ratherastory | Roses in December (11/14)

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Roses in December (11/14)

So this is long overdue, and I apologize for the delay. In my defense, I've been a little swamped with other fic commitments.

inyron , I haven't forgotten you!

I'm thinking of trying for a once-a-week schedule on this until it's finished. Maybe on Wednesdays? What do you guys think?

Master Post

Chapter 10

Dean doesn't remember a time when he hasn't known about the supernatural. He has dim memories of his mother, of a woman with blond hair and a soft voice, of playing with match box cars on the living room floor while the scent of baking wafted through the house. After that, though, his life has been nothing but fire and salt and the smell of cordite. Travelling with Dad and Sammy in the Impala, the feel of leather against his skin, the reassuring weight of his .45 in his hand. The knowledge that his Bowie knife is always within reach. He's been hunting since he was twelve, and salting his doorstep and windowsills since he was six. He learned the hard way that the world isn't a safe place, and he often pities the poor civilians he's met over the years, because they have no fucking idea of what's been creeping around in the shadows and living inside their walls. Nowhere is safe, but there are precious few people who know it.

He's listened to his Dad explain it to others, in varying degrees of detail depending on how bad it was and how much Dad thought they needed to know in order to get rid of whatever was going wrong in their lives. He's given the speech more than a few times himself, over the years. He remembers the first time he did it, sitting in the overly-flowery living room of a middle-aged woman who'd nearly had her skull split open by a poltergeist who'd taken to hurling furniture around. She'd sat there and cried quietly, her face pale and blotchy from the tears, because the thing had crushed her cat under a chest of drawers, and Dean hadn't known what to say or what to do, other than 'I'm sorry,' which seemed kind of pathetic. He wanted to tell her she was lucky that it was just her stupid old cat and not her, or someone she loved, felt anger simmering just below the surface because if he'd had a cat when he was four he would have traded it a million times over for his mother. Human trumps cat, the math was simple. Then she'd looked up at him, and he'd seen the same look in her eyes that he saw in the mirror every morning.

“I'm all alone now,” she'd said, and he'd swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, and fled her house as fast as he could manage without actually being rude.

He's explained this to more people than he can count on the fingers of one hand, but now? Now he's tongue-tied, staring at his hands, at the cheap silver-plated ring on his right hand. It feels like he's been waiting for hours, days, searching for his words, but it's probably only been a few minutes.

“Okay,” Sam says softly, breaking the silence. “How about I ask questions, and you fill in the blanks?”

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. Sam shouldn't be the one taking care of him, shouldn't be reaching out with a kind smile and a patient tone. Sam whose leg is still encased in metal, who still can't get through an entire day without a nap and a fistful of painkillers, who loses words and whole sentences and who still doesn't actually remember any of his life. Sam puts a hand on his knee, and just the simple touch grounds him. He takes a breath, nods.

“Okay.”

It's halting at first, Sam just as nervous as he is, maybe moreso. The questions are a little haphazard, out of order, as though Sam doesn't even know where to start. Then again, Dean doesn't know where to start either. Slowly, though, it all starts coming together, and Dean finds himself desperately wishing for a drink as he watches Sam re-learn everything there is to know about their family. The fire. Mom's death. The hunt for the thing that killed her. The countless other hunts that followed, the years of it being nothing but the three of them against the world.

“We never found it?” Sam's eyes have gone wide, his face pinched, drained of all colour. “The thing that killed our mother?”

Dean shakes his head. “Never. Not so much as a sliver of evidence, not for, God, twenty-two years. Twenty-one and change, really.”

“What was it?”

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe Dad knows, but if he does he never said.”

“Why not?”

“He's trying to keep us safe.”

“By keeping us in the dark?” Sam's expression goes dark, and for a minute it's four years ago all over again, and Sam and Dad have just finished yet another argument with Dad leaving, slamming of the front door and the tires of his brand-new truck squealing against the asphalt as he goes off in search of the nearest bar.

“I don't think he even knows, Sammy.”

