Soldier Son - Part 2 (Sparta Verse)

[lovesrain44]

 

Dad went. As fast as he could, careful as he could. While Sam knew that, even as he watched the tiny little loops forming along his torn flesh, knitting it together, each loop felt like Dad was pulling a fire-hot iron cord through him. The needle was huge when it was in him, even though it seemed no bigger than a curved piece of wire in Dad’s hand. At one point, he felt like he was going to fall over, was swaying back and forth, when Dean turned Sam’s face away, and covered his eyes with his calloused palm. Then Sam couldn’t see any more, could only feel, his free hand clenching and unclenching against Dean’s waist, hot tears soaking into Dean’s t-shirt.

 

“I’m going to have bruises,” said Dean.

 

Dad made a sound in his throat, and then Sam heard the snip of the scissors, and the coolness of air across his skin as Dad lifted his hand away. Only when Dad was tying up the ends of the long bandage covering the stitches did Dean let him go, let him look. The bandage was white, with a little butterfly knot at the end and Dad ran his hand gently along the length.

 

“That should hold for a few days.”

 

Sam’s arm thumped with the pulses of his heart like it was pressing against bone. Dad led him to the leather chair, made him sit and propped his feet up, lurching the handle of the footrest out. Sam felt like it banged his head but he didn’t say anything because quicker than that, Dad would remember who had broken the window and when he whipped Sam, he knew he couldn’t take it, especially not with his last whipping less than a week old. His arm hurt so bad, and he felt cold all over, even as his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

 

“Clean up that glass, Dean,” said Dad, and Sam had to squint to see what he was doing. Something at the counter with a loaf of bread.

 

“Sammy can't—” said Dean, on the floor, kneeling, picking up glass pieces and throwing them in the trash.

 

“I know that,” said Dad, his voice snapping. He walked over to Sam with something on a plate and knelt down by the arm of the chair. “Sam,” he said. “Look at me for a minute. Okay?”

 

Sam made himself look, but he felt like crawling into the cushions and hiding there till somehow the window was magically fixed and it was cooler. Much, much cooler.

 

Dad’s hand touched his forehead, pushing away Sam’s damp hair, and then he put the plate up on the armrest. “Eat this.”

 

Looking at it, Sam saw that it was bread and butter and sugar, folded in half. Little lumps pushed up through the bread. He reached for it, and saw Dad nod, his face still, dark eyes tracking Sam’s every move.

 

“I crushed up some pain pills, opened the antibiotic capsule. There’s plenty of sugar there, Sam, so eat the whole thing for me, okay?”

 

Oh. That’s what Dean had meant, why Dad had snapped. Sam had never been able to swallow pills, even baby aspirin, so he either ground the pills between his teeth, or sometimes, Dad would crush them for him and put it inside of a sugar sandwich. Like this. It tasted good, even though it sometimes made even sugar bitter, but Dad was looking at him like he expected Sam to refuse, and was preparing in his mind his contingency plan.

 

Sam turned in the chair, his skin sticking to the leather, took the sandwich and ate it. Dad stayed by his side the whole time, watching him, making sure it went down. Sam licked the corner of his lip where the last fragment of powder lingered and tried not to make a face. It tasted awful, but then it always did, and then Dad put his whole palm on Sam’s forehead now and took a deep breath. A little bit of sweat ran down in front of his ear, glistening against the tan of his skin. “Okay,” he said. Then he stood up and took the plate back to the sink.

 

Dean was finished picking up glass and had swept the floor and for a moment, as the air grew squalid and dark outside the open door, the air moving as though pushed by a current.

 

“Dean, come here.”

 

Dead did as he was told, as he always did, and Sam’s heart began to thump even harder at the thought of it. Dean would make it clear who had broken the window and then Sam would be in trouble. He wanted to run, but his head felt light and his legs felt like lead, and there was no way he could run far enough, fast enough to get away from Dad.

 

“Mind telling me what happened?”

 

Dipping his chin, Dean studied his feet.

 

Dad flipped on the light over the sink. “Dean.”

 

This made Dean lift his head so he could look Dad in the eye and talk man to man, which is how Dad liked it, how Dad insisted it be.

 

“Sam wanted to look at the crossbow,” said Dean, and Sam’s stomach clenched like a fist. “So I let him, but then he wouldn’t give it back.”

 

It was true, all true. That’s what made it more horrible.

 

“And then?” Dad’s voice was almost soft.

 

“So I took it and then I pushed him.”

“Through the window?” Dad’s eyebrows rose and there was a horrible glitter in his eyes. “You pushed your brother through a window?”

 

“I didn’t mean to, not through the window, Dad, honest. I just pushed him is all, I didn’t know—”

 

“Didn’t know what, Dean? How hard you were pushing? How close he was to the window?”

 

Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face, but he could see his brother’s shoulders roll forward, and his hands grabbing the cloth of his jeans to hold them still.

 

“I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just wanted—”

 

“That crossbow has been a damn time bomb—” started Dad, and then he stopped. Looked over at Sam and then back at Dean, eyes black and snapping, and he was taking off his belt. “Get over here.”

 

Sam started to move, but then Dad grabbed Dean by the back of the neck and pulled Dean over to the kitchen table. With one foot, he kicked the chair out of the way, and made a snapping noise with his fingers to tell Dean to bend over.

 

Sam’s mouth opened, just on the verge of saying it, of reminding Dad that he was the one who had broken the window, not Dean, but Dad was leaning forward, saying something to Dean and Sam couldn’t get the words out. Dad folded the belt in half and then he whipped Dean twenty times, hard and fast, Dean’s back curved over the table, his whole body as still as stone. Sam stayed where he was, skin against the leather chair growing hot and sticky, breath coming shallow as the prickles rose up from his gut. He knew he was next, figured he was next, but then Dad pulled Dean to a standing position and put his belt back on.

 

Dean’s face was white, and he looked at Sam with tears standing in his eyes, so bright, Sam could see them from all the way across the room.

 

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he said. His t-shirt, ratty around the edges and bloodstained, was dark under his arms.

 

“Fine,” said Dad. “Put on some God damned shoes, and get something to nail over that window before the rains come. Pronto. Then change your shirt. I’ll get some supper going.”

 

Dean walked past Sam without another word, creating a little current of air as he opened the screen door, not letting it slam when it closed behind him. In another moment Sam knew he would hear the pounding of a hammer and nails as Dean did the impromptu repairs, but suddenly Dad was standing over him, holding out his hand and helping Sam stand up and walk to the table. When Dad sat him down in his chair, Sam knew, with certainty, that he wasn’t going to get a whipping. At least not today. Not for this. Although it didn’t quite seem fair that Dean should take the entire blame, and he opened his mouth to talk, but his mouth was dry, blocked.

 

Dad went to the kitchen sink and washed up, bending forward to sluice water over his neck, letting it drip down to darken his t-shirt. Then he stood there, looking out the window for a minute, like Sam wasn’t even there, and then he turned, scowling, to look at Sam.

 

“Beef broth, then,” he said, and Sam shook his head.

 

“I’m not hungry. Just want to go to bed.”

 

Dad didn’t even hesitate getting out the little saucepan and opening a can of beef broth with the can opener. Sam could smell the salt as he poured it in, and heard the pounding outside the window as Dean went at it. Watched while Dad went to the clothes box by the couch and slipped into a clean t-shirt.

 

“No, Sam,” said Dad, almost ignoring him as he came back. Except that he had another t-shirt in his hand and lifted Sam's arms over his head to strip off the bloody one and exchange it for the clean. Then he tossed both garments in the direction of the bathroom.

