Supernatural Fic: our little monsters
note: for enots. not exactly ten years later, lol, but later nonetheless. ♥
our little monsters
it feels like they’ve been driving for days. he keeps on missing all of their habits. supernatural. girl!sam/dean. pilot. 2380 words, pg.
-
It feels like they’ve been driving for days.
She hasn’t said much of anything; there are the usual quirks, please and mumbles of thank you because Sammy’s always been the politest out of the three of them - two, he corrects himself, because John really was only ever halfway with and around them.
They’ve left California behind, resting in road signs and rusty traffic lights. He’s trying to find them a job, something to lie about being on the right path because he’s worried and for now, he thinks they’re best with a couple distractions before they really go and look for their father.
He turns them into a small town tonight, the sun swaying warmly as it finishes disappearing. The car passes a couple of sidewalks, kids and parents, school buses still roaming around here and there. It’s getting colder, he reminds himself. Sammy’s head is pressed against the glass of the window, her eyes glass and her fingertips still stained in ashes.
“You think -”
Her voice faint and he looks up quickly, framed into worry as he pretends to mess with a couple tapes next to him. “What?”
“Nothing,” she finishes.
She was angry for a little while, ranting and raving about finding their father and punishment like she’s suddenly inherited it. It scares the hell out of him, he won’t lie, and he’s reading her grief like anything else, in between memories and the things he’s already seen.
He wants to help her.
He wants to help her so badly. But the problem extends a little beyond his reach for the moment; he couldn’t have left her at the apartment with the police and the fire trucks. It’s not the way he works. It’s not the way they work. He just hasn’t been with her and every waking moment makes him feel so damn guilty, not because he didn’t reach out to her but because she felt like she had to go.
“We should stop.”
And he almost gets a sure out of her. There’s a tense bout of restlessness and he listens to her shift in her seat, pasting his eyes to the road to keep giving her a little bit of privacy.
It’s driving him crazy though and he wants to kill the son-of-a-bitch. How many more families? What are they going to keep losing? All these things are rising again, surfacing only to keep him strained and occupied. He thinks of his father briefly, John more and more - they parted somewhere in between, absent because he had a job and John had a lead and these things were normal for the two of them ever since Sammy left them. But he’s gone now, really gone, and there’s nothing but a ghost, like always, for the scraps of their frustrations.
“You can’t blame yourself,” he says finally, his hands framing the wheel as they come to a short stop. “Okay? We’ll figure this out. But you can’t go and blame yourself.”
He waits for everything to drop, for to sort of imposed some tense reaction; she’s not sixteen anymore, but he wishes that she sort of was. He misses that, he misses her curiosity and the bouts of anger that she used to have, the sudden fire that made Sammy just Sammy. He wants to tell her too, but he doesn’t know how. These things seem so inappropriate now and he hates that he’s subjecting himself to the sensation of being a complete stranger.
“Is this how dad felt?”
It comes too fast, too soon, and he’s pulling the car into a lot. He’s not really hungry, but he’s trying to think about how he can get her to eat instead of inhale a couple more cups of coffee. He lets the question wash over him though, his mouth firm and tired. He shakes his head and forces himself to turn and look at her, watching her eyes hold his.
“I don’t know.”
She doesn’t believe him. “You were always closer to him.”
“I guess.” We don’t talk about those things, he wants to say to her; it’s spite and resentment, the very basic sense of association that he hides from her, from dad, because all Dean’s ever understood is how to keep putting his family back together again.
“I -”
But she doesn’t push this time - or the last time, he reminds himself - and his body, out of habit, is kinda tense and geared towards waiting for the spurts of anger that should be prone to. Instead, her shoulders drop and she’s looking towards the diner that is keeping them into the view.
“I should buy the paper,” she murmurs and the light from the open sign sighs across her knuckles as she presses them into the window.
He nods. “Okay.”
-
They’ve been here too many times.
The light from outside their room is dim, but peeking in through the window. She’s left the curtains open and, occasionally, he listens to her wander to the window, to the bed, to the bathroom and back to bed again. It’s almost a familiar routine and there are memories that he can’t give her, that belongs to other times, but his reaction is still the same. His mouth is tight and his eyes are open, alert as his fingers slip underneath his pillow. He takes his reassurances from the weight of his knife, under his head and close by. Just in case, he remembers, just in case.
