10x00 - Brothers of the Road - Part One: Five-Fifteen
Title: Five-Fifteen, Part One of Brothers of the Road
Author: dracox-serdriel
Artist: wifihunters
Acknowledgements: Thanks to my beta readers, septembers_coda and novakev
Status: Completed as part of sastiel-bigbang 2013
Listen. Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.
Sam Winchester ached. His muscles were so sore that they shook with tremors.
Billy has gone to sleep a senile widower and awakened on his wedding day.
A sharp intake of air. Sam needed to breathe, so he forced himself to inhale. He ordered his diaphragm to expand, drawing in soot-saturated air.
The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look! - it is too beautiful to eat.
Sam coughed, hard, and more than carbon dioxide came out of his mouth. Blood and mucus dripped from his lips. Yet he was able to breathe. Next he needed to open his eyes, to stand up -
They're out there. Black boys in white suits up before me to commit sex acts in the hall and get it mopped up before I can catch them.
A long time ago, John Winchester taught his boys how to cope with extreme circumstances. Sam was too young to understand the implications because Dean hadn't told him that monsters were real yet. Steeped in his own innocence, his father concocted explanations inspired by non-supernatural dangers.
It was too hard to open his eyes just yet, so Sam leafed through his memories, willing himself strength.
"A head injury can disorient you," John had said to his sons. "A lot of predators subdue children, kids just like you Sammy, by some kind of force. Since you're shorter, it's easy for them to knock you over the head."
"But I can run real fast," Sam had replied.
"No matter how fast you can run, you need to be prepared for this. So here's what we're gonna do. Put this on."
Sam remembered the ugly plastic snorkel mask that his father had acquired a few weeks before. It didn't fit him quite right, and he hated the sensation of wearing the damn thing, but all the same, Sam obeyed his father without resentment.
"You remember what you do when you're swimming under the water and feel like you don't know where you are?" John had asked, referencing last week's lesson.
"Exhale and follow the bubbles to the surface."
"That's right. If you're disoriented, the first thing you do is breathe."
His father had indicated the river. It was a mean, evil creature in Sam's memory, like a snake whipping through the grass. The waters in that river came straight down from a glacier, leaving the temperature near freezing. Dean had explained everything to his little brother days earlier, but he had missed several key points.
"If you attempt to swim to the shore from mid-stream, you have a fifty percent chance of dying of hypothermia, so what you gotta do is pull in, keep your core body temperature strong, and wait for someone to throw you a lifeline and reel you to shore. You understand?"
Sam had felt fear rising up in him, but he nodded anyway. "Is that what Dean's doing?"
"When you hit the water, it's gonna feel so cold it burns. Your natural instinct is to panic. Don't. If you panic, you'll flail and lose body heat. The cold will disorient you, like a head blow. What will you do?"
"Exhale and follow the bubbles to the surface."
"Then?"
"Swi - " Sam had floundered but stopped at the look on his father's face. "Pull in. Wait for Dean to throw me a life line, sir."
His father had lifted his tiny body and took him to the edge; it was the first time John had carried Sam in years.
"Sam, be ready." That was the last thing Sam remembered hearing before John took his youngest son and threw him into the icy waters -
Quiet as it's kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of 1941. We thought, at the time, that it was because Pecola was having her father's baby.
Vague memories were all he had after the water. Dean yanked him to the shore next to a fire and dried him off immediately, stripping him of his wet clothes and wrapping him in towels. Mild hypothermia had clearly set in already, and Sam vividly recollected the violent shivers like vibrations down his spine.
"Now Sam, can you tell me what you did wrong?" John had asked, keeping his temper in check.
"I panicked," Sam admitted.
"Right, we're gonna do this again in a week or two, when this case is over. Your job between now and then is to establish control. Control your panic."
"I tried," Sam pleaded, "but I couldn't - "
"You can and you will," John roared, his temper finally buckling. "Because when it matters, you need to keep your panic in check, or you're dead. You understand Sam? Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
A little examination and much less melancholy would have proved to us that our seeds were not the only ones that did not sprout: nobody's did.
How old had he been then? Seven? No, five or six maybe. Later that day, Dean clued him into a few tricks. Sam found that memorizing lines from his favorite TV shows - and later, passages from his favorite books - helped him focus in panic-causing situations, especially when he was disoriented. The words gave him a sense of story, of narrative. Direction. Like the bubbles rising to the surface, Sam could follow those sentences back to himself.
Sam's muscles stopped shaking violently. He took a moment and thought, 'With the house on fire, escaping becomes paramount, but first assessment, then preparation, then escape.'
One of his arms was broken in two places. He could feel it. Something pinned his legs; he couldn't be certain of their condition until he restored their circulation.