 

“But I’m tired,” Sam said, feeling exhaustion pulling at him like strings as he lowered his arms. He looked up at Dad as he pulled the store-bought pasta salad out of the fridge. The only thing saving them both from sweating into two puddles was the breeze coming through the open window over the table.

 

“And I need you to stay up for a little bit till I can give you more pills, make sure you’re okay, and then you can go to bed.”

 

“But I want—” He started to get up, pushing his good arm against the surface of the table, when Dad whirled on him, slamming a large hand down next to his smaller one.

 

“Sam, I mean it. You’ll do as you’re told, or so help me—”

 

The pounding outside had stopped and the light from that window was completely blocked by plywood.

 

Sam sat back down, shrinking against the wall, feeling some kind of blackness behind his eyes, which were hot, but he didn’t want to cry. He wanted to scream, wanted to push past Dad and then past Dean coming up the stairs, obedient, having put away the tools he’d used, having done what he was told. It wasn’t fair, it had been an accident, Dean didn’t deserve to be punished for that.

 

“You better settle down, or arm or no arm, I’ll be taking my belt off again, you understand me?”

 

Sam felt his scowl pull at his whole body, but he didn’t have the energy to stand up and say I hate you like he wanted to, so he turned and laid his forehead on the table and curved his good arm around his head. Felt his stomach turning.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam licked his lips and then nodded. “Yes, I hear you. Can you please leave me alone now?”

 

Sam could feel Dad’s body tighten as he stood there and then the screen door slammed. Dean’s footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he walked into the bedroom to change his t-shirt.

 

“What’s for supper, Dad?” asked Dean when he came out again, and Sam could imagine, with his eyes closed, Dean rubbing his stomach, like everything wasn’t awful, like he’d not just gotten punished for something that he’d not actually done.

 

“Pasta salad,” said Dad, and Sam could hear Dad rummaging in the fridge to pull stuff out, someone washing vegetables, chopping at the counter, doctoring the salad up. Sam waited till his head cleared, and his stomach settled a bit before sitting up. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and realized that his arm didn’t hurt quite so much, and the back of his legs didn’t hurt at all, but that he wasn’t going to be able to eat anything without throwing up. Pain pills did that. He’d forgotten.

 

He watched Dean take the trash out, and change his shirt, and when Dad laid plates and utensils on the table, Sam made himself useful placing them around. Otherwise, he was going to start talking, saying what he felt, saying stuff that would make Dad mad. It was already an awful day, why make it worse.

 

Dean washed up at the sink and sat down, and Dad placed a mug of broth and a plate of crackers in front of Sam. Sam looked up at him and could see it in Dad’s eyes. Dad meant business; he didn’t even need to say it. Sam pulled the mug towards him with his fingers and waited while Dad sat down and served himself and Dean from the bowl. They ate silently. Sam was quite fond of pasta salad normally, but tonight he didn't have the stomach for it. Instead, he sipped on the broth, and put a cracker in his mouth, and then sipped on the broth again. It was hot, but not too hot, and salty. His stomach danced around a bit, but he kept it down. Felt the warm air push across his forehead as the storm outside the window came closer.

 

Halfway through supper, Dad put down his fork and looked at Dean, mouth pulled into a frown.

 

“Nobody touches that crossbow until Sam’s stitches come out. You hear me?”

 

Dean flinched with his whole body, but he didn’t say anything. He was sucking in his lips, making them a thin line, and Sam ducked his head.

 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam said, feeling even worse about it than he had before.

 

“Shut up, Sam,” said Dean, his voice cracking. He had tiny pieces of sawdust in his hair, and the back of his neck was dusty.

 

“Dean.”

 

That’s all Dad needed to say. That’s all Dad ever needed to say to Dean and Dean would hop to or toe the line or march or whatever it was Dad wanted.

 

Sam pushed his plate and mug away and rested his head on his arm on the table.

 

“Sam, pick your head up.”

 

“Can I be excused?”

 

There was a long silence. Dean stopped chewing, and Sam could actually hear Dad breathing in and out, slowly. Twice.

 

“No. Pick your head up.”

 

He knew what that was about. It wasn’t about what was wrong, or what hurt. It was pushing through it, bucking up, like a good soldier. Dean did it as easy as anything, always. Sam took his head off the table and looked over at him. Dean had started eating again, hardly fidgeting in his seat at all though he looked at little white, a little glassy eyed. Which was probably due to the thought of having yet another whole week, maybe more, where he couldn’t use his precious crossbow, and not the whipping.

 

“We’ll spend the extra time finishing the obstacle course, and set up the field for the crossbow,” Dad was saying now, scooping up the last of his supper with his fork. He pushed a bit of broccoli on there with his thumb and then licked the oil off. “Dean, you’ll be on the scythe, and Sam, even with one arm you can collect rocks and help me make a target.”

 

“Why?” Sam asked. “What difference will the rocks make?” It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of, and he knew it showed on his face because Dad pointed his fork at him.

 

“Did I say you could ask why?” Glaring.

 

Sam glared right back. “Why?”

 

“Sammy,” said Dean, “could you just—”

 

“You’re excused, Sam,” said Dad.

 

Sam got up from the table and staggered to the couch with more gratitude than he knew how to express. His head wanted to go down, it was just that simple, and as he sank into the cushions and laid his head in his arms, he felt the beef broth come up. But he swallowed, it was just too much trouble to move, and Dad would just make him some more and make him drink it. Just too much trouble. Everything in his body felt like it was swimming and his head felt as hard and as heavy as a bowling ball. He could hear the table being cleared and then Dad telling Dean to do the dishes. Then he heard Dad’s footsteps coming closer just as the thunder started rumbling right outside through the screen door.

 

“Sam,” Dad said. “Sit up.”

 

He did. For once he did, he couldn’t manage anything else. Parts of him had started to go numb.

 

Dad had a washcloth in his hand and wiped Sam's face with it. “Too much pain medication, I think,” Dad said.

 

“My stomach hurts.”

 

“Dean didn’t have this reaction,” said Dad. He took the washcloth away, then took Sam’s arm and traced the length of the bandage with his fingers. “Looks like this is holding.”

 

“I’m not Dean,” said Sam, muttering. Looking up at Dad through his eyelashes, thinking for a moment he saw two Dads, and neither of them happy.

 

“I can see that,” came the reply, rather low, like Dad was trying to keep from laughing.

 

Sam didn't think that it was very funny, but stomping across the wooden floor, Dean came over, wiping his hands on his jeans, attentive even with splotches of sweat already on his t-shirt and his backside probably feeling like a block of wood; Sam wanted to hit him. And then the rain started, sizzling hard against the ground.

 

“Dean, check the windows on the car."

 

Dean went out like an obedient dog, slamming the screen door behind him.

 

Sam jutted out his chin. “I didn’t throw up,” he said.

 

A current of air raced through the room, and Dean came flying in again. Sam knew with the thunderstorm, if it was a heavy one, he’d be spending the night, once again, waiting for the silence to get him. Then he realized Dad had asked him a question.

 

“What?” asked Sam, trying to focus, his stomach doing a slow stroll up his throat.

 

“Were you going to?” asked Dad again.

 

Sam nodded and looked down to see that he was gripping Dad’s wrist and digging in his fingernails.

 

“Going to,” he said, feeling his chin shake and his mouth coat itself with spit.

