they say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet...
You dont have to drink right now. But you can dip your feet every once in a little while
Um. I was writing another fic but it wouldn't come, and my brain kept being distracted and wanted to write pornotopia, but in the end this is what i ended up with. i guess the term is fluff. so...yeah. ::shrugs::
Title: All the stars may shine bright
Author: Niz4
Email: nimitz4@iinet.net.au
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: They laugh loud, the two of them, here in the kitchen, half pissed, all loose faces and bright eyes, and your eyes roam over them; Sam and his brother. They’re so big, they seem to glow, expanding outwards, crowding out everything else in this space.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4920
Characters: Jess / Sam; Dean
Timeline: AU - from Pilot
Disclaimer: SN belongs to Kripke. I just covet.
Feedback: how lovely
Authors note: the title is a line from the portishead song all mine. The quote is of course from Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie. And this is a sequel, for want of a better word, to my earlier fic - No one said what the truth should be
All the stars may shine bright
Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown up things again…
1.
Everything sounds weird from inside the phone booth, hollow, disconnected, like you’re in a tunnel, and you watch them from behind the glass. The two of them, outside, leaning against the car, talking, laughing, drinking coffee from jumbo takeaway cups.
Press your head against the smooth hard window, watching, the handset hot against your ear, wishing you could be out there with them instead of here, now, like this, listening to the rising anger in his voice.
It makes you tired, and you can hear it in your tone, so neat, this plain and unpleasant thing.
You sigh. “Dad. We keep having this same conversation.”
And your father mutters down the phone line, the sound thick with disapproval.
“I don’t understand why you just want to throw it all away.”
A hot flush. “I’m not throwing it all away!” Take a deep breath, try to keep your tone even. Reassuring. “It’s just twelve months. Stanford will be there when I get back.”
Long pause.
“We don’t hear from you for days at a time. Christ, the last time you didn’t call for two weeks. Your mother was a mess - she wanted me to call the police.”
Bite your lip. It had been that case near Coldwater; the exorcism, you’d all been up for days, exhausted by the end of it. Lost track of time.
“Is it drugs? Is that what’s going on here?”
“Dad!” Pinch the bridge of your nose, feel the beginnings of headache there now, billowing outwards. “Jesus. No-”
“Well? Is it? I mean this is not like you, Jessica - your mother and I are very concerned. I just…we just don’t understand.”
Snapping hot, angry, because you are sick of this.
“Christ! There’s nothing to understand. Don’t you get it? It’s not your choice - okay? it’s mine. And I’m doing this.”
Nothing but empty space now, heavy and thick, you can hear him breathing down the other end of the line.
You whisper, “Just try…” Feel this hot itch behind your eyes, and your throat is suddenly too thick, too tight for these words. Make yourself swallow all the hurt back down inside, push through it. “Can’t you just try to trust me?”
Feeling like you’re ten years old again, Daddy please? Please?
Wait.
He says, “Try to call more often. Your mother worries about you.”
And the phone clicks, goes dead in your ear.
Hang up and hug your arms around yourself, leaning back against the phone, feeling small in this space, smaller still. Raw and empty under all this metal and cement.
There’s a tap on the door and Sam’s watching your face through the glass, motions for you to open up and he’s holding a takeaway mug for you.
“How was it?”
Take the coffee, grateful for the warmth of it against your skin, hot on the palm of your hand. You make a face, laugh like broken glass.
“Terrible, like always. Except multiplied by a million.”
He winces in sympathy. One long arm wrapping around your shoulder, drawing you out, he pulls you against him and he is warm, solid. Tangible and all around you, and you hug him back.
Dean hits the horn, watching you both from the car. He yells, “Let’s go girls.”
2.
You hunker down beside him, and he touches your face. Strong fingers cold, gentle upon your skin, and you let him turn your head, this careful tilt, guiding your view 15 degrees east. Dean points up and he whispers, “It’s in the trees. Do you see it?”
And you squint, try hard to see through all the ash-gray, steely blue. Your eyes find only shadows and night. You try harder.
He squeezes your shoulder. “See it now?”
You have to shake your head, No. Frustrated. Staring until your eyes burn, and then suddenly, this dark mess of shapes has meaning, and it registers. There’s something moving, a darker silhouette separates from all the others. Long thin arms, bobbing head, sniffing the air, a shifting slide. Feline. Unnatural.
You inhale a cold breath that burns all the way down. A slender runner of fear reaching out, taking root in your gut, and you turn your face towards his, nodding slow. Once.
Yes.
Eyes blinking wide and you tell yourself, you won’t be afraid. No you won’t.
Dean smiles at you, and it’s warm in all this black, he says, “It’s yours if you want it.”
And you raise the rifle up, press the stock tight, tight like he taught you, into your shoulder. You hug it, snug against your body, smooth cheek on smooth stock, you take aim at this dead thing and you shoot.
Later, in the safe fortress of your bed Sam whispers down from above, sleepy and content, the wide field of his chest curving around you, he murmurs, “How’d you do?”
And you ease into him, your skin this pliant thing now, warm, buttery soft, melting to meet his. The rich tang of pride upon your tongue when you whisper back, “It was just a pup. Got it in one shot - through and through.”
Glowing bright in the dark cage of his arms, you, his firefly girl, all lit up under his sleepy kiss, his warm, “That’s my girl.”
That’s my girl…
3.
It’s night. The three of you crowded around the table, Dean studying the maps with Sam, you, reading.
Dean looks over your shoulder, squints, curious. “Is that one from the car?”
“Nope. Stole it from the library at Louisville.”
Dean laughs, surprised and bright, a solar flare. You catch a muttered awesome from him, while your boy frowns.
Sam says, “You stole it? Jesus Jess.”
“Not on purpose. I was going to give it back, but we left in a hurry. It’s okay. I’ll mail it back…”
Sam leans over to read the cover, “Well, it better be good. Let me see-“
“It’s okay…” You’re embarrassed now. All this scrutiny. Hide the cover with your hands. “Look, it’s just a book.”
Sam’s insistent, curious. Long fingers tugging yours away, eager boy that he is.
