New Wings For Icarus | PART 5
Title: New Wings For Icarus
By: revenant_scribe
Rating: R Word Count: 4,596
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Part of the Icarus 'Verse
Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it,
without looking at it, or even if we have seen
and looked at it, without recognizing it.
The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
New York City at night glowed bright like a firefly and Sam drove back into it and every part of it felt foreign, like he was arriving for the first time. He told himself it was just because he’d been away for a while; that it didn’t matter what size city you visited in between because New York was a creature unto itself, whose wind-swept busy-living and crash-hard entertainment would always feel a little bit overwhelming. New York did everything in a big way.
Sam’s apartment had white walls and hardwood floors and, standing in the middle of it, his suitcase at his feet and his briefcase still slung over his shoulder, no trace of anything really personal inside. He didn’t feel particularly attached to any of the furniture, though the couch was comfortable and the television was more substantial than what he’d had in his hotel back in Minneapolis.
The thought made his chest hurt a little. He’d gotten together with Jesse and Aaron for dinner to celebrate their victory, and Jim had even turned up for drinks part way through. Sam had spent the entire evening anticipating his brother’s entrance, even when Aaron put a hand on his arm and said, “He’s not coming. If I know him at all, he’s been on the road for a few hours already.” It didn’t matter that Sam knew it was true, that even as he had kissed Dean a part of him had also understood that it was good-bye. He’d been fighting for a chance, nothing more; nothing guaranteed.
The next morning, Sam had packed his things and checked out of the hotel. He’d gotten back on the road, even managed to convince himself at some point that he was going home, that the feeling he’d felt, like a second chance, had been nothing more than a truce forged between them. In the end, they’d each go on doing just what they’d always wanted. “Yeah,” Sam said to himself, his voice echoing back to him as he spoke. “Just what I wanted.”
Sam had put his brother’s book on a cluttered shelf in his living room. He’d set it down on its side, a simple but effective bookend, and pushed it out of his mind, doing his best to forget its existence.
By mid-March he couldn’t pretend that his thoughts weren’t still straying to Dean, that he wasn’t wondering how his brother was doing, if he was managing okay, if maybe he’d gotten injured on a hunt somewhere and wasn’t sure if he should phone.
Sam considered calling, but he knew himself too well; knew that he would try to convince Dean to come to New York, or to meet him somewhere in the middle, some crazy and impossible compromise that would end-up with both of them going out of their minds. Instead of calling, Sam dragged the book down from the shelf and started reading a little bit each day, always starting first with the inscription Dean had made for him on the first page.
As captivating as the story was, Sam couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. He’d imagine his brother reading it, just like he must have done. Sometimes Dean was curled up on scratchy motel blankets; sometimes he was perched on the Impala, reading under the sunlight. Sometimes Sam imagined Dean as the Count himself. The further Sam got in the story, the more he wondered if it had been foolish and naïve to assume that putting Sullivan on the stand would put an end to Jesse and Aaron’s and likely his own brother’s thirst for revenge.
More often than not, Sam spent his free time sprawled on his couch, his feet kicked up on the arm rest and reading about Dantes throwing pottery around in his prison cell and raging about everything to anyone who would listen, or snickering slightly at the notes his brother had made in the margins, some of them Dean’s own musings, some of them reading like notes between him and Grady or Jesse or Aaron. It was a side of Dean that he hadn’t ever really known, and it made him feel homesick almost as often as it made him warm with how alive Dean always sounded; sometimes Sam could imagine he was just in another room.
Round about when Mercedes re-appeared, tired and beaten-low by circumstance, Sam was startled from the story by a piece of graph paper slipping out of the book and onto his chest. It was folded flat and worn like paper got after being frequently handled. Sam figured the only reason he had missed it before was that the book was so battered that, between the rubber band and some of the pages being completely loose, he must simply have dismissed the lump the paper made, tucked away.
He set the book aside as he unfolded the sheet, recognizing his brother’s printing, messy enough that he knew Dean must have been a teenager when he jotted the note. The four names, printed out carefully, made Sam frown. Beside each name was a different date, and the list itself had one black line running diagonally across it. Grabbing up his laptop from where it was tucked beneath the couch, Sam started to search.
Dowell was one thing, he checked just to be certain, but there were numerous articles outlining the case, and the trial and how Jesse and Aaron had been found innocent of the charges. Sam even managed to locate where the man was buried. The date marked down on the paper, though, was the date of the shooting, January 24; it was the first time it occurred to him that Edward Dowell had been murdered on his brother’s birthday.
Sam tried Eric Torres and was surprised by the results. The man’s name was was splashed on several headlines detailing the extent of his corruption as a police officer and heralding an officer named Lorne from Internal Affairs as an asset, well on his way to promotion, after the bust uncovered a chain of dirty cops. Sam hadn’t heard the name Lorne before, but the date of Torres’ arrest corresponded with the date jotted beside his name on the graph paper that Sam had splayed out on the table.
Bryan Sullivan took a bit more searching, if only because it wasn’t front-page news. The man was divorced and had lost custody of his child; he was also under surveillance as Faribault County conducted an inquiry into the allegations against its youth detention facility. The date that was marked on the page, though, was the day Sam had put him up on the stand. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
The last name, Albert Wilson, was one Sam hadn’t pursued on his own. He’d heard it in association with his brother and Faribault, and he knew Wilson was one of the guards who had abused Dean and the others but, like Torres, Sam hadn’t looked into him beyond pulling up his initial file. It took a bit of digging, but then Sam was staring at the computer screen a wash of cold running through him, because Albert Wilson was shot and killed in North Dakota, not anywhere near Jesse and Aaron. Sam wondered, with a pooling sense of dread, whether his brother had stumbled on the man just like Aaron and Jesse had stumbled on Dowell.
