Sam was not a Boyscout
Title: Knot prepared
Summary: Sam really likes to be prepared, but having all the right tools is no guarantee you’ll be safe.
Word count: 1,200
Rated: pg-13 (Language, violence)
Notes:Set post-S3; Spoilers through “No Rest for the Wicked”
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters: Sam, Ruby, mention of Dean
Beta: Yes, I probably should have used one.
A/N: for spnpromptcake , with the prompt roof/rope/cry
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
***
Carrying extra rope in his duffle is only one of the ways Sam is prepared, nowadays. He has an extra lighter in his jeans, silver knife in his right boot, flask of holy water in his breast pocket. He carries bullets of iron and silver as well as a rock-salt loaded sawed-off, no matter what he’s hunting. Consecrated rounds, too. There are talismans, lockpicks, his IDs, all of it organized perfectly, each item in its correct place. The bag’s heavy, but Dean’s not around to tease and rearrange and assure him with a big grin that everything’ll work out fine with whatever tools they’ve got. That Winchesters always come out on top.
His brother was wrong about that.
It’s a cold comfort, being right. Sam’s up on the roof of the warehouse, 25 feet up with nothing but cement to break his fall and about eighteen vampires below him coming home to find their seven companions beheaded. If he didn’t have the length of rope to rappel down with, the absolute best he could hope for would be a broken leg. That or face more than a dozen pissed off vamps at once. See, Dean, he thinks as he fishes the rope out of the bottom of his bag. Forethought is a good thing.
Nine each, we could take them, Dean replies.
But I can’t, Sam thinks. Then he presses his palms firmly against his clenched-shut eyes, because having conversations with yourself is not a sign of holding it together, and now that Ruby’s back he has to hold himself together.
The rope’s hardly 25 feet long, and he’s going to have a drop to deal with. The railing’ll make a good enough anchor, but he needs a knot that can hold his weight without eating up too much of his precious yardage. Each extra foot wasted on the knot is another foot to drop without spraining an ankle. A shout comes muffled from below, and he needs to get to work, fast.
Except that he doesn’t know which knot to use.
He strikes on a variation on a square knot that, if memory serves, ought to prove strong enough for the purpose. He threads the end through a hastily formed loop, around itself, through again, yanks both ends tight. He tests it, leaning his weight back with the rope taunt in front of him, and falls on his ass when it gives. A second try doesn’t fare any better, and it’s becoming clear he’s forgotten some step. He can hear the nest being ransacked for an invader, and it’s only a matter of time before they think to check the roof. He stares at the unwieldy rope in his hands, his childhood memories of knot-tying lessons slipping out of his grasp in the face of a growing panic. He was never very good with knots. He could memorize instructions and pictures, but somehow the execution always evaded him; he’d always put one loop under when it needed to be over, or wrap it once when it should have been twice.
As always, it was Dean who naturally understood, and without pouring over the boy-scout manual like Sam had to. Everything to do with hunting just cooperated with Dean, fell into place in the face of his blithe confidence that he could do no wrong. Sam’s stuck with a sudden, clear memory of his brother as a teenager, showing off how quick he could tie the trickiest knots their father threw at them, invulnerable and on top of the world. Sam scrubs a hand across his wet cheeks, forgetting it’s covered in vampire blood. He jerks away from the cool stickiness, and the coppery smell. He doesn’t enjoy blood, only the power it brings. He doesn’t enjoy the taste of blood at all.
Remembering Ruby, and what he has to do, jolts him back into focus. He takes the rope in hand again; he may not be able to tie a knot that would make his father proud, but his father is long dead. Surely he can manage something that’ll hold his weight, just for the few moments it’ll take to shimmy down to a safer height. He ties a basic double knot, with plenty of slack on the other end to do another loop and knot combo over the railing.
Pretty sloppy, Sammy, Dean says. Rope’s only twelve feet and you just used three of ‘em on a knot that might not even hold you. Maybe you didn’t notice, but you’re kind of a sasquatch.
Don’t see you offering a hand, Sam snaps back.
