(no subject)
Title: Time After Time
Author: nileflood
Rating: PG-13
Pairing and/or Characters: Sam/Gabriel (as the Trickster), mentions of Dean and John, OMCs
Spoilers: N/A
Warnings: Mentions of gore
Word Count: 3320
Summary: The Trickster has known Sammy a long, long time. Longer than Sasquash could possibly remember. The kid's got a good soul though, and the Trickster can't help but keep an eye on him. Besides, he's sorta cute.
Notes: MANY HAPPY RETURNS OF THE DAY blackmagic661! I hope you enjoy this. Also many thanks to casness who was an excellent beta at very short notice. All remaining mistakes are my own. ♥ ♥ ♥
If you're lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you I'll be waiting
Time after time
The rain poured down, thick and fast. It was more a sheet of water falling continuously than individual drops falling from the heavens. Before long the figure is soaked to the skin, the fur thrown over his shoulders is sodden and so much heavier now, but it doesn’t change the way he stands, rooted to the ground like some great tree. Thicker droplets of water gathered and fell from his antlers or slide down and over the deer-skull that hides his face. In the shadows of the forest and the gloom, he’s a fearsome creature; some half-man half-beast, an unnatural, unholy spirit with evil intentions. The blood splattered up his bare chest and the mutilated corpse at his feet only proved it.
He doesn’t care if what he did was wicked.. A far more wicked soul received its retribution and now the demons of the underworld can deal with it for the rest of eternity.
The fur-cloaked figure raised an arm, wiped a splash of blood from his cheek, and felt something behind him. Nothing dangerous, but he wanted to be alone for this. The man that destroyed others deserved a terrifying and painful death, but no one needed to bear witness to it.
Especially not a boy; a lanky, human youngster. Everything about the child seemed to be brown. Brown tunic, tied with brown rope, brown hose, brown shoes caked with brown mud and the same brown dirt streaked across his cheeks. His eyes were wide, terrified, but yet the child did not move. He stood his ground, although the Trickster that it was fear that kept him there, not foolish bravado or desperation to save a life already sacrificed.
And in spite of that fear, because fear was a useful thing, the soul within was ageless and pure. But there was a shadow the Trickster could feel, could taste as bitter bile around that soul and he knew what it meant. Not in this lifetime perhaps, but this boy was destined for something. He immediately felt sorry for him. Fate was a horrible thing for a human to have to bear. Fate was a horrible thing for a human to have to bear, especially when it was a fate engineered by one of his Brothers.)
“Go home.”
That broke the spell, and the child was gone, running as fast as his gangly limbs will allow him. The Trickster sighed. Sooner or later, he supposed, he was going to have to... get involved.
***
“And that’s it, at least for today. Don’t forget, tomorrow you need to bring in your projects and deliver a five-minute presentation on them to the rest of the class. I hope you’re all finished.” Then the bell sounds, exactly on time but far too early for Sam’s liking. It is only 3pm, Dean will be out working, Dad will be tracking things, and that means eleven-year-old Sammy has to get himself home. Back to the motel, anyway. It isn’t home, but for the last month it has been, and probably will be for a while yet, considering John’s investigation seems to be going nowhere.
Sam... is happy. He is settling, staying put for a little while. He even manages to put together a science project. He finds an old fish-bowl, plants something in it. Dean has told him not to put real bugs in it, so he draws a little mouse and puts that inside as well, and he is going to talk about photosynthesis. He’s proud of it. It actually looks... good. Dean has even been careful with it, because it isn’t just a project. It stands for something.
John knows it too. He doesn’t make Sammy get the bus in that morning. He drives him, right up to the school gate, watching his youngest boy carry the bowl with exaggerated care. He looks... pleased. Not proud, exactly, but close. Not that Sam sees. He is too busy keeping his eye on the bowl and the stairs up to the front doors.
