Fic: A life in hoodies
Genre: Gen, reference to Sam/Jessica
Length: About 1900 words
Rating: PG for language
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore, Pamela Barnes
Synopsis: Fifteen years of Sam Winchester’s life told through an inventory of his hoodies. Or, this is what happens when a technical writer takes a stab at fanfic.
Another weird format from me? Yes! These hoodies were originally identified by the extremely thorough and observant hells_half_acre and can be seen on the Hoodie page of "If Clothes Could Talk." Hell's Half Acre also provided the timeline I used to determine when Sam would have worn these hoodies.
~ ~ ~ ~
H.01: Grey fleur-de-lis hoodie
Figure 1:
Description: Light grey full-zip hooded sweatshirt with darker grey fleur-de-lis design on left chest, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased by girlfriend at Macy's in Palo Alto in February, 2005 (see Note 1). Lost sometime around July, 2006 (see Note 2)
Note 1:
Please come with me, she said. I've just got to pick up some perfume for my mom's birthday. It will literally take ten minutes. Sam left his jacket in the car. He knew Macy's wasn't exactly Rodeo Drive, but it still wasn't somewhere he felt comfortable wearing his ratty canvas jacket. Jess steered him inside, wandering through displays of linens and cookware, wondering aloud if she was on the right floor. They ended up in menswear, where she stopped in front of a mannequin wearing the grey hoodie. Ooooh, she said. I like that. She yanked one off a hanger and held it up against Sam's chest. Try it on? For me? Sam shrugged it on over his t-shirt, shamefully grateful for a little warmth in the chilly mall. You look so good in that, she said. Would you do me a favor? If I buy it, would you wear it for me? We can call it an early birthday present.
It wasn't the type of clothing he'd normally buy for himself. It was a little more decorative, meant for a more fashion-forward type of guy. The type of guy Jessica wanted him to be, maybe? Okay. He could be that guy. He could do that, for her. She grinned, bundled the hoodie in her arms, and marched to the perfume counter. She paid for both items together so he never saw how much it cost, and ripped off the tag with perfect white teeth while waiting for the clerk to giftwrap her mother's perfume.
Sam Winchester had never bought his mother a birthday present; he had never been dressed by a girlfriend. He saw his new life, his new safe (not normal, safe) life seductively stretching out in front of him, a life where he was a citizen and someday maybe a lawyer and a husband and a father, and he had to hold his breath for fear that it would all blow away.
Note 2:
Sam wore the grey hoodie when he kissed Jess goodbye that night, and it was one of the few things he took with him when he drove away from Palo Alto for the last time. He didn't bother going through whatever belongings survived the fire. There wasn't anything to go back for; the only thing in the apartment that had ever mattered was gone. The hoodie was lost somewhere around the time of the car crash that should have killed his brother. He didn't mourn its loss. He wasn't ever going to be that guy after all.
H.02: Charcoal Hoodie
Figure 2:
Description: Charcoal grey full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at Tractor Supply near Ogden, Utah in November, 2005 (see Note 3). Destroyed in Minnesota in February, 2007 (see Note 4).
Note 3:
Sam was dozing fitfully - just like he'd slept fitfully the night before - when Dean pulled into the Tractor Supply parking lot. You need a heavier coat, he said. That jacket's not warm enough for the mountains. Once inside, Dean peeled off to pick up some other supplies while Sam wandered the aisles, eventually picking up a dark grey hoodie. Dean frowned. No, man; I know you haven't done this in a while, but think camping. Think Colorado. Think cold.
Dean steered him toward a Carhartt jacket (see J.01, Tan Hooded Carhartt Jacket), but Sam didn't put the hoodie back. The Carhartt jacket was perfectly fine, but it was warm and heavy. Too warm and heavy for California. He wouldn't need it when he went back and restarted his life someday.