Dean hadn’t been expecting the hug, though he likely should have been. Bobby squeezed the life out of him and then clapped him hard on the back and said, “How about some whiskey.” It wasn’t a question, and Dean was all for it.
Dean hadn’t been expecting the hug, though he likely should have been. Bobby near crushed the life out of him and then clapped him hard on the back and said, “How about some whiskey.” It wasn’t a question; Dean’s mouth quirked upward as he followed the man inside.
Singer Salvage was the closest he had come to having a home. He’d lived there for over a year when he’d been sixteen, and it was always the place he came back to, stopping to visit the man who was like a second father to him, to learn more about a creature he was hunting, and also, stopping by sometimes just to kick his feet up and recoup. Bobby didn’t care, encouraged Dean stopping by whenever he wanted, and even had a key made after the second day Dean had spent in the guest room on the second floor: “Not that you can’t break in anyway, but this way it’s legal,” he’d said. It was as close to a ‘you’re always welcome’ as Dean was likely to get, except that time when Bobby’d gotten drunk, and said Dean was like his own son and that he was always welcome; that had been a few months about John had died. Dean remembered drinking enough whiskey that he forgot just about everything the next day, but he didn’t forget Bobby’s saying that.
“Heard about the nest you took care of in Duluth,” Bobby said.
“I figured I was already in Minnesota.”
Bobby nodded his head. “I also heard about the trial. Sam put on quite a show.”
“Not only did he clear them of all charges, he made everyone feel guilty and foolish for even considering them suspects.”
Bobby guffawed, and raised a toast in Sam’s honor. “You staying long?”
“Couple days, if that’s alright,” Dean said. “Car could use some attention after all the hellish weather I had to drive through. Then I figure I’m gonna head south for a bit.”
“Well, finish your drink and grab your bag. If you’re gonna be lounging around my home I’m gonna put you to work.” Dean grinned, tipped back his whiskey as Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once in that way that said he already knew everything Dean wasn’t saying aloud, and went to the door to call the dogs in for dinner.
Sam wasn’t a hotshot lawyer. He wasn’t attached to a big legal firm and he wasn’t raking in money and living the high life. He had a nice if modest apartment and he was living in New York City. He had steady work and was associated with a reasonably successful law firm, and he had a secretary. Well, she wasn’t just his secretary but Sam thought she liked him best, probably because he’d bring her coffee sometimes from the shop across the street. She’d do favors for him, prioritize his work sometimes, to return the favor, and that was an added bonus. Mostly he just enjoyed her sense of humor, and her brashness.
She dropped a folder on his desk and pursed her lips at him, and then closed his office door firmly. “Want to tell me why I was searching into an old cold case in blue-fuck nowhere?”
Sam dropped his mouth in feigned shock. “Language! Honestly, what happened to manners?”
“Please,” Marilyn scoffed. “I was buzzing my way through finishing school when you were still in nappies. You don’t get to correct my manners, by this point they’re engrained.”
“Must have been some finishing school,” Sam said, ducked as she tried to bat at him. “I’m just looking into something, it doesn’t have to do with any case I’m working on.”
“Well, that’s everything I could find by calling in just about all the favors I could think of.” She dropped three beige colored folders down.
“Thanks, I’ll look it over in a bit.” He turned back to the papers splayed across his desk, and then looked up again when Marilyn still hadn’t left. “Was there something else?”
“Well,” she said, dropping into the chair across from him. “Now that you mention it. I wanted to ask if you were okay.”
Sam frowned. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem less focused since you’ve been back. It’s not showing up in your work,” she said, raising her hands. “Not that I’ve heard from On High,” by which she meant the partners of the firm. “Just something I’ve noticed myself. Like you’re here, but not here.”
“I’m okay, I promise.” She smiled a tight, disbelieving smile at him, but she left without probing any further.
Sam sat back and let his eyes fall closed. The more time passed, the more it felt like he’d been fooling himself; that somewhere along the way, law school had become a distraction a placeholder for what he really wanted and Minneapolis had brought that all to the fore. Re-living his last big argument with Dean, Sam remembered what it had felt like, just after losing their dad, to suddenly realize that he didn’t care about graduating, that a piece of paper didn’t hold any meaning to him anymore.
Opening his eyes, Sam dragged the folder Marilyn had brought closer and flipped it open, Wilson’s heavily bearded face staring up at him from a photograph.
Singer Salvage looked the same, even though it had been almost a decade since he had last seen it. There was a large dog splayed across the hood of a rusted pickup, who lolled his head in Sam’s direction as he passed but otherwise made no sound. “Sam?” Bobby asked, pushing aside the screen door to greet Sam on the top step of the house. “It’s been a long time, Kid.”
“I hope it’s okay,” Sam said, as Bobby gave him a hug and then ushered him in. “You said to drop by.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Can I getcha somethin’? Siddown, geez, it’s good to see you.”
“A beer,” Sam said, surprised at his voice turning up at the end like it was a question.
