Fic: "and it won't go, in case you don't know"
Title: "and it won't go, in case you don't know"
Author: fannishliss
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#18)
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: no pairing.
Word count: ~750.
Spoilers: s1
Notes/Disclaimers: This series of stories, ficlets and drabbles featuring the Impala and the Women of Supernatural are being posted as part of the 42 Days of Metallicar, hosted by alias_chick . This is a work of transformative fiction and is not for profit. This ficlet is from Sam's pov as he mulls over the events of "Nightmare" (1.14) and considers in passing the character of Alice Miller, Max's stepmom.
Sometimes, Sam feigns sleep in the Impala, just to make it easier on Dean.
When Sam is awake, Dean seems to feel the need to keep up a running commentary. He plays music that he thinks Sam should learn to appreciate. He surreptitiously watches Sam constantly, out of the corner of his eye - a habit far too lifelong and ingrained for a mere three years’ absence to break - and though Sam knows Dean still watches when he thinks Sam’s asleep, at least Sam doesn’t have to be quite so aware of it when he stills and breathes evenly, slumped against the passenger window.
After they pull away from Saginaw, Michigan, there’s no joy in the Impala. Mighty Sammy has struck out. The skull splitting pain of a vision might be endurable, as long as Sam believes there’s a chance he can help someone. This time, there was no one left to save - not the men (real monsters, and Sam knows monsters), and not the boy, driven mad by his mistreatment and the demon-spawned power to take revenge.
Just Mrs. Miller, Max’s step-mother. Sam remembered, feeling ill, how easily she’d taken them for men of the cloth - how she claimed the support of the church was so important at times like these - how she’d cried at the end, that she had no one left. How very different her secret had been from Mrs. Robinson’s - Cassie’s dad had killed in self-defense, probably even saved a few lives down the road - but Mrs. Miller had turned a blind eye to her husband’s crimes, even when his brother joined in - and to Sam, she was as culpable in their deaths as they themselves were. Sam frankly saw Max as the victim - lashing out with powers no one should be given, under the strain of beatings that had never, ever, relented.
Sam had never had a mother - raised by a father too terrified for his family to be anything less than exacting - loved and cared for by a brother only four years older than himself, muddling along the best he could for the both of them - left for weeks at a time with rough, if softhearted, bachelor Hunters. Motherlessness, to Sam, was both the only thing he knew, and one thing he blamed for the wreck of his life.
Now, after this fiasco of a Hunt, Sam realized all he’d escaped. Sure, their family myth had elevated Mary to the status of Saint or Angel - but at least Dean remembered her. She had been real, once. She had loved them. Maybe somewhere, she loved them still.
Sam knew John had gone dancing with the devil, taking his boys with him on a never-ending hunt. But as bad as it had been sometimes - Dean badly wounded, John drowning despair at nearby bars, or simply gone for days, with a more and more desperate Dean left in charge -the fights - that last enraged ultimatum -- Sam had always known they loved him - that his safety was their first priority. If anything, Dean’s protectiveness and John’s unceasing defensive preparations were a big part of what drove Sam away. To feel safe - normal - without always fearing that his life would be purchased at the cost of his brother’s - without constant vigilance, runes and guns and salt and esoteric lore.
Still, sometimes, Sam could let it all go. Just for an instant, as he slipped down into slumber, Sam could fully let the deep breath out. His churning worries would fall to ripples and sink down quiet.
The Impala was the cradle that had rocked him since he’d been carefully bundled into the back seat that night so long ago, since his brother’s traumatized silence at last gave way to timid lullabies. Sometimes even now, when Dean thought Sam was out for the count, Sam would hear the dusky high tenor Dean would never own up to sweetly singing along: “There’s a feeling I get, when I look to the west, And my spirit is crying for leaving....”
Sometimes, Sam fell asleep against the window, rocked by the Impala, as his brother carefully guided her through the night.
Author: fannishliss
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#18)
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: no pairing.
Word count: ~750.
Spoilers: s1
Notes/Disclaimers: This series of stories, ficlets and drabbles featuring the Impala and the Women of Supernatural are being posted as part of the 42 Days of Metallicar, hosted by alias_chick . This is a work of transformative fiction and is not for profit. This ficlet is from Sam's pov as he mulls over the events of "Nightmare" (1.14) and considers in passing the character of Alice Miller, Max's stepmom.
Sometimes, Sam feigns sleep in the Impala, just to make it easier on Dean.
When Sam is awake, Dean seems to feel the need to keep up a running commentary. He plays music that he thinks Sam should learn to appreciate. He surreptitiously watches Sam constantly, out of the corner of his eye - a habit far too lifelong and ingrained for a mere three years’ absence to break - and though Sam knows Dean still watches when he thinks Sam’s asleep, at least Sam doesn’t have to be quite so aware of it when he stills and breathes evenly, slumped against the passenger window.
After they pull away from Saginaw, Michigan, there’s no joy in the Impala. Mighty Sammy has struck out. The skull splitting pain of a vision might be endurable, as long as Sam believes there’s a chance he can help someone. This time, there was no one left to save - not the men (real monsters, and Sam knows monsters), and not the boy, driven mad by his mistreatment and the demon-spawned power to take revenge.
Just Mrs. Miller, Max’s step-mother. Sam remembered, feeling ill, how easily she’d taken them for men of the cloth - how she claimed the support of the church was so important at times like these - how she’d cried at the end, that she had no one left. How very different her secret had been from Mrs. Robinson’s - Cassie’s dad had killed in self-defense, probably even saved a few lives down the road - but Mrs. Miller had turned a blind eye to her husband’s crimes, even when his brother joined in - and to Sam, she was as culpable in their deaths as they themselves were. Sam frankly saw Max as the victim - lashing out with powers no one should be given, under the strain of beatings that had never, ever, relented.
Sam had never had a mother - raised by a father too terrified for his family to be anything less than exacting - loved and cared for by a brother only four years older than himself, muddling along the best he could for the both of them - left for weeks at a time with rough, if softhearted, bachelor Hunters. Motherlessness, to Sam, was both the only thing he knew, and one thing he blamed for the wreck of his life.
Now, after this fiasco of a Hunt, Sam realized all he’d escaped. Sure, their family myth had elevated Mary to the status of Saint or Angel - but at least Dean remembered her. She had been real, once. She had loved them. Maybe somewhere, she loved them still.
Sam knew John had gone dancing with the devil, taking his boys with him on a never-ending hunt. But as bad as it had been sometimes - Dean badly wounded, John drowning despair at nearby bars, or simply gone for days, with a more and more desperate Dean left in charge -the fights - that last enraged ultimatum -- Sam had always known they loved him - that his safety was their first priority. If anything, Dean’s protectiveness and John’s unceasing defensive preparations were a big part of what drove Sam away. To feel safe - normal - without always fearing that his life would be purchased at the cost of his brother’s - without constant vigilance, runes and guns and salt and esoteric lore.
Still, sometimes, Sam could let it all go. Just for an instant, as he slipped down into slumber, Sam could fully let the deep breath out. His churning worries would fall to ripples and sink down quiet.
The Impala was the cradle that had rocked him since he’d been carefully bundled into the back seat that night so long ago, since his brother’s traumatized silence at last gave way to timid lullabies. Sometimes even now, when Dean thought Sam was out for the count, Sam would hear the dusky high tenor Dean would never own up to sweetly singing along: “There’s a feeling I get, when I look to the west, And my spirit is crying for leaving....”
Sometimes, Sam fell asleep against the window, rocked by the Impala, as his brother carefully guided her through the night.