Note 4:
Weeks later, Sam charged downstairs to the basement of the abandoned house where he'd left Dean fighting a rawhead. The air still reeked of mold and rot and damp but there was something else, something like ozone and burned flesh, and then he saw his brother, limp in a pool of water, eyes closed, mouth slack, dead Taser still in his hand, and in a flash he knew what had happened and he ran, fell to his knees, (no Dean no, ohgod, ohgod), felt for a pulse (goddammit Dean, don't you fucking die on me, I can't do this again, don't you fucking do this to me), took a deep breath and tried again and it was there, a bare flutter under his fingertips, again and again and again, thank God.
He dragged Dean up the stairs, stretched him out in the back seat of the Impala, dug the charcoal hoodie out of his duffel and spread it over his shivering brother and drove him to the hospital. It stayed wrapped around Dean's shoulders when Sam half-carried him into the ER, and ended up in the plastic bag of clothing and personal effects stuffed into the tiny closet of the hospital room Dean was expected to die in. He was wearing it when he showed up at the hotel, frail and faded, no longer Sam's larger-than-life brother.
It was shredded by a black dog a year or so later and Sam never missed it, had never been comfortable with it again, couldn't look at it without seeing it wrapped around Dean, pale and fragile and dying.
H.03 Brown hoodie A
Figure 3:
Description: Chocolate brown full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size L, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at a Salvation Army in Lincoln, Nebraska in early 2005 (originally purchased by Dean Winchester, see note 5). Discarded sometime in early 2007 (see note 6).
Note 5:
Sam found the hoodie shoved in the farthest corner of the Impala's trunk. He put it on because everything he owned was stained, either because he fell asleep still clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee or because he got doused in someone-or-something's bodily fluids. Dean refused to stop long enough to do laundry, saying everything they owned was clean enough. He laughed at Sam and said got kinda spoiled, did ya, as he pulled on his own dirty shirt and yes, maybe Sam did get spoiled at Stanford. If being used to jeans that didn't stand up on their own, socks that covered your entire foot, clothes that weren't literally spattered with monster guts or your brother's blood, a wardrobe that was old and threadbare and pretty far from high fashion but at least got laundered on a regular basis, shirts that smelled like detergent and not gunpowder, socks that were stored in a disorganized pile in a hamper in your bedroom because they didn't have to be rolled into neat compact balls to fit in the duffle you lived out of, a jacket that smelled like your girlfriend's perfume instead of the smoke of a salt-and-burn because she borrowed it the last time the two of you went to the beach… if being used to all of that meant Sam got spoiled? Then yes, sure, he got fucking spoiled.
It doesn't even fit you, Dean said, eyeing Sam with a frown, as if suddenly realizing how much bigger his real-life brother was than the brother in his head. And he was right. It was too small, too short for Sam's long torso, bought by Dean for his own use because it looked like a color that would hide bloodstains well, but never worn because he didn't actually like hoodies in the first place.
Note 6:
I’m fine, Sam said, pushing Dean’s hand away. Go on, drive. We need to get out of here. Dean frowned, but he knew as well as Sam did that they needed to get away from the graveyard before they were spotted. And no, technically Sam wasn’t exactly fine. Technically, his entire right side was numb, he was nauseated and woozy, he was freezing, and his ears were ringing. But that meant fine enough according to Winchester standards.
When they got to the hotel, Sam reached for the door handle and was hit by a wave of pain. Suddenly his right side was on fire. He gasped and curled in on himself, clutching at his side. Eventually Dean came around and opened the passenger door. Dude? You good? Sam didn’t have to say no, I’m not. Dean took one look at him and reached for his arm. Come on, man. I gotcha. He pulled Sam out of the car and then patted at his right side as Sam wrenched away with a moan. Sam? You’re bleeding. Like, a lot. Dean was right, the color hid bloodstains well. Neither of them had noticed it was shredded along the right side and saturated with blood. Dean tore it into strips and used it as wound packing.
H.04 Brown hoodie B
Figure 4:
Description: Brown full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at a St. Vincent De Paul Thrift Store in Greensburg, Pennsylvania (see note 7) in 2007. Discarded sometime in the spring of 2009 (see note 8).