Sam pulls away, rubs at his temples with his fingers. “God, it's stupid. I'm angry at a guy I don't even know,” he mutters, and Dean's chest constricts. “I wish... I dunno, I wish he'd call, or something. It's all crazy, and I believe all of it. I just wish there was someone else who could tell me I'm not as crazy as I think I am.”

“You're not crazy.”

Sam huffs a laugh, lets his head drop. “You're my brother, Dean. I think it's part of the job description to tell me that.”

“How's your head?” Dean knows he's deflecting, can't help it. “You want something?”

“It hurts,” Sam confesses, “and I think I want to sleep for a year, if I can ever close my eyes again. What the hell am I supposed to tell Jess? What the hell did I tell her for two years when I actually knew all of this stuff?”

“I don't know.”

“That's not much help,” Sam says drily.

It's meant to be a joke, and Dean knows it, but it doesn't change anything. He almost bounces off the sofa, paces to the other end of the living room, and doesn't let himself feel guilty about the way he startles his brother. “Fuck, Sam, what do you want me to say? I wasn't here! You made it pretty fucking obvious you didn't want me around, so I steered clear. I can't tell you what you did because I wasn't fucking around to see it!”

Sam slumps in his chair. “I didn't mean it like that,” he says softly.

And just like that, it's too much. He can practically feel the walls closing in on him, and he barely remembers to grab his cell phone on his way out the door, deaf to Sam's entreaties. The door slams shut behind him, and he lets himself walk out into the crisp autumn air.

*

Jess finds Sam sitting by himself on the sofa in the living room when she gets back, broken leg stretched out, heel resting on the carpeted floor next to the coffee table. His wheelchair is sitting a few feet away, looking weirdly empty, the way it always does when he's not in it, like some sort of ugly piece of abstract art. Sam looks wrecked, red-eyed and hollow-cheeked, worse even than when they brought him back from the hospital this morning, and he's got his head cradled in both hands.

“Sam?”

He jerks a bit, winces, and looks up. “Uh, hey,” he manages a sheepish smile, but it's strained. “I know you just walked in, but... would you mind getting me the bottle of painkillers from the kitchen? I'm kind of about to lose my mind, here.”

“Of course,” she clamps down on the worry that threatens to come over her like a tidal wave. She'll deal with that in a minute, she tells herself. She drops her purse and keys, kicks off her shoes, and goes to fetch a glass of water and the damned bottle of Vicodin that seems to be at the root of all their problems this weekend. She comes back and sits next to him on the sofa, and wraps her hand around his when she sees he's shaking too badly to hold the glass steady.

“You sure you don't want one of the patches?”

“I'm sure.”

“Where's Dean?” It has to be asked.

“I, uh... he went for a walk, I think,” Sam's face is still screwed up with pain, but there's an odd hitch to his voice. She smooths his hair away from his forehead.

“What's wrong?”

Sam swallows, reaches up with a shaking hand to scrub at his eyes. “Nothing, I'm sorry.”

“Sam... tell me. Why did Dean leave you alone?” she strokes his head, swears to herself that Dean will have to give a damned good reason for leaving Sam by himself and in pain for her not to do something really terrible to him.

“It's not his fault,” Sam relaxes into her touch. “I upset him. Said some shitty things because I was upset and I took it out on him.”

“You don't have to defend him. C'mere,” she tugs them both back onto the sofa, and he curls into her, almost like he used to do before. “What did you fight about?”

He shrugs. “It wasn't a fight, exactly. Not until the end. He told me about our family, what we did before... before I left for Stanford. And then I was stupid and said something about his not being here, or whatever, and he got mad. I didn't mean it, not like he took it. I just... fuck, I don't know, Jess. I can't even tell him he's wrong, because I don't remember, but I feel like he's wrong, you know? I can't believe I would just tell him to stay away.”

She sighs, burning with curiosity and knowing she's unlikely to get any real answers for now to questions she's had for two years. “For what it's worth, that's not what you told me, back then. I think you thought they wanted you to stay away, and they thought you didn't want them.”

“God, three years.”

