Untitled #10 (Gen, PG-13)
Title: Untitled #10
Rating: PG-13
Category: Gen oneshot
Word Count: 3618
Characters: Sam, Dean, OC
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Summary: There was more to Sam's gift than having the occasional vision.
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: Originally written April 22, 2007. Placed mid-season two as far as timeframe goes (in other words, before they kill the demon and after John dies). This is one of those fics I've been holding onto, hoping I'll come back and edit it properly and post it publicly because I really do like it, but as I watch the show take turns and move on, I'm realizing that this idea is becoming more and more obscure. So, I'm posting it now and posting it here, as I don't know when I'll be posting another fic--it could be a while. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
She has both of Sam’s hands in her own, and she traces the broad lines of his palm with her index finger, murmuring unintelligibly as she goes. Dean, from his slouched position against the refrigerator, watches carefully. They have no reason to trust her, but she’s one of their witnesses to a killing. So, even though Dean has seen enough curses from voodoo, and Sam hates the idea of fortunetellers since that time he was sixteen and a carnival woman told him that he would sleep beneath the flames of his love, they are here for answers about the murder.
This woman, though, has other answers for them.
She frowns and pulls her hands away from Sam’s, recoiling instead of a simple withdraw, and she says, “Kiddo, I’ve never been wrong before, but for your sake? Both of yours? I hope I am now.”
Sam glances over his shoulder to Dean, who’s narrowed his eyebrows in suspicion.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.
“Your future,” she tells him matter of factually. She sighs and looks away, curled fist brought to her mouth. Outside, her wind chime plays a hollow, worn song. “Promise me that you’ll clap only because it’s time. Not for anyone. Not for him when he asks. Promise me that.”
Sam replies, uncertainly, pitch breaking in his confusion so he speaks in more of a question, “I…I promise…”
She leans forward. “Not when he asks, remember that. Only for you.” She squeezes his hands together tightly, and a warm southern breeze sweeps through the kitchen. Against Sam’s neck, it feels cold.
- - - - -
They don’t talk about the woman. They solve the case and move on. Neither of them mentions it until the one night they go out and get too drunk to give a damn. The alcohol is a welcomed release, and they drink more than they should.
“What do you suppose she meant?” Sam asks, swirling his bottle to slosh the liquid inside. “That lady? About clapping.”
Dean finishes swallowing before he answers. “Probably nothing. She was a crazy old lady. Fuckin’ psychics, man. Pain in my ass.”
“Don’t clap, huh?” Sam says. Drunkenly, he looks down at his hands and claps them twice. The sound is barely heard above the commotion in the bar.
Dean laughs, slaps him on the shoulder and calls the bartender for another round. It’s the last they think about the woman and her words for Sam.
- - - - -
He gets a call on his cell phone in the middle of the night.
“Sam?” the voice says. It’s female, wavering and scared. He thinks it’s Ava, but he can’t be sure.
“Yeah?” he replies thickly with sleep still sticking to his tongue as he sits up in bed. “Who is this?”
“Sam?” the girl says again. There is the whistle of wind in the distance, and perhaps the murmur of faraway voices. He’s too tired to examine the noises.
“It’s Sam. Who is this? Are you okay?”
Dean’s awake now, propped up on his elbow and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s muttering something about not getting enough sleep, and Sam ignores him.
The air crackles and pops, and then the voice drops to a graveled tone. “He’s coming, Sam, he’s coming for you, and he hasn’t forgotten.” The line clicks off, and Sam pulls his phone away. He stares at the glowing screen with his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
- - - - -
In the mountains, way up north where America and Canada kiss a border that doesn’t really exist because no one really cares, they exorcise a woman. Young, blonde, looks too much like Jess.
She huffs out curses while Sam recites the Latin and Dean stands ready with a gun. When her head snaps back, she whispers menacingly to the ceiling, and Sam stops. He asks her what she said, and she laughs with a demon’s vocal cords.
“I said,” she repeats, craning her neck forward and baring her teeth, “that it doesn’t matter how many of us you kill now, Sammy, because it can’t change you. Can’t save you.”
Sam’s never hit a girl before, but Dean has. Dean, who backhands her across the face, threatens to shoot her right there. He doesn’t, of course, but he waves his gun at Sam to continue.