Note 7:
Another hoodie? Dean asked, eyeing the small pile of purchases on the counter. Sam didn’t respond, but raised his eyebrows to say yeah, and? Dean shrugged. Just, you know, they don’t seem to last very long. And the pockets aren’t good for holding… stuff. Sam knew stuff meant weapons, and while Dean would never put it in so many words, the meaning was clear: You need practical clothes. Pockets that zip or button to keep weapons secure. Heavy fabric that serves as a layer of protection. Stiff fabric that doesn’t reveal the contours of whatever you’re hiding underneath it. You’re not a college student any more. You’re never going to be one again. Stop dressing like one. Sam didn’t put the hoodie back, but he only wore it a few times, and it was the last one he ever wore while hunting.
Note 8:
Sam leaned close to Pamela to hear her whispered last words. I know what you did to that demon, Sam. I can feel what's inside of you. If you think you have good intentions, think again. When he pulled back, her blood had soaked through the front of his hoodie, leaving a dark spot that never completely washed out. Sam left the hoodie in a laundromat somewhere in Wyoming, unable to ignore its accusing stare.
H.05 Light grey hoodie
Figure 5:
Description: Light heathered grey full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at a Wal-Mart in Hays, Kansas in 2018 (originally purchased by Dean Winchester, see note 9). Current status unknown (see note 10).
Note 9:
The first time Dean wore the grey hoodie to take the dog for a walk, Sam's gut clenched into a tight little knot. He hadn't seen it since Dean's bout of healthy living, his attempt to master the Mark of Cain by exercising and eating healthy and quieting his mind. Any relic from that time in their lives brought back memories. Bad ones. For a moment Sam couldn't see anything but images of his brother's black eyes, of Charlie's pyre, of kneeling on the floor of a Mexican restaurant waiting for the bite of the scythe. Stop it, he told himself, pressing a thumbnail into his scarred palm. It's over. We're fine. Everything is fine.
Note 10:
Sam found it in the chaos of Dean’s room, draped over his desk chair. It smelled a little like the dog, a little like deodorant soap, a little like bacon. Mostly it smelled like Dean. It was one of the few things Sam took with him when he drove away from the bunker for the last time.
Length: About 1900 words
Rating: PG for language
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore, Pamela Barnes
Synopsis: Fifteen years of Sam Winchester’s life told through an inventory of his hoodies. Or, this is what happens when a technical writer takes a stab at fanfic.
Another weird format from me? Yes! These hoodies were originally identified by the extremely thorough and observant hells_half_acre and can be seen on the Hoodie page of "If Clothes Could Talk." Hell's Half Acre also provided the timeline I used to determine when Sam would have worn these hoodies.
~ ~ ~ ~
H.01: Grey fleur-de-lis hoodie
Figure 1:
Description: Light grey full-zip hooded sweatshirt with darker grey fleur-de-lis design on left chest, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased by girlfriend at Macy's in Palo Alto in February, 2005 (see Note 1). Lost sometime around July, 2006 (see Note 2)
Note 1:
Please come with me, she said. I've just got to pick up some perfume for my mom's birthday. It will literally take ten minutes. Sam left his jacket in the car. He knew Macy's wasn't exactly Rodeo Drive, but it still wasn't somewhere he felt comfortable wearing his ratty canvas jacket. Jess steered him inside, wandering through displays of linens and cookware, wondering aloud if she was on the right floor. They ended up in menswear, where she stopped in front of a mannequin wearing the grey hoodie. Ooooh, she said. I like that. She yanked one off a hanger and held it up against Sam's chest. Try it on? For me? Sam shrugged it on over his t-shirt, shamefully grateful for a little warmth in the chilly mall. You look so good in that, she said. Would you do me a favor? If I buy it, would you wear it for me? We can call it an early birthday present.
It wasn't the type of clothing he'd normally buy for himself. It was a little more decorative, meant for a more fashion-forward type of guy. The type of guy Jessica wanted him to be, maybe? Okay. He could be that guy. He could do that, for her. She grinned, bundled the hoodie in her arms, and marched to the perfume counter. She paid for both items together so he never saw how much it cost, and ripped off the tag with perfect white teeth while waiting for the clerk to giftwrap her mother's perfume.