She knows exactly what he means. What a waste. “I know. But you've got Dean back now. Or you might have him back if I don't kill him first for leaving you by yourself today.”

“It wasn't that long. And he took his phone.”

“Seriously, quit trying to defend him.”

“I'm sorry,” his hand has drifted up to her neck, finger tracing along the line of her collarbone, the way he used to do, and she feels goosebumps break out all over her body, can't quite repress the shiver that runs through her under his touch. He's relaxing slowly under the effects of the painkillers, his face smoothing out. “I think I was a pretty shitty boyfriend before, too. So, you know, sorry about that too.”

She laughs at that. “What, for treating me like a queen and buying me chocolate and telling me my cookies were the best you ever had in your entire life? Or maybe it was for loving me so much you wanted to marry me?”

She half-regrets the words as they leave her mouth, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't even go a little stiff the way he usually does whenever the subject of their aborted engagement comes up. Instead he lets his fingers graze her neck, then carefully tilts her head toward him and brushes his lips against hers. For a moment she's too astonished to react, just lets him kiss her, and he pulls away.

“I'm sorry,” he's apologizing again, and she never wants to hear the words come out of his mouth again. “I shouldn't—”

“No, Sam,” she catches his hand in hers, laces their fingers together, searches out his eyes with hers. “It's okay.”

“You don't... are you sure?” his eyes are wide, anxious, but she can see something else there, too. Desire, and an expression that's so close to the one she used to catch him with before, waking up in the morning to him lying beside her in their bed, propped up on one elbow, just watching her. She bites her lip, nods. “I know it's weird, but... I do love you,” he says, voice hoarse.

She's not going to cry. Not now. “I love you too.”

This time, she kisses him first, letting her eyes close, and enjoying the familiar feel of his hands rediscovering her body, the soft insistence of his tongue against hers, the sweetness of his breath. Neither of them notice when Dean steals quietly back into the apartment and edges silently into his room.

*

“So how's Sam?” Lauren asks, lacing her fingers behind her head on the pillow.

The great thing about Lauren, apart from the fact that she's a really fantastic lay, is that she's just about the only woman he's ever met who doesn't object to his smoking in bed. Sometimes she'll even take a drag off his cigarette, and that usually leads to a second go-round, but right now they're both still spent and sweaty, and he's enjoying watching the way her breasts move up and down with each breath.

“You're seriously asking about my kid brother right now?” he's a little annoyed, because the whole reason he's here —apart from the fantastic sex— is precisely so that he won't have to think about Sam, or the fact that Sam is starting to recover just fine and probably won't really need him around after a while. And maybe also the fact that he's seriously starting to feel like a third wheel who's really good at doing the dishes. Lauren has her own place, sans roommates, which is also a nice bonus, and a bed big enough to fit them both without getting cramped, which is more than he can say for his bunk at Sam and Jess' place. He's just grateful Lauren isn't the type to buy pink sheets.

She laughs a bit. “When else am I supposed to ask? It's not like we ever see each other except for sex. Would you have liked me to ask while I was still riding you, hot-shot?” she turns over onto her stomach, traces a fingernail along his hip, and he shudders a bit.

“Fuck no. Okay, you made your point. You could always call and ask, you know. He could even answer you himself.”

“I guess, but it's a little weird. Besides, this way you talk to me about something more than how fucking awesome I am in bed. Which I'm not complaining about, but sometimes a girl likes some conversation, you know?”

He sits up a bit, tugging on the sheet. He's not exactly modest by any stretch of the imagination, but it's never been his habit to just sit there buck-naked after showing a girl a good time. Actually, this is probably the first girl since Cassie that he's stuck around for afterward. Generally he either hits the shower or the road pretty much right away. Cassie was a cuddler, but Lauren is anything but. In fact, he can't figure out what she wants out of him, and it freaks him the hell out whenever he lets himself think about it too long.

“You never answered my question. How is he? Brady said he took a fall last weekend and hit his head. Is he okay?”

