Spn Fic: Running Away From Home, 1/?
I think this fic will fall into 4 parts, not entirely sure yet.
Title: Running Away from Home
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG for this part.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: I always get the feeling Stanford wasn’t Sam’s first escape attempt.
The first time Sammy ran away, he was six (and one month, with a reading age of eleven). It wasn’t ‘running away from home’, like in an after school special, because home was the car and his family inside it were always running anyway. Running from: child services, people who wanted money, and scarier things they wouldn’t tell him about. Dean knew, because Dean was the favorite. Sammy was well aware they kept secrets from him. He knew Dad had a gun. He knew what a ‘mission’ was, like on Thundercats or Power Rangers. Only sometimes Dad acted like the bad guy.
The secrets were do with where Dad went, why he left them alone, why they didn’t have a house or stay in a school or have chicken and gravy for dinner. Why they got clothes from the Goodwill stores or once from somebody’s clothesline. Sammy talked to other kids and read books and sometimes he talked to teachers so he knew their lives were not normal. Just because Dean loved the car, and liked sleeping in it better than sleeping in beds, didn’t make it a proper house. Dean liked to keep sweets and crayons and socks in the pockets on the back of the front seats, or stuff them into ashtrays, and sometimes he used blankets to make dens on the backseat. Sam liked the dens - they were warm and smelled familiar - but it wasn’t the same as having a bedroom. He’d been in kids’ rooms.
The fact that Dean and Dad kept secrets made him angry, determined to have his own way in little things. Dean always gave him what he wants, but when Dad was around sometimes Sam had to hold his breath until Dad gave in and bought him crayon or signed his permission slip. When Dad got mad and yelled at him, part of Sammy was secretly happy. He yelled back.
Sam ran away because they were running again. They were leaving Arizona. The next morning was the class play, and Sammy had the most important part, which was a fireman. He was the best at remembering lines and knew every one. He had a plastic yellow helmet. Dad wasn’t supposed to be back till the end of the week. Sammy and Dean were on the couch - Dean was watching the TV, but Sammy was drawing on the blank page at the back of a dog-eared book. Dean’s head snapped up at the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine before Sam could even hear it. He threw down the remote, eyes wide with excitement and nervousness, but Sammy’s stomach dropped. If Dad was back they might -
“We’re leaving. First thing in the morning.”
Dad looked tired and angry: he was a bad guy tonight. Sammy began to protest, to explain about
the play, but Dad said,
“No discussion.”
“But-“
“I said no discussion. If you can’t behave yourself, Samuel, you can go to the room.” He meant the bedroom, which Sam and Dean were sharing. Dad took the foldout couch on the few nights he’d so far spent in the one-bedroom apartment.Sammy knew there was nothing he could do. Defeated, because he was six. In frustration, Sam punched the couch. He wasn’t even strong enough to make a proper dent, but his fist brushed a small tear in the fabric. Without thinking, Sammy grabbed the loose thread and pulled hard. There was a ripping sound, and a big square of cloth came away in his hand. Sam threw it to the ground in disgust. Dad roared his name, but before he could do anything, Sam shouted,
“I hate you!” and ran for the bedroom. He bolted two bolts from the inside - the third was too high to reach - and threw himself on the bed face-down. He pressed his face into the pillow and screamed. He cried for a while, got up and broke his plastic fireman’s helmet, then he cried some more. He was dimly aware that his brother was banging on the door going,
“Sammy! Let me in! It’s me, it’s Dean, Sammy, come ON! Open it!”
Sammy didn’t care. Dean was stupid and had a reading age of seven, and always did what Dad said. He kept secrets. Sam hated him. He immediately regretted the thought - no, he loved Dean. He only hated Dad. He wasn’t letting anyone in though.
After a while, Dad knocked on the door and said,
“Sam, come and eat your dinner.”
Sammy stayed very still and held his breath out of habit. Maybe if he was quiet enough, Dad would think he was dead. Dad knocked once more, there was a pause, and then the sound of his footsteps leading away from the door. Sam smiled in satisfaction.