She hasn’t moved for a few minutes and he imagines the way her legs sort of sway off to the side, wrinkling the sheets to knots like she used to do when they were kids. It’s nostalgic, but sometimes, sometimes these are the things that he has to keep to.
He hears her sigh, soft and warranted, and closes his eyes to try to picture her. Sammy likes to lie on her stomach. She clutches her pillow when she’s tense or she doesn’t sleep well or -
“You awake?” It kind of falls without warning and he feels a quick rise of heat stutter against his skin, embarrassed because he’s sort of let himself get caught.
There’s no answer for a moment, but he hears her sheets start to move. He turns around, just to see her, and catches her rising to sit up. She’s watching him and a tired smile filters itself across her mouth, disappearing as her head dips down to watch her hands.
He doesn’t do reassurances like other people, isn’t sure if he should to begin with, but he does sit up and mimic her stance, letting his elbows yawn across his knees. The carpet is cool under his feet, bare and soft against his skin. He wants to lean forward and touch her, but his hands stay motionless to his sides, his fingers glued to the sheets.
“Tell me about your classes.”
She barks a laugh and in the dark, he can see her mouth turning into the weird, little smile she used to do when they were kids. The wrinkles in the corner of her mouth were his favorite, an odd sort of quirk that he’s not supposed to have.
“Dean.”
“Really, Sammy,” he says, trying straight and all over again, “I want to hear - might as well catch up, you know.”
She shrugs. “They were okay.”
There’s a waver in her voice and it’s back to the things that he missed, the things that he can never completely understand. He’s wistful too because, if anything, he kinda wishes he could share those things with her. That he followed instead of staying loyal.
Your dad’s a good man, Caleb used to tell him, but sooner or later, son, these decisions have got to be your own.
It’s one of those things, he’s starting to think, that he didn’t miss, but he should’ve known. He should be in a better place than this. But Sammy distracts him with a soft cough, shifting and bringing her legs up to her chest. She looks smaller all of the sudden, smaller than he’d like to remember her - know her, he keeps telling himself.
“I don’t know. I mean - they were good and it was interesting. I had a teacher that I really liked, a lot I didn’t. It was nice to be in one place for a change, to keep friends and stuff.”
She’s almost wistful, as if the last couple days aren’t really real, and his hands start to tense, nervous and apologetic, because he can’t help but feel a little bit responsible for bringing her back into this.
“Dean?”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
Her mouth is starting to waver and he feels that pull inside of him, the slow burn rising and falling down the back of his throat. He swallows and keeps himself quiet, reaching for her. His hands wrap around her wrist and he tugs at her gently, urging her forward.
“C’mere.”
There’s a soft sigh, something shifting between them, as she shifts off her bed and into his. She’s resting close, one of her legs, tangling around his. Longer, he thinks, and she’s softer too. The position is awkward, but he doesn’t care, and he lets her press against him and into the crook of his arm. He can feel the tears again and his stomach sort of drops. But he’s doing the best he can and he lets himself touch her, just a little bit, sliding his fingers through the mess of her hair.
“I’m sorry,” her mouth moves against his neck, warm and wet, “I shouldn’t keep crying like this. We should be moving, right?”
“We’re okay.”
Maybe, he says it a little too quickly. Maybe, she doesn’t believe him. But she’s close and he’s okay with that, letting his hand talk where he can’t and hoping, just hoping that the moment is more than enough for now.
-
The morning comes earlier and they sort of leave their room, one corner wrinkled and the other feigning a sense of being untouched. She slept a little, he reminds himself. Just a little. He’s almost satisfied too, leaning against the car and picking at the bag he’s brought out from the last stop for gas.
They’ll make good time, he thinks, wherever they’ll end up today and the diner is looming in front of him again, watching him as he waits for Sammy. She’s inside, getting coffee, and probably smiling large to the waitress they had the night before, the one that said that she was real pretty as if Sammy is still very much that girl he met back in California.
He doesn’t think about that change though. It’s merely attributed to the song and dance of older and wiser, the things that they have to learn and the things that they do. He doesn’t love her any less, maybe he loves her more, but they aren’t really ready to start stepping into all their old habits again.
He can still miss her.
