playinginsand | Summer of Sam

Summer of Sam

[ Summer of Sam: Ending B ]

Twenty minutes later, when he's washed his hands and put the kit away, Sam is standing in the bathroom again. Confident this time to complete his shave, since he'd threatened to tie Jo to the hotel bed and/or make her use the crutches in the car for the rest of the day - possibly tomorrow - maybe the next day if she didn't stay the hell on the bed at least until he'd finished putting their things to rights.

She's yelling at him, but only over the sound of the television and the water running over his razor. Got the books out, the notebooks, suggesting places to go, people to see. Things to check into. And maybe it's the afterglow talking, but it's the first time he's felt at all ready to address any of it.

"We're not going anywhere near Nebraska until it's been a week since I lied to your mom."

Well, there are still some things going unaddressed.

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Jo is cruel when she wants him to stop smirking.

If successful.

"Yeah," is coupled with the thought - he'll actually have to throw out the phones. His father's. His brother's. Trackable liabilities.

"All right," Sam says, getting to his feet and stretching. "I'll get started."

"You don't have to ditch them."

Because she couldn't stop herself, somehow.

She'd just been thinking out loud. About. That. Day.

Right.

He pauses, still standing by the bed, then shrugs. "I'll have to keep them turned off. Snap the sim cards to be safe."

The room is heavy, things he doesn't want to say. Whining. Moaning. Bitching. Same old complaints and woes and miseries.

They haven't changed. They aren't excuses.

"No point in keeping empty phones in the glovebox."

"You kept them long before now."

Dean and Sam kept John's phone, specifically.

"No one tried to track them before now."

Even Bobby knew to keep his distance.

Jo's expression twitched.

"You could let me deal with that."

She got a look. That might have been a smirk, amused. Maybe fond, too. Laid out and still bleeding and limping, ninety pounds soaking wet, she's offering to stand in front of him.

"I don't mean just her. And I'm not saying she doesn't scare me, but I've definitely faced worse."

She'd do it, too. Without blinking.

"You haven't brought it up before."

"Yes," he says, eyeing her again, one eyebrow lifted. "Because no-one-was-tracking-it-before."

He said that before, she might remember.

But he took a seat on the bed again, hand lifted, hesitating. He set it down near her leg. Not on the ankle he'd considered.

"If you want to see her... that's not an issue," Sam says quietly, looking at her. Not hiding. "I'm not telling you no. But getting followed, getting interrupted. That needs to not happen."

"Just because she's might track one of their cell's now doesn't mean she's going to show up at the door." It's a little sharper than she meant it.

She can't know. Can't be positive.

She looked at his hand. So close. But not.

"You could trust me to take care of this."

And moved. To nudge him with her toes.
Head tilted, looking at Sam's profile.

"I don't question you about Bobby."

Sam blinked at her. For the words, more than the touch.

Though the later has his hand moving, curling gently at her ankle, fingertips stroking her skin.

"I'm not questioning you and it's not about trust. But you don't know she won't show up. I know - and you know - Bobby won't."

Jo's glance fell to follow his hand.
Jo blinked, briefly. But stayed still.

There was no name for that sensation was there?
Or was it that she didn't want to know what it was?

"I've managed her for a long time, Sam. It's not like she's never figured out where I was at points before."

A twitch between his eyebrows, frown tugging at his mouth.

"Okay," is an exhale and just the faintest hint of exasperation. "Do you want her to find us?"

Jo twitched her ankle. "You know I don't."

She'd rather not listen to her mother's voice attempt to rip the paint off the walls inside her head about the truly idiotic things she's gotten herself up to. With a Winchester, of all people.

"Give me another day." It's a question without being one.
"I'll tell you tomorrow if we need to move and snap the chips."

"Jo," with his hand off her ankle, away from the twitching. With his eyes on hers and his head tilted in that why-are-you-making-this-difficult way.

"They're phones."

Jo doesn't notice it, but Sam might.

There's the flash of a frown when he pulls away.

But her gaze leveled. "Yes. And she's my mother."
The one Jo hadn't seen or heard of in months. For him.

Which he hadn't asked for. Demanded. Hinted at.

"I'm not telling you what to do about her."

"No, you aren't." She was failing ease. As she stared at him.
"I'm asking you not to change things because of her. Yet."

He frowns, words on the tip of his tongue. They're just phones. Dean's amulet against his chest, the ring on his finger. Nothing from John but what was given to Dean, but that was close enough.

They're just phones.

They're not.
But he can tell her they are.

And that hint of her frown that had his hand brushing her ankle. Though not touching anymore.

"All right. Fine."

Like it's just her mother. Just.

The only one of their parents still alive.

Jo looked away, nodding.
Relief filled in her chest.
She couldn't explain that either.

Or the small shiver at the touch she didn't expect.
That did make her look back to Sam a second later.
Warmth and then the air again. There and gone.

He touches, she scowls. He doesn't, she snaps. He does, she twitches. He doesn't, she frowns.

But that tiny brush, making her shiver, making her look at him and hold... he might not ever understand her.

He can keep trying.

Hand on her unbroken leg, curled at her ankle, warm and gentle.

For so many reasons, not the least for the parent still living.

She doubts she has to explain it.

It's not like she's going to see her mother.
Just like it's not the stipulation that matters.

Her expression became less severe. Softer.
Slightly grateful. "We should start with food."

It matters that he's not trying to deny her. It matters that she chooses this over home.

He might be smiling, if looked at very closely.

And nodding, too.

"You can order the new cards. Books, if you want them."

Because she is still confined to bedrest.

He's not even sorry.

"Sadist." Fondly.

At least smart enough not to push yet.

"I want fries. And they should still be pipping hot."
Beat. Smile-smirking bright. "Laptop. Please."

He smiles back. Mocking. Smirking bright and cheerful, like her favorite expression.

"Of course, Miss Harvelle."

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