“Come on, let me see?”
You blush. Give up. Remove your hands and admit it.
“Okay. It’s a big book of knots.”
And Dean laughs, leans back in his chair. “Get out!” Eyes shining bright, expectant, waiting for the punch-line to this joke. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Defensive. Feeling stupid, as you elaborate. “It goes through how to do all these different kinds of knots, and the history of them.”
Dean stares at you, pulls this face. Sniggers. “No fucking way you are reading that.” And he reaches for it, seeking confirmation, but his brother bats his hands away.
Sam pulls the book across the table towards him, flicks through the pages. Skimming text, skin puckering between his eyebrows, nodding thoughtfully. Already hooked, makes a low murmur, and you both hear the distinct cool.
Dean’s head whips around, towards him, nose wrinkling like he’s smelt something bad. His eyes slide back and forth, between you and his brother, considering, and he shakes his head in disgust. “A book on knots. Jesus. You two are going to be the death of me.”
4.
You make it into the firelight, lungs burning, white hot inside, your body taut, itching with adrenaline. Slam into the thick muscle of his shoulder and come to a hard stop, breathing hard. Sam’s already reloading, searching his jacket pocket for new cartridges. His fingers are shaking and he laughs in disbelief.
“Jesus Christ. Did you see that? Fucking fast!”
And your legs feel shaky beneath you, tight, bouncy ready to move, to run, they don’t feel real, but you try not to think about it, swipe at the grime on your cheek, the sticky stink of it on your skin.
Snap back at him, voice shrill, tight in your ears. “I thought you said that it was old?!”
Dean circles around you both, gun raised, eyes watching the black, sharp, sharp. He rubs his chin against his shoulder, and he grins, “Old don’t mean slow, Jess.”
5.
He seeps, hot and wet between your thighs, and you sweat, you ache, you quiver from above.
Sam is a sleepy face, happy and content. He stretches underneath you, thick muscles slide, bunch, slide again, and you run your fingers over all the differing parts of his landscape - soft, hard, firm ridges and dips, sliding, sliding - your eyes wide, wide, watching it all.
And he’s a blessing. A thing of beauty, here, in this room.
He peeks up through all that hair, sees you staring. Exhales a smile as he catches your fingers in his, holds them still. Eyes at half mast. Sam whispers, “What are you looking at?”
And you sink into him, smiling to kiss his lips. You whisper, “You. I’m looking at you.”
6.
You hold up his shirt in the light, studying the place where the button should be. Discover an empty row where there should be four. Search through the rest of the clean clothes piled on the edge of the bed, looking for them.
“Sam, you lost some buttons.”
The two of them side-by- side, together, at the table, scouring the newspaper, red pens circling anything that catches their eye, stories that warrant a closer look. Silently passing folded pages, torn out sections, back and forth, fingers directing eyes, comparing notes, ignoring you.
“Sam?”
“Huh?” Distracted. Feigned interest in what you have to say.
You raise your voice, insistent. “Sam.”
And now he looks up. They both do.
“Sorry, Jess. What did you say?”
Hold up the shirt for them both to see.
“Do you have any spare buttons?”
Your boy frowns, confused. “Um, I don’t know. What do you want them for?” Dean’s eyes follow you too, equally perplexed.
Blink. Shrug. “I’m going to sew them back on.”
Dean snorts, surprised. Lips widening into a smile around the pen he’s chewing, eyes flashing with amusement. “What for? They’ll only fall off again.”
Sam looks at his brother, makes a slow grin. Two peas in a pod, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. Catches your frown, tries to look serious, and fails.
“Jess, you really don’t have to do that for me…”
His brother shifts in his seat, returns to looking at the paper, grinning and you hear the word sewing muttered under his breath.
Roll your eyes at them both. “Jesus. Don’t bother, go back to your reading. I’ll sort it out myself.”
You ignore the two of them. Spend the next few hours going through both their stuff, sorting it into piles of crap, okay and not bad, finding lots of items with missing buttons and minor damage along the way. Cannibalize the stuff that’s beyond repair, using the parts to mend the other things gathered around you.
Commandeer the needle and thread from the first aid kit and you sit, crossed-legged on the bed, surrounded by so much cotton and plaid. You sew, and it’s nice, it’s calming. Eyes focused, breathing slow. Needle up, needle down, endless waves of thread, the pattern repeating itself, on and on and on.
Make your way through their clothes, losing track of time, until you realize it’s late, really late and your eyes are tired; dry and itchy. Squinting in the lamp light. Glance up and they’re both watching you from the table, making twin smiles, warm and syrupy, stretching from their lips to their eyes. And you wonder how Wendy ever managed with all her Lost Boys, when you have so much to do with just the two? Needing all the mending, all the care, all the tenderness that you are willing to give.
7.
You watch Sam, focused, leaning down, long arms stretching to take his shot, and the white ball rolls, rolls across the green towards the black. Hold your breath and he barely misses sinking it, and Dean crows in delight, loud from his side of the table.
“Ho, yes!” Points his cue at his brother and calls it. “Loser!”
Sam frowns at him, “Fuck off you asshole.” His dark eyes regarding the disobedient ball balanced on the edge of the hole. “It’s probably your negative energy that stopped that from going in-”
“Yeah, yeah. A poor workman blames fuckin’ everybody else but himself!” Laughing even louder at his brother now, it’s cruel and it’s a given; to the victor go the spoils of war.
You interject while you still can because you know, from experience, that this will just go on and on. Pool is a serious business in the Winchester world.
Make your voice bright, sliding off your stool. “Time for a top up?”
They barely register your presence. A passing glance from Dean who tips up his chin at you, yeah sure - thanks, and Sam runs his hand down your back while he trades insults with his brother. You head back to the bar and order another couple of mugs, watching them from the other side of the room. These two funny boys of yours, where the debate is sometimes more treasured than the game itself.
Make your way back through the crowd, mugs held high, pushing through, polite smile, sorry, sorry, excuse me, using hips and shoulders and elbows. Suddenly the path is blocked off, darker inside this dark lit place. And you are confronted with a wall of feet, windbreakers, jeans and slurred voices raining down, Hey sweetheart. You need a hand?
