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Entry tags:
Spn Fic; Where We Ought To Be
Title: Where We Ought To Be
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keefaq
Word count: 8326
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning:Wincest
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Transformative work
Beta bydramady Thank you again!
Summary: They haven't forgotten anything important.
This was written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_xmas exchange as a gift for futuresoon
THEN:
It’s hard to say what an apocalypse should look like. Not like this, surely. There ought to be a wind swept plain with thunderclouds looming in a darkened sky, or a burnt out forest under a blood red moon, not a crowded concert hall with Sammy on a stage looking like a goddamned motivational speaker, and that, yeah, that’s just what he was, with his yellow eyes and evil smirk, damned by god and all his angels. Ruby up there right beside him, the magician’s assistant, ready to deliver whatever props he might need to dazzle the crowd and break the final seals on Lucifer’s cage.
Ruby wasn’t the only one now. Sam had lots of demon followers, all gathered here together in the sight of god and man. Sam had on his blank face, the one Dean never wanted to see his baby brother wear. He’d gone to hell to save Sam, but his sacrifice had only served to push Sam down a path of self-destruction, of world destruction, that it appeared no one could halt.
It was the end of everything, and Castiel didn’t act, only stood impassively, his ancient eyes taking up all the despair and remorse and playing them back to Dean. Everything always came back to Dean. Sammy was his responsibility, and thereby all the destruction, all the deaths, came back to him.
Dean had tried to stop him, but Sam was strong, and he wasn’t constrained, as Dean was, by a reluctance to hurt his brother. Castiel took Dean’s hand and Dean didn’t shake him off. Sam’s eyes were dark with the strain of molding all the demon’s powers into one, but it didn’t seem to be quite enough and Dean felt a spark of hope. If Sam couldn’t free Lucifer…but he knew there was no coming back from this when Sam turned, his face twisted with effort, and named him. “Dean,” he said, and Dean didn’t even pretend that he could resist Sam. He dropped his gun and went to his brother, dragging Castiel along.
Sam had one arm outstretched toward his demon army, and with the other he pulled Dean and Castiel in, wrapped his long arm around Dean’s neck and hugged him, brought down thunder and lightening right into the auditorium like an evil mighty Thor, and Dean felt a surge of power run through him. Dean struggled to open his eyes as the light faded. Ruby was curled up on the ground, eyes staring off blankly. All the demon bodies were down, only a few seemed to still be alive, and those were clearly de-demonized, glancing around with the confusion of the depossessed.
Sam was staring at him in amazement, his Sam, his brother returned from the face of evil whole and unharmed. Castiel’s hand was still gripping him fiercely, and somehow they had stopped it, the three of them together. The force that had run from Castiel to him and so into Sam had done something. Reversed the evil polarity or overloaded the evil circuits or some other god damned, no god blessed impossible thing, he thought hysterically.
Castiel let go of him and knelt by Ruby, laying his hands on her and murmuring, soft and prayerfully. “My child, you are forgiven.”
Castiel turned back to Sam and Dean, gripped them by their shoulders and bowed his head. “You have sealed Lucifer tighter than all the seals which before had bound him. You are my father’s sons, with whom he is well pleased, and he has commanded me to seal also your memory for as long as he wills you to walk the earth. Some things must never be forgotten.” Dean could feel the pain of his injuries again, felt suddenly weak and overwhelmed. Castiel’s hand was on his forehead, his voice soft in Dean’s ear. “Rest now.”
NOW:
When I get home from work there’s some strange man washing the windows of the shop, which is ridiculous because the windows were cleaned about three days ago by some other drunken bum with sad eyes and some bullshit story that my mom didn’t buy but paid $20 to hear anyway, which is why I never give a dime to charity. When I say we gave at the office, believe me, we give and give and my mom just shrugs fatalistically and says it doesn’t matter when I point out that most of the money we give to all these losers is spent on booze and drugs.
From the rear this bow legged guy looks pretty much like all the other bums who drop by to throw some soap on our streaky windows and head off to the closest bar, but then he turns and looks down at me from the little shop ladder my mom pulls out for these guys to pretend to work from, and I’m ready for the leer, but it doesn’t come.
It’s one of those days when summer is so near ending that the sun loses its conviction and leaves the day bright and warm rather than enervating. The shop is covered with little rainbow halos where the guy has cleaned. He has solemn greenish eyes in a stunningly gorgeous face, not red with drink or sallow from years of chain smoking. The guy doesn’t have that depressed, worn out look of most of my mother’s projects, he’s more the con artist type, I’m guessing. I notice we’ve been staring at each other over long and I decide I’m better off not talking to him. The con artists are the worst, they’re fucking good at worming their way in and they have no conscience whatsoever, best to stay away from them as much as you can.
“Need something there, sister?” he asks innocently, but I’m wise to the type and his calling me sister grates worse than a curse word would.
“Not a thing,” I answer, and I give him a fake smile to match his own as I head into the shop. There’s nobody behind the counter and nobody answers the chime that opening the door sets off.
The guy outside gets down and comes into our shop like he owns it, wiping his hands fastidiously on the cloth hanging from the slightly bent nail right under the light switch. “Need some help with something?” he asks.
“Huh,” I answer, as derisive as I can, which seems to affect him not at all. “I don’t think so, buddy.” I get a moment then, when I really look at the guy, a thought that, far from being a down and out object of pity, he could be dangerous, and what the hell? I don’t quite know what to do. I want to check on my mom and the rest of the family, but I don’t want to clue him in that I’m afraid of him. Something complicated happens in his face, like he knows he’s scaring me, and he’s trying to dial back the threat level, but that only scares me more.
I can’t decide whether to head on upstairs or try to back out of the shop and circle around, but the decision is taken out of my hands when the back door of the shop opens and Darryl, Antwone and Kantin come barreling in screaming and yelling in some dumb ass argument. Darryl pushes right past me. He’s got some stupid stuffed dog clutched to his chest and Antwone jumps on him trying to pry it away, screeching loud enough to scare off the proverbial banshee. Mom’s right behind them, silent and grim, but before she reaches them, the stranger, with uncanny insight, grabs Antwone and swings him off to the side, his little fists already on a trajectory meant to end at Darryl’s head instead landing ineffectually on the guy’s chest. Mom gets between Darryl and Kantin and gives Darryl a death glare that would put me cowering on the ground if I was ever on the receiving end of it. Darryl’s hardened to that shit though, and he grins unrepentantly while mouthing some bullshit about how he didn’t do nothin’.
I’m impressed with new guy, not just because Mom seems fine with him grabbing Antwone. It’s the way he grabs him and holds onto him. People are always taken by surprise when a little eight year old goes from soft and timid to no holds barred violence and I’ve seen him catch crisis workers and once even a seasoned cop unaware, taking the poor guy out with a backwards head bash he didn’t expect such a little guy to have the guts to commit to. New Guy has Antwone’s arms crossed in front and pinned with one hand, and he’s dropped to the floor and wrapped his legs over Antwone’s so he can’t kick, but it’s the way new guy has his own head pulled back and is using his other hand to keep Antwone’s head tilted forward so he can’t bang it back that tells me the guy gets how dangerous Antwone is, and that he knows a thing or two about dealing with dangerous crazies.
The guy doesn’t say anything to Antwone either, doesn’t try to reason with him in any way, just holds on as Antwone screams. Mom has Darryl face down on the floor and she’s saying something to him too soft for me to make out over the blood curdling screeching from Antwone. After a minute Darryl gives up the stuffed animal that is the excuse for the fight and Mom lets him up, but she makes sure she’s between him and Antwone. Darryl backs down and Mom ushers him and Kantin out of the store, comes back after a minute and motions the guy to bring, or rather carry, Antwone out of the shop, which fortunately is empty. Antwone stops screaming long enough for Mom to say to me, in her ‘I’m totally freaked out but not about to let the kids see it’ voice, “I see you’ve met Dean.”
I nod so I don’t have to talk. I want to tell Antwone what a little moron he is, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose except to make me feel better, and that only until Mom gave me her ‘o ye of little compassion, born with a sliver spoon in your mouth’ look, which, even though it’s ridiculous –come on, I was born into this run down building with a bunch of crazy siblings and hangers-on, and the only silver I have is a coin my Dad left me when he got fed up with it all and took off- but I would feel guilty anyway so I might as well keep my mouth shut.
Everybody troops upstairs and Mom introduces me to new guy, whose name is Dean, Dean Berins. When he goes off to wash up for dinner, Mom tells me she found him out in the garage. He may have spent the night sleeping among the boxes of books stacked out there, she isn’t sure. Maybe he was just looking for something to steal. Anyway, Mom being Mom, she offered him a couple of bucks and a meal in exchange for some odd jobs, and according to her he’s been working all day at whatever he can put his hands to. I’m a little skeptical at her description of his industriousness; I happen to know she has low standards.
He comes out of the bathroom before we can get any further into it and squeezes all six feet or so of himself onto one of the benches we use at our table-there are too many kids to fit enough chairs. “What’s for dinner?” Antwone asks, no doubt for at least the fiftieth time.
“Not answering that again,” Mom says. Before he can get wound up at least three other kids jump in to tell him we’re having stew. Mom wanders off to gather stragglers so I start dishing out the food. Everybody has a bunch of requests (I just want meat…no carrots…. I hate those green things) all of which I ignore.