But he was breathing. That's step one, and as much as he didn't want to open his eyes and see where he was, he needed to. Sam pushed his eyelids open, willed his eyes to see, but the dark clouded his vision.
"Dean?" Sam said. "Dean?" he repeated, a little louder. "Cas? Castiel?"
A column pinned both his legs down. The soot in the air was old; the fire that produced it was either far away or burned out. Another piece of upholstery trapped his arm -
"Sam?" Castiel spoke. "Sam?"
"Cas," he muttered. "I'm here."
"I need to get you back to the Bunker," Castiel said.
"Where's Dean?" Sam asked.
"After I return you to safety, I will find him," Cas explained.
With a touch of his hand, Sam found himself back in the comfort of the war room.
"I should heal you. Your injuries are extensive," Cas said as he brought Sam to the couch.
Sam remembered: conserve heat. He said, "No, you go find Dean."
"It will only take a moment."
"And power," Sam protested. "You need all your strength, and I'm not dying or anything."
"Sam - " Cas began.
"Cas, I mean it. Go! Bring my brother home!"
"I will return shortly."
Castiel disappeared.
He didn't panic. He conserved heat, power. Now he just had to hold on to his lifeline.
Pain jolted through him.
His blood was circulating through his legs again, and he hadn't anticipated the level of soreness or smarting. He calmed himself with deep breathing techniques, but the added respiration caused a rise in the pressure in his lower appendages. He literally twitched under the odd discomfort that quickly escalated to extreme pain.
Sam blacked out for a moment. White spots appeared before his eyes.
I never met with a slave who could tell me how old he was. Like other slaves, I cannot tell how old I am. This destitution was among my earliest troubles.
Sam took a deep breath. The pain in his arm didn't throb anymore; it was more of a dull ache. His legs took up his attention.
From certain events, however, the dates of which I have since learned, I suppose myself to have been born about the year 1817.
His legs twitched, but he managed to harness his mind. He focused on words, his memories. He forced himself not to care about time, not to wonder why Castiel had yet to return.
Brothers and sisters we were by blood; but slavery had made us strangers.
His will evaporated with the words of Frederick Douglass. Where was his brother? Cas had been gone long enough. He turned his head and read the clock -
Five-fifteen.
Dean. Where the hell was he?
<<< Previous Episode
09x24 Evolution
Next Part: >>>
Part Two: Howling at the Moon
Artist: wifihunters
Primary Post: Primary Post: 10x00 Brothers of the Road
Author: dracox-serdriel
Artist: wifihunters
Acknowledgements: Thanks to my beta readers, septembers_coda and novakev
Status: Completed as part of sastiel-bigbang 2013
Listen. Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.
Sam Winchester ached. His muscles were so sore that they shook with tremors.
Billy has gone to sleep a senile widower and awakened on his wedding day.
A sharp intake of air. Sam needed to breathe, so he forced himself to inhale. He ordered his diaphragm to expand, drawing in soot-saturated air.
The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look! - it is too beautiful to eat.
Sam coughed, hard, and more than carbon dioxide came out of his mouth. Blood and mucus dripped from his lips. Yet he was able to breathe. Next he needed to open his eyes, to stand up -
They're out there. Black boys in white suits up before me to commit sex acts in the hall and get it mopped up before I can catch them.
A long time ago, John Winchester taught his boys how to cope with extreme circumstances. Sam was too young to understand the implications because Dean hadn't told him that monsters were real yet. Steeped in his own innocence, his father concocted explanations inspired by non-supernatural dangers.
It was too hard to open his eyes just yet, so Sam leafed through his memories, willing himself strength.
"A head injury can disorient you," John had said to his sons. "A lot of predators subdue children, kids just like you Sammy, by some kind of force. Since you're shorter, it's easy for them to knock you over the head."
"But I can run real fast," Sam had replied.
"No matter how fast you can run, you need to be prepared for this. So here's what we're gonna do. Put this on."
Sam remembered the ugly plastic snorkel mask that his father had acquired a few weeks before. It didn't fit him quite right, and he hated the sensation of wearing the damn thing, but all the same, Sam obeyed his father without resentment.
"You remember what you do when you're swimming under the water and feel like you don't know where you are?" John had asked, referencing last week's lesson.
"Exhale and follow the bubbles to the surface."
"That's right. If you're disoriented, the first thing you do is breathe."
His father had indicated the river. It was a mean, evil creature in Sam's memory, like a snake whipping through the grass. The waters in that river came straight down from a glacier, leaving the temperature near freezing. Dean had explained everything to his little brother days earlier, but he had missed several key points.
"If you attempt to swim to the shore from mid-stream, you have a fifty percent chance of dying of hypothermia, so what you gotta do is pull in, keep your core body temperature strong, and wait for someone to throw you a lifeline and reel you to shore. You understand?"
