can't stop fussing, but he lets his mother take over, lets her feed Jess the way she fed him that year it seemed like he’d never stop growing.
Sam gets into his rental and drives around the neighborhood a little. It's ten in the morning on a Tuesday; most of the driveways are empty. But even without the cast of characters, it's still sort of a pilgrimage of milestones: the stretch of street where Dad had thought him to ride his bike. The little yellow house where Sam had kissed Lizzy Volpe in ninth grade, on the sinking cushions of her dad's rec room couch. The curb where Dean had sat, smoking cigarettes and looking vaguely threatening, as Sam told him about wanting to be a vet, or maybe a journalist. Dean had acted as patently unimpressed, later, when Sam told him he was going to California, and he was going to be a lawyer.
-
He'd only been to Dean's place once, a couple years back, dropping something off for Mom. He finds it easily enough just following what looks familiar in this part of town he never goes to. He parks behind Dean's car and thinks of calling up first, but he can't find his phone.
Carmen answers the door in her scrubs, hair up in a sagging ponytail, a tired smile with her "Hey, Sam." She smells like disinfectant and coffee, and Sam remembers something about night shifts this time of year. Sometimes he thinks he's had more conversations with Carmen than with Dean.
He hovers in the doorway. "He's still asleep," she tells him when he doesn't ask. "He's not due at the garage till noon. Wanna come in? There's coffee in the kitchen."
"No, I'm…" But he doesn't know what he is, why he came here.
"C'mon, Sam," she says softly, coaxing uncomfortably. He nods in concession and steps in, hands wedged tight in his coat pockets. She closes the door behind him.
"I'll go wake him up."
"No, ah. It's okay. I'm just…" He trails off watching Dean shuffle in, bed-rumpled and bleary-eyed, barely sparing him a glance. "Dean. Hey."
Dean makes a face at him on the way to the coffee, scratching himself. "What are you doing here?"
"Good morning to you too," Sam bites back, and sees Carmen shift uneasily between them, unwilling or unable to mediate yet another tense Winchester exchange.
"I'm gonna go shower," she murmurs, and leaves them to it. Her smile is tight but her eyes are kind when she throws Sam a pleading look.
Sam watches Dean pour himself a cup. The silence is almost too familiar to be uncomfortable, but Sam is unwilling to take the second step when he drove all the way over here to take the first one. Eventually, though, he does walk away from the front door and goes to stand in the kitchen, where Dean is opening and closing drawers unhappily.
In the dream he had last night, Dean had looked at him like there was something there. This is why he's here. Sam means to reach out, to extend a sort of olive branch, but what comes out is: "Why didn't you come to dinner last night?" and "Mom really wanted you there, you know."
Dean pauses, a spoon halfway to his mug. "Christ, that was last night?"
Sam waits for an I'm sorry or even just an I forgot. Watches instead as Dean unscrews a small flat bottle and pours a third of its contents into his coffee. Hair of the dog.
"Forget it," Sam mumbles, more dismissive than he feels. It takes more effort than he'll admit to tear his eyes away from the obstinate line of Dean's shoulders.
-
He calls a few weeks later, but Carmen answers. They make small talk for a few minutes, about the weather in Kansas and his demanding course load. When she asks if he wants her to tell Dean he's called, Sam wusses out.
The next time he calls the machine picks up, its recorded message more cheerful than Sam's ever heard Dean. He leaves a message, asks Dean to call him back. Dean doesn't.
-
Jess looks like something out of a Botticelli painting, a happy, smiling Primavera with her belly full and her curves round under her gown, flowers in her hair, curls loose on her shoulders. She's so California it makes him smile, but she wanted to come back to Lawrence for the wedding, have it in the yard Sam used to get paid three dollars to mow in the summer, two dollars to rake in the fall. The grass is long now, needs a trim.
The house is full of happy people, family and friends in their Sunday bests, the men in short sleeve shirts and the women in heeled sandals. Sam collects congratulations and makes his way to the basement to sit among his father's things.
He's had time to mourn, properly, but your wedding day is the time to get sentimental. Mom comes and sits with him for a while, finds an album from her own wedding, almost thirty years ago.
She looked beautiful, the elation on her face similar to Jess', today. Dad looked like Dad, big and warm and smiling, the way Sam's always known him. Mom's hand is soothing on his back, rubbing away the small ache.
Going back up, Sam detours to his old bedroom to pull himself together. He can see Jess from his window, standing in the yard with a plate of potato salad barely eclipsing her belly from where he stands. She looks up and sees him, grins and waves. He waves back, feeling like everything's the way it should be. Almost.
-
He doesn't know what makes him stop by Dean's bedroom on his way back down, but he finds Dean there, in a suit that looks all wrong on him, necktie loose. There's a beer on the nightstand, untouched, and Dean is sitting on the edge of his old twin bed, perpetually made, never revisited. Elbows on his knees, he's holding something that looks like a baseball trophy, its shine dulled by the years.
"You made it," Sam says, and he can't quite conceal the surprise in his voice.
"'Course I made it," Dean says defensively, getting up and putting the trophy away like he'd been caught reading a skin mag. "It's not every day my geek brother gets hitched to a girl he knocked up. I had to see that one for myself."
They stand looking at each other awkwardly, Sam still with both feet in the hallway, Dean looking eager to bolt.
Maybe this is all there is to it. Maybe the dream was just that. Maybe it's the little things, after all, that are all Sam can hope for.
"Well. Thank you for coming," Sam says, and means it. The gratitude hangs off-kilter between them, until Dean clears his throat and nods.
-
Will is almost one year old when Dean calls. Jess hands the phone over to Sam with a weird look on her face and goes back to slicing a green apple into wedges.
Sam's wrists are sudsy when he grabs the phone from her. "Dean?"
"Hey, Sam."
"Hey."
Sam eyes Jess across the kitchen, waits for the shoe to drop. Dean breathes unevenly on the other end of the line, or it might just be the hiss of fiber optics. Sam tries again. "Mom okay?"
"Yeah, she's fine. Listen, I'm calling because- It's your kid's birthday, right?"
Sam chuckles, rubs at his forehead tiredly, narrowly avoids leaving soap in his hair. The lemony scent makes his nose tingle. "Yeah. Next week."
"Are you one of those people who says he's twelve months old instead of one year old? That's weird, man. Why do parents do that?"
Sam's nerves are too raw for this, too caught unawares. "Did you want something, Dean?"
"Just. Calling to wish the kid a happy birthday. Tell him… tell him Uncle Dean said hi."
The tingle sneaks up Sam's nose to sting at his eyes, lick at the back of his throat and bloom warmly in his chest when he smiles, wide and suddenly, inexplicably glad. "I will, Dean. He'll… be glad to hear you called."
"He's one, Sam. He won't know shit."
Sam laughs, sharp and genuine, and Jess looks up from her apple wedges, smiles brightly at him in surprise. Sam grins back.
Dean coughs, sounding suspiciously like he might be smiling, too. "All right. Talk to you later, Sammy."
"Yeah. Bye, Dean."
Everything as it should be.