In the summer of ‘95, almost one year after Faribault, Sam had gone to stay at Bobby’s. At that time, Dean had more or less moved in with the man, helping around the yard and fixing cars. When Sam had visited his brother had tried to teach him a thing or two about cars, but Sam was stubbornly useless. He had loved Bobby’s books, though. The man had first editions of some crazy occult texts, and Sam had read through as much as he could, asked question after question on just about everything.
Bobby had been a bit grim that summer. Looking back, Sam figured the man was likely keeping watch on Dean, undoubtedly knew what Dean was struggling with and ignoring in favor of keeping his kid brother happy and amused. Bobby had never been mean or angry or even hinted at rudeness, but by that time Dean had been staying with the man for over four months and they had a kind of secret language that as a kid, Sam misinterpreted as Bobby simply not liking him.
“Yer brother isn’t here,” Bobby said, handing over a cold bottle of beer. “He stopped by in March, stayed for a week or so before he headed off again. I admit, I expected a visit from you a bit sooner.”
Sam scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “I had some things to figure out.”
“How’d that go for you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Sam admitted. “I sold my apartment.” Bobby kept his gaze steady and Sam found himself shifting where he sat. “I’m not a lawyer anymore.”
“Is that something you just stop being?”
“About as much as anything, I guess.”
“Sam,” Bobby said, he sighed heavily and shook his head. “I think I get where yer going with this. Truth is, I’m not sure you’re all wrong, either. But if you pick up hunting again, be damned sure it’s because you want to be hunting, and not just because you miss yer brother. No one has been anything but proud of the life you made fer yerself.”
“It’s not what I want to do. It’s not who I want to be anymore,” Sam said. “It’s a fresh start, you know? A second chance, and maybe I’m a bit late realizing it but I don’t think I can let that stop me.”
The cemetery in Lawrence was green, the grass freshly cut, with that vibrant tangy scent that Sam had loved for about as long as he could remember. There wasn’t anything buried under the tombstones of Mary and John Winchester; not their bodies, anyway. Sam remembered Dean explaining that a relative had buried an empty casket for their mother’s funeral, and as for their dad, that had been Sam’s doing, wanting something of their father to be with their mom.
He set a fresh bouquet of flowers down on his mother’s grave and then turned to the matching marble tombstone. “Hey dad,” he said. “I think this talk was a long time coming.” He didn’t quite know where to go from there, and stood awkwardly, silently, just listening to the quiet sounds around him for a while.
“You remember I told you that I wanted to be a lawyer because at the rate we were going, sooner or later, we were gonna need one?” Sam had realized pretty early on that there was the life his dad was living and the life Sam wanted to live, and there wasn’t one jot of similarity between the two. When he was sixteen and his high school guidance counselors, (more than one because by then John was hopping from town to town like he’d forgotten how to sit still), had begun talking about options and planning his future. Sam started looking at his dad in a new light; like hunting was one of the life-choices his guidance councilors could help him plan for, or would have, if they new it was a viable option.
It didn’t seem viable to Sam. There was no way he could look at his father and mistake the man for being happy. When Dean had left, John had just stopped making the effort, like he forgot he had another son who might have appreciated some of his focus, even if it was just to be inducted more formally into the hunting world. Sam kept waiting for his dad to call him over and tell him to pack up because they were going on a hunt. John used to call Dean out on hunts like most dads called their sons for camping trips.
It never happened; Sam was an afterthought. He’d started putting schoolwork first because he wanted his dad to put his foot down and insist that school wasn’t what mattered, but John never did. “You wanna come?” and Sam would glower and say, “No,” and John wouldn’t say anything about the petulant tone of voice; most times he wouldn’t say anything at all, he’d just go.
“The more I worked for it, the more I got into it. I guess a part of me wanted to understand just what it was we’d been taking advantage of for so long, bending to suit us, and setting aside as we needed.” Sam sighed. “I think you never pushed me the way you did Dean because you didn’t trust yourself anymore; not after Blue Earth. I’m not sure that’s true, but it’s what I’m gonna believe. It’s about time I gave you the benefit of the doubt.” Overhead a bird swooped, dipped low and then darted away, back toward the trees. Sam watched it go.
“There’s something else,” Sam said. “I think you knew about Faribault. I think, maybe when Dean left, or maybe even before, that you must have figured it out.” Sam’s fist clenched at his side as he tried to quell the surge of anger at his dad, that the man couldn’t have tracked Dean down and tell his son that what had happened wasn’t his fault; that Dean shouldn’t blame himself or feel ashamed. That John hadn’t ever stopped to get Dean the help that he needed.
“I want you to know that I know what you did. I know about Wilson, and Devil’s Lake and that…” Sam took a slow breath before he continued. “…That I don’t think I’m gonna tell Dean. …But I wanted to thank you. I think as much as you really sucked as a dad and really, you did … but you still loved us, and you were trying to protect us. And I hope…” he broke off again, wiped a hand across his cheek to smear the tears away. “I just hope you know that we loved you too. …That I loved you too, dad. …”
All things considered, Sam really should have expected the gun. “Jesus!”
“Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, eyed his brother closely as the other man quickly tucked the gun in the back of his jeans. “I let myself in, didn’t think you’d mind.”
“By all means,” Dean snorted, closing the door to his motel room and stepping further inside. He eyed Sam as he tossed his keys onto the motel nightstand. “Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?”
“I thought I was.” It was just cryptic enough that Dean’s aloof expression melted into confusion. Sam watched as Dean took off his leather coat and then sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m an idiot, okay?”
“True.”
