Running Away From Home, Part 3/?
A/N: Yeah, so there are actually going to be more than four parts. Ty for all comments, I really appreciate them xxx
Title: Running Away from Home, 3/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13 for this part (language).
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.
For Part One, go HERE
For Part Two, go HERE
Part Three.
For Sammy’s eleventh birthday, he got a Smith and Wesson revolver.
“I can’t use this,” he said blankly.
“You will soon,” Dad said: “It’s time you started training.”
“I’m a pacifist,” Sammy said.
“You’re disobedient,” said Dad.
“Yeah - civil disobedience,” Sammy said: “It’s a form of passive resistance.”
Dean rolled his eyes and pretended to whack his head on the table.
“Be ready to start at 0600 tomorrow,” Dad told him.
“What? But I have school tomorrow!”
“That’s why we’re starting at 0600,” said Dad.
• * *
“Come on Sammy,” Dean coaxed him later that night: “It’ll be fun. There’s nothing like the feel of a bullet hitting the target, dude. You’ll like it.”
“I don’t want to like it, Dean. That’s fucked up.”
“Language.”
“You say it.”
They were sharing a bedroom again - a crapped-out apartment in North Minnesota, this time, having been off the road for a couple of months after Dean had broken his collar bone. Hunting, naturally: nobody told Sam the details, and he’d pretty much decided he didn’t want to know anymore. He remembered his terror that night Dad had called him from the hospital: sure his brother was dead, for a split second, wondering if he’d explode or go crazy or possibly murder his father. Far from dead, after the initial daze of pain medication Dean had been resolutely cheerful, fabricating some story about a bar fight to impress his female fan club within the apartment block. The sling had come off two weeks ago, and Dean favored his right arm only slightly. Only then had Sam had the courage to ask him,
“What if you’d died?”
“For Christ’s sake, Samantha, don’t be such a drama queen.”
“I mean it! It isn’t fair! Every time you go off, I have to sit here and wonder if I’m ever going to see you again. What would I do if..if…” Sam had given up crying. He’d made the decision deliberately at the age of eight, and as with every decision he made he’d kept to his commitment. He could feel his face getting stupidly red, though, and his voice squeaking a little. And then, instead of mocking or dismissing the possibility, Dean had just looked at him for a minute and said,
“You’d be alright,” ruffled Sammy’s hair up, and left the room. Sam punched the couch in frustration.
Now Dean turned in his narrow bunk to face his little brother. The bedroom door didn’t close all the way, and a thin sliver of light striped down one side of his face.
“Look - Sammy, just - you’re always complaining that dad and I go off together without you right? Well, once we get you trained, you can start coming with us. Be a full part of the team. You gotta put the work in before its safe for us to take you hunting.”
“I’m not going to be a hunter, Dean.”
“Yeah, you are. Until we catch the thing that killed mom, we got no choice. It has to die. You know that.”
Sam felt again the incredible loneliness of not remembering their mother.
“I wish I knew what she was like,” he said a little wistfully. What kind of person had his mother been, to inspire his father’s single-minded mission, to drive him sacrifice everything and anything (‘us, if he had to’) in pursuit of vengeance.
“She was - she loved us,” Dean said, “More than anything. She loved you. Don’t you want revenge for having that taken away from you?”
Sam didn’t say anything. He didn’t miss his mother. He might have missed having a mother - and the childhood that symbolized - but the late Mary Winchester was just a name to him. A name and handful of photographs.
“I do,” Dean said.
Sam didn’t know if that was true or not. He thought that Dean believed it - but what Dean really wanted was their father’s love and approval. Sam felt the pinch of irritation in his chest and stomach. Why was Dad’s word so important to Dean? Why didn’t he think for himself for once? ‘Then again, if Dad loved me the way he loved Dean…’ Well, tough. He didn’t. Dean was the favored son; Sam was the freak. There was a certain satisfaction in that.
Dean dragged Sam out of bed at 0530, let him have coffee with sugar, but then made him drink two glasses of water. It was still dark when they left the house, but the first hints of a cold dawn were growing on the horizon, tingeing the still-bare tree-tops. The creak-click of the door behind them sounded indecently loud. A suggestion of frost lingered on the bracken underground despite the fact it was officially Spring, and their breath came in the visible puffs they used to call ‘dragon-smoke’. Dad drove them out to a clearing where he’d apparently already been, last night or some ridiculous hour of the morning: tin cans were set up as target practice along a decrepit fence.
