Hamartia (Entry Page)
Author: rei_c
Title: Hamartia
Characters/Pairings: Sam-centric, pre Sam/Jess, Dean
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and subtle blasphemy)
Word Count: 13,500
Summary: The Game is a Stanford tradition, but Sam’s first Hallowe’en away from his family won’t just be puzzles and innocent sleeplessness. Is he hunting for clues, or is something hunting him?
Warnings: S1 spoilers up to 1x15, just to be safe. Run-on sentences. Twisting of the Triangular Theory of Love. Any and all errors relative to the Game, the Bay Area, and established SPN canon spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the vague elements of spotty-plot, four hundred and two books, and one slightly demented cat.
Author’s Notes: As always, much thanks to jellybean_slash for being my ass-kicker, and a_kindara for holding my hand. Dedicated to them, and in part to sappylilartpunk, who allowed me to write whilst on vacation, and who is now almost as hopelessly addicted to this show as I am. All geographical sites are real and more can be found out about them via Wikipedia and numerous search engines. I myself have never been to Stanford or the Bay Area-if you have and spot glaring errors, please let me know. This ‘fic was written as a prequel to Fundamental Image, though you do not need to have read that to understand this.
His phone goes off just after midnight, a sound he would have missed if he hadn’t been in the bathroom, ears ringing from the noise downstairs. Without thinking, he finishes drying his hands off and pulls the phone out of his pocket, and it’s only when he sees the caller that it all comes back to him and his heart skips a beat. He’d managed to forget about the ghost, about the hunt, about Dean in the company of friends, the sounds of conversation and laughter, the smell of spilt beer and Jess’s hair and skin clinging to his nostrils, and for a split-second he feels white-hot resentment, quickly followed by shame and guilt.
“Dean,” he says when he finally pushes the ‘talk’ button. “Where are you?” There’s silence for a moment, and Sam says, “Dean?” There’s a noise that Sam can’t identify on the other end, but then he hears his brother’s voice for the first time in months and something inside of him slots home. “Sam, this city’s roads are fucked up. Tell me where you and how to get there before I leave tire-tracks in these lawns.” Sam laughs, a knot inside of his chest loosening, and says, “Where are you?”
Linked to my journal.
Title: Hamartia
Characters/Pairings: Sam-centric, pre Sam/Jess, Dean
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and subtle blasphemy)
Word Count: 13,500
Summary: The Game is a Stanford tradition, but Sam’s first Hallowe’en away from his family won’t just be puzzles and innocent sleeplessness. Is he hunting for clues, or is something hunting him?
Warnings: S1 spoilers up to 1x15, just to be safe. Run-on sentences. Twisting of the Triangular Theory of Love. Any and all errors relative to the Game, the Bay Area, and established SPN canon spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the vague elements of spotty-plot, four hundred and two books, and one slightly demented cat.
Author’s Notes: As always, much thanks to jellybean_slash for being my ass-kicker, and a_kindara for holding my hand. Dedicated to them, and in part to sappylilartpunk, who allowed me to write whilst on vacation, and who is now almost as hopelessly addicted to this show as I am. All geographical sites are real and more can be found out about them via Wikipedia and numerous search engines. I myself have never been to Stanford or the Bay Area-if you have and spot glaring errors, please let me know. This ‘fic was written as a prequel to Fundamental Image, though you do not need to have read that to understand this.
His phone goes off just after midnight, a sound he would have missed if he hadn’t been in the bathroom, ears ringing from the noise downstairs. Without thinking, he finishes drying his hands off and pulls the phone out of his pocket, and it’s only when he sees the caller that it all comes back to him and his heart skips a beat. He’d managed to forget about the ghost, about the hunt, about Dean in the company of friends, the sounds of conversation and laughter, the smell of spilt beer and Jess’s hair and skin clinging to his nostrils, and for a split-second he feels white-hot resentment, quickly followed by shame and guilt.
“Dean,” he says when he finally pushes the ‘talk’ button. “Where are you?” There’s silence for a moment, and Sam says, “Dean?” There’s a noise that Sam can’t identify on the other end, but then he hears his brother’s voice for the first time in months and something inside of him slots home. “Sam, this city’s roads are fucked up. Tell me where you and how to get there before I leave tire-tracks in these lawns.” Sam laughs, a knot inside of his chest loosening, and says, “Where are you?”
Linked to my journal.