happy birthday to me...
Why wait for a present when you can write it yourself? Hehe.
Title: No One
Rating: PG
Category: Pre-series, gen
Word Count: 1,126
A/N: This is the first fic I've actually completed in a while; one of the firsts I've written in a while. Don't judge me. :p
A/N dos: Band of Horses is amazing. No One's Gonna Love You be the inspiration.
”No one’s gonna love you.” The words bounce around between Sam’s ears, dancing in his skull exactly the way Dean had intended them to. He’s been at Stanford for six weeks now, and is finally settling in, somewhat.
He’d been terrified when he left. All those years of defiance; of imagining the world outside Monsterville, and when he finally stepped in to it, he found himself scared to the marrow. Dean was right; he isn’t normal. None of them are. They don’t think the way the rest of the world does. Sam doesn’t get their jokes. He doesn’t understand their language, their motivations - their anything.
But it didn’t stop him. He hurdled himself into their world and damn them if they try to shove him back out, back in to his. He can be normal. He isn’t normal, but it isn’t a permanent state. Slowly, he’ll change, and he knows it. He already has, in some small ways. The day before he saw a girl, and the first thing that came to his mind wasn’t that she could be a shifter, or a victim of a shifter, or a victim or a monster of any kind, for that matter. She was an unnaturally pretty girl, with long, messy blond hair and striking green eyes.
Sam watches her now, feeling an acidic, oddly comfortable wrench in his gut. Nerves, he knows, and it’s odd to feel it staring at a girl and not a monster. It’s normal, he tells himself. It’s what normal guys feel when they stare at pretty girls.
”No one’s ever gonna love you,” Dean said, and Sam knows it’s true, knows the emotion choking Dean’s voice was pain and anger and bare-bones honesty, and it reverberates in his skull, sometimes words, sometimes wordless, just the sound of his voice, and despite the anger in it it comforts Sam to be there, because Dean’s voice isn’t beside him.
“Jessica.”
Sam jumps, the text book falling out of his lap. The murmur of the cafeteria had been so constant and unchanging it was like a lullaby, lulling him in to the recesses of his mind, and her voice rings through like a collision. She’s staring at him curiously, smiling but cautious.
“I - I didn’t mean to be - ah... Sam,” he finishes lamely, averting his eyes. He feels like a creep.
“Short for Samuel?” Her voice is as pretty as her face.
Sam shakes his head. “Just Sam.” Not Sammy.
Jessica pulls a chair out across from him and sets her plate down. There’s a half eaten burger and a few fries on it. “I saw you yesterday,” she says, and Sam dares a glance upward. “You didn’t have food then, either.”
“I like the people,” he tells her truthfully. “My room is too quiet. Can’t concentrate at all.”
Jessica laughs and picks up a handful of fries. In a matter of minutes Sam is comfortable, and the conversation is easy. She’s funny in an effortless way, and she seems to find him at least mildly amusing.
A bell rings across the campus some time later, the old church bell tower sounding the hour. Somehow, and Sam honestly has no idea how, they have a date arranged for the following afternoon. Jessica has to meet a friend to study now and Sam has to go wonder how the hell he wound up with a date and he’s a little too blindsided to mind too much that she’s walking away, the bottom of her sundress bouncing around her thighs.
”No one’s gonna love you,” Dean said, two inches from Sam’s face, his hands in fists by his sides as he struggled not to throw a punch. It’s four-o-clock and Sam has to get back to his room, get started on the paper Professor Fuckface threw on them yesterday morning. He has to get a good chunk of it done now because he has a date tomorrow, and he doesn’t want to be thinking of anything but Jessica tomorrow, because she’s normal and maybe she can help him be normal, and she’s so effortlessly everything that maybe he can absorb some of it, and maybe everything can stop being so damn difficult.
Her voice is soft and it competes with Dean’s, and it’s been six weeks since Sam has had a fresh sample of his brother’s, and Jessica’s easy laugh rides over Dean’s angry, choking words. Neither Dean nor John believe Sam can be normal, and they’d laugh at the thought of Sam going on a date. Hell, Sam almost wants to laugh, too.
He’s almost back to the dorms, the early evening air heavy and thick. It’s been six weeks of struggle; of waking up without Dean near him, of not being cramped in the Impala, of not being drowned in the thundering cassette tapes blaring out of the radio. Six weeks of twelve words from Dean eating at his insides, and all Sam wants is to have both worlds, because no one is going to love him here in this one. They can’t - they can’t love a lie. Maybe Sam will eventually be normal, but he can’t erase the past, can’t unbreak the things inside him that his world broke.
”No one’s gonna love you,” Dean said, his fists clenched. Sam stood his ground despite the urge to move back, even in the seconds where Dean was coming forward, all that anger rushing forward, and suddenly Sam found himself enveloped so tightly he could barely breathe and they both stumbled backward with the force of it. ”No one’s gonna love you more than I do, Sammy. No one.”
The room is the way Sam left it. It‘s the same room he’s slept in for six weeks, the longest he’s ever stayed in one place, he thinks. Dean isn’t there, and he never will be. Sam goes to the closet, realizes how absolutely normal it is to stress over something as stupid as what he’s going to wear tomorrow when he meets Jessica at the bar downtown for happy hour.
Sam doesn’t know what’s going to come of tomorrow. Maybe she won’t like him after all. Maybe he won’t like her. Maybe he won’t ever find a girl to pass the time with. He doesn’t know if he’ll fall in love; never really thought too much about it, even though it’s a standard facet in normality.
Dean’s voice bounces around between Sam’s ears as he moves about the room, finally settles down at the desk. The anger and honesty reverberates, but it’s become a comfort, because Sam knows no one is ever gonna love him. Not as much as Dean does.