So Sam finishes the exorcism, and the monster leaves her. Blood gushes from a wound in her abdomen that was held off by the demon’s presence, and she dies tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere. They never even knew her name.
- - - - -
He wakes to the buzzing of his alarm, and he rolls out of bed, drops his feet to the floor and yawns heavily. The charred handprint on his pillow makes him freeze. His eyes snap open, and he sees that his sheets and clothing are nothing more than blackened shards of fabric.
When he hurries to Dean and shakes him awake, his hand burns a hole through the blanket on Dean’s shoulder. Sam holds back a scream as Dean lifts his head.
Frantically, madly, Sam reaches for the newspaper on the table. Just to see. Just to know. The paper bursts into flames before dissolving into silken black ashes that float slowly to the floor.
“Dean?” Sam whispers. “Dean, what’s happening?”
Wide-eyed and panicked, Dean’s absolute silence is more horrible than any answer he could ever give.
- - - - -
Dean buys him a pair of flame-retardant gloves. They’re black and thick, ugly and clumsy, but at least it keeps the world around them safe. Keeps Dean safe because Sam’s afraid of that one moment when he’ll reach for Dean and touch bare skin and burn his brother raw.
At a gas station where Dean tells Sam to wait in the car, Sam opens the door and swings his legs to the graveled ground. He peels one of his gloves off. Beneath, his skin is sticky, wrinkled pink, and he makes a fist then uncurls his fingers slowly. A cool wind sweeps across his palm. It’s the first air his hand has felt in days. He wonders if he’ll ever be normal or if he’ll only be able to touch life in these fleeting, stolen moments.
- - - - -
It calls him on the road. “We’re waiting for you, Sammy,” the demon hisses through the phone. “Going to come and join us with your new power now? Not much longer till you’re mine.”
He slaps the phone shut before it can continue, and Dean glances over from the driver’s seat. “Who was that?”
“It’s not going away, Dean. It wants me to join it.”
Dean swallows with a bob of his Adam’s apple. He scratches the back of his head and says something reassuring that Sam doesn’t hear. In the distance, the sun is setting like fire on the horizon.
- - - - -
They’re stopped at a roadside park with Dean eating lunch at the picnic table while Sam removes his gloves and paces in long strides. In between bites, Dean talks on about how Sam hasn’t turned evil yet and how that must mean something.
Somewhere during their conversation, Sam snaps his fingers. Innocently and not thinking. Fire darts up in a streak from his fingertips.
Dean curses and rises from the table. Wiping his hands off on his pants, he says, “Do it again.” Reluctantly, Sam does until Dean tells him, “See if you can catch it.”
“Catch it? You can’t catch fire.”
“I can’t, but maybe you can.” Dean crosses his arms and steps back.
On the next snap, Sam reaches up with his opposite hand and grabs the shooting flame. When he opens his fist, a small ball of fire flickers on his palm.
They both stare at the ball as Sam moves it from hand to hand, feeling nothing but a slight warmth on his skin. After he tosses it into the air, where it disappears on the wind, he looks back to Dean, who’s shaking his head.
“Maybe that old woman wasn’t so crazy after all,” Dean says.
“Yeah. Maybe,” Sam agrees.
- - - - -
Like everything else in his life, he learns to control the fire. With Dean by his side, Sam learns how to hold the flames, how to direct them and make them grow. He wears the gloves only when he must now. The rest of his time is spent juggling fire. Eventually, he gives up his guns and knives all together in trade for the flames.
While Dean sleeps one night, Sam goes out into the parking lot to practice. It takes him a few moments before he realizes that he is not alone.
“You’re doing an excellent job,” the man says, coming out of the shadows. “You’ve already learned to use it well. Once again, you amaze me, Sam.”
Sam steels himself. “What do you want?”
The man chuckles. “Why do you insist on asking such a question?” he asks playfully. “You know what I want. I want you to join me.” The man’s long black coat flaps in the night breeze as he circles Sam in slow steps. His shoes crunch over the gravel. “What do you say? The rest of them are already there. We’re just waiting for you, Sammy. You and your special gift.” He motions to Sam’s hands. “You could destroy cities with those, you know…What do you say?”
Sam bows his head. “All right,” he replies.
The man smiles under yellow eyes. “That’s my boy,” he whispers.
