SPN Fic: Armor
Title: Armor (Or Ten Ways the Winchesters Protect Themselves)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Sam, Dean, John-- gen, PG
Author's Notes: 2,500 words. Written for kiraboshi for spn_summergen 2007. Thanks to krisomniac for the beta, and it was all my fault that embarrassing grammar mistakes were found in the original post.
Summary: Ten ways the Winchesters learn to protect themselves over the years.
* 1
The shotguns stretch out on the wall in front of him, row upon row of polished barrels shining in the dim store light.
John remembers the first time his grandfather put a shotgun in his hands and took him out hunting squirrels. He tries to remember what make it had been.
“Can I help you?” The old man behind the counter lays down a worn copy of Huckleberry Finn and stands up.
He remembers the first time he shot and killed a man. A Vietcong boy, barely sixteen. His open mouth, wide with shock with a red river streaming from mouth as he fell to his knees, and his chest a bloody mess from John’s bullets.
“I’m looking for a-” and he stops himself. Of course he’s looking for a gun. “I need something for my boys.”
The old man nods. “What age?”
John hesitates before answering. “Eight and four.” He corrects himself. “I only need one right now, but any advice-” he stumbles over the words. “-would be appreciated.”
“Ah,” the old man comments. He turns around and takes down a small Winchester 12 gauge. “Starting them young.” He lays on the counter in front of John.
“Yeah,” John agrees softly. “Gotta protect them.”
* 2
“Six.”
“Ten,” Dean smirks and leans back, tucking his hands behind his head.
“No way,” Sam says, staring hard at Dean. “Not possible.”
Dean shrugs, still cocky. “Admit it, I’m the master.”
“Prove it,” Sam says and Dean obliges.
He lifts up his shirt so Sam can see the first one- the obvious one- in the belt. “That so shouldn’t count,” Sam says. “It’s in plain sight!”
“No one noticed it,” Dean says. “So it counts.”
He rolls up his sleeves to the forearms. Twin pairs of tiny silver blades strapped to a thin leather band adorn both his wrists.
Sam’s mouth opens. “Where’d you get those?”
“Caleb,” Deans says and he’s already pulling up his jeans to reveals a flat-blade in each sock.
He digs in his left pocket and out comes a Swiss army knife. He throws it on the table, and it’s soon joined by a switchblade.
For the grand finale, he fishes out a chain from under his shirt, and there’s a tiny knife hanging on it.
Sam sighs.
Dean leans forward. “The key, Sammy, is layers. Pile them on-at least two shirts. No one’ll notice the blades. Plus, during the hunt, that’s less skin for the sons-of-bitches to tear into.”
“Layers,” Sam repeats. “Got it.”
“And it gives the ladies something to unwrap,” Dean adds. “Or I dunno, maybe in your case it’ll protect your virginal body until marriage or whatever you’re going for.”
He gets a pillow thrown at his face in response.
***
The Aswang shuffles out of room, and Dean makes a face at Sam. “Brilliant plan, dumbass.”
“Okay, so maybe it can see easier in the dark,” Sam admits.
“Yeah, you think?” Dean grumbles. He looks up, biting his lip and twisting his fingers as he inches the small blade out of his sleeve. Sawing away, he looks over to where Sam is tied up in a similar fashion. “You okay over there, Houdini?”
“Yeah,” Sam answers, and Dean can see that he’s making quick work of the complicated knots.
“How many are you carrying?” he calls over.
“Only my wrist ones,” Dean’s forced to admit.
Sam grins, and finishes sawing free his legs. He comes over and helps Dean with the rest of his ropes.
Dean grabs one of the knives that Sam offers him, throwing it over his shoulder.
Sam twists around and his eyes widen. The Aswang is five feet behind him, and Dean’s knife is burrowed in his throat.
“Next trick after concealing,” Dean says, adrenaline racing through his body. “Is learning how to throw a knife.”
Sam nods. “Yeah, I think that would be good.”
* 3
“I’m missing practice,” Sam calls from the back seat.
“They won’t mind,” John says calmly, as he drives down the narrow road, dust flying up behind them.
Dean can see Sam fidgeting out of the corner of his eye and he knows what’s coming. He turns around, hoping to head it off. “Hey, Sammy. Dad’s picked up some new equipment from Caleb.” He grins. “I think you’ll like it.”
“All I want to do is play soccer,” Sam mutters.
“Trust me,” Dean tells him. “This is way more cool.”
