Running Away from Home, 5/?
Title: Running Away from Home, 5/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13
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
For Part Four, go HERE
Part 5.
The man and woman took him to the police, and the police got a doctor to look at him: he was younger and much more cheerful than any doctor Sammy had met before. Also much less suspicious.
“Well, you’re a lucky boy Sammy,” (he’d divulged his name, his real name, before he could stop himself) “You’ve got some nasty bruises, and you’re going to be pretty sore for a while, but there’s nothing broken. I can give you some medicine when your family gets here, which will make you feel better, but you’ll need to see a dentist about that tooth.”
They were talking to him like he was a child, and it make him angry again. They didn’t know anything about him - as if he would have a dentist.
“So Sammy,” said the woman police officer: “Are you going to tell me why you ran away?”
“I don’t know,” Sammy repeated stubbornly. “I don’t remember.”
His face felt strange: stiff, and sore. Talking was weird. His back felt a little better now he was sitting down, and the crying was pushed down inside him, hot, wet and waiting. It wasn’t like being a criminal: not like on cop shows. There were no swinging lights, and no good-cop bad-cop routine; it was just him and a woman police officer, on a beat-up couch in a room at the back of the station.
First, there had been a policeman as well: they had asked him about the attack. He had told them what he remembered. He knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t be getting his wallet back, which contained the sum of his savings. But that was small fry to the police. Then the man had left, and the woman had started to ask him about himself. She’d gotten him orange juice, but he couldn’t drink it because it hurt the cuts in his mouth. So she’d gotten him hot chocolate from a machine. Sam felt ridiculously grateful, and in the back of his mind he wondered, if he kept denying he had a family, whether she’d decide to take him home with her. Did she already have kids?
“Did you have a fight with your dad, or your brother?”
Sam gaped at her.
“They’re on their way here right now, Sammy,” she said sympathetically. “Your father reported you missing last night, to the police in Minnesota.”
“My father - John Winchester?” Sam asked.
“Yes - do you have another one?” the policewoman was perfectly serious.
“No,” said Sammy regretfully.
“They’ll be here before the evening. Is there something making you unhappy at home?”
At home. Sam sighed. He looked at the woman, her round, sympathetic face. And he thought, ‘this is it’. If he really wanted out, he could say it now. Say his dad gave him a gun, didn’t have a job, made him move all over the country and that he’d been to twenty different schools since he was old enough to remember. But now the cops knew who his dad was. Knew who Dean was. Dean was still fifteen, and so he’d get taken away from his father as well. Maybe never be allowed to talk to him. And that, Sammy knew, would kill his brother.
“No,” Sammy said, looking the policewoman in the eye. “I mean, yes, I was angry. I had a stupid fight with my dad. But I shouldn’t have run away. I’m very sorry, ma’am.” He scuffed his trainer on the floor. There was a long pause, and then she said,
“Okay - well, we’re going to talk to you a little more when your family get here, okay?”
Sam nodded without looking up.
“And now - I’m betting you’re pretty hungry. The cafeteria does some pretty good pancakes. My treat,” she stood up. Sammy followed her obediently, more obediently than felt normal to him. The pancakes really weren’t bad. Chewing hurt though, even using the good side of his mouth, and he made a concerted effort to keep the crying down where it belonged.
* * *
“Sam, you dick!”
That was not something mothers said. But the way Dean rushed over, bending to cup Sammy’s face gently with both hands and start to inspect his wounds - that was something he thought mothers might have done.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean’s voice asked, but his eyes asked, ‘How could you do it?’ Sammy felt horribly, deeply remorseful. Not at getting this far - but at causing his brother pain. Sometimes he wished - no, he didn’t wish that. But if Dean didn’t love him….it might have made running away that much easier.
Dad talked to the police, and not to Sammy. Sam knew the woman officer was concerned (her name was Jill, but he’d told himself not to think of her like that). All three of them were disheveled and tired-looking. Dad hadn’t shaved. But Sam just repeated, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it,” until he practically believed it.
In the car, heading south like he’d wanted, Sammy caught Dad watching him in the rearview mirror. The doctor had given him some stupid baby painkiller after getting permission. Dean had asked him afterwards if he wanted something better. Sammy said no. He wanted to feel his pains. He had earned them. Minor though his injuries were compared to the catalogue Dean had already endured and healed from, feeling them as he sat in the back of the car, as close to his brother as he could get without being a baby, Sam felt the pull of a bitter, rooted connection. Born into this family, whether they rebelled or obeyed, they were both going to suffer. Because of Dad. And God. And the demon.
When they stopped, at a one-story motel with a wooden sign way out in farm country - Dad was still not talking. He grabbed the heavy bag and slammed the car door, turning towards the motel. Then sun was going down bloody between pale clouds, casting long red shadows on the grainy dirt ground.
“You can’t control me,” Sam said. “You can’t stop me doing what I want.”
Dad turned around and slapped him across the face.