 

With one arm looped around his middle, Dad hauled him off to the bathroom just in time for Sam’s head to be over the toilet when his stomach did a gigantic rollover and everything came up, splashing. He scrambled to keep from bumping his arm against Dad’s ribs, but it didn’t work, he couldn’t get his feet under him in time, so as he spat up throatfulls of brown liquid, his body started screaming.

 

“Leave me ‘lone,” he tried, squirming away, but Dad held him by his waist. Then his stomach did another heave that made his spine crackle as he tried to breathe through it. He heard Dad say something to Dean about a cold washcloth, and realized that all three of them were now in the hot, narrow bathroom. He rested his head against the toilet seat and looked up at them while his stomach collected itself for another go.

 

“Get out,” he said, low in his throat. "Will you get the fu—" Then he stopped.

 

Nobody moved.

 

Then Dad reached over and flushed the toilet, took the washcloth from Dean, and placed it on the back of Sam’s neck. Or tried to. Sam squirmed away, and then lurched to his knees to hurl one more time. Dean reached up to the little window and opened it, and Dad handed him the washcloth so he could wipe his face. He ached all over and his arm throbbed, but his stomach was empty, so at least that part of him didn't hurt.

 

"You done?"

 

Sam nodded and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet as Dad used both hands beneath his arms. He thought about otter pops, and then he said it. "I want an Otter Pop. Little Orphan Orange."

"Well, there aren't any," said Dad, and what followed in the silence after his statement as he led Sam back to the couch was obvious. The boys were in training and treats were not allowed. Not even little ones.

 

"Dean, get him some water," said Dad, and then he motioned with his hand that Sam should lay back down.

 

Sam took in the sticky leather of the couch, hung his head, and sighed. With the storm rolling in good and proper right over their heads, the dampness and the humidity were like an unwanted weight. He thought about snow and he thought about winter, but it didn't help.

 

"Sam, sit down before you fall down."

 

"I'm not going to fall," said Sam, in return, but he sat down because his knees told him to. Not because Dad told him to.

 

He sat down and rested his head against the arm of the couch. As soon as he did this, his head started to swim, and the room felt like it was swaying back and forth, back and forth, like a lazy summer swing. But as long as he kept his mouth shut and didn’t think about food, didn’t move, he was going to be okay. He told himself that.

 

“I’m hot,” he said, finding himself saying this aloud without any intention at all to speak.

 

Behind his closed eyelids, he felt movement. Someone put the rotating fan near his head, on low, and someone else put a cold, folded washcloth on his forehead. It felt icy, almost painful, for a full minute, and then it started to feel better. He heard the clink of a glass being set on wood. Someone sat at the other end of the couch and hauled Sam’s feet up onto a lap and began wiping his foot and ankle with another cold cloth. Sam squinted his eyes open, expecting to see Dean, but it was Dad. He tried to jerk his foot away, but Dad gripped his ankle and held on.

 

“Sammy.” That was all Dad said. He said it like he said Dean’s name when he wanted instant obedience and no questions asked. Sam closed his eyes and relaxed his legs and let it happen. Let strong hands wipe down both of his feet and his ankles, his calves all the way up to his knees, making him feel many degrees cooler. Then Dad stopped, the washcloth draped across Sam’s toes, and Sam let himself drift.

 

Dean came up. Sam could tell by the footsteps.

 

“Did you clean up the rest of the puke in the bathroom?” asked Dad.

 

“Yeah,” said Dean, and Sam cringed. Had he thrown up on the floor? He wanted to say something, but it was easier not to. "Sam keeps saying he's hot at night."

 

“I’ll get some box fans next time I’m at the store,” said Dad, his voice a faraway rumble that reminded Sam of water across gravel.

 

Sam drifted on the silence that followed, but sensed Dean was still standing nearby.

 

“I’m sorry Dad, about the—”

 

“Then learn from it,” came the reply, without any gentleness now. Sam could picture Dean’s shoulders sagging, the chin ducking down, and he wanted to shout at Dad to stop, to leave Dean alone. He knew Dean hadn’t meant to do it, why couldn’t Dad see that? But no, he had to grind it in, punch the lesson home.

 

Dean’s footsteps and the slam of the screen door told Sam that Dean had gone out to the front porch to be alone, extra thuds on the wooden risers told him that Dean had gone down them, was perhaps headed out to the field, to crouch low and sit in the grass and feel the storm pass overhead. Dean wasn’t afraid of anything, and certainly not thunder or lighting, let alone the silence in between. Sam envied him that.

 

Dad stayed with him, sitting on the couch for a good long while, watching TV, keeping the washcloths on Sam's feet and head cold. Then he got up and went into the kitchen, and Sam heard him at the counter, opening the fridge. He came back and patted Sam on the shoulder, and when Sam opened his eyes, Dad motioned for him to sit up. He was holding a little plate with sugar sandwich, folded over.

 

"Twice as much sugar," he said, "and half as much pain meds. Eat up."

 

Sam sat up, took the sandwich and ate it, it tasted of sugar and butter and hardly anything bitter like it had before. His stomach lurched around a bit, but if he held still, he knew he could keep it down. As he finished, Dean came back in again, his shoulders damp with rain, but still not happy.

 

"And drink some water, too," said Dad, holding out the glass.

 

Sam took the glass in two hands and took several gulps, wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

 

"Bed, Dean," said Dad, and Dean nodded and went into the bedroom. "You too, Sammy, and if you wake up and your arm hurts, wake me."

 

"Yeah," said Sam. Nodding.

 

Dad hauled him to his feet, and Sam went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and pee, a little awkward using only one arm, and as he walked into the bedroom, he saw that Dad had taken another beer and had gone out on the front porch again to drink it, the wind whipping the screen door closed behind him. Sam walked into the bedroom: Dean was lying there under a single sheet with the light on the nightstand still on, waiting for Sam, still not smiling. Sam walked to Dean's side of the bed, and stood there, listening to the rain stream outside the open window.

 

"It's not your fault," he said.

 

"It is," said Dean, looking at him, lips still drawn, eyes half hooded. "I shouldn’t have—"

 

It was like trying to carry a rock up a hill only to have it come rolling down on you again. "Dad shouldn't have whipped you," he said, "it was an accident."

 

"But I pushed you, Sam."

 

"An accident. It was an accident." Sam said this with certainty. He knew Dean hadn't done it on purpose, why didn't Dean? Dean obviously needed something to make him feel better, because words weren't doing it. The medicine was kicking in now, his arm felt numb, and his lips, and his welts didn't hurt at all. His mind was going muzzy, but he still felt a stab of anger at Dad drinking a beer, treats for grownups, but none for his sons. Not even stupid Otter Pops.

 

"Hang on," he said. "I'll be right back."

 

Sam opened the bedroom door slowly, and checked. Beyond the now dark living room, Dad was still on the porch, the lightning flickering his outline into clarity. Shoulders curled forward as if he were leaning into the darkness, into the rain. Sam crept to the cupboard and got out the honey, reached into the drawer for a spoon. It took both hands to open the jar, which hurt his stitches a little, but it would be worth it. He dug in for a big spoonful of honey and hurried it into the room. Dean looked at him as he walked in. In a second he knew what Sam had, what he was up to.

 

"I don't want that," he said.

 

"Yeah, sure, sure you do." Sam held out the spoon to him. It glinted like it held a pool of gold. "It's honey, like you gave me."

 

"Sam," said Dean, flopping back his the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, his jaw pushed forward. "I don’t want it. Take it away."

 

"But Dean, it'll make you feel better."