Dean thanks me when I hand him his plate. He doesn’t start eating until Mom is seated in the only chair, the one at the head of the table, and everyone is served, a nicety no one else at the table observes. He eats his stew real slow, savoring every spoonful like it’s something special. Everybody talks at once, and nobody listens. Dean doesn’t say a word. The chaos has that effect on new people.
Kids take their plates to the sink as they finish, and most of them wander off. Mom and I start to clean up, she rinses the dishes while I pack up the leftovers. Antwone gets in the way asking if it’s snack time yet, and how many snacks he can have. Dean offers to wash the dishes, but Mom tells them both to get out of the kitchen. Only Dean obeys her.
Mom is clearly charmed by this guy. She lets him sleep in the storeroom behind the shop, but she isn’t so smitten that she forgets to set the alarm on his door, and she doubles her caution by setting the motion detector right on the other side. I decide to crash upstairs tonight just until I can get a better feeling for this guy.
I don’t have to work the next day. Mom gives me some money and I drive Dean over to Home Depot where he picks up a bunch of stuff, tools and materials I hope he knows how to use. He goes straight to work when we get back, sawing and hammering and what not. I don’t know enough about house repair to judge if he knows what he’s doing, but he does seem industrious, and we have a lot of places in our house where tantrumming kids have kicked or punched holes in the dry wall to keep him busy.
I always try to get off on Tuesday because we go to the pool if the weather is good. Taking our crew swimming is a two-person job, really three, because it helps to have someone stay home so we can threaten anyone who wants to act out with being left behind. With my step dad off on his summer business travels it’s harder, which is why Mom is so glad to see me every summer. Fortunately Dad can mostly arrange his trips around my school schedule so that Mom isn’t left completely alone with all the kids. The little darlings are super sensitive to any break in the parental front, and they tend to come out tantrums blazing if they sense any weakness. Just one of their many charming qualities.
Mom offers to take Dean along, but he’s covered with a crap load of home improvement crud, and he declines. I’m thinking that’s the end of the trip, especially when Antwone starts acting like maybe he doesn’t want to go -no one takes Antwone anywhere once he’s made up his mind he’s not interested- but Mom keeps packing. You’re going to leave this strange guy alone in our house?” I whisper.
She shrugs. “Everything’s as locked down as I can make it. If he wanted to rob us, the front door is less secure than the room locks. We won’t stay out long, and we’ll be able to see something about him by what happens or doesn’t happen while we’re away.”
See, that’s how my Mom does. She has no sense at all, but she makes up her arbitrary mind and then acts like it’s so reasonable that I never know what to say. Because going off and leaving this stranger is so fucking dumb that if she can’t see it right off the bat, it’s useless to argue.
We don’t actually stay as long as we’d planned because even the promise of ice cream doesn’t quell Antwone’s sudden notion that swimming is boring, and Mom decides to cut the trip short before he explodes all over the pool. He has an unfortunate habit of taking his clothes off in public, and he’s been known to illustrate his boredom by peeing on random objects -and on a few notable occasions people- he doesn’t like, a rather large subset of the human race.
Maybe she thinks if we come back early we’ll catch this Dean guy up to something, but when we get home all the wall fixing stuff has been swept up and the downstairs shower is running.
Dean emerges from the shower, damp and adorable in what seems to be the only t-shirt and jeans he owns. Not to be vain or anything, but I’m actually quite good looking, and I find myself a little disappointed by the way he doesn’t give me the type of look I’m used to getting from the opposite sex. Sometimes guys will prefer my kid sister Latonya to me. She’s 16, dresses kind of sleazy with too much poorly applied make up, like a lot of girls who’ve spent too much time in the foster care system, and she affects this baby voice that a certain type of guy is attracted to. He doesn’t show any interest in her either, though, despite her obvious availability. Dean doesn’t ping my gaydar, but I don’t know how else to explain his lack of interest.
Mom notices me noticing Dean, but I can see she’s as guilty as I am of being charmed by his attractiveness. We both smirk at the same time, which leads to laughing, and poor Dean looks down at himself to see if maybe he left his fly open or something, which makes us laugh harder. Mom pulls herself together first, she’s always quickest to feel sorry for someone. “You need to take Dean to the mall,” she says. “He needs some clothing.”
“I’m good,” Dean says. He doesn’t know my Mom well enough to save his breath.
“You’ve been working all day,” she says, “and I’m going to pay for your labor by getting you a change of clothes or two. After supper Beth will take you. She likes to tell people how to dress, so it’s no hardship to her.”
“She’s totally right about that,” I say. “Clothing is my thing.” When Mom says she’ll pay for his clothes, I have a not unfamiliar inkling as to what she means. See, I have so much disposable cash from my 35 hours a week working at Subway that I can afford to blow it dressing every homeless person who follows my mom home. It’s not like I’ll need money to, you know, buy textbooks or eat or anything trifling like that come September. Still, I can’t deny that dressing this guy sounds like fun.
During supper some minor complaint of Kantin’s turns abruptly into a piercing wail. None of the three youngest kids can cry like a normal person. They make this high-pitched, piercing, extremely irritating noise instead of crying. Mom says it’s because no one responded to their cries in infancy, but I think they totally fake cry in the most annoying way they can because they live to drive everyone around them insane. This little incident ends with Mom removing Kantin from the room for a while.
When one of the three siblings loses control, the other two always act super normal, so those of us who are accustomed to eat with bloodcurdling screams in the background are able to finish the meal in relative comfort.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asks me. He puts his fork down as if the screaming has caused him to lose his appetite, or maybe his will to live in general.
That’s the 64,000 dollar question he’s asked. Everybody who meets the boys has a theory about why they do this shit, too little discipline, too little love, too little or too much whatever, but none of them has ever lived with this, and all the instant experts get a little tiresome with their opinions and advice. I appreciate that Dean doesn’t presume to tell me what we ought to do to straighten them out. “I think it’s genetic,” I say. “They have an older brother who was just as bat shit crazy as they are when he was younger. He’s been locked up for a while, but he seems to have turned over a new leaf in jail, so maybe there’s hope they’ll get better self control as they get older.” I know Mom wouldn’t like me talking about it in front of the boys, but sometimes I think it wouldn’t hurt them to hear what normal people think of them.
We clean up and check in on Mom. Kantin has finished screaming for the moment, and it’s relatively quiet, so I herd Dean out to the car. I do indulge in a withering look for my mom as we leave, since she hasn’t offered to help pay for the clothes, but she’s preoccupied by the important task of telling Antwone what we’re having for supper for the next 27 days and doesn’t notice my chagrin.
We’re about to pass the downtown section and head out toward the mall when Dean leans forward suddenly and says, “Hey, pull over here.” He gives me a half teasing, half embarrassed smile and says, “I think I need some fortification before I can face a shopping trip. Whaddaya think?” I’ve been telling myself the guy’s a down and outer all along, but I’m still disappointed as he heads eagerly into the bar we’ve pulled up at. He convinces me to have a seat, says “I’ll get the drinks,” and holds his hand out boldly for money. I give him a twenty.
Unfortunately I don’t pay that close attention to Dean. I admit, the novelty of being able to legally drink still holds a little power over me, and I look the place over for a while before realizing he’s gone. I sigh a little, because, with the family I have, I shouldn’t be so naïve. The guy has absconded with a lousy twenty dollar bill, leaving me looking the fool. I get up and look around for him a little, already working out how I’m going to soften the blow to my mom –yeah, I lost him, but see I got these magic beans, when I see there’s a pool room behind the main bar, and Dean’s is in the middle of a game, which he’s losing. He also appears to be slightly inebriated, which is strange because my twenty is obviously being used to gamble on the outcome of the game, and he was sober a minute ago.
He loses the game, though not by much. “Baby,” he says to me, and now he’s looking at me the way men normally do. He’s got the careful walk of someone who’s had too much to drink, and he looms over me in a less than attractive way. “Spot me a couple of bills, honey,” he says, standing so close I push him back in disgust, but he leans close and whispers undrunkenly, “trust me.”
I give him the rest of my cash. He repays me with a brilliant smile and a kiss that takes me by surprise –it’s the most theatrical kiss I’ve ever had the misfortune to experience- no doubt a pretty show from the outside, but devoid of any heat from the inside. He turns back to his smirking opponent and waves my money in triumph. The hustle is on. He transforms my hundred into five before we make a strategic exit, his dazzled victims not even realizing they’ve been played.
The shopping trip is a lot more fun with five hundred dollars in hand. I pick things and Dean tries them on, and he really gets into it, strutting and striking poses he thinks will amuse me. We get a pal vibe going, and now he is pinging my gaydar, to the point where on the drive home, after he insists on filling our gas tank, I feel comfortable pointing out the local gay hangout.
He loses the smile he’s been sporting all night, turns and looks out his window without saying anything. “Hey,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You gonna tell your mom?”
“Man, my mom thinks everyone is gay. Especially if they don’t hit on her daughter.”
I can see him turn toward me from the corner of my eye. “Really? Cause I don’t have any place to go, I mean… I could go somewhere else… but I don’t want to.” He looks so vulnerable I have a sudden urge to buy him a puppy or something.
“Don’t worry about going any place,” I say. “My mom has a really strong sense of family. Strong enough that it extends to pretty much anyone who wants one.”