Sam Winchester had never bought his mother a birthday present; he had never been dressed by a girlfriend. He saw his new life, his new safe (not normal, safe) life seductively stretching out in front of him, a life where he was a citizen and someday maybe a lawyer and a husband and a father, and he had to hold his breath for fear that it would all blow away.
Note 2:
Sam wore the grey hoodie when he kissed Jess goodbye that night, and it was one of the few things he took with him when he drove away from Palo Alto for the last time. He didn't bother going through whatever belongings survived the fire. There wasn't anything to go back for; the only thing in the apartment that had ever mattered was gone. The hoodie was lost somewhere around the time of the car crash that should have killed his brother. He didn't mourn its loss. He wasn't ever going to be that guy after all.
H.02: Charcoal Hoodie
Figure 2:
Description: Charcoal grey full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at Tractor Supply near Ogden, Utah in November, 2005 (see Note 3). Destroyed in Minnesota in February, 2007 (see Note 4).
Note 3:
Sam was dozing fitfully - just like he'd slept fitfully the night before - when Dean pulled into the Tractor Supply parking lot. You need a heavier coat, he said. That jacket's not warm enough for the mountains. Once inside, Dean peeled off to pick up some other supplies while Sam wandered the aisles, eventually picking up a dark grey hoodie. Dean frowned. No, man; I know you haven't done this in a while, but think camping. Think Colorado. Think cold.
Dean steered him toward a Carhartt jacket (see J.01, Tan Hooded Carhartt Jacket), but Sam didn't put the hoodie back. The Carhartt jacket was perfectly fine, but it was warm and heavy. Too warm and heavy for California. He wouldn't need it when he went back and restarted his life someday.
Note 4:
Weeks later, Sam charged downstairs to the basement of the abandoned house where he'd left Dean fighting a rawhead. The air still reeked of mold and rot and damp but there was something else, something like ozone and burned flesh, and then he saw his brother, limp in a pool of water, eyes closed, mouth slack, dead Taser still in his hand, and in a flash he knew what had happened and he ran, fell to his knees, (no Dean no, ohgod, ohgod), felt for a pulse (goddammit Dean, don't you fucking die on me, I can't do this again, don't you fucking do this to me), took a deep breath and tried again and it was there, a bare flutter under his fingertips, again and again and again, thank God.
He dragged Dean up the stairs, stretched him out in the back seat of the Impala, dug the charcoal hoodie out of his duffel and spread it over his shivering brother and drove him to the hospital. It stayed wrapped around Dean's shoulders when Sam half-carried him into the ER, and ended up in the plastic bag of clothing and personal effects stuffed into the tiny closet of the hospital room Dean was expected to die in. He was wearing it when he showed up at the hotel, frail and faded, no longer Sam's larger-than-life brother.
It was shredded by a black dog a year or so later and Sam never missed it, had never been comfortable with it again, couldn't look at it without seeing it wrapped around Dean, pale and fragile and dying.
H.03 Brown hoodie A
Figure 3:
Description: Chocolate brown full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size L, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at a Salvation Army in Lincoln, Nebraska in early 2005 (originally purchased by Dean Winchester, see note 5). Discarded sometime in early 2007 (see note 6).
Note 5:
Sam found the hoodie shoved in the farthest corner of the Impala's trunk. He put it on because everything he owned was stained, either because he fell asleep still clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee or because he got doused in someone-or-something's bodily fluids. Dean refused to stop long enough to do laundry, saying everything they owned was clean enough. He laughed at Sam and said got kinda spoiled, did ya, as he pulled on his own dirty shirt and yes, maybe Sam did get spoiled at Stanford. If being used to jeans that didn't stand up on their own, socks that covered your entire foot, clothes that weren't literally spattered with monster guts or your brother's blood, a wardrobe that was old and threadbare and pretty far from high fashion but at least got laundered on a regular basis, shirts that smelled like detergent and not gunpowder, socks that were stored in a disorganized pile in a hamper in your bedroom because they didn't have to be rolled into neat compact balls to fit in the duffle you lived out of, a jacket that smelled like your girlfriend's perfume instead of the smoke of a salt-and-burn because she borrowed it the last time the two of you went to the beach… if being used to all of that meant Sam got spoiled? Then yes, sure, he got fucking spoiled.
