FICLET: Two Steps Behind
Two Steps Behind
Sam never really was alone at Stanford.
Gen, pre-series. If I owned anything of any value, do you think I'd be writing fan fiction about it? :P
["Bobby"]
Sam pushed an overgrown strand of chocolate-brown fringe away from his head, head hovering over a 400-page text book that look, if not as old as Stanford itself, perhaps older. Gentle music drifted to him from the speakers of the battered black stereo that waited in the corner of the room for his roommate to come in and change its laid back pace to something a little more coarse than Sam’s tastes.
Midway through the paragraph on the ethical treatment of animals in science laboratories, Sam’s scratched-up cell phone mewed from the desk space beside him. Turns out, even on silent, broken gadgets couldn’t be quiet.
“Hello?”
“Sam,” He could almost hear the older man’s weathered smiled. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Sam smiled softly, sliding a green promotional book mark from the local optometrist between pages 120 and 121. “How ‘bout you, Bobby?” He closed the textbook gently.
“You haven’t called your brother in a while,” Bobby told him, bypassing Sam’s inquisition.
Sam sighed, toying absently with the battered corner of the work desk. “It’s a two way street.”
“Don’t mean you can’t be the first car on it,” Bobby replied gruffly. “He’d still wanna know if you’re alive, son.”
“Well, you can tell him I’m doin’ fine here at Stanford, studying hard. Staying out of trouble.” Sam tried to sound optimistic.
“He’s family, Sam,” Bobby reprimanded. “You can’t escape that.”
“It’s not him I’m escaping.”
Sam sensed a hesitation.
“Yeah, well, can’t blame you for that. Damn stubborn son of a bitch, your daddy. Just promise me you’ll call Dean, okay?”
“Yeah, soon,” Sam sighed heavily.
Bobby couldn’t try to believe his false promise.
“I’ve gotta go, Bobby.” Sam pulled his text book open to the bookmarked page.
Bobby’s voice dipped with disappointment, “See ya, kid.”
["Dad"]
The Impala eventually ran out of gas.
The six or so empty cans John had left in the back had rolled around, bouncing off of empty weapons and worn duffel bags until the last drop had been sucked from the tank, and they’d clanked to a dead stop just outside of town. This made the job easier in a way, he tried to reason to stop himself from landing the car a kick square in the rims. His son wouldn’t notice a derelict looking mess busted down just past the welcome to town sign.
Except, Sam would, because that’s what he’d been taught to do. John sighed heavily, collecting the few weapons left in the trunk into his duffel before locking the car up and making his way, on foot, toward the nearest motel.
-
“Thank you, mister Young,” the pretty blonde receptionist welcome him, handing him a single key on a chain that told him he’d scored the second room in the tumble-down residential motel. For the looks of the place, it was too expensive, but he put that down to the dried up, algae ridden pool hidden in one of the sheds, closed up for winter but there to be claimed as an attraction to the place, nonetheless. He smiled at her and tucked the key into his pocket.
“Say, I don’t suppose you know how I might get to Stanford from here?” he asked, smiling that false smile that seemed to trick just about anyone who didn’t have his blood in their veins.
“Sure,” she smiled back even wider, “If you just catch the A-43 out of town at a quarter past four, it’ll take you straight to the gates. Do you have friends there?” she asked with bright eyes.
John shook his head, chuckling lightly. “No ma’am. A son, studying law,” and by God, he almost sounded proud. “It’s his birthday soon.”
“That’s so nice of you,” the young lady glanced at the clock behind him, a darker undertone filing her voice. “I wish my parents had come to visit me in college. Or, ever.”
“Well, I’d better get going,” he held the keys up, “Thank you, m’am.”
-
“Honey, I’m home!” Sam called happily, planting his keys on the table as he walked through the door. He could hear Jessica humming from somewhere in the next room, seemingly oblivious to his return.
He smiled to himself and walked to the kitchen, a coffee craving building slowly in his tired muscles. Next to where his mug found its usual home on the white bench top was a tiny package staring up at him. A messily scrawled version of his name dangled from a card on a piece of blue ribbon that wrapped all the way around the rectangular present.
He could barely make out the word ‘Sam,’
Curious, he picked it up. He’d already received his present from Jessica - a brand new cell phone, to replace the dented one that sounded like a cow every time it rang - so he pulled carefully at the sticky tape around the edges to reveal a little green felt sleeve. He emptied it carefully, and into his hand fell a Saint Christopher charm on a long silver chain.
‘Happy Birthday.’
["Dean"]
Dean thanked the Californian skies for not raining down on him.
As any sane person would after being dunked in ice water by a particularly nasty water demon, he hated the cold. He told himself this was why he’d come the Palo Alto, although it was a weak excuse.
Standing at the payphone, the eldest Winchester brother - who felt like the only Winchester child at all - was wasting time. He supposed he could have called Sam. There again, he guessed that if he did, Sam would just hang up, and somewhere inside Dean wasn’t so sure he could handle that. He swore under his breath, shoved a coin into the phone and brought it to his ear.
A woman’s voice answered after the first two rings. “Uh, hello,” he stumbled, his gaze flickering from thing to thing around him as though he were stuck in an awkward conversation. “I was wondering if I could speak to Sam Winchester... please?” he tacked his manners on the end for good luck.
“Sure,” she smiled into the phone. “Just hang on two seconds...”
Dean’s heart raced as she put the phone down, only to pick it up two seconds later.
“I’m really sorry, but it looks like he’s gone out... can I take a message so he can get back to you?”
“Uhm, just tell him,” The truth? “You know what? It’s fine. Thanks.” Dean slammed the phone back into the cradle, watching the university from across the road.
