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Phantom Load - Part 9

Tuesday, July 8th, 2008 05:02 pm

Friday, January 24^th, 1992

Dean made it through the week by avoiding the hallway near the auditorium, by taking the long way around for his geography class, and by keeping his eyes open the whole time. He hardly dared blink. His eyes were as dry as dusty bones, but at least his homework had been handed in, and he wasn’t limping anymore. He still had bruises, striped around the backs of his legs. They didn’t throb anymore. If he didn’t touch them and once he was sitting, if he kept real still, everything was okay. The marks would be gone in a few days anyway. All he had to do was keep up with his current strategy and all would be well.

Plus, it was Friday. Between him, he and Sam had saved up another couple of dollars, and Dad said they could have a dollar each from him, so a visit to the 7-11 in the morning was the plan. They had agreed to buy all chocolate this time, no pixie sticks, no wax bottles with liquid inside of them.

When school was over, he walked towards the front doors. About halfway there, he sensed a door into the hallway, and he skirted to one side to avoid it. Something or someone pulled him into the darkness of a very small room, and for a second he thought it was one of those phantoms Dad sometimes talked about, but this phantom smelled like lemon-lime, and had hard hands that held him in place. Dean shifted his weight, tried to pull away, but the bag over his chest and the pea coat made him bulky and slow.

Then he felt Mr. Gunnarson’s hand over his mouth and realized he was in the janitor’s closet. He could see the slats of light coming through the metal ventilation at the bottom of the door. Could hear students walking past, could see their shadows, feel the breeze of fresh, cool hallway air.

Dean opened his mouth to shout past Gunnarson's hand.

“You behave yourself, Dean," said Gunnarson, tightening his fingers on Dean's face. "Or I’ll have to bring Sammy in here, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

The janitor clasped Dean to him. Dean froze and felt Gunnarson’s other hand slip down his side to unbutton Dean's jeans, undo the zipper, ease his jeans down his legs. This hurt a little bit as the stiff cloth slid over his legs, and he grit his teeth against the hiss. Then the hand went away, and he heard a wet popping sound. Gunnarson’s hand moved on his bare backside now, wet. Cold. Sliding down between his legs.

Dean moved, suddenly, pushing, arching away. He pressed his hand against Mr. Gunnarson's chest and felt Mr. Gunnarson’s breath in his ear.

“Come on, now Dean, be a good boy, you’ll like this, you will.”

With a shove, Gunnarson slid his finger inside of Dean’s body, dry and damp at the same time, pushing like he was cutting through something hard, something he wanted. Dean’s lurched, slamming against the thigh barring his way, the strap of his messenger bag slipping up to tug against his neck. He wanted to scream, but all he could manage was a grunt, drawing in more air that tasted like dust and chemicals, hitching up as the finger ripped out of him and then shoved back in. Mr. Gunnarson was shaking now, his whole hand cupping Dean’s buttocks as he moved his finger in and out, and Dean had to grab onto cloth to steady himself, Mr. Gunnarson’s grey shirt clutched in his fist.

There was a brush of Mr. Gunnarson’s chin against his forehead as the janitor gasped aloud, and Dean felt the dampness against his bare hip, smelled that salty smell again, knew what it was. Knew what had happened. The finger pulled out of him one last time, feeling like sandpaper, and the hand, stroking his bare skin, pulling up his underwear, fumbling with the waistband. Dean turned, leaning against Mr. Gunnarson’s thigh while he pulled up his jeans and did them up, holding his jacket out of the way with his wrists, which was hard in the cramped space. Tugging on the strap of his bag, he moved it down from his neck and took a deep breath. Then he stepped towards the door and opened it.

“Next week, Dean,” said Mr. Gunnarson, almost whispering, “we’ll try it again. You'll come to like it, I promise.”