It wasn’t hard: more a gesture of exasperation than an exercise in corporal punishment. But it jarred his tooth - which he hadn’t told Dad about -and Sammy was unable to stifle a small noise of pain and surprise. For all that Dad could be a slave driver, for all the yelling, even cussing, he had done at Sammy, he had never raised a hand to his children in Sammy’s eleven years. Judging by his brother’s sharply-indrawn breath, Dean had never experienced it either. He started towards Sammy, then changed his mind, following Dad inside.
* * *
“Is it because of Mom that he hates me?” Sam asked Dean in the night. He had gone to bedroom as soon as they’d checked in, laying down on the bed furthest from the door, trusting that his brother would bring him food when he came to bed. Sure enough, Dean dropped a greasy takeaway packet by Sammy’s feet before he started undressing. The smell made Sammy’s stomach growl, but he made no move to uncurl himself or turn away from the wall. His cheek throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his back was hurting again.
“Dad doesn’t hate you,” Dean said wearily. “He loves you very much.”
Sammy snorted.
“I don’t know why you can’t see it,” Dean’s voice was strained: “He told the police our real names, Sammy. Because you were missing for one day. Isn’t that enough?”
“No it’s not enough!” Sammy sat up and shouted. “If he hadn’t fucked up our lives so much, our names wouldn’t be a secret! I wouldn’t have to get out of here!”
Dean sat down on the opposite bed: “Stop shouting. You didn’t see him.”
“What?”
“You didn’t see him, Sammy. When you were missing. Or just now,” Dean gestured towards the closed door.
“And I guess that’s just always my problem, isn’t it? I didn’t see, I wasn’t there. I can’t understand.” Sam curled back up into a ball of misery. Dean said,
“Eat your dinner.”
Sam held his posture a minute longer, just to make the point. Then he slid the burger over to him and started chewing, still lying on his side. After a few minutes, he realized Dean had put something in the food. His eyelids were getting heavy. He felt distant, and vague in a good way. His back didn’t hurt anymore. His tooth still did, but it was distant, as though the pain belonged to someone else. The anger was still there, but muffled. An indeterminate time passed, and Sam felt something light and soft on his face. Like someone was brushing his hair back, out of his cuts and grazes. But he thought he was probably dreaming that. Then there was nothing, for a while.
Part Six.
A/N: Part 6 is be the last. If you'd like to read more in the same 'verse, I can offer 'Game Face and the Existentialist Hero', parts ONE and TWO. Chronologically later, still pre-series. Comments are love! xxx
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading-is-in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13
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
For Part Four, go HERE
Part 5.
The man and woman took him to the police, and the police got a doctor to look at him: he was younger and much more cheerful than any doctor Sammy had met before. Also much less suspicious.
“Well, you’re a lucky boy Sammy,” (he’d divulged his name, his real name, before he could stop himself) “You’ve got some nasty bruises, and you’re going to be pretty sore for a while, but there’s nothing broken. I can give you some medicine when your family gets here, which will make you feel better, but you’ll need to see a dentist about that tooth.”
They were talking to him like he was a child, and it make him angry again. They didn’t know anything about him - as if he would have a dentist.
“So Sammy,” said the woman police officer: “Are you going to tell me why you ran away?”
“I don’t know,” Sammy repeated stubbornly. “I don’t remember.”
His face felt strange: stiff, and sore. Talking was weird. His back felt a little better now he was sitting down, and the crying was pushed down inside him, hot, wet and waiting. It wasn’t like being a criminal: not like on cop shows. There were no swinging lights, and no good-cop bad-cop routine; it was just him and a woman police officer, on a beat-up couch in a room at the back of the station.
First, there had been a policeman as well: they had asked him about the attack. He had told them what he remembered. He knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t be getting his wallet back, which contained the sum of his savings. But that was small fry to the police. Then the man had left, and the woman had started to ask him about himself. She’d gotten him orange juice, but he couldn’t drink it because it hurt the cuts in his mouth. So she’d gotten him hot chocolate from a machine. Sam felt ridiculously grateful, and in the back of his mind he wondered, if he kept denying he had a family, whether she’d decide to take him home with her. Did she already have kids?
“Did you have a fight with your dad, or your brother?”
Sam gaped at her.
“They’re on their way here right now, Sammy,” she said sympathetically. “Your father reported you missing last night, to the police in Minnesota.”
“My father - John Winchester?” Sam asked.
“Yes - do you have another one?” the policewoman was perfectly serious.
“No,” said Sammy regretfully.
“They’ll be here before the evening. Is there something making you unhappy at home?”
At home. Sam sighed. He looked at the woman, her round, sympathetic face. And he thought, ‘this is it’. If he really wanted out, he could say it now. Say his dad gave him a gun, didn’t have a job, made him move all over the country and that he’d been to twenty different schools since he was old enough to remember. But now the cops knew who his dad was. Knew who Dean was. Dean was still fifteen, and so he’d get taken away from his father as well. Maybe never be allowed to talk to him. And that, Sammy knew, would kill his brother.
