Special, 2/?
Title: Special, 2/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Pastor Jim.
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: How Sam met Pastor Jim. Somewhat AU in terms of power revelations.
“Dean,” said Sammy when he was eight years old, “I’m adopted, right?”
“I wish,” Dean had answered, not looking up from his car magazine: “Then maybe we could return you.”
“No I mean it,” Sammy persisted, climbing up on the top bunk and pulling the magazine down so
Dean had to look at him, “I’ve figured it out. You don’t have to lie to me anymore. You can tell Dad too.”
“Why the hell would you think you were adopted?” Dean glared at him, but he didn’t shove him off the bed.
“Shht! Don’t swear. Because one, you’re Dad’s favorite.”
Dean snorted.
“Two, I don’t look anything like you. Or Dad. But you look like Dad.”
“You look like Mom,” said Dean shortly. “Shut up.”
Sammy was momentarily taken aback. It was very rare that Dean mentioned their mother.
“Well, anyway, it explains everything,” Sammy went on melodramatically. “How come I’m not like you. How come I’m different.”
“Oh, you’re different alright,” said Dean dryly. “Sammy, you are not adopted. I remember when Mom was pregnant with you-” Sammy screwed up his nose in disgust at the mention of pregnancy - “and I remember them bringing you home from the hospital. Okay?”
Sammy paused, momentarily stopped in his logic by curiosity.
“What was I like?”
“Gross. All red and wrinkly. Same as all babies.”
“They could’ve brought home the wrong baby by mistake then,” Sammy pointed out. “Maybe your real brother is somewhere else with a whole different family.”
“They didn’t bring home the wrong baby, dorkface!” Now Dean did shove him, but towards the wall, not towards the edge of the bunk bed. “That only happens in chick flicks. Trust me, Sammy, you are my real brother. Unfortunately.”
Sammy stuck his tongue out at Dean. “I’m going to ask Dad.”
“Don’t ask Dad,” said Dean quickly.
“Just don’t, okay? You’ll make him mad, and it’s stupid.”
Sammy hesitated, considered Dean’s suddenly earnest expression.
“Okay,” he relented. “But I do know.” And climbed down.
* * *
Being tired all the time sucked - the persistent vague sensation of never quite getting enough sleep to be on top form, duller than a headache, a kind of heavy soreness that started at the back of his head and spread down into his shoulders. Dad ordered a morning run, as usual, and Sam concentrated on the rhythmic thud-thud of his trainers on the dirt path, 6 a.m. sun on the back of his neck, not watching where he was going.
“Sloppy,” Dean flicked water at him from the bottle when they stopped at the halfway point, by a pond in the scrub trees outside the city limits.
“Jerkoff,” said Sam nastily, because it was a fair observation.
“Keep stomping like that and you’ll fuck up your knees. You growing again or something? I swear, dude, you’re gonna end up like a carnival freak. The amazing beanpole boy. We could charge admission.” Sam slid his eyes across to his brother, who was sitting on a rock drinking water and pretending to consider the carnival proposition. Barely even taxed, Dean was already getting his breathing back to a regular rhythm, though dark patches of sweat stained the neck and sides of his t-shirt. Sam resented him: resented the easy masculinity and physicality which Dad had maintained as a standard of strength for his family. Maybe in another life, his brother would’ve been a Marine too: if he could drop the apparently instinctive sneer at anyone in a uniform. Sam could just see him, buddying around with the troops, enjoying the weapons, the hard work, the luxury of having your duty laid out for you. Hell on earth. It just figured that the place most guys ran to escape their families was basically a more public variation of what Sam was trying to escape. The thought brought him up short. He had not yet admitted, even to himself, that he wanted out for good.
He put it aside and focused on the immediate.
Right now he felt like he’d finished a marathon, and they still had the same distance to run back. Dean had asked him a question.
“I dunno. Probably.” Sam drained his own water bottle, propped his elbows on his knees, and pressed his closed eyes into his fists. “Just didn’t get much sleep.”
“Again? Why?” The note of concern was obvious. Sam watched the red-brown patterns swim behind his closed eyelids.
“Weird dreams,” he said again, voice muffled to his own ears.
“About what?”
“I dunno. Not bad. Just weird.” Something about…something. That annoying sensation of feeling what your dream had been like, but lacking memory images. Just out of reach of conscious thought, vanishing if looked at.
“You read too much,” was Dean’s diagnosis.
“I read books,” said Sam pointedly.
“Holy shit, you really are a bitch these days, you know that?”