Sam rolled his eyes and stood up, happy that Dean’s motel room was larger than the crappy place in Minneapolis had been so that he could pace. “You left, and I figured that it was all I could ask for, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
“I mean, we kissed, and I thought, maybe we could start over, but then you didn’t come to dinner, and Aaron said you’d gone. I figured that after everything, I should be happy we’d managed to at least call a truce, you know?” Dean looked away, and Sam sat down on the bed beside him. “That wasn’t what it was, was it?”
“It was one hell of a month, Sam,” Dean said. “I wasn’t gonna hold you to any decision you made.”
“Yeah, I figured.” At his brother’s quirked eyebrow Sam shrugged. “Well, eventually, I figured. …Still making my decisions for me.”
Dean bobbed his head to the side. “Not so much.”
“What, deciding that I need space to figure things out wasn’t a decision?”
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
“No!” Sam denied. “I wanted you right then. I knew right then!”
“It’s May, Sammy. Took you long enough to get your affairs in order.”
Sam grabbed the back of his brother’s head and yanked him forward, pressed their mouths together and delved deep into Dean’s taste. When he broke away to catch his breath, Sam rested his head against Dean’s and said, “I’ve got something for you.” Dean leered entirely predictably and glanced down. “Not that,” Sam said as he stood up. He grabbed his bag from where he had left it by the chair where he’d been sitting.
“Moving in?” Dean teased as he saw the luggage.
“Yup,” Sam said, still focused on rifling through his bag. He returned to his spot beside Dean and handed over a green plastic bag, smiled when Dean looked at him hesitantly. “Go on.” Dean opened the bag and pulled out a dark green hard covered book, frowning as he flipped it around to the front to read the title. “It’s more than a book about revenge, you know?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I know.”
“Is …” Sam trailed off, paused for a second before he said, “Is it okay?” The edge of Dean’s mouth quirked upward and he set the book aside, pulled Sam over and into a kiss, whispered ‘yeah’ against his brother’s skin.
There was salt along the windows of the motel and in front of the door, and if Sam pushed his hand beneath the pillow he knew he’d find a knife there. A paper bag with grease splotches was shoved in the waste paper basket: remnants of their dinner, and the cheap motel sheets were scratchy against his skin. Sam pressed his nose against the back of his brother’s neck and breathed in, smiled to himself when Dean grumbled to him, his nose wrinkling at the disturbance before the man resettled. “It’s your turn to get coffee,” Dean said, his eyes still closed, voice gravelly with sleep.
Sam smiled and pressed his lips against his brother’s neck. “How can it be my turn, I just got here.”
“I got the coffee yesterday.” Sam inched forward so he could ghost his tongue along the crest of Dean’s ear, heard the other man sigh as he sucked at that spot he had discovered that invariably made his brother’s toes curl and hands fist against the sheets. He sucked a moment longer, and then pulled back and started to slide out of bed. “Wha-“ Dean said. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Coffee?” Sam said. “I mean, you’re right. It’s my turn.”
“Forget the coffee.” Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist and tugged him back onto the blankets.
Sam pressed his hands on either side of Dean’s head, looking down at the sleepy, half-lidded green gaze already hazed with lust. “Are you sure?” he teased. “I don’t mind.”
“Bitch,” Dean grumbled, retaliated by spreading his knees wider, bringing their bodies into line and pressing Sam’s hips down with a hand on the small of his back.
“Hm,” Sam said, reveling in the feel of Dean’s skin against his own. “You’re right. Coffee can wait.” Dean snickered, but the sound quickly broke into a moan as Sam slipped his hand between them, pressed his tongue to Dean’s neck and started to suck.
“Son-of-a-bitch, Sammy,” Dean said. “You’re gonna suck a bruise there.”
“That’s the point,” Sam said. He flattened his tongue against the red mark he’d made and then glanced up with humor in his eyes. “You can wear that scarf you had in Minneapolis. The one you never took off after I stopped by the motel.”
“The one I couldn’t take off,” Dean corrected. “Because some possessive bastard sucked marks up and down my neck.”
“Did you forget your compact?” Sam teased. “No make up to cover it up?”
Dean groaned as Sam pressed his hips forward, took a teasing nip at his brother’s earlobe. “Maybe it’s time for coffee after all.”
“Not yet,” Sam said, throwing one hand in the direction of the nightstand to fumble the drawer open. His fingers skimmed over the surface of a book cover and he leaned up a bit, pushed the Bible aside so he could drag out the lube and a condom before he pushed the drawer closed.
“Naw, caffeine’s the way to go, I’m thinking.”
“I’m gonna change your mind,” Sam said, pushing his brother back down and noted with a dark twist of anger the shadow that crossed Dean’s face. It took a moment for Sam to set his anger aside and focus on Dean, loosening his hold to nothing at all, just a ghost of fingers around his brother’s wrist as he said, “Let me change your mind,” and then he purposely skimmed the fingers of his other hand across his brother’s side, light enough to tickle, and grinned as Dean squawked and batted his arm indignantly. Sam silenced him again with a kiss until Dean was groaning, moving his hips slow and smooth to the rhythm Sam’s body dictated.
“Okay,” Dean said, when they broke for air. “I’m convinced. Show me what else you got.” Sam pushed Dean’s leg up and flipped the cap on the lube; he pressed kisses along his brother’s skin and thought maybe this would be enough to make them both forget everything they needed to forget. He pushed inside his brother’s body, leaning forward to bring their tongues together and figured, even if it wasn’t, so long as they were together, they had everything they needed to remember.
|<< END PART FIVE ||
MASTERPOST
By: revenant_scribe
Rating: R Word Count: 4,596
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Part of the Icarus 'Verse
Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it,
without looking at it, or even if we have seen
and looked at it, without recognizing it.