There’s a little ring and he looks up, watching as she comes out of the diner and clutching a cup of coffee like a lifeline. He smirks briefly, amused, and sticks to being happy that the little things haven’t changed. She’s wearing one of his shirts though, the cotton thin and stretched loosely against her throat. He worries a little because she’s still a skinny thing; long limbs and her jeans are little too loose for his liking.
But his hands are still warm from holding her there, murmuring into neck and telling her that it’s going to be fine, that he’s going to help her through all of this - it’s the things that he knows and that he’s glad that he knows because blindly, he’d fail her anyway.
“Coffee kick in?”
She shuffles in front of him, rubbing her eyes and snorting. “Shut up,” she mutters, but it’s as close to something normal that he gets.
Still amused, he thrusts the bag forward. The plastic is lazy over his fingers and it was just a couple odd bucks anyway from a poker game that he only spared a couple ones from.
“Here,” he watches her take it.
Her lips start to curl as her fingers peel back the bag. It’s open and she pulls the book out, cradling it against her palm. He likes watching her because it’s a reminder, old and younger, that the two of them are still the two of them and they’ll make their way back to being okay. He keeps his gaze on her fingers, the way they sorta sway over the words - it’s not like the book’s anything special, just something cheesy from the gas station’s corner, magazines and smut novels with a few gems here and there. I like mysteries, she used to say when they were younger and as she ate them up real fast.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, soft and amused.
He shrugs. “It keeps you off the radio,” he says instead and ruffles her hair, just to piss her off because, all and all, these moments kinda make him uncomfortable.
But she laughs, really laughs, for the first time. The sound is welcomed, of course, and he’s reminded too much of the days where they were left alone, at home, when there was a brief home, and he really could make her smile. Sam leans into him though, tucking herself into his shoulder and still sighing into his neck. Her eyes are closed and they’re quiet here.
Her voice is soft. “Didn’t have to.”
He smirks a little and is about say something crass, but keeps himself quiet. He indulges though and slides his fingers along the bridges of her shoulders, letting the pad of his thumb ache against the back of her neck every once in awhile. He presses a kiss to a small patch of her skin.
“Let’s go.”
It’s the end of that and she draws back, slipping a kiss to his jaw and then pushing him playfully out of the way so that she can get back into the car. Far from perfect, he thinks, and all of this is still unresolved and heavy-weighted.
But for now, Dean takes what he can get.
our little monsters
it feels like they’ve been driving for days. he keeps on missing all of their habits. supernatural. girl!sam/dean. pilot. 2380 words, pg.
-
It feels like they’ve been driving for days.
She hasn’t said much of anything; there are the usual quirks, please and mumbles of thank you because Sammy’s always been the politest out of the three of them - two, he corrects himself, because John really was only ever halfway with and around them.
They’ve left California behind, resting in road signs and rusty traffic lights. He’s trying to find them a job, something to lie about being on the right path because he’s worried and for now, he thinks they’re best with a couple distractions before they really go and look for their father.
He turns them into a small town tonight, the sun swaying warmly as it finishes disappearing. The car passes a couple of sidewalks, kids and parents, school buses still roaming around here and there. It’s getting colder, he reminds himself. Sammy’s head is pressed against the glass of the window, her eyes glass and her fingertips still stained in ashes.
“You think -”
Her voice faint and he looks up quickly, framed into worry as he pretends to mess with a couple tapes next to him. “What?”
“Nothing,” she finishes.
She was angry for a little while, ranting and raving about finding their father and punishment like she’s suddenly inherited it. It scares the hell out of him, he won’t lie, and he’s reading her grief like anything else, in between memories and the things he’s already seen.
He wants to help her.
He wants to help her so badly. But the problem extends a little beyond his reach for the moment; he couldn’t have left her at the apartment with the police and the fire trucks. It’s not the way he works. It’s not the way they work. He just hasn’t been with her and every waking moment makes him feel so damn guilty, not because he didn’t reach out to her but because she felt like she had to go.
“We should stop.”
And he almost gets a sure out of her. There’s a tense bout of restlessness and he listens to her shift in her seat, pasting his eyes to the road to keep giving her a little bit of privacy.
It’s driving him crazy though and he wants to kill the son-of-a-bitch. How many more families? What are they going to keep losing? All these things are rising again, surfacing only to keep him strained and occupied. He thinks of his father briefly, John more and more - they parted somewhere in between, absent because he had a job and John had a lead and these things were normal for the two of them ever since Sammy left them. But he’s gone now, really gone, and there’s nothing but a ghost, like always, for the scraps of their frustrations.
