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beansideTitle: Know Me Broken
Rating: MC-17
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Disclaimer: We don't own them, we just play with them as long as Kripke will let us.
Warnings: violence, mental illness, and paternal and fraternal incest.
A/N: AU.
“Sammy. Sam.” His father’s voice got progressively louder until Sam finally pulled himself upright, feeling the page of the book stick to his cheek. Dammit.
“’m ‘wake,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “What time’s it?”
“About seven. I’m getting ready to head to the garage, wasn’t sure how long you’d need to get yourself together for class.” John rumpled his hair gently, sliding a cup of coffee onto the table next to Sam.
“Thanks.” Sam let his head fall back against his father, looking up blearily. “Have a good day at work.” Even now, the phrase sounded weird to him.
The door thumped shut, and Sam got up, checking the lock before he headed back to the table, nudging the computer out of hibernation, and hitting print on the paper he’d finished around three that morning. Twenty pages, single-spaced. God, he hated Dr.Roenbeck. Fucking asshole with a tenured God complex.
The Impala roared to life outside, and Sam felt something warm in his stomach, watching it pull out, Dad giving him a quick wave as he glanced through the window. At least he got a smile, Sam thought. Dad had been pretty grim since Caleb had left yesterday.
Then again, hearing that your son was ritualistically killing you over and over wasn’t exactly the kind of news that would make a man happy. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. The look on Dad’s face when he’d said it…
It was no wonder he’d kept quiet for the last few months. Sam shook his head, sighing. They’d survive it. They always did. But god, it sucked. He checked the lock again, bent to run a hand absently down Princess’ spine as she wound around his ankles.
Time to get in gear. Sam scooped the phone, grimacing as he dialed. The phone rang a few times, then was picked up, a familiar voice coming on the line.
“Morning, Sam. You’re up early.” It didn’t matter what time of day or night they called him, Pastor Jim Murphy always sounded the same, that unflappable calm voice, cheerful and even. Some days, it was really annoying. Sam quickly laid out his pills in a neat row on the counter. Celexa , multi-vitamin, taken in alphabetic order, always with a half a glass of orange juice. He left off the anti-anxiety med today, hoped hewouldn’t need it. He still checked the little pill case in his wallet to be sure there were a few in there, though.
“Yeah. I wanted to drop that book back before I head to class, so I thought I’d make sure you were around,” Sam said softly, listening to the ancient printerchittering away on his paper.
“I’ll be here. Just finished morning mass,” Jim added.
“Great. I, um. I’m going to get a shower now, so I should be up there in about thirty five minutes,” Sam said carefully.
“Ah. Got it. I’ll see you soon,” Jim returned, voice equally careful.
“Thanks. See you in a few.” Sam hung up the phone and ran a finger over the lock one last time before he scooped the egg timer off the counter. He felt somehow on edge, like something was coming—something big. Itwasn’t a vision, really. It was more a feeling.
Whatever it was, it made his skin feel tight, made him feel restless. It was a potentially dangerous feeling for Sam.
He set the timer for 20 minutes, and started the shower, climbing into the not nearly hot enough water. Dad had been messing with the hot water heater again, apparently. Couldn’t blame him, but it was still kind of annoying.
The timer went off, and Sam reluctantly stepped out of the shower, shivering in the blast of cool air. He pulled on his shirt, slipping a hoodie over it and tugged up his jeans, looking at the frost patterns on the window. “Going to be a cold one, Princess,” he muttered softly, rumpling the cat’s fur.
The printer had finally finished his paper, at least. He scooped it up, shuffling the papers into the correct order. It was total bullshit, but then again, it’s not like he would have gotten an A on the paper. Roenbeck wouldn’t give him an A if he started pounding out Shakespeare.
He finished the coffee, and went for a refill, checking to make sure Dad had unplugged his teapot when he was finished. He had, of course. Dad didn’t make stupid mistakes.
That knowledge didn't stop Sam from checking the teapot three more times, and the stove a few times on top of that. He went with the compulsions these days, drawn behind them like a tide. He'd fought at first, like he fought everything, only to find out that his own mind didn't yield quite so easy. When he managed to stop himself from re-checking things, it always ended the same way: Sam curled up under a boiling shower spray, trying to scrub imaginary filth off his skin.
There had been months where Dad's fingers were blistered and cracked from all the times he'd had to pull Sam out, his voice worn to a thin thread from hours of soothing Sam until the screaming in Sam's head quieted and he could be drugged to sleep.