Dean takes a drag off his cigarette, blows the smoke off to the side. “Oh, yeah. Scared the crap out of us, but he's a tough little shit. Well, not so little anymore. He's got a hard head. Didn't addle his brains —not any more than they already are, anyway. What?” he asks, as she snorts with laughter.

“Oh my God, you are so transparent,” she jabs him in the ribs. “All this tough guy I'm-totally-blase-and-in-control act. You're not fooling anyone, you know. Do Sam and Jess know what a giant softball marshmallow you are?”

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes, smiles around his cigarette. “No they don't, and I will thank you not to go spreading such vicious lies about me.”

“Lies, huh? Like that's the worst gossip I could come up with,” she reaches out, plucks the cigarette from his hand with her thumb and forefinger, takes a puff, then pulls him in for a kiss, breathing the smoke back into his mouth, stubbing the cigarette out in the ash tray by her bed. It's hotter than it has any right to be, and in spite of himself he feels heat coiling in his abdomen, a flicker of renewed interest. “I could tell them you're several inches shorter than you really are, you know.”

He chokes a bit, coughs out his mouthful of smoke. “You wouldn't.”

“How would you know?” she points out reasonably, shifting in order to sit on his thighs, one hand drifting perilously close to making him completely lose track of the conversation. “It's not like you have any idea what I'm like outside of bed.”

“I, uh, like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character,” he manages an approximation of an appreciative leer, eyes raking up and down her body, and he reaches up to fondle one of her breasts. It's a little soon for a second go-round, but apparently his dick didn't get that memo, and she laughs at him.

“You're really cute when you're flustered,” she says, and then her hand is on him, stroking and pulling, the contact just barely enough to keep him going. “Just like Sam. You stammer just the same way. Not that I ever managed to get him to do anything like this. He's a one-woman man, your brother, like a golden retriever.”

And that's the whole problem right there, isn't it? “Can we please not talk about Sam while, uh, while you're doing that?” the request comes out a little strangled, because damn if she isn't about to make his brain leak right out through his ears, the movement all stroke-pull-twist, and he lets his head thunk back against the headboard, trying not to lose what little self-control he’s got left.

“Are you sure?” she keeps up the motion, leans forward so that he can feel the heat from her body against his, murmurs into his ear. “Because I get the feeling that as long as I keep doing this that I can talk about anything I want to. How's that for kinky? I can keep asking after your baby brother, and you're going to let me.”

“Jesus!”

“Your leg okay?” her tone shifts subtly away from the mocking, teasing note she had a moment ago.

“It's fine... fuck!”

“You sure? We could stop...” she breathes, chuckling, and that's enough. He pushes against her, flips her over onto her back, enjoying the giggle that escapes her lips. “Or not.”

And with that, he sets about very determinedly to making her forget that she ever brought Sam up at all.

*

Jess is up to her ears in the first papers of the term. They're all five-page opinion pieces, but she's starting to think that maybe freshmen shouldn't be allowed to have opinions, ever again. For one thing, she thinks nastily as she scrawls another note in a margin, opinions ought at least to be researched and properly documented. Sometimes she wonders how these idiots ever graduated high school, let alone got into Stanford.

It doesn't help, of course, that she can't really focus on her work. Her thoughts keep drifting back to Sam, who wasn't even awake when she left this morning. She didn't try to wake him —he's not sleeping well or enough these days, kept up either with pain or nightmares or both— but she's starting to regret that now. Dean's been quiet since their last emergency visit to the hospital, or more likely since his disastrous conversation with Sam about what it is exactly that their family does.

“I want to tell you,” Sam had said to her, “but I have to figure out some stuff first. It's not just about me. But I will, I promise.”

He'd kissed her, then and it hadn't seemed like such a big deal, but now all she can think is that it's been two years of secrets and that nothing much has changed, even now that everything's different. It's so easy to let herself believe that Sam's still the shy, sweet guy she fell for, but every now and then he'll do or say something that brings home just how much the accident has really changed him. He doesn't remember any of their inside jokes, and some of the tiny gestures that used to mean so much to her appear to be little more than muscle memory. He still has some of the same tics and nervous habits as before, still has the same smile, but all it does is emphasize just how different things are, and sometimes she just wants to scream and hit something.