 

Dean rolled over towards the window, turning his back on Sam. "Take it away."

 

Sam switched the spoon to his left hand and poked Dean with a finger. Predictably, since Dean hated this, he turned and faced Sam, almost sitting up now, eyes blazing.

 

"Don't you get it, you moron? I almost cut you to ribbons, I don't deserve it so will you fucking get it away from me?"

 

Sam's mouth fell open as shock rippled through him. He'd not known Dean felt this bad, and he shouldn't, because Sam was the one who had—

 

The door to the bedroom opened, bringing with it the wind from the front door. And Dad. "What in the hell is going on in here?"

 

Sam tried to hide the spoon, but as Dad flicked on the overhead light, he felt the stickiness along his left wrist, looked down to see the honey soaking the white bandage yellow. There was a moment of utter stillness, even the storm seemed to pause to take a breath, and Sam felt the horrible day well up in his throat. The back of his eyes grew hot, and he just felt tired all the way to his bones. He couldn't walk a straight line without messing it up, and by the look on Dad's face, those dark eyes taking in the whole room in an instant, he knew there was no hiding from it.

 

"I—" he began, but Dad marched into the room, reaching out for Sam, and Sam couldn’t move away fast enough.

 

"What the fuck is this?" asked Dad, and Sam could smell the beer on his breath, the dash of rain that he'd brought with him, and the heat of his anger, pushing through his skin. "Sam, I am so tired—" Then he stopped, holding Sam's arm in his hand, dark fingers curling around the bandage. "You've got honey everywhere. Dean, get up and clean this floor before the ants come."

 

Dean crawled out from between the sheets, barelegged except for his briefs, Sam could see the ladders of welts across the backs of his thighs for a second before Dad pulled him into the kitchen and flicked on the light over the sink. Sam could hear Dean rummaging in the bathroom for a washcloth; Dad gripped him, mouth working, and Sam tried hard not to let his knees knock, and fought the knot in his throat, but then Dad pulled out the scissors from the drawer, he couldn't help it.

 

"No, Dad, please—" Hot tears ripped down his face as he tried to pull away.

 

Dad's eyes flickered like he was going to lash out, like the time in the fruit stand and Sam jerked and pulled, but Dad had him by the wrist. Sam felt like a squirrel in a leg-trap, panic ripping at his heart, everything inside him fluttering, banging at his ribs.

 

"Don't—" Sam said, his voice catching in his throat.

 

Suddenly, Dad let him go, and as Sam backed himself against the edge of the fridge, he put the scissors on the counter. "Sammy," said Dad. Not moving. Not reaching out. "I'm only going to cut that bandage off and put on a new one. You've got honey all over, I'm just going to--I'm not going to hurt you." His voice was low, and he was standing absolutely still.

 

Sam brought the back of his hand to his mouth to cover it, tasted the honey there, looked down, realized he'd dripped it along the bandage, and some was on his leg. Honey would make the sheets sticky, he knew that.

Dad tipped his head, the way he did when he was waiting for an answer or a response, and it wasn't gentle, but it was sure. Sam knew that look, the waiting posture that Dad got when a ghost might appear or a boy was on the verge of doing as he was told without having to be told twice. 

 

He took a deep breath that jagged his lungs against his ribs and made himself walk to the sink to stand right next to Dad in the near darkness. Still shaking.

 

"Here," Dad said, reaching for Sam's left arm. "Put your arm up here, and keep it steady."

 

Sam placed his arm along the edge of the counter, and only realized that he was still gripping the spoon, the now honeyless spoon, too tightly when Dad used his fingers to pry it free and let it fall into the sink with a small clank. Then Dad reached over Sam's head for the scissors and eased the point beneath the bandage.

"Hold very still," Dad said, looking down at Sam, and Sam looked up into dark eyes, Dad's head bent very close, and did as he was told. He could see the sweat on the back of Dad's neck, and the stain around the neck of his t-shirt, and smell the day's sweat on him, from the ride from Atlanta in the heat, from making supper, from sitting on the leather couch.

 

Dad started clipping, each snip loud and metallic, the metal cool against Sam's skin. The scissors never once snagged his skin or his stitches, and Dad cupped Sam's hand in his rather than bracing it down. He was quick too, and the bandage soon fell into the sink in a folded, sticky clump. Then Dad ran a soft thumb over the black, curling thread woven into his skin. "See?" he said, "still clean. It's healing well, but you need to stop—" Then Dad stopped, and Sam nodded his head at the unfinished sentence. Stop screwing around, otherwise it won't heal.

 

Dad pulled a dishtowel off the hook, wet it, and began wiping Sam's hands and wrist. He wet it again and wiped Sam's arm, and bent down to wipe Sam's leg. Then he straightened up, cupping his hand under Sam's chin, looking for honey. "It's like you rolled in it," he said, almost to himself. Sam tried to duck his chin but Dad was wiping his forehead with the towel, his cheek.

 

Dean came up behind them, silent on bare feet.

 

"Get another roll of bandage, Dean," said Dad, as he checked the other side of Sam's face, turned up the wrist on Sam's other arm. "I think I got it all."

 

Dean got the bandage and handed it to Dad, who unrolled it a little and began winding it around Sam's forearm, covering the black stitches with a swath of white. Dean took up the scissors and cut the edge away while Dad held it taut. Then Dad tied a little butterfly knot at the end, and tucked the bow neatly away. The tips of Dad's fingers were dark against the white as he tapped the edge. "That'll hold, provided you don't wrestle a bear."

 

This made Dean smile, Sam could see it out of the corner of his eye, but he was too tired to respond like that As he looked up at Dad, Dad wiped his forehead with the t-shirt over his bicep, eyes closing as he looked away.

 

"Get him another clean shirt, Dean," said Dad, "and get him to bed."

 

"Yes, sir," said Dean.

 

Then Dad walked over to the screen door, opened it, and went out onto the porch. Walked down the stairs and into the darkness, into the silence between the lightning flash and the bark of thunder. Sam could hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel, his heart pounding. He didn't realize he'd started towards the door, until Dean grabbed him.

 

"Sam," said Dean. Pulling.

 

"But—" He didn't want Dad walking out into the darkness, into the space between, but he couldn’t explain it to Dean any more than he could to Dad.

 

"Give it a rest, Sam," said Dean, giving his good arm a hard yank. "Bed. Now."

 

Sam let himself be pulled into the bedroom, let Dean help him tug off the honey-dappled t-shirt, and on with a clean one that Dean got from the laundry box. Dean pointed at the bed and Sam crawled in on his side, holding his bandaged arm close to his chest as Dean flicked off the overhead light and crawled in next to him. Then Dean turned out the lamp on the nightstand, and in the darkness, Sam could hear and feel him thump his head down on the pillow.

 

Even with the rain, it was still warm; even with the sheet kicked off, Sam felt like he was melting into a lukewarm pool of water. That was the drugs, he knew, but it didn't stop his mind from racing around and around, over the fact that it had been the worst day ever. As bad as the crossbow incident, as bad as the day Dad told Sam they were moving from Greeley and leaving the soccer team far behind. Everything was wrong, now especially, now that Dean still couldn't learn how to use the crossbow, and no matter what he said, it was, and would always be, Sam's fault.

 

"Dean?" he asked, turning his head on the pillow, towards the lump that was Dean. "Are you awake?"

 

"Sam," said Dean, his voice hard. "I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to talk to you, so just go to sleep."