Dean didn’t keep himself from running down the hall, though he heard the shout of the hallway monitor, one of those teachers with nothing better to do then yell at kids, and barreled out of the front door, looking for Sam, where was Sammy? At the far end of the parking lot, looking like a miracle, the white van appeared and slowly followed the traffic around as it went, north to south, one way, slow, careful of kids darting out between the parked cars, waiting behind orange buses for its turn at the sidewalk. By the time it stopped and Sammy hopped out, mittens on strings intact, his knit cap firmly in place, Dean was shaking. He couldn’t help it.

Sam stopped and tilted his head back to look up at Dean. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Cold,” said Dean. “Gotta cold, the flu maybe. I don’t know about candy tomorrow.” Which meant that of course if Dean couldn’t take him, Sam couldn’t walk alone, along the Saturday traffic on Baseline. Not all that way.

“That’s okay,” said Sam. “Maybe we could go Sunday.”

They walked home, the ever-brisk wind blowing like it wanted to blow them back to the school. At one point, Dean felt Sammy tugging on his coat sleeve, and he realized he was walking perilously close to the road. He staggered over to the grass and kept on walking. The walking helped. So did Sammy’s chatter about math class, about the stupid boy who’d taken his hat who was trying to be his friend now, about the teacher who’d brought cookies for the class just because it was Friday. Dean nodded and tried to say something at several points during this, but his throat felt like it had been filled with sand. Maybe he was coming down with a cold, or something worse. Something that would keep him out of school forever.

When they got to the trailer, the sun was slanted low, right in their eyes. The Impala wasn’t there, but Dean remembered something about Dad coming home that night, something about phantoms being all taken care of and a phone call expected from Uncle Bobby.

Dean unlocked the door to the trailer and turned to remind Sam to hang up his coat and take off his shoes, but Sam was already doing this. Then Sam turned on the TV and flung himself on the couch. Hogan’s Heros, it sounded like, so Dean went in the back room and lay down on top of the covers, facing the wall. He tucked the pillow under his chin and curled up his knees towards his chest. He didn’t hurt anywhere, but his chest felt hollow, like someone had shoveled it out. And he was cold, shivering like snow was settling along his shoulder, his ribs, his socked feet. He could hear the TV, thought about getting up to make some dinner, thought about staying there till night came. Pretend to be asleep. Pretended he could come up with a way, somehow, a way, to make the blackness stay at a distance.

After a time, the noise from Hogan’s Heros switched tone, and Dean realized that Dad was home. He’d not even heard the Impala pull up, or the door open and close. He blinked at the semi-dark wall in front of him, and turned over. He should get up. He did.

He walked into the relative warmth of the kitchen to see Dad sitting at the table, the black phone receiver curled in his hand as he rested his head on his other fist. His black hair, still damp from a wash at the sink, stood up like witchweed around his ears.

“No, Bobby,” Dad was saying, looking up at Dean and greeting him with smile in his dark eyes and a jerk of his chin. “The boys are settled. They just started school, can’t you—but Arkansas is two days away, I can’t—”

Dean grabbed Dad’s arm, fingers twisting in the flannel.

“Hang on a second, Bobby,” said Dad, lifting the phone away from his face, “Dean, how many times—”

“We could go, Dad,” said Dean, his voice leaping out of him, just shy of cracking. “We could. I don’t care about this school, and Sammy, he could go anywhere, he—”

Dad just looked at him. Sammy, hearing his name, jumped up and came three quick steps towards them. For a second, no one said anything, though Dean could hear Uncle Bobby’s voice, small, coming out of the phone. “John?”

“C’mon, Dad,” said Dean. Not begging. “A school’s a school, huh? They got schools in Arkansas, right? We could go there. Maybe they got one of those schools where Sammy and I can be together, walk to school and everything.”

Dad’s eyes flickered. Dean could see he wanted to go; staying too long in one place was rather too much like putting down roots, letting the moss grow, and Dean had always felt Dad didn’t want that to happen. But there was Sammy to consider, Sammy who was getting older, who was starting to make his distaste for all things unstable known. It was Sammy who would put up the fuss, and it might be Dad who would give in, just to put off trouble.

