Fic: Lost and Found
Lost and Found
Summary: You know what they say about wishes and horses.
Follows Negative Space because I just felt so bad leaving poor Sam like that. Is not exactly a happy tale, though.
Lost and Found
-
I told you when I came, I was a stranger
-
Sam opens his eyes on a wash of white, the glare of artificial light on linoleum smearing across his vision like a memory of phosphor. A rush of noise swells in a wave and then settles into a background hum. He blinks rapidly as shapes coalesce. Chairs, people, a counter, a table. A man, sitting on the other side of the table, very nearly scowling.
“I’m sorry, sunshine, am I boring you over here?”
Sam’s gaze sharpens suddenly.
He doesn’t know this man. He’s never seen his face before.
“Sammy?”
Sam’s out of the chair so fast it clatters on the floor but he doesn’t care, even a little. He stumbles outside under a robin’s-egg sky, and stares up at the perfect cloudless dome. The world tilts and his legs buckle.
He’s hunched over, hands on his knees, sucking in air when a hand drops heavy and strong on his shoulder.
“Sam?” the man from the diner asks. “You okay?”
The light hurts Sam’s eyes.
--
He winds up in the Impala, in the passenger’s seat. It’s unfamiliar and awkward and he shifts around, trying to adjust. He’s not sure how he got here, and there’s someone in the driver’s seat. He’s got short hair and a worried face and he sits behind the wheel like he damn well belongs there. He’s looking at Sam and all the gruff irritation from the diner has vanished.
“The hell’s the matter with you?” he demands, nearly growling, but there’s concern edging the words.
Sam shrinks back against the door. All he can think to say is, “The Djinn.”
“What?” The man squints at him. “Sammy, we wasted that bastard days ago. What is it? What’s the matter?”
But it hasn’t been days. It’s been minutes. Less than minutes. Seconds. Sam remembers the wall against his back and the tattoos and the bright light. The shock of it. He’d thought, This is what it feels like. Okay. Okay.
“Sammy, c’mon. You’re freakin’ me out here.”
“I-” he rubs a hand across his eyes. “I’m okay. Sorry. I’m-sorry.”
“Yeah, you’re looking just peachy.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs. The man snorts.
“S’kinda my job, you giant pain in the ass.”
Alarms are squealing in Sam’s head, and as they pull away from the curb he stares and stares.
In a tiny voice he whispers, “Dean?”
Intelligent hazel eyes flicker in his direction, then back to the road.
“Maybe you should get in the back. Lie down for a while.”
“No,” Sam shakes his head quickly, sharply. “No, I’m fine. I’ll stay.”
The only response is a snort.
--
Sam wraps long arms around his belly in the motel bathroom and leans against the door. His skin is cold and he’s shivering. The room has two beds and he’d stood on the threshold and stared until he was shoved sharply from behind and for a moment he’d thought that it was Dad.
It wasn’t.
“Chrissakes, Sam, go lay down or something. Your weirdo vibes are makin’ me nervous.”
“Uh. I’m gonna-”he’d gestured vaguely and fled into the bathroom, shaking all over.
And now he staggers across the tiles and is sick into the sink. When the door crashes open he flinches and squeezes his eyes shut again and tears burn, but not as much as the hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and the voice whispering, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re fine. It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” he chokes out, cold and hot and shaking. Fumbles a hand out and gets a good hold on the well-worn material of a jacket. He doesn’t know what color it is.
But he knows what color he wants it to be.
“Dean’ll take care of you.”
He’s manhandled into the room and nearly flung onto the bed farthest from the door. He rolls onto his back and stares dazedly at the ceiling. At the wash of sunlight across painted plaster. He can see shapes in the textured pattern. He wipes vaguely at his eyes.
“I’m okay,” he says aloud, to the air.
“The hell you are,” snarls out of the space to his left, and he flinches. Doesn’t pull away, though, when a heavy body depresses the mattress and a water bottle hoves into view. Just reaches out an unsteady hand and takes it.
“What am I gonna do with you, Sammy?” Dean sighs.
Sam shivers a little, but he gets the bottle open.
--
He wakes up in the middle of the night and someone’s breathing, there’s someone in the room, and it isn’t even really dark and he’s halfway out of the bed, tangled in sheets, when a rough voice mutters, “Sam?” and the mattress of the other bed creaks.
He slides bare feet onto the floor.
“Make room.”
“Look where you’re putting your feet, boy.”
He exhales carefully. Watches where his feet land as he pads over to the other bed.
“Dean,” he whispers. The shape stirs, flails vaguely at the air.
“What?” Dean demands, “What?”
But Sam doesn’t say anything and after a while Dean grumbles himself back into sleep. Sam goes on standing there, unmoving, staring down. He barely even breathes.
He doesn’t move for a long time.
There are no shapes to make.
In sleep, Dean is a dark still mass. Sam can hear him breathing. It fills the room, even the corners where the glare of the streetlight doesn’t reach. Sam sinks down to the floor and clenches one hand on the rough blanket of his brother’s bed. Presses his lips together and doesn’t make a sound. He’s shaking again, every inch of him trembling.
This is what dying feels like.
He huddles as close to the bed as he can, both hands clutching at the bedding. He doesn’t mind the trembling. He doesn’t mind.
--
In the morning, Sam puts on a pair of boots.
He doesn’t think about where he’s putting his feet at all.
--the end--
___________________
Notes: That’s a Leonard Cohen quote there at the top.
I don’t know if writing this was a good idea or not, but I just felt so bad for poor wee!Sam (and to a lesser extent, grown-up!Sam). In his case, the Djinn-induced hallucination is probably the better world.
