rivers_bend

I just realized that in the confusion of my life this autumn, I never posted this here. And so, from snowy, wintery England, I give you Sam and Dean Winchester in the form of the remix I did for kamikazeremix this year.


Title: I will be your Samson (the Golden Autumn Leaves remix)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Spoilers: spoilers for 3:11 (Mystery Spot)
Original Story: Five Times Sam had his Hair Pulled Back by girlguidejones
Summary: Five times Sam remembers.



The suit
Sam has grown four inches in as many months, and his knees hurt and his hips hurt and his wrists hurt, which just doesn't seem fair, because he has a lot he needs to do with his hands lately between school and this hunt they're on—Dad thinks they're going to need about a hundred million silver bullets apparently. And now just to add to the fun that's been his day, Sam's been sent to the thrift store to find himself a new suit to replace the one that barely comes to the top of his socks, never mind his ankles.

It's a Saturday so the place is mobbed, and there's a kid over by the toys who screams like he's having his arm ripped off every time he finds something he likes. Sam's waiting for the noise to fade into the general hubbub, but for now it takes him by surprise and makes him turn every time. He never would have spotted the perfect present for Dean, though, if it weren't for the screaming, so Sam ends up forgiving the kid in the end.

At first he doesn't recognize it, just knows that the flash of green and brown is familiar, but then he sees a glimpse of orange and his brain supplies Ninja Turtles. Sam's feet are carrying him down the aisle before he even knows he means to go. The stuffed animal is above the screamer's head, and the kid is conveniently distracted by a fire truck so Sam can grab the toy and go before the boy decides he needs it for himself.

The toy is scuffed almost bald on one edge of the shell, but it doesn't smell, and it's mostly pretty clean, and Sam is sure that it looks just like the one Dean had when they were little. They'd both loved the cartoon, but Dean had been crazy about Michelangelo, shouting Cowabunga! whenever Dad was out of earshot—it drove Dad crazy—and talking all the time about how cool it would be if Dad let them get some nunchucks. Sam doesn't remember when Dean got the stuffed Michelangelo, but he knows it disappeared for a while and the next time Sam saw it there was a pink ribbon tied around the turtle's left wrist. Then sometime after that it disappeared for good, like almost everything they own does eventually.

Dean's gonna be eighteen in three days, and they don't really do birthday presents, and Dean probably couldn't care less about a stupid turtle anyway. But it's only a nickle, so Sam takes it up to the register with the suit he finds.

He wraps it in the recycled flower-print paper bag the thrift store lady gave him, and shyly hands it over as they're going to bed the night of Dean's birthday.

"Hey," Dean says softly. "What's this?"

"Nothing. Just, happy birthday," Sam answers, climbing under the blankets.

He peeks out at Dean pulling the bag open, pulling the covers closer over his face when Dean frowns into it. But then Dean's face melts into a smile as he pulls Michelangelo out of the wrapping.

"Dude!" Dean says. "Cowabunga!"


The First Aid Kit
The bathroom in their new apartment is huge, almost as big as the kitchen, so Jess decides she'll cut Sam's hair in there—easier cleanup, and then he can see what she's doing—even though they haven't finished unpacking yet. She's done the left side and with her fingers tangled in the hair on top, asks him to turn so she can do the front. As he obeys, he catches sight of a roll of gauze spilling out of the first aid kit on the counter.

Suddenly he can feel blood sticky in his eyes, smell the iron tang of it, the bite of alcohol and something fetid, and Sam has to go. Get out. He doesn't say a word to Jess, just pulls away from her hold and runs, dodging through the boxes in the living room, not even stopping to grab his keys on his way out the front door. He ends up at the bar four blocks away, and drinks so much that he doesn't notice anyone staring at his asymmetrical hairdo, and the next day he has no idea how he got home the night before.

Jess doesn't say anything, just brings him water and coffee and some tylenol when he finally wakes up, asks if he wants anything to eat when he makes it out of bed. Sam wants to explain, but there's nothing he can tell her.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"D'you want me to finish that haircut in the kitchen?" she answers.

The Shaving Cream
Sam is dripping on the bathmat, groping blindly for his towel because he can't tear his eyes away from his brother standing naked in front of the mirror, smoothing shaving cream over his cheeks. The smell of menthol hits him, sending blood to stiffen his cock, taking him back to sloppy blowjobs in the Miami heat.

"Don't," Sam says as Dean lifts the razor. "I want beard-burn on my thighs."

Dean laughs and raises an eyebrow at Sam's reflection, but he lowers the razor. "And what makes you think you're getting a blowjob?"

Skin still wet and with his hair sending rivulets down his back, Sam takes Dean's hips and turns his ass to the vanity, sinking to his knees on the tiles. "Because fair is fair," he answers.

The After-School Monster
Sam still doesn't understand how he ended up getting left with the gaggle of five- and six-year-olds while Dean is off interviewing parents. That's completely backwards and just wrong. Dean would somehow have them all organized, hanging on his every word, but Sam is just trying to keep the little boy with brown hair from eating paste, and the girl with the braids from stabbing the boy in the green shirt with scissors, even though they are blunt and he's pretty sure green-shirt deserves it. Distracted by that, he doesn't see the kid sneaking up behind him with a tube of KrazyGlue. (And, really? Who the hell keeps KrazyGlue in an after-school room filled with kindergartners?)

It turns out the only way to get a whole tube of glue out of your hair is to shave your head.

Which Sam is not happy about. At all. Until he catches the looks Dean's trying really hard not to give him as he works the clippers through the stubble left by the knife he used to cut out the worst of the glue. The looks that have nothing to do with pity, or with the amusement Dean's not trying to keep off his face even a little. The looks that say Dean's thinking about Sam fucking his face, looming above him, watching with no hair to hide his eyes as Dean's mouth stretches wide around his cock.

Sam likes that look. He likes it even better when Dean's done shaving his head and things play out just as he imagined.

Every Day Forever
It's been more than twenty-three years since Sam lost his brother and half a year (half his life) to a trickster, but he still can't watch Dean dig in their garden without seeing him lying at the bottom of a grave, dead, until suddenly he wasn't. His heart pounds and his breath catches and then the sun will hit the grey in Dean's hair, or glint off his eyeglasses, and Sam remembers that Dean is still here, still his, despite everything. Despite tricksters and monsters and gods and demons. Despite hell and way too many apocalypses (there should so not be a plural for that word) and evil they didn't have words for, they are here. Sam and Dean Winchester, with a house, and a bed no one ever slept in before them, and an herb garden out back.

And okay, maybe they've only been here one month out of three since they bought the place, but Sam's been getting better at finding cases within a day's drive, getting better at talking Dean into letting some of their network of younger, less tired hunters take things on. Today, for instance, they're going on six weeks since the last time Dean's feet got so itchy Sam couldn't convince him they needed to sleep in their own bed. They have a life here, and they're both alive to live it.

Sam doesn't even mind the heart-catching moments with Dean in the garden. Memories can hurt, but Sam is willing to take every opportunity to be grateful for what he has.