Dad looked at Sam. Sam opened his mouth, and was about to say something unpleasant and bratty, and then Dad looked back at Dean. He was about to say no and sorry, Dean.

“Please, Dad—” said Dean, but then his stomach began to roll up his throat, and he raced to the bathroom to slam down in front of the toilet before it was too late. His hand shook as he lifted the lid and the seat, and he leaned forward, feeling his spine crackle with the force of it as a stream of bile poured out of him. He closed his eyes, let it happen, tried to breath through his nose. When it was finished, he sank back, flushed the toilet, and wiped his mouth with shaking fingers. Dad and Sammy were at the bathroom door, filling it, their faces reflecting each other's in an open-mouthed stare. Brows drawn close in the same exact way.

“Dean,” said Dad, “maybe we should wait till you're feeling better. A couple of days, or something—”

Which meant that he’d changed his mind to yes, it was just a question of when. Sam opened his mouth, and Dean braced his shoulders back for the protest that would come. He looked at Sam and didn't say anything as a scream built up in his head so hard and so loud that he had to swallow. For a second, there was silence and then Sam blinked, his little monkey face still as he considered Dean kneeling on the floor.

“No, Dad,” said Sam. “We could leave now. If Dean's sick, we can make a bed in the back seat, like we did when I was little.”

Something crumbled inside of Dean, filling him, and he packed it away. He was going to be safe. He was going to be, and that thanks to Sammy. Who would never know why; Dean could never tell him why.

“You sure, Sammy?” asked Dad, the gratitude spilling out of him like water for making it easy on all of them, on Dean and Dad, who loved to travel. “Okay, then. Let’s get packing.”

Packing after living in a place for only three weeks still took a few hours and though Dean felt his head was going to split into two pieces, he did the best he could. Mostly to avoid Dad’s worried stare, but also to make sure that they did pack. That they did go. He was sweating under his armpits, feeling the jelly in his knees, and he felt cold, so cold. And he wanted to throw up again.

“Get the blankets,” said Dad to Sammy when they were just about done. Sammy, for once, raced to do as he was told. Then Dad called for Dean to come over to him, and knelt down with one of the blankets and wrapped it around Dean, folding it across his front. And then, as he stood up, he took Dean in his arms. Curved one arm under his legs and tucked Dean to his chest with the other. Dean felt almost weightless as Dad carried him out to the car. It was odd; he was too old. He saw the half-moon overhead, and the wind scurrying the clouds across it. Looked at that, and didn’t think, tucked his head in the strong curve of his father’s neck, thought about salt. About sleep.

Dad braced himself against the back seat and lowered Dean into the next of blankets that Sammy had made as though he were small. He arranged the blanket around Dean. Patted his feet, touched his face, and looked at him with dark eyes. Then Dad stood up and looked at Sammy. If Dean was in the back seat, then Sammy had shotgun, which he almost never did, because if you rode shotgun, you had to be of use, which Sammy, most of the time, was not. But it was wide open. Dean leaned his head back against the pillow, expecting to hear the front door closing and Sam’s excited bounce on the bench seat.

Instead, he felt the smack of Sam’s hand against the armrest in the back seat, and then Sam’s light hand, resting on Dean's leg under the blanket.

Dean opened his eyes. Sam was sitting on the hump over the drive shaft, facing towards Dean, his knit cap on, and mittens hanging from the sleeves of his coat.

“You go to sleep, Dean,” said Sam. “And I’ll keep watch.”

This was something Dean had said to Sam any number of times. Over and over, like a prayer, something he meant, something that was always true. Dean felt a thump like iron in his chest, like it was coming up against stone, and wanted to close his eyes against the bright sparkle in Sammy’s. But he didn’t. He kept them open as the Impala slid out onto the road, by the position of the moon, heading east along Baseline and then south along Cherryvale, along the expanse of the frozen lake, the bare branches of cottonwoods flashing dark arms through the Impala’s back window. And the breeze, pulling the moon into darkness. The road under the wheels. The hum of the engine. And Sammy’s hand, light, like a feather, resting on his leg.

