Fic: Other Side of the Mirror [SPN]
Okay, I said I wasn't going to write this (said I couldn't write it), but then I had the brilliant and duh-worthy idea of writing Sam's perspective on it, so here we go. Mini-prequel to the previous fic Unseen.
Sam's distracted with trying to calculate if they have enough curse boxes to safely transport everything, so he doesn't turn to look when he hears Dean come down from the attic, just says "hey" and keeps mentally shuffling items around. The problem isn't so much storage space as it's the risk of surprise 'side effects' if the wrong objects get stored together. Once was enough to make him wary of risking it ever again.
"Sam?" Dean says from somewhere behind him.
"I think we're going to need a couple more boxes to be safe, especially if you found anything upstairs," Sam answers, still studying the eclectic contents of the table in front of him.
"Sam?" Dean says again, a little louder, and Sam feels a small surge of irritation.
"Dude, I'm right here," he says, turning towards Dean, who's--staring off down the hall for some reason.
"Sam?" Dean calls it this time, voice pitched to carry. He has his gun out at the ready and his head cocked as if he's trying to hear something far away. He's not panicked yet, but Sam can see the tension in his stance, the way he's bracing for something unfriendly to hit him.
"Dean, I'm standing right behind you," Sam says, more gently now, stepping close enough to put a hand on Dean's arm, but when he tries, he winds up just gesturing awkwardly past Dean's shoulder.
Crap.
First question is which one of them's been whammied--they're both wearing gloves, but Dean's definitely more likely to randomly touch things, and he's been rummaging around in the attic unsupervised for a good fifteen, twenty minutes. Judging by the look and sound of things, he's now about half a minute away from bolting off into the sprawling wreck of a mansion, and if he's not careful, the decaying house is just as likely to injure him as some of the nastier things left behind by its former inhabitant.
But magic--especially old magic, and this has the fairy-tale feel of it--doesn't always cope well with modern technology, so Sam pulls out his phone and texts DON'T PANIC, holding his breath during the half-second it takes for the message to transmit.
A moment later and Dean's frowning down at his phone. "If you're telling me not to panic, that probably means I should," he mutters, but his back and shoulders ease a little bit. He texts back "are you ok?", but before Sam can type in his reply, Dean's actually calling him, the phone buzzing anxiously in Sam's hand.
"Where are you?" Dean demands, and Sam licks his lips, hesitates a moment before answering, because Dean's probably not going to be able to hear him, but he can't not respond.
"I'm here," Sam says, his voice echoing out from the speaker on Dean's phone, and the instant relief on Dean's face is so strong it resembles deep sorrow. "I'm right beside you, Dean. I'm here."
Sam's distracted with trying to calculate if they have enough curse boxes to safely transport everything, so he doesn't turn to look when he hears Dean come down from the attic, just says "hey" and keeps mentally shuffling items around. The problem isn't so much storage space as it's the risk of surprise 'side effects' if the wrong objects get stored together. Once was enough to make him wary of risking it ever again.
"Sam?" Dean says from somewhere behind him.
"I think we're going to need a couple more boxes to be safe, especially if you found anything upstairs," Sam answers, still studying the eclectic contents of the table in front of him.
"Sam?" Dean says again, a little louder, and Sam feels a small surge of irritation.
"Dude, I'm right here," he says, turning towards Dean, who's--staring off down the hall for some reason.
"Sam?" Dean calls it this time, voice pitched to carry. He has his gun out at the ready and his head cocked as if he's trying to hear something far away. He's not panicked yet, but Sam can see the tension in his stance, the way he's bracing for something unfriendly to hit him.
"Dean, I'm standing right behind you," Sam says, more gently now, stepping close enough to put a hand on Dean's arm, but when he tries, he winds up just gesturing awkwardly past Dean's shoulder.
Crap.
First question is which one of them's been whammied--they're both wearing gloves, but Dean's definitely more likely to randomly touch things, and he's been rummaging around in the attic unsupervised for a good fifteen, twenty minutes. Judging by the look and sound of things, he's now about half a minute away from bolting off into the sprawling wreck of a mansion, and if he's not careful, the decaying house is just as likely to injure him as some of the nastier things left behind by its former inhabitant.
But magic--especially old magic, and this has the fairy-tale feel of it--doesn't always cope well with modern technology, so Sam pulls out his phone and texts DON'T PANIC, holding his breath during the half-second it takes for the message to transmit.
A moment later and Dean's frowning down at his phone. "If you're telling me not to panic, that probably means I should," he mutters, but his back and shoulders ease a little bit. He texts back "are you ok?", but before Sam can type in his reply, Dean's actually calling him, the phone buzzing anxiously in Sam's hand.
"Where are you?" Dean demands, and Sam licks his lips, hesitates a moment before answering, because Dean's probably not going to be able to hear him, but he can't not respond.
"I'm here," Sam says, his voice echoing out from the speaker on Dean's phone, and the instant relief on Dean's face is so strong it resembles deep sorrow. "I'm right beside you, Dean. I'm here."