They spend the day practicing with the new weapons and head back when the sun is hovering just above the horizon, turning the air a dusky gold. Coming back, they pass by the soccer field as the lights go on and the breeze carries the cheers.
When they stop at the lights, Sam leans out the window, a wistful sigh escaping as a whistle blows.
Dean looks over at John, and John is looking in the rearview mirror at Sam
The next day, John shakes his head as Sam comes over to the car, a scowl threatening to overwhelm his face.
“Only Dean today,” he says and Sam stops short, confused.
Still, he doesn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbles and starts to lope off to the field.
***
“Sam!” Dean’s voice yells out a warning and Sam takes a deep breath, concentrating on the figure hurdling towards him. He re-loads.
“Got it,” he says, more to himself as he narrows his sights down on his target. Looking through the telescopic lens he can see the horns tangled in the matted, blood-soaked hair and he moves his sight lower.
30 feet. 20 feet. 15 feet…
He squeezes and looses the bolt with a whispered prayer.
Dean lets out a low whistles. “Right between the eyes!” He slaps Sam hard on the back as they examine the dead minotaur. “Bow-hunting’s not such a useless skill after all, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Sam says grudgingly, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips as he looks down at his handiwork.
* 4
The first fight Dean gets in is during the second week of the first grade. John stops by at lunch, and watches Dean from the door, swinging his legs on the bench outside the principal’s office.
“He said that Mommy left us,” Dean tells him, his eyes round and troubled. “On purpose. And he wouldn’t take it back.”
John doesn’t know what to say. He crouches down so he’s eye level with his son and he tentatively places a hand on Dean’s knee. “No more fighting at school, okay, Dean?”
There’s a pause. “I promise,” Dean whispers.
***
“Dude, you just gotta let go,” Dean tells him, as they practice in the tiny backyard. He flips Sam over his shoulder and steps away as Sam lies on the ground, gasping.
Eventually he stands back up and he swings a wary punch. “You gotta fight dirty,” Dean says, and he grabs the back on Sam’s shirt and uses the momentum to slam him into the ground. “The bad guys aren’t going to be waiting for you to throw some sissy punch.”
Sam narrows his eyes, and launches himself at Dean. He grabs Dean’s legs and they both go tumbling to the ground.
They roll around in the grass, knees and elbows flying and Sam head-butts Dean.
“Ow, shit,” Dean says and blood starts to pour from his nose.
“Dean…” Sam looks in askance at the blood as he follows his brother inside.
“Not bad, Sammy,” Deans says, as he examines the damage in the bathroom mirror. “But you still could’ve given a bit more.”
“You wanted me to break your nose, idiot?” Sam asks incredulously, and he shoves Dean and Dean just laughs.
* 5
“Books, hell of a tool. They’ll save your life more often than anything you got packed away in that trunk,” Joshua would comment and John would grin and say that he’d like to see Joshua take down a werewolf with them.
But he’d always let Joshua throw another set of books into the back of the Impala before they left Baton Rouge. Leafing through the titles, Sam would pick one and curl up with it, knees to his chest as they drove down the highways. Sometimes, John would turn off the radio and he’d tell Sam to read out loud the most interesting or useful parts. Later when they’d stop for the night, after supper, and the weapons had been cleaned. John would take out his journal and add in newspaper clippings and small neat post-its, with notes from his hunts. Dean would take a stack of books and skim through them, finding the useful information and discarding the rest.
It wasn’t always books though. It was knowing which questions to deflect when it came to filling out school paperwork. It was knowing what kind of material would burn properly for a salt-n-burn. It was knowing how to shop and buy the cheapest food. It was knowing how to nick a Bunsen burner and use it to cook when on the road. It was knowing which highway take when they crossed the state lines.
It was knowing, and knowledge and whatever would keep them alive, keep them safe, keep them together.
* 6
At ten, Dean kills his first hellhound.
Looking at the mess of fur and claws and body splayed out in an unnatural position, he feels like there’s something clawing inside his stomach. He wants to yell, to pump a fist, he wants to throw up. And so he does, in the bushes, until there’s nothing left in his stomach. When he stands up, his father is there waiting. “You did good, Dean,” he says to him and they leave.
At fourteen, he doesn’t shoot a harpy queen.
She’s begging for her life in front of him. “Dear boy, sweet boy, you wouldn’t shoot me…” She’s tiny and graceful, with red curls and a smile so sweet that he can’t help but pause. And he hesitates.
