[Playing with Fire] 814.
Part 1...
"Okay. Okay okay okay--oh fuck me. SAM. Somebody--shit. Shitshitshit. OH COME ON, please--!"
Dad is lying supine across Sasha Colm's felled headstone. He is breathing. He is mostly focusing on breathing. But his fingers are working at the rope looped around his neck, and he is pulling, pulling it loose like a snake.
The rope. The rope--that's what the rope was for.
Sam trips on mulch and slick dew-wet leaves and grave dirt and spirit ash and scrambles toward Dad's rope.
Inverted Y. He can do this. Good strong knot. Doesn't need to pull him far--a certain point, and Dean can pull himself out.
This is provided he hasn't just burned to death first. Faster, Sam; faster.
Rope down. Dean up. Dean grabs Sam's bicep and Sam steps backward and with some variant on uncoordinated teamwork, they both collapse against Sasha Colm's headstone, on top of Dad.
It's 4:13am on a Thursday in November, and Sam Winchester is using grave dirt to smother the fire that came up with Dean. It feels too much like a burial to feel like a rescue.
Sam hardly knows what happened, but Dean is feeding the silence with a long string of pain-flushed shitshitshits, which seems about right.
--
Friday is spent in the burn unit of Mercy Medical Center. Sam is excused from school and from his composition, but he knows they're not going back anyway.
Nobody talks much. It has to do with throat burns; or feet shin thigh burns, or feeling disgustingly responsible for both.
--
Somerset Hills, New Jersey. January 24th. They forego actually lighting the birthday candles.
"It's -17 fucking degrees, Sam. Since apparently they haven't invented electricity in this part of New Jersey, we're using the fireplace, or we're freezing to death. Seriously, I don't see why you're so eager to buck the concept, Mr. Longjohns."
Yes he does. Three months and two skin grafts later, and Sam's pretty sure he does.
Dean juts his lip and rolls his eyes and he tramps over to the fireplace. He's a little stiff and a little awkward, but it's so cold Sam isn't sure he could legitimately perform any better. He works swagger into stagger and makes some show of flipping the Zippo through a string of acrobatics before he works himself low enough to start the fireplace running. Just watch me, Sam. That's a steel-tipped challenge.
And, It's not your fault, Sam. Unconvincing consolation.
--
Because Dad says it is. It is definitely his fault. He says whatever the fuck is going on, Sam better not take it with him when they're on a hunt. They're laying low, playing at normal, whatever--let it all blow out then. They're on a hunt, they're not family.
They are hunters, and they are a team.
"Hate me," says Dad, as though giving Sam the invitation makes everything official. "But we step out on a hunt, I don't need to know what the hell is under your skin. I need to know you're going to follow orders." And Dad doesn't mean 'be ready with the kerosene.' It's more: You're going to do your part. Your head's screwed toward salting, burning, and keeping us all alive. You're in, and you can be trusted.
But he's not, and he can't. He's never wished so badly that he was.
--
It's the off-season, but the Somerset Hills Tornadoes have some interest in another striker, if the can get their hands on one. You're smaller than they'd like but I told them you were stronger, and they said they'd see. Practice starts on Tuesday.
That's Dad. He's calling from a payphone, and then only because he needs to know Sam's shoe size. Cleats.
Cleats. Soccer. Concession.
Sam feels a little like throwing up. Somehow Dad only gives gifts that make the recipient feel like shit.
"Thank you," Sam says, and it takes everything he has to keep from saying, But. No. No, I--
Dad hangs up before he gets that far.
--
April 7th. They're still in Somerset Hills. Championship prelims, ten minute sudden death overtime. None of his family are in the bleachers, but Sam finds he almost prefers it like that.
"Clay?"
A maybe-responsive grunt. Typical.
"You get the ball, and I'll run. Straight up to the corner flag. Drag their defense with me. You take it straight down the middle and Dave'll be there on the six to tip it over the keeper, like he always is."
Dumbfounded silence. Sam Winchester, playing decoy?--is what the look in Clayton Everett's eyes is saying.
Sam turns back to the kickoff circle. One last thing: "You overshoot, and I swear to God I'll take you down myself."
Ten minutes. Sudden death. It's the closest Sam has to a comfort zone.