‘Cause I’m dead, college boy, Dean sneers, suddenly vicious. And don’t think I’ve forgotten who to blame for that.
The door to the roof slams open with a metallic clang, and as Sam turns to face the two vampires now shouting for back up, he has the passing thought that he could be dead, too, with tempting ease. But there’s still Lilith to take care of, and his pride won’t quite let him die at the hands of a second-rate gang of bloodsuckers.
He drops the rope and hefts the machete he used to kill the first eight.
The scouts go down easy, too surprised and preoccupied with calling for help to put up much fight. It’s when the rest start pouring through the door that things get ugly. He can’t keep them bottled up, and only three more go down before they break through and he’s backing up to keep for getting circled. Then it’s a haze of dodging and hacking, the sting of one of their knives scoring his shoulder-blade when it turns too slowly.
There’s a moment when his arms are being held from behind, but he manages to wrench himself forward out of that vamp’s grasp, dodge the other one’s killing blow, and behead both with a sword another of their dead companions dropped earlier. The roof is quiet, then. Sam blinks, because while he wasn’t keeping close track in the thick of things, he could swear he didn’t kill more than ten. He circles back around the door, and there are four bodies there he definitely had no hand in beheading.
Dean, he thinks, stupidly.
“What the hell, shortbus? You trying to get yourself killed?”
“Ruby,” he says. Of course it’s Ruby.
“I swear,” she continues, “I can’t even keep count of how many times I’ve saved your dumb ass.”
“Didn’t ask for your help,” Sam says flatly. He pulls out the cloth he keeps in his back pocket for wiping fingerprints and cleans off his blade before tucking it back in his duffel. His shoulder is starting to sting, and it’s going to be a bitch trying to stitch it up by feel alone.
“Fine,” Ruby says, hands up in a mock display of pacification. “See if I come around next time. But if you’re done being a little bitch, I’ve got a lead. Meet me downstairs.”
Sam takes his time packing up, and when he turns she’s gone. He tosses his bag over his good shoulder and steps over the three bodies piled in the doorway. Guess you were right, he thinks. Nine each. Didn’t need the rope after all.
Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that.
Summary: Sam really likes to be prepared, but having all the right tools is no guarantee you’ll be safe.
Word count: 1,200
Rated: pg-13 (Language, violence)
Notes:Set post-S3; Spoilers through “No Rest for the Wicked”
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters: Sam, Ruby, mention of Dean
Beta: Yes, I probably should have used one.
A/N: for spnpromptcake , with the prompt roof/rope/cry
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
***
Carrying extra rope in his duffle is only one of the ways Sam is prepared, nowadays. He has an extra lighter in his jeans, silver knife in his right boot, flask of holy water in his breast pocket. He carries bullets of iron and silver as well as a rock-salt loaded sawed-off, no matter what he’s hunting. Consecrated rounds, too. There are talismans, lockpicks, his IDs, all of it organized perfectly, each item in its correct place. The bag’s heavy, but Dean’s not around to tease and rearrange and assure him with a big grin that everything’ll work out fine with whatever tools they’ve got. That Winchesters always come out on top.
His brother was wrong about that.
It’s a cold comfort, being right. Sam’s up on the roof of the warehouse, 25 feet up with nothing but cement to break his fall and about eighteen vampires below him coming home to find their seven companions beheaded. If he didn’t have the length of rope to rappel down with, the absolute best he could hope for would be a broken leg. That or face more than a dozen pissed off vamps at once. See, Dean, he thinks as he fishes the rope out of the bottom of his bag. Forethought is a good thing.
Nine each, we could take them, Dean replies.
But I can’t, Sam thinks. Then he presses his palms firmly against his clenched-shut eyes, because having conversations with yourself is not a sign of holding it together, and now that Ruby’s back he has to hold himself together.
The rope’s hardly 25 feet long, and he’s going to have a drop to deal with. The railing’ll make a good enough anchor, but he needs a knot that can hold his weight without eating up too much of his precious yardage. Each extra foot wasted on the knot is another foot to drop without spraining an ankle. A shout comes muffled from below, and he needs to get to work, fast.
Except that he doesn’t know which knot to use.