Later still, when it was dark outside, Dean said,
“Sammy come on. Open up. Dad’s not even here anymore.”
“Where is he?”
“He went to the store. To get stuff for tomorrow. “
By this time Sam was very hungry. He undid the two bolts and opened the door.
“I’m running away,” he told Dean. The idea came to him suddenly, even as he said it, but straight away it seemed very obviously the right thing to do. He stared at Dean in the doorway. At ten, his brother was tall and skinny, with lots of freckles and jeans that were too short. Sam was going to miss him. But there was nothing for it. He was running away.
“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said. “Are you going to eat your Spaghettios or what?”
“No.”
“Shall I make you a sandwich?”
“I can make my own sandwiches,” Sammy said.
“Fine. Just make sure you’re all packed up before you go to sleep. We’re leaving at 0600.”
That at least gave Sam a good reason to have all his meager possessions in his rucksack. He forced himself to stay awake by digging his fingernails into his palms, and for the first time in his life he saw Dean fall asleep before him, watched his brother’s regular breathing and big closed eyes with a sense of exhilaration. He waited until he heard Dad come in, heard the couch fold out. When all the sounds finally stopped, his plastic cereal-box watch said one-o-clock - in the morning! Sammy waited for the minute hand to crawl down to the six, his held-open eyes burning in the darkness. Then he silently slipped out of bed and stripped off his pajamas - underneath, he was still wearing his shorts and T-shirt. The night was hot, like all nights here. Sammy put his trainers on and picked up his bag. He undid the window catch, opened it, and slipped out. He wanted to laugh as his feet hit the pavement. It was so simple! So obvious! It was done! He had run away. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had a bottle of water and a whole packet of Skittles in his rucksack. The street was quiet and hot. The black Impala gleamed long and sleek in the moonlight, watching him with headlight eyes. Sammy felt something - a twinge, like - fear? Sadness? Well, tough. He was running away. He turned his back on the car, hitched his bag up on his shoulders, and started walking.
Part Two.
Title: Running Away from Home
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG for this part.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: I always get the feeling Stanford wasn’t Sam’s first escape attempt.
The first time Sammy ran away, he was six (and one month, with a reading age of eleven). It wasn’t ‘running away from home’, like in an after school special, because home was the car and his family inside it were always running anyway. Running from: child services, people who wanted money, and scarier things they wouldn’t tell him about. Dean knew, because Dean was the favorite. Sammy was well aware they kept secrets from him. He knew Dad had a gun. He knew what a ‘mission’ was, like on Thundercats or Power Rangers. Only sometimes Dad acted like the bad guy.
The secrets were do with where Dad went, why he left them alone, why they didn’t have a house or stay in a school or have chicken and gravy for dinner. Why they got clothes from the Goodwill stores or once from somebody’s clothesline. Sammy talked to other kids and read books and sometimes he talked to teachers so he knew their lives were not normal. Just because Dean loved the car, and liked sleeping in it better than sleeping in beds, didn’t make it a proper house. Dean liked to keep sweets and crayons and socks in the pockets on the back of the front seats, or stuff them into ashtrays, and sometimes he used blankets to make dens on the backseat. Sam liked the dens - they were warm and smelled familiar - but it wasn’t the same as having a bedroom. He’d been in kids’ rooms.
The fact that Dean and Dad kept secrets made him angry, determined to have his own way in little things. Dean always gave him what he wants, but when Dad was around sometimes Sam had to hold his breath until Dad gave in and bought him crayon or signed his permission slip. When Dad got mad and yelled at him, part of Sammy was secretly happy. He yelled back.
Sam ran away because they were running again. They were leaving Arizona. The next morning was the class play, and Sammy had the most important part, which was a fireman. He was the best at remembering lines and knew every one. He had a plastic yellow helmet. Dad wasn’t supposed to be back till the end of the week. Sammy and Dean were on the couch - Dean was watching the TV, but Sammy was drawing on the blank page at the back of a dog-eared book. Dean’s head snapped up at the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine before Sam could even hear it. He threw down the remote, eyes wide with excitement and nervousness, but Sammy’s stomach dropped. If Dad was back they might -
“We’re leaving. First thing in the morning.”