The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
New York City at night glowed bright like a firefly and Sam drove back into it and every part of it felt foreign, like he was arriving for the first time. He told himself it was just because he’d been away for a while; that it didn’t matter what size city you visited in between because New York was a creature unto itself, whose wind-swept busy-living and crash-hard entertainment would always feel a little bit overwhelming. New York did everything in a big way.
Sam’s apartment had white walls and hardwood floors and, standing in the middle of it, his suitcase at his feet and his briefcase still slung over his shoulder, no trace of anything really personal inside. He didn’t feel particularly attached to any of the furniture, though the couch was comfortable and the television was more substantial than what he’d had in his hotel back in Minneapolis.
The thought made his chest hurt a little. He’d gotten together with Jesse and Aaron for dinner to celebrate their victory, and Jim had even turned up for drinks part way through. Sam had spent the entire evening anticipating his brother’s entrance, even when Aaron put a hand on his arm and said, “He’s not coming. If I know him at all, he’s been on the road for a few hours already.” It didn’t matter that Sam knew it was true, that even as he had kissed Dean a part of him had also understood that it was good-bye. He’d been fighting for a chance, nothing more; nothing guaranteed.
The next morning, Sam had packed his things and checked out of the hotel. He’d gotten back on the road, even managed to convince himself at some point that he was going home, that the feeling he’d felt, like a second chance, had been nothing more than a truce forged between them. In the end, they’d each go on doing just what they’d always wanted. “Yeah,” Sam said to himself, his voice echoing back to him as he spoke. “Just what I wanted.”
Sam had put his brother’s book on a cluttered shelf in his living room. He’d set it down on its side, a simple but effective bookend, and pushed it out of his mind, doing his best to forget its existence.
By mid-March he couldn’t pretend that his thoughts weren’t still straying to Dean, that he wasn’t wondering how his brother was doing, if he was managing okay, if maybe he’d gotten injured on a hunt somewhere and wasn’t sure if he should phone.
Sam considered calling, but he knew himself too well; knew that he would try to convince Dean to come to New York, or to meet him somewhere in the middle, some crazy and impossible compromise that would end-up with both of them going out of their minds. Instead of calling, Sam dragged the book down from the shelf and started reading a little bit each day, always starting first with the inscription Dean had made for him on the first page.
As captivating as the story was, Sam couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. He’d imagine his brother reading it, just like he must have done. Sometimes Dean was curled up on scratchy motel blankets; sometimes he was perched on the Impala, reading under the sunlight. Sometimes Sam imagined Dean as the Count himself. The further Sam got in the story, the more he wondered if it had been foolish and naïve to assume that putting Sullivan on the stand would put an end to Jesse and Aaron’s and likely his own brother’s thirst for revenge.
More often than not, Sam spent his free time sprawled on his couch, his feet kicked up on the arm rest and reading about Dantes throwing pottery around in his prison cell and raging about everything to anyone who would listen, or snickering slightly at the notes his brother had made in the margins, some of them Dean’s own musings, some of them reading like notes between him and Grady or Jesse or Aaron. It was a side of Dean that he hadn’t ever really known, and it made him feel homesick almost as often as it made him warm with how alive Dean always sounded; sometimes Sam could imagine he was just in another room.
Round about when Mercedes re-appeared, tired and beaten-low by circumstance, Sam was startled from the story by a piece of graph paper slipping out of the book and onto his chest. It was folded flat and worn like paper got after being frequently handled. Sam figured the only reason he had missed it before was that the book was so battered that, between the rubber band and some of the pages being completely loose, he must simply have dismissed the lump the paper made, tucked away.
He set the book aside as he unfolded the sheet, recognizing his brother’s printing, messy enough that he knew Dean must have been a teenager when he jotted the note. The four names, printed out carefully, made Sam frown. Beside each name was a different date, and the list itself had one black line running diagonally across it. Grabbing up his laptop from where it was tucked beneath the couch, Sam started to search.
Dowell was one thing, he checked just to be certain, but there were numerous articles outlining the case, and the trial and how Jesse and Aaron had been found innocent of the charges. Sam even managed to locate where the man was buried. The date marked down on the paper, though, was the date of the shooting, January 24; it was the first time it occurred to him that Edward Dowell had been murdered on his brother’s birthday.
Sam tried Eric Torres and was surprised by the results. The man’s name was was splashed on several headlines detailing the extent of his corruption as a police officer and heralding an officer named Lorne from Internal Affairs as an asset, well on his way to promotion, after the bust uncovered a chain of dirty cops. Sam hadn’t heard the name Lorne before, but the date of Torres’ arrest corresponded with the date jotted beside his name on the graph paper that Sam had splayed out on the table.
Bryan Sullivan took a bit more searching, if only because it wasn’t front-page news. The man was divorced and had lost custody of his child; he was also under surveillance as Faribault County conducted an inquiry into the allegations against its youth detention facility. The date that was marked on the page, though, was the day Sam had put him up on the stand. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
The last name, Albert Wilson, was one Sam hadn’t pursued on his own. He’d heard it in association with his brother and Faribault, and he knew Wilson was one of the guards who had abused Dean and the others but, like Torres, Sam hadn’t looked into him beyond pulling up his initial file. It took a bit of digging, but then Sam was staring at the computer screen a wash of cold running through him, because Albert Wilson was shot and killed in North Dakota, not anywhere near Jesse and Aaron. Sam wondered, with a pooling sense of dread, whether his brother had stumbled on the man just like Aaron and Jesse had stumbled on Dowell.
