Special, 3/? (Phew!)
This chapter came perilously close to being eaten by Microsoft Word. You know that sinking feel when you try to open something important and you get 'this file cannot be read. Ha ha'? I got that. Thank god for double backup, and my OCD grad-student habits.
Title: Special, 3/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Pastor Jim.
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: How Sam met Pastor Jim. Somewhat AU in terms of power revelations.
For the briefest of moments, Dad actually looked taken aback. Then he pulled Sam inside roughly by the arm and slammed the door behind them. Sam yelped like it hurt more than it did, and rubbed his arm, glaring.
“You are not to listen in,” his father told him.
“Bullshit,” snapped Sam. “You were talking about me. Whatever the hell is going on, I have a right to know.”
“Do not take that tone with me, Samuel,” Dad said dangerously. “I’m doing what I have to in order to protect you boys. Everything I am doing is to keep you safe, and find the demon. If you need to know something, I will tell you. Otherwise, you will do as you’re told without answering back. Consider this your warning.” They held each other’s eyes for a moment, Sam feeling his cheeks heat up with anger and humiliation. He wanted to hit something. Dad, maybe. The thought stole his breath.
“Guys,” said Dean nervously.
“Be quiet Dean,” Dad said shortly, and Dean immediately fell silent.
“Go to bed,” Dad said to Sam. “Actually, no. Go and sit in the car and cool down. Come back when you’re ready to act like an adult.” He tossed Sam the keys, and Sam caught them on a reflex motion. He very briefly considered taking the car and leaving. That thought ended as abruptly as it had begun. He didn’t even have a fake driver’s license. Where exactly would he go? He had no supplies. Plus, whilst Dad could go to hell, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do to that to his brother. Instead he just turned on his heel and stormed out, surprised to hear what sounded like a sigh from his father behind him.
In the parking lot, the Impala gleamed silently in the late evening sun, contained and impressive amongst the beat-up 4x4s and long haul trucks. Instead of calming him, its serenity pushed his banked anger up a notch, and before he could stop himself, he hurled the ring of keys in an overarm throw towards her shining hood. He put all his strength into the motion, and the second they left his hand he was overcome with horror. He saw it in his mind's eye - metal crashing on metal, the uneven surface of the keys scraping her all to hell with an ear-splitting noise, sliding down the panel leaving great white gouges in their wake. A small noise of horror escaped him. And then -
- something surged up in him, violent and overwhelming. Looking back he would describe it as a wave, but that wasn’t accurate, there was nothing in his experience to compare it to. Whatever it was reached from him, and the course of the keys, and the course of his young life changed abruptly in the same jerking motion.
Instead of colliding with metal, the ring of keys swerved impossibly in its midair trajectory, sharply left, avoided the car and dropped harmlessly to the concreted ground at the side of the vehicle. The clatter of metal on concrete pierced the haze that had seized him, and Sam stumbled abruptly forwards, putting a hand on the untouched hood to steady himself. The rush of - something - had left him, leaving him with the feeling of losing a massive adrenalin high, sick and a little breathless, unsteady. He glanced around in panic, sure that somebody must have seen that. But the parking lot was deserted, and the windows of the motel had their blinds pulled or lights off, every patron absorbed by their private miseries or excitements. It was something he’d learned a long time ago, he reminded himself. Fooling civilians was easy because, not knowing the stakes of things, they were typically consumed with their own little problems and imaginary worlds of stability. He breathed, reached down and picked up the keys. Unlocked the car with shaking fingers.
Sinking into the shotgun seat, Sam lowered his head into his hands and tried to calm to pounding of his heart. What exactly had just happened? It felt like he’d somehow diverted the keys through the force of his desperation. But that couldn’t have happened. Could it? ‘Most people would say the same about demons in nurseries’, his ruthlessly logical brain insisted. But. Those were demons. He was a human. A person. Humans couldn’t do that sort of thing. ‘No humans you’ve ever met…….never met a Wendigo either, but they exist….’. Absolutely not. He’d come to his senses at the last second before he released the keys, and changed the angle of his throw so that they hit the concrete and not the car. Right. Of course. That was the only thing which possibly could have happened. The rest was just - imagination. And anger. Self-delusion had never been Sam’s strong point.
But he could work on it.