It takes two days for John to track her down again and she kills again, and again and again, the last time a young boy who’s found ripped to shreds in his nursery.
“Dad,” his voice cracks when his father comes back to the Impala.
“You can’t hesitate,” his father says finally. “You can’t… Dean, I know you might want to-but these things we hunt, you have to separate yourself from it.”
At sixteen he looks into the eyes of a werewolf. He kills it with a silver-tipped bow, and watches as it writhes and shakes. It slumps in its final throes and the man finally comes out of the animalistic state, only to die moments later with a bloody gurgle.
Dean forces himself to watch, pushing all his emotions behind a mental wall and he forces his face into frozen neutrality. When he leaves he feels cold and empty.
At twenty seven, he kills his first human. “Pulling the trigger… killing that guy, killing Meg. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t even flinch. For you or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill…”
He feels Sam’s eyes on him closely as he tries to finish, “it’s just, uh .... it scares me sometimes.”
And sometimes he wonders when exactly that wall became permanent, when that mask slipped over his face finally, and whether in the end he’ll ever want to break it down.
* 7
“You look at me like that, and how can I say no?” Jess would laugh and playfully push Sam out of the way, and Sam would try another confused ‘what’d I do now?’
“You really don’t know, do you?” she murmurs to him one night, cuddled in his arms.
“Know what?”
“You’re the youngest, aren’t you?” she asks.
He answers cautiously, not sure where the conversation is going. “Yeah, remember-I have an older brother, Dean.”
There’s a sleepy giggle. “Now I understand.”
“You want to explain it to me?” he asks, nonplussed.
“Sorry, can’t do,” Jess says, twisting around in the covers to face him. She kisses him on the nose and winks. “You lose the power if you figure out what it is.”
* 8
Looking at his reflection in the cracked motel mirror, Dean’s not sure exactly what’s changed.
“Such a nice-looking boy,” the grandmas and mothers would smile and sigh. At school, the girls start to blush when he talked to them. They let him get close at parties and send him notes in indecipherable colors like pink and light blue.
It’s a change, but one he plans on getting used to. He grins at his reflection.
***
At a truck stop in Arkansas, he slips around the corner to use the restroom and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle suddenly when he realizes he’s not alone.
He’s almost too late to react. A heavy force slams into his body and he’s pressed against the wall, with a sweaty, foul-smelling hand covering his mouth.
Dean squirms and kicks as he’s forced back into the restroom. He can hear the grunt and heavy breathing of the man, as he tries to hold onto Dean, knocking his head against the doorframe.
The outside light dims as Dean slumps, momentarily dazed and the door closes. The man lets out a triumphant groan and there’s a sound of a belt unbuckling.
Dean curls up on himself, and eases a knife out of his sleeve. He waits until the man comes close before he turns and knocks the feet from under him.
The man licks his lips and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as Dean holds the knife to his throat.
“Wrong person to jump,” he snarls and the man whimpers.
***
When he turns the corner again, Sam’s standing by the car, eating a pack of skittles.
“Did you have that before--” Sam asks, and he points to Dean’s face.
Dean touches it gingerly, and feels the small cut, and swelling. “It’s nothing,” he says roughly and yanks open the car door.
* 9
“So Sam, tell us- What does your father do for a living?” There’s a constant smile on the interviewers’ faces as they grill him and he starts to wonder if perhaps they’re painted on. Living mannequin dolls.
“Traveling salesman,” he answers promptly. “Him and my brother. We’ve been doing it since my mom died, when I was a baby.” He shrugs. “I don’t recommend it, honestly. I’ve been crossing the country my whole life…” And he spins his life into what they want to hear, and wonders if this time, maybe this is the break he’s been looking for.
***
Sam figures he’s been lying consistently to anyone who’s not Dean, or Dad, since the age of five. No mention of hunting, of mom, of anything abnormal. So when he leaves for Stanford, it’s just one more elaborate lie to hold together. One more lie to tell. Story of his life.
* 10
But when it comes down to the wire, it’s Dean, and it’s Sam, and it’s fighting together, backs against one another, trusting the other to protect and watch over when they can’t trust anyone else.
***
End.
