Mockingbird [6/?]
Slow chapter this time... Sorry 'bout that.
Apparently, I'm also being a bit of an idiot today, what with the linkage and such. I'm profoundly sorry, really. *facepalm*
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~1,360
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. Implied.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: Sam decides self-therapy is the way to go.
Part I
Part V
Mockingbird
Part VI
+++
If that looking glass gets broke
+++
It wasn’t until Sam had showered and crawled into bed until it hit John with the force of a Mack truck. His son, his goddamn son.
He was going to Hell for sure.
+++
To say the next morning was awkward was an understatement. John didn’t know how to react to Sam’s tentative smile, didn’t know where to put his hands so they didn’t just grab him by the shirt and never let go.
Sam noticed, of course. John could see more and more storm clouds gather on his face with every second that passed. By the time they stumbled into a diner for breakfast, his tall son was already stalking around, glowering at the menu in a way that John was surprised the plastic-covered paper didn’t burst into flames.
John ended up ordering for both of them because apparently, not talking was still not behind them. He figured - hoped - Sam was going to sulk for a while and then they’d just move on and never acknowledge that yesterday had even existed.
Sam’s plans, apparently, were more along the lines of giving John a heart attack as he put his cup of coffee down and announced:
“I want to go to Mom’s grave.”
“No.”
The reply was immediate, like there was only one possible answer to the question. Sam scowled. Something dark flitted across his eyes.
He pushed his chair back, stood, shrugging it off more nonchalantly than he felt, “Okay. You can do whatever. I’ll just go on my own.”
He was gone before John could even blink. John cursed, shelling out a few crumpled bills for the startled waitress, promising himself that the next chance he got, he was getting a leash for the damn kid.
+++
Sam wasn’t particularly hard to find, perched on a bench at a nearby bus stop like a very tall and very pissed off statue. He gave the approaching truck a death glare but slid off his seat anyway.
John met his stare with one of his own as he leaned over to push the passenger door open.
“Fuck it,” he said, “You’re not going all that way on your own. Get in.”
His son nodded solemnly as he fastened his seatbelt, but he couldn’t quite hide the small, triumphant smile breaking the serious expression on his face.
+++
The gravestone was simple, barren patch of grass where Sam couldn’t help thinking flowers should be. He cast a look back to the truck, where his father was glaring holes into the dashboard, and sat down.
“Hi, Mom,” he said softly, tucking his legs underneath himself.
It was quiet where he was sitting, leaves rustling in distant trees and the odd bird here and there. Sam had long since ceased to believe that graveyards were peaceful, he’d spent too much time with restless spirits for that one, but this was probably as close to eternal rest as things got.
The headache was back, pretty much a constant companion these days, needles in the back of his mind. He sighed. He tried to remember what it was like to be angry, what that burning hate that kept him alive after Jessica had felt like, but he couldn’t. He was tired, that was all.
He eyed the headstone again, the silent marble, waiting for an epiphany.
“I tried, you know. I tried.”
It didn’t help. He could almost see Dean next to him, shaking his head in disbelief at Sam’s feeble attempt to talk to a stone, and suddenly he didn’t know anymore whether he wanted to scream and rage and set fire to the world or if he just wanted to lie down, right there amidst all the other corpses and never get up again.
Dean. Goddamn Dean, Dean his brother that had spent his entire life watching Sam’s back, the brother Sam had spent his entire life watching his back, and damn it all if he’d just managed to get something right for once.
He gave the engraved letters another long, withering stare, but it wasn’t like shaking a magic billiard ball. Just cool marble and distant trees and birds and nothing.
“I pretty much failed, didn’t I?”
He shook his head, rubbed his palms across wet cheeks.
“Fuck.”
+++
It was a good hour later when Sam finally returned to the car, knees and ass dusty. If his father noticed the red eyes and blotchy cheeks - and of course he did - he didn’t comment on them, instead starting the truck with a maybe little more force than was necessary.
“So, where to now?”
“Food,” was all Sam said. He slid down in his seat with his arms crossed in front of his chest, clouds on his face. Looking like a broody teenager.
John let him. It wasn’t like he was doing any better.
+++
The town was small, and mostly dead, even if it was hardly after two. Most stores were closed for lunch and they hardly had to worry about being overheard as they marched crisply down the street - his father setting the speed.
“I just think-“
John gave him an incredibly deadly glare.
“No, Sam. We’re not going to Jim’s, and we are not going to Caleb’s. We are not even having this conversation.”