Just when the silence reaches discomfort level Dean sighs and says, “Thanks.”
Things go along more or less smoothly after that, which in our family means we don’t have to call for the police or an ambulance to mop up the outbursts from the crazies. Dean enters the fray and the boys try to smash widows and punch holes in the walls faster than Dean can repair things. Nobody wins, but it gives everyone something to do on their summer vacations. Mom moves him into the downstairs bedroom next to mine, and I feel comfortable enough to start sleeping in my room again. I have to admit I feel strangely okay knowing he’s in the next room. Something about him says safety to me. Couple times a week I drop him off at various bars, often as not places where gay people gather. I don’t ask for details. He never brings anybody home, or shows any particular propensity for one guy over another, but clearly he’s popular everywhere he goes, and one way or another money is involved.
The people my mom brings home are usually kind of self centered and ungrateful; I’ve never really felt this way about any of them. I want Dean to stick around. Mom feels the same way, and we figure if we can find him a nice boyfriend he’ll be more inclined to settle in here.
I don’t realize it right off when we find the perfect guy. He comes in the shop, tall and good-looking, asking if we have an occult section. I come out from behind the counter to show him, and he gives me a thorough looking over, likes what he sees, and smiles, not exactly flirtatious, but definitely interested. He scans the shelves, picking out a book here and there for a closer look and tucking a couple of them under his arm. I’m a little put off by the occult thing. It’s been my experience that only flaky people are into that stuff, but he makes conversation easily, and he’s bright and charming, asks where I go to school and he’s actually heard of Bard College. When I tell him I’m interested in antiques he warms up to me even more, to the point where I’m thinking he’s going to ask me out, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to say yes, but then Dean walks in and everything changes.
Dean looks at the guy’s chest first, then slides his gaze up to the guy’s face almost like he knows he’s going to see something amazing and he wants to draw out the anticipation. When their eyes meet Dean stops, goes still like I’ve never seen him, like he has nowhere else to go ever.
The tall guy smiles and cocks an eyebrow like he doesn’t quite get Dean, but he puts his hand out, friendly-like and says, “Hi. I’m Sam. Sam Winchester.” Dean keeps standing there looking at him until Sam drops his hand and says, not at all offended, “Are you all right?”
Dean stands there some more, looking like he’s seen a ghost or something. Finally Sam turns to me for an explanation I don’t have. He laughs like we’re sharing an in-joke at Dean’s expense, which, maybe we are. “Is it something I said?”
“This is Dean,” I say. “Dean Berins.” Sam’s got the kind of smile that forces you to smile back, so I do. “Not mute. At least he wasn’t before you walked in here and fried his brain with your super secret inner powers.”
He starts when I say that, then laughs, turns back to Dean like he can’t stand to not be looking at him. “Excuse me, sir,” he says in a mocking voice, “but perhaps you could show me where I can find books on religion?” Dean leads him over to the religion alcove still without saying a word, and proceeds to stand all over the guy while he browses, or pretends to browse, through the books. He picks out a couple and hands them to Dean, and Dean stands there holding onto them like he’s been turned into a man servant by a spell Sam has cast over him. I have a moment when I wonder about the occult books he was interested in.
Mom doesn’t show much interest in Sam, which is always a good sign. I might resent the missed opportunity to hook up for the summer with such an attractive guy, except that Dean is so obviously crazy about him that the cuteness knocks out my envy. Despite Sam’s obvious interest in women he’s not immune to Dean’s charm, and the two of them are soon spending all their free time together. Sam has a job at a little family restaurant down the street, close enough to walk up to our place when he gets off, and most days that’s what he does. I expect them to fall into bed together quick, but it doesn’t seem to happen. Dean, smitten as he clearly is, seems half afraid of Sam, or maybe of scaring Sam off.
I’ve always spent most of my down time in my room with the door locked, trying to get a little peace and quiet away from the riff raff masquerading as my family, but Sam and Dean like to hang out in the family room. The noise and general chaos don’t seem to bother them. They think it’s amusing, and I find myself spending more time out there, enjoying their enjoyment. I’ve never met anyone who wanted to spend time with my family before.
Friday night, instead of hitting the bars, Dean snags Mom’s button bag in place of chips and starts up a friendly game of blackjack at home. He’s got some fancy dealer patter that fascinates the younger kids and draws them to the table. He deals them cards, explaining the rules as we go along. Most of them can’t add very well, and keep taking cards as long as we let them, busting hand after hand.
Antwone is far more interested in lining up his buttons according to some arcane formula incomprehensible to mere mortals than in playing cards, but at least he doesn’t throw anything. He’s content to ask if it’s snack time ever two or three minutes, with the occasional what’s for supper tomorrow thrown in for conversational variety.
We’re more than halfway through the deck when Dean turns up a nine to add to the eight he has showing, giving him seventeen. Sam, sitting close, right next to Dean, starts an argument when Dean wants to hold there, insisting that the dealer has to hit a seventeen. I’m not much of a card counter, but even I know the deck is face card heavy, and Sam smirks as he insists that Dean has to take a card. The aggravated look on Dean’s face tells me he knows how the cards are stacking up, too.
“Sam,” Dean says.
It comes out like a whine, and Sam thinks that’s hilarious. He bends forward over the table as he laughs.
Dean glances at him and his eyes go wide. He reaches around under Sam’s shirt and pulls out –look, I don’t know the first thing about weapons- about all I can say is, it’s some kind of handgun. Dean’s hand closes, snug and comfortable, around the gun, like it was made just for him, and he doesn’t look like he belongs in our house anymore. This place is a haven for the incompetent, people who lose at everything, who can’t do anything right, and the hand that closes around that gun is sure and confident, the hand of a man who knows things, can do things most people can’t. I should be freaking out, but Dean’s hand has taken possession of the gun like it’s a threat he won’t allow to touch us and I get why my Mom left him alone in our house when we barely know him. I totally trust the guy to take our safety seriously.
Sam lunges forward and tries to grab at the gun, but Dean rolls to his feet and steps back, cool and confident, puts the gun behind his back and grabs Sam’s shoulder with his other hand. “Why d’ya wanna bring this in here, Sammy?” he asks. He sounds like a teacher who’s caught his favorite student cheating.
“Give it back,” Sam demands, but just that quick he slumps his shoulders a little, like he can’t take Dean being disappointed in him. “It’s just for protection. There’s stuff out there, dangerous stuff.”
My mom meanwhile has grabbed the phone. “You both need to get out of here and take that gun with you or I’ll have the police on you,” she says. I don’t think anybody but me can tell how terrified she is.
Dean lets go of Sam to make a vague placating gesture toward Mom, then gives Sam a glare that gets him moving, and they leave without another word.
When Antwone asks what we’re having for breakfast, he has to wait a long time for the answer.
I figure that’s the end of Sam and Dean, cause Mom, who puts up with an amazing amount of crap, has zero tolerance for stuff like that. The whole house seems to fall into a sulk without the two of them filling it up with their presence. The way I miss them makes me furious at myself. It’s not like I don’t know that people come and go, my parents have been taking in kids as temps for my whole life, but I feel like there was a story there, and now I’ll never know the end.
Almost a week goes by. I think about stopping off at the restaurant where Sam works, just to see if they’re still around, but I can’t muster the energy.
Business at Subway is so slow on Tuesday that I get sent home early, and when I walk into the family room the two of them are sitting on the couch watching Sponge Bob with Latonya and the boys. They’re right up against each other, practically sticking to each other, as if their limbs have grown together. Looks like they’ve taken the time away from home to get to know each other better, and it seems to be working out pretty well for them. Bedtime rolls around and they head down to Dean’s room together like it’s a long standing routine. Mom just shrugs when I ask her what happened. Somehow they’ve gotten around her, and I wish I knew how, as that’s a skill I’ve never been able to acquire.
Things settle down again, the only difference being that Antwone takes to asking Sam if he has a gun a couple or ten times an hour. Sam doesn’t get mad, just keeps saying no in the same long suffering voice that Mom has when she tells Antwone what we’re having for supper.
I guess they realize how thin the wall is between Dean’s room and mine, cause they keep a radio playing when they’re in there together. Only a couple of times do they get loud enough that I can make out Dean keening something of the “harder, faster” variety, Sam’s voice rumbling out Dean’s name over and over in a way that has me cranking the volume up on my television to drown them out.
Dean actually gets ahead on the house repairs, so he starts on the yard, which we affectionately call the jungle. Only thing protecting us from a citation is the 8 foot high fence keeping the neighbors from seeing how bad it is. I don’t know how Dean does it, maybe starts with a machete or something, but he spends a couple of days out there hacking and mowing. Sam goes out and helps him. When I go out to see what they’re doing, I find an actual yard, one you can walk into. They’ve trimmed the crazy pussy willow trees back enough to allow room even for someone of Sam’s height to walk, but they’ve left enough that combined with the bushes, it’s still full of shady little spaces for people to enjoy a bit of privacy, at least they would be able to if I wasn’t so nosy.
They’re not really doing anything sexual, just sitting on the ground, backs against the garage whispering together. But Sam is tipped slightly toward Dean, and Dean has one hand on Sam’s hip under his shirt, their faces close and intimate so that I feel like I’m seeing too much. They know I’m there right away. Dean looks down and blushes a little, and Sam straightens up slowly and turns to see who is intruding. I’m glad for them, but they make me uneasy in a way I can’t quite pin down. There’s something not right about them. They don’t belong in the everyday world I live in. It’s like they’re touched by something otherworldly, which is maybe why I’m not that surprised by what happens later.