List
1. with guns
2. with knives
3. with crossbows
4. with hand to hand
5. with knowledge
6. with Dean’s cold exterior
7. < i>with Sam’s puppy eyes
8. with street smarts/self-awareness
9. with lies/confidence
10. with trusting each other
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Sam, Dean, John-- gen, PG
Author's Notes: 2,500 words. Written for kiraboshi for spn_summergen 2007. Thanks to krisomniac for the beta, and it was all my fault that embarrassing grammar mistakes were found in the original post.
Summary: Ten ways the Winchesters learn to protect themselves over the years.
* 1
The shotguns stretch out on the wall in front of him, row upon row of polished barrels shining in the dim store light.
John remembers the first time his grandfather put a shotgun in his hands and took him out hunting squirrels. He tries to remember what make it had been.
“Can I help you?” The old man behind the counter lays down a worn copy of Huckleberry Finn and stands up.
He remembers the first time he shot and killed a man. A Vietcong boy, barely sixteen. His open mouth, wide with shock with a red river streaming from mouth as he fell to his knees, and his chest a bloody mess from John’s bullets.
“I’m looking for a-” and he stops himself. Of course he’s looking for a gun. “I need something for my boys.”
The old man nods. “What age?”
John hesitates before answering. “Eight and four.” He corrects himself. “I only need one right now, but any advice-” he stumbles over the words. “-would be appreciated.”
“Ah,” the old man comments. He turns around and takes down a small Winchester 12 gauge. “Starting them young.” He lays on the counter in front of John.
“Yeah,” John agrees softly. “Gotta protect them.”
* 2
“Six.”
“Ten,” Dean smirks and leans back, tucking his hands behind his head.
“No way,” Sam says, staring hard at Dean. “Not possible.”
Dean shrugs, still cocky. “Admit it, I’m the master.”
“Prove it,” Sam says and Dean obliges.
He lifts up his shirt so Sam can see the first one- the obvious one- in the belt. “That so shouldn’t count,” Sam says. “It’s in plain sight!”
“No one noticed it,” Dean says. “So it counts.”
He rolls up his sleeves to the forearms. Twin pairs of tiny silver blades strapped to a thin leather band adorn both his wrists.
Sam’s mouth opens. “Where’d you get those?”
“Caleb,” Deans says and he’s already pulling up his jeans to reveals a flat-blade in each sock.
He digs in his left pocket and out comes a Swiss army knife. He throws it on the table, and it’s soon joined by a switchblade.
For the grand finale, he fishes out a chain from under his shirt, and there’s a tiny knife hanging on it.
Sam sighs.
Dean leans forward. “The key, Sammy, is layers. Pile them on-at least two shirts. No one’ll notice the blades. Plus, during the hunt, that’s less skin for the sons-of-bitches to tear into.”
“Layers,” Sam repeats. “Got it.”
“And it gives the ladies something to unwrap,” Dean adds. “Or I dunno, maybe in your case it’ll protect your virginal body until marriage or whatever you’re going for.”
He gets a pillow thrown at his face in response.
***
The Aswang shuffles out of room, and Dean makes a face at Sam. “Brilliant plan, dumbass.”
“Okay, so maybe it can see easier in the dark,” Sam admits.
“Yeah, you think?” Dean grumbles. He looks up, biting his lip and twisting his fingers as he inches the small blade out of his sleeve. Sawing away, he looks over to where Sam is tied up in a similar fashion. “You okay over there, Houdini?”
“Yeah,” Sam answers, and Dean can see that he’s making quick work of the complicated knots.
“How many are you carrying?” he calls over.
“Only my wrist ones,” Dean’s forced to admit.
Sam grins, and finishes sawing free his legs. He comes over and helps Dean with the rest of his ropes.
Dean grabs one of the knives that Sam offers him, throwing it over his shoulder.
Sam twists around and his eyes widen. The Aswang is five feet behind him, and Dean’s knife is burrowed in his throat.
“Next trick after concealing,” Dean says, adrenaline racing through his body. “Is learning how to throw a knife.”
Sam nods. “Yeah, I think that would be good.”
* 3
“I’m missing practice,” Sam calls from the back seat.
“They won’t mind,” John says calmly, as he drives down the narrow road, dust flying up behind them.
Dean can see Sam fidgeting out of the corner of his eye and he knows what’s coming. He turns around, hoping to head it off. “Hey, Sammy. Dad’s picked up some new equipment from Caleb.” He grins. “I think you’ll like it.”
“All I want to do is play soccer,” Sam mutters.
“Trust me,” Dean tells him. “This is way more cool.”