Feel someone touch your hair.
“Thanks, but I got it.” Faux smile up at them, idiots who can’t hold their drink. Eyes free-wheeling, looking for an exit path.
The biggest one crowds you in even more from the side, and you feel his knee butt yours, thigh catching the back of your leg. His head dips low, near your ear and his voice is sloppy against your neck. Stale breath.
He croons, wet and sticky. “Hey there, pretty lady.”
And your hands are full of beer and glass. Held up. Useless, ineffectual.
Nudge his head away with your shoulder. Make your voice cold, firm.
“Hey!” Tilt your chin up. “Can you get out of my way, please?”
Feel someone touch your lower back, fingers sliding, sliding, circling your hip, your belly. And you don’t like it, you don’t like it.
Another voice says, “She wants to go now…” Like it’s a joke, and they all laugh but it’s an ugly sound. It’s sour. Wrong. And this is not a joke, it’s not a joke. You start to feel claustrophobic beneath all these bodies, all these faces, and you blink.
Unwelcome fingers tugging at the edge of your t-shirt, slipping under, finding skin, and you say, “Don’t!”
Hard. Loud.
Don’t.
There's a sudden movement from behind, and your ears hear this ‘pop’ and you know that sound. It’s bone. Small bones breaking, small bones sliding out of place, and you hear a man gasp nearby. A multitude of eyes shift from you, over your shoulder and you are being tugged backwards, pushed behind, and Sam and his brother are there. They are there. Dean reaching back, sightless, finger-tips checking that you’re tucked in behind him, Sam automatically boxing you in. Wagons circling.
Dean’s voice is a dead thing, eyes glittering like glass. He growls low, angry. “Back off, fuck-heads. Give her some space.”
And Sam is beside him, face like a shark, hungry and mean. You hear somebody to your right making low moans, all shuddery and full of snot, crying, “They broke my hand. Christ, they fuckin’ broke it…”
Dean is cold, casual. Terrifying. He says, “Quit crying you pussy, or he’ll break the other one too.” And his brother makes an ugly smile; too sharp, too eager for it.
Watching them like this you realize that now, right now, everything balances on the edge of a knife, on the point of a pin, it swings on a hook, and you feel the hair rise up on your arms, rabbit nose twitching. You can almost smell the blood that’ll soon be on the walls. Your eyes feel huge in your face, taking it all in, seeing everything around you, and you murmur low, these reassuring words. You are a lion tamer behind your chair, you say to these two wild things, “Easy. Easy…”
The other men feel it too, can taste it in the air, the smell of death and trouble, thick like dust upon these two strangers. And they stand back. Respectful. Watchful. Eyes wide, waiting, waiting.
Everybody waits.
Dean surveys the crowd, assesses the threat, and he looks to Sam, their eyes sliding together, speaking without words, reading the signs as only they know how to, and then they move. Dean spits at the ground, “Bunch of faggots.” Slides his hand behind your neck, protective, guiding you out through the group of them, cutting a path with his hot look, blazing like the sun, Sam following behind, taking up the rear. And as he goes he mutters low, angry; a king unhappy in his kingdom.
Sam says it loud, he says it clear, so that there’s no mistake. He tells them all, “She’s with us.”
8.
The car needs an overhaul, and you hear one word from both their mouths. Bobby.
Sam smiles out the window as they drive, and you ask, “So, how far away is this place?”
“Not far.”
And as the miles go by you realize just how subjective that description can be.
When you finally get there Dean pulls up out front and you sit in the back seat and stare at his house, this big old rickety thing, fit to fall over and you think, Snow White for some reason. You think of the Woodsman living in the woods.
This man comes down the porch, and he looks surprised when he sees three instead of two, but recovers quickly. Rubbing his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket before he shakes yours, peering at your face, curious. “Jessica? Well, hell I wasn’t expecting this.”
He’s weathered, rough, all oil stained hands and dirty baseball cap, quick clear eyes. Gruff and polite with you, mock grumpy at the boys. Careful to offer you the best seat at the table, the mug with the least amount of cracks in it, the first biscuit in the tin; you fall in love and the feeling is mutual. By the end of the coffee he’s referring to you as Jessie-J, because you have clear stolen his heart, which makes Sam gloat and Dean choke on his coffee.
Bobby reaches down, feeds a broken biscuit to his dog, and he asks, “So how bad is it?”
You catch their look, and Dean speaks first. He always speaks first.
“Well, it’ll cost a bit, and that, we don’t have. So Sam and I were thinking, maybe we could give you a hand, do some solid work in exchange for the parts-“
And Bobby frowns, waves a hand. Scratches his dogs head. “Forget it. You boys don’t have to do that.”
“Bobby. We’re not asking for charity.”
You see Dean’s eyes and you know him well enough now that you can read that look - he won’t accept anything else.
Bobby sees it too, and he shifts in his seat. “Son, you are your Daddy’s boy alright. More stubborn than a mule.” He points at the two of them. “You all stay here though, and no arguments boys. It’s not like I don’t got the space.”
You and Sam get the spare room upstairs and Dean sleeps in the camp bed in the ‘library’, which suits him fine. And you stay for a couple of weeks, settling into a quieter pace, a normal state of time.
The weather turns hot while you’re there, and one morning you come down from your bedroom wearing an old sundress you found in the cupboard. It’s thin white cotton, tiny cornflowers and daisies dancing across the fabric. You walk into the kitchen and three pairs of eyes rise up from their breakfast and stare.
You stand half in the doorway, half out. Frowning.
“What?”
And Bobby looks at the two boys across the table, all wide eyes and wider mouths, and he shakes his head, makes a low whistle. Shakes his head from side to side and he sighs, “Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy...”
9
You cough, breathing hard. Make it to your feet, rubbing at your neck. Fingers skimming the low ache made by his hand, and Dean climbs up next to you.
He says, “Sorry. I was a bit rough.” And you flick him a dark look, because he had been.
