Title: In Which Sam Can Lie to Everyone But Dean
Rating: R (or perhaps a hard PG-13)
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Sam/John (non!con)
Disclaimer: Please feed me. D:
Summary: "You can't rush something beautiful," Dean chided.
1992
"God, Sam, so fucking tight," John grunted, as he pushed into his son. "Feel so good around my fat dick." Sam clenched his fingers around the shaggy, green strands of the carpet, his teeth biting into the flesh of his mouth in a failing attempt to keep from crying out. He winced sharply as he bit through the healing cuts inside his cheek, left over from the last time. The last time John had—
"Dean…" he whimpered, his voice catching and cracking on the back of a withheld sob. John tightened his hold on those slim hips and quickened his thrusts.
"You want Dean, baby?" John hissed into his son's ear, stroking a hand down his spine. Sam turned his face from the biting stench of alcohol on his father's breath, suppressing a shuddering gag. "Wish it were him fucking you, right now?" Sam hiccupped in response. "Such a slut for it, aren't you? Well Dean's not here, is he? He's out making some money so we can feed your ungrateful little ass."
John dug his fingernails into the trembling, pliant flesh beneath him. "Bitch, bitch, bitch. That's all you do, Sammy, no matter how hard we work to just keep this family alive. Can't you stop being so fucking selfish just for once?"
"I can!" Sam blurted out through deep, stuttering breaths, wincing as the words ripped through his raw throat. "I'll be good, Daddy. I promise I'll be better. Please—"
John groaned as the fire of arousal began to spread deep into the pit of his stomach.
"That's right, Sammy, be a good boy. Tell me how it feels." Sam buried his cheek into the cheap carpet and looked through the flimsy curtains at the ethereal glow of the vacancy sign beyond the motel walls. John reached forward to grab Sam's hair in his unforgiving fist. "Tell me you fucking love it."
Sam continued to stare at the shining sign until his eyes grew blurry, as he swallowed back his tears and parted his dry lips.
"I love it."
2002
Jess had never tried to make a soufflé before in her life. But really, how hard could it be? Apparently, she found, harder than getting a near-perfect score on the SATs (which she had done, easy peasy). Jess looked down at her burnt, concave creation, crestfallen and slightly shocked.
"I don't understand," she whispered, awe and disappointment creeping into her voice. Sam rubbed soothing circles between her shoulders, shaking his head mournfully at the blackened mess.
"You can always just try again, Jess."
"No!" she wailed, "That's not how it works!" She paused to blow her nose into the corner of her apron. "It's just that I wanted to do something special for our anniversary, you know?" Sam gazed thoughtfully at the wilting concoction.
"Well, who's to say that it's not delicious?" Jess glared at him, gesturing wildly at the black smoke that rose menacingly from the puffy mass. Without a moment's hesitation, Sam pinched off a small, smoldering chunk from the top of the soufflé and popped it into his mouth.
"Mmmmmmmmmm," he managed to get out without grimacing, even as vestiges of the morsel lodged itself uncomfortably into the ridges of his teeth. "It's… really great, Jess."
Jess gave an exasperated laugh and threw her arms around Sam's neck.
"So it's not the worst thing in the world?" she asked dubiously, her smile pressing into his chest. Sam smoothed back her long, blonde hair with one hand and inconspicuously scraped at his tongue with the other.
"I love it."
2005
I don't need him. That had become Sam's mantra. I don't need him, I swear. But that didn't change the fact that Sam had fallen asleep every night for the past four years clutching his phone to his chest, Dean's disconnected number still first on his speed dial, still committed to memory.
Life is better this way, he thought. But that didn't keep Sam from seeing Dean's face everywhere, swearing he could hear Dean's loud, raucous laugh over the cacophony of the smoky bars he frequented out of habit. Of all the normalcy he had ever hoped to gain, he had never wanted this. He had never wanted to lose Dean.
Lost in his train of thought, Sam jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket, upsetting a pile of books in front of him, and stared at the unknown number flashing across the screen.
"Hello?" he answered breathlessly.
"Sam?"
"…Bobby?" Sam's hopeful expression collapsed into a sullen frown, even at the sound of the wonderfully familiar voice.