They're going to win this one.
"Okay. Okay okay okay--oh fuck me. SAM. Somebody--shit. Shitshitshit. OH COME ON, please--!"
Dad is lying supine across Sasha Colm's felled headstone. He is breathing. He is mostly focusing on breathing. But his fingers are working at the rope looped around his neck, and he is pulling, pulling it loose like a snake.
The rope. The rope--that's what the rope was for.
Sam trips on mulch and slick dew-wet leaves and grave dirt and spirit ash and scrambles toward Dad's rope.
Inverted Y. He can do this. Good strong knot. Doesn't need to pull him far--a certain point, and Dean can pull himself out.
This is provided he hasn't just burned to death first. Faster, Sam; faster.
Rope down. Dean up. Dean grabs Sam's bicep and Sam steps backward and with some variant on uncoordinated teamwork, they both collapse against Sasha Colm's headstone, on top of Dad.
It's 4:13am on a Thursday in November, and Sam Winchester is using grave dirt to smother the fire that came up with Dean. It feels too much like a burial to feel like a rescue.
Sam hardly knows what happened, but Dean is feeding the silence with a long string of pain-flushed shitshitshits, which seems about right.
--
Friday is spent in the burn unit of Mercy Medical Center. Sam is excused from school and from his composition, but he knows they're not going back anyway.
Nobody talks much. It has to do with throat burns; or feet shin thigh burns, or feeling disgustingly responsible for both.
--
Somerset Hills, New Jersey. January 24th. They forego actually lighting the birthday candles.
"It's -17 fucking degrees, Sam. Since apparently they haven't invented electricity in this part of New Jersey, we're using the fireplace, or we're freezing to death. Seriously, I don't see why you're so eager to buck the concept, Mr. Longjohns."
Yes he does. Three months and two skin grafts later, and Sam's pretty sure he does.
Dean juts his lip and rolls his eyes and he tramps over to the fireplace. He's a little stiff and a little awkward, but it's so cold Sam isn't sure he could legitimately perform any better. He works swagger into stagger and makes some show of flipping the Zippo through a string of acrobatics before he works himself low enough to start the fireplace running. Just watch me, Sam. That's a steel-tipped challenge.
And, It's not your fault, Sam. Unconvincing consolation.
--
Because Dad says it is. It is definitely his fault. He says whatever the fuck is going on, Sam better not take it with him when they're on a hunt. They're laying low, playing at normal, whatever--let it all blow out then. They're on a hunt, they're not family.
They are hunters, and they are a team.
"Hate me," says Dad, as though giving Sam the invitation makes everything official. "But we step out on a hunt, I don't need to know what the hell is under your skin. I need to know you're going to follow orders." And Dad doesn't mean 'be ready with the kerosene.' It's more: You're going to do your part. Your head's screwed toward salting, burning, and keeping us all alive. You're in, and you can be trusted.
But he's not, and he can't. He's never wished so badly that he was.
--
It's the off-season, but the Somerset Hills Tornadoes have some interest in another striker, if the can get their hands on one. You're smaller than they'd like but I told them you were stronger, and they said they'd see. Practice starts on Tuesday.
That's Dad. He's calling from a payphone, and then only because he needs to know Sam's shoe size. Cleats.
Cleats. Soccer. Concession.
Sam feels a little like throwing up. Somehow Dad only gives gifts that make the recipient feel like shit.
"Thank you," Sam says, and it takes everything he has to keep from saying, But. No. No, I--
Dad hangs up before he gets that far.
--
April 7th. They're still in Somerset Hills. Championship prelims, ten minute sudden death overtime. None of his family are in the bleachers, but Sam finds he almost prefers it like that.
"Clay?"
A maybe-responsive grunt. Typical.
"You get the ball, and I'll run. Straight up to the corner flag. Drag their defense with me. You take it straight down the middle and Dave'll be there on the six to tip it over the keeper, like he always is."
Dumbfounded silence. Sam Winchester, playing decoy?--is what the look in Clayton Everett's eyes is saying.
Sam turns back to the kickoff circle. One last thing: "You overshoot, and I swear to God I'll take you down myself."
Ten minutes. Sudden death. It's the closest Sam has to a comfort zone.
They're going to win this one.