Sam had felt fear rising up in him, but he nodded anyway. "Is that what Dean's doing?"
"When you hit the water, it's gonna feel so cold it burns. Your natural instinct is to panic. Don't. If you panic, you'll flail and lose body heat. The cold will disorient you, like a head blow. What will you do?"
"Exhale and follow the bubbles to the surface."
"Then?"
"Swi - " Sam had floundered but stopped at the look on his father's face. "Pull in. Wait for Dean to throw me a life line, sir."
His father had lifted his tiny body and took him to the edge; it was the first time John had carried Sam in years.
"Sam, be ready." That was the last thing Sam remembered hearing before John took his youngest son and threw him into the icy waters -
Quiet as it's kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of 1941. We thought, at the time, that it was because Pecola was having her father's baby.
Vague memories were all he had after the water. Dean yanked him to the shore next to a fire and dried him off immediately, stripping him of his wet clothes and wrapping him in towels. Mild hypothermia had clearly set in already, and Sam vividly recollected the violent shivers like vibrations down his spine.
"Now Sam, can you tell me what you did wrong?" John had asked, keeping his temper in check.
"I panicked," Sam admitted.
"Right, we're gonna do this again in a week or two, when this case is over. Your job between now and then is to establish control. Control your panic."
"I tried," Sam pleaded, "but I couldn't - "
"You can and you will," John roared, his temper finally buckling. "Because when it matters, you need to keep your panic in check, or you're dead. You understand Sam? Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
A little examination and much less melancholy would have proved to us that our seeds were not the only ones that did not sprout: nobody's did.
How old had he been then? Seven? No, five or six maybe. Later that day, Dean clued him into a few tricks. Sam found that memorizing lines from his favorite TV shows - and later, passages from his favorite books - helped him focus in panic-causing situations, especially when he was disoriented. The words gave him a sense of story, of narrative. Direction. Like the bubbles rising to the surface, Sam could follow those sentences back to himself.
Sam's muscles stopped shaking violently. He took a moment and thought, 'With the house on fire, escaping becomes paramount, but first assessment, then preparation, then escape.'
One of his arms was broken in two places. He could feel it. Something pinned his legs; he couldn't be certain of their condition until he restored their circulation.
But he was breathing. That's step one, and as much as he didn't want to open his eyes and see where he was, he needed to. Sam pushed his eyelids open, willed his eyes to see, but the dark clouded his vision.
"Dean?" Sam said. "Dean?" he repeated, a little louder. "Cas? Castiel?"
A column pinned both his legs down. The soot in the air was old; the fire that produced it was either far away or burned out. Another piece of upholstery trapped his arm -
"Sam?" Castiel spoke. "Sam?"
"Cas," he muttered. "I'm here."
"I need to get you back to the Bunker," Castiel said.
"Where's Dean?" Sam asked.
"After I return you to safety, I will find him," Cas explained.
With a touch of his hand, Sam found himself back in the comfort of the war room.
"I should heal you. Your injuries are extensive," Cas said as he brought Sam to the couch.
Sam remembered: conserve heat. He said, "No, you go find Dean."
"It will only take a moment."
"And power," Sam protested. "You need all your strength, and I'm not dying or anything."
"Sam - " Cas began.
"Cas, I mean it. Go! Bring my brother home!"
"I will return shortly."
Castiel disappeared.
He didn't panic. He conserved heat, power. Now he just had to hold on to his lifeline.
Pain jolted through him.
His blood was circulating through his legs again, and he hadn't anticipated the level of soreness or smarting. He calmed himself with deep breathing techniques, but the added respiration caused a rise in the pressure in his lower appendages. He literally twitched under the odd discomfort that quickly escalated to extreme pain.
Sam blacked out for a moment. White spots appeared before his eyes.
I never met with a slave who could tell me how old he was. Like other slaves, I cannot tell how old I am. This destitution was among my earliest troubles.
Sam took a deep breath. The pain in his arm didn't throb anymore; it was more of a dull ache. His legs took up his attention.
From certain events, however, the dates of which I have since learned, I suppose myself to have been born about the year 1817.
His legs twitched, but he managed to harness his mind. He focused on words, his memories. He forced himself not to care about time, not to wonder why Castiel had yet to return.
Brothers and sisters we were by blood; but slavery had made us strangers.
His will evaporated with the words of Frederick Douglass. Where was his brother? Cas had been gone long enough. He turned his head and read the clock -
Five-fifteen.
Dean. Where the hell was he?
<<< Previous Episode
09x24 Evolution
Next Part: >>>
Part Two: Howling at the Moon
Artist: wifihunters
Primary Post: Primary Post: 10x00 Brothers of the Road