 

Lightning flickered across the valley, jumping through Sam's skin. For one second, he could see Dean's profile, even a smatter of freckles, and the small glint of something in his eyes. The silence came, like a sliver of blackness, and on the heels of that, thunder booming through the trees.

 

When it was quiet again, quiet except for the rain shushing through the leaves, he reached out to pat Dean's arm.

 

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, low. "Really, really sorry."

 

Dean raised his arm to make Sam's hand fall back, but he did it slowly, almost softly, rather than shoving it off. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Hunters need patience."

 

"Not this much," said Sam, pushing his head back into the pillow. "It's crazy for Dad to--"

 

"We're not talking about it," said Dean, "now go to sleep and I mean now."

 

Dean rolled to face the wall, and Sam sighed. It was the worst summer ever, and there wasn't anything he could do to make it better. Nothing to do to change the look in Dad's eye or his determination to have both his sons be hunters. Sam rolled to face the window. He could watch the storm that way, and keep his eye out for the silent darkness to make sure it didn't come through the window, and listen to the thunder bark across the stones and along the river, echoing like blood pounding in his ears, hot damp air racing across his skin, promising more running, more sweat, more summer. More hell.

 

~fin

Master Fic Post
 

Comments

[serena64.livejournal.com]

Oh the angst - I love it!
You really are a great writer; your stories are utterly absorbing.
This line just captured John's voice completely for me:-
his voice a faraway rumble that reminded Sam of water across gravel
I did feel sorry for Dean - not just cos he got whipped, but cos of the way John kept ordering him around to clear up everything. Poor Dean.
I also liked the line about John having his beer, but Sam and Dean not being allowed any treats. Mean!John

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

I love the angst too - it gets me charged up to write about it. And that line you like, I rewrote it several times to get it right, it caused me a lot of trouble! The first time, I compared his voice to gentle thunder, which wasn't right, since thunder was part of Sam's problem. Then I realized that it wasn't gentle, not in the way Sam hears it....so I changed it again to what you finally enjoyed so much, so I consider the effort worth it.

John is being mean, he certainly is, but the boys are in training and he's determined that they should be able to survive pretty much anything. Which means no Otter Pops for Sammy!!!

Thank you so much for your lovely post!

[jorma-duran.livejournal.com]

Oh man, this is so heavy with the angst. You have such a way of conveying feelings, from the heat and humidity to the trapped feeling of being a child.

John is really quite cold in this. I'm not sure he was always this hard, mostly because I don't see this coldness in the boys, but I have no doubt that there were times he was indeed as he appears here (or at least he seemed that way to his children). But I don't think he was quite this cold most of the time.

You do such a great job pulling me into this. I can feel Sam's resentment and sense Dean's guilt and anger. Well done!

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Why thank you, what a lovely compliment! I agree that John is not always so cold, but I think as the boys grew older, he got colder because it became imperative that he teach them (and that they learn) the skills they need to survive, so sometimes he's got to be cruel to save them. There are smatterings of kindness, normally, though not quite so much during this particular summer that keep the boys from being jerks when they grow up. And they have each other to be close to, when John's not the warmest father ever.

[sheafleur.livejournal.com]

I love this story for all it's beautiful, sensory details, the raspberries and nectarines, the wind, the rain, the sweat, the darkness and the places between where Sam is afraid. The beer on John's breath and the welts under the elastic of Sam's underpants.

I love how Sam tries to get Dean to agree to skip their training and Dean just won't because he's such a good little soldier. I love the two of them running together, then walking in the rain to pick berries. Their dynamic is very loving and distant at the same time. Dean has such a great burden on his shoulders and Sam seems a little bit jealous, of Dean's loyalty to their dad and even of the crossbow. It's sad how happy Sam is to spend the day without the dad around and that Sam's first reaction when he's hurt is to think that he broke the window, knowing what that will get him. I had to actually look away from the screen when John was washing the wound. Somehow that seemed worse than the actual stitching, so open and raw.

It's really striking the way that John shows so much physical affection to Sam when he's hurt. Holding him while he pukes, putting Sam's legs in his lap and washing him with the cool cloth. The most striking part of all is when he's cleaning the honey off of Sam, bending down to clean his leg and cupping his chin and wiping his face and he says, "It's like you rolled in it," like he's talking to a baby. He's so casually affectionate after the near brutality that just happened before that he's downright scary. And the whole time John is tending to him, Sam's just trying to get away. He wants nothing to do with his father's affection. He doesn't soften or surrender one little bit. They're just alike.

Once again, just an incredible story. There's so much hurt between them. Sam's needs are just trampled and his emotions stripped bare to the reality that John isn't going to let him fail no matter how much he has to hurt Sam to make him strong. It's love and it's really quite horrible and beautiful at the same time.

Thanks for sharing this.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

I love that you love it – it means a lot to me that you get all the small details, that they’re not there by accident, the fruit, and the rain, and everything. I had such a good time making it hard on Sam, and in trying to get right the balance between John’s love for Sam and his tunnel vision. He’s cruel because he thinks he needs to be, it gives him no pleasure, which is what, I think, keeps him from being an abuser. The fact that he’s upped the stakes during this horrible summer has put poor little Sammy on edge, where any wrong move might bring down Dad’s wrath. (And it’s funny, you wrote a stitching scene in ASR just as I was contemplating a stitching scene for Sammy! Great minds, eh? Stitching flesh is a nasty business, which is why it’s such fun for me, even if it’s not for Sam!)

As for the contrast between the gentle and the cruel, yeah, I love playing with that particular idea because it pushes some kinky button way down inside. At one point, I was going to have John send Dean to bed without supper, but then I thought, no, he would never do that. If it’s within his power, they will have enough to eat, to wear, a clean place to sleep – unless, of course, he’s teaching them how to survive a night in the woods in the rain! But he’d definitely hand out a whipping if a boy stepped out of line.

It’s like you mentioned before, the beatings are casual, part and parcel with the love and support. You don’t get angry with someone you don’t care about, and John cares about Sam a great deal, even if it doesn’t seem like it, even if Sam can’t see it all the time. Even if he’s SURE John loves Dean better. (And I’ll wager Dean feels that John loves Sam better, come to that.) So yeah, he’d smack Sam upside the head one minute, and gently wash honey off of him in the next, he’s that kind of dad. John’s doing all of this to make sure that Sam survives, which, along with Dean surviving, is John’s goal above all the others. Even if Sam hates him, if he survives, then John will be happy.

You are MORE than welcome for the story! Thanks for being my enabler and for talking story with me!

[always-angel.livejournal.com]

Okay, wow. I really do love this, however what I don't like is how cold and just plain mean you have John. He wouldn't have treated Sam like that while hurt, and he wouldn't have strapped Dean without so much as a hug after. This is really good and I do love it, but that's the one turn off for me lol.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

I understand and appreciate your candor. This John, during this summer from hell, is not a hugging John, he's not kind, and he's not sweet. That's the way I see him. When he snaps at Sam, he's at his wits end, because Sam's a handful, even if he is sick. And if John's going to deliver discipline in order to teach Dean a lesson about restraint, then he's not going to follow it with a hug. Maybe if Dean had been 10, or younger, but here he's an almost grown up 16. I never saw John on the series as being a hugging type of Dad, either, but that's me, your view is different than mine, which is what makes fandom so cool, because there are so many interpretations.

[harrigan.livejournal.com]

I am really in awe of this. The language is so evocative. The you-are-there-ness is more than just visual - it's palpable. You feel it under your skin.