Sunday, November 25th, 2006

"It was only a few times," said Dean. His voice was low. "The first time he—it was in the hallway. I was late to class. I had a hole in the seat of my jeans and he—well, I thought that was the only time. That it was just some weird one-off thing."

"But it wasn't." Sam's voice choked in his throat.

"No, he—he was everywhere. I couldn’t go to lunch, ‘cause I was trying to avoid him. He just kept after me, like he was hunting me."

With a whoosh, Dean stopped, and Sam realized, suddenly, that one of the reasons his brother was such a good hunter was because he'd never forgotten what it felt like to be prey.

"Then one time—" Dean began again, but he was breathing hard. Sam could hear it from across the room. He wanted to jump up and stop it, to say forget it Dean, but knew that it was like lancing a wound. Or it could be. If you were brave and made a clean cut, you would heal. You would get better. Trouble was, it usually had to get a whole lot worse first.

"A couple of times he got me in the boiler room. I don't know how he got me down there but—it was fondling. Sometimes outside my pants sometimes inside. Okay? Just a lot of fondling. He never fucked me. Then one time—"

Dean stopped to laugh, bringing a hand up to his mouth as if to stop it.

"Dean?" Sam, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the sound. He dropped his hands. Looked at Dean and screw his promise that he wouldn't. Dean was sitting on the bed, facing the wall. Like he was talking to himself. Like he was alone. "Why are you laughing?"

“Cause it’s kind of funny. He got me down into the boiler room—but this time, I fought him off, right? He didn’t get a chance to do anything, because I bit him. And then I threw a monkey wrench at him and you should have seen his face!"

"Is this the time he beat you?"

"How did you know about that?" Suddenly Dean's voice was icy cold.

"The file. I saw—saw some of it." Lines of blue ink that had seared into Sam's brain like a brand.

"Shit, Sam, I asked you not to read anything."

Sam made himself not apologize. "And that was it? That was what he did to you?"

"No, the time after that, the last time, he dragged me into that janitor’s closet. The one with the slop sink and the floor wax—"

Sam remembered that closet. It was towards the front of the school, in a hallway that no doubt got a lot of traffic. Something rippled inside of him at the thought he'd stood in that spot and had never known. That Dean had stood only feet behind him and never said a word. "Why didn’t you fight him off? If you were in the janitor’s closet someone could have heard you—"

Dean was silent for a moment. "I had to keep real still," he said.

"Why?"

"Because he threatened me with you."

As Dean said this, Sam's stomach flipped over and he was sure he hadn't heard right. "What?"

"He said, if I didn't behave, he'd bring you in there, so I—"

Sam’s stomach churned. The air filled with sparks. One more move and it would explode. “Stop."

"You wanted to know, Sam."

Sam stood up, sweat building on his face, on the back of his neck. He didn't look at Dean, felt his skin hum with shivers, his head cold, water still dripping on him.

"He took—he put—Yeah." Dean stopped then. And took a deep breath. Sam looked. Dean had his hands on his thighs like he was going to push himself to standing, and he did that for a bit but he didn't look all that steady. "Yeah, took down my pants and then he put his finger in me, so I guess you could say he fucked me." Dean wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Guess I'd forgotten that bit."

Sam stood up and rushed to the bathroom, tumbling to the cold floor on his knees, his head spinning, the spit in his throat building up almost faster than he could lift the lid and the seat. He bent over and vomited everything he’d eaten for the past day. The bile steamed as it hit the cold water, and he had to wipe his face with his forearm. It was more than he'd thought, less than it might have been. Still bad. Terrible bad. Something in his neck popped as he threw up again, and he had to rest his head against the rim of the toilet, absorbing the coolness of the porcelain.

Dean was at his side, moving close, soundless. Kneeling beside Sam, reaching up to flush the toilet. Sam looked at Dean, who waited there with serious eyes, not saying anything. His expression had always been a solid barrier between Sam and those things Dean felt he should be protected from. Except for this time and only because Sam had insisted.