It wasn't happily ever after. The cult had burned around the bastards, Apep's priests trapped inside their funeral pyre. Sam had watched the compound until it was just steaming ashes and a few scattered survivors, had heard the god's scream that theATF agents dismissed as air escaping from wet timber. He'd gone with Dad and exorcised the ruins.
But Apep had won his game. Somewhere, he was gorging on the fear of the survivors, the grief of the families, the nightmares. He was being fed every time Dean dropped to his knees-
The phone rang once, jarring Sam out of his reverie, and was silent. Jim's warning for Sam to get his ass to the church, or Jim would come up here and get him. Sam shook his head, trying to clear it. His breathing was shallow and fast, loud in the morning hush.
He sighed tiredly and scooped up the book. He could stop back before he left for the report and his bag. It wasn't the normal he'd envisioned somehow. For the last four years, he'd had a stable home, Dad had worked a steady job, regular hours. He was in his senior year of college, after a disastrous attempt at high school had ended in his near expulsion and subsequent early withdrawal.
Somehow, normal hadn't involved ending up in bed with his father more nights than not. Normal hadn't involved being on medication for the rest of his life to combat the demons in his mind.
His long steps carried him over the frost-stiffened grass to the back door of the church. He opened it, slipping into the chapel, and headed over to the line of candles, smiling sadly at the lone flickering light in the middle. In his own way, Dad was just as married to ritual as he was, Sam thought. He picked up a wooden matchstick and touched it to Dad's candle, watching it flare to life. Then, he touched it to the wick of the candle next to Dad's. "Hold on a little longer, Dean. We're coming," he whispered, wondering when it had started feeling like a lie.
He heard Jim's footsteps, and glanced back, shaking the match out carefully. "Morning."
Jim smiled and waited for Sam to come to him. "Rough one?"
Sam felt his eyes veer off Jim's face to stare somewhere neutral. It didn't matter that Jim had been around for Sam's worst years, the ones where any touch but John's made him howl and bolt. Jim wasn't blood, and there were places he wasn't allowed to see.
"Yeah," Sam said finally. "Bad night. I mean, good night, but-"
"It's the anniversary," Jim supplied. He held out his hand for the book. "You don't have to explain, Sam."
There wasn't time for Jim to hear the whole story. Sam wasn't sure how much to tell him anyway.
Yeah. Jim made a good preacher, but he would've been a better interrogator. His patient silence was keen as the edge of a blade, drawing blood, lancing wounds. He smiled as Sam handed over the weathered book, and Sam sighed.
"Dean's alive." There. Nice, non-loaded, simple. Unless you spoke conversational Winchester. "Caleb saw him in Brazil. He's in the US now. We've got a good trail, might catch him before December."
"Ah. That's wonderful news." Jim raised an eyebrow. "Can I ask why you look like you're in mourning?"
Sam sighed. "Um. It's complicated. He's been doing some things...complicated." He shifted nervously. "I don't think I can talk about it, Jim."
"Not a problem. Have you had breakfast?" Jim gave him that gentle smile.
"No, I didn't think about it," Sam murmured. "I haven't been that hungry this week." Come to think of it, had he eaten dinner last night?
"I'm not surprised. Anna Mae left a plate of her cinnamon coffee cake if you'd like to save me from eating it all." Jim headed into the kitchen, tugging down another coffee mug off the rack and offering it to Sam.
"Maybe just one piece," Sam agreed, heading to Jim's fridge. The familiar ziploc bags and plastic containers stared at him, a mirror of theirs. Jim had gotten into the habit during the year they'd stayed with him, while John had rehabbed the old rectory, and he'd never gotten out of it. Said it made it easier to clean out the fridge.
It was a nice lie. No one wanted to set him off. Once he'd have been annoyed. Now, he was just grateful.
Absently grabbing the oldest bags, Sam tossed them in the trash. It didn't matter that they were nowhere near expired. They were a week old, so they went. Dad had only fought him on wasting food once, before apparently deciding that it was easier to waste food than it was to mop up the kitchen when Sam caught a whiff (imaginary or not) of rotten food.
Satisfied, Sam grabbed the cake and went to the kitchen table. A moment later, Jim was seated across from him. Sam cut him a piece, pushed it across the table, and grinned at Jim's pained sigh. Jim still picked up a fork, though.
Jim didn't know what they did at night. He never would. He'd turned a blind eye to enough Winchester dysfunction; Sam couldn't ask him to accept something that had damned near killed Dad even as it healed Sam.