They spend the day practicing with the new weapons and head back when the sun is hovering just above the horizon, turning the air a dusky gold. Coming back, they pass by the soccer field as the lights go on and the breeze carries the cheers.
When they stop at the lights, Sam leans out the window, a wistful sigh escaping as a whistle blows.
Dean looks over at John, and John is looking in the rearview mirror at Sam
The next day, John shakes his head as Sam comes over to the car, a scowl threatening to overwhelm his face.
“Only Dean today,” he says and Sam stops short, confused.
Still, he doesn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbles and starts to lope off to the field.
***
“Sam!” Dean’s voice yells out a warning and Sam takes a deep breath, concentrating on the figure hurdling towards him. He re-loads.
“Got it,” he says, more to himself as he narrows his sights down on his target. Looking through the telescopic lens he can see the horns tangled in the matted, blood-soaked hair and he moves his sight lower.
30 feet. 20 feet. 15 feet…
He squeezes and looses the bolt with a whispered prayer.
Dean lets out a low whistles. “Right between the eyes!” He slaps Sam hard on the back as they examine the dead minotaur. “Bow-hunting’s not such a useless skill after all, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Sam says grudgingly, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips as he looks down at his handiwork.
* 4
The first fight Dean gets in is during the second week of the first grade. John stops by at lunch, and watches Dean from the door, swinging his legs on the bench outside the principal’s office.
“He said that Mommy left us,” Dean tells him, his eyes round and troubled. “On purpose. And he wouldn’t take it back.”
John doesn’t know what to say. He crouches down so he’s eye level with his son and he tentatively places a hand on Dean’s knee. “No more fighting at school, okay, Dean?”
There’s a pause. “I promise,” Dean whispers.
***
“Dude, you just gotta let go,” Dean tells him, as they practice in the tiny backyard. He flips Sam over his shoulder and steps away as Sam lies on the ground, gasping.
Eventually he stands back up and he swings a wary punch. “You gotta fight dirty,” Dean says, and he grabs the back on Sam’s shirt and uses the momentum to slam him into the ground. “The bad guys aren’t going to be waiting for you to throw some sissy punch.”
Sam narrows his eyes, and launches himself at Dean. He grabs Dean’s legs and they both go tumbling to the ground.
They roll around in the grass, knees and elbows flying and Sam head-butts Dean.
“Ow, shit,” Dean says and blood starts to pour from his nose.
“Dean…” Sam looks in askance at the blood as he follows his brother inside.
“Not bad, Sammy,” Deans says, as he examines the damage in the bathroom mirror. “But you still could’ve given a bit more.”
“You wanted me to break your nose, idiot?” Sam asks incredulously, and he shoves Dean and Dean just laughs.
* 5
“Books, hell of a tool. They’ll save your life more often than anything you got packed away in that trunk,” Joshua would comment and John would grin and say that he’d like to see Joshua take down a werewolf with them.
But he’d always let Joshua throw another set of books into the back of the Impala before they left Baton Rouge. Leafing through the titles, Sam would pick one and curl up with it, knees to his chest as they drove down the highways. Sometimes, John would turn off the radio and he’d tell Sam to read out loud the most interesting or useful parts. Later when they’d stop for the night, after supper, and the weapons had been cleaned. John would take out his journal and add in newspaper clippings and small neat post-its, with notes from his hunts. Dean would take a stack of books and skim through them, finding the useful information and discarding the rest.
It wasn’t always books though. It was knowing which questions to deflect when it came to filling out school paperwork. It was knowing what kind of material would burn properly for a salt-n-burn. It was knowing how to shop and buy the cheapest food. It was knowing how to nick a Bunsen burner and use it to cook when on the road. It was knowing which highway take when they crossed the state lines.
It was knowing, and knowledge and whatever would keep them alive, keep them safe, keep them together.
* 6
At ten, Dean kills his first hellhound.
Looking at the mess of fur and claws and body splayed out in an unnatural position, he feels like there’s something clawing inside his stomach. He wants to yell, to pump a fist, he wants to throw up. And so he does, in the bushes, until there’s nothing left in his stomach. When he stands up, his father is there waiting. “You did good, Dean,” he says to him and they leave.
At fourteen, he doesn’t shoot a harpy queen.
She’s begging for her life in front of him. “Dear boy, sweet boy, you wouldn’t shoot me…” She’s tiny and graceful, with red curls and a smile so sweet that he can’t help but pause. And he hesitates.
