Mockingbird [7/?]
Okay, team, I'm back! I'm just posting this before school swallows me up again, sorry to those of you waiting for the outsider-verse.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~1,600
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: The Winchesters face their last remaining family (and other things).
Part I
Part VI
Mockingbird
Chapter VII
+++
A billy goat, a cart and bull.
+++
Uncle Martin's house was on the outskirts of town, small and cozy and normal to an almost surrealistic degree. Sam couldn't remember the last time he had had an actual home cooked meal, but even if that hadn't been the case, the pot roast they were served would have still been pretty damn good.
Uncle Martin was practically buzzing with excitement, even after they had transferred themselves out onto the porch with a couple of beers. He seemed to bounce in his seat, not noticing the look Sam and John sitting on the bench together, shared.
“So,” he said, scooting forward on his chair, “How have you been?”
Sam swallowed. His father said nothing. It was going to be a long night.
+++
Dean turned out to be the star of the evening. Drawing on years of practice at Stanford, Sam picked out the stories that were safe to tell, of waitresses and angry husbands and always having Sam's back at school. Tiptoeing around the reasons why they constantly moved, the scars, the social workers who asked too many questions. Sam talked until his throat was sore, until his uncle's eyes were gleaming and he was sure his father would never look his way again.
He even managed to talk about Stanford a little before his throat closed up and his eyes started to burn like he could still feel the sting of the smoke.
“I'm sorry,” he said, clearing his throat pointedly to cover up for his quavering voice, “do you think I could maybe have another drink?”
“Oh yes, yes, of course! John?”
His father didn't respond but Uncle Martin jumped to his feet anyway, collecting the empty bottles. The screen door clattered shut behind him.
It was quiet. The trees stood tall and dark in the distance. There were crickets and the occasional night bird, nothing to distract from the open skies and the speckled stars and the thoughts chasing round and round in his head.
Sam pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He felt like someone had driven a spike into his brain. He could almost forget about the damn visions if it weren't for the steadily building pressure that seemed to split his skill apart.
“You okay, son?” his father's voice rumbled into his ears.
A hand settled hot and heavy on his shoulder, weighing him down like a ton of lead.
“No,” he whispered, voice shattering into a million tiny pieces. He let the fingers on his shoulder tug him around. He met his father's stare with shining eyes, daring him to belie that John wasn't, either.
“I miss him,” he breathed into the darkness, “He's my best friend, and I miss him.”
John nodded, pulled him a little closer. Sam massaged his temple with two fingers.
“Headache,” he muttered at John’s questioning look.
John nodded. His hands buried themselves in the locks at the back of Sam’s head, drawing him in to press a scratchy kiss onto his forehead. One hand, thumb caressing Sam’s cheekbone lightly before it drifted down, slid into his button-down, traveling the length of the shirt he wore underneath, crumpling it as he tightened his fingers. Rough callused skin slid against his own, dipping into the waistband of his jeans.
“Here we are!”
Uncle Martin returned with a six-pack as they broke apart, oblivious in the dim light to the flush painting Sam’s cheeks. John took the bottles they were handed as Sam coughed, opening them and passing one on.
Sam gave him a searching look that wasn’t met and turned back to Uncle Martin’s gleaming eyes.
“So,” he said with a soft laugh, “Did I tell you about the time we went to Tampa…?”
+++
The moon had long since risen when even Sam couldn’t think of something to say anymore. Uncle Martin walked them to the stairs. He lingered at the top, about eye-height with them now.
“You’ll keep in touch, right?” he said, anxiously bobbing on his heels, eyes pleading, “you won’t just disappear again. You’ll keep in touch.”
Sam glanced at his father, could see his own thoughts reflected in the man’s eyes.
“Of course.”
The lie came easily over Sam’s lips.
“We’ll keep you informed.”
The same lie, told over and over to best friends and girlfriends and teachers who loved him. He’d give them their new address as soon as he had one, of course. They’d stay in touch. They’d be friends forever.
Sam shook his head to rid it of the faces, some fresh, some faded with age like old photographs, that came flooding back at him.
