Title: Running Away from Home, 6/6
A/N: This is all for now, guys. Major hugs to everyone who has commented. I have a big college deadline Friday, then I’m taking a mini-break, but after that I might take a shot at the Dean POV on this verse. In the meanwhile, if you'd like to read something else by me, I finally managed to make a working masterlist on the left hand side of the page! Computer win!
Title: Running Away from Home, 6/6
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13
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.
For Part Three, go HERE.
For Part Four, go HERE.
For Part Five, go HERE.
Part 6.
For Dean’s sixteenth birthday, he got the Impala.
Sam couldn’t quite believe it - but on reflection he supposed he should’ve seen it coming. Dean loved the car more than anything in the world, except his brother and father:
“More than pie?” Sam had once teased him:
“Don’t make me choose, dude! That’s cruel and unusual!” - But he had only been joking. The car won: Sammy had first caught him talking to it about a year ago, quite seriously at first; but when Dean had realized Sammy was watching he started playing it for laughs, calling the car ‘baby’ and talking about how they understood each other. When the front panel got scratched up, courtesy of a Chupacabra, Dean repaired and repainted it with a care Sam had only seen applied to damage to his father or himself. Dean had been driving about a year now, heavily supervised at first, then gradually with more independence until he was allowed to take over completely when Dad needed to sleep. They covered more ground that way.
Dad had never loved the car. He kept it in good condition, as he did all his weapons - but it was just that to him, a machine, a tool, neither more nor less important than a gun or rocksalt or a book of incantation. Sam was still fond of implying that Dad thought of his sons the same way, when he was tired and angry, but the very fact he could use it as a weapon undercut his argument, and he knew it.
The day after Dean’s sixteenth birthday, Dad broke his leg, in such a way that required surgery, fake insurance and a temporary permanent address. Sammy witnessed the injury: he still wasn’t allowed on serious hunts, but this was supposed to be a cakewalk, simply digging up some bones for a salt-and-burn. Sammy was reading the Latin. The spirit, however, apparently wasn’t happy to be consigned to eternal rest. He’d appeared out of nowhere, screaming, forcing Dad backwards into the open grave before Dean shot him with rocksalt. Sammy had been useless. Shocked by the obscenity of white, protruding bone, by the quantity of his father’s blood, he could barely force himself to follow his brother’s instructions. Dean made Sam stay in the car when they got to the ER, worried that someone would think he was traumatized and start asking difficult questions.
Dean took Sammy to see Dad after the surgery, assuring him that it wasn’t too bad, warning him sternly not to ‘freak out or say anything stupid’. Dad looked - smaller than usual. Diminished by the hospital bed. He was pale, and a little vague, but to Sammy’s shock, the first thing he did was put a hand on a back of Sam’s neck and say,
“You did good, son.”
It must have been the drugs talking.
That had been eight days ago: Dad was still in hospital, now quite alert, black-tempered with confinement, a job unfinished, and worry about the bills. Sam and Dean visited every evening, after Dean got off work waiting tables, but Sammy always left first to go and wait in the car. No-one told him to: he just knew to. And no-one complained either.
Sammy got into the backseat, out of habit. He absorbed himself in a book of math problems while he waited for Dean. The smell of pizza hit him first, making his stomach growl - he looked up to see his brother click open the drivers’ door and get in. Dean handed the paper bag from the hospital cafeteria to Sam, but before he could open it, Dean patted the shotgun seat. Sam looked at him in surprise.
“Nobody else sitting there,” Dean shrugged.
Sammy climbed into the front seat, bringing the pizza with him.
“Aren’t we going back?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Later,” Dean said. “Thought we get out of the town and look at the sky awhile.”
They left the urban centre within a few minutes, too late for the after-work traffic, and parked on a wooded ridge that offered a broad view of the purple-dark night sky. It was February, and the moon had risen, white and a little smeared like a thumbprint. Dean was pretending to think about nothing, expression abstract, as he ate. Sammy looked at the moon, felt its surprisingly bright glow surround both of them, the front seats, the windshield and gleaming bonnet of the Impala, and he was - not content. But not angry, either, not filled with the need to run and keep running, not burning. He focused on feeling the shotgun seat, unobtrusive but firm, all the way down his body, almost holding him still. He placed a hand on the still-warm dashboard, and for a moment, he knew why Dean called it she. She had been a constant: shelter, shield, and maybe this was why Dean never needed walls and a bed the way Sammy did.
The moon slipped behind a cloud. The moment faded, but something left in Sam behind it. He felt as though if he could capture that sense of home, here like this, he could understand why Dean had never tried running away. How he endured this life.
“In a few years,” Dean crumpled up the paper bag: “I’ll teach you to drive in her. If you ever get tall enough to reach the pedals, I mean.”
Would that do it? Would the driver’s seat give him that sense of calm, protection, stillness? How could it? She would always be Dean’s. He couldn’t take her, even if Dean offered someday: Dean had always loved her too much. Since inheriting her he had grown - Sam thought of how capable he had been that night in the graveyard, how sure, how in place. To take her away would be a terrible dispossession.