Dean still hits the gay hangout sometimes when Sam’s working, coming back with cash he mostly gives to Mom. She takes it without question. Sometimes Dean asks me to drop him and Sam somewhere where they can play some pool, and it looks like they work a pretty good hustle together.
One night they haven’t shut their door tight, and the draft has nudged it open quite a way, so that when I pass by on the way to my room I get an eyeful. Sam has Dean pressed up against the wall. They’re both bare-chested, but at least they have their pants mostly on. Dean’s face is hidden in Sam’s neck, but Sam sees me and gives me a predatory grin. “Want to join us?” he asks.
I can see Dean react to that, his body jerking against Sam, but Sam doesn’t give him any room to move, just pushes him back harder, and I hurry away from them as Dean says, “What the hell, Sam?”
Sam’s laughter follows me into my room. “She wasn’t going to say yes,” he says. After that I’m nervous every time I have to go downstairs, but they’re never careless with the door again. I figure I have Dean to thank for that.
Most evenings we sit in the living room. Dean keeps trying to teach the kids games. Tonight it’s marbles. Dean leans over Darryl, showing him how to shoot, and Sam as usual, leans against Dean. Darryl knocks one of Antwone’s marbles out and pounces on it in triumph. It looks just like all of Antwone’s other marbles, but Antwone decides it’s his favorite one and starts demanding that Darryl give it back. When Darryl refuses, Antwone tries to take it back by force, and when Darryl kicks at him all hell breaks loose. Antwone starts that shrill, crazy screaming and Dean grabs onto him as Sam pulls Darryl out of the fray.
Dean bends Antwone forward, leaning over him in a way that’s almost sexual and starts whispering to him. As I get in close to try to help, a chill runs over me at what Dean is saying. “Regna terrae, cantate Deo.” Growing up in a used bookstore I’ve had a chance to look into a lot of stuff most people don’t know anything about, so I know right away Dean is saying some sort of crazy Latin ritual or prayer over Antwone, and it scares the hell out of me. Sam has dropped Darryl onto the couch and comes skittering back across the floor on his knees to where Dean is holding onto Antwone. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Dean says, and Antwone gasps and arches so far backward I fear his spine will snap.
Dean falls backward and bangs his head hard on the floor, but he doesn’t let go of Antwone, he’s got both hands wrapped around Antwone’s head protectively. I think they’re both out of their minds but I don’t know what to do about it. “Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,” Dean whispers. I don’t know what it means, but it’s not calming Antwone down at all, it seems to infuriate him beyond his worst tantrum. Sam suddenly rocks back onto his heels and extends one arm out, palm toward Antwone, and Antwone’s face contorts, his mouth opens as if forced, and a plume of black smoke like those snakes we burn every 4th of July just pours out of his mouth, up to the ceiling, and vanishes.
It’s all over in a moment. The fight goes out of Antwone, Sam puts his arm down, and “What the hell?” I hear myself ask. Sam and Dean look like they don’t get it either, as if they’re not the ones who just exorcized the devil out of my little brother.
Dean and Sam stare at each other. “How did you?” they both start to ask and then pause at the same time.
“Jinx,” Darryl says from the couch. Antwone is crying softly, says, “I want Mom,” like he’s some normal little kid emerging from a long illness.
It’s way past the point where I feel any respect for our guests’ privacy. As soon as Mom appears and leads the boys off to get some juice, I insist on a little private chat with Sam and Dean, and I don’t hold back on my questions, but it doesn’t get me anywhere except more confused. Sam claims he woke up in some dingy motel room, saw a girl he didn’t know sacked out in the other bed, and lit out of there in a panic. Didn’t stop running until he got to the next town, that being here. He claims he doesn’t know any more than I do, in fact, he outright claims he doesn’t even know anything about himself at all beyond that his name is Sam Winchester.
Dean’s eyes go big and startled when he says that, and he interrupts. “Hell, Sam, you know more about yourself than I do. I can’t even remember my last name.”
“It’s not Berins?” Sam asks.
“I made that up,” Dean says, “Cause I wasn’t sure what was going on.” Turns out Dean woke up with a big chunk out of his memory, too, only he was in a hospital, and he doesn’t have any better explanation as to why he felt he had to sneak off than Sam does, just a vague feeling that he needed time to figure out what was going on.
All these revelations have zero effect on our lives over the next few days. Neither Sam nor Dean seems to want to think about any of it, but the way they cling on to the family gives me a worrisome feeling. It’s like they know they’re on borrowed time. The little ones are shook up and have a lot of tantrums, but it’s different. Mom takes it all at face value, and when they run to her and shove their sobbing, snotty little faces into her stomach for comfort she hugs onto them, doesn’t ask why they’ve changed. It’s like she’s afraid to break the spell.
Sam and Dean get an idea they want to teach the boys how to play soccer, and surprisingly, the boys troop meekly outside with them every day after school for a lesson.
I’m not surprised when a woman comes into the shop, says she’s looking for some friends of hers that she’s lost contact with. I know right away that it’s them, before she says anything else, before she shows me the picture of them leaning up against some shiny black boat of an old car. I shake my head, sorry, don’t know ‘em but she doesn’t leave, and when Kantin comes barreling in I know we’ve lost.
”Why you have a picture of Sam ‘n Dean?” he asks before I can shush him. There’s nothing for it then but to fetch Sam and Dean and make introductions. The lady says her name is Ellen Harvelle. “This is Sam Winchester,” I say formally, “and Dean Berins.”
She raises her eyebrows when I introduce Dean. “Berins?” she asks. “You’d better both just tell me what’s going on. Is there someplace we can sit down and talk? Privately?” she adds, looking at me skeptically.
I hang around watching them through the front windows of the shop when they go outside to talk. Sam stands impassively listening to whatever this Ellen woman is telling them, the sun reflecting off his face, shading his eyes dark then almost yellow. Dean can’t seem to keep still. He paces back and forth, hand going to the back of his neck, then smoothing down his hair, then covering his eyes briefly. I can see Sam questioning Ellen, he’s clearly not happy with what he’s hearing, but Dean looks like her words are unraveling him. Sam never takes his eyes off Ellen, but he reaches out and pulls Dean into his side, holds him there, and Dean leans into him like he’s his power source, which, yeah, maybe he is.
Ellen keeps talking, and Sam is nodding along. Dean seems to get hold of his emotions, and stops fidgeting but he looks suddenly older, and more tired than I’ve seen him after a long day of backbreaking work on the house or in the yard.
Ellen gives Dean a sad look, like maybe she has to tell him someone died or something. She puts her hand on his arm like she wants to soften the blow. Whatever she tells him makes his face go tight and furious, and he pulls away from her, away from Sam and just turns away, starts walking off fast. Sam goes after him of course, but when he tries to grab onto Dean’s arm Dean pulls roughly away. I’ve never seen him pull away from Sam like that before, not even when he took the gun off him, and it shocks me to see the furious expression on his face, like he’s had enough, like he’s done with Sam. Sam must be shocked, too, cause he falls back for a second, long enough for Dean to start off again, almost running.
Sam says something angrily to Ellen before taking off after Dean at a dead run, at which point I give up on respecting their privacy and rush outside to find out what the hell just happened. Ellen face is so tremendously sad. “I had to tell them the truth,” she says. “They had to know what they are to each other.”
She comes back inside with me, and we share a cup of tea. I don’t have the courage to ask her to explain.
After a while Sam and Dean come back, but they aren’t the same. I have a feeling they won’t ever be the same. Sam keeps a hand on Dean like he’s afraid he’ll take off again, but I can tell he won’t. Dean keeps darting his eyes around like there isn’t any safe place to look, but Sam looks straight at Ellen and me, chin up and defiant. “It doesn’t matter,” he says to Ellen. “I don’t care what you do, I’m not giving him up.”
Ellen shakes her head. “Lots of folks won’t be able to accept that, Sam,” she says. “Folks who care a lot about the two of you.”
“Lots of folks don’t need to know our business,” Sam says.
Ellen nods. “What are you going to do?” she says.
“Don’t know,” Dean says, but I’m pretty sure we all think he’s lying.
I, for one, know that Sam and Dean won’t be around much longer, so when they pack up their pitifully small bags I’m not surprised. Dean tries to explain it to me. “There are still things out there, not as many as there used to be, but some. Like that thing that was in the boys. Things that need hunting. It’s what we do, and we can’t just forget about it. We need to get back to work.” He gives me a cell phone number, tells me to call if we ever need help again, but I don’t suppose we will. They blow out of our lives like they were never there, taking the tail end of summer with them.
I’ll be heading back to school soon. Things change, and you can’t hold on to the past. When Dad comes home, it’s to a freshly painted house, all the holes in the walls covered over and half the windows brand new. The boys are shooting marbles by the side of the house, arguing and talking smack like brothers do. They told mom they want to sign up for soccer this year. Maybe my mom will have to get one of those minivans. The thought of the boys scrambling around and squabbling over shin guards, of my mom carpooling with the other soccer moms and maybe signing up to bring snacks to the games, makes me smile.
I wonder about Sam and Dean sometimes, but I’m pretty sure they’re okay.