He let the old man rise on tiptoes to hug him, pushed his father forward to receive the same treatment. One more handshake, one more promised postcard and then they were back on the way to the truck, walking so close their shoulders brushed together, walking fast to outrun the demons.
“Winchesters don’t have families, do they?” Sam asked softly, hands tucked into his pockets, glancing back to his uncle on the porch and giving a one-handed wave.
John didn’t say anything. He gave Sam a look and a shrug and quickened his step.
+++
By the time they reached their motel, as non-descript as the last and the next, Sam was sure his head was going to split into pieces. He stumbled more than walked to the door, oddly grateful for the steadying arm around his waist, the broad chest he was pulled up against.
“Ow,” he mumbled with a teary smile. His father one-handedly fumbled with the key card, guided him down on the closest bed. Sam managed to stay where he was until the hands left him, until he slid off the mattress with a groan.
John had been on his way to the bathroom to grab a glass of water when Sam collapsed in a heap on the floor. Quicker than he ever moved on a hunt, he was back at his boy’s side. Sam sputtered and coughed, squinting at something John couldn’t see, couldn’t fight.
“What is it, Sammy?” he pressed, heart thumping in his chest, “what do you see?”
“Dean,” Sam gasped, finger curling around his father’s shoulder painfully. For a moment, John was sure he was calling out to his brother, but then Sam drew a ragged breath.
“I can see Dean,” he whispered, hysteria tinting his voice, “And God damn if the stubborn bastard isn’t waiting for me.”
+++
“Tell me what you saw, Sam.”
His son didn’t even bother to hide rolling his eyes as he sighed.
“It’s a plain. There’s nothing but a pretty dead-looking tree and a few mountains in the distance. Dean’s there and he’s waiting.”
He glared at John as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Do you want to hear it a sixth time?”
John swallowed the angry reprimand already on the tip of his tongue and paced the cramped motel room again.
“And he’s waiting for you.”
Sam, his massive frame hunched up at the foot of the bed, huffed demonstratively.
“He was waiting. Could have been for someone else. It’s not like we stopped to have a chat.”
John reached the wall and turned on his heel, heading back the way he had come.
“What is he wearing? The clothes he…”
“I don’t know.”
John knew his son was tired. He could see it in the way he sat slumped into himself, could hear it in the exasperated sigh that had led to fights so often back when Sam was still a teenager.
He was tired of fighting. So tired.
He sat down on the bed next to Sam with a quiet sigh, pulled the boy around and kissed him.
There was no heat, no desire, no darkness behind it this time. Just a tenderness that John hadn't felt in years. It tightened his chest painfully, but what was done was done and all he could do was try and patch up the mistakes of the past.
When he gently pulled back, Sam's eyes blinked open slowly. One corner of his mouth curved into a slow smile.
“I thought you'd changed your mind,” he said, voice quiet and fragile, “That maybe you didn't want to anymore.”
Oh, I want you, Sammy, John couldn't help but think as he responded to Sam's smile with one of his own, I want you any way I can have you, don't ever doubt that.
“No, Sammy,” he said, “I’m just a bit of a wreck.”
It drew the desired chuckle and John couldn’t help smiling a little. He rose to his feet, giving his son’s shoulder a small pat.
“Come on, kiddo. Bed.”
Sam furrowed his brows but obeyed, shucking boots, jeans and several sweatshirts. John waited until he had wrapped the too-short covers around his body before switching off the light and settling on top of the sheets for a light, watchful sleep.
He could hear Sam moving, though, trying to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy mattress or maybe just a little peace of mind.
After a while, the boy asked, “Hey Dad?” quietly into the darkness.
“What, Sammy?” John said, not quite daring to move in case the soft rustling shattered that fragile thing between them they’d managed to build.
“If we wake up tomorrow, and you pretend nothing happened?”
“Yeah?” John pressed carefully.
“You do that,” Sam said, voice slightly scratchy, “I’m taking a shotgun to your ass.”
And that, John figured as he curled into his blanket, was the sweetest sound he’d heard in a while.
