Special, 8/10
Title: Special, 8/?
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.
Warning: Abuse of teenage Sam. From here on.
For all his talk about Sam needing to get a life, have more fun, et cetera, coming home to find his little brother wasted seemed to disconcert Dean.
“Dude, you couldn’t wait for me to get the party started?” he had asked lightly, tipped the remains of whatever Sam had been drinking down the sink, and rearranged the bottles in the cabinet so the gap was less obvious. He opened a window in the living room, and told Sam to take a shower before he went to bed.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam explained lamely.
“So I see…next time just call me and I’ll bring beer or something…Jesus, what is this stuff? Cough syrup? Expiry 1923?”
“Booze doesn’t expire,” Sam rolled his eyes, but it made the room swim alarmingly. “It mmm-matures.”
“Shower,” Dean levered him off the couch with by his arm. “And dump your clothes in the wash.”
Dean did their run alone the next morning, letting Sam sleep it off, then allowed him to slack on the chores without saying anything. Sam was grateful. By the time Dad and Jim returned, he was feeling more or less human again, ready to salt and burn, a nice simple hunt, handing over the co-ordinates when Dad asked for them.
“Good job boys,” Dad said approvingly, and Dean stood up a little straighter. Jim caught Sam’s eye and they shared a look.
A fifteen minute drive to the outskirts of town, and they located the mortal remains of Amelia Louise Richardson. A neglected headstone of crumbling rock, sheltered by a tree, and overgrown with dried grass, simply proclaimed her name, dates of birth and death, and Devoted Sister and Daughter.
“Dean and I will handle the digging,” Dad said. “Sam, you keep watch.” He didn’t give an explicit order to Pastor Jim, Sam noted, but the priest seemed content to ready the things for the exorcism, lighting a candle and finding a place in a thick book. Sam found a suitable post, his back to the work, and squinted out into the summer night, gun loaded with salt at the ready.
For a good hour of solid work, nothing happened. When Sam was younger, before he’d been allowed on the actual hunts, he’d imagined caskets just below the surface of the earth, imagined that Dad and Dean just turned the top layer of dirt over and there they were. Actually most graves were several feet deep, depending on state law, and a large part of regular salt and burns was tiring, boring digging. Sam’s concentration was just starting to waver when he caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye.
He jerked to focus. It was gone. Then again - chalk white, the spectre of Amelia Richardson materialized at the far treeline.
“Dad!” Sam exclaimed, raising the gun. The diggers immediately dropped their shovels and went for the weapons instead. Amelia hovered, closer without seeming to have moved - her eyes were wide and sad, liquid pools, and her mouth downturned. She still wore the pleated skirt from her school photograph, and her hair was tied back with a wide ribbon. She looked young, and smelled of ozone.
“Amelia,” said Jim appealingly. “You shouldn’t still be here.”
“You took him away,” the ghost said mournfully. “He needs me.”
“He was already gone,” said Jim gently. “It’s time for you to join him too. It’s time to rest.”
“No,” said the ghost savagely, flickered, and appeared again directly in front of Jim. She opened her mouth, wide and gaping, reached up, and stuck her hand into his chest. Her non-substance disappeared grotesquely inside him, he dropped the book, and his mouth opened. He gasped. His skin turned a weird, translucent pale, almost matching the ghost. Dad and Dean couldn’t fire from where they were standing without hitting Jim, and both started to move, but before they could up proper positions -
- Sam heard himself shout ‘No’, and then it was happening again, the thing inside him that welled up, jubilant at being free, laughing because he acknowledged it again, like a predator stretching its muscles and leaping after a long confinement. It swept through his bloodstream, right down to his toes and fingertips, and he reached out and touched the ghost, and the ghost exploded.
That was the only term for it. One second it was there, the next, with a crack like thunder, ozone burst and sprayed in every direction, evaporating before it could land, leaving nothing behind it. Jim collapsed. Dean went to him immediately, but Dad stood there, staring at Sam, an expression of horror and absolute grief on his face, frozen, and Sam sat down on the dirt.