Part of you knows he’s not sorry; he did it on purpose. Driven by his own objectives, his own plans this one.
You say, “It’s okay, just forget it.”
Sulking.
Slide your fingers, testing the spot where he squeezed tight around your throat, and you feel them under your skin, new bruises, waiting to rise up in a day or two, to become a dark fan circling your neck.
He steps closer, nudges your fingers away, and he says, “Let me see.”
“Leave it.” Cover your neck with your hand.
It earns you the stern voice, as he tries to unhook your fingers.
“Christ. Don’t be such a girl.”
Hear the hint of a smile in all his rough, and you drop your hand.
Dean’s head dips close, looking, rough fingers soft on the red marks, his voice gruff, soft, when he says, “It doesn’t hurt to hurt, Jess. You gotta take a little pain in order to give it.
You say nothing to this. You just stand there and hold your breath; let him look at you. Body still while your eyes fly wild, darting free: to the trees, the sharp blue sky above, the dry grass beneath.
Feel his breath on your chin, and he smells a little like Sam, like your boy; the same and yet different. Eyes sliding across to him and you watch him now, you watch him back. Study the dark lashes of his eyes, the mosaic green-brown underneath.
10.
Bobby plays poker every Wednesday, and you have the place to yourselves.
So one night you make dinner, a proper dinner, taking advantage of the real oven. Roast chicken and vegetables, the works. And you sit at the table, chewing, watching them inhale the food off their plates. Their conversation dancing back and forth all around you, these sparring words.
Sam laughs at his brother and eats like a man possessed, staring across the table at you, while Dean leans back and sucks on his beer, dark eyes watching you from behind the glass.
You smile as Dean approaches the end of his story, all bluff and bullshit, and you like it how he can do this; make Sam laugh wide.
Your boy leans back in his chair, snorts in disbelief. “Oh, man?! That’s…you are full of it!”
Witness Dean’s wicked grin, sharp and beautiful upon his face, and he says, “C’mon Sammy, you know I’m right. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
They laugh loud, the two of them, here in the kitchen, half pissed, all loose faces and bright eyes, and your eyes roam over them; Sam and his brother. They’re so big, they seem to glow, expanding outwards, crowding out everything else in this space.
Sam sees you smiling and he grins back. He reaches for your hand, and squeezes it, soft and small under his. You see his brother’s eyes track this movement and something dark passes behind his eyes, sliding across you, Sam, and then away.
You pretend you didn’t see it.
11.
Dean walks beside you as you push the cart, head stuck in some crappy celebrity gossip mag, you reach for the Cheerio’s and he frowns at the ugly photograph of a bald Britney, but the words are directed at you.
He says, “No. I’m sick of them.”
You stare at him. “You’re kidding right?” Your eyes swiveling back and forth, between him and the box, a tennis match of disbelief. He practically lives on the things.
Dean’s eyes don’t move, fixed on the page, he shrugs at the magazine. Matter-of-fact, dry.
“What can I say? I grew up.”
It makes you laugh. “Riiight”
Feel the lightness bubbling up from deep inside, the silliness of it all. He’s a joy to be with when he’s like this.
You shake your head, all mock serious. “Of course. Sure.” Scan the cereal shelves, make your face bland. “So, what’s it going to be now, Young Sir?”
He lifts his eyes up to meet yours, and he smiles wide, he smiles deep. He says, “Count Chocula please, Ma’am. A man needs his energy when he’s saving the world.”
Later, as he helps you carry the bags to the cars you tell him that he’s funny. And he makes this comical face.
Shy shrug, he looks away. Dismissive.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah. You are.”
“Nah, I’m just a dick.”
“No you’re not. You’re funny, not stupid.”
“Nah, Jess. You picked the right one out of the bunch. Sam’s got the brains…”
He makes it sound light, conversational, but there’s something else beneath these words. You slide your bag into the well of the back seat, turn back to face him.
Annoyed. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Put yourself down like that? I hate it when you do that.”
He stares at you, face cut open for a moment, eyes wide, and then looks away. Frowns at the cars going past.
“Because it’s true. A man’s got to know who he is. There’s ‘smart’ smart like Sam, and then there’s street smart like me. Nothing wrong with it, it just is how it is.”
A cloud passes above and everything goes dull around you, as the sun hides away. It makes you feel cold, sad. You lean forward and straighten his collar.
You say, “I don’t believe that.”
And his eyes turn back to you, as you shake your head against this tragedy of low expectation, as you refuse it carriage. You stick out your chin, stubborn. Firm. “Besides, you and Sam? It’s a package deal.” Catch his eye, hold his look with a smile. “And every day you make me proud. Every day.”
12.
He gets them to dig out an old tree stump down the far back of his yard. It’s hard work, hot work, and they keep at it for most of the day. It reaches late afternoon and you grab beers, towels and head down to find them, and they are sticky with sweat, dirt painting their skin all these dusty hues.
Make your way through the adjoining properties, under and through so many barbed wire fences to the river and it’s this oasis of dark green, a teal patchwork of tiny currents, flowing free. Strip down to your underwear and the beers chill in the cold water while the three of you swim.
The boys hit the water first, and you take your time, let the cold rise, first ankles, knees, thighs, up, up until you glide and this is the most glorious thing, inhale sharp as the cold water hits your neck.
The three of you stay like this for hours, acting stupid, hitting the water in each other’s faces, kicking up. Laughing loud.
Later, you float as the two of them shoot the breeze. Sam holds you, cradled like a baby and you extend your arms up, up, above your head, Ophelia drifting, your hair caught in the current streaming out, out, out. You stare up at this bright sky above, stretching so blue, so wide so endless and you tune out their words listening only to the deep buzzing of their voices. Dragon flies dance, mites swirl and the tall pines standing on the banks shift in the breeze, these old men swaying.
Dark green, dark green.
Dean tugs your toes, and he asks, “Are you asleep? Jessie, sleepy head…” Catch a flash, bright, Sam’s smile, wider than the sky above you.
And you hum back, sleepy, content. Adrift in all this cool.
