FIC: Paint It Black (1/1)

[nilchance]

Title: Paint It Black
Author: nilchance
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters herein are used without permission. No infringement intended, no profit made, no lawsuit preferred.
Summary: AU. Gen. Continuation of Gimme Shelter. Sam has some questions.
A/N: Beta services still provided by the incomparable eponin10, without whom this would be a cluttered mess. That said, any remaining mistakes are all me.



The witching hour crawled by as Missouri sat in her kitchen, holding on tight to the cup of tea she wasn't drinking. She could hear her house shifting around in time with Sam's restless sleep. He'd taken her bed, since she'd stripped her spare room barren again. After countless rounds of shopping at second-hand stores to clothe and keep the boy, Sam's life had been collected into one suitcase and a duffel bag. Sam had stood by and watched her pack everything up, as quiet as he'd been since Bobby's call changed everything.

He'd been quiet when she called for a plane ticket, too. When Missouri had closed up things at his school, Sam had stayed home. Sam, whose questions about nothing in particular had eaten up more than a few hours of her time, didn't ask her for one explanation. Now, when it mattered most, Sam let those questions brew in the silence between them.

It'd be easier if the boy was angry. Missouri didn't even know what Bobby had told him in their brief conversation, if Sam knew how deep her deception ran.

She owed him an explanation, but every time she started, they turned to excuses on her tongue. Missouri didn't barter in excuses. She'd fucked up hard, and the boy deserved better than some half-ass story about a future that could've been. Visions were more like watercolors than carved stone, lines bleeding into each other and fading into nothing in her hands. In the end, she couldn't explain why she'd kept John from his son. Only that John needed both of his boys, both, or-

Only darkness down that path, and the bitter stench of sulfur. She couldn't find answers there, no more than she could find Dean when John had asked. That still nagged at her, an ache like old joints in the rain.

The house creaked softly, a familiar song. Missouri felt her fingers tighten on the rim of her mug as she heard Sam come down the hall, his bare feet nearly silent on the carpet. In a few years, he'd walk with the same predator's grace as his father. Blood told, even if she didn't like its stories.

Sam stopped in the doorway, watching her for a few long moments. When he didn't turn away, Missouri got up and started the stove under the teapot. It was too warm for hot chocolate, but damned if she wouldn't make him one last cup for ritual's sake. It had quieted his nightmares before. Maybe it would hold them back for a while once he was gone.

"Missouri?" Sam asked finally.

"Yeah, baby." Missouri opened the cabinet above the stove and took down the chocolate mix. There was still half a box left. She couldn't stand the stuff, herself. "Dreams?"

"I had a question."

Her hand stilled above the mug. She swallowed. "Fair enough. What's your question?"

Sam bit his lip. "Is, um." Something trembled under the surface of his voice, rippling like motion under deep water. "Is he gonna like me?"

Missouri turned her head to look at Sam. "Bobby? Or Dean?"

"Dean," Sam said, like he wasn't sure what to do with the name. "Is Dean gonna like me?"

"That's a hard question." Mostly to occupy her hands, Missouri spooned out the mix into Sam's cup.

Once she would've had a quick answer. She didn't know what had changed: whether Dean had borne the last eight years like Sam, battered but whole, or if he'd broken as hard as his father. Bobby hadn't told her anything, only that Dean was alive. She'd spent enough time around hunters to know there was a long, hard stretch of road between alive and whole.

"He's your brother," Missouri said finally.

"What does that mean?" Frustrated, Sam knotted his fingers into fists. "Nobody told me about him until just now. I don't know him. He doesn't know-"

"All right." Missouri took the teapot off its burner and went to Sam, kneeling on the floor. Might not be easy to get up later, but that could be tolerated. Not this, not if she didn't curb Sam before he got started. "C'mere, boy."

"Where?" Sam sulked, but let her pull him up close. She could feel the cold sweat of a nightmare, clammy on his forehead, when she reached out to push his hair back behind his ear. "I'm not a little kid, Missouri."

"Honey, I buy your shoes. There's nothing little about you." When Sam didn't smile, Missouri sighed. "I saw your brother and you once. Back before your daddy lost you."

Sam looked at her from under his eyelashes. "You didn't tell me," he said, his voice quiet with betrayal.

"I know," Missouri murmured. "But I'm telling you now. You were just a baby. Little ball of energy, trying to get into everything at once. Dean wouldn't let you out of his sight. Followed you everywhere to keep an eye on you. Smiled when you smiled. Made you laugh. When you went down for a nap, he sat on my couch and he held you tight just to be sure where you were. Most kids that age, they'd be bored as hell, but not him with you."

Sam looked down at the floor, dark hair escaping to hide his face again. His sleep shirt had slid over the ball of his shoulder, where the burn scars showed like grasping pale fingers. She couldn't read his expression, but she saw the stubborn line of his jaw and the traitorous shine of his eyes. "Did he love me?" Sam asked, like the words were jerked out of him.

"He loves you. Very much."

The jut of Sam's jaw wobbled a little. He swallowed, fingers knotting in the hem of his shirt, then blurted, "I'm not going. You can't make me."

"Sam." Missouri leaned back to meet his eyes. Sam hadn't cried since he came, not for the nightmares or for the mothers he'd lost. He was welling up now. "Don't you want to meet your brother?"

Sam's chest hitched, once, until he swallowed back whatever wanted to come out. "No," Sam gritted out. "I don't. I don't. I hate him already."

"You're a lousy liar," Missouri said gently.

"I don't want to." Shoving himself away from her hands, Sam backed into the doorway. "Everybody'll die again. I don't want him to die."

When she started to reach for him, Sam pressed further back into the frame. Missouri lowered her hands, resting them on her knees. "It's been months, Sam. The demon hasn't come here, has it?"

Sam didn't answer. The look on his face froze her words in her throat.

Missouri sat hard on her kitchen floor. It took time to steady her voice. "When?"

His attention darted to the floor. Sam gripped his arms with both hands, tight, and shook his head.

"Goddamn it, boy, when?"

Sam flinched from her, nails putting half-moon dents in his arms. He was favoring his side a little, like he had when a soccer ball caught him in the ribs. He wasn't her son; he'd barely been hers at all. His voice was very small when he spoke, his eyes focused on her knees. "I'm not supposed to tell," he whispered. "Please don't ask me."

Slowly, Missouri reached out and caught hold of Sam's shirt. Sam stiffened, but didn't resist.

The bruises stained Sam from ribs to hip, red and dark as the mark of Cain. Missouri studied them until her eyes burned, then lowered the shirt and drew Sam into her arms. He shivered there, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.

Layers of wards ringed Bobby's yard, along with the protection provided by Bobby and his dogs. Blood had its own power; twelve years old or not, Dean could safeguard his brother better than a half-rate psychic. Sam would be safer there.

Her heart ached like betrayal.

"You're going to your brother, baby," she murmured, finger-combing his messy hair. "You're going home."