* * *
“We’ll fix it,” Dad said, pacing back and forth in the armoury-basement, the light in his eyes Sam had only seen when he thought he was nearing the demon, hands moving ceaselessly over the knife in his hands. The knife was from Jim’s collection, from a holster on the wall - the small room was crowded with weapons and holy objects, rock salt and jars of holy water. Sam sat restrained in the centre, roped to a chair, a devil’s trap chalked on the floor around him. He could barely feel the ropes. The vestiges of the thing were still flooding his body, cancelling pain, and he felt high, alive, and terrified, both himself and something not himself, and the thing was watching and sneering.
“We’ll fix it, Sammy,” Dad said again, “I promise. We’ll get it out of you. It’s going to be okay, son,” but he was talking to himself.
“I can control it,” Sam offered.
“No. You can’t,” Dad said. “It’s bigger than you. It’s the enemy.”
“Dad?!” Dean burst in, breathless, then exclaimed in horror, “What the hell are you doing?”
“It will be okay,” Dad said, and Dean said,
“No!” and made as though to untie Sam, but Dad grabbed his arm and yanked him back hard before he could cross the devil’s trap.
“Don’t,” Dad said, and his voice was absolutely deadly. “Don’t you step across that line, Dean.”
“Are you crazy?!” Dean struggled in Dad’s grip, but Dad still had the advantage in strength and experience - he twisted his elder son’s arms behind his back and pinned them, then snarled into his ear,
“Do you want to help Sammy?”
“I - yes! Let me go!”
“Then hold still, and listen to me very carefully. I told you once there was a chance that something would happen to your brother. That something attacked him a long time ago - before you remember.”
“It isn’t,” Sam tried to explain. “It’s just how I am, it’s always been-”
“It’s the demon,” Dad said, and Sam’s mouth fell open, anything and everything he could’ve said abruptly cut off.
“The demon…?” he repeated weakly.
“The demon,” Dad affirmed. He let Dean go, and his brother just stood there, as stunned as Sam felt.
“Sammy, that night in your nursery…I believe it - infected you. With some kind….kind of poison. I’ve been studying it for years, ever since…”
“Since?” Sam whispered.
“Since Jim touched you with holy water when you were four years old, and you screamed and told him the yellow-eyed-man didn’t like it.”
Image credit: Neglected Tombstone by Vera Kratochvil
Part Nine
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.
Warning: Abuse of teenage Sam. From here on.
For all his talk about Sam needing to get a life, have more fun, et cetera, coming home to find his little brother wasted seemed to disconcert Dean.
“Dude, you couldn’t wait for me to get the party started?” he had asked lightly, tipped the remains of whatever Sam had been drinking down the sink, and rearranged the bottles in the cabinet so the gap was less obvious. He opened a window in the living room, and told Sam to take a shower before he went to bed.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam explained lamely.
“So I see…next time just call me and I’ll bring beer or something…Jesus, what is this stuff? Cough syrup? Expiry 1923?”
“Booze doesn’t expire,” Sam rolled his eyes, but it made the room swim alarmingly. “It mmm-matures.”
“Shower,” Dean levered him off the couch with by his arm. “And dump your clothes in the wash.”
Dean did their run alone the next morning, letting Sam sleep it off, then allowed him to slack on the chores without saying anything. Sam was grateful. By the time Dad and Jim returned, he was feeling more or less human again, ready to salt and burn, a nice simple hunt, handing over the co-ordinates when Dad asked for them.
“Good job boys,” Dad said approvingly, and Dean stood up a little straighter. Jim caught Sam’s eye and they shared a look.
A fifteen minute drive to the outskirts of town, and they located the mortal remains of Amelia Louise Richardson. A neglected headstone of crumbling rock, sheltered by a tree, and overgrown with dried grass, simply proclaimed her name, dates of birth and death, and Devoted Sister and Daughter.
“Dean and I will handle the digging,” Dad said. “Sam, you keep watch.” He didn’t give an explicit order to Pastor Jim, Sam noted, but the priest seemed content to ready the things for the exorcism, lighting a candle and finding a place in a thick book. Sam found a suitable post, his back to the work, and squinted out into the summer night, gun loaded with salt at the ready.
For a good hour of solid work, nothing happened. When Sam was younger, before he’d been allowed on the actual hunts, he’d imagined caskets just below the surface of the earth, imagined that Dad and Dean just turned the top layer of dirt over and there they were. Actually most graves were several feet deep, depending on state law, and a large part of regular salt and burns was tiring, boring digging. Sam’s concentration was just starting to waver when he caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye.
