~~~ CHAPTER ELEVEN ~~~
So…Sam had fucking smiled. Dean grinned at the thought. It didn't mean anything was fixed—not by a long shot—but it was something. Dean was still thinking about it an hour later as he waited in the kitchen for the casserole to finish. He was slightly behind schedule—it was now quarter past two—because he had needed to take a shower after wrestling with the weeds and dirt out in the garden. And Sam was currently a no-show for lunch. Apparently, that 'something' wasn't quite enough.
He'd really hoped some of his brother's walls might start coming down after that rare show of emotion. Sam had a positive connection to the garden; Dean was sure of it. If he could somehow get the younger man out there, he might open up some, maybe even start talking.
The timer on the stove sounded, jolting Dean out of his ponderings. He turned the oven off before grabbing a potholder from a nearby drawer and pulling the macaroni and tuna casserole out. His stomach growled as he set the dish down on the counter beside their awaiting plates.
If someone had told Dean a week ago that he'd be cooking meals like some domesticated housewife in the near future, he would have given them a thorough beat down. (Not that he had anything against a woman who could cook a good meal, mind you.) But Dean survived on testosterone and adrenaline…not measuring out ingredients and washing dishes.
Resigned to the fact that Sam wanted to be alone, Dean began to scoop the macaroni out onto their plates. He wasn't sure what his brother would want to drink, so he took out a bottle of water and a beer for Sam, and a beer for himself. He loaded up the serving tray with just Sam's things and made his way over to the stairs only to come to a sudden halt when he looked up and saw his brother sitting on the top step.
They stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments…Sam caught, Dean just not knowing what to say.
"Oh…uh, were you coming down?"
Sam remained still, long enough that Dean had to shift the tray in his hands before his arm got too tired.
"Sam?" Dean arched his brow higher trying to get Sam to do something. He glanced down that the serving of casserole and then back up to his brother. "Dude, this stuff tastes a lot better more hot than cold. And the cheese, well it sorta-"
But Sam was starting to move. Dean stopped talking as the younger man lifted a hand to the railing and stood up; it was fifty-fifty on which way he was going to go. Dean grinned in triumph when Sam's right foot moved forward and landed on the next step down.
"Good decision."
Dean moved away from the stairs and made a detour to the kitchen to collect his food and drink. With a last minute change of plan, he headed down the hallway to the three-season porch instead of the breakfast table.
When Sam hesitated to follow, Dean looked over his shoulder. His brother was hovering in the hallway, chewing on his lower lip.
"C'mon. You could use a little sunlight. And it's safe. I've put lines down out here, too."
Dean gave Sam an encouraging smile. It was like trying to guide a skittish colt out of the barn for the first time. With some gentle coaxing, they'd get there.
He watched Sam consider things. His brother tilted his head to look around Dean, eyes searching for the salt lines. When he saw them, he flashed a glance at Dean and then he stepped out into the porch.
"See, it's not so bad." Dean grinned. "Now get eating. You gotta get some meat on those bones."
Much to Dean's surprise, Sam stuck around to help with the cleaning afterwards. And when Dean took too long trying to figure out the dishwasher, his brother came to his rescue. He stepped up beside him (almost close enough for them to touch) and pointed out where the soap went and which buttons needed to be pushed. Dean didn't try to force a conversation; they worked quietly side by side, the kitchen slowly becoming spotless once again.
When they finished and all that was left was the sound of the dishwasher moving through its cycles, Sam disappeared upstairs again without a word. A few minutes later, Dean heard the shower on the second floor running. For some reason that made him think about laundry. Admittedly, his clothes were in severe need of washing. If he dug, he might find another clean shirt. Then there was Sam. He guessed Bobby had taken care of the younger man's clothes. Dean would have to check on that, too.
The sun had begun its steady descent in the sky by the time Dean went to his room to retrieve his clothing duffel. When he got down to the laundry room, he dumped his clothes out onto the floor and sifted through them. Now that he had a few bucks to his name, he ought to start replacing some things. Most of his shirts were threadbare; his jeans—however comfortable they were—had too many holes in them. And almost all of them had blood stains on them…not all of it from other things either; some of it was his own. There was a story behind every drop.
After he got the first load going, Dean wandered aimlessly through the house; it was readily apparent that Sam wasn't going to come back downstairs. Dean found himself starting to get the itch to go for a long drive, but he wasn't sure if Sam would be okay if he was left on his own. All Dean needed was for his brother to go into panic mode when no one was around to see him through it.