‘I know,’ Sam almost admitted. He knew that when he was miserable, some deep-embedded mean streak drove him to make everyone miserable around him.
“Let’s just go,” he said, raising his head. The sooner they started back on this run, the sooner it would be over.
* * *
New Jersey to Minnesota was a hell of a road trip. Even Dad couldn’t pretend they could do it less than two days. He let Dean do some driving, which made his brother happier than an all-you-can eat deal at a BBQ grill, and Sam sat in the back and read Great Expectations for the second time. The escape to Victorian England, combined with gloomy old houses, sadistic adults, fate and destroyed dreams of progress was a grim comfort to him. He mentally commiserated with the child Pip, and looked on with a mixture of sympathy and superiority as he inherited his fortune from a dark mysterious benefactor. The moral: good things fuck you over, Sam presumed. He fell asleep, and dreamed of a toothless old man who came bearing good fortune. He startled awake with the realization that the man’s eyes were bright yellow.
The holed up in a single motel room - going stir crazy, Sam asked for and obtained permission to go get a coke from a vending machine down the hallway. He dawdled on the way back, making the most of even a few minutes to himself, and stopped abruptly outside their door when he heard Dean say to their father:
“So Dad…do you think Sammy’s…doing okay?” Sam froze. He glanced up and down the hallway,
clutching the lukewarm can so tight he was half afraid he would break it. He pressed himself to the corridor wall, feeling his heart beat hard.
“I think he’s a teenager, on top of everything,” Dad said. “Why?”
“It’s just…he has nightmares practically every night. Sometimes he doesn’t remember. But I see it. He’s freaking angry. Not like, I’m-fifteen-and-I-hate-everything angry, like….” Dean trailed off. Sam could practically see the vague gesture he could make.
Dad sighed heavily. “What else do you want me to do, Dean? I’m gathering information. I’m following the leads. Like you said, maybe nothing will ever happen. He doesn’t remember the dreams.”
Now Sam was confused. Sure, he was a teenager on top of being a hunter - and a Winchester for that matter - but what did his dreams have to do with it? It wasn’t like they made any sense. They were never even the same thing, except, except for…
…something. Someone?
“Yeah,” Dean said heavily after a moment. Sam had had enough. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked a third time. The door was unbolted.
“Why are you talking about me?” he demanded, into his father’s face.
Part Three.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Pastor Jim.
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: How Sam met Pastor Jim. Somewhat AU in terms of power revelations.
“Dean,” said Sammy when he was eight years old, “I’m adopted, right?”
“I wish,” Dean had answered, not looking up from his car magazine: “Then maybe we could return you.”
“No I mean it,” Sammy persisted, climbing up on the top bunk and pulling the magazine down so
Dean had to look at him, “I’ve figured it out. You don’t have to lie to me anymore. You can tell Dad too.”
“Why the hell would you think you were adopted?” Dean glared at him, but he didn’t shove him off the bed.
“Shht! Don’t swear. Because one, you’re Dad’s favorite.”
Dean snorted.
“Two, I don’t look anything like you. Or Dad. But you look like Dad.”
“You look like Mom,” said Dean shortly. “Shut up.”
Sammy was momentarily taken aback. It was very rare that Dean mentioned their mother.
“Well, anyway, it explains everything,” Sammy went on melodramatically. “How come I’m not like you. How come I’m different.”
“Oh, you’re different alright,” said Dean dryly. “Sammy, you are not adopted. I remember when Mom was pregnant with you-” Sammy screwed up his nose in disgust at the mention of pregnancy - “and I remember them bringing you home from the hospital. Okay?”
Sammy paused, momentarily stopped in his logic by curiosity.
“What was I like?”
“Gross. All red and wrinkly. Same as all babies.”
“They could’ve brought home the wrong baby by mistake then,” Sammy pointed out. “Maybe your real brother is somewhere else with a whole different family.”
“They didn’t bring home the wrong baby, dorkface!” Now Dean did shove him, but towards the wall, not towards the edge of the bunk bed. “That only happens in chick flicks. Trust me, Sammy, you are my real brother. Unfortunately.”
Sammy stuck his tongue out at Dean. “I’m going to ask Dad.”
“Don’t ask Dad,” said Dean quickly.
“Just don’t, okay? You’ll make him mad, and it’s stupid.”
Sammy hesitated, considered Dean’s suddenly earnest expression.
“Okay,” he relented. “But I do know.” And climbed down.