"How you doing, kid? It's been a while. Holding up okay?"
"I've been doing alright." The lie felt dry on Sam's tongue. "What up?"
"Alright, you're probably busy with this college business, and I know you and your father don't really get along and all, but I need to know if he's contacted you recently." Sam furrowed his eyebrows.
"No, he hasn't. Why?"
"Dean called me, and he says your dad hasn't come back from a hunt. So if you hear anything—"
"I haven't spoken to either of them in years," Sam snapped, wincing at his own harsh, clipped tone. Over the line, Sam could hear the scritchscritch of Bobby scratching his beard, a heavy sigh gusting static through the receiver.
"Okay, then. Sorry to bother you, Sam."
"No, wait Bobby, I didn't mean to lash out at you." Sam rubbed his forehead and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "It's just that I left it all behind, you know? I left them behind. It's still kind of a sore spot for me."
"I understand. Don't you worry yourself," Bobby reassured, though a troubled frown still adorned his face on the other end of the line. "So… are you happy? Do you like the normal life?" he asked lightly. Sam faltered, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.
I don't need him. I don't need him, I swear.
"I love it."
2008
Sam had just finished showering, flannel pajama pants hanging from his hips and hair still dripping rivulets of water down his bare back, when Dean staggered back to the motel room, stifling a yelp as he stumbled over his duffel bag from its position on the floor. Dean swore under his breath and glared back towards the impeding object's general direction as his eyes adjusted to the hazy darkness that filled the room, the faint light of the impending dusk softly permeating through the cracked blinds.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked with raised eyebrows as he flipped on the lamp on the nightstand, the orange glow illuminating Dean's sheepish expression of surprise.
"Doing?" he scoffed unconvincingly, his left hand carefully buried in the folds of his jacket. "I'm not doing anything." Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"Why are you hiding your hand?" He reached towards Dean arm.
"I'm not hiding my hand!" Dean retaliated, jerking backwards away from Sam's touch.
"You're not hurt, are you?"
"No!"
"Well then what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. It's—well, I saw this flower lady closing up shop on my way back here—"
"A florist?"
"Yeah," Dean stammered, a pink flush spreading across the back of his neck. "A flower lady." Sam bit back a laugh at his childlike behavior.
"Dean, why are you blushing?"
"I'm not blushing," Dean crowed defensively as the apples of his cheeks stained a deep red. "I, well, Igotthisforyou." Lips twisted into an embarrassed pout, Dean withdrew his hand from inside his jacket and pressed a small flowerpot, brimming with bright-faced daisies, into Sam's right hand, gently enough as to not disturb their gossamery petals.
"Oh Dean…" Sam sucked in a breath.
"They're your favorite, right?" Dean asked softly, peeking up at his brother's face for a moment.
"Yes," Sam smiled, "always have been."
They had only been six and ten, when they planted their first garden in the backyard of their ramshackle house in rural Hicksville, New Jersey. Dean planted everything from zucchini, carrots, eggplant, to cucumbers ("Why was everything phallic?" he would wonder in the future), much to the praise of his father. And Sammy… Sammy had plucked daisies from the side of the dirt road and buried the broken stems in the soil, and had cried when they wouldn't grow.
"You can't rush something beautiful," Dean chided. The very next day, he came home from school with a packet of seeds.
"Like this, Sammy," he said, shaking two seeds from the packet into Sam's chubby, outstretched palms. "We can make them grow, together." And they did, until John crushed the young buds with the heel of his boot and slapped Dean across the face for wasting money, nevermind that his drinking cost the family a lot more than a 79 cent pack of seeds.
That night, Dean snuck out of bed and retrieved the least mangled bloom from the dirt, brushing it off gently with the tips of his fingers, and placed it on Sam's pillow for him to see when he woke up.
"This time, nobody will take it away from you." Dean met Sam's gaze hesitantly. "Do you—do you like it?"
Sam lunged forward to wrap one arm around Dean's waist, the other gently cradling the flowerpot, and smiled as he pressed a kiss below Dean's ear.
"I love it." And that was the truth.
End.