“You can’t blame yourself,” he says finally, his hands framing the wheel as they come to a short stop. “Okay? We’ll figure this out. But you can’t go and blame yourself.”
He waits for everything to drop, for to sort of imposed some tense reaction; she’s not sixteen anymore, but he wishes that she sort of was. He misses that, he misses her curiosity and the bouts of anger that she used to have, the sudden fire that made Sammy just Sammy. He wants to tell her too, but he doesn’t know how. These things seem so inappropriate now and he hates that he’s subjecting himself to the sensation of being a complete stranger.
“Is this how dad felt?”
It comes too fast, too soon, and he’s pulling the car into a lot. He’s not really hungry, but he’s trying to think about how he can get her to eat instead of inhale a couple more cups of coffee. He lets the question wash over him though, his mouth firm and tired. He shakes his head and forces himself to turn and look at her, watching her eyes hold his.
“I don’t know.”
She doesn’t believe him. “You were always closer to him.”
“I guess.” We don’t talk about those things, he wants to say to her; it’s spite and resentment, the very basic sense of association that he hides from her, from dad, because all Dean’s ever understood is how to keep putting his family back together again.
“I -”
But she doesn’t push this time - or the last time, he reminds himself - and his body, out of habit, is kinda tense and geared towards waiting for the spurts of anger that should be prone to. Instead, her shoulders drop and she’s looking towards the diner that is keeping them into the view.
“I should buy the paper,” she murmurs and the light from the open sign sighs across her knuckles as she presses them into the window.
He nods. “Okay.”
-
They’ve been here too many times.
The light from outside their room is dim, but peeking in through the window. She’s left the curtains open and, occasionally, he listens to her wander to the window, to the bed, to the bathroom and back to bed again. It’s almost a familiar routine and there are memories that he can’t give her, that belongs to other times, but his reaction is still the same. His mouth is tight and his eyes are open, alert as his fingers slip underneath his pillow. He takes his reassurances from the weight of his knife, under his head and close by. Just in case, he remembers, just in case.
She hasn’t moved for a few minutes and he imagines the way her legs sort of sway off to the side, wrinkling the sheets to knots like she used to do when they were kids. It’s nostalgic, but sometimes, sometimes these are the things that he has to keep to.
He hears her sigh, soft and warranted, and closes his eyes to try to picture her. Sammy likes to lie on her stomach. She clutches her pillow when she’s tense or she doesn’t sleep well or -
“You awake?” It kind of falls without warning and he feels a quick rise of heat stutter against his skin, embarrassed because he’s sort of let himself get caught.
There’s no answer for a moment, but he hears her sheets start to move. He turns around, just to see her, and catches her rising to sit up. She’s watching him and a tired smile filters itself across her mouth, disappearing as her head dips down to watch her hands.
He doesn’t do reassurances like other people, isn’t sure if he should to begin with, but he does sit up and mimic her stance, letting his elbows yawn across his knees. The carpet is cool under his feet, bare and soft against his skin. He wants to lean forward and touch her, but his hands stay motionless to his sides, his fingers glued to the sheets.
“Tell me about your classes.”
She barks a laugh and in the dark, he can see her mouth turning into the weird, little smile she used to do when they were kids. The wrinkles in the corner of her mouth were his favorite, an odd sort of quirk that he’s not supposed to have.
“Dean.”
“Really, Sammy,” he says, trying straight and all over again, “I want to hear - might as well catch up, you know.”
She shrugs. “They were okay.”
There’s a waver in her voice and it’s back to the things that he missed, the things that he can never completely understand. He’s wistful too because, if anything, he kinda wishes he could share those things with her. That he followed instead of staying loyal.
Your dad’s a good man, Caleb used to tell him, but sooner or later, son, these decisions have got to be your own.
It’s one of those things, he’s starting to think, that he didn’t miss, but he should’ve known. He should be in a better place than this. But Sammy distracts him with a soft cough, shifting and bringing her legs up to her chest. She looks smaller all of the sudden, smaller than he’d like to remember her - know her, he keeps telling himself.
“I don’t know. I mean - they were good and it was interesting. I had a teacher that I really liked, a lot I didn’t. It was nice to be in one place for a change, to keep friends and stuff.”