Sam drew patterns with his fork in the thick frosting, barely seeing.
Sam had been 16, barely. Caught up in the darkest hour of the OCD, choking on a rage that had no outlet, seeing a therapist every other day, drugging the sickness to a tolerable dull roar. It'd been months since their last word on Dean. Dad had been sleepwalking, distant with grief, staring at Sam like he didn't know how to reach across three feet of distance.There'd been gray starting in his hair.
They'd gone out into the woods on recon, which seemed to be Dad's excuse for escaping the choking silence of the house. As long as John was nearby, Sam was good for short trips, especially since they were sleeping in the Impala. The Impala was home, even now, in a way that no house could ever be. So, it was off into the woods of Kentucky to look into the brutal deaths of some Boy Scouts on a trip with their father. It'd been something to do, easy, harmless, mindless.
Yeah. They both should've known better.
It'd been the noises coming from the cave that had drawn them: agonized screams, the howl of a baby, discordant grunting and animal squeals. The crackle and roar of fire devouring wood. Dad had gone in, ordering Sam to stay put. Sam had lasted five minutes and three masculine sounding screams before disobeying.
Deep in the belly of the cave, there'd been the altar. Smears of fat and blood and other, thicker things had clung to the black stone. Dad had been standing above the altar, his expression stricken. He'd told Sam later that the curse had seized him as soon as he stood over the chalice, locking up his muscles until he could only watch Sam move towards him. He could only watch, and know, and wait. Dad didn't say 'helpless', because he never would, but Sam choked on that feeling every time Dad got drunk enough to remember that night.
The chalice had been cursed. Of course. Because that was how these things went. As soon as Sam touched the chalice, its edges jagged with rust, the pain had seared through his blood. It'd been strong enough to drop Sam where he stood, to strip away thought and reduce him to mindless, agonized terror.
Vicious curse. Desperate cure. Dad had read the runes carved in the chalice, his touch warm as he tried to knead out the crippling pain that crept up Sam's fingers to his hands to his wrists to-
It had been another of Apep’s talismans. Had recognized Sam, from hundreds of yards away, had drawn him, like a moth to a flame. And like most of Apep’s things, it required sacrifice.
Dad had read the runes again. Again. He'd read it out loud, his expression hard in Sam's graying vision, his voice cracked like old worn stone. He'd mapped every inch of the cave looking for an out, and the pain crawled through Sam's veins.
Finally, the sharp slap to his face had roused Sam enough to look at Dad. "Do you want to live?" he'd asked. There'd been a fever in Dad's eyes that had made Sam want to shrink away.
"I-" Sam's lips had been dry from panting for air, Dad's hands hard on his arms. There'd been no time or energy for tears. "I don't want to die."
And then Dad had pulled his jacket off. He'd thrown it over the altar so its filth didn't touch Sam, and he'd laid Sam down, and he'd done what he had to. He'd been pale as a dying man, his cheek cool against Sam's burning skin, his eyelashes shivering against Sam's shoulder. He'd been silent. Sam had talked himself hoarse.
In the end, the rocking of their bodies had lulled Sam to his first decent sleep in months. Years. Wound up in John's arms, in his scent and his heat, Sam had been safe. They'd found the edge of the map, they'd burned the bridges behind them, and whereSam'd thought there'd be shadows, there was light.
His fork scraped empty plate. Sam blinked and came back to Jim's steady smile.
"Sorry. Woolgathering."
"It's okay. Lot on your mind." Jim's voice never wavered, never lost that gentle, kind tone.
Some days, Sam hated him for that. "Yeah. It's just- I realized last night that I barely remember him, not in the ways that count. I barely remember his laugh, the way his smile would light up his face. His voice. I remember the way he looked on the floor of the common room, bloody and dazed. I remember the screams, when they hit him with thetazer. But the little things? They're going away."
"Sam, you were twelve. It's been six years. You've got to cut yourself some slack-'
"You know the funny thing?" Sam interrupted. "Dad didn't want to let us go in. He said it was too dangerous. Dean and I fought him on it. We were so damned sure of ourselves, so sure that we could keep children from dying. That, I remember clear as a bell. I can't even blame someone else for it. We insisted. We nearly got Dad killed, trying to get us out."
"Sam, hunting's risky at the best of times," Jim murmured.
"Risky. Yeah. We risk getting killed, gutted by random spook number three. Not to get put in a fucking dumpster with a dying four year old. Not to not be touched or see the sunlight for six months."