+++
Chapter VIII
Feedback is my happy pill!
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~1,600
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: The Winchesters face their last remaining family (and other things).
Part I
Part VI
Mockingbird
Chapter VII
+++
A billy goat, a cart and bull.
+++
Uncle Martin's house was on the outskirts of town, small and cozy and normal to an almost surrealistic degree. Sam couldn't remember the last time he had had an actual home cooked meal, but even if that hadn't been the case, the pot roast they were served would have still been pretty damn good.
Uncle Martin was practically buzzing with excitement, even after they had transferred themselves out onto the porch with a couple of beers. He seemed to bounce in his seat, not noticing the look Sam and John sitting on the bench together, shared.
“So,” he said, scooting forward on his chair, “How have you been?”
Sam swallowed. His father said nothing. It was going to be a long night.
+++
Dean turned out to be the star of the evening. Drawing on years of practice at Stanford, Sam picked out the stories that were safe to tell, of waitresses and angry husbands and always having Sam's back at school. Tiptoeing around the reasons why they constantly moved, the scars, the social workers who asked too many questions. Sam talked until his throat was sore, until his uncle's eyes were gleaming and he was sure his father would never look his way again.
He even managed to talk about Stanford a little before his throat closed up and his eyes started to burn like he could still feel the sting of the smoke.
“I'm sorry,” he said, clearing his throat pointedly to cover up for his quavering voice, “do you think I could maybe have another drink?”
“Oh yes, yes, of course! John?”
His father didn't respond but Uncle Martin jumped to his feet anyway, collecting the empty bottles. The screen door clattered shut behind him.
It was quiet. The trees stood tall and dark in the distance. There were crickets and the occasional night bird, nothing to distract from the open skies and the speckled stars and the thoughts chasing round and round in his head.
Sam pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He felt like someone had driven a spike into his brain. He could almost forget about the damn visions if it weren't for the steadily building pressure that seemed to split his skill apart.
“You okay, son?” his father's voice rumbled into his ears.
A hand settled hot and heavy on his shoulder, weighing him down like a ton of lead.
“No,” he whispered, voice shattering into a million tiny pieces. He let the fingers on his shoulder tug him around. He met his father's stare with shining eyes, daring him to belie that John wasn't, either.
“I miss him,” he breathed into the darkness, “He's my best friend, and I miss him.”
John nodded, pulled him a little closer. Sam massaged his temple with two fingers.
“Headache,” he muttered at John’s questioning look.
John nodded. His hands buried themselves in the locks at the back of Sam’s head, drawing him in to press a scratchy kiss onto his forehead. One hand, thumb caressing Sam’s cheekbone lightly before it drifted down, slid into his button-down, traveling the length of the shirt he wore underneath, crumpling it as he tightened his fingers. Rough callused skin slid against his own, dipping into the waistband of his jeans.
“Here we are!”
Uncle Martin returned with a six-pack as they broke apart, oblivious in the dim light to the flush painting Sam’s cheeks. John took the bottles they were handed as Sam coughed, opening them and passing one on.
Sam gave him a searching look that wasn’t met and turned back to Uncle Martin’s gleaming eyes.
“So,” he said with a soft laugh, “Did I tell you about the time we went to Tampa…?”
+++
The moon had long since risen when even Sam couldn’t think of something to say anymore. Uncle Martin walked them to the stairs. He lingered at the top, about eye-height with them now.
“You’ll keep in touch, right?” he said, anxiously bobbing on his heels, eyes pleading, “you won’t just disappear again. You’ll keep in touch.”
Sam glanced at his father, could see his own thoughts reflected in the man’s eyes.
“Of course.”
The lie came easily over Sam’s lips.
“We’ll keep you informed.”
The same lie, told over and over to best friends and girlfriends and teachers who loved him. He’d give them their new address as soon as he had one, of course. They’d stay in touch. They’d be friends forever.
Sam shook his head to rid it of the faces, some fresh, some faded with age like old photographs, that came flooding back at him.