Dean went first, using his own pistol. He started out right-handed but switched to left to complete a perfect round, as Dad instructed Sammy to watch with a running commentary. The shots were the loudest things Sam had heard in real life, and he resisted the temptation to clamp his hands over his ears. The weight of his own gun in his hands made his heart beat hard in his ears. ‘You fuck-up’, he scolded himself. ‘They’re cans’.
The first time he fired, the sound made him jump, and the recoil shocked him all the way up to his shoulder. He yelped and almost dropped the gun. Dean started forward, but Dad barred him with an arm:
“Again,” he said, “Controlled squeeze on the trigger.”
Sam bit his lip. He hated the gun. He didn’t feel in control of it; it was an alien object in his hands. He considered putting it down and walking off; but he imagined Dean’s disappointed face every time he and Dad got in a serious fight - and this one would be serious. He endured the practice. By the end, his entire arm felt ready to fall off, he was miserable and his nerves in shreds.
“Alright,” Dad said: “You have good aim.”
Sam sneered mentally. He supposed that was meant to make him happy.
“Nice job, Sammy,” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Pretty fun, huh?”
Sam gave him a pained look, which Dean ignored. Dad showed him how to dismantle the gun, clean the parts and pack it away. Sam’s head was hurting behind his eyes. That had been happening lately. He wondered if he needed glasses, and how Dad would take that. He felt inexplicably tired, wanting nothing more than to go back to the car, curl up in the backseat and sleep. But he had a math test that morning. And soccer practice this afternoon. He perked up a little at the thought. They were picking the new captain this week, and coach had said -
“Boys,” Dad threw back over his shoulder as they headed towards the car: “Don’t be late after school. You’re doing a run.”
“Yes sir,” said Dean.
“I have soccer practice,” said Sam.
“This is more important.”
“But - I can’t miss it! There’s a big game next week!”
“You’re not going to have time for soccer anymore. Quit.”
“I - ?!” Sam couldn’t think of anything to say. “You can’t do this to me!”
“Sammy,” Dad crouched down and put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I know its hard. But you have to be ready. You have to train so you’ll be safe.”
“No,” said Sam.
“Sammy-“ said Dean.
“No. I won’t do it.” Sam folded his arms. His heart was pounding in his chest, but outwardly it was suddenly easy to be calm. “I’m a kid, not your soldier. This is against the law.”
“Do not take that tone with me,” Dad snapped. “And don’t be stupid. We know things in this family the law doesn’t, and like it or not you are part of this family Samuel Winchester.”
‘Am I?’
The next days were a blur of training and rage, training fuelled by rage. His teachers noticed, asked him if he’d like to talk about anything. Sammy almost laughed: ‘Yeah. I want to talk about how my dad is recruiting me into his insane revenge mission against a demon’. Every day made him feel it a little bit deeper: I won’t do it. I won’t live like this. Dean was nuts: he liked training, even the simulation of hunting made him ridiculously happy: he started regaling Sammy with tales of his gorier kills. Sammy nodded, pretend to take it all in, but inside, he was planning. Dad had an exercise planned for the weekend: a reconnaissance mission. Sam and Dean were to be let loose at indeterminate points in the depths of the woods (which dad had already scoped out for creatures, he told them). They would have only their guns and a few supplies to make their way back to a base with. It would be night. Sam would take his supplies, stow a few more essentials in his pockets and backpack, and leave. He would have to run away. He knew what happened to kids who did that: they got picked up by Child Services. Went to foster homes, orphanages. He’d be alright. He didn’t want Dad and Dean - Dean specifically - to get in trouble or anything, so he would tell them he’d lost his memory, didn’t know where he came from.
It wasn’t the best plan he’d ever made. He vaguely recalled when he’d run away once before, when he was only little. That of course was ridiculous, he hadn’t even known how to get the bus: but he was eleven now. Practically a teenager. Wherever he ended up, it would have to be better than this. He didn’t want much - just the chance to be normal, go to school and play soccer. And then, when things had settled down, he would contact Dean. Find a way. Tell him, ‘I’m fine, I got out, you should do it too’. Maybe they’d run away together. Once Dean saw that it was possible to get away - that Dad wasn’t God - he’d be sure to come. Nobody could really want this life Dad saw for them. Dean had just gotten hurt! He pretended to like it, because he didn’t want to fight with Dad. But Sam was tough and didn’t care what Dad thought.