Jim didn't blink, holding his ground. Other people had flinched. Sam went through three therapists in the span of a year, two of which bugged out before he even started on Dad. "You're right," Jim said. "You didn't sign up for that. Neither of you expected it, so why blame yourself for something you couldn't have seen coming?"
"That's not what I'm-" Sam scraped the plate, a little more vigorously than he had to. When he regained his calm, he swallowed and said carefully, "This isn't about survivor guilt."
"Isn't it?" Jim asked.
Sam put the fork down and glared at him.
"I'm just saying," Jim said quickly, holding his hands up. "There wasn't anything you could have done, and you know it."
"Do I?" Sam asked. "Okay, I've gotta get moving. If I miss another class Dr. Roenbeck's going to get his bitch on. Thanks for the cake."
"Sam-" Jim started.
"Look, I know. Getting myself out and calling in the ATF was probably the only way to do it. But it's the only way I tried. I just ran. I didn't even look for him, didn't even try. I'll never know whether I could have done more. And I'll always wonder. And that's just the way it is." Sam shrugged, grabbing his jacket.
Jim wisely chose to keep his thoughts to himself as Sam slipped out of the kitchen.
By the time Sam got back to the house, he was running low on time and patience. He threw his stuff in his schoolbag and headed for the car that was parked and waiting in the driveway.
It turned out his part-time employment, working data entry in Dad's garage and the occasional consulting job for computer security firms, was enough to pay for a used old Honda. It ran most of the time, it survived the hostile winter months and it was cheap for gas. For all that Dad bitched it was ariceburner that would run if you pulled it back on the carpet, it was a good car. Sam's car, a quiet declaration of independence.
Left to his own devices, Sam was half-afraid of what he'd become. A hermit who lived in his father's shadow was the least of it. So he dragged himself to classes, even when the confines of his car seemed too damn close and the itch under his skin got maddening.
The car started with a soft purr, and he slid down the gravel driveway, heading for school. With any luck, he'd get there a little early.
He should be focusing on the legal ramifications of desegregation in the South. Instead, he was thinking of a dozen dark alleys, of Dean on his knees. Of the times he'd been able to make Dean feel his presence in the visions, had somehow pulled Dean to him.
He wasn't sure what would be worse: to never quite catch up with Dean, or to find him, and to realize that he didn't want to come back. Didn't want them.
No. Couldn't think like that, or he'd be missing another class. Had to get his mind on school. At least for a couple hours.
God, that sounded callous. Maybe it was. Maybe Sam was just too used to the distance.
During his disastrous turn in the Minnesota Public School System, he'd started taking online and teleclasses, getting some of the basics out of the way. He'd gotten his AA degree just after his 17th birthday. He'd be graduating in August with his bachelor's in computer science, if he could just keep his grades up until then.
College hadn’t been easy—too many people, classes held in enormous lecture halls with hundreds of other students, teachers like Roenbeck, who thought that accommodations based on psychological disorders were little more than sanctioned cheating.
High school had still been worse. He’d tried so damn hard to fit in, tried to be normal. But there were cliques and people constantly in his space, smells and sounds that assaulted him daily.
He’d tried. He’d worn long sleeves and long pants, not eaten or drank anything all day, because the cafeteria made him want to scrape his skin off. He’d refused to even consider the bathrooms as an option. He’d gotten excused from gym class, not wanted people to see his scars.
And it had amounted to nothing. All of his work, all the times he came to school drugged to almost incoherence just to be able to leave the house had ended in a deserted hallway, with four seniors trying to shove the nerd into a locker.
It had ended with all of them on the floor, one clutching a broken wrist, one with a knee that bent in a new and interesting way, two unconscious, and Sam curled in on himself sobbing in silence.
He hadn’t even noticed the faculty or the paramedics, hadn’t really come back until John had him in the Impala, stroking his hair and rumbling softly to him.
After that, the school and he had mutually agreed that parting ways was a good plan. So, college.
Sam slid the Honda into a spot and headed into the building, bracing himself for the rush of people.
One and a half semesters left, he told himself quietly. Somehow, he’d always thought Dean would be there to see him graduate. To mock him for being a nerd, and to cheer inappropriately loud when he crossed the stage. Somehow, he’d never thought that six years later, they stillwouldn’t be a family.
Rating: MC-17
Authors:
nilchance and beansideDisclaimer: We don't own them, we just play with them as long as Kripke will let us.
Warnings: violence, mental illness, and paternal and fraternal incest.
A/N: AU.