He is halfway to his locker when the shadows appear, darkening the floor behind him as the taller, older boys fall into step behind him. This... isn’t what he needs, not today. But that doesn’t stop the churning in his stomach. He has a choice. Ignore them and keep going and hope one of the teachers is about, or he can turn and face them. Neither thing is cowardly, he knows that but... but there’s only so far you can run. And he might not find a teacher. He might just get these bozos angry.
“Hi Jason,” he says, because that’s the middle guy, the only one he knows by name. He wishes he doesn’t know any of them at all. They’re not nice people. They’re not the sort of people who let an opportunity to hurt someone pass them by. Especially not the new kid, the smart new kid, one that’s thin and has stupid floppy hair and hasn’t had much of a growth spurt yet.
His brother isn’t around either, he’ll be out somewhere, chatting up some girl because Dean doesn’t care if he’s late to class, doesn’t care if he doesn’t turn up at all. But he’d be really useful about now.
Right now, in fact.
The glass bowl is knocked out of his hands as he’s forced against the wall of lockers, the solid hinges biting into Sam’s back and he can feel the thin fabric of his t-shirt snag and if he moves it’ll tear, and his dad will go nuts. They don’t have money to go out and buy new clothes whenever they feel like it, and Sam is painfully aware of it, almost as painfully aware of it as he is of the hand that has curled into his hair and tugged.
This is how it is. Every day. Maybe every other day if he is lucky. At every school in every town in every state. He doesn’t want to fight, and even if he does, it wouldn’t usually do any good. There is always more than one and so what if he can hit one person hard enough to make them let him go? The others will catch him and make his life even worse. It is best just to take it.
He closes his eyes though, as the hand in his hair yanks again, nostrils flaring as he braces himself. And braces himself some more. And then he cracks one eye open, just enough, just enough to see the three boys in front of him twisting their heads around to look at the man behind them.
Sam looks too. It isn't a teacher, but a man in sandy-grey overalls brandishing a crowbar, holding it in one hand and slapping it rhythmically into the open palm of the other. Sam watches the crowbar for a moment, just to make sure it isn’t going to be suddenly aimed at him, and then looks back to the man.
He isn’t a tall man. He isn’t even well built; he isn’t really any sort of man at all. You’d hardly look at him twice in the street. But at that moment Sam doesn’t think he's even seen anything more frightening, not even the thing his father pulled out of a grave when he taught them how to salt and burn. The man's face is too intent, his gaze unwavering and for a second, although he can’t tell why, he feels like he is in a forest, surrounded by trees and the man in front of him seems much larger, crimson dripping from his hands and his face hidden under the shadow of huge antlers, spread like hands imploring the heavens.
"Nothing good ever happens to bullies, boys." And then the image is gone. The hands holding him are gone too, Jason and his friends running as fast as their legs could carry them, faces paler than sheets.
Sam wants to run too, the snag of his shirt on the locker all but forgotten. His feet ignore him though, at least for the moment, as the man reaches down and picks up the goldfish bowl. It is unscathed although Sam doesn’t know how that is even possible; he's dropped it on the floor and it is glass; it should have shattered and littered the floor with dirt. But it hasn’t; the plant inside is unharmed and the little drawing of the mouse is there too, not even crumpled.
“I... I guess I should thank you,” Sam says, shaking his head as he looks down into the bowl, trying to work out if they are gone for good or if Jason and his friends will be back, tomorrow, angrier.
“No, you shouldn’t,” the man replies, and that makes Sam look up, surprised. People normally like to be thanked. He is meant to say please and thank you for everything. But the man, the janitor, Sam finally realises, continues without any regard for the manners Sam thought he should have. “Sam- that’s your name, right? - you got to stand up for yourself. You can’t just let these jerks walk all over you, capiche?”
“It doesn’t matter. They just come back. Or we move and it starts all over again. I don’t want to hit anyone....“
“Excuses, kiddo. Sometimes you have to fight. But fighting doesn’t always mean swinging punches, not for a smart guy like you,” the janitor says, “You’ve just got to learn how to defend yourself, Sammy. You’re special and these aren’t the only bullies you’ll ever meet, and there won’t always be someone, me or your brother or your dad to save your butt. Got to toughen up now.”