He could call Ellen, see how Ash was coming along on things, but it had been less than twenty-four hours. Ash was good, but he wasn't that good. Dean would give him another day before he started bugging him.
Maybe he could give Sam another go.
The next thing Dean knew, he was back upstairs standing outside the attic door. He gave a soft knock against the wood before he opened it and started up the stairs. Sam was sitting on the loveseat, bent over the coffee table, bangs keeping most of his face hidden. His eyes flicked up to Dean, but they went right back down to the small piece of purple paper which he held in his hands.
Dean stood at the top of the stairs and watched as Sam's long fingers handled the paper with expert precision, folding it again and again into peaks and valleys. Several minutes passed and the once flat piece of paper was beginning to take shape. It was another flower. Sam tucked one of the ends inside before giving it a once-over and then he set it down on the table.
Sam looked up from his work when he was done. He glanced from Dean to the empty spot on the loveseat beside him and Dean didn't have to second guess what that meant; he joined his brother on the couch.
Dean reached over to the table and, before picking up a sheet of paper, asked, "Can I?"
Sam watched him; he nodded his head.
Dean could swear he saw something of a challenge in his brother's too expressive eyes as he pulled a blue slip of paper out of the pile. What, does Sam actually think I would try to compete with what he just did? Ha! No friggin' way.
"Flowers are a little outta my league," Dean said as he leaned over the table in much the same way as Sam had and began to fold, "but I can do this..."
He creased the paper down the middle to create a centerline and then began to fold in the edges. A minute later, Dean had a less-than-glamorous paper airplane in his hand. He threw it into the air where it immediately banked a hard left, did a half-loop, and then landed at Sam's feet.
"They sorta suck, huh?" Dean commented as Sam picked it up and studied it.
At his words, Sam's eyes came up and he frowned at Dean. He shook his head 'no' as he looked over the folds. He pressed his teeth into his lip as he did and Dean knew Sam was thinking. And then the younger man added two more folds to it before launching it into the air again. The paper plane sailed smoothly to the other end of the room.
Dean watched it in child-like awe, mouth slightly open. "How the hell'd you do that? I've been making those all my life. You're tellin' me I was two folds away from a perfect plane?"
Sam's eyes were lit up when he looked away from where the plane had landed on the floor and back to Dean. The corner of his mouth twitched.
C'mon, Sammy, smile. You can do it.
But the younger man suppressed it; Dean tried not to show his upset over it.
"So, you and Mom, did she teach you how to make these?" Dean reached over and picked up the delicate flower from the table. "I saw a basket of 'em in her room, and then you've got those." He pointed to the couple dozen flowers hanging in the window.
Sam looked down; it took him a moment to respond, but he nodded. It had been a year, but Dean could understand how hard it must've hit Sam. Samuel sure as hell hadn't made the last twelve months or so easy, at least not from what Bobby had said.
"D'you think you can you teach me?"
Sam looked up and lifted an eyebrow at the request, but he picked up a bright yellow square of paper from the table and handed it to Dean. He took a second piece from the pile; this time, an orange one.
Dean looked on as Sam slowly began to make several folds. His brother stopped and looked up at him. Sam was waiting for him to do the same.
"Okay, I think I got it."
Dean glanced over at the beginnings of Sam's flower and then attempted to duplicate the intricate folds. When he was done, Sam flipped the paper over and made a couple more folds. Dean copied him.
Things got harder after that. The folds started to get smaller, more complicated. Dean tried to keep up with Sam, but his fingers were just too big and clumsy; he wondered how Sam and his large hands could create something so delicate. The closest Dean ever had to come to fine movements like that was stitching up torn skin and, even then, he wasn't that precise; he just did what he had to do.
By the time they were done, Sam had another beautiful blossom in his hands and Dean's looked more like a... Well—he lifted his brow as he looked at it—not a flower.
Dean cracked a smile…and then he burst out laughing. "Dude, it looks like a freaking duck!"
Sam looked at him, confusion crossing over his features. His brows drew together as he looked down at the less-than-flowerly creation in Dean's hand.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean snorted out through his laughter, "tell me the truth. It doesn't even come close to what you did."
And there it was.
Dean did it; he'd gotten his brother to smile…dimples and all.
Afterwards, Sam fell back into his normal self, but the air felt lighter somehow. Dean kicked back on the loveseat and allowed himself to get comfortable.
"Can you make things besides flowers?" he asked, genuinely interested.
Sam was collecting the papers on the table and was just standing up to put them away on the shelf. He nodded to Dean.