Author:
keefaqWord count: 8326
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warning:Wincest
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Transformative work
Beta by
dramady Thank you again!Summary: They haven't forgotten anything important.
This was written for the
spn_j2_xmas exchange as a gift for futuresoonTHEN:
It’s hard to say what an apocalypse should look like. Not like this, surely. There ought to be a wind swept plain with thunderclouds looming in a darkened sky, or a burnt out forest under a blood red moon, not a crowded concert hall with Sammy on a stage looking like a goddamned motivational speaker, and that, yeah, that’s just what he was, with his yellow eyes and evil smirk, damned by god and all his angels. Ruby up there right beside him, the magician’s assistant, ready to deliver whatever props he might need to dazzle the crowd and break the final seals on Lucifer’s cage.
Ruby wasn’t the only one now. Sam had lots of demon followers, all gathered here together in the sight of god and man. Sam had on his blank face, the one Dean never wanted to see his baby brother wear. He’d gone to hell to save Sam, but his sacrifice had only served to push Sam down a path of self-destruction, of world destruction, that it appeared no one could halt.
It was the end of everything, and Castiel didn’t act, only stood impassively, his ancient eyes taking up all the despair and remorse and playing them back to Dean. Everything always came back to Dean. Sammy was his responsibility, and thereby all the destruction, all the deaths, came back to him.
Dean had tried to stop him, but Sam was strong, and he wasn’t constrained, as Dean was, by a reluctance to hurt his brother. Castiel took Dean’s hand and Dean didn’t shake him off. Sam’s eyes were dark with the strain of molding all the demon’s powers into one, but it didn’t seem to be quite enough and Dean felt a spark of hope. If Sam couldn’t free Lucifer…but he knew there was no coming back from this when Sam turned, his face twisted with effort, and named him. “Dean,” he said, and Dean didn’t even pretend that he could resist Sam. He dropped his gun and went to his brother, dragging Castiel along.
Sam had one arm outstretched toward his demon army, and with the other he pulled Dean and Castiel in, wrapped his long arm around Dean’s neck and hugged him, brought down thunder and lightening right into the auditorium like an evil mighty Thor, and Dean felt a surge of power run through him. Dean struggled to open his eyes as the light faded. Ruby was curled up on the ground, eyes staring off blankly. All the demon bodies were down, only a few seemed to still be alive, and those were clearly de-demonized, glancing around with the confusion of the depossessed.
Sam was staring at him in amazement, his Sam, his brother returned from the face of evil whole and unharmed. Castiel’s hand was still gripping him fiercely, and somehow they had stopped it, the three of them together. The force that had run from Castiel to him and so into Sam had done something. Reversed the evil polarity or overloaded the evil circuits or some other god damned, no god blessed impossible thing, he thought hysterically.
Castiel let go of him and knelt by Ruby, laying his hands on her and murmuring, soft and prayerfully. “My child, you are forgiven.”
Castiel turned back to Sam and Dean, gripped them by their shoulders and bowed his head. “You have sealed Lucifer tighter than all the seals which before had bound him. You are my father’s sons, with whom he is well pleased, and he has commanded me to seal also your memory for as long as he wills you to walk the earth. Some things must never be forgotten.” Dean could feel the pain of his injuries again, felt suddenly weak and overwhelmed. Castiel’s hand was on his forehead, his voice soft in Dean’s ear. “Rest now.”
NOW:
When I get home from work there’s some strange man washing the windows of the shop, which is ridiculous because the windows were cleaned about three days ago by some other drunken bum with sad eyes and some bullshit story that my mom didn’t buy but paid $20 to hear anyway, which is why I never give a dime to charity. When I say we gave at the office, believe me, we give and give and my mom just shrugs fatalistically and says it doesn’t matter when I point out that most of the money we give to all these losers is spent on booze and drugs.
From the rear this bow legged guy looks pretty much like all the other bums who drop by to throw some soap on our streaky windows and head off to the closest bar, but then he turns and looks down at me from the little shop ladder my mom pulls out for these guys to pretend to work from, and I’m ready for the leer, but it doesn’t come.
It’s one of those days when summer is so near ending that the sun loses its conviction and leaves the day bright and warm rather than enervating. The shop is covered with little rainbow halos where the guy has cleaned. He has solemn greenish eyes in a stunningly gorgeous face, not red with drink or sallow from years of chain smoking. The guy doesn’t have that depressed, worn out look of most of my mother’s projects, he’s more the con artist type, I’m guessing. I notice we’ve been staring at each other over long and I decide I’m better off not talking to him. The con artists are the worst, they’re fucking good at worming their way in and they have no conscience whatsoever, best to stay away from them as much as you can.
“Need something there, sister?” he asks innocently, but I’m wise to the type and his calling me sister grates worse than a curse word would.
“Not a thing,” I answer, and I give him a fake smile to match his own as I head into the shop. There’s nobody behind the counter and nobody answers the chime that opening the door sets off.
The guy outside gets down and comes into our shop like he owns it, wiping his hands fastidiously on the cloth hanging from the slightly bent nail right under the light switch. “Need some help with something?” he asks.
“Huh,” I answer, as derisive as I can, which seems to affect him not at all. “I don’t think so, buddy.” I get a moment then, when I really look at the guy, a thought that, far from being a down and out object of pity, he could be dangerous, and what the hell? I don’t quite know what to do. I want to check on my mom and the rest of the family, but I don’t want to clue him in that I’m afraid of him. Something complicated happens in his face, like he knows he’s scaring me, and he’s trying to dial back the threat level, but that only scares me more.
I can’t decide whether to head on upstairs or try to back out of the shop and circle around, but the decision is taken out of my hands when the back door of the shop opens and Darryl, Antwone and Kantin come barreling in screaming and yelling in some dumb ass argument. Darryl pushes right past me. He’s got some stupid stuffed dog clutched to his chest and Antwone jumps on him trying to pry it away, screeching loud enough to scare off the proverbial banshee. Mom’s right behind them, silent and grim, but before she reaches them, the stranger, with uncanny insight, grabs Antwone and swings him off to the side, his little fists already on a trajectory meant to end at Darryl’s head instead landing ineffectually on the guy’s chest. Mom gets between Darryl and Kantin and gives Darryl a death glare that would put me cowering on the ground if I was ever on the receiving end of it. Darryl’s hardened to that shit though, and he grins unrepentantly while mouthing some bullshit about how he didn’t do nothin’.
I’m impressed with new guy, not just because Mom seems fine with him grabbing Antwone. It’s the way he grabs him and holds onto him. People are always taken by surprise when a little eight year old goes from soft and timid to no holds barred violence and I’ve seen him catch crisis workers and once even a seasoned cop unaware, taking the poor guy out with a backwards head bash he didn’t expect such a little guy to have the guts to commit to. New Guy has Antwone’s arms crossed in front and pinned with one hand, and he’s dropped to the floor and wrapped his legs over Antwone’s so he can’t kick, but it’s the way new guy has his own head pulled back and is using his other hand to keep Antwone’s head tilted forward so he can’t bang it back that tells me the guy gets how dangerous Antwone is, and that he knows a thing or two about dealing with dangerous crazies.
The guy doesn’t say anything to Antwone either, doesn’t try to reason with him in any way, just holds on as Antwone screams. Mom has Darryl face down on the floor and she’s saying something to him too soft for me to make out over the blood curdling screeching from Antwone. After a minute Darryl gives up the stuffed animal that is the excuse for the fight and Mom lets him up, but she makes sure she’s between him and Antwone. Darryl backs down and Mom ushers him and Kantin out of the store, comes back after a minute and motions the guy to bring, or rather carry, Antwone out of the shop, which fortunately is empty. Antwone stops screaming long enough for Mom to say to me, in her ‘I’m totally freaked out but not about to let the kids see it’ voice, “I see you’ve met Dean.”
I nod so I don’t have to talk. I want to tell Antwone what a little moron he is, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose except to make me feel better, and that only until Mom gave me her ‘o ye of little compassion, born with a sliver spoon in your mouth’ look, which, even though it’s ridiculous –come on, I was born into this run down building with a bunch of crazy siblings and hangers-on, and the only silver I have is a coin my Dad left me when he got fed up with it all and took off- but I would feel guilty anyway so I might as well keep my mouth shut.
Everybody troops upstairs and Mom introduces me to new guy, whose name is Dean, Dean Berins. When he goes off to wash up for dinner, Mom tells me she found him out in the garage. He may have spent the night sleeping among the boxes of books stacked out there, she isn’t sure. Maybe he was just looking for something to steal. Anyway, Mom being Mom, she offered him a couple of bucks and a meal in exchange for some odd jobs, and according to her he’s been working all day at whatever he can put his hands to. I’m a little skeptical at her description of his industriousness; I happen to know she has low standards.
He comes out of the bathroom before we can get any further into it and squeezes all six feet or so of himself onto one of the benches we use at our table-there are too many kids to fit enough chairs. “What’s for dinner?” Antwone asks, no doubt for at least the fiftieth time.
“Not answering that again,” Mom says. Before he can get wound up at least three other kids jump in to tell him we’re having stew. Mom wanders off to gather stragglers so I start dishing out the food. Everybody has a bunch of requests (I just want meat…no carrots…. I hate those green things) all of which I ignore.