‘It’s not for me anyway’, he thought: ‘To be at home like this.’ He wasn’t like his brother, and never would be. He couldn’t hold onto that kind of peace that came with this is enough.
End
Title: Running Away from Home, 6/6
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13
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.
For Part Three, go HERE.
For Part Four, go HERE.
For Part Five, go HERE.
Part 6.
For Dean’s sixteenth birthday, he got the Impala.
Sam couldn’t quite believe it - but on reflection he supposed he should’ve seen it coming. Dean loved the car more than anything in the world, except his brother and father:
“More than pie?” Sam had once teased him:
“Don’t make me choose, dude! That’s cruel and unusual!” - But he had only been joking. The car won: Sammy had first caught him talking to it about a year ago, quite seriously at first; but when Dean had realized Sammy was watching he started playing it for laughs, calling the car ‘baby’ and talking about how they understood each other. When the front panel got scratched up, courtesy of a Chupacabra, Dean repaired and repainted it with a care Sam had only seen applied to damage to his father or himself. Dean had been driving about a year now, heavily supervised at first, then gradually with more independence until he was allowed to take over completely when Dad needed to sleep. They covered more ground that way.
Dad had never loved the car. He kept it in good condition, as he did all his weapons - but it was just that to him, a machine, a tool, neither more nor less important than a gun or rocksalt or a book of incantation. Sam was still fond of implying that Dad thought of his sons the same way, when he was tired and angry, but the very fact he could use it as a weapon undercut his argument, and he knew it.
The day after Dean’s sixteenth birthday, Dad broke his leg, in such a way that required surgery, fake insurance and a temporary permanent address. Sammy witnessed the injury: he still wasn’t allowed on serious hunts, but this was supposed to be a cakewalk, simply digging up some bones for a salt-and-burn. Sammy was reading the Latin. The spirit, however, apparently wasn’t happy to be consigned to eternal rest. He’d appeared out of nowhere, screaming, forcing Dad backwards into the open grave before Dean shot him with rocksalt. Sammy had been useless. Shocked by the obscenity of white, protruding bone, by the quantity of his father’s blood, he could barely force himself to follow his brother’s instructions. Dean made Sam stay in the car when they got to the ER, worried that someone would think he was traumatized and start asking difficult questions.
Dean took Sammy to see Dad after the surgery, assuring him that it wasn’t too bad, warning him sternly not to ‘freak out or say anything stupid’. Dad looked - smaller than usual. Diminished by the hospital bed. He was pale, and a little vague, but to Sammy’s shock, the first thing he did was put a hand on a back of Sam’s neck and say,
“You did good, son.”
It must have been the drugs talking.
That had been eight days ago: Dad was still in hospital, now quite alert, black-tempered with confinement, a job unfinished, and worry about the bills. Sam and Dean visited every evening, after Dean got off work waiting tables, but Sammy always left first to go and wait in the car. No-one told him to: he just knew to. And no-one complained either.
Sammy got into the backseat, out of habit. He absorbed himself in a book of math problems while he waited for Dean. The smell of pizza hit him first, making his stomach growl - he looked up to see his brother click open the drivers’ door and get in. Dean handed the paper bag from the hospital cafeteria to Sam, but before he could open it, Dean patted the shotgun seat. Sam looked at him in surprise.
“Nobody else sitting there,” Dean shrugged.
Sammy climbed into the front seat, bringing the pizza with him.
“Aren’t we going back?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Later,” Dean said. “Thought we get out of the town and look at the sky awhile.”
They left the urban centre within a few minutes, too late for the after-work traffic, and parked on a wooded ridge that offered a broad view of the purple-dark night sky. It was February, and the moon had risen, white and a little smeared like a thumbprint. Dean was pretending to think about nothing, expression abstract, as he ate. Sammy looked at the moon, felt its surprisingly bright glow surround both of them, the front seats, the windshield and gleaming bonnet of the Impala, and he was - not content. But not angry, either, not filled with the need to run and keep running, not burning. He focused on feeling the shotgun seat, unobtrusive but firm, all the way down his body, almost holding him still. He placed a hand on the still-warm dashboard, and for a moment, he knew why Dean called it she. She had been a constant: shelter, shield, and maybe this was why Dean never needed walls and a bed the way Sammy did.
The moon slipped behind a cloud. The moment faded, but something left in Sam behind it. He felt as though if he could capture that sense of home, here like this, he could understand why Dean had never tried running away. How he endured this life.
“In a few years,” Dean crumpled up the paper bag: “I’ll teach you to drive in her. If you ever get tall enough to reach the pedals, I mean.”
Would that do it? Would the driver’s seat give him that sense of calm, protection, stillness? How could it? She would always be Dean’s. He couldn’t take her, even if Dean offered someday: Dean had always loved her too much. Since inheriting her he had grown - Sam thought of how capable he had been that night in the graveyard, how sure, how in place. To take her away would be a terrible dispossession.
‘It’s not for me anyway’, he thought: ‘To be at home like this.’ He wasn’t like his brother, and never would be. He couldn’t hold onto that kind of peace that came with this is enough.
End