SPN FIC - Every Last Rock
I was watching a couple of S3 episodes yesterday, and it brought me back to this frame of mind -- when Sam was desperately trying to find a way to undo Dean's deal. He turned over every rock, he said. Maybe, including this one.
Dedicated to janglyjewels as a belated birthday shout-out, and because she had an exceptionally lousy day yesterday. Hope you enjoy this, sweetie!
He’s talked to every last person he could track down who might know a way to help Dean. Hunters and shamans and mystics and psychics and professors of ancient lore. He’s gone through all of Bobby’s books and a lot of other people’s books and he’s combed the Internet and he’s even had a couple of people channel some spirits for him. None of them knew anything good, anything useful, and time is starting to run out.
CHARACTERS: Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None (set late Season 3)
LENGTH: 744 words
EVERY LAST ROCK
By Carol Davis
Sam Winchester is not drunk. He’s only had a couple of drinks, and this last one he’s been nursing for almost an hour.
Or so.
It seems like an hour, anyway. And besides, he ate a sandwich before he came in here.
Okay, it was half a sandwich.
Or a couple of bites of a sandwich.
Anyway, he’s not drunk. He’s thinking very, very clearly, and what he’s thinking is that he needs to go over and talk to that guy in the corner booth. He needs to have a long, serious conversation with that guy, because time is starting to run out, and he’s talked to every last person he could track down who might know a way to help Dean. Hunters and shamans and mystics and psychics and professors of ancient lore. He’s gone through all of Bobby’s books and a lot of other people’s books and he’s combed the Internet and he’s even had a couple of people channel some spirits for him.
None of them knew anything good, anything useful, and time is starting to run out.
Yeah, so maybe talking to that guy over in the corner booth is grasping at straws, but…the guy’s had to have done a ton of research over the years, hasn’t he? All those ideas had to have come from somewhere, and it’s not like you can just cook up shit like that inside your own head.
Well, maybe you can, but still.
Maybe, somewhere along the line, he found something genuine.
Something that would help Dean.
Because this is Dean’s life that’s at stake. It’s his soul.
“You say something, pal?” the barback asks, glancing at Sam’s mostly-empty glass.
Sam takes a long look at the glass. There’s still some whisky in there. He hasn’t finished that drink.
He’s definitely not drunk.
“Do I look drunk to you?” he asks the barback, earnest as a fourth-grader.
A smile flickers across the barback’s face and is gone as fast as…well, fast. He shakes his head a little bit and asks, “She opening some whup-ass when you get home?”
“What?” Sam asks. “No. There’s…there’s no ‘she.’”
There’s Dean.
And Dean’s dying.
Sam leaves that last little bit of whisky sitting there in the glass as he slides off the bar stool and gingerly tests his legs. He only had a couple of drinks, but his legs are funny sometimes. He thinks they’re going to work, and then they don’t. It’s been embarrassing, a couple of times, to have strangers pick him up off the floor. Or to have Dean pick him up. Dean shouldn’t have to pick him up off of anywhere. Sam’s an adult now. He’s not Dean’s baby brother. He’s not Sammy. Sammy is a little fat kid.
Carefully he straightens his jacket, looks to make sure he hasn’t spilled anything on himself. He’s paid for the drinks already but he fishes his wallet out again and hands the barback a couple more bucks as a tip, because this is a nice quiet bar. It’s a good place to sit for a while and think. That’s probably why the guy in the corner booth comes in here.
To think.
“You driving?” asks the barback.
“No,” Sam replies. “I’m walking. I’m…just walking.”
He takes a slow step, then another. Yes, his legs are good to go this time. And he’s clean and neat and doesn’t look like Crazy Stalker Boy - at least, the mirror over the bar doesn’t think he does. He’s good to go, a hundred percent good to go.
And maybe that guy knows something.
He can hear Dean’s voice in his head, echoing back from all those nights he listened to Sam rant about…stuff. Sam was pretty drunk then, all those times. He was also right. The guy in the corner booth has gotten a lot of shit wrong.
Very seriously wrong.
But maybe…
Maybe he’s gotten something right.
Just one small thing. That’s all Sam needs, is for one small thing to be right.
For Dean.
It’s only a few steps to the booth in the corner. Sam counts them as he walks. When he’s a respectful distance from the booth he pauses, waits for the guy to lift his gaze and look at Sam. When that happens, Sam’s heart begins to hammer inside his chest.
Please, he thinks.
“Mr. King?” he says softly. “My…my name is Sam Winchester.”