Dean thanks me when I hand him his plate. He doesn’t start eating until Mom is seated in the only chair, the one at the head of the table, and everyone is served, a nicety no one else at the table observes. He eats his stew real slow, savoring every spoonful like it’s something special. Everybody talks at once, and nobody listens. Dean doesn’t say a word. The chaos has that effect on new people.
Kids take their plates to the sink as they finish, and most of them wander off. Mom and I start to clean up, she rinses the dishes while I pack up the leftovers. Antwone gets in the way asking if it’s snack time yet, and how many snacks he can have. Dean offers to wash the dishes, but Mom tells them both to get out of the kitchen. Only Dean obeys her.
Mom is clearly charmed by this guy. She lets him sleep in the storeroom behind the shop, but she isn’t so smitten that she forgets to set the alarm on his door, and she doubles her caution by setting the motion detector right on the other side. I decide to crash upstairs tonight just until I can get a better feeling for this guy.
I don’t have to work the next day. Mom gives me some money and I drive Dean over to Home Depot where he picks up a bunch of stuff, tools and materials I hope he knows how to use. He goes straight to work when we get back, sawing and hammering and what not. I don’t know enough about house repair to judge if he knows what he’s doing, but he does seem industrious, and we have a lot of places in our house where tantrumming kids have kicked or punched holes in the dry wall to keep him busy.
I always try to get off on Tuesday because we go to the pool if the weather is good. Taking our crew swimming is a two-person job, really three, because it helps to have someone stay home so we can threaten anyone who wants to act out with being left behind. With my step dad off on his summer business travels it’s harder, which is why Mom is so glad to see me every summer. Fortunately Dad can mostly arrange his trips around my school schedule so that Mom isn’t left completely alone with all the kids. The little darlings are super sensitive to any break in the parental front, and they tend to come out tantrums blazing if they sense any weakness. Just one of their many charming qualities.
Mom offers to take Dean along, but he’s covered with a crap load of home improvement crud, and he declines. I’m thinking that’s the end of the trip, especially when Antwone starts acting like maybe he doesn’t want to go -no one takes Antwone anywhere once he’s made up his mind he’s not interested- but Mom keeps packing. You’re going to leave this strange guy alone in our house?” I whisper.
She shrugs. “Everything’s as locked down as I can make it. If he wanted to rob us, the front door is less secure than the room locks. We won’t stay out long, and we’ll be able to see something about him by what happens or doesn’t happen while we’re away.”
See, that’s how my Mom does. She has no sense at all, but she makes up her arbitrary mind and then acts like it’s so reasonable that I never know what to say. Because going off and leaving this stranger is so fucking dumb that if she can’t see it right off the bat, it’s useless to argue.
We don’t actually stay as long as we’d planned because even the promise of ice cream doesn’t quell Antwone’s sudden notion that swimming is boring, and Mom decides to cut the trip short before he explodes all over the pool. He has an unfortunate habit of taking his clothes off in public, and he’s been known to illustrate his boredom by peeing on random objects -and on a few notable occasions people- he doesn’t like, a rather large subset of the human race.
Maybe she thinks if we come back early we’ll catch this Dean guy up to something, but when we get home all the wall fixing stuff has been swept up and the downstairs shower is running.
Dean emerges from the shower, damp and adorable in what seems to be the only t-shirt and jeans he owns. Not to be vain or anything, but I’m actually quite good looking, and I find myself a little disappointed by the way he doesn’t give me the type of look I’m used to getting from the opposite sex. Sometimes guys will prefer my kid sister Latonya to me. She’s 16, dresses kind of sleazy with too much poorly applied make up, like a lot of girls who’ve spent too much time in the foster care system, and she affects this baby voice that a certain type of guy is attracted to. He doesn’t show any interest in her either, though, despite her obvious availability. Dean doesn’t ping my gaydar, but I don’t know how else to explain his lack of interest.
Mom notices me noticing Dean, but I can see she’s as guilty as I am of being charmed by his attractiveness. We both smirk at the same time, which leads to laughing, and poor Dean looks down at himself to see if maybe he left his fly open or something, which makes us laugh harder. Mom pulls herself together first, she’s always quickest to feel sorry for someone. “You need to take Dean to the mall,” she says. “He needs some clothing.”
“I’m good,” Dean says. He doesn’t know my Mom well enough to save his breath.
“You’ve been working all day,” she says, “and I’m going to pay for your labor by getting you a change of clothes or two. After supper Beth will take you. She likes to tell people how to dress, so it’s no hardship to her.”
“She’s totally right about that,” I say. “Clothing is my thing.” When Mom says she’ll pay for his clothes, I have a not unfamiliar inkling as to what she means. See, I have so much disposable cash from my 35 hours a week working at Subway that I can afford to blow it dressing every homeless person who follows my mom home. It’s not like I’ll need money to, you know, buy textbooks or eat or anything trifling like that come September. Still, I can’t deny that dressing this guy sounds like fun.
During supper some minor complaint of Kantin’s turns abruptly into a piercing wail. None of the three youngest kids can cry like a normal person. They make this high-pitched, piercing, extremely irritating noise instead of crying. Mom says it’s because no one responded to their cries in infancy, but I think they totally fake cry in the most annoying way they can because they live to drive everyone around them insane. This little incident ends with Mom removing Kantin from the room for a while.
When one of the three siblings loses control, the other two always act super normal, so those of us who are accustomed to eat with bloodcurdling screams in the background are able to finish the meal in relative comfort.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asks me. He puts his fork down as if the screaming has caused him to lose his appetite, or maybe his will to live in general.
That’s the 64,000 dollar question he’s asked. Everybody who meets the boys has a theory about why they do this shit, too little discipline, too little love, too little or too much whatever, but none of them has ever lived with this, and all the instant experts get a little tiresome with their opinions and advice. I appreciate that Dean doesn’t presume to tell me what we ought to do to straighten them out. “I think it’s genetic,” I say. “They have an older brother who was just as bat shit crazy as they are when he was younger. He’s been locked up for a while, but he seems to have turned over a new leaf in jail, so maybe there’s hope they’ll get better self control as they get older.” I know Mom wouldn’t like me talking about it in front of the boys, but sometimes I think it wouldn’t hurt them to hear what normal people think of them.
We clean up and check in on Mom. Kantin has finished screaming for the moment, and it’s relatively quiet, so I herd Dean out to the car. I do indulge in a withering look for my mom as we leave, since she hasn’t offered to help pay for the clothes, but she’s preoccupied by the important task of telling Antwone what we’re having for supper for the next 27 days and doesn’t notice my chagrin.
We’re about to pass the downtown section and head out toward the mall when Dean leans forward suddenly and says, “Hey, pull over here.” He gives me a half teasing, half embarrassed smile and says, “I think I need some fortification before I can face a shopping trip. Whaddaya think?” I’ve been telling myself the guy’s a down and outer all along, but I’m still disappointed as he heads eagerly into the bar we’ve pulled up at. He convinces me to have a seat, says “I’ll get the drinks,” and holds his hand out boldly for money. I give him a twenty.
Unfortunately I don’t pay that close attention to Dean. I admit, the novelty of being able to legally drink still holds a little power over me, and I look the place over for a while before realizing he’s gone. I sigh a little, because, with the family I have, I shouldn’t be so naïve. The guy has absconded with a lousy twenty dollar bill, leaving me looking the fool. I get up and look around for him a little, already working out how I’m going to soften the blow to my mom –yeah, I lost him, but see I got these magic beans, when I see there’s a pool room behind the main bar, and Dean’s is in the middle of a game, which he’s losing. He also appears to be slightly inebriated, which is strange because my twenty is obviously being used to gamble on the outcome of the game, and he was sober a minute ago.
He loses the game, though not by much. “Baby,” he says to me, and now he’s looking at me the way men normally do. He’s got the careful walk of someone who’s had too much to drink, and he looms over me in a less than attractive way. “Spot me a couple of bills, honey,” he says, standing so close I push him back in disgust, but he leans close and whispers undrunkenly, “trust me.”
I give him the rest of my cash. He repays me with a brilliant smile and a kiss that takes me by surprise –it’s the most theatrical kiss I’ve ever had the misfortune to experience- no doubt a pretty show from the outside, but devoid of any heat from the inside. He turns back to his smirking opponent and waves my money in triumph. The hustle is on. He transforms my hundred into five before we make a strategic exit, his dazzled victims not even realizing they’ve been played.
The shopping trip is a lot more fun with five hundred dollars in hand. I pick things and Dean tries them on, and he really gets into it, strutting and striking poses he thinks will amuse me. We get a pal vibe going, and now he is pinging my gaydar, to the point where on the drive home, after he insists on filling our gas tank, I feel comfortable pointing out the local gay hangout.
He loses the smile he’s been sporting all night, turns and looks out his window without saying anything. “Hey,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You gonna tell your mom?”
“Man, my mom thinks everyone is gay. Especially if they don’t hit on her daughter.”
I can see him turn toward me from the corner of my eye. “Really? Cause I don’t have any place to go, I mean… I could go somewhere else… but I don’t want to.” He looks so vulnerable I have a sudden urge to buy him a puppy or something.
“Don’t worry about going any place,” I say. “My mom has a really strong sense of family. Strong enough that it extends to pretty much anyone who wants one.”
Just when the silence reaches discomfort level Dean sighs and says, “Thanks.”