Dean hadn’t been expecting the hug, though he likely should have been. Bobby squeezed the life out of him and then clapped him hard on the back and said, “How about some whiskey.” It wasn’t a question, and Dean was all for it.
Dean hadn’t been expecting the hug, though he likely should have been. Bobby near crushed the life out of him and then clapped him hard on the back and said, “How about some whiskey.” It wasn’t a question; Dean’s mouth quirked upward as he followed the man inside.
Singer Salvage was the closest he had come to having a home. He’d lived there for over a year when he’d been sixteen, and it was always the place he came back to, stopping to visit the man who was like a second father to him, to learn more about a creature he was hunting, and also, stopping by sometimes just to kick his feet up and recoup. Bobby didn’t care, encouraged Dean stopping by whenever he wanted, and even had a key made after the second day Dean had spent in the guest room on the second floor: “Not that you can’t break in anyway, but this way it’s legal,” he’d said. It was as close to a ‘you’re always welcome’ as Dean was likely to get, except that time when Bobby’d gotten drunk, and said Dean was like his own son and that he was always welcome; that had been a few months about John had died. Dean remembered drinking enough whiskey that he forgot just about everything the next day, but he didn’t forget Bobby’s saying that.
“Heard about the nest you took care of in Duluth,” Bobby said.
“I figured I was already in Minnesota.”
Bobby nodded his head. “I also heard about the trial. Sam put on quite a show.”
“Not only did he clear them of all charges, he made everyone feel guilty and foolish for even considering them suspects.”
Bobby guffawed, and raised a toast in Sam’s honor. “You staying long?”
“Couple days, if that’s alright,” Dean said. “Car could use some attention after all the hellish weather I had to drive through. Then I figure I’m gonna head south for a bit.”
“Well, finish your drink and grab your bag. If you’re gonna be lounging around my home I’m gonna put you to work.” Dean grinned, tipped back his whiskey as Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once in that way that said he already knew everything Dean wasn’t saying aloud, and went to the door to call the dogs in for dinner.
Sam wasn’t a hotshot lawyer. He wasn’t attached to a big legal firm and he wasn’t raking in money and living the high life. He had a nice if modest apartment and he was living in New York City. He had steady work and was associated with a reasonably successful law firm, and he had a secretary. Well, she wasn’t just his secretary but Sam thought she liked him best, probably because he’d bring her coffee sometimes from the shop across the street. She’d do favors for him, prioritize his work sometimes, to return the favor, and that was an added bonus. Mostly he just enjoyed her sense of humor, and her brashness.
She dropped a folder on his desk and pursed her lips at him, and then closed his office door firmly. “Want to tell me why I was searching into an old cold case in blue-fuck nowhere?”
Sam dropped his mouth in feigned shock. “Language! Honestly, what happened to manners?”
“Please,” Marilyn scoffed. “I was buzzing my way through finishing school when you were still in nappies. You don’t get to correct my manners, by this point they’re engrained.”
“Must have been some finishing school,” Sam said, ducked as she tried to bat at him. “I’m just looking into something, it doesn’t have to do with any case I’m working on.”
“Well, that’s everything I could find by calling in just about all the favors I could think of.” She dropped three beige colored folders down.
“Thanks, I’ll look it over in a bit.” He turned back to the papers splayed across his desk, and then looked up again when Marilyn still hadn’t left. “Was there something else?”
“Well,” she said, dropping into the chair across from him. “Now that you mention it. I wanted to ask if you were okay.”
Sam frowned. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem less focused since you’ve been back. It’s not showing up in your work,” she said, raising her hands. “Not that I’ve heard from On High,” by which she meant the partners of the firm. “Just something I’ve noticed myself. Like you’re here, but not here.”
“I’m okay, I promise.” She smiled a tight, disbelieving smile at him, but she left without probing any further.
Sam sat back and let his eyes fall closed. The more time passed, the more it felt like he’d been fooling himself; that somewhere along the way, law school had become a distraction a placeholder for what he really wanted and Minneapolis had brought that all to the fore. Re-living his last big argument with Dean, Sam remembered what it had felt like, just after losing their dad, to suddenly realize that he didn’t care about graduating, that a piece of paper didn’t hold any meaning to him anymore.
Opening his eyes, Sam dragged the folder Marilyn had brought closer and flipped it open, Wilson’s heavily bearded face staring up at him from a photograph.
Singer Salvage looked the same, even though it had been almost a decade since he had last seen it. There was a large dog splayed across the hood of a rusted pickup, who lolled his head in Sam’s direction as he passed but otherwise made no sound. “Sam?” Bobby asked, pushing aside the screen door to greet Sam on the top step of the house. “It’s been a long time, Kid.”
“I hope it’s okay,” Sam said, as Bobby gave him a hug and then ushered him in. “You said to drop by.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Can I getcha somethin’? Siddown, geez, it’s good to see you.”
“A beer,” Sam said, surprised at his voice turning up at the end like it was a question.
In the summer of ‘95, almost one year after Faribault, Sam had gone to stay at Bobby’s. At that time, Dean had more or less moved in with the man, helping around the yard and fixing cars. When Sam had visited his brother had tried to teach him a thing or two about cars, but Sam was stubbornly useless. He had loved Bobby’s books, though. The man had first editions of some crazy occult texts, and Sam had read through as much as he could, asked question after question on just about everything.