* * *
Being tired all the time sucked - the persistent vague sensation of never quite getting enough sleep to be on top form, duller than a headache, a kind of heavy soreness that started at the back of his head and spread down into his shoulders. Dad ordered a morning run, as usual, and Sam concentrated on the rhythmic thud-thud of his trainers on the dirt path, 6 a.m. sun on the back of his neck, not watching where he was going.
“Sloppy,” Dean flicked water at him from the bottle when they stopped at the halfway point, by a pond in the scrub trees outside the city limits.
“Jerkoff,” said Sam nastily, because it was a fair observation.
“Keep stomping like that and you’ll fuck up your knees. You growing again or something? I swear, dude, you’re gonna end up like a carnival freak. The amazing beanpole boy. We could charge admission.” Sam slid his eyes across to his brother, who was sitting on a rock drinking water and pretending to consider the carnival proposition. Barely even taxed, Dean was already getting his breathing back to a regular rhythm, though dark patches of sweat stained the neck and sides of his t-shirt. Sam resented him: resented the easy masculinity and physicality which Dad had maintained as a standard of strength for his family. Maybe in another life, his brother would’ve been a Marine too: if he could drop the apparently instinctive sneer at anyone in a uniform. Sam could just see him, buddying around with the troops, enjoying the weapons, the hard work, the luxury of having your duty laid out for you. Hell on earth. It just figured that the place most guys ran to escape their families was basically a more public variation of what Sam was trying to escape. The thought brought him up short. He had not yet admitted, even to himself, that he wanted out for good.
He put it aside and focused on the immediate.
Right now he felt like he’d finished a marathon, and they still had the same distance to run back. Dean had asked him a question.
“I dunno. Probably.” Sam drained his own water bottle, propped his elbows on his knees, and pressed his closed eyes into his fists. “Just didn’t get much sleep.”
“Again? Why?” The note of concern was obvious. Sam watched the red-brown patterns swim behind his closed eyelids.
“Weird dreams,” he said again, voice muffled to his own ears.
“About what?”
“I dunno. Not bad. Just weird.” Something about…something. That annoying sensation of feeling what your dream had been like, but lacking memory images. Just out of reach of conscious thought, vanishing if looked at.
“You read too much,” was Dean’s diagnosis.
“I read books,” said Sam pointedly.
“Holy shit, you really are a bitch these days, you know that?”
‘I know,’ Sam almost admitted. He knew that when he was miserable, some deep-embedded mean streak drove him to make everyone miserable around him.
“Let’s just go,” he said, raising his head. The sooner they started back on this run, the sooner it would be over.
* * *
New Jersey to Minnesota was a hell of a road trip. Even Dad couldn’t pretend they could do it less than two days. He let Dean do some driving, which made his brother happier than an all-you-can eat deal at a BBQ grill, and Sam sat in the back and read Great Expectations for the second time. The escape to Victorian England, combined with gloomy old houses, sadistic adults, fate and destroyed dreams of progress was a grim comfort to him. He mentally commiserated with the child Pip, and looked on with a mixture of sympathy and superiority as he inherited his fortune from a dark mysterious benefactor. The moral: good things fuck you over, Sam presumed. He fell asleep, and dreamed of a toothless old man who came bearing good fortune. He startled awake with the realization that the man’s eyes were bright yellow.
The holed up in a single motel room - going stir crazy, Sam asked for and obtained permission to go get a coke from a vending machine down the hallway. He dawdled on the way back, making the most of even a few minutes to himself, and stopped abruptly outside their door when he heard Dean say to their father:
“So Dad…do you think Sammy’s…doing okay?” Sam froze. He glanced up and down the hallway,
clutching the lukewarm can so tight he was half afraid he would break it. He pressed himself to the corridor wall, feeling his heart beat hard.
“I think he’s a teenager, on top of everything,” Dad said. “Why?”
“It’s just…he has nightmares practically every night. Sometimes he doesn’t remember. But I see it. He’s freaking angry. Not like, I’m-fifteen-and-I-hate-everything angry, like….” Dean trailed off. Sam could practically see the vague gesture he could make.
Dad sighed heavily. “What else do you want me to do, Dean? I’m gathering information. I’m following the leads. Like you said, maybe nothing will ever happen. He doesn’t remember the dreams.”
Now Sam was confused. Sure, he was a teenager on top of being a hunter - and a Winchester for that matter - but what did his dreams have to do with it? It wasn’t like they made any sense. They were never even the same thing, except, except for…
…something. Someone?
“Yeah,” Dean said heavily after a moment. Sam had had enough. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked a third time. The door was unbolted.
“Why are you talking about me?” he demanded, into his father’s face.
Part Three.