And with that the man leaves, whistling to himself as he heads down the corridor, the crowbar slung over his shoulder. Sam watches him go, hugging the fish bowl to his chest. The words are cryptic and his dad has long ago taught him that cryptic is never a good thing. But he doesn’t have time to chase after the man and question him, because at that moment the bell rings for first class and he has to run all the way to avoid being late. The appearance of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his bag probably don’t have anything to do with his rescue, but if he sees the janitor again, he will have to ask him about those too.
They move on again a week later. In the next town, the bullies try to follow him home, stalking him all the way back to the motel. They don’t follow him through the woods though, where the campers have been disappearing. They clearly don’t expect to see him in school the next day, alive and kicking and with all his limbs.
He doesn’t tell them that the night before his dad and big brother had killed the Jenu and sealed up its head in a tree. The bullying stops anyway.
***
The first week he is at Stanford, Sam gets amazingly, stupidly, fantastically drunk. Most of the other students do too. It’s traditional, according to someone in the bar who orders another beer the same time Sam is ordering his fifth... or sixth. It is hard to recall exactly how many he’s had before, if only because there have been shots in between and that is probably also the reason why Sam can’t exactly remember how the fight has started either.
Sam is a good boy. He doesn’t get into fights, he stops them. He doesn’t cause trouble, he gives people respect and it is Dean who has inherited the cocky-jerk genes and who likes a drink and is almost always spoiling for a fight. Dean doesn’t really need an excuse; he fights because he can, because he is frustrated, because the other guy is a douche, or because he is bored of hustling pool.
And that is why, as he slowly sobered up, Sam doesn't know why he is outside a bar at two in the morning with blood streaming down his face, a local cop looking extremely unimpressed in front of him. A few meters away there is a crowd of other students, some also bloody, two other police officers are trying to calm them down even as fingers jab in Sam’s direction and voices become shrill.
He knows he is being blamed. And it doesn't look good. Sam is a head taller and a lot stronger than most other guys, and covered in blood and old scars, he probably looks like a demon. Not an actual demon, but close enough for the police woman in front of him.
“Officer! Officer!” The voice was unfamiliar, but steady and both the cop and Sam turn to look at the man that approached; brown hair is swept back, clothes smart and unlike Sam’s they are free of spilt beer and blood. Sam doesn't know him. Well, he doesn't think he knows him. Maybe he did. Something about that stance...
“Officer, I think you should go speak to the doorman, and the bar staff. Sammy was trying to break up that fight, he didn’t start it. He was standing up to those ass-hats.” The guy sounds... proud, his arm moving around to support Sam and that is when he realises he’s been swaying. “Let me take him home, get him cleaned up. Big Guy’s lost a bit of blood. You’ve got his name, and his address, right? Great.”
The next thing he knows is that his head doesn't ache so much anymore, and the noise of the bar and the crowd has faded into a distant murmur. They are almost back to his dorm, although Sam is sure he’s not given any directions.
“Who are you?” Sam asks, blinking at the amber eyes that focused on him. The stranger just laughs, patting Sam on the back with more strength than a guy that short should really possess.
“Just a friend, Sammy, just a friend. You’re a pretty awesome guy, you know that? Never grow out of that.” And then with a pat on Sam’s shoulder, the stranger opens the door to the dorm. He isn't there when Sam turns around to ask him up for coffee. It is probably for the best. He doesn't think a drunken fumble and a bar fight are the best ways to settle into a new college.
***
The moment the janitor greets them Sam knows he’s seen the man before. Not that face, not that... body, no. But he knows those eyes and grin and it is impossible somehow not to return it.