Breathing, he leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out, surprised to realize he would have to lever the seat back to fully extend them. He let his thoughts drift, but not too far, limiting himself to innocuous topics, replaying dialogue from Great Expectations in his head in English accents. He’d always had a good memory for words. A rap at the window made him jump, and he startled to realize two things - night had fallen, and his brother was standing outside the car, leaning over to scowl at him. Sam reached across and unlocked the driver’s door. Dean came around and got in with much noise and performance, placing his hands on the steering wheel like he was going somewhere.
“So...” he said finally.
“So.” Sam wasn’t about to make it easy. Part of him urged, ‘tell him!’, scared this new thing shouldn’t be kept to himself, that any attempt to do so would come back and bite him in the ass royally. ‘What thing?’ he told himself sternly, using the voice that sounded like Dean at his most intractable: ‘There is no thing. We discussed this. You changed the angle of the throw. Shut up’.
“You sleeping out here dude?” said the real Dean.
“Yes.”
Dean snorted. “Seriously, come back in.”
“I’m not talking to him.”
Dean stared at him incredulously. Sam made a face. Okay, that had been kind of lame.
“Just….oh my God, Dean, how can you always put up with his bullshit?!”
Pause.
“It isn’t bullshit,” Dean said. “It’s true. What he said. He tells us everything that’s safe for us to know.”
“What were you saying about me?” Sam demanded.
“Jesus,” Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Nothing. Just…he’s worried about you.”
Sam gave a short, ironic laugh.
“You can’t see it,” Dean insisted, “but he is. Even you got to admit that you’ve been acting like a thirteen-year-old girl at an Anne Rice convention.”
“Maybe if I could sleep better I wouldn’t,” Sam said bitterly.
There was a long pause.
“D’you wanna…talk - about it?” Dean sounded like it physically pained him. Sam slid a glance across at him. His brother was actually blushing. One advantage Sam held over his fair-skinned sibling was that on the rare occasions that Dean blushed, it was cringe-inducingly obvious. Sam laughed. Dean glared, but then he laughed too.
“There’s a figure,” Sam said and sighed. “I dream about some kind of figure.” Something flitted over Dean’s face very fast. He covered it.
“A figure?” he asked casually.
“Don’t ask me anything else about it. I don’t remember. Could be freakin Santa Claus for all I know.”
“Or a clown.”
“It’s not a clown,” Sam glared. “But - no. That’s it.” He shrugged. “Not exactly enough to open a case file.”
There was a longer pause. Then Dean said,
“Come back in the room.”
And Sam did, handing the keys over.
Part Four
Title: Special, 3/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Pastor Jim.
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: How Sam met Pastor Jim. Somewhat AU in terms of power revelations.
For the briefest of moments, Dad actually looked taken aback. Then he pulled Sam inside roughly by the arm and slammed the door behind them. Sam yelped like it hurt more than it did, and rubbed his arm, glaring.
“You are not to listen in,” his father told him.
“Bullshit,” snapped Sam. “You were talking about me. Whatever the hell is going on, I have a right to know.”
“Do not take that tone with me, Samuel,” Dad said dangerously. “I’m doing what I have to in order to protect you boys. Everything I am doing is to keep you safe, and find the demon. If you need to know something, I will tell you. Otherwise, you will do as you’re told without answering back. Consider this your warning.” They held each other’s eyes for a moment, Sam feeling his cheeks heat up with anger and humiliation. He wanted to hit something. Dad, maybe. The thought stole his breath.
“Guys,” said Dean nervously.
“Be quiet Dean,” Dad said shortly, and Dean immediately fell silent.
“Go to bed,” Dad said to Sam. “Actually, no. Go and sit in the car and cool down. Come back when you’re ready to act like an adult.” He tossed Sam the keys, and Sam caught them on a reflex motion. He very briefly considered taking the car and leaving. That thought ended as abruptly as it had begun. He didn’t even have a fake driver’s license. Where exactly would he go? He had no supplies. Plus, whilst Dad could go to hell, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do to that to his brother. Instead he just turned on his heel and stormed out, surprised to hear what sounded like a sigh from his father behind him.
In the parking lot, the Impala gleamed silently in the late evening sun, contained and impressive amongst the beat-up 4x4s and long haul trucks. Instead of calming him, its serenity pushed his banked anger up a notch, and before he could stop himself, he hurled the ring of keys in an overarm throw towards her shining hood. He put all his strength into the motion, and the second they left his hand he was overcome with horror. He saw it in his mind's eye - metal crashing on metal, the uneven surface of the keys scraping her all to hell with an ear-splitting noise, sliding down the panel leaving great white gouges in their wake. A small noise of horror escaped him. And then -
- something surged up in him, violent and overwhelming. Looking back he would describe it as a wave, but that wasn’t accurate, there was nothing in his experience to compare it to. Whatever it was reached from him, and the course of the keys, and the course of his young life changed abruptly in the same jerking motion.