You whisper, “Any second now…”
Any second now.
Um. I was writing another fic but it wouldn't come, and my brain kept being distracted and wanted to write pornotopia, but in the end this is what i ended up with. i guess the term is fluff. so...yeah. ::shrugs::
Title: All the stars may shine bright
Author: Niz4
Email: nimitz4@iinet.net.au
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: They laugh loud, the two of them, here in the kitchen, half pissed, all loose faces and bright eyes, and your eyes roam over them; Sam and his brother. They’re so big, they seem to glow, expanding outwards, crowding out everything else in this space.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4920
Characters: Jess / Sam; Dean
Timeline: AU - from Pilot
Disclaimer: SN belongs to Kripke. I just covet.
Feedback: how lovely
Authors note: the title is a line from the portishead song all mine. The quote is of course from Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie. And this is a sequel, for want of a better word, to my earlier fic - No one said what the truth should be
All the stars may shine bright
Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown up things again…
1.
Everything sounds weird from inside the phone booth, hollow, disconnected, like you’re in a tunnel, and you watch them from behind the glass. The two of them, outside, leaning against the car, talking, laughing, drinking coffee from jumbo takeaway cups.
Press your head against the smooth hard window, watching, the handset hot against your ear, wishing you could be out there with them instead of here, now, like this, listening to the rising anger in his voice.
It makes you tired, and you can hear it in your tone, so neat, this plain and unpleasant thing.
You sigh. “Dad. We keep having this same conversation.”
And your father mutters down the phone line, the sound thick with disapproval.
“I don’t understand why you just want to throw it all away.”
A hot flush. “I’m not throwing it all away!” Take a deep breath, try to keep your tone even. Reassuring. “It’s just twelve months. Stanford will be there when I get back.”
Long pause.
“We don’t hear from you for days at a time. Christ, the last time you didn’t call for two weeks. Your mother was a mess - she wanted me to call the police.”
Bite your lip. It had been that case near Coldwater; the exorcism, you’d all been up for days, exhausted by the end of it. Lost track of time.
“Is it drugs? Is that what’s going on here?”
“Dad!” Pinch the bridge of your nose, feel the beginnings of headache there now, billowing outwards. “Jesus. No-”
“Well? Is it? I mean this is not like you, Jessica - your mother and I are very concerned. I just…we just don’t understand.”
Snapping hot, angry, because you are sick of this.
“Christ! There’s nothing to understand. Don’t you get it? It’s not your choice - okay? it’s mine. And I’m doing this.”
Nothing but empty space now, heavy and thick, you can hear him breathing down the other end of the line.
You whisper, “Just try…” Feel this hot itch behind your eyes, and your throat is suddenly too thick, too tight for these words. Make yourself swallow all the hurt back down inside, push through it. “Can’t you just try to trust me?”
Feeling like you’re ten years old again, Daddy please? Please?
Wait.
He says, “Try to call more often. Your mother worries about you.”
And the phone clicks, goes dead in your ear.
Hang up and hug your arms around yourself, leaning back against the phone, feeling small in this space, smaller still. Raw and empty under all this metal and cement.
There’s a tap on the door and Sam’s watching your face through the glass, motions for you to open up and he’s holding a takeaway mug for you.
“How was it?”
Take the coffee, grateful for the warmth of it against your skin, hot on the palm of your hand. You make a face, laugh like broken glass.
“Terrible, like always. Except multiplied by a million.”
He winces in sympathy. One long arm wrapping around your shoulder, drawing you out, he pulls you against him and he is warm, solid. Tangible and all around you, and you hug him back.
Dean hits the horn, watching you both from the car. He yells, “Let’s go girls.”
2.
You hunker down beside him, and he touches your face. Strong fingers cold, gentle upon your skin, and you let him turn your head, this careful tilt, guiding your view 15 degrees east. Dean points up and he whispers, “It’s in the trees. Do you see it?”
And you squint, try hard to see through all the ash-gray, steely blue. Your eyes find only shadows and night. You try harder.
He squeezes your shoulder. “See it now?”
You have to shake your head, No. Frustrated. Staring until your eyes burn, and then suddenly, this dark mess of shapes has meaning, and it registers. There’s something moving, a darker silhouette separates from all the others. Long thin arms, bobbing head, sniffing the air, a shifting slide. Feline. Unnatural.
You inhale a cold breath that burns all the way down. A slender runner of fear reaching out, taking root in your gut, and you turn your face towards his, nodding slow. Once.
Yes.
Eyes blinking wide and you tell yourself, you won’t be afraid. No you won’t.
Dean smiles at you, and it’s warm in all this black, he says, “It’s yours if you want it.”
And you raise the rifle up, press the stock tight, tight like he taught you, into your shoulder. You hug it, snug against your body, smooth cheek on smooth stock, you take aim at this dead thing and you shoot.
Later, in the safe fortress of your bed Sam whispers down from above, sleepy and content, the wide field of his chest curving around you, he murmurs, “How’d you do?”
And you ease into him, your skin this pliant thing now, warm, buttery soft, melting to meet his. The rich tang of pride upon your tongue when you whisper back, “It was just a pup. Got it in one shot - through and through.”
Glowing bright in the dark cage of his arms, you, his firefly girl, all lit up under his sleepy kiss, his warm, “That’s my girl.”
That’s my girl…
3.
It’s night. The three of you crowded around the table, Dean studying the maps with Sam, you, reading.
Dean looks over your shoulder, squints, curious. “Is that one from the car?”
“Nope. Stole it from the library at Louisville.”
Dean laughs, surprised and bright, a solar flare. You catch a muttered awesome from him, while your boy frowns.
Sam says, “You stole it? Jesus Jess.”
“Not on purpose. I was going to give it back, but we left in a hurry. It’s okay. I’ll mail it back…”
Sam leans over to read the cover, “Well, it better be good. Let me see-“
“It’s okay…” You’re embarrassed now. All this scrutiny. Hide the cover with your hands. “Look, it’s just a book.”
Sam’s insistent, curious. Long fingers tugging yours away, eager boy that he is.