Sure there is a whole heap of weird stuff happening around here, a lot of really weird stuff and not over the course of year but... well, weeks really. Every town, every campus for that matter has its own host of stories and urban legends but nothing like this. Even so, Sam doesn't actually feel... worried. He wants his fucking laptop back (Dean refuses to admit he has it stashed somewhere) but he isn’t worried about his own safety, or Dean’s. Normally when they come across something like this, something new and unexplained and a little bit freaky, well there is that edge of concern, something that makes his heart beat a little quicker in his chest.
His heart is beating quicker now, sure, but not because of any sense of danger. It's that smile. The familiarity in the way the man looks at him and there is something, something in the back of Sam’s mind that jumps up and down for attention, something that he can't exactly remember and isn’t sure he wants to because it will distract him from the man in front of him.
When Dean says it was him, the janitor, it's like a stab of betrayal in his chest. The guy is a janitor, janitors aren’t monsters who make professors jump to their deaths or send alligators after people or make college boys hallucinate alien abductions. They just... wax the floors, fix the furnace and grin in a way that makes Sam feel sort of giddy. Like he is the only person worth paying any attention to.
Normally Dean is unbelievably smug when he is right. He normally wears the grin for days and days and delights in rubbing Sam’s face in it at every single opportunity. He doesn’t this time. Not for long anyway. Maybe it's because Bobby is with them and Bobby doesn’t put up with any of that shit. Maybe it's because Dean can sense that Sam is ashamed and unhappy and worse... it is like the bottom has just dropped out of his world. He doesn’t know why, or how, but he feels empty.
Or maybe Dean is just damn tired, too tired to tease his little brother. Stranger things have happened.
They check into a motel, haul their bags out of the car and that is when Dean announces he is going to a bar. Sam lets him go alone. All he wants to do is crash, curl himself in the tacky worn sheets and sleep until he forgets everything. Till he forgets about the stupid janitor with the stupid smile and stupid slow-dancing aliens. He’s killed people. It doesn’t matter if they deserved it, he isn't judge-jury-and-executioner. He has no right. But even so, even after all of that, there is still an ache in Sam’s chest that only seems to get worse with every breath he takes.
He doubts somehow that eight hours is really going to take all that away, but it is the only choice he has.
He doesn't think sleep will come at all, not tonight but he is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
He is in a clearing, surrounded by trees; tall, thick and as old as time. They lean in, peering at him, steaming in the sun after rain. Moss and lichen hang from branches, strings of bone turn on invisible line, knocking together in the wind like chimes. He would have been terrified, if it was real but it isn't, none of the details are right, the trees are hazy and no bones look like that. It is a dream, not real.
“Yes and no, kiddo. You’re remembering something that your soul saw a long time ago. That’s why it all seems a bit... crazy.”
He spins around, arms out to steady himself as the mud under his feet shifts but he doesn't fall. There, on a rocky table (an altar, his brain helpfully supplies) the Trickster sits, munching on another of those damn candy bars.
“You’re dead,” Sam says, but it doesn't come out as the accusation he expects. It seems more like a question.
“Not here. Like I said, Sammy, this is just a memory. I’m not dead or alive here, neither are you.” The short man stands then, sliding off the alter and for a moment there is the shadow of something else, some tall, stag-headed creature, blood-stained and terrifying, and then it is gone when the Trickster steps forward.
Sam doesn't step back. He doesn't want to. He isn’t frightened; he isn’t expecting to be attacked by some monster from a B-Movie. He feels... oddly safe. Those amber eyes are watching him, a smile on those lips, the candy bar gone.
“I’ve been looking after you for a while now, Sammy.”
“I know. The science project, the bar. That nest of witches in Georgia....”
The Trickster looks pleased, and maybe a hint of surprised. It is an expression that Sam can’t help but find attractive. Cute, even. But the Trickster has always been cute, even if Sam hasn’t ever recognised him.
He wants more of that surprise. So he pushes their mouths together, tasting chocolate and caramel. He expects surprise, not for the Trickster to raise the stakes and grab his ass. Not that he is sorry in the slightest.
