Running Away from Home, 4/?
Title: Running Away from Home, 4/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13 for this part (language).
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: I always get the feeling Stanford wasn’t Sam’s first escape attempt.
For Part One, go HERE
For Part Two, go HERE
For Part Three, go HERE
Part Four.
“Hello sweetheart, are you lost?”
Sammy was aware that he looked young: Dean had told him so often enough, and the other kids in his year at school were always bigger than him. Tamping down his annoyance, he smiled placatingly at the woman with the pushchair, allowing his residual Southern accent to surface a little:
“No ma’am. I’m just waiting for my bus, thank you.”
She laughed , pleased: “Well aren’t you polite?” She was faded-blonde, short, wearing jeans and a blouse with flowers embroidered on the cuffs. She was pushing a serious-faced toddler - the kid sucked hard on plastic toy and watched Sam with suspicion. “But you know this is the stand for Iowa, right honey?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She looked concerned. “Aren’t you a little young to be going out of state alone?”
“I’m visiting my aunt,” he held her gaze. Sammy didn’t look like was going to visit his aunt - he had torn his shirt in the woods, and though he had scrubbed most of the soil dirt from his face and hands, it remained around the edges of his fingernails. His backpack was starting to fall to pieces. “She’s meeting me at the other end.”
“Oh. I see.” The woman parked the pushchair, sat down next to Sammy, pulled her big handbag from the pushchair rack and started to play with the baby. Sammy knew she was watching him from the corner of her eye. He pointedly picked up the free newspaper and hid his face behind it.
People were noticing him. He hadn’t expected that. He’d taken a local bus to the main station at Bagley, and now sat awaiting the Jefferson line bus to Iowa. He’d picked Iowa solely on the grounds that it was south and so probably warmer. Maybe he’d just keep heading south, once he had some more money. Like, all the way down to Texas. He thought Dean would like it in Texas: they had barbeques.
He experienced one of those flashes of painful imagination, so clear it was almost a vision, in which he and Dean lived in a house together in Texas, and Dean had a job in a garage but Sammy went to school and worked in a library. They’d have a dog - no two dogs, one dog would be lonely - and a huge yard, and the Impala. Somehow the car always turned up in these scenarios, these various imaginary homes.
The bus pulled in and found a seat at the back, far away from the woman. The driver looked at him twice and asked,
“You on your own there, buddy?”
‘Yeah,’ thought Sammy with a twinge of unhappiness: “Yes sir. My aunt’s meeting me in Iowa.”
He was well used to long journeys, but he missed having Dean to lean against. The window was cold and hard. He was too anxious to rest, and tried to imagine what Dad and Dean were doing without him by now. Searching the town, probably. A small smile of satisfaction pulled at his lips. They never thought he would do it.
He was hungry, but rationed himself to two handfuls of trail mix. He didn’t exactly have spare cash to throw around. Sammy began to consider what he would do when they got to Iowa. Go straight to the police? Kids weren’t allowed to just be on their own, they’d have to find him a place to sleep, like one of those orphanages in the black-and-white movies were kids slept in dorms, with bunks all along a wall. He wondered what his dorm-mates would be like, and imagined himself making friends.
Sammy must have slept, eventually: left alone to think, his mood was fluctuating between miserable and excited (with a few sharp dips into astonishment at his own daring). He considered writing his journal, but he was getting a headache again and so closed his eyes for a bit. When he opened them, he saw interstate, and his stomach dropped. He was alert, then, dry-mouthed, until they passed the sign that said The People of Iowa Welcome You, and then Iowa: Fields of Opportunity. There was a yellow sun and a green line suggesting curved land. Sammy swallowed and felt sick.
The bus station was large and shadowy with night, but relatively busy still. Sam could feel the woman watching him as he stepped off the bus. He shouldered his bag higher, turned his back to her, and walked quickly out of the bus shelter.
It might have been his hurry to get away that made him fail to hear his attacker. The boy was on him before he had time to react, grabbing him from behind, wrapping one thinly-muscled arm around Sam’s chest and using his other hand to press something cold against the side of his throat. From the corner of his eye, Sammy saw metal gleam.
“Your money.” It was a teenage voice, unbroken traces of a high pitch, jerking up on the last syllable. Terrified - and angry - Sammy reacted by shoving an elbow backwards into the boy’s stomach. Surprised, the boy fumbled his weapon, which gave Sam enough to time to jerk forwards out of his grasp - not fast enough. ‘Maybe if I’d stuck around for some more training…’ he thought vaguely. His attacker kicked him in the back - hard enough to send him sprawling, his face connecting so hard with the concrete he could feel a tooth come loose a second before he felt it. His cheek was wet.