“Come on, let me see?”
You blush. Give up. Remove your hands and admit it.
“Okay. It’s a big book of knots.”
And Dean laughs, leans back in his chair. “Get out!” Eyes shining bright, expectant, waiting for the punch-line to this joke. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Defensive. Feeling stupid, as you elaborate. “It goes through how to do all these different kinds of knots, and the history of them.”
Dean stares at you, pulls this face. Sniggers. “No fucking way you are reading that.” And he reaches for it, seeking confirmation, but his brother bats his hands away.
Sam pulls the book across the table towards him, flicks through the pages. Skimming text, skin puckering between his eyebrows, nodding thoughtfully. Already hooked, makes a low murmur, and you both hear the distinct cool.
Dean’s head whips around, towards him, nose wrinkling like he’s smelt something bad. His eyes slide back and forth, between you and his brother, considering, and he shakes his head in disgust. “A book on knots. Jesus. You two are going to be the death of me.”
4.
You make it into the firelight, lungs burning, white hot inside, your body taut, itching with adrenaline. Slam into the thick muscle of his shoulder and come to a hard stop, breathing hard. Sam’s already reloading, searching his jacket pocket for new cartridges. His fingers are shaking and he laughs in disbelief.
“Jesus Christ. Did you see that? Fucking fast!”
And your legs feel shaky beneath you, tight, bouncy ready to move, to run, they don’t feel real, but you try not to think about it, swipe at the grime on your cheek, the sticky stink of it on your skin.
Snap back at him, voice shrill, tight in your ears. “I thought you said that it was old?!”
Dean circles around you both, gun raised, eyes watching the black, sharp, sharp. He rubs his chin against his shoulder, and he grins, “Old don’t mean slow, Jess.”
5.
He seeps, hot and wet between your thighs, and you sweat, you ache, you quiver from above.
Sam is a sleepy face, happy and content. He stretches underneath you, thick muscles slide, bunch, slide again, and you run your fingers over all the differing parts of his landscape - soft, hard, firm ridges and dips, sliding, sliding - your eyes wide, wide, watching it all.
And he’s a blessing. A thing of beauty, here, in this room.
He peeks up through all that hair, sees you staring. Exhales a smile as he catches your fingers in his, holds them still. Eyes at half mast. Sam whispers, “What are you looking at?”
And you sink into him, smiling to kiss his lips. You whisper, “You. I’m looking at you.”
6.
You hold up his shirt in the light, studying the place where the button should be. Discover an empty row where there should be four. Search through the rest of the clean clothes piled on the edge of the bed, looking for them.
“Sam, you lost some buttons.”
The two of them side-by- side, together, at the table, scouring the newspaper, red pens circling anything that catches their eye, stories that warrant a closer look. Silently passing folded pages, torn out sections, back and forth, fingers directing eyes, comparing notes, ignoring you.
“Sam?”
“Huh?” Distracted. Feigned interest in what you have to say.
You raise your voice, insistent. “Sam.”
And now he looks up. They both do.
“Sorry, Jess. What did you say?”
Hold up the shirt for them both to see.
“Do you have any spare buttons?”
Your boy frowns, confused. “Um, I don’t know. What do you want them for?” Dean’s eyes follow you too, equally perplexed.
Blink. Shrug. “I’m going to sew them back on.”
Dean snorts, surprised. Lips widening into a smile around the pen he’s chewing, eyes flashing with amusement. “What for? They’ll only fall off again.”
Sam looks at his brother, makes a slow grin. Two peas in a pod, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. Catches your frown, tries to look serious, and fails.
“Jess, you really don’t have to do that for me…”
His brother shifts in his seat, returns to looking at the paper, grinning and you hear the word sewing muttered under his breath.
Roll your eyes at them both. “Jesus. Don’t bother, go back to your reading. I’ll sort it out myself.”
You ignore the two of them. Spend the next few hours going through both their stuff, sorting it into piles of crap, okay and not bad, finding lots of items with missing buttons and minor damage along the way. Cannibalize the stuff that’s beyond repair, using the parts to mend the other things gathered around you.
Commandeer the needle and thread from the first aid kit and you sit, crossed-legged on the bed, surrounded by so much cotton and plaid. You sew, and it’s nice, it’s calming. Eyes focused, breathing slow. Needle up, needle down, endless waves of thread, the pattern repeating itself, on and on and on.
Make your way through their clothes, losing track of time, until you realize it’s late, really late and your eyes are tired; dry and itchy. Squinting in the lamp light. Glance up and they’re both watching you from the table, making twin smiles, warm and syrupy, stretching from their lips to their eyes. And you wonder how Wendy ever managed with all her Lost Boys, when you have so much to do with just the two? Needing all the mending, all the care, all the tenderness that you are willing to give.
7.
You watch Sam, focused, leaning down, long arms stretching to take his shot, and the white ball rolls, rolls across the green towards the black. Hold your breath and he barely misses sinking it, and Dean crows in delight, loud from his side of the table.
“Ho, yes!” Points his cue at his brother and calls it. “Loser!”
Sam frowns at him, “Fuck off you asshole.” His dark eyes regarding the disobedient ball balanced on the edge of the hole. “It’s probably your negative energy that stopped that from going in-”
“Yeah, yeah. A poor workman blames fuckin’ everybody else but himself!” Laughing even louder at his brother now, it’s cruel and it’s a given; to the victor go the spoils of war.
You interject while you still can because you know, from experience, that this will just go on and on. Pool is a serious business in the Winchester world.
Make your voice bright, sliding off your stool. “Time for a top up?”
They barely register your presence. A passing glance from Dean who tips up his chin at you, yeah sure - thanks, and Sam runs his hand down your back while he trades insults with his brother. You head back to the bar and order another couple of mugs, watching them from the other side of the room. These two funny boys of yours, where the debate is sometimes more treasured than the game itself.
Make your way back through the crowd, mugs held high, pushing through, polite smile, sorry, sorry, excuse me, using hips and shoulders and elbows. Suddenly the path is blocked off, darker inside this dark lit place. And you are confronted with a wall of feet, windbreakers, jeans and slurred voices raining down, Hey sweetheart. You need a hand?