So Sam was going to run away, for both of them.
Part Four.
Title: Running Away from Home, 3/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13 for this part (language).
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.
For Part One, go HERE
For Part Two, go HERE
Part Three.
For Sammy’s eleventh birthday, he got a Smith and Wesson revolver.
“I can’t use this,” he said blankly.
“You will soon,” Dad said: “It’s time you started training.”
“I’m a pacifist,” Sammy said.
“You’re disobedient,” said Dad.
“Yeah - civil disobedience,” Sammy said: “It’s a form of passive resistance.”
Dean rolled his eyes and pretended to whack his head on the table.
“Be ready to start at 0600 tomorrow,” Dad told him.
“What? But I have school tomorrow!”
“That’s why we’re starting at 0600,” said Dad.
• * *
“Come on Sammy,” Dean coaxed him later that night: “It’ll be fun. There’s nothing like the feel of a bullet hitting the target, dude. You’ll like it.”
“I don’t want to like it, Dean. That’s fucked up.”
“Language.”
“You say it.”
They were sharing a bedroom again - a crapped-out apartment in North Minnesota, this time, having been off the road for a couple of months after Dean had broken his collar bone. Hunting, naturally: nobody told Sam the details, and he’d pretty much decided he didn’t want to know anymore. He remembered his terror that night Dad had called him from the hospital: sure his brother was dead, for a split second, wondering if he’d explode or go crazy or possibly murder his father. Far from dead, after the initial daze of pain medication Dean had been resolutely cheerful, fabricating some story about a bar fight to impress his female fan club within the apartment block. The sling had come off two weeks ago, and Dean favored his right arm only slightly. Only then had Sam had the courage to ask him,
“What if you’d died?”
“For Christ’s sake, Samantha, don’t be such a drama queen.”
“I mean it! It isn’t fair! Every time you go off, I have to sit here and wonder if I’m ever going to see you again. What would I do if..if…” Sam had given up crying. He’d made the decision deliberately at the age of eight, and as with every decision he made he’d kept to his commitment. He could feel his face getting stupidly red, though, and his voice squeaking a little. And then, instead of mocking or dismissing the possibility, Dean had just looked at him for a minute and said,
“You’d be alright,” ruffled Sammy’s hair up, and left the room. Sam punched the couch in frustration.
Now Dean turned in his narrow bunk to face his little brother. The bedroom door didn’t close all the way, and a thin sliver of light striped down one side of his face.
“Look - Sammy, just - you’re always complaining that dad and I go off together without you right? Well, once we get you trained, you can start coming with us. Be a full part of the team. You gotta put the work in before its safe for us to take you hunting.”
“I’m not going to be a hunter, Dean.”
“Yeah, you are. Until we catch the thing that killed mom, we got no choice. It has to die. You know that.”
Sam felt again the incredible loneliness of not remembering their mother.
“I wish I knew what she was like,” he said a little wistfully. What kind of person had his mother been, to inspire his father’s single-minded mission, to drive him sacrifice everything and anything (‘us, if he had to’) in pursuit of vengeance.
“She was - she loved us,” Dean said, “More than anything. She loved you. Don’t you want revenge for having that taken away from you?”
Sam didn’t say anything. He didn’t miss his mother. He might have missed having a mother - and the childhood that symbolized - but the late Mary Winchester was just a name to him. A name and handful of photographs.
“I do,” Dean said.
Sam didn’t know if that was true or not. He thought that Dean believed it - but what Dean really wanted was their father’s love and approval. Sam felt the pinch of irritation in his chest and stomach. Why was Dad’s word so important to Dean? Why didn’t he think for himself for once? ‘Then again, if Dad loved me the way he loved Dean…’ Well, tough. He didn’t. Dean was the favored son; Sam was the freak. There was a certain satisfaction in that.
Dean dragged Sam out of bed at 0530, let him have coffee with sugar, but then made him drink two glasses of water. It was still dark when they left the house, but the first hints of a cold dawn were growing on the horizon, tingeing the still-bare tree-tops. The creak-click of the door behind them sounded indecently loud. A suggestion of frost lingered on the bracken underground despite the fact it was officially Spring, and their breath came in the visible puffs they used to call ‘dragon-smoke’. Dad drove them out to a clearing where he’d apparently already been, last night or some ridiculous hour of the morning: tin cans were set up as target practice along a decrepit fence.