The heat came on, wafting over them with a metallic smell. And looking at Dean, Sam realized that there was no comfort for him. That there had been no comfort for Dean, all these years.

Then Dean moved. Cupped his hands under Sam's arms and tugged, getting to his feet. "Come on, dude. That floor is nasty, even for me."

Sam stopped to rinse out his mouth and spit in the sink and then let Dean tug him to the bed. Warm air swirled around his head as he sat down, and Dean sat down beside him. They rested there, thigh to thigh, not talking, as they had so many times. Dean patted him, the last pat turning into something longer and comforting. It didn't stop Sam from shaking. He didn't know what to think or say, and the feeling of being helpless, of hands that could not grasp nor hold on. And there wasn't enough air, his lungs burned. He could feel his heart thumping behind his eyes. His hands were fists against his thighs.

"Look, Sam, I get it, okay? You and Dad—you would have ripped Gunnarson into a thousand pieces and scattered them to the winds. I know that. I do."

Sam closed his eyes. His face felt cold, the tips of his fingers numb. "I just wish," he said, feeling the rasp in his voice. "I just wish I could have done something." His chin dipped to his chest and he rubbed his face with his palm.

"But you did." Dean's voice was gentle.

Sam's eyes flew open. Dean was sitting so close that Sam would have to really turn his head to see his brother's face. "I didn't, Dean," he said, low. "I didn't do anything."

"You did. Don't you remember? You rescued me."

He shook his head. He didn't stop Gunnarson, he'd not been aware that anything had been going on, even to tell Dad. He'd not done anything.

"You did," said Dean. "You want the story? You gotta hear the whole thing, then. Just listen. Please?"

Sam ducked his chin, shivering in his damp t-shirt. His head ached. He nodded.

"The last time. That day. Uncle Bobby called. Wanted Dad to take a job in Arkansas. Remember?”

Sam shook his head no.

"Dad wanted to, well, you know Dad. And I jumped up and said let's go. Let's do it. And then you came over."

Dean was rubbing, no, pushing the heels of his palms into the mattress. Like he could shove down the thing bubbling inside of him that was making his voice shake. "I knew by looking at you, you would want to stay. Dad was going to give in, you know. You used to have these snit fits about moving so much. They started around then."

He heard Dean swallow, and swallowed himself in response. He remembered feeling rootless and homeless so many times, it had gotten to him so hard. He remembered the snotty remarks and the bitching he would do. It seemed selfish now, to want to stay, if Dean had wanted to go.

"And I was sure we were going to stay. That the next week, Gunnarson was going to get to me, he said so, he promised me, and it wasn't going to be fun. But you—and Dad. Something, I don't know what. You kind of looked at each other. I threw up or something, and that was going to make Dad stay, and you said—"

"We made you a bed in the back," said Sam. Suddenly. Remembering. Dean's pale face as he looked up from the floor, his eyes huge, like they were surrounded by bruises. For some reason, at that moment, everything had added up. Not that he'd been able to make sense of it back then, but the nightmares and the limping while walking home from school had meant something to him. And had given him the feeling, suddenly, that Dean needed to leave, and he, Sammy, needed to let him. To help him.

"Yeah," said Dean. "Dad carried me out to the car. I mean I was 12, right? But he wrapped me in a blanket and carried me in his arms. It was like he knew. And it was like you knew, too."

"I didn't know, Dean, I didn't, you—"

"But it was like you did." Dean said this, and straightened up. He shifted, and touched Sam to make him look up. "I laid in the back, and you sat with me and not up front with Dad. You stayed by my side until morning, without even knowing why."

Dean reached around Sam, and Sam leaned back, wondering what he wanted. It was the pictures. Dean took them from Sam's shirt pocket, and put the one of them both on top. Their little faces were bright in the winter sunshine. "This kid," he said, pointing to the very young Sam. "This kid rescued me before it got too bad. Got me out of there."