Bobby had been a bit grim that summer. Looking back, Sam figured the man was likely keeping watch on Dean, undoubtedly knew what Dean was struggling with and ignoring in favor of keeping his kid brother happy and amused. Bobby had never been mean or angry or even hinted at rudeness, but by that time Dean had been staying with the man for over four months and they had a kind of secret language that as a kid, Sam misinterpreted as Bobby simply not liking him.
“Yer brother isn’t here,” Bobby said, handing over a cold bottle of beer. “He stopped by in March, stayed for a week or so before he headed off again. I admit, I expected a visit from you a bit sooner.”
Sam scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “I had some things to figure out.”
“How’d that go for you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Sam admitted. “I sold my apartment.” Bobby kept his gaze steady and Sam found himself shifting where he sat. “I’m not a lawyer anymore.”
“Is that something you just stop being?”
“About as much as anything, I guess.”
“Sam,” Bobby said, he sighed heavily and shook his head. “I think I get where yer going with this. Truth is, I’m not sure you’re all wrong, either. But if you pick up hunting again, be damned sure it’s because you want to be hunting, and not just because you miss yer brother. No one has been anything but proud of the life you made fer yerself.”
“It’s not what I want to do. It’s not who I want to be anymore,” Sam said. “It’s a fresh start, you know? A second chance, and maybe I’m a bit late realizing it but I don’t think I can let that stop me.”
The cemetery in Lawrence was green, the grass freshly cut, with that vibrant tangy scent that Sam had loved for about as long as he could remember. There wasn’t anything buried under the tombstones of Mary and John Winchester; not their bodies, anyway. Sam remembered Dean explaining that a relative had buried an empty casket for their mother’s funeral, and as for their dad, that had been Sam’s doing, wanting something of their father to be with their mom.
He set a fresh bouquet of flowers down on his mother’s grave and then turned to the matching marble tombstone. “Hey dad,” he said. “I think this talk was a long time coming.” He didn’t quite know where to go from there, and stood awkwardly, silently, just listening to the quiet sounds around him for a while.
“You remember I told you that I wanted to be a lawyer because at the rate we were going, sooner or later, we were gonna need one?” Sam had realized pretty early on that there was the life his dad was living and the life Sam wanted to live, and there wasn’t one jot of similarity between the two. When he was sixteen and his high school guidance counselors, (more than one because by then John was hopping from town to town like he’d forgotten how to sit still), had begun talking about options and planning his future. Sam started looking at his dad in a new light; like hunting was one of the life-choices his guidance councilors could help him plan for, or would have, if they new it was a viable option.
It didn’t seem viable to Sam. There was no way he could look at his father and mistake the man for being happy. When Dean had left, John had just stopped making the effort, like he forgot he had another son who might have appreciated some of his focus, even if it was just to be inducted more formally into the hunting world. Sam kept waiting for his dad to call him over and tell him to pack up because they were going on a hunt. John used to call Dean out on hunts like most dads called their sons for camping trips.
It never happened; Sam was an afterthought. He’d started putting schoolwork first because he wanted his dad to put his foot down and insist that school wasn’t what mattered, but John never did. “You wanna come?” and Sam would glower and say, “No,” and John wouldn’t say anything about the petulant tone of voice; most times he wouldn’t say anything at all, he’d just go.
“The more I worked for it, the more I got into it. I guess a part of me wanted to understand just what it was we’d been taking advantage of for so long, bending to suit us, and setting aside as we needed.” Sam sighed. “I think you never pushed me the way you did Dean because you didn’t trust yourself anymore; not after Blue Earth. I’m not sure that’s true, but it’s what I’m gonna believe. It’s about time I gave you the benefit of the doubt.” Overhead a bird swooped, dipped low and then darted away, back toward the trees. Sam watched it go.
“There’s something else,” Sam said. “I think you knew about Faribault. I think, maybe when Dean left, or maybe even before, that you must have figured it out.” Sam’s fist clenched at his side as he tried to quell the surge of anger at his dad, that the man couldn’t have tracked Dean down and tell his son that what had happened wasn’t his fault; that Dean shouldn’t blame himself or feel ashamed. That John hadn’t ever stopped to get Dean the help that he needed.
“I want you to know that I know what you did. I know about Wilson, and Devil’s Lake and that…” Sam took a slow breath before he continued. “…That I don’t think I’m gonna tell Dean. …But I wanted to thank you. I think as much as you really sucked as a dad and really, you did … but you still loved us, and you were trying to protect us. And I hope…” he broke off again, wiped a hand across his cheek to smear the tears away. “I just hope you know that we loved you too. …That I loved you too, dad. …”
All things considered, Sam really should have expected the gun. “Jesus!”
“Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, eyed his brother closely as the other man quickly tucked the gun in the back of his jeans. “I let myself in, didn’t think you’d mind.”
“By all means,” Dean snorted, closing the door to his motel room and stepping further inside. He eyed Sam as he tossed his keys onto the motel nightstand. “Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?”
“I thought I was.” It was just cryptic enough that Dean’s aloof expression melted into confusion. Sam watched as Dean took off his leather coat and then sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m an idiot, okay?”
“True.”