- - - - -
Sam wakes Dean when he returns to the room. He gives Dean the address that the man told him, and he tells Dean what he’s planning.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Dean hisses in the darkness.
Sam looks up from the bag he’s packing. It may be a long time before they will be able to rest after this. “Just trust me.”
Dean sighs heavily, shoulders sagging and he says, “God. I hope you’re right about all of this.”
- - - - -
At the top of a hill that overlooks the cluster of buildings where the demon and his soldiers have gathered, Dean parks the Impala and cuts the engine. The world is still dark, and Sam is certain all the monsters are sleeping soundly.
“Wait here,” he tells Dean as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
“Sam, hey-” Dean says, grabbing his shoulder. His fingers dig into Sam nervously. “What if…you’re going to come back, okay? Don’t get yourself killed being a martyr or some shit like that.”
“I’ll be back. Have the car ready. We’ve got to move fast after it starts. If they make it through the first blast, they’ll come looking for us.”
Dean doesn’t release his hold right away, and then, after a beat, he pats Sam on the back. Sam tries to ignore the way that Dean’s hand is shaking. “I’ll be right here,” Dean says.
“Wish me luck.”
Dean’s response is a weak, tight-lipped smile.
- - - - -
All the way down the hill, Sam’s boots slip through the dew-covered grass, and his breath rolls through the night air in hot clouds. He twitches his fingers nervously; his muscles jitter with adrenaline. Without his gloves, he feels free and dangerous. Uncontrollable.
He walks to the middle of the small cluster of cabins, and he listens. The only sound is the distant engine of the Impala that waits for his return. After this, he will run back up the hill to Dean, and then this will all be over for good.
When he rubs his hands together, he watches them glow orange beneath the skin. Sparks, tiny and harmless, fall from his palms.
Behind these closed doors, the soldiers sleep unknowingly. The demon’s soldiers who will show no pity to any human and kill all they meet. They are preparing for a battle between the worlds, but Sam is ending it now. Ending it tonight.
With a heavy breath, he looks to the night sky where the stars are watching, and he wonders if his parents can see him. He thinks of the old woman and smiles.
He claps his hands, once, and the world explodes into fire around him.
End
Rating: PG-13
Category: Gen oneshot
Word Count: 3618
Characters: Sam, Dean, OC
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Summary: There was more to Sam's gift than having the occasional vision.
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: Originally written April 22, 2007. Placed mid-season two as far as timeframe goes (in other words, before they kill the demon and after John dies). This is one of those fics I've been holding onto, hoping I'll come back and edit it properly and post it publicly because I really do like it, but as I watch the show take turns and move on, I'm realizing that this idea is becoming more and more obscure. So, I'm posting it now and posting it here, as I don't know when I'll be posting another fic--it could be a while. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
She has both of Sam’s hands in her own, and she traces the broad lines of his palm with her index finger, murmuring unintelligibly as she goes. Dean, from his slouched position against the refrigerator, watches carefully. They have no reason to trust her, but she’s one of their witnesses to a killing. So, even though Dean has seen enough curses from voodoo, and Sam hates the idea of fortunetellers since that time he was sixteen and a carnival woman told him that he would sleep beneath the flames of his love, they are here for answers about the murder.
This woman, though, has other answers for them.
She frowns and pulls her hands away from Sam’s, recoiling instead of a simple withdraw, and she says, “Kiddo, I’ve never been wrong before, but for your sake? Both of yours? I hope I am now.”
Sam glances over his shoulder to Dean, who’s narrowed his eyebrows in suspicion.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.
“Your future,” she tells him matter of factually. She sighs and looks away, curled fist brought to her mouth. Outside, her wind chime plays a hollow, worn song. “Promise me that you’ll clap only because it’s time. Not for anyone. Not for him when he asks. Promise me that.”
Sam replies, uncertainly, pitch breaking in his confusion so he speaks in more of a question, “I…I promise…”
She leans forward. “Not when he asks, remember that. Only for you.” She squeezes his hands together tightly, and a warm southern breeze sweeps through the kitchen. Against Sam’s neck, it feels cold.
- - - - -
They don’t talk about the woman. They solve the case and move on. Neither of them mentions it until the one night they go out and get too drunk to give a damn. The alcohol is a welcomed release, and they drink more than they should.
