Special, 6/?
Title: Special, 6/?
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: All teenagers believe they're different. Somewhat AU in terms of power revelations.
By the time he was thirteen, Sam knew that most teenagers sincerely believed they were special. But he also had increasing evidence that he actually, objectively was. Not just in the sense of being a freak - a freak to the outside world by virtue of being a hunter, and a freak to his family by virtue of wanting otherwise - but in the sense of being, as school lingo had it, ‘gifted and talented’. He’d overheard them in staffrooms quietly marvelling that the Winchester boys were related, speculating on what kind of home they came from. Teachers didn’t know what to do with Dean, with his attitude and his public disdain for the educational system, always first with a witty rejoinder but two grades behind in reading. Sam knew, deep down, that Dean was far from stupid: he could repair a car engine from spare parts, splint a broken bone, and disassemble and reassemble a handgun in less than a minute blindfolded in case it was dark. But his brother’s depreciation for books, history and philosophy frustrated Sam and secretly made him feel useless. So when he really wanted to hurt his brother, he pretended to pity him.
At an ambitious school in California, Ms. Bannister the English teacher took him aside at the end of last period.
“Sam,” she said. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Um, okay,” said Sam. He’d gotten a 97 on the last exam and didn’t really see how she could ask for more. She was young and optimistic and wanted to be down with the kids, doing the understanding bit, on the edge of her desk with her posture open and her eyes wide.
“I want you to know that your paper was quite exceptional. Your writing shows more maturity and sensitivity than some college students I’ve graded. I only expected answers on Oliver Twist, but apparently you’re a scholar of Victorian literature.”
Sam looked down and scuffed his foot. It seemed stupid to say he related to Dickens’s children: special, suffering, mistreated, martyred.
“I just wanted you to know I’m here if you want to talk about anything - extra reading, the course, college prospects…”
“College?” Sam looked up abruptly.
“It’s never too early to start planning. If you keep this up you’ll have the college of your choice.”
“Oh,” Sam said.
“And - anything else.” She looked earnestly at him. “If you’re having any problems….”
Oh.
“Sam, I’ve noticed the bruises,” she went on quietly. “The long sleeves, too. The gym teachers have their registered concern. Is it…someone in your family?”
It all fell into place. What they thought of him, what they thought of his brother. Jesus. Sam felt sick with guilt - that anyone could entertain the possibility of Dean hurting him.
“I want you to know that there’s help for you, okay? Whatever they’ve told you. I’m going to give you a phone number…”
He didn’t know what to do, so he told Dad:
“I can’t go hunting this weekend. Ms. Bannister thinks you or Dean is beating the shit out of me.”
They changed schools shortly thereafter.
* * *
He awoke, disorientated, in the narrow bunk, the residue of fire in his dream and knowing he’d been commanded to do something, something he didn’t want to, compelled by the shadow figure. It took him a long moment to remember where he was - Pastor Jim’s house. Minnesota. The sheets were cold - even high summer air was chilled at this hour of the morning.
He’d meant to stay awake until Dean got back, but he hadn’t. Sure enough though, his brother was asleep in the other bed, solid and real, the rhythm of his breath reassuring. When they were little, and he’d woken up cold, he would dive right into his brother’s bed and press cold feet and hands against him. Dean would protest and pretend to shove him out, but he hadn’t called a stop to the habit before Sam was old enough himself to decide it was weird.
“Dean,” he said, not wanting to be alone with the dream-residue. Then, louder, “Dean.”
”What?”
“It’s morning.”
Dean groaned and flung an arm out of bed, then swore when his knuckles connected with the little table between the beds. Sam chuckled.
“You salt and burn it?” he asked.
“No,” said Dean shortly. “Well, yeah. But there’s another one. We gotta go back.”
Sam sat up, remembering about the roof beam at the last minute and catching himself.
“What’s the deal?”
“Some kid ran away from home back in the seventies, turned up dead. We thought it was just one. But a second spirit turned up at the last minute and tried to toast us. Salted it. Either someone else died, or this one offed herself afterwards or something - it’s a dude and a girl.”
“Oh,” Sam said. Then, “That’s sad.”
Dean said nothing, but got up and tossed his pillow at Sam. “I’m starving. The sooner we finish the run, the sooner we can see what’s for breakfast in this joint.”