She’s almost wistful, as if the last couple days aren’t really real, and his hands start to tense, nervous and apologetic, because he can’t help but feel a little bit responsible for bringing her back into this.
“Dean?”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
Her mouth is starting to waver and he feels that pull inside of him, the slow burn rising and falling down the back of his throat. He swallows and keeps himself quiet, reaching for her. His hands wrap around her wrist and he tugs at her gently, urging her forward.
“C’mere.”
There’s a soft sigh, something shifting between them, as she shifts off her bed and into his. She’s resting close, one of her legs, tangling around his. Longer, he thinks, and she’s softer too. The position is awkward, but he doesn’t care, and he lets her press against him and into the crook of his arm. He can feel the tears again and his stomach sort of drops. But he’s doing the best he can and he lets himself touch her, just a little bit, sliding his fingers through the mess of her hair.
“I’m sorry,” her mouth moves against his neck, warm and wet, “I shouldn’t keep crying like this. We should be moving, right?”
“We’re okay.”
Maybe, he says it a little too quickly. Maybe, she doesn’t believe him. But she’s close and he’s okay with that, letting his hand talk where he can’t and hoping, just hoping that the moment is more than enough for now.
-
The morning comes earlier and they sort of leave their room, one corner wrinkled and the other feigning a sense of being untouched. She slept a little, he reminds himself. Just a little. He’s almost satisfied too, leaning against the car and picking at the bag he’s brought out from the last stop for gas.
They’ll make good time, he thinks, wherever they’ll end up today and the diner is looming in front of him again, watching him as he waits for Sammy. She’s inside, getting coffee, and probably smiling large to the waitress they had the night before, the one that said that she was real pretty as if Sammy is still very much that girl he met back in California.
He doesn’t think about that change though. It’s merely attributed to the song and dance of older and wiser, the things that they have to learn and the things that they do. He doesn’t love her any less, maybe he loves her more, but they aren’t really ready to start stepping into all their old habits again.
He can still miss her.
There’s a little ring and he looks up, watching as she comes out of the diner and clutching a cup of coffee like a lifeline. He smirks briefly, amused, and sticks to being happy that the little things haven’t changed. She’s wearing one of his shirts though, the cotton thin and stretched loosely against her throat. He worries a little because she’s still a skinny thing; long limbs and her jeans are little too loose for his liking.
But his hands are still warm from holding her there, murmuring into neck and telling her that it’s going to be fine, that he’s going to help her through all of this - it’s the things that he knows and that he’s glad that he knows because blindly, he’d fail her anyway.
“Coffee kick in?”
She shuffles in front of him, rubbing her eyes and snorting. “Shut up,” she mutters, but it’s as close to something normal that he gets.
Still amused, he thrusts the bag forward. The plastic is lazy over his fingers and it was just a couple odd bucks anyway from a poker game that he only spared a couple ones from.
“Here,” he watches her take it.
Her lips start to curl as her fingers peel back the bag. It’s open and she pulls the book out, cradling it against her palm. He likes watching her because it’s a reminder, old and younger, that the two of them are still the two of them and they’ll make their way back to being okay. He keeps his gaze on her fingers, the way they sorta sway over the words - it’s not like the book’s anything special, just something cheesy from the gas station’s corner, magazines and smut novels with a few gems here and there. I like mysteries, she used to say when they were younger and as she ate them up real fast.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, soft and amused.
He shrugs. “It keeps you off the radio,” he says instead and ruffles her hair, just to piss her off because, all and all, these moments kinda make him uncomfortable.
But she laughs, really laughs, for the first time. The sound is welcomed, of course, and he’s reminded too much of the days where they were left alone, at home, when there was a brief home, and he really could make her smile. Sam leans into him though, tucking herself into his shoulder and still sighing into his neck. Her eyes are closed and they’re quiet here.
Her voice is soft. “Didn’t have to.”
He smirks a little and is about say something crass, but keeps himself quiet. He indulges though and slides his fingers along the bridges of her shoulders, letting the pad of his thumb ache against the back of her neck every once in awhile. He presses a kiss to a small patch of her skin.
“Let’s go.”
It’s the end of that and she draws back, slipping a kiss to his jaw and then pushing him playfully out of the way so that she can get back into the car. Far from perfect, he thinks, and all of this is still unresolved and heavy-weighted.
But for now, Dean takes what he can get.