Summary: You know what they say about wishes and horses.
Follows Negative Space because I just felt so bad leaving poor Sam like that. Is not exactly a happy tale, though.
Lost and Found
-
I told you when I came, I was a stranger
-
Sam opens his eyes on a wash of white, the glare of artificial light on linoleum smearing across his vision like a memory of phosphor. A rush of noise swells in a wave and then settles into a background hum. He blinks rapidly as shapes coalesce. Chairs, people, a counter, a table. A man, sitting on the other side of the table, very nearly scowling.
“I’m sorry, sunshine, am I boring you over here?”
Sam’s gaze sharpens suddenly.
He doesn’t know this man. He’s never seen his face before.
“Sammy?”
Sam’s out of the chair so fast it clatters on the floor but he doesn’t care, even a little. He stumbles outside under a robin’s-egg sky, and stares up at the perfect cloudless dome. The world tilts and his legs buckle.
He’s hunched over, hands on his knees, sucking in air when a hand drops heavy and strong on his shoulder.
“Sam?” the man from the diner asks. “You okay?”
The light hurts Sam’s eyes.
--
He winds up in the Impala, in the passenger’s seat. It’s unfamiliar and awkward and he shifts around, trying to adjust. He’s not sure how he got here, and there’s someone in the driver’s seat. He’s got short hair and a worried face and he sits behind the wheel like he damn well belongs there. He’s looking at Sam and all the gruff irritation from the diner has vanished.
“The hell’s the matter with you?” he demands, nearly growling, but there’s concern edging the words.
Sam shrinks back against the door. All he can think to say is, “The Djinn.”
“What?” The man squints at him. “Sammy, we wasted that bastard days ago. What is it? What’s the matter?”
But it hasn’t been days. It’s been minutes. Less than minutes. Seconds. Sam remembers the wall against his back and the tattoos and the bright light. The shock of it. He’d thought, This is what it feels like. Okay. Okay.
“Sammy, c’mon. You’re freakin’ me out here.”
“I-” he rubs a hand across his eyes. “I’m okay. Sorry. I’m-sorry.”
“Yeah, you’re looking just peachy.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs. The man snorts.
“S’kinda my job, you giant pain in the ass.”
Alarms are squealing in Sam’s head, and as they pull away from the curb he stares and stares.
In a tiny voice he whispers, “Dean?”
Intelligent hazel eyes flicker in his direction, then back to the road.
“Maybe you should get in the back. Lie down for a while.”
“No,” Sam shakes his head quickly, sharply. “No, I’m fine. I’ll stay.”
The only response is a snort.
--
Sam wraps long arms around his belly in the motel bathroom and leans against the door. His skin is cold and he’s shivering. The room has two beds and he’d stood on the threshold and stared until he was shoved sharply from behind and for a moment he’d thought that it was Dad.
It wasn’t.
“Chrissakes, Sam, go lay down or something. Your weirdo vibes are makin’ me nervous.”
“Uh. I’m gonna-”he’d gestured vaguely and fled into the bathroom, shaking all over.
And now he staggers across the tiles and is sick into the sink. When the door crashes open he flinches and squeezes his eyes shut again and tears burn, but not as much as the hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and the voice whispering, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re fine. It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” he chokes out, cold and hot and shaking. Fumbles a hand out and gets a good hold on the well-worn material of a jacket. He doesn’t know what color it is.
But he knows what color he wants it to be.
“Dean’ll take care of you.”
He’s manhandled into the room and nearly flung onto the bed farthest from the door. He rolls onto his back and stares dazedly at the ceiling. At the wash of sunlight across painted plaster. He can see shapes in the textured pattern. He wipes vaguely at his eyes.
“I’m okay,” he says aloud, to the air.
“The hell you are,” snarls out of the space to his left, and he flinches. Doesn’t pull away, though, when a heavy body depresses the mattress and a water bottle hoves into view. Just reaches out an unsteady hand and takes it.
“What am I gonna do with you, Sammy?” Dean sighs.
Sam shivers a little, but he gets the bottle open.
--
He wakes up in the middle of the night and someone’s breathing, there’s someone in the room, and it isn’t even really dark and he’s halfway out of the bed, tangled in sheets, when a rough voice mutters, “Sam?” and the mattress of the other bed creaks.
He slides bare feet onto the floor.
“Make room.”
“Look where you’re putting your feet, boy.”
He exhales carefully. Watches where his feet land as he pads over to the other bed.
“Dean,” he whispers. The shape stirs, flails vaguely at the air.
“What?” Dean demands, “What?”
But Sam doesn’t say anything and after a while Dean grumbles himself back into sleep. Sam goes on standing there, unmoving, staring down. He barely even breathes.
He doesn’t move for a long time.
There are no shapes to make.
In sleep, Dean is a dark still mass. Sam can hear him breathing. It fills the room, even the corners where the glare of the streetlight doesn’t reach. Sam sinks down to the floor and clenches one hand on the rough blanket of his brother’s bed. Presses his lips together and doesn’t make a sound. He’s shaking again, every inch of him trembling.
This is what dying feels like.
He huddles as close to the bed as he can, both hands clutching at the bedding. He doesn’t mind the trembling. He doesn’t mind.
--
In the morning, Sam puts on a pair of boots.
He doesn’t think about where he’s putting his feet at all.
--the end--
___________________
Notes: That’s a Leonard Cohen quote there at the top.
I don’t know if writing this was a good idea or not, but I just felt so bad for poor wee!Sam (and to a lesser extent, grown-up!Sam). In his case, the Djinn-induced hallucination is probably the better world.