OhSam Triple Play 2016!
It's November 2, an auspicious (if ominous) day for our darling Sam, so to herald his introduction to The Red Stuff, let's revisit an annual tradition. Welcome to the OhSam Triple Play 2016! This year, we're offering a focus on a reoccurring theme in Sam's life: blood"Blood" could be interpreted in many ways. Family don't end with blood. The demon
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Genre: horror-ish
Warning: suicidal ideation
Sam's been dead for thirty years when they find themselves in the cellar. Or that's what it feels like, with the stutter of Dean's heart and John's faint Jack-breath and the way they know, know, that time has missed them somehow, that the spell that burnt them blind had brought them to this place where--
there was a note on the table of the cabin, Sam-spiderhand, wet prints away across piney boards, away into the blackjack wood, and scraps and cuts and gobbets of bright, bright--
blood.
"He wouldn't," Dean said. He doesn't want to get away that bad.
John didn't answer, then--
"Dean!"
The first flash caught them dead in the denial, walked them back a decade without any loss of years, or sweat, or scent; tears.
"Dad!"
John's hand came down on Dean's head, and they ducked, found themselves crouched in a wet-clay hole, rough roots stabbing and scratching at their leathers, their damp flannels.
"What was that?"
" I don't--" John said, "are you hurt?"
Dean grappled for his father's coat.
"How do we--"
John's hand went wide and knocked bones, animal and human, infant and grown; cup-skull of a coyote, the stub-stalk of a phalanx.
Dean's coughed up his brother's name.
The next flash took another decade.
Another ripped them from earth and caged them, in the root-cellar where all the bodies had gone to beetle and blowdown and time. The soursop scent of the dead.
The bruja called out to them, mocked them weaponless and mad:
Why couldn't you let me eat.
Why couldn't you have left me to my bones.
Die here, with all the fathers and children.
*
The death-scent simmers all night and all night and all year a tracheal rattle out of the pine and the days lie down in despair.
Dean strips time, bark-like, in his sleep.
John fingers his pages, his failed fetishes, his fire.
"He's gonna get us out," Dean says.
It can't be all these years.
"He's dead," says John, and Dean sees, first time in all of his twenty, his fifty, how dug-in his father's sorrow is, how deep.
*
Dean's fetal, his hands almost in his father's hair, when the witch-fire scorches from above.
There's a baby-bird scrabbling, and a flight, and a pounding.
"Dean!"
Dean leaps, scrambles to pull--
"Sam!"
"Dad!"
Sam tumbles down in the dark; trails dawn after and terpene and power.
Sam pulls Dean up into day.
"How long--" Sam says, and watches his father blink awake, catch hard at his own arm.
"She's dead, " Sam says.
Dean's hand flattens to his brother's ribs.
Dean traces the singletrack, blood between his brother's eyes.
He has needles in his hair.
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What do you like best in a Sam fic? ( :
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tbh all I read are Sam fics. I love a dark fic, maybe horror, and definitely hurt!Sam, or altered Sam. Just give Sam a lot of misery, I say. And protective Dean is important. I tend to lean towards pre-series :) What do you tend to go for with fic?
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Fic I like: I'll give almost anything a try, esp. if the writing is intriguing. But Sam-fic and h/c, definitely favorites. I'm much more comfortable writing Sam than Dean, but I love both bros and definitely want protective Dean, all the protective Dean. I've never written pre-series, but I like to read it. (Other things I like: gencest, dark-ish, horror-ish, broody casefic, poetic business, straight-up caretaking, slice-of-life, strong sense of place, female characters and non-human characters, angst, ambiguity.) I need to read all your Sam-fic!
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