Sam covered Dean's hands with his own. He moved the pictures around till the one of Dean by himself was showing. "What about this kid? Who rescued him before any of it started?"

With a slow finger, Dean traced the white border. "That was the first day," he said. His voice sounded like it was on the verge of shaking.

"The first day of school?" Sam asked, confused.

"No, the first time Gunnarson—"

Sam's breath came in sharp. He wanted Dean to stop.

"That was the first time Gunnarson got at me. But the day you rescued me?" He flipped the pictures again. "That day? That was my birthday."

It had been the very day, the 24th of January, that they'd left Boulder. Tears spilled out of Sam's eyes before he could stop them. He tried, he did, pushing his fingers into his eye sockets, grit leftover from grave digging scratching the skin beneath his eyes. A sob buckled through his chest. "Shit, Dean." Tears slipped into his mouth. "I'm sorry, I—"

Dean's arm slipped around him. He was shifting into big brother mode with hardly a thought. With exactly no thought, doing it by instinct, years of training. Sam shuddered, let Dean pull him close for a minute, tried to breathe. His hands were wet; his face felt sticky.

"I feel so stupid," he managed to mutter. "None of it even happened to me."

"No," said Dean, agreeing. "I knew it would make a mess of you." He almost seemed to find this funny; there was a smile in his voice.

"If I'd know," said Sam, swallowing and then swallowing again, "I wouldn’t have bugged you about eating, or any of it. I would have just gotten you the hell out. Or never brought you here." Sam bent low to catch Dean's eye. "Right? You know that, right?" He scrubbed at his face with his hands and felt Dean pat his thigh.

"Yeah," said Dean. "I know it, better than anything." He sat perfectly still, just for a minute, his chest moving up and down like he was trying to breathe underwater.

There wasn't anything more that Sam could say to that. For one of the few times in his life he had no words in his head to express the tumble going on inside of it. For which, he supposed, Dean was extremely grateful, though, at the same time, he wished there was something he could say to make it all better. Forever.

Dean's body slumped a little against him. Then with a deep breath, he said, "Man, am I tired. My eyes're closing."

"Then maybe you should sleep," said Sam, seizing on this, this one thing that he could do. The exhaustion had been four days in coming, and if Dean was willing to admit to even the slightest exhaustion, as he was now, Sam was willing to help him along. He watched Dean's eyes slide closed like they were weighted with two tiny anvils.

Sam slipped off the bed and knelt at Dean's feet, and tugged at his brother's boots.

"What're you doing?" asked Dean, his arms slack at his sides. Like he wasn't going to fight it, but had to protest for form's sake.

Sam unlaced Dean's boots with as much quietness as he could. Then he reached up to pull the pillow out from beneath the counterpane, and made Dean stand up. Began taking off his layers, starting with the hoodie and working his way down to the t-shirt.

"Christ, Sammy, I got arms, as you can see."

Sam ignored him and tugged at Dean's waistband. "Do it then. And get into bed. Everything else can wait till tomorrow."

Dean, without any apparent meekness, did as he was told. It was almost funny to watch him follow orders like this, but the back of Sam's eyes felt hot, his mouth felt stiff like it had been branded with a poker.

When his brother was stripped down to briefs and his t-shirt, Sam pulled the covers away and gave his brother a little push. Sam shifted the pillow so that Dean's head was resting in the center of it. He arranged the blankets around Dean's body, and stood there looking. Dean looked back at him and then beckoned Sam to bend closer. Sam did, remembering the times when this would result in a wet Willie or something else equally amusing to Dean. This time, Dean reached out and pulled a strand of Sam's hair stuck to his cheek and tucked it behind his ear.

"Try to get some rest, Sammy, you hear?"

Sam straightened up and nodded, his eyes hot all over again, and turned off all the lights. The heater was going full bore, drying the air to desert. Sam sat on the other bed. He would sleep too. In a minute. When Dean's body was still, his breath even, and the night's darkness was comfortable.