* * * * *
(With a tip of the hat to Sammy's Drunken Letters to Stephen King.
Dedicated to janglyjewels as a belated birthday shout-out, and because she had an exceptionally lousy day yesterday. Hope you enjoy this, sweetie!
He’s talked to every last person he could track down who might know a way to help Dean. Hunters and shamans and mystics and psychics and professors of ancient lore. He’s gone through all of Bobby’s books and a lot of other people’s books and he’s combed the Internet and he’s even had a couple of people channel some spirits for him. None of them knew anything good, anything useful, and time is starting to run out.
CHARACTERS: Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None (set late Season 3)
LENGTH: 744 words
EVERY LAST ROCK
By Carol Davis
Sam Winchester is not drunk. He’s only had a couple of drinks, and this last one he’s been nursing for almost an hour.
Or so.
It seems like an hour, anyway. And besides, he ate a sandwich before he came in here.
Okay, it was half a sandwich.
Or a couple of bites of a sandwich.
Anyway, he’s not drunk. He’s thinking very, very clearly, and what he’s thinking is that he needs to go over and talk to that guy in the corner booth. He needs to have a long, serious conversation with that guy, because time is starting to run out, and he’s talked to every last person he could track down who might know a way to help Dean. Hunters and shamans and mystics and psychics and professors of ancient lore. He’s gone through all of Bobby’s books and a lot of other people’s books and he’s combed the Internet and he’s even had a couple of people channel some spirits for him.
None of them knew anything good, anything useful, and time is starting to run out.
Yeah, so maybe talking to that guy over in the corner booth is grasping at straws, but…the guy’s had to have done a ton of research over the years, hasn’t he? All those ideas had to have come from somewhere, and it’s not like you can just cook up shit like that inside your own head.
Well, maybe you can, but still.
Maybe, somewhere along the line, he found something genuine.
Something that would help Dean.
Because this is Dean’s life that’s at stake. It’s his soul.
“You say something, pal?” the barback asks, glancing at Sam’s mostly-empty glass.
Sam takes a long look at the glass. There’s still some whisky in there. He hasn’t finished that drink.
He’s definitely not drunk.
“Do I look drunk to you?” he asks the barback, earnest as a fourth-grader.
A smile flickers across the barback’s face and is gone as fast as…well, fast. He shakes his head a little bit and asks, “She opening some whup-ass when you get home?”
“What?” Sam asks. “No. There’s…there’s no ‘she.’”
There’s Dean.
And Dean’s dying.
Sam leaves that last little bit of whisky sitting there in the glass as he slides off the bar stool and gingerly tests his legs. He only had a couple of drinks, but his legs are funny sometimes. He thinks they’re going to work, and then they don’t. It’s been embarrassing, a couple of times, to have strangers pick him up off the floor. Or to have Dean pick him up. Dean shouldn’t have to pick him up off of anywhere. Sam’s an adult now. He’s not Dean’s baby brother. He’s not Sammy. Sammy is a little fat kid.
Carefully he straightens his jacket, looks to make sure he hasn’t spilled anything on himself. He’s paid for the drinks already but he fishes his wallet out again and hands the barback a couple more bucks as a tip, because this is a nice quiet bar. It’s a good place to sit for a while and think. That’s probably why the guy in the corner booth comes in here.
To think.
“You driving?” asks the barback.
“No,” Sam replies. “I’m walking. I’m…just walking.”
He takes a slow step, then another. Yes, his legs are good to go this time. And he’s clean and neat and doesn’t look like Crazy Stalker Boy - at least, the mirror over the bar doesn’t think he does. He’s good to go, a hundred percent good to go.
And maybe that guy knows something.
He can hear Dean’s voice in his head, echoing back from all those nights he listened to Sam rant about…stuff. Sam was pretty drunk then, all those times. He was also right. The guy in the corner booth has gotten a lot of shit wrong.
Very seriously wrong.
But maybe…
Maybe he’s gotten something right.
Just one small thing. That’s all Sam needs, is for one small thing to be right.
For Dean.
It’s only a few steps to the booth in the corner. Sam counts them as he walks. When he’s a respectful distance from the booth he pauses, waits for the guy to lift his gaze and look at Sam. When that happens, Sam’s heart begins to hammer inside his chest.
Please, he thinks.
“Mr. King?” he says softly. “My…my name is Sam Winchester.”
* * * * *
(With a tip of the hat to Sammy's Drunken Letters to Stephen King.