Feel someone touch your hair.
“Thanks, but I got it.” Faux smile up at them, idiots who can’t hold their drink. Eyes free-wheeling, looking for an exit path.
The biggest one crowds you in even more from the side, and you feel his knee butt yours, thigh catching the back of your leg. His head dips low, near your ear and his voice is sloppy against your neck. Stale breath.
He croons, wet and sticky. “Hey there, pretty lady.”
And your hands are full of beer and glass. Held up. Useless, ineffectual.
Nudge his head away with your shoulder. Make your voice cold, firm.
“Hey!” Tilt your chin up. “Can you get out of my way, please?”
Feel someone touch your lower back, fingers sliding, sliding, circling your hip, your belly. And you don’t like it, you don’t like it.
Another voice says, “She wants to go now…” Like it’s a joke, and they all laugh but it’s an ugly sound. It’s sour. Wrong. And this is not a joke, it’s not a joke. You start to feel claustrophobic beneath all these bodies, all these faces, and you blink.
Unwelcome fingers tugging at the edge of your t-shirt, slipping under, finding skin, and you say, “Don’t!”
Hard. Loud.
Don’t.
There's a sudden movement from behind, and your ears hear this ‘pop’ and you know that sound. It’s bone. Small bones breaking, small bones sliding out of place, and you hear a man gasp nearby. A multitude of eyes shift from you, over your shoulder and you are being tugged backwards, pushed behind, and Sam and his brother are there. They are there. Dean reaching back, sightless, finger-tips checking that you’re tucked in behind him, Sam automatically boxing you in. Wagons circling.
Dean’s voice is a dead thing, eyes glittering like glass. He growls low, angry. “Back off, fuck-heads. Give her some space.”
And Sam is beside him, face like a shark, hungry and mean. You hear somebody to your right making low moans, all shuddery and full of snot, crying, “They broke my hand. Christ, they fuckin’ broke it…”
Dean is cold, casual. Terrifying. He says, “Quit crying you pussy, or he’ll break the other one too.” And his brother makes an ugly smile; too sharp, too eager for it.
Watching them like this you realize that now, right now, everything balances on the edge of a knife, on the point of a pin, it swings on a hook, and you feel the hair rise up on your arms, rabbit nose twitching. You can almost smell the blood that’ll soon be on the walls. Your eyes feel huge in your face, taking it all in, seeing everything around you, and you murmur low, these reassuring words. You are a lion tamer behind your chair, you say to these two wild things, “Easy. Easy…”
The other men feel it too, can taste it in the air, the smell of death and trouble, thick like dust upon these two strangers. And they stand back. Respectful. Watchful. Eyes wide, waiting, waiting.
Everybody waits.
Dean surveys the crowd, assesses the threat, and he looks to Sam, their eyes sliding together, speaking without words, reading the signs as only they know how to, and then they move. Dean spits at the ground, “Bunch of faggots.” Slides his hand behind your neck, protective, guiding you out through the group of them, cutting a path with his hot look, blazing like the sun, Sam following behind, taking up the rear. And as he goes he mutters low, angry; a king unhappy in his kingdom.
Sam says it loud, he says it clear, so that there’s no mistake. He tells them all, “She’s with us.”
8.
The car needs an overhaul, and you hear one word from both their mouths. Bobby.
Sam smiles out the window as they drive, and you ask, “So, how far away is this place?”
“Not far.”
And as the miles go by you realize just how subjective that description can be.
When you finally get there Dean pulls up out front and you sit in the back seat and stare at his house, this big old rickety thing, fit to fall over and you think, Snow White for some reason. You think of the Woodsman living in the woods.
This man comes down the porch, and he looks surprised when he sees three instead of two, but recovers quickly. Rubbing his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket before he shakes yours, peering at your face, curious. “Jessica? Well, hell I wasn’t expecting this.”
He’s weathered, rough, all oil stained hands and dirty baseball cap, quick clear eyes. Gruff and polite with you, mock grumpy at the boys. Careful to offer you the best seat at the table, the mug with the least amount of cracks in it, the first biscuit in the tin; you fall in love and the feeling is mutual. By the end of the coffee he’s referring to you as Jessie-J, because you have clear stolen his heart, which makes Sam gloat and Dean choke on his coffee.
Bobby reaches down, feeds a broken biscuit to his dog, and he asks, “So how bad is it?”
You catch their look, and Dean speaks first. He always speaks first.
“Well, it’ll cost a bit, and that, we don’t have. So Sam and I were thinking, maybe we could give you a hand, do some solid work in exchange for the parts-“
And Bobby frowns, waves a hand. Scratches his dogs head. “Forget it. You boys don’t have to do that.”
“Bobby. We’re not asking for charity.”
You see Dean’s eyes and you know him well enough now that you can read that look - he won’t accept anything else.
Bobby sees it too, and he shifts in his seat. “Son, you are your Daddy’s boy alright. More stubborn than a mule.” He points at the two of them. “You all stay here though, and no arguments boys. It’s not like I don’t got the space.”
You and Sam get the spare room upstairs and Dean sleeps in the camp bed in the ‘library’, which suits him fine. And you stay for a couple of weeks, settling into a quieter pace, a normal state of time.
The weather turns hot while you’re there, and one morning you come down from your bedroom wearing an old sundress you found in the cupboard. It’s thin white cotton, tiny cornflowers and daisies dancing across the fabric. You walk into the kitchen and three pairs of eyes rise up from their breakfast and stare.
You stand half in the doorway, half out. Frowning.
“What?”
And Bobby looks at the two boys across the table, all wide eyes and wider mouths, and he shakes his head, makes a low whistle. Shakes his head from side to side and he sighs, “Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy...”
9
You cough, breathing hard. Make it to your feet, rubbing at your neck. Fingers skimming the low ache made by his hand, and Dean climbs up next to you.
He says, “Sorry. I was a bit rough.” And you flick him a dark look, because he had been.
