It had been a moment of triumph for Sam when his brother had realized that he couldn’t call the youngest Winchester shrimp anymore. When Sam beat Dean in a race for the first time ever, he’d decided that being tall was going to bring great things. The weird ache in his knees that kept him awake at night didn’t matter so much anymore and his constant craving for milk could be ignored because he was finally, finally going to be as good as Dean.
Now though, Sam was ninety percent sure that outrunning his older brother was going to be the greatest accomplishment in his life since it was going to be hard to top that in the next hour or so before his dad returned to the apartment and killed him. Sam could practically smell the smoke rising off of his bones, smoldering in a field somewhere.
No, he really couldn’t see his dad understanding that his hunting notes had been destroyed - notes acquired through hours of painstaking research - all because his son had grown too tall too fast. Sam closed his eyes as the fatal moment reverberated around his head. He’d gone to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of juice, walked by the table and then tripped. His brain was happy to replay the splash of the flying orange juice replayed itself in one glorious encore after another as Sam dabbed frantically at the notes with his shirt, trying to stop the ink from smearing further and spread the sheets out to dry. The end result was still legible, though visibly juice-logged.
There was nothing else for it though. Dad would never believe that the table was possessed and forced Sam to spill the juice, so Sam would wait and take whatever punishment his dad doled out like a man, like Dean.
He sat at the table, minutes seemingly taking hours to pass, virtually wringing his hands over the what-if scenarios as his mind happily supplied some truly gruesome thoughts so much worse than just destroying the notes for a hunt. After all, Sam had been stumbling over anything and everything lately, especially his own two overgrown feet.
Dear God, if he did that on a hunt…Sam cringed just thinking over the possibilities. He could be holding the gun loaded with rock salt, ready to fire at the spirit, and then trip over a tree root and miss. Or he could stumble on a grave marker. The gun would go off and he’d hit his dad or worse, Dean. It might not even be salt shells, the gun could be loaded with iron bullets or silver, both of which were very lethal to several beings, a category which would include his own family. His stupid feet were going to end up being more dangerous and unpredictable than anything they hunted.
The click of the door being unlocked shook Sam out of his morbid thoughts and the sound boots squeaking on the cheap linoleum heralded John Winchester's entrance. He had to act now, before Dad saw the mess and all chance of Sam telling his side of the story flew out the window.
“Sir,” Sam stood, squaring his shoulders, took a deep breath and launched into his explanation, “I’m sorry but Ikindaaccidentallyspilled-”
“Whoa there,” John cut off his speech, “Slow it down Sammy.” His dad’s gaze drifted down, landing on the soggy papers lying on the kitchen table. “This your doing?”
Sam swallowed nervously and focused on a point right above his dad’s shoulder so that he could avoid the anger that would undoubtedly be simmering in his dad’s eyes. He gave a small nod.
“I-I tripped," Sam admitted, hanging his head.
John mumbled something. To Sam it sounded like he’d said, “Head getting so far away it don’t know where the feet are.” His dad picked up the damaged papers and skimmed over them. “Well, they’re mostly intact. I’ll just recopy the worst of them.”
“I can do that, sir.” Sam offered, still not meeting his dad’s eyes. He screwed up important information about the hunt and his dad had to be at least a little mad. Contrary to his expectations though, his dad sighed. “These things happen, Sam.”
It dawned on Sam that maybe he wasn’t in as much trouble as he thought he’d be, so he looked up. Weirdly, his dad was smiling. “Sammy, I get it. We’ve all been through this. You’re going to be clumsy until you get used to your body. No harm, no foul.”
“But,” Sam refused to believe that he was off the hook that easily and gave voice to some of his earlier fears. “What if I tripped while we were on a hunt?” Didn’t his dad understand?
“Sam…” John started, but Sam turned around, refusing to let his dad see the tears of frustration that were starting to crowd his vision. Bad enough that he was a clumsy oaf, he wasn’t going to be a baby about it too.
His voice rose and cracked. “Dad! I could give away our position! I could trip and shoot you or Dean! I could-”
“Samuel Winchester,” John cut him off, gripping his son’s shoulders and turning Sam to face him, “Sam. You listen close, because I am only going to say this once. I trust you and do not think for one moment that I would ever let you come on a hunt if you were going to endanger me or Dean.”
“But Dad,” Sam protested.
John firmed his grip, refusing to let his son break eye contact. “I trust you Sam. D’you hear me?”
Sam nodded. “Yes, sir,” he responded quietly.
“Good.” John said. “Now, are we done with this? Because I found a nice trail through the woods. It’ll give you good practice not tripping.”
“Daad.” Sam groaned. More PT was not the solution to everything.
“Well?” John was smiling, almost playfully, “Are you saying that you can’t beat an old man in measly little race?”
“No sir,” Sam grinned in return, already lacing up his shoes.