Author: nileflood
Rating: PG-13
Pairing and/or Characters: Sam/Gabriel (as the Trickster), mentions of Dean and John, OMCs
Spoilers: N/A
Warnings: Mentions of gore
Word Count: 3320
Summary: The Trickster has known Sammy a long, long time. Longer than Sasquash could possibly remember. The kid's got a good soul though, and the Trickster can't help but keep an eye on him. Besides, he's sorta cute.
Notes: MANY HAPPY RETURNS OF THE DAY blackmagic661! I hope you enjoy this. Also many thanks to casness who was an excellent beta at very short notice. All remaining mistakes are my own. ♥ ♥ ♥
If you're lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you I'll be waiting
Time after time
The rain poured down, thick and fast. It was more a sheet of water falling continuously than individual drops falling from the heavens. Before long the figure is soaked to the skin, the fur thrown over his shoulders is sodden and so much heavier now, but it doesn’t change the way he stands, rooted to the ground like some great tree. Thicker droplets of water gathered and fell from his antlers or slide down and over the deer-skull that hides his face. In the shadows of the forest and the gloom, he’s a fearsome creature; some half-man half-beast, an unnatural, unholy spirit with evil intentions. The blood splattered up his bare chest and the mutilated corpse at his feet only proved it.
He doesn’t care if what he did was wicked.. A far more wicked soul received its retribution and now the demons of the underworld can deal with it for the rest of eternity.
The fur-cloaked figure raised an arm, wiped a splash of blood from his cheek, and felt something behind him. Nothing dangerous, but he wanted to be alone for this. The man that destroyed others deserved a terrifying and painful death, but no one needed to bear witness to it.
Especially not a boy; a lanky, human youngster. Everything about the child seemed to be brown. Brown tunic, tied with brown rope, brown hose, brown shoes caked with brown mud and the same brown dirt streaked across his cheeks. His eyes were wide, terrified, but yet the child did not move. He stood his ground, although the Trickster that it was fear that kept him there, not foolish bravado or desperation to save a life already sacrificed.
And in spite of that fear, because fear was a useful thing, the soul within was ageless and pure. But there was a shadow the Trickster could feel, could taste as bitter bile around that soul and he knew what it meant. Not in this lifetime perhaps, but this boy was destined for something. He immediately felt sorry for him. Fate was a horrible thing for a human to have to bear. Fate was a horrible thing for a human to have to bear, especially when it was a fate engineered by one of his Brothers.)
“Go home.”
That broke the spell, and the child was gone, running as fast as his gangly limbs will allow him. The Trickster sighed. Sooner or later, he supposed, he was going to have to... get involved.
***
“And that’s it, at least for today. Don’t forget, tomorrow you need to bring in your projects and deliver a five-minute presentation on them to the rest of the class. I hope you’re all finished.” Then the bell sounds, exactly on time but far too early for Sam’s liking. It is only 3pm, Dean will be out working, Dad will be tracking things, and that means eleven-year-old Sammy has to get himself home. Back to the motel, anyway. It isn’t home, but for the last month it has been, and probably will be for a while yet, considering John’s investigation seems to be going nowhere.
Sam... is happy. He is settling, staying put for a little while. He even manages to put together a science project. He finds an old fish-bowl, plants something in it. Dean has told him not to put real bugs in it, so he draws a little mouse and puts that inside as well, and he is going to talk about photosynthesis. He’s proud of it. It actually looks... good. Dean has even been careful with it, because it isn’t just a project. It stands for something.
John knows it too. He doesn’t make Sammy get the bus in that morning. He drives him, right up to the school gate, watching his youngest boy carry the bowl with exaggerated care. He looks... pleased. Not proud, exactly, but close. Not that Sam sees. He is too busy keeping his eye on the bowl and the stairs up to the front doors.