“No,” Sammy said, looking the policewoman in the eye. “I mean, yes, I was angry. I had a stupid fight with my dad. But I shouldn’t have run away. I’m very sorry, ma’am.” He scuffed his trainer on the floor. There was a long pause, and then she said,
“Okay - well, we’re going to talk to you a little more when your family get here, okay?”
Sam nodded without looking up.
“And now - I’m betting you’re pretty hungry. The cafeteria does some pretty good pancakes. My treat,” she stood up. Sammy followed her obediently, more obediently than felt normal to him. The pancakes really weren’t bad. Chewing hurt though, even using the good side of his mouth, and he made a concerted effort to keep the crying down where it belonged.
* * *
“Sam, you dick!”
That was not something mothers said. But the way Dean rushed over, bending to cup Sammy’s face gently with both hands and start to inspect his wounds - that was something he thought mothers might have done.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean’s voice asked, but his eyes asked, ‘How could you do it?’ Sammy felt horribly, deeply remorseful. Not at getting this far - but at causing his brother pain. Sometimes he wished - no, he didn’t wish that. But if Dean didn’t love him….it might have made running away that much easier.
Dad talked to the police, and not to Sammy. Sam knew the woman officer was concerned (her name was Jill, but he’d told himself not to think of her like that). All three of them were disheveled and tired-looking. Dad hadn’t shaved. But Sam just repeated, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it,” until he practically believed it.
In the car, heading south like he’d wanted, Sammy caught Dad watching him in the rearview mirror. The doctor had given him some stupid baby painkiller after getting permission. Dean had asked him afterwards if he wanted something better. Sammy said no. He wanted to feel his pains. He had earned them. Minor though his injuries were compared to the catalogue Dean had already endured and healed from, feeling them as he sat in the back of the car, as close to his brother as he could get without being a baby, Sam felt the pull of a bitter, rooted connection. Born into this family, whether they rebelled or obeyed, they were both going to suffer. Because of Dad. And God. And the demon.
When they stopped, at a one-story motel with a wooden sign way out in farm country - Dad was still not talking. He grabbed the heavy bag and slammed the car door, turning towards the motel. Then sun was going down bloody between pale clouds, casting long red shadows on the grainy dirt ground.
“You can’t control me,” Sam said. “You can’t stop me doing what I want.”
Dad turned around and slapped him across the face.
It wasn’t hard: more a gesture of exasperation than an exercise in corporal punishment. But it jarred his tooth - which he hadn’t told Dad about -and Sammy was unable to stifle a small noise of pain and surprise. For all that Dad could be a slave driver, for all the yelling, even cussing, he had done at Sammy, he had never raised a hand to his children in Sammy’s eleven years. Judging by his brother’s sharply-indrawn breath, Dean had never experienced it either. He started towards Sammy, then changed his mind, following Dad inside.
* * *
“Is it because of Mom that he hates me?” Sam asked Dean in the night. He had gone to bedroom as soon as they’d checked in, laying down on the bed furthest from the door, trusting that his brother would bring him food when he came to bed. Sure enough, Dean dropped a greasy takeaway packet by Sammy’s feet before he started undressing. The smell made Sammy’s stomach growl, but he made no move to uncurl himself or turn away from the wall. His cheek throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his back was hurting again.
“Dad doesn’t hate you,” Dean said wearily. “He loves you very much.”
Sammy snorted.
“I don’t know why you can’t see it,” Dean’s voice was strained: “He told the police our real names, Sammy. Because you were missing for one day. Isn’t that enough?”
“No it’s not enough!” Sammy sat up and shouted. “If he hadn’t fucked up our lives so much, our names wouldn’t be a secret! I wouldn’t have to get out of here!”
Dean sat down on the opposite bed: “Stop shouting. You didn’t see him.”
“What?”
“You didn’t see him, Sammy. When you were missing. Or just now,” Dean gestured towards the closed door.
“And I guess that’s just always my problem, isn’t it? I didn’t see, I wasn’t there. I can’t understand.” Sam curled back up into a ball of misery. Dean said,
“Eat your dinner.”
Sam held his posture a minute longer, just to make the point. Then he slid the burger over to him and started chewing, still lying on his side. After a few minutes, he realized Dean had put something in the food. His eyelids were getting heavy. He felt distant, and vague in a good way. His back didn’t hurt anymore. His tooth still did, but it was distant, as though the pain belonged to someone else. The anger was still there, but muffled. An indeterminate time passed, and Sam felt something light and soft on his face. Like someone was brushing his hair back, out of his cuts and grazes. But he thought he was probably dreaming that. Then there was nothing, for a while.
Part Six.
A/N: Part 6 is be the last. If you'd like to read more in the same 'verse, I can offer 'Game Face and the Existentialist Hero', parts ONE and TWO. Chronologically later, still pre-series. Comments are love! xxx