It doesn't even fit you, Dean said, eyeing Sam with a frown, as if suddenly realizing how much bigger his real-life brother was than the brother in his head. And he was right. It was too small, too short for Sam's long torso, bought by Dean for his own use because it looked like a color that would hide bloodstains well, but never worn because he didn't actually like hoodies in the first place.
Note 6:
I’m fine, Sam said, pushing Dean’s hand away. Go on, drive. We need to get out of here. Dean frowned, but he knew as well as Sam did that they needed to get away from the graveyard before they were spotted. And no, technically Sam wasn’t exactly fine. Technically, his entire right side was numb, he was nauseated and woozy, he was freezing, and his ears were ringing. But that meant fine enough according to Winchester standards.
When they got to the hotel, Sam reached for the door handle and was hit by a wave of pain. Suddenly his right side was on fire. He gasped and curled in on himself, clutching at his side. Eventually Dean came around and opened the passenger door. Dude? You good? Sam didn’t have to say no, I’m not. Dean took one look at him and reached for his arm. Come on, man. I gotcha. He pulled Sam out of the car and then patted at his right side as Sam wrenched away with a moan. Sam? You’re bleeding. Like, a lot. Dean was right, the color hid bloodstains well. Neither of them had noticed it was shredded along the right side and saturated with blood. Dean tore it into strips and used it as wound packing.
H.04 Brown hoodie B
Figure 4:
Description: Brown full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at a St. Vincent De Paul Thrift Store in Greensburg, Pennsylvania (see note 7) in 2007. Discarded sometime in the spring of 2009 (see note 8).
Note 7:
Another hoodie? Dean asked, eyeing the small pile of purchases on the counter. Sam didn’t respond, but raised his eyebrows to say yeah, and? Dean shrugged. Just, you know, they don’t seem to last very long. And the pockets aren’t good for holding… stuff. Sam knew stuff meant weapons, and while Dean would never put it in so many words, the meaning was clear: You need practical clothes. Pockets that zip or button to keep weapons secure. Heavy fabric that serves as a layer of protection. Stiff fabric that doesn’t reveal the contours of whatever you’re hiding underneath it. You’re not a college student any more. You’re never going to be one again. Stop dressing like one. Sam didn’t put the hoodie back, but he only wore it a few times, and it was the last one he ever wore while hunting.
Note 8:
Sam leaned close to Pamela to hear her whispered last words. I know what you did to that demon, Sam. I can feel what's inside of you. If you think you have good intentions, think again. When he pulled back, her blood had soaked through the front of his hoodie, leaving a dark spot that never completely washed out. Sam left the hoodie in a laundromat somewhere in Wyoming, unable to ignore its accusing stare.
H.05 Light grey hoodie
Figure 5:
Description: Light heathered grey full-zip hooded sweatshirt, size XL, brand unknown
Provenance: Purchased at a Wal-Mart in Hays, Kansas in 2018 (originally purchased by Dean Winchester, see note 9). Current status unknown (see note 10).
Note 9:
The first time Dean wore the grey hoodie to take the dog for a walk, Sam's gut clenched into a tight little knot. He hadn't seen it since Dean's bout of healthy living, his attempt to master the Mark of Cain by exercising and eating healthy and quieting his mind. Any relic from that time in their lives brought back memories. Bad ones. For a moment Sam couldn't see anything but images of his brother's black eyes, of Charlie's pyre, of kneeling on the floor of a Mexican restaurant waiting for the bite of the scythe. Stop it, he told himself, pressing a thumbnail into his scarred palm. It's over. We're fine. Everything is fine.
Note 10:
Sam found it in the chaos of Dean’s room, draped over his desk chair. It smelled a little like the dog, a little like deodorant soap, a little like bacon. Mostly it smelled like Dean. It was one of the few things Sam took with him when he drove away from the bunker for the last time.