Things go along more or less smoothly after that, which in our family means we don’t have to call for the police or an ambulance to mop up the outbursts from the crazies. Dean enters the fray and the boys try to smash widows and punch holes in the walls faster than Dean can repair things. Nobody wins, but it gives everyone something to do on their summer vacations. Mom moves him into the downstairs bedroom next to mine, and I feel comfortable enough to start sleeping in my room again. I have to admit I feel strangely okay knowing he’s in the next room. Something about him says safety to me. Couple times a week I drop him off at various bars, often as not places where gay people gather. I don’t ask for details. He never brings anybody home, or shows any particular propensity for one guy over another, but clearly he’s popular everywhere he goes, and one way or another money is involved.
The people my mom brings home are usually kind of self centered and ungrateful; I’ve never really felt this way about any of them. I want Dean to stick around. Mom feels the same way, and we figure if we can find him a nice boyfriend he’ll be more inclined to settle in here.
I don’t realize it right off when we find the perfect guy. He comes in the shop, tall and good-looking, asking if we have an occult section. I come out from behind the counter to show him, and he gives me a thorough looking over, likes what he sees, and smiles, not exactly flirtatious, but definitely interested. He scans the shelves, picking out a book here and there for a closer look and tucking a couple of them under his arm. I’m a little put off by the occult thing. It’s been my experience that only flaky people are into that stuff, but he makes conversation easily, and he’s bright and charming, asks where I go to school and he’s actually heard of Bard College. When I tell him I’m interested in antiques he warms up to me even more, to the point where I’m thinking he’s going to ask me out, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to say yes, but then Dean walks in and everything changes.
Dean looks at the guy’s chest first, then slides his gaze up to the guy’s face almost like he knows he’s going to see something amazing and he wants to draw out the anticipation. When their eyes meet Dean stops, goes still like I’ve never seen him, like he has nowhere else to go ever.
The tall guy smiles and cocks an eyebrow like he doesn’t quite get Dean, but he puts his hand out, friendly-like and says, “Hi. I’m Sam. Sam Winchester.” Dean keeps standing there looking at him until Sam drops his hand and says, not at all offended, “Are you all right?”
Dean stands there some more, looking like he’s seen a ghost or something. Finally Sam turns to me for an explanation I don’t have. He laughs like we’re sharing an in-joke at Dean’s expense, which, maybe we are. “Is it something I said?”
“This is Dean,” I say. “Dean Berins.” Sam’s got the kind of smile that forces you to smile back, so I do. “Not mute. At least he wasn’t before you walked in here and fried his brain with your super secret inner powers.”
He starts when I say that, then laughs, turns back to Dean like he can’t stand to not be looking at him. “Excuse me, sir,” he says in a mocking voice, “but perhaps you could show me where I can find books on religion?” Dean leads him over to the religion alcove still without saying a word, and proceeds to stand all over the guy while he browses, or pretends to browse, through the books. He picks out a couple and hands them to Dean, and Dean stands there holding onto them like he’s been turned into a man servant by a spell Sam has cast over him. I have a moment when I wonder about the occult books he was interested in.
Mom doesn’t show much interest in Sam, which is always a good sign. I might resent the missed opportunity to hook up for the summer with such an attractive guy, except that Dean is so obviously crazy about him that the cuteness knocks out my envy. Despite Sam’s obvious interest in women he’s not immune to Dean’s charm, and the two of them are soon spending all their free time together. Sam has a job at a little family restaurant down the street, close enough to walk up to our place when he gets off, and most days that’s what he does. I expect them to fall into bed together quick, but it doesn’t seem to happen. Dean, smitten as he clearly is, seems half afraid of Sam, or maybe of scaring Sam off.
I’ve always spent most of my down time in my room with the door locked, trying to get a little peace and quiet away from the riff raff masquerading as my family, but Sam and Dean like to hang out in the family room. The noise and general chaos don’t seem to bother them. They think it’s amusing, and I find myself spending more time out there, enjoying their enjoyment. I’ve never met anyone who wanted to spend time with my family before.
Friday night, instead of hitting the bars, Dean snags Mom’s button bag in place of chips and starts up a friendly game of blackjack at home. He’s got some fancy dealer patter that fascinates the younger kids and draws them to the table. He deals them cards, explaining the rules as we go along. Most of them can’t add very well, and keep taking cards as long as we let them, busting hand after hand.
Antwone is far more interested in lining up his buttons according to some arcane formula incomprehensible to mere mortals than in playing cards, but at least he doesn’t throw anything. He’s content to ask if it’s snack time ever two or three minutes, with the occasional what’s for supper tomorrow thrown in for conversational variety.
We’re more than halfway through the deck when Dean turns up a nine to add to the eight he has showing, giving him seventeen. Sam, sitting close, right next to Dean, starts an argument when Dean wants to hold there, insisting that the dealer has to hit a seventeen. I’m not much of a card counter, but even I know the deck is face card heavy, and Sam smirks as he insists that Dean has to take a card. The aggravated look on Dean’s face tells me he knows how the cards are stacking up, too.
“Sam,” Dean says.
It comes out like a whine, and Sam thinks that’s hilarious. He bends forward over the table as he laughs.
Dean glances at him and his eyes go wide. He reaches around under Sam’s shirt and pulls out –look, I don’t know the first thing about weapons- about all I can say is, it’s some kind of handgun. Dean’s hand closes, snug and comfortable, around the gun, like it was made just for him, and he doesn’t look like he belongs in our house anymore. This place is a haven for the incompetent, people who lose at everything, who can’t do anything right, and the hand that closes around that gun is sure and confident, the hand of a man who knows things, can do things most people can’t. I should be freaking out, but Dean’s hand has taken possession of the gun like it’s a threat he won’t allow to touch us and I get why my Mom left him alone in our house when we barely know him. I totally trust the guy to take our safety seriously.
Sam lunges forward and tries to grab at the gun, but Dean rolls to his feet and steps back, cool and confident, puts the gun behind his back and grabs Sam’s shoulder with his other hand. “Why d’ya wanna bring this in here, Sammy?” he asks. He sounds like a teacher who’s caught his favorite student cheating.
“Give it back,” Sam demands, but just that quick he slumps his shoulders a little, like he can’t take Dean being disappointed in him. “It’s just for protection. There’s stuff out there, dangerous stuff.”
My mom meanwhile has grabbed the phone. “You both need to get out of here and take that gun with you or I’ll have the police on you,” she says. I don’t think anybody but me can tell how terrified she is.
Dean lets go of Sam to make a vague placating gesture toward Mom, then gives Sam a glare that gets him moving, and they leave without another word.
When Antwone asks what we’re having for breakfast, he has to wait a long time for the answer.
I figure that’s the end of Sam and Dean, cause Mom, who puts up with an amazing amount of crap, has zero tolerance for stuff like that. The whole house seems to fall into a sulk without the two of them filling it up with their presence. The way I miss them makes me furious at myself. It’s not like I don’t know that people come and go, my parents have been taking in kids as temps for my whole life, but I feel like there was a story there, and now I’ll never know the end.
Almost a week goes by. I think about stopping off at the restaurant where Sam works, just to see if they’re still around, but I can’t muster the energy.
Business at Subway is so slow on Tuesday that I get sent home early, and when I walk into the family room the two of them are sitting on the couch watching Sponge Bob with Latonya and the boys. They’re right up against each other, practically sticking to each other, as if their limbs have grown together. Looks like they’ve taken the time away from home to get to know each other better, and it seems to be working out pretty well for them. Bedtime rolls around and they head down to Dean’s room together like it’s a long standing routine. Mom just shrugs when I ask her what happened. Somehow they’ve gotten around her, and I wish I knew how, as that’s a skill I’ve never been able to acquire.
Things settle down again, the only difference being that Antwone takes to asking Sam if he has a gun a couple or ten times an hour. Sam doesn’t get mad, just keeps saying no in the same long suffering voice that Mom has when she tells Antwone what we’re having for supper.
I guess they realize how thin the wall is between Dean’s room and mine, cause they keep a radio playing when they’re in there together. Only a couple of times do they get loud enough that I can make out Dean keening something of the “harder, faster” variety, Sam’s voice rumbling out Dean’s name over and over in a way that has me cranking the volume up on my television to drown them out.
Dean actually gets ahead on the house repairs, so he starts on the yard, which we affectionately call the jungle. Only thing protecting us from a citation is the 8 foot high fence keeping the neighbors from seeing how bad it is. I don’t know how Dean does it, maybe starts with a machete or something, but he spends a couple of days out there hacking and mowing. Sam goes out and helps him. When I go out to see what they’re doing, I find an actual yard, one you can walk into. They’ve trimmed the crazy pussy willow trees back enough to allow room even for someone of Sam’s height to walk, but they’ve left enough that combined with the bushes, it’s still full of shady little spaces for people to enjoy a bit of privacy, at least they would be able to if I wasn’t so nosy.
They’re not really doing anything sexual, just sitting on the ground, backs against the garage whispering together. But Sam is tipped slightly toward Dean, and Dean has one hand on Sam’s hip under his shirt, their faces close and intimate so that I feel like I’m seeing too much. They know I’m there right away. Dean looks down and blushes a little, and Sam straightens up slowly and turns to see who is intruding. I’m glad for them, but they make me uneasy in a way I can’t quite pin down. There’s something not right about them. They don’t belong in the everyday world I live in. It’s like they’re touched by something otherworldly, which is maybe why I’m not that surprised by what happens later.