My heart breaks for the characters. You let us see a glimmer of something else, some compassion, in John this time. (And by the way, I don't think canonJohn was so physically abusive, or Sam wouldn't have seen such a contrast between his own dad and Max's dad in Nightmares. But I'm quite willing to explore it in fiction, if it's this well-written.)

You're very subtle about how you portray Dean, and I like that. An omniscient POV often shows Dean much more protective and selfless and self-sacrificing, but this is Sam's POV and it's an undercurrent only here. Dean's motivations aren't what this story is about, but it's still quite clear how much he means to Sam.

I love that Sam is already the obstinate, mouthy character we know canonSam grew up to be. His life is miserable, but you've shown us he has the resilience to survive it, even as it makes our hearts ache to watch him try to endure everything.

Will be bookmarking this series, and hope there will be more. I know it will be worth waiting for.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

You are most kind, thank you for your lovely compliments! And I love it that you can see John’s compassion in this story, because it does show through more than it did in the last one. In fact, I was on the verge of making him even KINDER (getting swept up in all the fun) by letting him actually let Sam have that flashlight. Then I realized I needed to stay true to the John I had created and so, thusly, no flashlight. Not even a little one.

I think what keeps John and Sam from being like Max and his dad is the fact that John doesn’t punish without a reason, he doesn’t just beat up on Sam for fun – the fact that Sam KNOWS this, even if he does think John is a big fat jerk, keeps the story (I think) from tipping over into John creating two whack jobs instead of two fine hunters.

As for Dean, yeah, he’s there, but he’s not the point, as you so aptly pointed out. Sam adores him (and I adore that about Sam) but brothers don’t always get along and Sam doesn’t always “get” why Dean is the way he is. At 12, kids are more self-focused, their needs come first and last, and what Dean’s about is a distant event on Sam’s mental horizon, which to me seems true to someone at that age. Of course, that will change, but I think Sam remains very self-aware, at least that’s how I see him in canon.

There will be more stories coming down the pike, I have several planned in my head, some are darker than others, and one of them keeps changing! But the summer from hell continues, much to Sam’s dismay! (Dean, on the other hand, is having a wonderful time!)

[geminigrl11.livejournal.com]

This whole 'verse is possibly the most evocative I have ever read. I read it struggling through rage at moments and tears at others and overall just wanting to reach through the screen to touche thes characters. To hug Sam. To tell Dean he's a good kid whose sole value doesn't lie in how well he obeys his father. To kick the crap out of John.

Sam is an obstinate kid, no doubt, and a button-pusher. He can't see beyond himself to the bigger purpose behind what his Dad is trying to teach. But John? Your thirteen-year-old son is AFRAID OF YOU. Not just in the moment, because he knows he did something wrong, but ALL THE TIME. How's that for training? Even injured and a little high, he's positive you're going to whip him again, for an accident. He feels like he's drowning and will never escape and like he can't even express who he IS because it goes against the standards you've set: equal ones for a grown man and one nearly grown and someone who's not even fully left childhood.

Yes, John's care and concern are there, expressed in sugar sandwiches and ice baths. But it doesn't negate the rest: not for Sam and not for me. Whatever John's reasons or goals, regardless of where his heart is, he's abusing his kid--both kids, but only one views it that way and is recoiling from it with every resource he has, which isn't much.

This is in no way a criticism of your writing--quite the opposite!! It takes amazing talent to be able to convery so much and so honestly and starkly. I am a huge, huge, fan, and I can't wait to read more!

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

The most evocative, really? WOW! Thank you! I'm so pleased by your reaction -even the fact that you're THAT pissed at John. Yeah, bring it. Reactions like that make me smile ALL day.

I love how you point out that Sam is afraid of John. I don't know if I agree with you, in my view, that line between respect and fear is what makes the story difficult. (Difficult to read, difficult to write, etc.) John is a stern taskmaster, but when he's not angry, and everything is cool, Sam is fine standing near John or being in the same room with him, even if he will always think that the training is STOOPID and sucks rocks. Like in the first story, where Sam and John are sitting at the table eating spaghettios out of a can together, while Dean is on the couch...to me, that kind of scene is almost an erotic shock to my system when compared to the dark events in the fruit stand. It’s almost like Sam doesn’t think about the hardness when there’s kindness to be had. I don't know if I'm explaining myself well, but I love the contrast there, love working with it. In spite of John’s harshness, Sam thinks of him as Dad and all that implies, even though sometimes Sam would rather slit his own throat than go anywhere near John, which John only realizes at that moment at the sink, late at night.

John does expect Sam to be at Dean’s level, this is due to his single minded focus on the training. Sam isn’t imagining John’s disappointment that Sam can’t cut more than two bundles of wood in a morning, or that allowances must be made because he can’t run four miles as fast or efficiently as Dean can. It is abuse and it’s not right, but it’s true to John’s character the way I see it, especially during this summer.

But honestly, I’m THRILLED that you want to kick the crap out of John! (And yeah, there will be more, and it'll get darker before it gets lighter!)

[messervo.livejournal.com]

This whole verse is so painful to read but so beautifully written it hurts.

Although I'm not sure canon John was this physically tough, it's more the emotional pain he causes Sam that breaks my heart and makes me want to hug Sam forever and hurl John through a glass window!

Your writing is amazing and although I should be preparing for a job interview tomorrow I couldn't stop reading this - just beautifully painful and raw. I hope you write more soon!

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Although I'm sorry to hear the story causes you pain, I consider that to be a compliment!

I think John was this tough on the boys, but specifically during this summer of training. If he's not training, he would be stern but not so driven about it, you know?

And I'm totally flattered that you were reading instead of prepping! I hope the interview goes well and that you get the job you want!

[mustbekarma.livejournal.com]

I tend to really love John, but in this story I want to slowly eviscerate him and dance in his entrails. I wonder if John has ever heard of the term fragging.

I feel so sorry for Sam, and when he thought John was going to hurt him with the scissors...poor baby. And I don't mean John. I can understand why Sam won't accept John's affection. Sam knows that John will just turn around and be a bastard again, so why accept something that to him isn't real.

John couldn't have been that way very often, because the boys are not vicious sociopaths like Gordon, plus Sam would have shot him.

This was a really great followup to "This is Sparta." I'm still waiting for John's comeuppance, though. Because, honestly, this John deserves to die horrifically.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

It is totally cool that you want to eviscerate John – it means the story is getting to you and THAT rocks my world, so thank you! John will not, however, die horrifically or any other way – he’s got to survive to be a pain in Sam’s side and be the light of Dean’s eye for a good long time yet!

In the meantime, the summer from hell continues, and will continue – John is not nice, nor kind, nor very forgiving when it comes to mistakes. So, more bad things for Sam and Dean and no comeuppance for John, sorry. : D (PS, I love your observation about why Sam won’t accept John’s affection!)

[littlepunkryo.livejournal.com]

Oh my heart. I love this verse.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

What a wonderful compliment - I really love hearing that you love this verse because I love it too! It's so fun to be hard on the Winchesters.