Instead of colliding with metal, the ring of keys swerved impossibly in its midair trajectory, sharply left, avoided the car and dropped harmlessly to the concreted ground at the side of the vehicle. The clatter of metal on concrete pierced the haze that had seized him, and Sam stumbled abruptly forwards, putting a hand on the untouched hood to steady himself. The rush of - something - had left him, leaving him with the feeling of losing a massive adrenalin high, sick and a little breathless, unsteady. He glanced around in panic, sure that somebody must have seen that. But the parking lot was deserted, and the windows of the motel had their blinds pulled or lights off, every patron absorbed by their private miseries or excitements. It was something he’d learned a long time ago, he reminded himself. Fooling civilians was easy because, not knowing the stakes of things, they were typically consumed with their own little problems and imaginary worlds of stability. He breathed, reached down and picked up the keys. Unlocked the car with shaking fingers.
Sinking into the shotgun seat, Sam lowered his head into his hands and tried to calm to pounding of his heart. What exactly had just happened? It felt like he’d somehow diverted the keys through the force of his desperation. But that couldn’t have happened. Could it? ‘Most people would say the same about demons in nurseries’, his ruthlessly logical brain insisted. But. Those were demons. He was a human. A person. Humans couldn’t do that sort of thing. ‘No humans you’ve ever met…….never met a Wendigo either, but they exist….’. Absolutely not. He’d come to his senses at the last second before he released the keys, and changed the angle of his throw so that they hit the concrete and not the car. Right. Of course. That was the only thing which possibly could have happened. The rest was just - imagination. And anger. Self-delusion had never been Sam’s strong point.
But he could work on it.
Breathing, he leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out, surprised to realize he would have to lever the seat back to fully extend them. He let his thoughts drift, but not too far, limiting himself to innocuous topics, replaying dialogue from Great Expectations in his head in English accents. He’d always had a good memory for words. A rap at the window made him jump, and he startled to realize two things - night had fallen, and his brother was standing outside the car, leaning over to scowl at him. Sam reached across and unlocked the driver’s door. Dean came around and got in with much noise and performance, placing his hands on the steering wheel like he was going somewhere.
“So...” he said finally.
“So.” Sam wasn’t about to make it easy. Part of him urged, ‘tell him!’, scared this new thing shouldn’t be kept to himself, that any attempt to do so would come back and bite him in the ass royally. ‘What thing?’ he told himself sternly, using the voice that sounded like Dean at his most intractable: ‘There is no thing. We discussed this. You changed the angle of the throw. Shut up’.
“You sleeping out here dude?” said the real Dean.
“Yes.”
Dean snorted. “Seriously, come back in.”
“I’m not talking to him.”
Dean stared at him incredulously. Sam made a face. Okay, that had been kind of lame.
“Just….oh my God, Dean, how can you always put up with his bullshit?!”
Pause.
“It isn’t bullshit,” Dean said. “It’s true. What he said. He tells us everything that’s safe for us to know.”
“What were you saying about me?” Sam demanded.
“Jesus,” Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Nothing. Just…he’s worried about you.”
Sam gave a short, ironic laugh.
“You can’t see it,” Dean insisted, “but he is. Even you got to admit that you’ve been acting like a thirteen-year-old girl at an Anne Rice convention.”
“Maybe if I could sleep better I wouldn’t,” Sam said bitterly.
There was a long pause.
“D’you wanna…talk - about it?” Dean sounded like it physically pained him. Sam slid a glance across at him. His brother was actually blushing. One advantage Sam held over his fair-skinned sibling was that on the rare occasions that Dean blushed, it was cringe-inducingly obvious. Sam laughed. Dean glared, but then he laughed too.
“There’s a figure,” Sam said and sighed. “I dream about some kind of figure.” Something flitted over Dean’s face very fast. He covered it.
“A figure?” he asked casually.
“Don’t ask me anything else about it. I don’t remember. Could be freakin Santa Claus for all I know.”
“Or a clown.”
“It’s not a clown,” Sam glared. “But - no. That’s it.” He shrugged. “Not exactly enough to open a case file.”
There was a longer pause. Then Dean said,
“Come back in the room.”
And Sam did, handing the keys over.
Part Four