It had been a moment of triumph for Sam when his brother had realized that he couldn’t call the youngest Winchester shrimp anymore. When Sam beat Dean in a race for the first time ever, he’d decided that being tall was going to bring great things. The weird ache in his knees that kept him awake at night didn’t matter so much anymore and his constant craving for milk could be ignored because he was finally, finally going to be as good as Dean.
Now though, Sam was ninety percent sure that outrunning his older brother was going to be the greatest accomplishment in his life since it was going to be hard to top that in the next hour or so before his dad returned to the apartment and killed him. Sam could practically smell the smoke rising off of his bones, smoldering in a field somewhere.
No, he really couldn’t see his dad understanding that his hunting notes had been destroyed - notes acquired through hours of painstaking research - all because his son had grown too tall too fast. Sam closed his eyes as the fatal moment reverberated around his head. He’d gone to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of juice, walked by the table and then tripped. His brain was happy to replay the splash of the flying orange juice replayed itself in one glorious encore after another as Sam dabbed frantically at the notes with his shirt, trying to stop the ink from smearing further and spread the sheets out to dry. The end result was still legible, though visibly juice-logged.
There was nothing else for it though. Dad would never believe that the table was possessed and forced Sam to spill the juice, so Sam would wait and take whatever punishment his dad doled out like a man, like Dean.
He sat at the table, minutes seemingly taking hours to pass, virtually wringing his hands over the what-if scenarios as his mind happily supplied some truly gruesome thoughts so much worse than just destroying the notes for a hunt. After all, Sam had been stumbling over anything and everything lately, especially his own two overgrown feet.
Dear God, if he did that on a hunt…Sam cringed just thinking over the possibilities. He could be holding the gun loaded with rock salt, ready to fire at the spirit, and then trip over a tree root and miss. Or he could stumble on a grave marker. The gun would go off and he’d hit his dad or worse, Dean. It might not even be salt shells, the gun could be loaded with iron bullets or silver, both of which were very lethal to several beings, a category which would include his own family. His stupid feet were going to end up being more dangerous and unpredictable than anything they hunted.
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The click of the door being unlocked shook Sam out of his morbid thoughts and the sound boots squeaking on the cheap linoleum heralded John Winchester's entrance. He had to act now, before Dad saw the mess and all chance of Sam telling his side of the story flew out the window.
“Sir,” Sam stood, squaring his shoulders, took a deep breath and launched into his explanation, “I’m sorry but Ikindaaccidentallyspilled-”
“Whoa there,” John cut off his speech, “Slow it down Sammy.” His dad’s gaze drifted down, landing on the soggy papers lying on the kitchen table. “This your doing?”
Sam swallowed nervously and focused on a point right above his dad’s shoulder so that he could avoid the anger that would undoubtedly be simmering in his dad’s eyes. He gave a small nod.
“I-I tripped," Sam admitted, hanging his head.
John mumbled something. To Sam it sounded like he’d said, “Head getting so far away it don’t know where the feet are.”
His dad picked up the damaged papers and skimmed over them. “Well, they’re mostly intact. I’ll just recopy the worst of them.”
“I can do that, sir.” Sam offered, still not meeting his dad’s eyes. He screwed up important information about the hunt and his dad had to be at least a little mad. Contrary to his expectations though, his dad sighed. “These things happen, Sam.”
It dawned on Sam that maybe he wasn’t in as much trouble as he thought he’d be, so he looked up. Weirdly, his dad was smiling. “Sammy, I get it. We’ve all been through this. You’re going to be clumsy until you get used to your body. No harm, no foul.”
“But,” Sam refused to believe that he was off the hook that easily and gave voice to some of his earlier fears. “What if I tripped while we were on a hunt?” Didn’t his dad understand?
“Sam…” John started, but Sam turned around, refusing to let his dad see the tears of frustration that were starting to crowd his vision. Bad enough that he was a clumsy oaf, he wasn’t going to be a baby about it too.
His voice rose and cracked. “Dad! I could give away our position! I could trip and shoot you or Dean! I could-”
“Samuel Winchester,” John cut him off, gripping his son’s shoulders and turning Sam to face him, “Sam. You listen close, because I am only going to say this once. I trust you and do not think for one moment that I would ever let you come on a hunt if you were going to endanger me or Dean.”
“But Dad,” Sam protested.
John firmed his grip, refusing to let his son break eye contact. “I trust you Sam. D’you hear me?”
Sam nodded. “Yes, sir,” he responded quietly.
“Good.” John said. “Now, are we done with this? Because I found a nice trail through the woods. It’ll give you good practice not tripping.”
“Daad.” Sam groaned. More PT was not the solution to everything.
“Well?” John was smiling, almost playfully, “Are you saying that you can’t beat an old man in measly little race?”
“No sir,” Sam grinned in return, already lacing up his shoes.
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