“What do you suppose she meant?” Sam asks, swirling his bottle to slosh the liquid inside. “That lady? About clapping.”
Dean finishes swallowing before he answers. “Probably nothing. She was a crazy old lady. Fuckin’ psychics, man. Pain in my ass.”
“Don’t clap, huh?” Sam says. Drunkenly, he looks down at his hands and claps them twice. The sound is barely heard above the commotion in the bar.
Dean laughs, slaps him on the shoulder and calls the bartender for another round. It’s the last they think about the woman and her words for Sam.
- - - - -
He gets a call on his cell phone in the middle of the night.
“Sam?” the voice says. It’s female, wavering and scared. He thinks it’s Ava, but he can’t be sure.
“Yeah?” he replies thickly with sleep still sticking to his tongue as he sits up in bed. “Who is this?”
“Sam?” the girl says again. There is the whistle of wind in the distance, and perhaps the murmur of faraway voices. He’s too tired to examine the noises.
“It’s Sam. Who is this? Are you okay?”
Dean’s awake now, propped up on his elbow and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s muttering something about not getting enough sleep, and Sam ignores him.
The air crackles and pops, and then the voice drops to a graveled tone. “He’s coming, Sam, he’s coming for you, and he hasn’t forgotten.” The line clicks off, and Sam pulls his phone away. He stares at the glowing screen with his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
- - - - -
In the mountains, way up north where America and Canada kiss a border that doesn’t really exist because no one really cares, they exorcise a woman. Young, blonde, looks too much like Jess.
She huffs out curses while Sam recites the Latin and Dean stands ready with a gun. When her head snaps back, she whispers menacingly to the ceiling, and Sam stops. He asks her what she said, and she laughs with a demon’s vocal cords.
“I said,” she repeats, craning her neck forward and baring her teeth, “that it doesn’t matter how many of us you kill now, Sammy, because it can’t change you. Can’t save you.”
Sam’s never hit a girl before, but Dean has. Dean, who backhands her across the face, threatens to shoot her right there. He doesn’t, of course, but he waves his gun at Sam to continue.
So Sam finishes the exorcism, and the monster leaves her. Blood gushes from a wound in her abdomen that was held off by the demon’s presence, and she dies tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere. They never even knew her name.
- - - - -
He wakes to the buzzing of his alarm, and he rolls out of bed, drops his feet to the floor and yawns heavily. The charred handprint on his pillow makes him freeze. His eyes snap open, and he sees that his sheets and clothing are nothing more than blackened shards of fabric.
When he hurries to Dean and shakes him awake, his hand burns a hole through the blanket on Dean’s shoulder. Sam holds back a scream as Dean lifts his head.
Frantically, madly, Sam reaches for the newspaper on the table. Just to see. Just to know. The paper bursts into flames before dissolving into silken black ashes that float slowly to the floor.
“Dean?” Sam whispers. “Dean, what’s happening?”
Wide-eyed and panicked, Dean’s absolute silence is more horrible than any answer he could ever give.
- - - - -
Dean buys him a pair of flame-retardant gloves. They’re black and thick, ugly and clumsy, but at least it keeps the world around them safe. Keeps Dean safe because Sam’s afraid of that one moment when he’ll reach for Dean and touch bare skin and burn his brother raw.
At a gas station where Dean tells Sam to wait in the car, Sam opens the door and swings his legs to the graveled ground. He peels one of his gloves off. Beneath, his skin is sticky, wrinkled pink, and he makes a fist then uncurls his fingers slowly. A cool wind sweeps across his palm. It’s the first air his hand has felt in days. He wonders if he’ll ever be normal or if he’ll only be able to touch life in these fleeting, stolen moments.
- - - - -
It calls him on the road. “We’re waiting for you, Sammy,” the demon hisses through the phone. “Going to come and join us with your new power now? Not much longer till you’re mine.”
He slaps the phone shut before it can continue, and Dean glances over from the driver’s seat. “Who was that?”
“It’s not going away, Dean. It wants me to join it.”
Dean swallows with a bob of his Adam’s apple. He scratches the back of his head and says something reassuring that Sam doesn’t hear. In the distance, the sun is setting like fire on the horizon.