They had run five miles first thing every morning, rain or shine, for as long as Sam could remember. It was one part of training he didn’t actually mind - for one thing, it was useful, because being able to run from bad shit was a life skill he figured he could use under many circumstances, not necessarily related to hunting. For another, mindless exertion cleansed the residue of dreams and vagueness from his brain, reduced thought to physicality, just the rhythm of feet hitting the ground, the slow-build burn of his muscles, the draw and expel of air moving steadily through his trained lungs. Finally, it removed the need to talk - lately every time he talked to Dean they ended up sniping, and these times restored equilibrium between them, working in tandem, not friction. Dean was stronger than him - but his new height meant he could keep up now, without Dean having to accommodate.
They filled Pastor Jim in on the local hunt over toast, cereal, and orange juice. Jim had both muesli and the kind of frosted sugar Dean preferred. Dad didn’t eat, but drank two cups of black coffee, and Sam wondered if he’d drunk last night, in the presence of Pastor Jim.
“Oh, that sounds like the Richardson tragedy,” Jim said. “It’s a terrible story. A young man with severe learning difficulties couldn’t adjust to his family’s move to town - he left the new house in confusion one night and drowned in the park pond. His devoted sister couldn’t live with the guilt. I’m afraid she killed herself.”
“That’s awful.” Sam was horrified
“Yeah well,” Dean said uncomfortably. “He’s moved on now. Best thing is to salt and burn the girl too. If she’s so attached to him, and all.”
“I quite agree,” Jim said. “The chores can wait a day or so. Unfortunately, as a suicide, the girl probably wasn’t buried in the Catholic cemetery. A day of investigation awaits us.” He looked at Sam.
“The boys can handle that,” Dad spoke up. “Jim, you and I have that matter to follow up.” The older men shared a meaningful look.
“What matter is that?” Sam asked innocently, more to be provocative than because he thought there was any chance of an answer. Dean kicked him under the table, and Dad said,
“Eat your breakfast.”
Jim changed the subject then, and they finished breakfast. Jim gave Sam and Dean directions to the local library, and the four parted ways.
Part Seven
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: All teenagers believe they're different. Somewhat AU in terms of power revelations.
By the time he was thirteen, Sam knew that most teenagers sincerely believed they were special. But he also had increasing evidence that he actually, objectively was. Not just in the sense of being a freak - a freak to the outside world by virtue of being a hunter, and a freak to his family by virtue of wanting otherwise - but in the sense of being, as school lingo had it, ‘gifted and talented’. He’d overheard them in staffrooms quietly marvelling that the Winchester boys were related, speculating on what kind of home they came from. Teachers didn’t know what to do with Dean, with his attitude and his public disdain for the educational system, always first with a witty rejoinder but two grades behind in reading. Sam knew, deep down, that Dean was far from stupid: he could repair a car engine from spare parts, splint a broken bone, and disassemble and reassemble a handgun in less than a minute blindfolded in case it was dark. But his brother’s depreciation for books, history and philosophy frustrated Sam and secretly made him feel useless. So when he really wanted to hurt his brother, he pretended to pity him.
At an ambitious school in California, Ms. Bannister the English teacher took him aside at the end of last period.
“Sam,” she said. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Um, okay,” said Sam. He’d gotten a 97 on the last exam and didn’t really see how she could ask for more. She was young and optimistic and wanted to be down with the kids, doing the understanding bit, on the edge of her desk with her posture open and her eyes wide.
“I want you to know that your paper was quite exceptional. Your writing shows more maturity and sensitivity than some college students I’ve graded. I only expected answers on Oliver Twist, but apparently you’re a scholar of Victorian literature.”
Sam looked down and scuffed his foot. It seemed stupid to say he related to Dickens’s children: special, suffering, mistreated, martyred.
“I just wanted you to know I’m here if you want to talk about anything - extra reading, the course, college prospects…”
“College?” Sam looked up abruptly.
“It’s never too early to start planning. If you keep this up you’ll have the college of your choice.”
“Oh,” Sam said.
“And - anything else.” She looked earnestly at him. “If you’re having any problems….”
Oh.
“Sam, I’ve noticed the bruises,” she went on quietly. “The long sleeves, too. The gym teachers have their registered concern. Is it…someone in your family?”