Dean went first, using his own pistol. He started out right-handed but switched to left to complete a perfect round, as Dad instructed Sammy to watch with a running commentary. The shots were the loudest things Sam had heard in real life, and he resisted the temptation to clamp his hands over his ears. The weight of his own gun in his hands made his heart beat hard in his ears. ‘You fuck-up’, he scolded himself. ‘They’re cans’.
The first time he fired, the sound made him jump, and the recoil shocked him all the way up to his shoulder. He yelped and almost dropped the gun. Dean started forward, but Dad barred him with an arm:
“Again,” he said, “Controlled squeeze on the trigger.”
Sam bit his lip. He hated the gun. He didn’t feel in control of it; it was an alien object in his hands. He considered putting it down and walking off; but he imagined Dean’s disappointed face every time he and Dad got in a serious fight - and this one would be serious. He endured the practice. By the end, his entire arm felt ready to fall off, he was miserable and his nerves in shreds.
“Alright,” Dad said: “You have good aim.”
Sam sneered mentally. He supposed that was meant to make him happy.
“Nice job, Sammy,” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Pretty fun, huh?”
Sam gave him a pained look, which Dean ignored. Dad showed him how to dismantle the gun, clean the parts and pack it away. Sam’s head was hurting behind his eyes. That had been happening lately. He wondered if he needed glasses, and how Dad would take that. He felt inexplicably tired, wanting nothing more than to go back to the car, curl up in the backseat and sleep. But he had a math test that morning. And soccer practice this afternoon. He perked up a little at the thought. They were picking the new captain this week, and coach had said -
“Boys,” Dad threw back over his shoulder as they headed towards the car: “Don’t be late after school. You’re doing a run.”
“Yes sir,” said Dean.
“I have soccer practice,” said Sam.
“This is more important.”
“But - I can’t miss it! There’s a big game next week!”
“You’re not going to have time for soccer anymore. Quit.”
“I - ?!” Sam couldn’t think of anything to say. “You can’t do this to me!”
“Sammy,” Dad crouched down and put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I know its hard. But you have to be ready. You have to train so you’ll be safe.”
“No,” said Sam.
“Sammy-“ said Dean.
“No. I won’t do it.” Sam folded his arms. His heart was pounding in his chest, but outwardly it was suddenly easy to be calm. “I’m a kid, not your soldier. This is against the law.”
“Do not take that tone with me,” Dad snapped. “And don’t be stupid. We know things in this family the law doesn’t, and like it or not you are part of this family Samuel Winchester.”
‘Am I?’
The next days were a blur of training and rage, training fuelled by rage. His teachers noticed, asked him if he’d like to talk about anything. Sammy almost laughed: ‘Yeah. I want to talk about how my dad is recruiting me into his insane revenge mission against a demon’. Every day made him feel it a little bit deeper: I won’t do it. I won’t live like this. Dean was nuts: he liked training, even the simulation of hunting made him ridiculously happy: he started regaling Sammy with tales of his gorier kills. Sammy nodded, pretend to take it all in, but inside, he was planning. Dad had an exercise planned for the weekend: a reconnaissance mission. Sam and Dean were to be let loose at indeterminate points in the depths of the woods (which dad had already scoped out for creatures, he told them). They would have only their guns and a few supplies to make their way back to a base with. It would be night. Sam would take his supplies, stow a few more essentials in his pockets and backpack, and leave. He would have to run away. He knew what happened to kids who did that: they got picked up by Child Services. Went to foster homes, orphanages. He’d be alright. He didn’t want Dad and Dean - Dean specifically - to get in trouble or anything, so he would tell them he’d lost his memory, didn’t know where he came from.
It wasn’t the best plan he’d ever made. He vaguely recalled when he’d run away once before, when he was only little. That of course was ridiculous, he hadn’t even known how to get the bus: but he was eleven now. Practically a teenager. Wherever he ended up, it would have to be better than this. He didn’t want much - just the chance to be normal, go to school and play soccer. And then, when things had settled down, he would contact Dean. Find a way. Tell him, ‘I’m fine, I got out, you should do it too’. Maybe they’d run away together. Once Dean saw that it was possible to get away - that Dad wasn’t God - he’d be sure to come. Nobody could really want this life Dad saw for them. Dean had just gotten hurt! He pretended to like it, because he didn’t want to fight with Dad. But Sam was tough and didn’t care what Dad thought.
So Sam was going to run away, for both of them.
Part Four.