He jerked to focus. It was gone. Then again - chalk white, the spectre of Amelia Richardson materialized at the far treeline.
“Dad!” Sam exclaimed, raising the gun. The diggers immediately dropped their shovels and went for the weapons instead. Amelia hovered, closer without seeming to have moved - her eyes were wide and sad, liquid pools, and her mouth downturned. She still wore the pleated skirt from her school photograph, and her hair was tied back with a wide ribbon. She looked young, and smelled of ozone.
“Amelia,” said Jim appealingly. “You shouldn’t still be here.”
“You took him away,” the ghost said mournfully. “He needs me.”
“He was already gone,” said Jim gently. “It’s time for you to join him too. It’s time to rest.”
“No,” said the ghost savagely, flickered, and appeared again directly in front of Jim. She opened her mouth, wide and gaping, reached up, and stuck her hand into his chest. Her non-substance disappeared grotesquely inside him, he dropped the book, and his mouth opened. He gasped. His skin turned a weird, translucent pale, almost matching the ghost. Dad and Dean couldn’t fire from where they were standing without hitting Jim, and both started to move, but before they could up proper positions -
- Sam heard himself shout ‘No’, and then it was happening again, the thing inside him that welled up, jubilant at being free, laughing because he acknowledged it again, like a predator stretching its muscles and leaping after a long confinement. It swept through his bloodstream, right down to his toes and fingertips, and he reached out and touched the ghost, and the ghost exploded.
That was the only term for it. One second it was there, the next, with a crack like thunder, ozone burst and sprayed in every direction, evaporating before it could land, leaving nothing behind it. Jim collapsed. Dean went to him immediately, but Dad stood there, staring at Sam, an expression of horror and absolute grief on his face, frozen, and Sam sat down on the dirt.
* * *
“We’ll fix it,” Dad said, pacing back and forth in the armoury-basement, the light in his eyes Sam had only seen when he thought he was nearing the demon, hands moving ceaselessly over the knife in his hands. The knife was from Jim’s collection, from a holster on the wall - the small room was crowded with weapons and holy objects, rock salt and jars of holy water. Sam sat restrained in the centre, roped to a chair, a devil’s trap chalked on the floor around him. He could barely feel the ropes. The vestiges of the thing were still flooding his body, cancelling pain, and he felt high, alive, and terrified, both himself and something not himself, and the thing was watching and sneering.
“We’ll fix it, Sammy,” Dad said again, “I promise. We’ll get it out of you. It’s going to be okay, son,” but he was talking to himself.
“I can control it,” Sam offered.
“No. You can’t,” Dad said. “It’s bigger than you. It’s the enemy.”
“Dad?!” Dean burst in, breathless, then exclaimed in horror, “What the hell are you doing?”
“It will be okay,” Dad said, and Dean said,
“No!” and made as though to untie Sam, but Dad grabbed his arm and yanked him back hard before he could cross the devil’s trap.
“Don’t,” Dad said, and his voice was absolutely deadly. “Don’t you step across that line, Dean.”
“Are you crazy?!” Dean struggled in Dad’s grip, but Dad still had the advantage in strength and experience - he twisted his elder son’s arms behind his back and pinned them, then snarled into his ear,
“Do you want to help Sammy?”
“I - yes! Let me go!”
“Then hold still, and listen to me very carefully. I told you once there was a chance that something would happen to your brother. That something attacked him a long time ago - before you remember.”
“It isn’t,” Sam tried to explain. “It’s just how I am, it’s always been-”
“It’s the demon,” Dad said, and Sam’s mouth fell open, anything and everything he could’ve said abruptly cut off.
“The demon…?” he repeated weakly.
“The demon,” Dad affirmed. He let Dean go, and his brother just stood there, as stunned as Sam felt.
“Sammy, that night in your nursery…I believe it - infected you. With some kind….kind of poison. I’ve been studying it for years, ever since…”
“Since?” Sam whispered.
“Since Jim touched you with holy water when you were four years old, and you screamed and told him the yellow-eyed-man didn’t like it.”
Image credit: Neglected Tombstone by Vera Kratochvil
Part Nine