“Sammy. Sam.” His father’s voice got progressively louder until Sam finally pulled himself upright, feeling the page of the book stick to his cheek. Dammit.
“’m ‘wake,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “What time’s it?”
“About seven. I’m getting ready to head to the garage, wasn’t sure how long you’d need to get yourself together for class.” John rumpled his hair gently, sliding a cup of coffee onto the table next to Sam.
“Thanks.” Sam let his head fall back against his father, looking up blearily. “Have a good day at work.” Even now, the phrase sounded weird to him.
The door thumped shut, and Sam got up, checking the lock before he headed back to the table, nudging the computer out of hibernation, and hitting print on the paper he’d finished around three that morning. Twenty pages, single-spaced. God, he hated Dr.Roenbeck. Fucking asshole with a tenured God complex.
The Impala roared to life outside, and Sam felt something warm in his stomach, watching it pull out, Dad giving him a quick wave as he glanced through the window. At least he got a smile, Sam thought. Dad had been pretty grim since Caleb had left yesterday.
Then again, hearing that your son was ritualistically killing you over and over wasn’t exactly the kind of news that would make a man happy. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. The look on Dad’s face when he’d said it…
It was no wonder he’d kept quiet for the last few months. Sam shook his head, sighing. They’d survive it. They always did. But god, it sucked. He checked the lock again, bent to run a hand absently down Princess’ spine as she wound around his ankles.
Time to get in gear. Sam scooped the phone, grimacing as he dialed. The phone rang a few times, then was picked up, a familiar voice coming on the line.
“Morning, Sam. You’re up early.” It didn’t matter what time of day or night they called him, Pastor Jim Murphy always sounded the same, that unflappable calm voice, cheerful and even. Some days, it was really annoying. Sam quickly laid out his pills in a neat row on the counter. Celexa , multi-vitamin, taken in alphabetic order, always with a half a glass of orange juice. He left off the anti-anxiety med today, hoped hewouldn’t need it. He still checked the little pill case in his wallet to be sure there were a few in there, though.
“Yeah. I wanted to drop that book back before I head to class, so I thought I’d make sure you were around,” Sam said softly, listening to the ancient printerchittering away on his paper.
“I’ll be here. Just finished morning mass,” Jim added.
“Great. I, um. I’m going to get a shower now, so I should be up there in about thirty five minutes,” Sam said carefully.
“Ah. Got it. I’ll see you soon,” Jim returned, voice equally careful.
“Thanks. See you in a few.” Sam hung up the phone and ran a finger over the lock one last time before he scooped the egg timer off the counter. He felt somehow on edge, like something was coming—something big. Itwasn’t a vision, really. It was more a feeling.
Whatever it was, it made his skin feel tight, made him feel restless. It was a potentially dangerous feeling for Sam.
He set the timer for 20 minutes, and started the shower, climbing into the not nearly hot enough water. Dad had been messing with the hot water heater again, apparently. Couldn’t blame him, but it was still kind of annoying.
The timer went off, and Sam reluctantly stepped out of the shower, shivering in the blast of cool air. He pulled on his shirt, slipping a hoodie over it and tugged up his jeans, looking at the frost patterns on the window. “Going to be a cold one, Princess,” he muttered softly, rumpling the cat’s fur.
The printer had finally finished his paper, at least. He scooped it up, shuffling the papers into the correct order. It was total bullshit, but then again, it’s not like he would have gotten an A on the paper. Roenbeck wouldn’t give him an A if he started pounding out Shakespeare.
He finished the coffee, and went for a refill, checking to make sure Dad had unplugged his teapot when he was finished. He had, of course. Dad didn’t make stupid mistakes.
That knowledge didn't stop Sam from checking the teapot three more times, and the stove a few times on top of that. He went with the compulsions these days, drawn behind them like a tide. He'd fought at first, like he fought everything, only to find out that his own mind didn't yield quite so easy. When he managed to stop himself from re-checking things, it always ended the same way: Sam curled up under a boiling shower spray, trying to scrub imaginary filth off his skin.
There had been months where Dad's fingers were blistered and cracked from all the times he'd had to pull Sam out, his voice worn to a thin thread from hours of soothing Sam until the screaming in Sam's head quieted and he could be drugged to sleep.
It wasn't happily ever after. The cult had burned around the bastards, Apep's priests trapped inside their funeral pyre. Sam had watched the compound until it was just steaming ashes and a few scattered survivors, had heard the god's scream that theATF agents dismissed as air escaping from wet timber. He'd gone with Dad and exorcised the ruins.