He let the old man rise on tiptoes to hug him, pushed his father forward to receive the same treatment. One more handshake, one more promised postcard and then they were back on the way to the truck, walking so close their shoulders brushed together, walking fast to outrun the demons.
“Winchesters don’t have families, do they?” Sam asked softly, hands tucked into his pockets, glancing back to his uncle on the porch and giving a one-handed wave.
John didn’t say anything. He gave Sam a look and a shrug and quickened his step.
+++
By the time they reached their motel, as non-descript as the last and the next, Sam was sure his head was going to split into pieces. He stumbled more than walked to the door, oddly grateful for the steadying arm around his waist, the broad chest he was pulled up against.
“Ow,” he mumbled with a teary smile. His father one-handedly fumbled with the key card, guided him down on the closest bed. Sam managed to stay where he was until the hands left him, until he slid off the mattress with a groan.
John had been on his way to the bathroom to grab a glass of water when Sam collapsed in a heap on the floor. Quicker than he ever moved on a hunt, he was back at his boy’s side. Sam sputtered and coughed, squinting at something John couldn’t see, couldn’t fight.
“What is it, Sammy?” he pressed, heart thumping in his chest, “what do you see?”
“Dean,” Sam gasped, finger curling around his father’s shoulder painfully. For a moment, John was sure he was calling out to his brother, but then Sam drew a ragged breath.
“I can see Dean,” he whispered, hysteria tinting his voice, “And God damn if the stubborn bastard isn’t waiting for me.”
+++
“Tell me what you saw, Sam.”
His son didn’t even bother to hide rolling his eyes as he sighed.
“It’s a plain. There’s nothing but a pretty dead-looking tree and a few mountains in the distance. Dean’s there and he’s waiting.”
He glared at John as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Do you want to hear it a sixth time?”
John swallowed the angry reprimand already on the tip of his tongue and paced the cramped motel room again.
“And he’s waiting for you.”
Sam, his massive frame hunched up at the foot of the bed, huffed demonstratively.
“He was waiting. Could have been for someone else. It’s not like we stopped to have a chat.”
John reached the wall and turned on his heel, heading back the way he had come.
“What is he wearing? The clothes he…”
“I don’t know.”
John knew his son was tired. He could see it in the way he sat slumped into himself, could hear it in the exasperated sigh that had led to fights so often back when Sam was still a teenager.
He was tired of fighting. So tired.
He sat down on the bed next to Sam with a quiet sigh, pulled the boy around and kissed him.
There was no heat, no desire, no darkness behind it this time. Just a tenderness that John hadn't felt in years. It tightened his chest painfully, but what was done was done and all he could do was try and patch up the mistakes of the past.
When he gently pulled back, Sam's eyes blinked open slowly. One corner of his mouth curved into a slow smile.
“I thought you'd changed your mind,” he said, voice quiet and fragile, “That maybe you didn't want to anymore.”
Oh, I want you, Sammy, John couldn't help but think as he responded to Sam's smile with one of his own, I want you any way I can have you, don't ever doubt that.
“No, Sammy,” he said, “I’m just a bit of a wreck.”
It drew the desired chuckle and John couldn’t help smiling a little. He rose to his feet, giving his son’s shoulder a small pat.
“Come on, kiddo. Bed.”
Sam furrowed his brows but obeyed, shucking boots, jeans and several sweatshirts. John waited until he had wrapped the too-short covers around his body before switching off the light and settling on top of the sheets for a light, watchful sleep.
He could hear Sam moving, though, trying to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy mattress or maybe just a little peace of mind.
After a while, the boy asked, “Hey Dad?” quietly into the darkness.
“What, Sammy?” John said, not quite daring to move in case the soft rustling shattered that fragile thing between them they’d managed to build.
“If we wake up tomorrow, and you pretend nothing happened?”
“Yeah?” John pressed carefully.
“You do that,” Sam said, voice slightly scratchy, “I’m taking a shotgun to your ass.”
And that, John figured as he curled into his blanket, was the sweetest sound he’d heard in a while.
+++
Chapter VIII
Feedback is my happy pill!