He is halfway to his locker when the shadows appear, darkening the floor behind him as the taller, older boys fall into step behind him. This... isn’t what he needs, not today. But that doesn’t stop the churning in his stomach. He has a choice. Ignore them and keep going and hope one of the teachers is about, or he can turn and face them. Neither thing is cowardly, he knows that but... but there’s only so far you can run. And he might not find a teacher. He might just get these bozos angry.
“Hi Jason,” he says, because that’s the middle guy, the only one he knows by name. He wishes he doesn’t know any of them at all. They’re not nice people. They’re not the sort of people who let an opportunity to hurt someone pass them by. Especially not the new kid, the smart new kid, one that’s thin and has stupid floppy hair and hasn’t had much of a growth spurt yet.
His brother isn’t around either, he’ll be out somewhere, chatting up some girl because Dean doesn’t care if he’s late to class, doesn’t care if he doesn’t turn up at all. But he’d be really useful about now.
Right now, in fact.
The glass bowl is knocked out of his hands as he’s forced against the wall of lockers, the solid hinges biting into Sam’s back and he can feel the thin fabric of his t-shirt snag and if he moves it’ll tear, and his dad will go nuts. They don’t have money to go out and buy new clothes whenever they feel like it, and Sam is painfully aware of it, almost as painfully aware of it as he is of the hand that has curled into his hair and tugged.
This is how it is. Every day. Maybe every other day if he is lucky. At every school in every town in every state. He doesn’t want to fight, and even if he does, it wouldn’t usually do any good. There is always more than one and so what if he can hit one person hard enough to make them let him go? The others will catch him and make his life even worse. It is best just to take it.
He closes his eyes though, as the hand in his hair yanks again, nostrils flaring as he braces himself. And braces himself some more. And then he cracks one eye open, just enough, just enough to see the three boys in front of him twisting their heads around to look at the man behind them.
Sam looks too. It isn't a teacher, but a man in sandy-grey overalls brandishing a crowbar, holding it in one hand and slapping it rhythmically into the open palm of the other. Sam watches the crowbar for a moment, just to make sure it isn’t going to be suddenly aimed at him, and then looks back to the man.
He isn’t a tall man. He isn’t even well built; he isn’t really any sort of man at all. You’d hardly look at him twice in the street. But at that moment Sam doesn’t think he's even seen anything more frightening, not even the thing his father pulled out of a grave when he taught them how to salt and burn. The man's face is too intent, his gaze unwavering and for a second, although he can’t tell why, he feels like he is in a forest, surrounded by trees and the man in front of him seems much larger, crimson dripping from his hands and his face hidden under the shadow of huge antlers, spread like hands imploring the heavens.
"Nothing good ever happens to bullies, boys." And then the image is gone. The hands holding him are gone too, Jason and his friends running as fast as their legs could carry them, faces paler than sheets.
Sam wants to run too, the snag of his shirt on the locker all but forgotten. His feet ignore him though, at least for the moment, as the man reaches down and picks up the goldfish bowl. It is unscathed although Sam doesn’t know how that is even possible; he's dropped it on the floor and it is glass; it should have shattered and littered the floor with dirt. But it hasn’t; the plant inside is unharmed and the little drawing of the mouse is there too, not even crumpled.
“I... I guess I should thank you,” Sam says, shaking his head as he looks down into the bowl, trying to work out if they are gone for good or if Jason and his friends will be back, tomorrow, angrier.
“No, you shouldn’t,” the man replies, and that makes Sam look up, surprised. People normally like to be thanked. He is meant to say please and thank you for everything. But the man, the janitor, Sam finally realises, continues without any regard for the manners Sam thought he should have. “Sam- that’s your name, right? - you got to stand up for yourself. You can’t just let these jerks walk all over you, capiche?”
“It doesn’t matter. They just come back. Or we move and it starts all over again. I don’t want to hit anyone....“
“Excuses, kiddo. Sometimes you have to fight. But fighting doesn’t always mean swinging punches, not for a smart guy like you,” the janitor says, “You’ve just got to learn how to defend yourself, Sammy. You’re special and these aren’t the only bullies you’ll ever meet, and there won’t always be someone, me or your brother or your dad to save your butt. Got to toughen up now.”