“Give me your money, punk,” said the boy, and hearing his voice again, Sam realized his attacker wasn’t much older than himself.
“Okay,” said Sam into the concrete. “It’s in the side pocket of the backpack.”
Keeping an eye - and the knife - trained on Sam, the boy eased backwards - he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and long dirty hair concealed much of his face. He rooted hurriedly in the side pocket, produced Sam’s Velcro wallet, snarled indiscernibly to himself at the contents. He stuffed the handful of change and small bills into his jeans pocket, threw the wallet back on the ground. “Phone,” he demanded.
“I don’t have one,” Sammy said. The boy snorted in disbelief. He upended the rucksack, kicked the contents around, claimed the rest of the trail mix and water bottle plus the sandwich Sam had packed when no-one was looking. With a last, anxious glance at Sam, sharp from under the brim of his cap, the boy backed away a step and then bolted. Sam heard the footsteps pattering away, surprisingly light, insubstantial.
He raised a hand to his face and inspected it, wincing at the feel of gravel embedded in his cheek, blinking in vague surprise at his blood when he pulled it away. He pushed experimentally with his tongue at his loose tooth - okay, that really hurt - he saw red for a second and breathed in, concentrating on retaining his balance. His back throbbed as he bent to retrieve his scattered belongings, dimly aware that the boy could’ve just killed him, failing to connect with that fact. The choice had been taken away now - he would have to find help. He had no money and no food. Walking hurt - shooting pains from his spine down the back of his left leg - and he didn’t know how far it was to the police station. He could just find a payphone, he thought with a sudden spark of hope, and call Dean. He knew his number. No - Dad would think of that. He would’ve taken Dean’s cell phone, just in case Sammy tried it. He had a vague idea that you couldn’t trace calls from phone boxes - but Dad would find a way. Or get Bobby.
Hurting and miserable, Sam dragged himself onto the main road. It didn’t take long:
“Oh my God, what happened to you, son?” - a rich looking man and woman. They didn’t have kids, and Sam wondered vaguely if they’d like to adopt him. But before he could ask, something snapped, and he broke his best resolution.
Sammy dropped his backpack on the sidewalk and started crying.
Part Five.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13 for this part (language).
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: I always get the feeling Stanford wasn’t Sam’s first escape attempt.
For Part One, go HERE
For Part Two, go HERE
For Part Three, go HERE
Part Four.
“Hello sweetheart, are you lost?”
Sammy was aware that he looked young: Dean had told him so often enough, and the other kids in his year at school were always bigger than him. Tamping down his annoyance, he smiled placatingly at the woman with the pushchair, allowing his residual Southern accent to surface a little:
“No ma’am. I’m just waiting for my bus, thank you.”
She laughed , pleased: “Well aren’t you polite?” She was faded-blonde, short, wearing jeans and a blouse with flowers embroidered on the cuffs. She was pushing a serious-faced toddler - the kid sucked hard on plastic toy and watched Sam with suspicion. “But you know this is the stand for Iowa, right honey?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She looked concerned. “Aren’t you a little young to be going out of state alone?”
“I’m visiting my aunt,” he held her gaze. Sammy didn’t look like was going to visit his aunt - he had torn his shirt in the woods, and though he had scrubbed most of the soil dirt from his face and hands, it remained around the edges of his fingernails. His backpack was starting to fall to pieces. “She’s meeting me at the other end.”
“Oh. I see.” The woman parked the pushchair, sat down next to Sammy, pulled her big handbag from the pushchair rack and started to play with the baby. Sammy knew she was watching him from the corner of her eye. He pointedly picked up the free newspaper and hid his face behind it.
People were noticing him. He hadn’t expected that. He’d taken a local bus to the main station at Bagley, and now sat awaiting the Jefferson line bus to Iowa. He’d picked Iowa solely on the grounds that it was south and so probably warmer. Maybe he’d just keep heading south, once he had some more money. Like, all the way down to Texas. He thought Dean would like it in Texas: they had barbeques.
He experienced one of those flashes of painful imagination, so clear it was almost a vision, in which he and Dean lived in a house together in Texas, and Dean had a job in a garage but Sammy went to school and worked in a library. They’d have a dog - no two dogs, one dog would be lonely - and a huge yard, and the Impala. Somehow the car always turned up in these scenarios, these various imaginary homes.
The bus pulled in and found a seat at the back, far away from the woman. The driver looked at him twice and asked,
“You on your own there, buddy?”