It all fell into place. What they thought of him, what they thought of his brother. Jesus. Sam felt sick with guilt - that anyone could entertain the possibility of Dean hurting him.
“I want you to know that there’s help for you, okay? Whatever they’ve told you. I’m going to give you a phone number…”
He didn’t know what to do, so he told Dad:
“I can’t go hunting this weekend. Ms. Bannister thinks you or Dean is beating the shit out of me.”
They changed schools shortly thereafter.
* * *
He awoke, disorientated, in the narrow bunk, the residue of fire in his dream and knowing he’d been commanded to do something, something he didn’t want to, compelled by the shadow figure. It took him a long moment to remember where he was - Pastor Jim’s house. Minnesota. The sheets were cold - even high summer air was chilled at this hour of the morning.
He’d meant to stay awake until Dean got back, but he hadn’t. Sure enough though, his brother was asleep in the other bed, solid and real, the rhythm of his breath reassuring. When they were little, and he’d woken up cold, he would dive right into his brother’s bed and press cold feet and hands against him. Dean would protest and pretend to shove him out, but he hadn’t called a stop to the habit before Sam was old enough himself to decide it was weird.
“Dean,” he said, not wanting to be alone with the dream-residue. Then, louder, “Dean.”
”What?”
“It’s morning.”
Dean groaned and flung an arm out of bed, then swore when his knuckles connected with the little table between the beds. Sam chuckled.
“You salt and burn it?” he asked.
“No,” said Dean shortly. “Well, yeah. But there’s another one. We gotta go back.”
Sam sat up, remembering about the roof beam at the last minute and catching himself.
“What’s the deal?”
“Some kid ran away from home back in the seventies, turned up dead. We thought it was just one. But a second spirit turned up at the last minute and tried to toast us. Salted it. Either someone else died, or this one offed herself afterwards or something - it’s a dude and a girl.”
“Oh,” Sam said. Then, “That’s sad.”
Dean said nothing, but got up and tossed his pillow at Sam. “I’m starving. The sooner we finish the run, the sooner we can see what’s for breakfast in this joint.”
They had run five miles first thing every morning, rain or shine, for as long as Sam could remember. It was one part of training he didn’t actually mind - for one thing, it was useful, because being able to run from bad shit was a life skill he figured he could use under many circumstances, not necessarily related to hunting. For another, mindless exertion cleansed the residue of dreams and vagueness from his brain, reduced thought to physicality, just the rhythm of feet hitting the ground, the slow-build burn of his muscles, the draw and expel of air moving steadily through his trained lungs. Finally, it removed the need to talk - lately every time he talked to Dean they ended up sniping, and these times restored equilibrium between them, working in tandem, not friction. Dean was stronger than him - but his new height meant he could keep up now, without Dean having to accommodate.
They filled Pastor Jim in on the local hunt over toast, cereal, and orange juice. Jim had both muesli and the kind of frosted sugar Dean preferred. Dad didn’t eat, but drank two cups of black coffee, and Sam wondered if he’d drunk last night, in the presence of Pastor Jim.
“Oh, that sounds like the Richardson tragedy,” Jim said. “It’s a terrible story. A young man with severe learning difficulties couldn’t adjust to his family’s move to town - he left the new house in confusion one night and drowned in the park pond. His devoted sister couldn’t live with the guilt. I’m afraid she killed herself.”
“That’s awful.” Sam was horrified
“Yeah well,” Dean said uncomfortably. “He’s moved on now. Best thing is to salt and burn the girl too. If she’s so attached to him, and all.”
“I quite agree,” Jim said. “The chores can wait a day or so. Unfortunately, as a suicide, the girl probably wasn’t buried in the Catholic cemetery. A day of investigation awaits us.” He looked at Sam.
“The boys can handle that,” Dad spoke up. “Jim, you and I have that matter to follow up.” The older men shared a meaningful look.
“What matter is that?” Sam asked innocently, more to be provocative than because he thought there was any chance of an answer. Dean kicked him under the table, and Dad said,
“Eat your breakfast.”
Jim changed the subject then, and they finished breakfast. Jim gave Sam and Dean directions to the local library, and the four parted ways.
Part Seven