Title: No One
Rating: PG
Category: Pre-series, gen
Word Count: 1,126
A/N: This is the first fic I've actually completed in a while; one of the firsts I've written in a while. Don't judge me. :p
A/N dos: Band of Horses is amazing. No One's Gonna Love You be the inspiration.
”No one’s gonna love you.” The words bounce around between Sam’s ears, dancing in his skull exactly the way Dean had intended them to. He’s been at Stanford for six weeks now, and is finally settling in, somewhat.
He’d been terrified when he left. All those years of defiance; of imagining the world outside Monsterville, and when he finally stepped in to it, he found himself scared to the marrow. Dean was right; he isn’t normal. None of them are. They don’t think the way the rest of the world does. Sam doesn’t get their jokes. He doesn’t understand their language, their motivations - their anything.
But it didn’t stop him. He hurdled himself into their world and damn them if they try to shove him back out, back in to his. He can be normal. He isn’t normal, but it isn’t a permanent state. Slowly, he’ll change, and he knows it. He already has, in some small ways. The day before he saw a girl, and the first thing that came to his mind wasn’t that she could be a shifter, or a victim of a shifter, or a victim or a monster of any kind, for that matter. She was an unnaturally pretty girl, with long, messy blond hair and striking green eyes.
Sam watches her now, feeling an acidic, oddly comfortable wrench in his gut. Nerves, he knows, and it’s odd to feel it staring at a girl and not a monster. It’s normal, he tells himself. It’s what normal guys feel when they stare at pretty girls.
”No one’s ever gonna love you,” Dean said, and Sam knows it’s true, knows the emotion choking Dean’s voice was pain and anger and bare-bones honesty, and it reverberates in his skull, sometimes words, sometimes wordless, just the sound of his voice, and despite the anger in it it comforts Sam to be there, because Dean’s voice isn’t beside him.
“Jessica.”
Sam jumps, the text book falling out of his lap. The murmur of the cafeteria had been so constant and unchanging it was like a lullaby, lulling him in to the recesses of his mind, and her voice rings through like a collision. She’s staring at him curiously, smiling but cautious.
“I - I didn’t mean to be - ah... Sam,” he finishes lamely, averting his eyes. He feels like a creep.
“Short for Samuel?” Her voice is as pretty as her face.
Sam shakes his head. “Just Sam.” Not Sammy.
Jessica pulls a chair out across from him and sets her plate down. There’s a half eaten burger and a few fries on it. “I saw you yesterday,” she says, and Sam dares a glance upward. “You didn’t have food then, either.”
“I like the people,” he tells her truthfully. “My room is too quiet. Can’t concentrate at all.”
Jessica laughs and picks up a handful of fries. In a matter of minutes Sam is comfortable, and the conversation is easy. She’s funny in an effortless way, and she seems to find him at least mildly amusing.
A bell rings across the campus some time later, the old church bell tower sounding the hour. Somehow, and Sam honestly has no idea how, they have a date arranged for the following afternoon. Jessica has to meet a friend to study now and Sam has to go wonder how the hell he wound up with a date and he’s a little too blindsided to mind too much that she’s walking away, the bottom of her sundress bouncing around her thighs.
”No one’s gonna love you,” Dean said, two inches from Sam’s face, his hands in fists by his sides as he struggled not to throw a punch. It’s four-o-clock and Sam has to get back to his room, get started on the paper Professor Fuckface threw on them yesterday morning. He has to get a good chunk of it done now because he has a date tomorrow, and he doesn’t want to be thinking of anything but Jessica tomorrow, because she’s normal and maybe she can help him be normal, and she’s so effortlessly everything that maybe he can absorb some of it, and maybe everything can stop being so damn difficult.
Her voice is soft and it competes with Dean’s, and it’s been six weeks since Sam has had a fresh sample of his brother’s, and Jessica’s easy laugh rides over Dean’s angry, choking words. Neither Dean nor John believe Sam can be normal, and they’d laugh at the thought of Sam going on a date. Hell, Sam almost wants to laugh, too.
He’s almost back to the dorms, the early evening air heavy and thick. It’s been six weeks of struggle; of waking up without Dean near him, of not being cramped in the Impala, of not being drowned in the thundering cassette tapes blaring out of the radio. Six weeks of twelve words from Dean eating at his insides, and all Sam wants is to have both worlds, because no one is going to love him here in this one. They can’t - they can’t love a lie. Maybe Sam will eventually be normal, but he can’t erase the past, can’t unbreak the things inside him that his world broke.
”No one’s gonna love you,” Dean said, his fists clenched. Sam stood his ground despite the urge to move back, even in the seconds where Dean was coming forward, all that anger rushing forward, and suddenly Sam found himself enveloped so tightly he could barely breathe and they both stumbled backward with the force of it. ”No one’s gonna love you more than I do, Sammy. No one.”
The room is the way Sam left it. It‘s the same room he’s slept in for six weeks, the longest he’s ever stayed in one place, he thinks. Dean isn’t there, and he never will be. Sam goes to the closet, realizes how absolutely normal it is to stress over something as stupid as what he’s going to wear tomorrow when he meets Jessica at the bar downtown for happy hour.
Sam doesn’t know what’s going to come of tomorrow. Maybe she won’t like him after all. Maybe he won’t like her. Maybe he won’t ever find a girl to pass the time with. He doesn’t know if he’ll fall in love; never really thought too much about it, even though it’s a standard facet in normality.
Dean’s voice bounces around between Sam’s ears as he moves about the room, finally settles down at the desk. The anger and honesty reverberates, but it’s become a comfort, because Sam knows no one is ever gonna love him. Not as much as Dean does.