As he undressed in the darkness, he heard Dean sigh.

"What is it?" Sam asked, pausing, his t-shirt halfway off his head.

"That was the last time I felt like a kid, you know," said Dean. Soft. Almost to himself.

"When was that," Sam asked now, slipping the shirt off and holding it in his hands. His heart thumped; he expected Dean to say something else about Gunnarson and he didn't think he could take it without killing someone or running screaming into the icy streets.

"That day we had bread and butter and sugar for breakfast."

"Huh?"

"First day of school, dork."

Sam listened to Dean turn over on his side, heard the rustle of starched sheets as Dean burrowed in like a hibernating animal.

"Bread and butter and sugar," Dean added, muffled. "Never had much taste for it after that."

Sam remembered that day. Clear like ice on a clean lake; the first day of school always had a special shininess back then. Dean had set butter out specially the night before to soften. Sam realized now that it had been a major act of distraction on Dean's part, so that he could get little brother off to school without Sammy making too much of a fuss about where Dad had gone. There'd been sun coming in through the window belying the coldness of the day outside. Dean had let him spread the sugar, and then had pressed it hard into the bread after. Sam had stood on a chair, the false height making him taller than Dean.

His mouth had been full of sugar and butter, with crystals on his lips for most of the morning, and then in his hair. At recess, he'd taken his hat off to pull at it, and some kid had run by and snatched the hat. There was no way he could tattle to the teacher; Winchesters didn't do that. He'd watched the kid, tasted the sugar on his tongue and knew that if Dean were at his side, he'd be advising Sam to bide his time. So he had, and had gotten the hat back eventually.

And now, now that he thought about it, in the darkness while Dean sank into sleep, he realized he could remember any number of times that Dean had made this particular treat for him after that, though none for himself. Made it with wild-elbow style so the sugar would go everywhere, and Sam could lick his finger, roll it in the sugar, and then lick it off. Dean, however, had never partaken of the feast; it had always been for Sam.

Such a little thing. Such a small detail.

Sam bent his head into his t-shirt and sat there for a minute, pushing the cloth tightly against his eyes, till he could see nothing but black and hear only his own heartbeat. His eyes were hot and something lurched in his throat at the thought of Dean being that young and that vulnerable, only to have it taken away so fast and so quick that it left such a bitter taste in his mouth that even pure, white sugar couldn't take it away. And he'd never said a word.

Flexing his fingers in the t-shirt, Sam made himself take a deep breath. It was time to sleep, and in the morning, well, they would deal with that when it came. Because it always did. He didn't know whether to be glad for that or not. But, as the snore sifted up from the other bed, he slid between the sheets of his own. Dean was at last sleeping. Tomorrow he would eat. They would drive out of Boulder, and, if Sam had his way, never come back to it.

Monday, November 27^th, 2006

In the morning, they dressed without saying much, and Sam kept his mouth shut against the anxious horses that trotted in his chest. He didn't dare say anything to Dean about actually getting breakfast before starting out, but he was starving. And Dean should eat. Surely could eat, now, and something better than pizza.

"Let's go," said Dean, pulling on his jacket and jingling the keys. "Breakfast time."

Sam continued to keep his mouth shut while Dean led the way to the diner. When the hostess asked them if they had any preferences, Dean pointed to the sunroom.

"By the window, sweetheart," he said. Not looking at Sam.

They sat in the chairs at a table right by the window where the winter sun streamed in and made the common glass salt and pepper shakers glitter like crystal. The sun also made every sticky stripe of syrup and burnt breadcrumb show up as well. No matter. It was warm. As Dean looked at the menu; Sam tried not to stare. Dean was going to order food, had nodded at the waitress when she motioned with her coffee pot to the two cups already on the table. And not only that, Dean looked prepared to eat.

Once they ordered, they drank their coffees while they waited for the food. Dean stirred his with a spoon, not because there was anything in there besides coffee but, Sam suspected, because he enjoyed the motion of his wrist going around like that.