[korusialhogi.livejournal.com]

Haaaa! Another fic in Sparta verse!!!!!
This is brilliant! It's so impossibly full of a teenage angst, because that's exactly what it is, at least to me. It's not an angst born out of an abuse or a tragedy, at least not an immediate tragedy, it's just an aching of a little confused pup seeking his place in a pack. Admittedly it's a very harshly ruled pack, but what can I say, John is a worrier in a middle of a battle. And yet he has time and heart left to care for his sons, to laugh at their comprehension of their on past misdeeds and to tack the time to grind the pills and put it in a bread, butter and sugar, and do all this other little things.
You did an absolutely amazing job with all the details, making the story real and palpable.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Yeah!!!! I'm so glad you're pleased! I love your image of Sam as a little confused pup, because that's so true. I think he feels left out a lot of the time, at least that's what I see on canon when John and Dean are in the room, so I wanted to explore that. No matter what Sam sees, John isn't the worst father ever, he's always thinking about his sons and what they need that will teach them what they need to know. Sam is usually blind to this, but at 12 or 13, that's what happens. (And thanks for catching that John can laugh a bit, when Sam is unintentionally funny - I had such fun thinking about that part!)

[ophite68.livejournal.com]

I Like this universe a lot poor Sam and Dean, and even John.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

I like this verse myself because it seems to me that all the characters are suffering in their own way. Well, okay, maybe Dean's not suffering because he's enjoying the training and a bit oblivious except for the fact that Sam is being a pain. : D

[keks80.livejournal.com]

Wheee, more Sparta fic! With lovely photo manips! I actually squeaked when I saw this post, which caused the dog to throw me a funny look. Oh well, he thinks I'm nuts anyway.

Oh woman, you made things even worse. I love it! All the delicious angst... It was so worth the wait!

Once again I'm in awe of your wonderful storytelling. It sucked me into the story, made me feel as if I was right there, stuck with them in the sticky heat.

Love the comparison of Sam at this age with a Quarter horse, and Sam's arguments why four-mile-runs are stupid. Oh the logic of a child. *snickers*

John is in a scary mood. He switches from cold to caring and back in a matter of seconds. I actually caught myself cringing away from him a couple of times. Funny thing is, while I just wanted to kick the crap out of him in 'This is Sparta' (and I'd still love to do that), here I have a tiny, very tiny bit of understanding for him, because Sam really is a handful. He is scarily good at pushing his dad's buttons. I wanted to clap a hand over his mouth on more than one occasion to keep him from talking himself into more trouble.

Thank you for sharing!

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Yeah, more Sparta fic!!! I love writing them, and am so pleased you enjoyed it! Shea_fleur did the manips, she’s VERY good and I’m very happy to include them. (And I’m sure your dog is the understanding type.)

I adore your compliments, thank you so much for them. Yeah, I made things worse and this is just a lull because although it’s a very bad day, nothing much happens, it’s just one more day in a miserable summer. Poor Sammy! As for John, yeah, I’m not sure how much more he can take before he busts a gut over Sam, he already came apart in the fruit stand, and I keep thinking he’s trying to avoid that again. But Sam makes it hard because Sam is JUST like John, and I don’t know if John even realizes this at this point, because Sam’s still a kid.

I love it that Sam stands up for himself, but yeah, sometimes, I wish he’d just SHUT up!

[pinkphoenix1985.livejournal.com]

this is beyond brilliant!! I loved every moment of it! I especially love how you mirrored This is Sparta by having Sam try and give a spoon of honey to Dean. That in itself made me sob

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm SO glad you enjoyed it! It was such a trip to go into this verse again, so I'm glad the results are good. And yeah, I contemplated having it work out when Sam gave Dean the honey, I did want a paralell, but then I realize how much more MEAN and fun it would be for it to go all wonky on poor Sammy!! (Sorry I made you sob, although I'm pleased at the same time, if you see what I mean!)

[serena64.livejournal.com]

I've just re-read this (I felt the need for some Sammy angst!) and all the comments and felt I had to comment again.
I feel that your characterisation of John is absolutely canon. What little we see of him in the first series is not pleasant. He has kicked Sam out; he has abandoned Dean without any explanation (unbelievably hurtful, especially for Dean, with no one else to turn to); he barks orders at the boys and expects instant obedience, again without explanation.
As you said, the comments in Buga are very telling, but the real clincher for me is the line in Nightmare about "a little more tequila and a little less hunting...etc" The important word here is little. John was close to crossing the line, but equally important - he didn't.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

How kind you are to come back and re-read and then tell me that you did - I feel flattered as hell, so thank you! And, as well, for your supportive comments about John. People want sweet, but alas, that's not what this story is about.

Everyone has their own take of course, in Sam's mind, this is how I think he saw him at that time in his life, and the vestiges cling to him even when he's all grown up. Plus, I love torturing him!

Thank you again for your lovely post!

[whatjuliewrites.livejournal.com]

Poor Sammy--and Dean, too.

The way Dean just jumps at whatever John says--even when it's something unwarranted....he's like a trained dog. How sad is that?

And then there's Sam, who can't help but question everything, even though he knows it's just gonna get him in trouble.

I felt awful for Dean, knowing how horrible he must've felt to see Sam go through the window like that. And as if that wasn't traumatizing enough, to then have to be whipped for it.

And how telling that the first thing Sam says after crashing through a window is that he's sorry. :( His response to John picking up the scissors was even worse. But who could blame him for flinching and expecting to be hurt. It's what he's used to.

Gah. I just want to kick John in the balls and give Sam a dozen otter pops now. LOL.

Julie

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Your comments are lovely and have totally made my day, thank you!

Dean is a bit of a trained dog at this point, and I think that's because he's all focused on what the summer means, what Dad wants, doing things right, getting perfect scores. And it takes it SO HARD when he screws up, it's almost more fun to torture him psychologically than to beat him!

As for Sam, ah me. He's taking the abuse very well, and I'm sure he knows that more is coming. I was very tempted, you know, to actually give the boy some otter pops, and I still may, but I don't think he will be getting as much pleasure out of them as he had anticipated. And then of course there will be more beatings....

John's a total jerk in this story, but he's a handsome jerk, so...

Thank you again!

[charmedstrange1.livejournal.com]

Holy cow. This is just stunning, again. I've so often wondered about what happened next after Sparta, so I'm so glad you continued it.

Poor Sam. OMG, how I can feel his angst and fear, and frustration-- and oh, what an affecting moment it was when he was finally obviously afraid of John, and John finally saw it (when changing the bandage). I read that as Sam's real feelings toward his dad coming out, because for once he was so addled by the meds and the blow to the head that he couldn't put on the brave front. Because Sam is afraid his dad *would* hurt him, because, well, he *has*. That was my favorite part of this whole thing, because it was so hurty. It made me cringe and my chest tighten and my eyes tear up. Oh Sam, begging his Dad not to hurt him. And John, finally *seeing* and backing up, for a change. At least for a moment.

OMG, all the angst in this was just palpable. The stitching-up scene, oh, my chest ached. And Sam's reaction after he was cut, you pegged that so well, how someone reacts when they're kind of in shock, pointing out something superfluous like Sam did, saying over and over that he broke the window. Spot on.

And poor Dean. OMG, he's so powerless, in this. He's so completely stuck in the middle between his bratty little 13-year-old of a brother, and his militant unreasonable dad. And yet, he's still a teenager himself, given to impatience with his brother at times, and so very internalizing his dad's disapproval. The guilt he had to have felt when Sam got hurt, and then having to hold him still for the stitches, when the last of the anesthetic had been used for him. The poor kid. And he still hasn't gotten to play with his crossbow.

And John. In this one, I could actually feel a little more sympathy for John, and see in the cracks how he really did care about his boys, and how bad shit just keeps happening to them all, John included. But man, I still want him to answer for the beatings, somehow. To show some sense that he *gets it*, that he went too far. That Sam still has welts and is still hurting. I want this John to see Sam's fear and frustration, and Dean's guilt and browbeaten obedience, and see that *he* put them there. And to atone for that, at least a little. Maybe at the end of summer.