Part of you knows he’s not sorry; he did it on purpose. Driven by his own objectives, his own plans this one.
You say, “It’s okay, just forget it.”
Sulking.
Slide your fingers, testing the spot where he squeezed tight around your throat, and you feel them under your skin, new bruises, waiting to rise up in a day or two, to become a dark fan circling your neck.
He steps closer, nudges your fingers away, and he says, “Let me see.”
“Leave it.” Cover your neck with your hand.
It earns you the stern voice, as he tries to unhook your fingers.
“Christ. Don’t be such a girl.”
Hear the hint of a smile in all his rough, and you drop your hand.
Dean’s head dips close, looking, rough fingers soft on the red marks, his voice gruff, soft, when he says, “It doesn’t hurt to hurt, Jess. You gotta take a little pain in order to give it.
You say nothing to this. You just stand there and hold your breath; let him look at you. Body still while your eyes fly wild, darting free: to the trees, the sharp blue sky above, the dry grass beneath.
Feel his breath on your chin, and he smells a little like Sam, like your boy; the same and yet different. Eyes sliding across to him and you watch him now, you watch him back. Study the dark lashes of his eyes, the mosaic green-brown underneath.
10.
Bobby plays poker every Wednesday, and you have the place to yourselves.
So one night you make dinner, a proper dinner, taking advantage of the real oven. Roast chicken and vegetables, the works. And you sit at the table, chewing, watching them inhale the food off their plates. Their conversation dancing back and forth all around you, these sparring words.
Sam laughs at his brother and eats like a man possessed, staring across the table at you, while Dean leans back and sucks on his beer, dark eyes watching you from behind the glass.
You smile as Dean approaches the end of his story, all bluff and bullshit, and you like it how he can do this; make Sam laugh wide.
Your boy leans back in his chair, snorts in disbelief. “Oh, man?! That’s…you are full of it!”
Witness Dean’s wicked grin, sharp and beautiful upon his face, and he says, “C’mon Sammy, you know I’m right. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
They laugh loud, the two of them, here in the kitchen, half pissed, all loose faces and bright eyes, and your eyes roam over them; Sam and his brother. They’re so big, they seem to glow, expanding outwards, crowding out everything else in this space.
Sam sees you smiling and he grins back. He reaches for your hand, and squeezes it, soft and small under his. You see his brother’s eyes track this movement and something dark passes behind his eyes, sliding across you, Sam, and then away.
You pretend you didn’t see it.
11.
Dean walks beside you as you push the cart, head stuck in some crappy celebrity gossip mag, you reach for the Cheerio’s and he frowns at the ugly photograph of a bald Britney, but the words are directed at you.
He says, “No. I’m sick of them.”
You stare at him. “You’re kidding right?” Your eyes swiveling back and forth, between him and the box, a tennis match of disbelief. He practically lives on the things.
Dean’s eyes don’t move, fixed on the page, he shrugs at the magazine. Matter-of-fact, dry.
“What can I say? I grew up.”
It makes you laugh. “Riiight”
Feel the lightness bubbling up from deep inside, the silliness of it all. He’s a joy to be with when he’s like this.
You shake your head, all mock serious. “Of course. Sure.” Scan the cereal shelves, make your face bland. “So, what’s it going to be now, Young Sir?”
He lifts his eyes up to meet yours, and he smiles wide, he smiles deep. He says, “Count Chocula please, Ma’am. A man needs his energy when he’s saving the world.”
Later, as he helps you carry the bags to the cars you tell him that he’s funny. And he makes this comical face.
Shy shrug, he looks away. Dismissive.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah. You are.”
“Nah, I’m just a dick.”
“No you’re not. You’re funny, not stupid.”
“Nah, Jess. You picked the right one out of the bunch. Sam’s got the brains…”
He makes it sound light, conversational, but there’s something else beneath these words. You slide your bag into the well of the back seat, turn back to face him.
Annoyed. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Put yourself down like that? I hate it when you do that.”
He stares at you, face cut open for a moment, eyes wide, and then looks away. Frowns at the cars going past.
“Because it’s true. A man’s got to know who he is. There’s ‘smart’ smart like Sam, and then there’s street smart like me. Nothing wrong with it, it just is how it is.”
A cloud passes above and everything goes dull around you, as the sun hides away. It makes you feel cold, sad. You lean forward and straighten his collar.
You say, “I don’t believe that.”
And his eyes turn back to you, as you shake your head against this tragedy of low expectation, as you refuse it carriage. You stick out your chin, stubborn. Firm. “Besides, you and Sam? It’s a package deal.” Catch his eye, hold his look with a smile. “And every day you make me proud. Every day.”
12.
He gets them to dig out an old tree stump down the far back of his yard. It’s hard work, hot work, and they keep at it for most of the day. It reaches late afternoon and you grab beers, towels and head down to find them, and they are sticky with sweat, dirt painting their skin all these dusty hues.
Make your way through the adjoining properties, under and through so many barbed wire fences to the river and it’s this oasis of dark green, a teal patchwork of tiny currents, flowing free. Strip down to your underwear and the beers chill in the cold water while the three of you swim.
The boys hit the water first, and you take your time, let the cold rise, first ankles, knees, thighs, up, up until you glide and this is the most glorious thing, inhale sharp as the cold water hits your neck.
The three of you stay like this for hours, acting stupid, hitting the water in each other’s faces, kicking up. Laughing loud.
Later, you float as the two of them shoot the breeze. Sam holds you, cradled like a baby and you extend your arms up, up, above your head, Ophelia drifting, your hair caught in the current streaming out, out, out. You stare up at this bright sky above, stretching so blue, so wide so endless and you tune out their words listening only to the deep buzzing of their voices. Dragon flies dance, mites swirl and the tall pines standing on the banks shift in the breeze, these old men swaying.
Dark green, dark green.
Dean tugs your toes, and he asks, “Are you asleep? Jessie, sleepy head…” Catch a flash, bright, Sam’s smile, wider than the sky above you.
And you hum back, sleepy, content. Adrift in all this cool.
You whisper, “Any second now…”
Any second now.