Dean still hits the gay hangout sometimes when Sam’s working, coming back with cash he mostly gives to Mom. She takes it without question. Sometimes Dean asks me to drop him and Sam somewhere where they can play some pool, and it looks like they work a pretty good hustle together.
One night they haven’t shut their door tight, and the draft has nudged it open quite a way, so that when I pass by on the way to my room I get an eyeful. Sam has Dean pressed up against the wall. They’re both bare-chested, but at least they have their pants mostly on. Dean’s face is hidden in Sam’s neck, but Sam sees me and gives me a predatory grin. “Want to join us?” he asks.
I can see Dean react to that, his body jerking against Sam, but Sam doesn’t give him any room to move, just pushes him back harder, and I hurry away from them as Dean says, “What the hell, Sam?”
Sam’s laughter follows me into my room. “She wasn’t going to say yes,” he says. After that I’m nervous every time I have to go downstairs, but they’re never careless with the door again. I figure I have Dean to thank for that.
Most evenings we sit in the living room. Dean keeps trying to teach the kids games. Tonight it’s marbles. Dean leans over Darryl, showing him how to shoot, and Sam as usual, leans against Dean. Darryl knocks one of Antwone’s marbles out and pounces on it in triumph. It looks just like all of Antwone’s other marbles, but Antwone decides it’s his favorite one and starts demanding that Darryl give it back. When Darryl refuses, Antwone tries to take it back by force, and when Darryl kicks at him all hell breaks loose. Antwone starts that shrill, crazy screaming and Dean grabs onto him as Sam pulls Darryl out of the fray.
Dean bends Antwone forward, leaning over him in a way that’s almost sexual and starts whispering to him. As I get in close to try to help, a chill runs over me at what Dean is saying. “Regna terrae, cantate Deo.” Growing up in a used bookstore I’ve had a chance to look into a lot of stuff most people don’t know anything about, so I know right away Dean is saying some sort of crazy Latin ritual or prayer over Antwone, and it scares the hell out of me. Sam has dropped Darryl onto the couch and comes skittering back across the floor on his knees to where Dean is holding onto Antwone. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Dean says, and Antwone gasps and arches so far backward I fear his spine will snap.
Dean falls backward and bangs his head hard on the floor, but he doesn’t let go of Antwone, he’s got both hands wrapped around Antwone’s head protectively. I think they’re both out of their minds but I don’t know what to do about it. “Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,” Dean whispers. I don’t know what it means, but it’s not calming Antwone down at all, it seems to infuriate him beyond his worst tantrum. Sam suddenly rocks back onto his heels and extends one arm out, palm toward Antwone, and Antwone’s face contorts, his mouth opens as if forced, and a plume of black smoke like those snakes we burn every 4th of July just pours out of his mouth, up to the ceiling, and vanishes.
It’s all over in a moment. The fight goes out of Antwone, Sam puts his arm down, and “What the hell?” I hear myself ask. Sam and Dean look like they don’t get it either, as if they’re not the ones who just exorcized the devil out of my little brother.
Dean and Sam stare at each other. “How did you?” they both start to ask and then pause at the same time.
“Jinx,” Darryl says from the couch. Antwone is crying softly, says, “I want Mom,” like he’s some normal little kid emerging from a long illness.
It’s way past the point where I feel any respect for our guests’ privacy. As soon as Mom appears and leads the boys off to get some juice, I insist on a little private chat with Sam and Dean, and I don’t hold back on my questions, but it doesn’t get me anywhere except more confused. Sam claims he woke up in some dingy motel room, saw a girl he didn’t know sacked out in the other bed, and lit out of there in a panic. Didn’t stop running until he got to the next town, that being here. He claims he doesn’t know any more than I do, in fact, he outright claims he doesn’t even know anything about himself at all beyond that his name is Sam Winchester.
Dean’s eyes go big and startled when he says that, and he interrupts. “Hell, Sam, you know more about yourself than I do. I can’t even remember my last name.”
“It’s not Berins?” Sam asks.
“I made that up,” Dean says, “Cause I wasn’t sure what was going on.” Turns out Dean woke up with a big chunk out of his memory, too, only he was in a hospital, and he doesn’t have any better explanation as to why he felt he had to sneak off than Sam does, just a vague feeling that he needed time to figure out what was going on.
All these revelations have zero effect on our lives over the next few days. Neither Sam nor Dean seems to want to think about any of it, but the way they cling on to the family gives me a worrisome feeling. It’s like they know they’re on borrowed time. The little ones are shook up and have a lot of tantrums, but it’s different. Mom takes it all at face value, and when they run to her and shove their sobbing, snotty little faces into her stomach for comfort she hugs onto them, doesn’t ask why they’ve changed. It’s like she’s afraid to break the spell.
Sam and Dean get an idea they want to teach the boys how to play soccer, and surprisingly, the boys troop meekly outside with them every day after school for a lesson.
I’m not surprised when a woman comes into the shop, says she’s looking for some friends of hers that she’s lost contact with. I know right away that it’s them, before she says anything else, before she shows me the picture of them leaning up against some shiny black boat of an old car. I shake my head, sorry, don’t know ‘em but she doesn’t leave, and when Kantin comes barreling in I know we’ve lost.
”Why you have a picture of Sam ‘n Dean?” he asks before I can shush him. There’s nothing for it then but to fetch Sam and Dean and make introductions. The lady says her name is Ellen Harvelle. “This is Sam Winchester,” I say formally, “and Dean Berins.”
She raises her eyebrows when I introduce Dean. “Berins?” she asks. “You’d better both just tell me what’s going on. Is there someplace we can sit down and talk? Privately?” she adds, looking at me skeptically.
I hang around watching them through the front windows of the shop when they go outside to talk. Sam stands impassively listening to whatever this Ellen woman is telling them, the sun reflecting off his face, shading his eyes dark then almost yellow. Dean can’t seem to keep still. He paces back and forth, hand going to the back of his neck, then smoothing down his hair, then covering his eyes briefly. I can see Sam questioning Ellen, he’s clearly not happy with what he’s hearing, but Dean looks like her words are unraveling him. Sam never takes his eyes off Ellen, but he reaches out and pulls Dean into his side, holds him there, and Dean leans into him like he’s his power source, which, yeah, maybe he is.
Ellen keeps talking, and Sam is nodding along. Dean seems to get hold of his emotions, and stops fidgeting but he looks suddenly older, and more tired than I’ve seen him after a long day of backbreaking work on the house or in the yard.
Ellen gives Dean a sad look, like maybe she has to tell him someone died or something. She puts her hand on his arm like she wants to soften the blow. Whatever she tells him makes his face go tight and furious, and he pulls away from her, away from Sam and just turns away, starts walking off fast. Sam goes after him of course, but when he tries to grab onto Dean’s arm Dean pulls roughly away. I’ve never seen him pull away from Sam like that before, not even when he took the gun off him, and it shocks me to see the furious expression on his face, like he’s had enough, like he’s done with Sam. Sam must be shocked, too, cause he falls back for a second, long enough for Dean to start off again, almost running.
Sam says something angrily to Ellen before taking off after Dean at a dead run, at which point I give up on respecting their privacy and rush outside to find out what the hell just happened. Ellen face is so tremendously sad. “I had to tell them the truth,” she says. “They had to know what they are to each other.”
She comes back inside with me, and we share a cup of tea. I don’t have the courage to ask her to explain.
After a while Sam and Dean come back, but they aren’t the same. I have a feeling they won’t ever be the same. Sam keeps a hand on Dean like he’s afraid he’ll take off again, but I can tell he won’t. Dean keeps darting his eyes around like there isn’t any safe place to look, but Sam looks straight at Ellen and me, chin up and defiant. “It doesn’t matter,” he says to Ellen. “I don’t care what you do, I’m not giving him up.”
Ellen shakes her head. “Lots of folks won’t be able to accept that, Sam,” she says. “Folks who care a lot about the two of you.”
“Lots of folks don’t need to know our business,” Sam says.
Ellen nods. “What are you going to do?” she says.
“Don’t know,” Dean says, but I’m pretty sure we all think he’s lying.
I, for one, know that Sam and Dean won’t be around much longer, so when they pack up their pitifully small bags I’m not surprised. Dean tries to explain it to me. “There are still things out there, not as many as there used to be, but some. Like that thing that was in the boys. Things that need hunting. It’s what we do, and we can’t just forget about it. We need to get back to work.” He gives me a cell phone number, tells me to call if we ever need help again, but I don’t suppose we will. They blow out of our lives like they were never there, taking the tail end of summer with them.
I’ll be heading back to school soon. Things change, and you can’t hold on to the past. When Dad comes home, it’s to a freshly painted house, all the holes in the walls covered over and half the windows brand new. The boys are shooting marbles by the side of the house, arguing and talking smack like brothers do. They told mom they want to sign up for soccer this year. Maybe my mom will have to get one of those minivans. The thought of the boys scrambling around and squabbling over shin guards, of my mom carpooling with the other soccer moms and maybe signing up to bring snacks to the games, makes me smile.
I wonder about Sam and Dean sometimes, but I’m pretty sure they’re okay.