- - - - -
They’re stopped at a roadside park with Dean eating lunch at the picnic table while Sam removes his gloves and paces in long strides. In between bites, Dean talks on about how Sam hasn’t turned evil yet and how that must mean something.
Somewhere during their conversation, Sam snaps his fingers. Innocently and not thinking. Fire darts up in a streak from his fingertips.
Dean curses and rises from the table. Wiping his hands off on his pants, he says, “Do it again.” Reluctantly, Sam does until Dean tells him, “See if you can catch it.”
“Catch it? You can’t catch fire.”
“I can’t, but maybe you can.” Dean crosses his arms and steps back.
On the next snap, Sam reaches up with his opposite hand and grabs the shooting flame. When he opens his fist, a small ball of fire flickers on his palm.
They both stare at the ball as Sam moves it from hand to hand, feeling nothing but a slight warmth on his skin. After he tosses it into the air, where it disappears on the wind, he looks back to Dean, who’s shaking his head.
“Maybe that old woman wasn’t so crazy after all,” Dean says.
“Yeah. Maybe,” Sam agrees.
- - - - -
Like everything else in his life, he learns to control the fire. With Dean by his side, Sam learns how to hold the flames, how to direct them and make them grow. He wears the gloves only when he must now. The rest of his time is spent juggling fire. Eventually, he gives up his guns and knives all together in trade for the flames.
While Dean sleeps one night, Sam goes out into the parking lot to practice. It takes him a few moments before he realizes that he is not alone.
“You’re doing an excellent job,” the man says, coming out of the shadows. “You’ve already learned to use it well. Once again, you amaze me, Sam.”
Sam steels himself. “What do you want?”
The man chuckles. “Why do you insist on asking such a question?” he asks playfully. “You know what I want. I want you to join me.” The man’s long black coat flaps in the night breeze as he circles Sam in slow steps. His shoes crunch over the gravel. “What do you say? The rest of them are already there. We’re just waiting for you, Sammy. You and your special gift.” He motions to Sam’s hands. “You could destroy cities with those, you know…What do you say?”
Sam bows his head. “All right,” he replies.
The man smiles under yellow eyes. “That’s my boy,” he whispers.
- - - - -
Sam wakes Dean when he returns to the room. He gives Dean the address that the man told him, and he tells Dean what he’s planning.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Dean hisses in the darkness.
Sam looks up from the bag he’s packing. It may be a long time before they will be able to rest after this. “Just trust me.”
Dean sighs heavily, shoulders sagging and he says, “God. I hope you’re right about all of this.”
- - - - -
At the top of a hill that overlooks the cluster of buildings where the demon and his soldiers have gathered, Dean parks the Impala and cuts the engine. The world is still dark, and Sam is certain all the monsters are sleeping soundly.
“Wait here,” he tells Dean as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
“Sam, hey-” Dean says, grabbing his shoulder. His fingers dig into Sam nervously. “What if…you’re going to come back, okay? Don’t get yourself killed being a martyr or some shit like that.”
“I’ll be back. Have the car ready. We’ve got to move fast after it starts. If they make it through the first blast, they’ll come looking for us.”
Dean doesn’t release his hold right away, and then, after a beat, he pats Sam on the back. Sam tries to ignore the way that Dean’s hand is shaking. “I’ll be right here,” Dean says.
“Wish me luck.”
Dean’s response is a weak, tight-lipped smile.
- - - - -
All the way down the hill, Sam’s boots slip through the dew-covered grass, and his breath rolls through the night air in hot clouds. He twitches his fingers nervously; his muscles jitter with adrenaline. Without his gloves, he feels free and dangerous. Uncontrollable.
He walks to the middle of the small cluster of cabins, and he listens. The only sound is the distant engine of the Impala that waits for his return. After this, he will run back up the hill to Dean, and then this will all be over for good.
When he rubs his hands together, he watches them glow orange beneath the skin. Sparks, tiny and harmless, fall from his palms.
Behind these closed doors, the soldiers sleep unknowingly. The demon’s soldiers who will show no pity to any human and kill all they meet. They are preparing for a battle between the worlds, but Sam is ending it now. Ending it tonight.
With a heavy breath, he looks to the night sky where the stars are watching, and he wonders if his parents can see him. He thinks of the old woman and smiles.
He claps his hands, once, and the world explodes into fire around him.
End