Sam groaned, rolled his eyes. He swerved around a small, elderly man and returned to his father’s side, hands raised.
“Look, Dad, we can-“
“John?”
Years of hunting had both men whirling around, arms already half-raised to deflect a blow, but there was only the old man standing there with his bags in his hands and a look of utter surprise on his face.
“John?” he repeated, took a step closer, “Is that really you?”
John didn’t say anything. He just stared.
The man took another step closer, looking like he might have hugged Sam’s father if his hands had been free.
“I...” His eyes were shimmering. “I thought you were dead.”
Sam cast a questioning look from one man to the other, from the old man who was staring at his father like he had just returned from the dead to his father who was pointedly not meeting the old man’s gaze.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
“I’m Sam,” he said, extending a hand, “John’s son.”
That just earned him a disbelieving stare of his own.
“Sammy?”
Sam frowned, blinked a few times.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
The stranger smiled, finally taking his hand in a tight, vice-like grip.
“Ah, yes, you wouldn’t remember me. My name’s Martin. Your mother’s uncle.”
“Oh,” Sam said. He’d only been vaguely aware of having actual relatives. He sure as Hell hadn’t thought he’d ever meet them, much less randomly in the street.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, sir.”
The man - his uncle - nodded, cast a scathing look his father’s way.
“It’s a pleasant surprise, Sammy. Albeit a bit unexpected. I didn’t figure I’d ever see you boys again, after none of the messages I left for you were answered.”
And Sam had just gone down the rabbit hole because Dad, as in his Dad John Winchester, was blushing.
“And how is Dean?”
Sam could feel his throat close up. Dad just jammed his hands into his pockets and looked away.
“It was a car accident a while back,” Sam said softly, nodding off the obligatory “I’m so sorry”.
“We’re coping,” he said because he couldn’t say they were okay and sound like he meant it.
They just stood for a moment, each staring at some crack in the sidewalk. Finally, Martin cleared his throat.
“Um, well, if you’re going to be in town for a while, would you like to come over for dinner sometime?”
Sam glanced over at his father, could see the panic forming in his eyes, could see him open his mouth in horror, and smiled.
“We’d love to.”
+++
Part VII
~
Feedback is greatly appreciated. :)
Apparently, I'm also being a bit of an idiot today, what with the linkage and such. I'm profoundly sorry, really. *facepalm*
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~1,360
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. Implied.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: Sam decides self-therapy is the way to go.
Part I
Part V
Mockingbird
Part VI
+++
If that looking glass gets broke
+++
It wasn’t until Sam had showered and crawled into bed until it hit John with the force of a Mack truck. His son, his goddamn son.
He was going to Hell for sure.
+++
To say the next morning was awkward was an understatement. John didn’t know how to react to Sam’s tentative smile, didn’t know where to put his hands so they didn’t just grab him by the shirt and never let go.
Sam noticed, of course. John could see more and more storm clouds gather on his face with every second that passed. By the time they stumbled into a diner for breakfast, his tall son was already stalking around, glowering at the menu in a way that John was surprised the plastic-covered paper didn’t burst into flames.
John ended up ordering for both of them because apparently, not talking was still not behind them. He figured - hoped - Sam was going to sulk for a while and then they’d just move on and never acknowledge that yesterday had even existed.
Sam’s plans, apparently, were more along the lines of giving John a heart attack as he put his cup of coffee down and announced:
“I want to go to Mom’s grave.”
“No.”
The reply was immediate, like there was only one possible answer to the question. Sam scowled. Something dark flitted across his eyes.
He pushed his chair back, stood, shrugging it off more nonchalantly than he felt, “Okay. You can do whatever. I’ll just go on my own.”
He was gone before John could even blink. John cursed, shelling out a few crumpled bills for the startled waitress, promising himself that the next chance he got, he was getting a leash for the damn kid.
+++
Sam wasn’t particularly hard to find, perched on a bench at a nearby bus stop like a very tall and very pissed off statue. He gave the approaching truck a death glare but slid off his seat anyway.
John met his stare with one of his own as he leaned over to push the passenger door open.
“Fuck it,” he said, “You’re not going all that way on your own. Get in.”
His son nodded solemnly as he fastened his seatbelt, but he couldn’t quite hide the small, triumphant smile breaking the serious expression on his face.
+++
The gravestone was simple, barren patch of grass where Sam couldn’t help thinking flowers should be. He cast a look back to the truck, where his father was glaring holes into the dashboard, and sat down.