It takes two days for John to track her down again and she kills again, and again and again, the last time a young boy who’s found ripped to shreds in his nursery.
“Dad,” his voice cracks when his father comes back to the Impala.
“You can’t hesitate,” his father says finally. “You can’t… Dean, I know you might want to-but these things we hunt, you have to separate yourself from it.”
At sixteen he looks into the eyes of a werewolf. He kills it with a silver-tipped bow, and watches as it writhes and shakes. It slumps in its final throes and the man finally comes out of the animalistic state, only to die moments later with a bloody gurgle.
Dean forces himself to watch, pushing all his emotions behind a mental wall and he forces his face into frozen neutrality. When he leaves he feels cold and empty.
At twenty seven, he kills his first human. “Pulling the trigger… killing that guy, killing Meg. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t even flinch. For you or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill…”
He feels Sam’s eyes on him closely as he tries to finish, “it’s just, uh .... it scares me sometimes.”
And sometimes he wonders when exactly that wall became permanent, when that mask slipped over his face finally, and whether in the end he’ll ever want to break it down.
* 7
“You look at me like that, and how can I say no?” Jess would laugh and playfully push Sam out of the way, and Sam would try another confused ‘what’d I do now?’
“You really don’t know, do you?” she murmurs to him one night, cuddled in his arms.
“Know what?”
“You’re the youngest, aren’t you?” she asks.
He answers cautiously, not sure where the conversation is going. “Yeah, remember-I have an older brother, Dean.”
There’s a sleepy giggle. “Now I understand.”
“You want to explain it to me?” he asks, nonplussed.
“Sorry, can’t do,” Jess says, twisting around in the covers to face him. She kisses him on the nose and winks. “You lose the power if you figure out what it is.”
* 8
Looking at his reflection in the cracked motel mirror, Dean’s not sure exactly what’s changed.
“Such a nice-looking boy,” the grandmas and mothers would smile and sigh. At school, the girls start to blush when he talked to them. They let him get close at parties and send him notes in indecipherable colors like pink and light blue.
It’s a change, but one he plans on getting used to. He grins at his reflection.
***
At a truck stop in Arkansas, he slips around the corner to use the restroom and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle suddenly when he realizes he’s not alone.
He’s almost too late to react. A heavy force slams into his body and he’s pressed against the wall, with a sweaty, foul-smelling hand covering his mouth.
Dean squirms and kicks as he’s forced back into the restroom. He can hear the grunt and heavy breathing of the man, as he tries to hold onto Dean, knocking his head against the doorframe.
The outside light dims as Dean slumps, momentarily dazed and the door closes. The man lets out a triumphant groan and there’s a sound of a belt unbuckling.
Dean curls up on himself, and eases a knife out of his sleeve. He waits until the man comes close before he turns and knocks the feet from under him.
The man licks his lips and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as Dean holds the knife to his throat.
“Wrong person to jump,” he snarls and the man whimpers.
***
When he turns the corner again, Sam’s standing by the car, eating a pack of skittles.
“Did you have that before--” Sam asks, and he points to Dean’s face.
Dean touches it gingerly, and feels the small cut, and swelling. “It’s nothing,” he says roughly and yanks open the car door.
* 9
“So Sam, tell us- What does your father do for a living?” There’s a constant smile on the interviewers’ faces as they grill him and he starts to wonder if perhaps they’re painted on. Living mannequin dolls.
“Traveling salesman,” he answers promptly. “Him and my brother. We’ve been doing it since my mom died, when I was a baby.” He shrugs. “I don’t recommend it, honestly. I’ve been crossing the country my whole life…” And he spins his life into what they want to hear, and wonders if this time, maybe this is the break he’s been looking for.
***
Sam figures he’s been lying consistently to anyone who’s not Dean, or Dad, since the age of five. No mention of hunting, of mom, of anything abnormal. So when he leaves for Stanford, it’s just one more elaborate lie to hold together. One more lie to tell. Story of his life.
* 10
But when it comes down to the wire, it’s Dean, and it’s Sam, and it’s fighting together, backs against one another, trusting the other to protect and watch over when they can’t trust anyone else.
***
End.
List
1. with guns
2. with knives
3. with crossbows
4. with hand to hand
5. with knowledge
6. with Dean’s cold exterior
7. < i>with Sam’s puppy eyes
8. with street smarts/self-awareness
9. with lies/confidence
10. with trusting each other