Sam rolled his eyes and stood up, happy that Dean’s motel room was larger than the crappy place in Minneapolis had been so that he could pace. “You left, and I figured that it was all I could ask for, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
“I mean, we kissed, and I thought, maybe we could start over, but then you didn’t come to dinner, and Aaron said you’d gone. I figured that after everything, I should be happy we’d managed to at least call a truce, you know?” Dean looked away, and Sam sat down on the bed beside him. “That wasn’t what it was, was it?”
“It was one hell of a month, Sam,” Dean said. “I wasn’t gonna hold you to any decision you made.”
“Yeah, I figured.” At his brother’s quirked eyebrow Sam shrugged. “Well, eventually, I figured. …Still making my decisions for me.”
Dean bobbed his head to the side. “Not so much.”
“What, deciding that I need space to figure things out wasn’t a decision?”
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
“No!” Sam denied. “I wanted you right then. I knew right then!”
“It’s May, Sammy. Took you long enough to get your affairs in order.”
Sam grabbed the back of his brother’s head and yanked him forward, pressed their mouths together and delved deep into Dean’s taste. When he broke away to catch his breath, Sam rested his head against Dean’s and said, “I’ve got something for you.” Dean leered entirely predictably and glanced down. “Not that,” Sam said as he stood up. He grabbed his bag from where he had left it by the chair where he’d been sitting.
“Moving in?” Dean teased as he saw the luggage.
“Yup,” Sam said, still focused on rifling through his bag. He returned to his spot beside Dean and handed over a green plastic bag, smiled when Dean looked at him hesitantly. “Go on.” Dean opened the bag and pulled out a dark green hard covered book, frowning as he flipped it around to the front to read the title. “It’s more than a book about revenge, you know?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I know.”
“Is …” Sam trailed off, paused for a second before he said, “Is it okay?” The edge of Dean’s mouth quirked upward and he set the book aside, pulled Sam over and into a kiss, whispered ‘yeah’ against his brother’s skin.
There was salt along the windows of the motel and in front of the door, and if Sam pushed his hand beneath the pillow he knew he’d find a knife there. A paper bag with grease splotches was shoved in the waste paper basket: remnants of their dinner, and the cheap motel sheets were scratchy against his skin. Sam pressed his nose against the back of his brother’s neck and breathed in, smiled to himself when Dean grumbled to him, his nose wrinkling at the disturbance before the man resettled. “It’s your turn to get coffee,” Dean said, his eyes still closed, voice gravelly with sleep.
Sam smiled and pressed his lips against his brother’s neck. “How can it be my turn, I just got here.”
“I got the coffee yesterday.” Sam inched forward so he could ghost his tongue along the crest of Dean’s ear, heard the other man sigh as he sucked at that spot he had discovered that invariably made his brother’s toes curl and hands fist against the sheets. He sucked a moment longer, and then pulled back and started to slide out of bed. “Wha-“ Dean said. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Coffee?” Sam said. “I mean, you’re right. It’s my turn.”
“Forget the coffee.” Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist and tugged him back onto the blankets.
Sam pressed his hands on either side of Dean’s head, looking down at the sleepy, half-lidded green gaze already hazed with lust. “Are you sure?” he teased. “I don’t mind.”
“Bitch,” Dean grumbled, retaliated by spreading his knees wider, bringing their bodies into line and pressing Sam’s hips down with a hand on the small of his back.
“Hm,” Sam said, reveling in the feel of Dean’s skin against his own. “You’re right. Coffee can wait.” Dean snickered, but the sound quickly broke into a moan as Sam slipped his hand between them, pressed his tongue to Dean’s neck and started to suck.
“Son-of-a-bitch, Sammy,” Dean said. “You’re gonna suck a bruise there.”
“That’s the point,” Sam said. He flattened his tongue against the red mark he’d made and then glanced up with humor in his eyes. “You can wear that scarf you had in Minneapolis. The one you never took off after I stopped by the motel.”
“The one I couldn’t take off,” Dean corrected. “Because some possessive bastard sucked marks up and down my neck.”
“Did you forget your compact?” Sam teased. “No make up to cover it up?”
Dean groaned as Sam pressed his hips forward, took a teasing nip at his brother’s earlobe. “Maybe it’s time for coffee after all.”
“Not yet,” Sam said, throwing one hand in the direction of the nightstand to fumble the drawer open. His fingers skimmed over the surface of a book cover and he leaned up a bit, pushed the Bible aside so he could drag out the lube and a condom before he pushed the drawer closed.
“Naw, caffeine’s the way to go, I’m thinking.”
“I’m gonna change your mind,” Sam said, pushing his brother back down and noted with a dark twist of anger the shadow that crossed Dean’s face. It took a moment for Sam to set his anger aside and focus on Dean, loosening his hold to nothing at all, just a ghost of fingers around his brother’s wrist as he said, “Let me change your mind,” and then he purposely skimmed the fingers of his other hand across his brother’s side, light enough to tickle, and grinned as Dean squawked and batted his arm indignantly. Sam silenced him again with a kiss until Dean was groaning, moving his hips slow and smooth to the rhythm Sam’s body dictated.
“Okay,” Dean said, when they broke for air. “I’m convinced. Show me what else you got.” Sam pushed Dean’s leg up and flipped the cap on the lube; he pressed kisses along his brother’s skin and thought maybe this would be enough to make them both forget everything they needed to forget. He pushed inside his brother’s body, leaning forward to bring their tongues together and figured, even if it wasn’t, so long as they were together, they had everything they needed to remember.
|<< END PART FIVE ||
MASTERPOST