“Hi, Mom,” he said softly, tucking his legs underneath himself.
It was quiet where he was sitting, leaves rustling in distant trees and the odd bird here and there. Sam had long since ceased to believe that graveyards were peaceful, he’d spent too much time with restless spirits for that one, but this was probably as close to eternal rest as things got.
The headache was back, pretty much a constant companion these days, needles in the back of his mind. He sighed. He tried to remember what it was like to be angry, what that burning hate that kept him alive after Jessica had felt like, but he couldn’t. He was tired, that was all.
He eyed the headstone again, the silent marble, waiting for an epiphany.
“I tried, you know. I tried.”
It didn’t help. He could almost see Dean next to him, shaking his head in disbelief at Sam’s feeble attempt to talk to a stone, and suddenly he didn’t know anymore whether he wanted to scream and rage and set fire to the world or if he just wanted to lie down, right there amidst all the other corpses and never get up again.
Dean. Goddamn Dean, Dean his brother that had spent his entire life watching Sam’s back, the brother Sam had spent his entire life watching his back, and damn it all if he’d just managed to get something right for once.
He gave the engraved letters another long, withering stare, but it wasn’t like shaking a magic billiard ball. Just cool marble and distant trees and birds and nothing.
“I pretty much failed, didn’t I?”
He shook his head, rubbed his palms across wet cheeks.
“Fuck.”
+++
It was a good hour later when Sam finally returned to the car, knees and ass dusty. If his father noticed the red eyes and blotchy cheeks - and of course he did - he didn’t comment on them, instead starting the truck with a maybe little more force than was necessary.
“So, where to now?”
“Food,” was all Sam said. He slid down in his seat with his arms crossed in front of his chest, clouds on his face. Looking like a broody teenager.
John let him. It wasn’t like he was doing any better.
+++
The town was small, and mostly dead, even if it was hardly after two. Most stores were closed for lunch and they hardly had to worry about being overheard as they marched crisply down the street - his father setting the speed.
“I just think-“
John gave him an incredibly deadly glare.
“No, Sam. We’re not going to Jim’s, and we are not going to Caleb’s. We are not even having this conversation.”
Sam groaned, rolled his eyes. He swerved around a small, elderly man and returned to his father’s side, hands raised.
“Look, Dad, we can-“
“John?”
Years of hunting had both men whirling around, arms already half-raised to deflect a blow, but there was only the old man standing there with his bags in his hands and a look of utter surprise on his face.
“John?” he repeated, took a step closer, “Is that really you?”
John didn’t say anything. He just stared.
The man took another step closer, looking like he might have hugged Sam’s father if his hands had been free.
“I...” His eyes were shimmering. “I thought you were dead.”
Sam cast a questioning look from one man to the other, from the old man who was staring at his father like he had just returned from the dead to his father who was pointedly not meeting the old man’s gaze.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
“I’m Sam,” he said, extending a hand, “John’s son.”
That just earned him a disbelieving stare of his own.
“Sammy?”
Sam frowned, blinked a few times.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
The stranger smiled, finally taking his hand in a tight, vice-like grip.
“Ah, yes, you wouldn’t remember me. My name’s Martin. Your mother’s uncle.”
“Oh,” Sam said. He’d only been vaguely aware of having actual relatives. He sure as Hell hadn’t thought he’d ever meet them, much less randomly in the street.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, sir.”
The man - his uncle - nodded, cast a scathing look his father’s way.
“It’s a pleasant surprise, Sammy. Albeit a bit unexpected. I didn’t figure I’d ever see you boys again, after none of the messages I left for you were answered.”
And Sam had just gone down the rabbit hole because Dad, as in his Dad John Winchester, was blushing.
“And how is Dean?”
Sam could feel his throat close up. Dad just jammed his hands into his pockets and looked away.
“It was a car accident a while back,” Sam said softly, nodding off the obligatory “I’m so sorry”.
“We’re coping,” he said because he couldn’t say they were okay and sound like he meant it.
They just stood for a moment, each staring at some crack in the sidewalk. Finally, Martin cleared his throat.
“Um, well, if you’re going to be in town for a while, would you like to come over for dinner sometime?”
Sam glanced over at his father, could see the panic forming in his eyes, could see him open his mouth in horror, and smiled.
“We’d love to.”
+++
Part VII
~
Feedback is greatly appreciated. :)