And with that the man leaves, whistling to himself as he heads down the corridor, the crowbar slung over his shoulder. Sam watches him go, hugging the fish bowl to his chest. The words are cryptic and his dad has long ago taught him that cryptic is never a good thing. But he doesn’t have time to chase after the man and question him, because at that moment the bell rings for first class and he has to run all the way to avoid being late. The appearance of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his bag probably don’t have anything to do with his rescue, but if he sees the janitor again, he will have to ask him about those too.
They move on again a week later. In the next town, the bullies try to follow him home, stalking him all the way back to the motel. They don’t follow him through the woods though, where the campers have been disappearing. They clearly don’t expect to see him in school the next day, alive and kicking and with all his limbs.
He doesn’t tell them that the night before his dad and big brother had killed the Jenu and sealed up its head in a tree. The bullying stops anyway.
***
The first week he is at Stanford, Sam gets amazingly, stupidly, fantastically drunk. Most of the other students do too. It’s traditional, according to someone in the bar who orders another beer the same time Sam is ordering his fifth... or sixth. It is hard to recall exactly how many he’s had before, if only because there have been shots in between and that is probably also the reason why Sam can’t exactly remember how the fight has started either.
Sam is a good boy. He doesn’t get into fights, he stops them. He doesn’t cause trouble, he gives people respect and it is Dean who has inherited the cocky-jerk genes and who likes a drink and is almost always spoiling for a fight. Dean doesn’t really need an excuse; he fights because he can, because he is frustrated, because the other guy is a douche, or because he is bored of hustling pool.
And that is why, as he slowly sobered up, Sam doesn't know why he is outside a bar at two in the morning with blood streaming down his face, a local cop looking extremely unimpressed in front of him. A few meters away there is a crowd of other students, some also bloody, two other police officers are trying to calm them down even as fingers jab in Sam’s direction and voices become shrill.
He knows he is being blamed. And it doesn't look good. Sam is a head taller and a lot stronger than most other guys, and covered in blood and old scars, he probably looks like a demon. Not an actual demon, but close enough for the police woman in front of him.
“Officer! Officer!” The voice was unfamiliar, but steady and both the cop and Sam turn to look at the man that approached; brown hair is swept back, clothes smart and unlike Sam’s they are free of spilt beer and blood. Sam doesn't know him. Well, he doesn't think he knows him. Maybe he did. Something about that stance...
“Officer, I think you should go speak to the doorman, and the bar staff. Sammy was trying to break up that fight, he didn’t start it. He was standing up to those ass-hats.” The guy sounds... proud, his arm moving around to support Sam and that is when he realises he’s been swaying. “Let me take him home, get him cleaned up. Big Guy’s lost a bit of blood. You’ve got his name, and his address, right? Great.”
The next thing he knows is that his head doesn't ache so much anymore, and the noise of the bar and the crowd has faded into a distant murmur. They are almost back to his dorm, although Sam is sure he’s not given any directions.
“Who are you?” Sam asks, blinking at the amber eyes that focused on him. The stranger just laughs, patting Sam on the back with more strength than a guy that short should really possess.
“Just a friend, Sammy, just a friend. You’re a pretty awesome guy, you know that? Never grow out of that.” And then with a pat on Sam’s shoulder, the stranger opens the door to the dorm. He isn't there when Sam turns around to ask him up for coffee. It is probably for the best. He doesn't think a drunken fumble and a bar fight are the best ways to settle into a new college.
***
The moment the janitor greets them Sam knows he’s seen the man before. Not that face, not that... body, no. But he knows those eyes and grin and it is impossible somehow not to return it.