Dad looked tired and angry: he was a bad guy tonight. Sammy began to protest, to explain about
the play, but Dad said,
“No discussion.”
“But-“
“I said no discussion. If you can’t behave yourself, Samuel, you can go to the room.” He meant the bedroom, which Sam and Dean were sharing. Dad took the foldout couch on the few nights he’d so far spent in the one-bedroom apartment.Sammy knew there was nothing he could do. Defeated, because he was six. In frustration, Sam punched the couch. He wasn’t even strong enough to make a proper dent, but his fist brushed a small tear in the fabric. Without thinking, Sammy grabbed the loose thread and pulled hard. There was a ripping sound, and a big square of cloth came away in his hand. Sam threw it to the ground in disgust. Dad roared his name, but before he could do anything, Sam shouted,
“I hate you!” and ran for the bedroom. He bolted two bolts from the inside - the third was too high to reach - and threw himself on the bed face-down. He pressed his face into the pillow and screamed. He cried for a while, got up and broke his plastic fireman’s helmet, then he cried some more. He was dimly aware that his brother was banging on the door going,
“Sammy! Let me in! It’s me, it’s Dean, Sammy, come ON! Open it!”
Sammy didn’t care. Dean was stupid and had a reading age of seven, and always did what Dad said. He kept secrets. Sam hated him. He immediately regretted the thought - no, he loved Dean. He only hated Dad. He wasn’t letting anyone in though.
After a while, Dad knocked on the door and said,
“Sam, come and eat your dinner.”
Sammy stayed very still and held his breath out of habit. Maybe if he was quiet enough, Dad would think he was dead. Dad knocked once more, there was a pause, and then the sound of his footsteps leading away from the door. Sam smiled in satisfaction.
Later still, when it was dark outside, Dean said,
“Sammy come on. Open up. Dad’s not even here anymore.”
“Where is he?”
“He went to the store. To get stuff for tomorrow. “
By this time Sam was very hungry. He undid the two bolts and opened the door.
“I’m running away,” he told Dean. The idea came to him suddenly, even as he said it, but straight away it seemed very obviously the right thing to do. He stared at Dean in the doorway. At ten, his brother was tall and skinny, with lots of freckles and jeans that were too short. Sam was going to miss him. But there was nothing for it. He was running away.
“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said. “Are you going to eat your Spaghettios or what?”
“No.”
“Shall I make you a sandwich?”
“I can make my own sandwiches,” Sammy said.
“Fine. Just make sure you’re all packed up before you go to sleep. We’re leaving at 0600.”
That at least gave Sam a good reason to have all his meager possessions in his rucksack. He forced himself to stay awake by digging his fingernails into his palms, and for the first time in his life he saw Dean fall asleep before him, watched his brother’s regular breathing and big closed eyes with a sense of exhilaration. He waited until he heard Dad come in, heard the couch fold out. When all the sounds finally stopped, his plastic cereal-box watch said one-o-clock - in the morning! Sammy waited for the minute hand to crawl down to the six, his held-open eyes burning in the darkness. Then he silently slipped out of bed and stripped off his pajamas - underneath, he was still wearing his shorts and T-shirt. The night was hot, like all nights here. Sammy put his trainers on and picked up his bag. He undid the window catch, opened it, and slipped out. He wanted to laugh as his feet hit the pavement. It was so simple! So obvious! It was done! He had run away. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had a bottle of water and a whole packet of Skittles in his rucksack. The street was quiet and hot. The black Impala gleamed long and sleek in the moonlight, watching him with headlight eyes. Sammy felt something - a twinge, like - fear? Sadness? Well, tough. He was running away. He turned his back on the car, hitched his bag up on his shoulders, and started walking.
Part Two.