But Apep had won his game. Somewhere, he was gorging on the fear of the survivors, the grief of the families, the nightmares. He was being fed every time Dean dropped to his knees-
The phone rang once, jarring Sam out of his reverie, and was silent. Jim's warning for Sam to get his ass to the church, or Jim would come up here and get him. Sam shook his head, trying to clear it. His breathing was shallow and fast, loud in the morning hush.
He sighed tiredly and scooped up the book. He could stop back before he left for the report and his bag. It wasn't the normal he'd envisioned somehow. For the last four years, he'd had a stable home, Dad had worked a steady job, regular hours. He was in his senior year of college, after a disastrous attempt at high school had ended in his near expulsion and subsequent early withdrawal.
Somehow, normal hadn't involved ending up in bed with his father more nights than not. Normal hadn't involved being on medication for the rest of his life to combat the demons in his mind.
His long steps carried him over the frost-stiffened grass to the back door of the church. He opened it, slipping into the chapel, and headed over to the line of candles, smiling sadly at the lone flickering light in the middle. In his own way, Dad was just as married to ritual as he was, Sam thought. He picked up a wooden matchstick and touched it to Dad's candle, watching it flare to life. Then, he touched it to the wick of the candle next to Dad's. "Hold on a little longer, Dean. We're coming," he whispered, wondering when it had started feeling like a lie.
He heard Jim's footsteps, and glanced back, shaking the match out carefully. "Morning."
Jim smiled and waited for Sam to come to him. "Rough one?"
Sam felt his eyes veer off Jim's face to stare somewhere neutral. It didn't matter that Jim had been around for Sam's worst years, the ones where any touch but John's made him howl and bolt. Jim wasn't blood, and there were places he wasn't allowed to see.
"Yeah," Sam said finally. "Bad night. I mean, good night, but-"
"It's the anniversary," Jim supplied. He held out his hand for the book. "You don't have to explain, Sam."
There wasn't time for Jim to hear the whole story. Sam wasn't sure how much to tell him anyway.
Yeah. Jim made a good preacher, but he would've been a better interrogator. His patient silence was keen as the edge of a blade, drawing blood, lancing wounds. He smiled as Sam handed over the weathered book, and Sam sighed.
"Dean's alive." There. Nice, non-loaded, simple. Unless you spoke conversational Winchester. "Caleb saw him in Brazil. He's in the US now. We've got a good trail, might catch him before December."
"Ah. That's wonderful news." Jim raised an eyebrow. "Can I ask why you look like you're in mourning?"
Sam sighed. "Um. It's complicated. He's been doing some things...complicated." He shifted nervously. "I don't think I can talk about it, Jim."
"Not a problem. Have you had breakfast?" Jim gave him that gentle smile.
"No, I didn't think about it," Sam murmured. "I haven't been that hungry this week." Come to think of it, had he eaten dinner last night?
"I'm not surprised. Anna Mae left a plate of her cinnamon coffee cake if you'd like to save me from eating it all." Jim headed into the kitchen, tugging down another coffee mug off the rack and offering it to Sam.
"Maybe just one piece," Sam agreed, heading to Jim's fridge. The familiar ziploc bags and plastic containers stared at him, a mirror of theirs. Jim had gotten into the habit during the year they'd stayed with him, while John had rehabbed the old rectory, and he'd never gotten out of it. Said it made it easier to clean out the fridge.
It was a nice lie. No one wanted to set him off. Once he'd have been annoyed. Now, he was just grateful.
Absently grabbing the oldest bags, Sam tossed them in the trash. It didn't matter that they were nowhere near expired. They were a week old, so they went. Dad had only fought him on wasting food once, before apparently deciding that it was easier to waste food than it was to mop up the kitchen when Sam caught a whiff (imaginary or not) of rotten food.
Satisfied, Sam grabbed the cake and went to the kitchen table. A moment later, Jim was seated across from him. Sam cut him a piece, pushed it across the table, and grinned at Jim's pained sigh. Jim still picked up a fork, though.
Jim didn't know what they did at night. He never would. He'd turned a blind eye to enough Winchester dysfunction; Sam couldn't ask him to accept something that had damned near killed Dad even as it healed Sam.
Sam drew patterns with his fork in the thick frosting, barely seeing.
Sam had been 16, barely. Caught up in the darkest hour of the OCD, choking on a rage that had no outlet, seeing a therapist every other day, drugging the sickness to a tolerable dull roar. It'd been months since their last word on Dean. Dad had been sleepwalking, distant with grief, staring at Sam like he didn't know how to reach across three feet of distance.There'd been gray starting in his hair.