Dean watched as Sam put the supplies away and then crossed the room where he crouched down in front of his nightstand. He shuffled some things around before pulling something out and coming back to Dean with it. He set it down on the table.
It was a bird. The thing was nearly a foot tall and impressed Dean even more than the flowers had. It was made up of hundreds of small pieces of paper of varying colors: yellow, white, red, orange, several shades of green, turquoise, and black. And it stood on two spindly legs made from paper-wrapped wire.
"You did that?" Dean asked in amazement.
Sam nodded, pride showing on his face.
"That's awesome." Dean smiled as he carefully picked up the bird and looked at it from all sides. "This must've taken forever to make," he said as he set it back down.
He was happy his brother had found something to do to keep himself occupied, but it didn't compare to actually having a life outside of this house. Sam deserved so much more than folding paper and reading dusty, old books. Dean was going to do his best to make sure that changed.
"Hey, you want pizza for dinner tonight?" he asked out of the blue.
Sam didn't even think before he gave an enthusiastic nod.
Something was missing.
They were sitting in the living room, Sam on the couch, Dean in the chair closest to the back door. The pizza had just gotten there…two actually: one large with sun-dried tomatoes, feta cheese, and broccoli (that was Sam's), and one large with sausage, pepperoni, and onions for Dean.
Dean frowned as he tried to pick out what was wrong. Beer…check. Napkins…check. Plates…check. And then he noticed it.
There was no television.
"Dude, don't you ever get bored without a TV around?"
Sam had just taken a large bite out of his slice of pizza; a string of mozzarella stretched out between his mouth and the slice. He shrugged as he got control of the wayward cheese.
Dean was half through with his first slice of pizza. He set it down on his plate and reached over to pick his beer up from the table. After a long swig, he put it back down and took another bite.
With a mouth full of food, he continued. "Seriously? What do you ever do for fun around here? I mean," he swallowed, "are you tellin' me you've never watched any movies?"
Again the younger man shrugged.
"As soon as I get a chance, I'm ordering a TV and a stack of DVDs. You'll be a new man after I'm done with you. Chuck Norris, dude. And Stallone. You gotta see the Rocky movies," he said with a grin.
His brother's expression remained mostly neutral as he polished off his first slice and picked up another. Sam had no idea who Dean was even talking about.
Things were worse than Dean had thought. Sam didn't have a clue what was out there.
Life.
The next afternoon found Dean back down in the panic room. He was picking up the mess he'd left on the floor the other day. After he was done, he spent some time playing with the safe until he knew what the actual combination was. (It would certainly be helpful to know in the future.) The journals he placed back inside without reading again; he was still absorbing things from the first time around. The only thing he didn't put away was a couple hundred dollars. At some point he was going to need cash.
When he stepped out of the room close to an hour later, he found Sam sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the basement. His brother had a large book opened in his lap and was studying it intently. He either didn't hear Dean or just didn't bother to look up.
The hunter watched him for a while before clearing his throat. Sam looked up at that. When he made to get up, Dean stopped him.
"No. Don't. Stick around for a while. Like I said, this place is yours, too," Dean said as he moved behind the desk and sat down in the leather office chair; the material creaked under his weight. "There're some things I wanted to check out on the computer before going back up anyway. Take your time."
Dean hadn't really been planning on working on the computer, but he also didn't want Sam to feel like he was being rushed off.
As he waited for the machine to boot up, Dean rocked back in the seat and thought about Sam. This was only Dean's fourth day at the house and Sam seemed to be making leaps and bounds. He wondered if the kid was as bad as Bobby had made him out to be. Sure, they'd had a couple of set-backs (courtesy of Dean and his big mouth), but they seemed to be moving along decent enough. Dean figured, as long as he watched what he said, Sam would come around in no time flat.
Dean didn't end up finding much on the computer. He spent more time looking at the pictures and trying to connect the baby/toddler/young boy/pre-teen/teen in them to the young man sitting at the other end of the room.
Later that night, Bobby called. He was just checking in, making sure the house was still standing. Dean informed him things were going well, but didn't elaborate. It was like an odd case of doctor/patient confidentiality and he didn't want to break Sam's trust. When Bobby mentioned that he had an open-ended ticket and could come back as soon as Saturday (three days from now), Dean told him to take his time. If this whole thing was going to work, the less interference there was, the better.
The man reluctantly agreed; Dean could tell he wanted to hear more, but Dean continued to insist that everything was okay.
Before he packed it in for the night, Dean called Ellen. Ash still hadn't found anything.
...tbc...
Author's Note: Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...