Then, with his head bent, Dean said, "I can't change it, Sammy. I can't and it's done, so could we please—man—please, can we just let it go."

Sam felt his brows pushing down. "What?"

"You've got that look, Sammy. The 'let's have a heart to heart' look. We had one last night and I for one am sick to death of the whole subject."

Turning his face to the side, Sam made himself look at the other tables. At the happy families and contented couples. The groups of young men dressed for a day in the snow. Sam swallowed anything he might have thought of saying. Then, just as the waitress was stepping near their table, he grabbed her by the shirtsleeve.

"What is it, hon?" she asked. "You want Tabasco?"

She was reaching into her apron pocket. "No," said Sam. "I need two slices of white bread. Untoasted. And soft butter. Can you bring that?"

She nodded and went away, weaving among the tables. Dean looked at him, his brow knotting like it did when he couldn't figure out what Sam was up to. Sam shook his head and looked away, thinking that if Dean couldn't catch his eye, then the Sam wouldn't have to answer any questions.

Didn't matter anyway. The waitress was soon upon them, placing a tray on a fold-out stand. She handed them their food with practiced ease, not even needing to ask who ordered what to get it right. Sam had the biscuits and gravy; Dean the pancakes and sausage. And then, she put down a plate that had two slices of plain, white bread and a little dish of butter packets, already folding sideways in their jackets.

"That do you boys?" she asked.

"Thank you," said Sam. He reached for the bread and spread it out. Felt Dean watching him as he spread the butter nice and thick on each slice. Then he looked up. "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"

"What?"

With a half-smile, Sam shrugged. "Just watch."

The second he picked up the sugar shaker, Dean knew. Sam could see it on his face, the way his eyes widened, almost in self-defense. Defense against everything that Sam knew and wasn't supposed to know. Sam didn't even need to remind him about what he'd said the night before.

"I tried hard to eat that, Sam," said Dean. "It just never tasted good anymore."

Sam shook out some sugar and spread it with a clean spoon. Then he shook out some more, pressing and patting till the sugar spilled over like a small snowstorm onto the table. "I'm here now, so maybe it'll taste better. Can you try?" he asked. "For me?" For good measure, he licked his finger, rolled it in the sugar, and then licked his finger again. Dean watched him.

There was a little moment of silence, where not even the clatter from the kitchen could be heard as Dean reached over to pick up his slice. He held it using the tips of his fingers of both hands. Bringing it to his mouth, his breath whisked some of the sugar off and onto his pancakes. Sam took up his slice and held it the same way. The way they used to do when they were kids.

"Go on," Sam said. His heart thumped a little in his chest. "You first."

Dean bit down, and Sam could hear the crunch of sugar, could almost hear the soft slide of butter against Dean's teeth. He bit into his own slice and savored it, letting the sugar melt on his tongue, feeling the slickness of butter. Dean's face said almost the same thing as his mouth: it was good. Dean was nodding.

"Okay?" asked Sam.

"Pretty good," he said. "It's pretty good."

"I mean you," said Sam. He wanted to make sure, not just about the bread and butter and sugar, but about everything. Of course everything wasn't okay and it might not be, not for a long time.

Dean shrugged, spilling sugar down the sides of his hands. "Better," he said. "There's something—gone. I don't know what it is. A weight."

He looked a little confused then, and it was clear to Sam that he didn't have any real way to explain it. His brother was holding his shoulders straighter than he had in days, but Sam felt like he was carrying his own weight in lead. It had been Dean's load to carry, now Sam would carry it for a while. Maybe the load would get lighter with time. As everything did with time. But he didn't mind carrying it. Not for Dean.

They ate their bread and butter and sugar while their real breakfasts grew cold on the table. The snow outside the window was melting from the evergreen bushes and from the tops of cars and from the black roads. Water ran down the corners of the windows and the sun streamed through the glass making their table feel like it was in a hothouse. Dean smiled through the white crystals on his lips. Sam smiled back. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

~Fin

Master Fic Post

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