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.
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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