There's a knock at the door. “Am I interrupting?” Brady's slouched in the doorway, leaning against the frame, grinning lazily. As usual, he's dressed in casually elegant clothes than also manage to look as though he's spent the night in them. He probably has, she thinks with something that feels oddly like disappointment.

She waves a hand at him. “Yes, but at this point I welcome any and all interruptions. Shouldn't you be in class?”

He shrugs, drapes himself languidly in the chair normally reserved for students, and hooks a knee over one arm of the chair. “Class is overrated. That prof could seriously put the makers of Ambien out of business if he just recorded his lectures and sold them for ten bucks a pop.” He perks up, grinning, and she can't help but notice the humour doesn't reach his eyes. “I may be onto something there. I should bring a digital recorder to class. I could make a fortune, provided I can stay awake long enough to edit the final product.”

Jess leans back in her seat and stretches out her arms, feeling her spine pop in a very satisfying way. “You're incorrigible,” she smiles.

“So how goes the newfound domestic bliss?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. I spent all day with Sam yesterday, and it was all Jess this and Jess that, and practically 'Jess walks on water.' Nauseating. It was like when I first introduced the two of you all over again. The boy's besotted. So I figure that you're not exactly discouraging this.”

She shrugs. “I don't know. I can't figure out if it's real, or if he's just trying to make me happy somehow.”

“I don't see what the problem is,” he kicks one foot, reminding her of a fidgety toddler. “He wants it, you want it...” he waves vaguely. “So, you know. Dayenu!”

“Are you drunk?”

“Not yet, my sexy little law-clerk in the making,” he flashes his teeth at her again in one of those mirthless smiles that appear to be his trademark these days. Not for the first time she wonders just what the hell happened to the dedicated med student she made friends with during freshman year. “I plan on getting that way before it's dark out, though.”

She puts down her pen, shakes her head. Outside she can see students lounging on the campus grounds, enjoying the fall weather, books and papers and backpacks strewed about the ground like oddly-coloured leaves.

“Brady...”

“Don't worry,” he interrupts. “I'm not quite so irresponsible as to show up drunk to your place. I like to think I'm a better friend than that.”

“That's not what I was going to say.”

“But you were thinking it,” he waggles a finger at her, and she blushes, because she was thinking exactly that. “Don't worry, it's fine. I'm a charming and devilishly handsome reprobate, but a reprobate nonetheless, I know it. But Sam deserves better than that, and so do you. I have six whole other days in the week to get wasted, you know.”

“You don't have to,” she tries, but he waves her off with a self-deprecating smirk.

“Sam thinks he can save me too, I think. It's a little heartbreaking, really. He's having to re-learn the same lesson. At least you're not fooling yourself anymore.”

She sighs, stares out the window at the people on the lawn. “You know we're always here to help, right? If you ever decide you want—”

“I get it,” he interrupts, sitting up straight, and suddenly all his earlier nonchalance is gone. His eyes bore right through her, and it takes all her self-control not to recoil in her seat. “I do get it, and thanks and all that, but I don’t need your pity. You don’t know anything about me, or my life, and you’ve got no business interfering with how I want to live it.”

Jess jerks her head once in acknowledgement. Brady’s a friend, but they’ve never been close, and it’s not like she’s in a position to judge him.

The bitter smile is back, and he swings himself out of his seat with an ease that belies his height. “You’re a good person, Jess. It’s why I thought you and Sam would hit it off. But that doesn’t give you a free pass to meddle where it’s not needed.” He pauses in the doorway, turns and leans forward slightly to lend emphasis to his words. “I don’t want to be saved. Not by you, and definitely not by Sam.”

Chapter 12

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Yes [pleae, Wednesdays..and if there are any weeks with 2 Wednesdays that would be good too!

Well, I'd consider it a minimum. I'd update at least on Wednesdays, and if the muse won't shut up, I'd try for more updates. But at least this way it would ensure I'd update more regularly. :)

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