They'd gone out into the woods on recon, which seemed to be Dad's excuse for escaping the choking silence of the house. As long as John was nearby, Sam was good for short trips, especially since they were sleeping in the Impala. The Impala was home, even now, in a way that no house could ever be. So, it was off into the woods of Kentucky to look into the brutal deaths of some Boy Scouts on a trip with their father. It'd been something to do, easy, harmless, mindless.
Yeah. They both should've known better.
It'd been the noises coming from the cave that had drawn them: agonized screams, the howl of a baby, discordant grunting and animal squeals. The crackle and roar of fire devouring wood. Dad had gone in, ordering Sam to stay put. Sam had lasted five minutes and three masculine sounding screams before disobeying.
Deep in the belly of the cave, there'd been the altar. Smears of fat and blood and other, thicker things had clung to the black stone. Dad had been standing above the altar, his expression stricken. He'd told Sam later that the curse had seized him as soon as he stood over the chalice, locking up his muscles until he could only watch Sam move towards him. He could only watch, and know, and wait. Dad didn't say 'helpless', because he never would, but Sam choked on that feeling every time Dad got drunk enough to remember that night.
The chalice had been cursed. Of course. Because that was how these things went. As soon as Sam touched the chalice, its edges jagged with rust, the pain had seared through his blood. It'd been strong enough to drop Sam where he stood, to strip away thought and reduce him to mindless, agonized terror.
Vicious curse. Desperate cure. Dad had read the runes carved in the chalice, his touch warm as he tried to knead out the crippling pain that crept up Sam's fingers to his hands to his wrists to-
It had been another of Apep’s talismans. Had recognized Sam, from hundreds of yards away, had drawn him, like a moth to a flame. And like most of Apep’s things, it required sacrifice.
Dad had read the runes again. Again. He'd read it out loud, his expression hard in Sam's graying vision, his voice cracked like old worn stone. He'd mapped every inch of the cave looking for an out, and the pain crawled through Sam's veins.
Finally, the sharp slap to his face had roused Sam enough to look at Dad. "Do you want to live?" he'd asked. There'd been a fever in Dad's eyes that had made Sam want to shrink away.
"I-" Sam's lips had been dry from panting for air, Dad's hands hard on his arms. There'd been no time or energy for tears. "I don't want to die."
And then Dad had pulled his jacket off. He'd thrown it over the altar so its filth didn't touch Sam, and he'd laid Sam down, and he'd done what he had to. He'd been pale as a dying man, his cheek cool against Sam's burning skin, his eyelashes shivering against Sam's shoulder. He'd been silent. Sam had talked himself hoarse.
In the end, the rocking of their bodies had lulled Sam to his first decent sleep in months. Years. Wound up in John's arms, in his scent and his heat, Sam had been safe. They'd found the edge of the map, they'd burned the bridges behind them, and whereSam'd thought there'd be shadows, there was light.
His fork scraped empty plate. Sam blinked and came back to Jim's steady smile.
"Sorry. Woolgathering."
"It's okay. Lot on your mind." Jim's voice never wavered, never lost that gentle, kind tone.
Some days, Sam hated him for that. "Yeah. It's just- I realized last night that I barely remember him, not in the ways that count. I barely remember his laugh, the way his smile would light up his face. His voice. I remember the way he looked on the floor of the common room, bloody and dazed. I remember the screams, when they hit him with thetazer. But the little things? They're going away."
"Sam, you were twelve. It's been six years. You've got to cut yourself some slack-'
"You know the funny thing?" Sam interrupted. "Dad didn't want to let us go in. He said it was too dangerous. Dean and I fought him on it. We were so damned sure of ourselves, so sure that we could keep children from dying. That, I remember clear as a bell. I can't even blame someone else for it. We insisted. We nearly got Dad killed, trying to get us out."
"Sam, hunting's risky at the best of times," Jim murmured.
"Risky. Yeah. We risk getting killed, gutted by random spook number three. Not to get put in a fucking dumpster with a dying four year old. Not to not be touched or see the sunlight for six months."
Jim didn't blink, holding his ground. Other people had flinched. Sam went through three therapists in the span of a year, two of which bugged out before he even started on Dad. "You're right," Jim said. "You didn't sign up for that. Neither of you expected it, so why blame yourself for something you couldn't have seen coming?"
"That's not what I'm-" Sam scraped the plate, a little more vigorously than he had to. When he regained his calm, he swallowed and said carefully, "This isn't about survivor guilt."