Oh, just brilliant, lovesrain. Thank you so much for this. Wonderful and atmospheric, and I so get Sam's fear of the silence and darkness between the lightning and the thunder, and I was so touched that after everything, he didn't want his Dad to get lost to that. Bravo, darling.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Holy cow indeed! What lovely feedback you’ve given me, and how pleased and flattered I am to get it. I love meaty comments like this, just LOVE them. And I really had no idea that people would be interested in what happened next during Sam’s summer from hell, but it’s nice to find out that they do! I hope to continue on in the same vein, though I’m feeling a bit bad about being so mean to Sam.

Your compliments and feedback mean a lot to me, because I try to get it right, I really do. I love how you pointed out something for each character, because although this is Sam’s story, the other characters play pivotal roles, and are having a hard time of it too. Mostly, I think, because SAM is making it hard, even though he probably doesn’t realize it. Dean, just so you know WILL get to play with the crossbow in the next story, though it won’t turn out just like he’d hoped. Naturally. As for John, I fear he will never “get” it completely, partly because Sam’s such a brat and makes John’s blood boil, and partly because John can’t see the forest for the trees. Maybe at the end of summer….maybe.

I’m so glad you liked this story, and truly, truly, you have MADE my day!!

[deanish-ness.livejournal.com]

Gads. I cried twice. This was ... really, really good. My insides were just squirming with the frustration of being a kid and knowing that it was all wrong, but that no one around you was ever going to understand and so all you can do is just act out, dig in your heels and stick out your chin. And your Dean and Sam relationship struck me as so much more realistic than most of the versions out there.

So. Friending you so that I don't miss any future installments?

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

You cried? Oh, my, how lovely of you to say so! I'm really enjoying working in this verse and while I sadly enjoy whumping on Sam, gladly I am not alone in this! And your compliment saying I have Dean and Sam's relationship realistically means a LOT to me, thank you!

Yeah, friended you back, more installments to come.... Poor Sam. : D

[khakigrrl.livejournal.com]

Dude, this is just...ouch!

I so wanted someone in town to see blood on Sammy's legs. Or maybe Dean or John to see the scars he'd left after the fruit stand. Heck, I wanna see big bro!Dean. I know you had the beating occur away from him so he wouldn't know how bad it'd been, but I so want him to find out. I want John to see himself through his boys' eyes, just once. Given the way things are going, he won't have to worry about something supernatural getting Sam; he'll hurt/kill Sam himself!

It's obvious Sam can't run away, but I want to see more of this summer of hell. I want to see if Sam gets hopeless for anything to change. I want to know what he'll do.

Dang, just keep writing this, ok? I gotta have more!

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

You are most kind to make such lovely comments, thank you!

I love what you want to see, because I want to see it too. I think putting a character through the wringer is the most interesting and most fun thing a writer can do. See what makes him tick, what makes him break.

Alas, no one will really discover how crappy this summer is, and is going to continue being for Sam. People see what they want to see. Even Dean, who, at the midst of his tender teens, is not quite the protector he's going to be. Which is fun too, writing him as Captain Oblivious.

Thank you again! I'm working on sequels as we speak.

[gidgetgal9.livejournal.com]

I found both of your stories because they were rec'd at SPN Storyfinders- and I'm so glad they were- loved both to pieces! ;) Gidget

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

How lovely to hear that my stories had been rec'd! Thank you for that, you just made my week. I'm glad you liked them as well.

[mongognom.livejournal.com]

Seriously, this turns upside down everything I've ever thought about Sam, making my head spin like crazy.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Okay, now. You make me want to know how this turns your ideas about Sam around!!! What were your ideas before, huh? HUH? : D

[spense1201.livejournal.com]

Lovely sequel. The section where Sam is afraid of his father when John picks up the scissors is so telling. Sam sees anger, whereas John is clearly horrified, and working hard to calm him. At 13, Sam can only see the conflict, not what drives John, or even how to read him. Beautifully portrayed, and I ache for both.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

I really am quite mean to Sam...but I really enjoy working in this time frame because, yeah, Sam's view of things is based on his age. And I tend to think he carried that view with him for a long time, even after he'd gone off to college and after Jess died. It's hard to outgrow feeling like Sam did, especially with the way the Winchester's lived.

I'm so glad you enjoyed this story, and thank you for your lovely post!

[crazy9s.livejournal.com]

the way you described everything was so perfect. I almost felt like I was there. Very good. And you turned something so simple, into an actually very good read.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

How lovely you are to come by and tell me so. I really enjoy putting Sam through the wringer, so it's nice to know that it's effective and fun for the reader too!

[xkatjafx.livejournal.com]

This was even more heartbreaking than the first part. It's so depressing to know they all mean well but nevertheless everything spins out of control. It's like watching a bad car accident - you don't want to see it, but nevertheless you just can't look away.

I think my favorite scene is Sammy bringing the honey spoon for Dean. And of course Dean refuses to take it, because when does Dean ever think he deserves anything? And Sam standing there covered in honey, feeling all rejected. And then John being all affectionate - but not a way that translates to Sam. So in the end it's all in vain. It's just so beautifully... depressing.

Anyway, this verse to me feels a lot like the pre-series stories big_pink writes. And it's just as awesome. The more I read from you the more I think your stuff is completely underrated in this fandom.

And now I'm really really *really* looking forward to the next part.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

I feel the same way with WeeSam, wanting to watch him be miserable and not able to look away, wanting to rescue him at the same time!

I'm so glad you liked the scene with the honey spoon - for a time when I was writing it, I was going to have it mirror the scene with Sam taking the honey spoon, and then, luckily I realized that Dean would be beating himself up, thus, no treat.

And thanks for the HUGE compliment about big pink! She's one of my favorite writers and my idol, so THANK YOU. : D

PS Also blown away by the fact that you think my writing is underrated - there are so many good writers and BNFs, it's a tough fandom to write in and get read in, so thank for that lovely compliment as well!

[debbiel66.livejournal.com]

I love this one most of all. You do such a good job of showing the completely screwed up humanity of all of them, John included. It's a beautiful job of handling POV, how the reader can see John's worry and concern, even though there is no way that Sam can see it. Kind of when you look back at your childhood after having your own children and then finally just think... oh.

Somehow, the scene with the honey just made me cry. I really, truly hope you'll consider continuing with this. I miss John, and *your* John, I believe.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

To have you express a preference really means a lot to me. It's a rather scary prospect (for me) to write a sequel, wanting to capture the tone and feel of the first part, and hoping like hell to carry it off. So when you say you love this one most of all, yeah, it means I did it right. The interesting thing is that I didn't set out to project anything for John, I just wanted him to be stern and strict, and then I realized I was going to need motivation, even if that motivation never got discussed out loud, because otherwise, John would just come across as an abusive a-hole and not much else. And he's far too complex a character for that sort of treatment!

That it made you cry is a very lovely compliment, so thank you for that!
And yes, I do plan to continue on with this one, when real life isn't getting in the way.

[lavinialavender.livejournal.com]

*cries some more*

I loved the moment, though, when John caught them with the honey, pulled Sam to the kitchen, and Sam was freaking out and John finally saw and realized what he'd done. Thank God.

So sad that Dean got whipped for hurting Sam, though. Like he ever needs that. Sad too that Sam thought he was going to get whipped for breaking the window, and I like his indignation over Dean's whipping.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your lovely comment. I love it when readers cry, and how whacked is that? They're all hurting, all the time, and it's so fun to work with that.