He strikes on a variation on a square knot that, if memory serves, ought to prove strong enough for the purpose. He threads the end through a hastily formed loop, around itself, through again, yanks both ends tight. He tests it, leaning his weight back with the rope taunt in front of him, and falls on his ass when it gives. A second try doesn’t fare any better, and it’s becoming clear he’s forgotten some step. He can hear the nest being ransacked for an invader, and it’s only a matter of time before they think to check the roof. He stares at the unwieldy rope in his hands, his childhood memories of knot-tying lessons slipping out of his grasp in the face of a growing panic. He was never very good with knots. He could memorize instructions and pictures, but somehow the execution always evaded him; he’d always put one loop under when it needed to be over, or wrap it once when it should have been twice.
As always, it was Dean who naturally understood, and without pouring over the boy-scout manual like Sam had to. Everything to do with hunting just cooperated with Dean, fell into place in the face of his blithe confidence that he could do no wrong. Sam’s stuck with a sudden, clear memory of his brother as a teenager, showing off how quick he could tie the trickiest knots their father threw at them, invulnerable and on top of the world. Sam scrubs a hand across his wet cheeks, forgetting it’s covered in vampire blood. He jerks away from the cool stickiness, and the coppery smell. He doesn’t enjoy blood, only the power it brings. He doesn’t enjoy the taste of blood at all.
Remembering Ruby, and what he has to do, jolts him back into focus. He takes the rope in hand again; he may not be able to tie a knot that would make his father proud, but his father is long dead. Surely he can manage something that’ll hold his weight, just for the few moments it’ll take to shimmy down to a safer height. He ties a basic double knot, with plenty of slack on the other end to do another loop and knot combo over the railing.
Pretty sloppy, Sammy, Dean says. Rope’s only twelve feet and you just used three of ‘em on a knot that might not even hold you. Maybe you didn’t notice, but you’re kind of a sasquatch.
Don’t see you offering a hand, Sam snaps back.
‘Cause I’m dead, college boy, Dean sneers, suddenly vicious. And don’t think I’ve forgotten who to blame for that.
The door to the roof slams open with a metallic clang, and as Sam turns to face the two vampires now shouting for back up, he has the passing thought that he could be dead, too, with tempting ease. But there’s still Lilith to take care of, and his pride won’t quite let him die at the hands of a second-rate gang of bloodsuckers.
He drops the rope and hefts the machete he used to kill the first eight.
The scouts go down easy, too surprised and preoccupied with calling for help to put up much fight. It’s when the rest start pouring through the door that things get ugly. He can’t keep them bottled up, and only three more go down before they break through and he’s backing up to keep for getting circled. Then it’s a haze of dodging and hacking, the sting of one of their knives scoring his shoulder-blade when it turns too slowly.
There’s a moment when his arms are being held from behind, but he manages to wrench himself forward out of that vamp’s grasp, dodge the other one’s killing blow, and behead both with a sword another of their dead companions dropped earlier. The roof is quiet, then. Sam blinks, because while he wasn’t keeping close track in the thick of things, he could swear he didn’t kill more than ten. He circles back around the door, and there are four bodies there he definitely had no hand in beheading.
Dean, he thinks, stupidly.
“What the hell, shortbus? You trying to get yourself killed?”
“Ruby,” he says. Of course it’s Ruby.
“I swear,” she continues, “I can’t even keep count of how many times I’ve saved your dumb ass.”
“Didn’t ask for your help,” Sam says flatly. He pulls out the cloth he keeps in his back pocket for wiping fingerprints and cleans off his blade before tucking it back in his duffel. His shoulder is starting to sting, and it’s going to be a bitch trying to stitch it up by feel alone.
“Fine,” Ruby says, hands up in a mock display of pacification. “See if I come around next time. But if you’re done being a little bitch, I’ve got a lead. Meet me downstairs.”
Sam takes his time packing up, and when he turns she’s gone. He tosses his bag over his good shoulder and steps over the three bodies piled in the doorway. Guess you were right, he thinks. Nine each. Didn’t need the rope after all.
Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that.