Sure there is a whole heap of weird stuff happening around here, a lot of really weird stuff and not over the course of year but... well, weeks really. Every town, every campus for that matter has its own host of stories and urban legends but nothing like this. Even so, Sam doesn't actually feel... worried. He wants his fucking laptop back (Dean refuses to admit he has it stashed somewhere) but he isn’t worried about his own safety, or Dean’s. Normally when they come across something like this, something new and unexplained and a little bit freaky, well there is that edge of concern, something that makes his heart beat a little quicker in his chest.
His heart is beating quicker now, sure, but not because of any sense of danger. It's that smile. The familiarity in the way the man looks at him and there is something, something in the back of Sam’s mind that jumps up and down for attention, something that he can't exactly remember and isn’t sure he wants to because it will distract him from the man in front of him.
When Dean says it was him, the janitor, it's like a stab of betrayal in his chest. The guy is a janitor, janitors aren’t monsters who make professors jump to their deaths or send alligators after people or make college boys hallucinate alien abductions. They just... wax the floors, fix the furnace and grin in a way that makes Sam feel sort of giddy. Like he is the only person worth paying any attention to.
Normally Dean is unbelievably smug when he is right. He normally wears the grin for days and days and delights in rubbing Sam’s face in it at every single opportunity. He doesn’t this time. Not for long anyway. Maybe it's because Bobby is with them and Bobby doesn’t put up with any of that shit. Maybe it's because Dean can sense that Sam is ashamed and unhappy and worse... it is like the bottom has just dropped out of his world. He doesn’t know why, or how, but he feels empty.
Or maybe Dean is just damn tired, too tired to tease his little brother. Stranger things have happened.
They check into a motel, haul their bags out of the car and that is when Dean announces he is going to a bar. Sam lets him go alone. All he wants to do is crash, curl himself in the tacky worn sheets and sleep until he forgets everything. Till he forgets about the stupid janitor with the stupid smile and stupid slow-dancing aliens. He’s killed people. It doesn’t matter if they deserved it, he isn't judge-jury-and-executioner. He has no right. But even so, even after all of that, there is still an ache in Sam’s chest that only seems to get worse with every breath he takes.
He doubts somehow that eight hours is really going to take all that away, but it is the only choice he has.
He doesn't think sleep will come at all, not tonight but he is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
He is in a clearing, surrounded by trees; tall, thick and as old as time. They lean in, peering at him, steaming in the sun after rain. Moss and lichen hang from branches, strings of bone turn on invisible line, knocking together in the wind like chimes. He would have been terrified, if it was real but it isn't, none of the details are right, the trees are hazy and no bones look like that. It is a dream, not real.
“Yes and no, kiddo. You’re remembering something that your soul saw a long time ago. That’s why it all seems a bit... crazy.”
He spins around, arms out to steady himself as the mud under his feet shifts but he doesn't fall. There, on a rocky table (an altar, his brain helpfully supplies) the Trickster sits, munching on another of those damn candy bars.
“You’re dead,” Sam says, but it doesn't come out as the accusation he expects. It seems more like a question.
“Not here. Like I said, Sammy, this is just a memory. I’m not dead or alive here, neither are you.” The short man stands then, sliding off the alter and for a moment there is the shadow of something else, some tall, stag-headed creature, blood-stained and terrifying, and then it is gone when the Trickster steps forward.
Sam doesn't step back. He doesn't want to. He isn’t frightened; he isn’t expecting to be attacked by some monster from a B-Movie. He feels... oddly safe. Those amber eyes are watching him, a smile on those lips, the candy bar gone.
“I’ve been looking after you for a while now, Sammy.”
“I know. The science project, the bar. That nest of witches in Georgia....”
The Trickster looks pleased, and maybe a hint of surprised. It is an expression that Sam can’t help but find attractive. Cute, even. But the Trickster has always been cute, even if Sam hasn’t ever recognised him.
He wants more of that surprise. So he pushes their mouths together, tasting chocolate and caramel. He expects surprise, not for the Trickster to raise the stakes and grab his ass. Not that he is sorry in the slightest.