‘Yeah,’ thought Sammy with a twinge of unhappiness: “Yes sir. My aunt’s meeting me in Iowa.”
He was well used to long journeys, but he missed having Dean to lean against. The window was cold and hard. He was too anxious to rest, and tried to imagine what Dad and Dean were doing without him by now. Searching the town, probably. A small smile of satisfaction pulled at his lips. They never thought he would do it.
He was hungry, but rationed himself to two handfuls of trail mix. He didn’t exactly have spare cash to throw around. Sammy began to consider what he would do when they got to Iowa. Go straight to the police? Kids weren’t allowed to just be on their own, they’d have to find him a place to sleep, like one of those orphanages in the black-and-white movies were kids slept in dorms, with bunks all along a wall. He wondered what his dorm-mates would be like, and imagined himself making friends.
Sammy must have slept, eventually: left alone to think, his mood was fluctuating between miserable and excited (with a few sharp dips into astonishment at his own daring). He considered writing his journal, but he was getting a headache again and so closed his eyes for a bit. When he opened them, he saw interstate, and his stomach dropped. He was alert, then, dry-mouthed, until they passed the sign that said The People of Iowa Welcome You, and then Iowa: Fields of Opportunity. There was a yellow sun and a green line suggesting curved land. Sammy swallowed and felt sick.
The bus station was large and shadowy with night, but relatively busy still. Sam could feel the woman watching him as he stepped off the bus. He shouldered his bag higher, turned his back to her, and walked quickly out of the bus shelter.
It might have been his hurry to get away that made him fail to hear his attacker. The boy was on him before he had time to react, grabbing him from behind, wrapping one thinly-muscled arm around Sam’s chest and using his other hand to press something cold against the side of his throat. From the corner of his eye, Sammy saw metal gleam.
“Your money.” It was a teenage voice, unbroken traces of a high pitch, jerking up on the last syllable. Terrified - and angry - Sammy reacted by shoving an elbow backwards into the boy’s stomach. Surprised, the boy fumbled his weapon, which gave Sam enough to time to jerk forwards out of his grasp - not fast enough. ‘Maybe if I’d stuck around for some more training…’ he thought vaguely. His attacker kicked him in the back - hard enough to send him sprawling, his face connecting so hard with the concrete he could feel a tooth come loose a second before he felt it. His cheek was wet.
“Give me your money, punk,” said the boy, and hearing his voice again, Sam realized his attacker wasn’t much older than himself.
“Okay,” said Sam into the concrete. “It’s in the side pocket of the backpack.”
Keeping an eye - and the knife - trained on Sam, the boy eased backwards - he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and long dirty hair concealed much of his face. He rooted hurriedly in the side pocket, produced Sam’s Velcro wallet, snarled indiscernibly to himself at the contents. He stuffed the handful of change and small bills into his jeans pocket, threw the wallet back on the ground. “Phone,” he demanded.
“I don’t have one,” Sammy said. The boy snorted in disbelief. He upended the rucksack, kicked the contents around, claimed the rest of the trail mix and water bottle plus the sandwich Sam had packed when no-one was looking. With a last, anxious glance at Sam, sharp from under the brim of his cap, the boy backed away a step and then bolted. Sam heard the footsteps pattering away, surprisingly light, insubstantial.
He raised a hand to his face and inspected it, wincing at the feel of gravel embedded in his cheek, blinking in vague surprise at his blood when he pulled it away. He pushed experimentally with his tongue at his loose tooth - okay, that really hurt - he saw red for a second and breathed in, concentrating on retaining his balance. His back throbbed as he bent to retrieve his scattered belongings, dimly aware that the boy could’ve just killed him, failing to connect with that fact. The choice had been taken away now - he would have to find help. He had no money and no food. Walking hurt - shooting pains from his spine down the back of his left leg - and he didn’t know how far it was to the police station. He could just find a payphone, he thought with a sudden spark of hope, and call Dean. He knew his number. No - Dad would think of that. He would’ve taken Dean’s cell phone, just in case Sammy tried it. He had a vague idea that you couldn’t trace calls from phone boxes - but Dad would find a way. Or get Bobby.
Hurting and miserable, Sam dragged himself onto the main road. It didn’t take long:
“Oh my God, what happened to you, son?” - a rich looking man and woman. They didn’t have kids, and Sam wondered vaguely if they’d like to adopt him. But before he could ask, something snapped, and he broke his best resolution.
Sammy dropped his backpack on the sidewalk and started crying.
Part Five.