He knew Sam wouldn’t have called back anyway.
Sam never really was alone at Stanford.
Gen, pre-series. If I owned anything of any value, do you think I'd be writing fan fiction about it? :P
["Bobby"]
Sam pushed an overgrown strand of chocolate-brown fringe away from his head, head hovering over a 400-page text book that look, if not as old as Stanford itself, perhaps older. Gentle music drifted to him from the speakers of the battered black stereo that waited in the corner of the room for his roommate to come in and change its laid back pace to something a little more coarse than Sam’s tastes.
Midway through the paragraph on the ethical treatment of animals in science laboratories, Sam’s scratched-up cell phone mewed from the desk space beside him. Turns out, even on silent, broken gadgets couldn’t be quiet.
“Hello?”
“Sam,” He could almost hear the older man’s weathered smiled. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Sam smiled softly, sliding a green promotional book mark from the local optometrist between pages 120 and 121. “How ‘bout you, Bobby?” He closed the textbook gently.
“You haven’t called your brother in a while,” Bobby told him, bypassing Sam’s inquisition.
Sam sighed, toying absently with the battered corner of the work desk. “It’s a two way street.”
“Don’t mean you can’t be the first car on it,” Bobby replied gruffly. “He’d still wanna know if you’re alive, son.”
“Well, you can tell him I’m doin’ fine here at Stanford, studying hard. Staying out of trouble.” Sam tried to sound optimistic.
“He’s family, Sam,” Bobby reprimanded. “You can’t escape that.”
“It’s not him I’m escaping.”
Sam sensed a hesitation.
“Yeah, well, can’t blame you for that. Damn stubborn son of a bitch, your daddy. Just promise me you’ll call Dean, okay?”
“Yeah, soon,” Sam sighed heavily.
Bobby couldn’t try to believe his false promise.
“I’ve gotta go, Bobby.” Sam pulled his text book open to the bookmarked page.
Bobby’s voice dipped with disappointment, “See ya, kid.”
["Dad"]
The Impala eventually ran out of gas.
The six or so empty cans John had left in the back had rolled around, bouncing off of empty weapons and worn duffel bags until the last drop had been sucked from the tank, and they’d clanked to a dead stop just outside of town. This made the job easier in a way, he tried to reason to stop himself from landing the car a kick square in the rims. His son wouldn’t notice a derelict looking mess busted down just past the welcome to town sign.
Except, Sam would, because that’s what he’d been taught to do. John sighed heavily, collecting the few weapons left in the trunk into his duffel before locking the car up and making his way, on foot, toward the nearest motel.
-
“Thank you, mister Young,” the pretty blonde receptionist welcome him, handing him a single key on a chain that told him he’d scored the second room in the tumble-down residential motel. For the looks of the place, it was too expensive, but he put that down to the dried up, algae ridden pool hidden in one of the sheds, closed up for winter but there to be claimed as an attraction to the place, nonetheless. He smiled at her and tucked the key into his pocket.
“Say, I don’t suppose you know how I might get to Stanford from here?” he asked, smiling that false smile that seemed to trick just about anyone who didn’t have his blood in their veins.
“Sure,” she smiled back even wider, “If you just catch the A-43 out of town at a quarter past four, it’ll take you straight to the gates. Do you have friends there?” she asked with bright eyes.
John shook his head, chuckling lightly. “No ma’am. A son, studying law,” and by God, he almost sounded proud. “It’s his birthday soon.”
“That’s so nice of you,” the young lady glanced at the clock behind him, a darker undertone filing her voice. “I wish my parents had come to visit me in college. Or, ever.”
“Well, I’d better get going,” he held the keys up, “Thank you, m’am.”
-
“Honey, I’m home!” Sam called happily, planting his keys on the table as he walked through the door. He could hear Jessica humming from somewhere in the next room, seemingly oblivious to his return.
He smiled to himself and walked to the kitchen, a coffee craving building slowly in his tired muscles. Next to where his mug found its usual home on the white bench top was a tiny package staring up at him. A messily scrawled version of his name dangled from a card on a piece of blue ribbon that wrapped all the way around the rectangular present.
He could barely make out the word ‘Sam,’
Curious, he picked it up. He’d already received his present from Jessica - a brand new cell phone, to replace the dented one that sounded like a cow every time it rang - so he pulled carefully at the sticky tape around the edges to reveal a little green felt sleeve. He emptied it carefully, and into his hand fell a Saint Christopher charm on a long silver chain.
‘Happy Birthday.’
["Dean"]
Dean thanked the Californian skies for not raining down on him.
As any sane person would after being dunked in ice water by a particularly nasty water demon, he hated the cold. He told himself this was why he’d come the Palo Alto, although it was a weak excuse.
Standing at the payphone, the eldest Winchester brother - who felt like the only Winchester child at all - was wasting time. He supposed he could have called Sam. There again, he guessed that if he did, Sam would just hang up, and somewhere inside Dean wasn’t so sure he could handle that. He swore under his breath, shoved a coin into the phone and brought it to his ear.
A woman’s voice answered after the first two rings. “Uh, hello,” he stumbled, his gaze flickering from thing to thing around him as though he were stuck in an awkward conversation. “I was wondering if I could speak to Sam Winchester... please?” he tacked his manners on the end for good luck.
“Sure,” she smiled into the phone. “Just hang on two seconds...”
Dean’s heart raced as she put the phone down, only to pick it up two seconds later.
“I’m really sorry, but it looks like he’s gone out... can I take a message so he can get back to you?”
“Uhm, just tell him,” The truth? “You know what? It’s fine. Thanks.” Dean slammed the phone back into the cradle, watching the university from across the road.
He knew Sam wouldn’t have called back anyway.