"Isn't it?" Jim asked.
Sam put the fork down and glared at him.
"I'm just saying," Jim said quickly, holding his hands up. "There wasn't anything you could have done, and you know it."
"Do I?" Sam asked. "Okay, I've gotta get moving. If I miss another class Dr. Roenbeck's going to get his bitch on. Thanks for the cake."
"Sam-" Jim started.
"Look, I know. Getting myself out and calling in the ATF was probably the only way to do it. But it's the only way I tried. I just ran. I didn't even look for him, didn't even try. I'll never know whether I could have done more. And I'll always wonder. And that's just the way it is." Sam shrugged, grabbing his jacket.
Jim wisely chose to keep his thoughts to himself as Sam slipped out of the kitchen.
By the time Sam got back to the house, he was running low on time and patience. He threw his stuff in his schoolbag and headed for the car that was parked and waiting in the driveway.
It turned out his part-time employment, working data entry in Dad's garage and the occasional consulting job for computer security firms, was enough to pay for a used old Honda. It ran most of the time, it survived the hostile winter months and it was cheap for gas. For all that Dad bitched it was ariceburner that would run if you pulled it back on the carpet, it was a good car. Sam's car, a quiet declaration of independence.
Left to his own devices, Sam was half-afraid of what he'd become. A hermit who lived in his father's shadow was the least of it. So he dragged himself to classes, even when the confines of his car seemed too damn close and the itch under his skin got maddening.
The car started with a soft purr, and he slid down the gravel driveway, heading for school. With any luck, he'd get there a little early.
He should be focusing on the legal ramifications of desegregation in the South. Instead, he was thinking of a dozen dark alleys, of Dean on his knees. Of the times he'd been able to make Dean feel his presence in the visions, had somehow pulled Dean to him.
He wasn't sure what would be worse: to never quite catch up with Dean, or to find him, and to realize that he didn't want to come back. Didn't want them.
No. Couldn't think like that, or he'd be missing another class. Had to get his mind on school. At least for a couple hours.
God, that sounded callous. Maybe it was. Maybe Sam was just too used to the distance.
During his disastrous turn in the Minnesota Public School System, he'd started taking online and teleclasses, getting some of the basics out of the way. He'd gotten his AA degree just after his 17th birthday. He'd be graduating in August with his bachelor's in computer science, if he could just keep his grades up until then.
College hadn’t been easy—too many people, classes held in enormous lecture halls with hundreds of other students, teachers like Roenbeck, who thought that accommodations based on psychological disorders were little more than sanctioned cheating.
High school had still been worse. He’d tried so damn hard to fit in, tried to be normal. But there were cliques and people constantly in his space, smells and sounds that assaulted him daily.
He’d tried. He’d worn long sleeves and long pants, not eaten or drank anything all day, because the cafeteria made him want to scrape his skin off. He’d refused to even consider the bathrooms as an option. He’d gotten excused from gym class, not wanted people to see his scars.
And it had amounted to nothing. All of his work, all the times he came to school drugged to almost incoherence just to be able to leave the house had ended in a deserted hallway, with four seniors trying to shove the nerd into a locker.
It had ended with all of them on the floor, one clutching a broken wrist, one with a knee that bent in a new and interesting way, two unconscious, and Sam curled in on himself sobbing in silence.
He hadn’t even noticed the faculty or the paramedics, hadn’t really come back until John had him in the Impala, stroking his hair and rumbling softly to him.
After that, the school and he had mutually agreed that parting ways was a good plan. So, college.
Sam slid the Honda into a spot and headed into the building, bracing himself for the rush of people.
One and a half semesters left, he told himself quietly. Somehow, he’d always thought Dean would be there to see him graduate. To mock him for being a nerd, and to cheer inappropriately loud when he crossed the stage. Somehow, he’d never thought that six years later, they stillwouldn’t be a family.
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 02:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 02:52 pm (UTC)Y'all have a number of run-together words, though - hoped hewouldn’t need it, ancient printerchittering away on his paper, Itwasn’t a vision, god's scream that theATF agents, whereSam'd thought there'd be shadows, and they stillwouldn’t be a family were the ones that I caught :)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 03:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 03:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 07:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 04:54 pm (UTC)This is SUCH an absorbing story though! I love it!
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 02:39 am (UTC)The portrayal of Sam with his issues are very striking, its clearly seen that without Dean he's so vulnerable and kinda lost even though his father is there kid of a lack of ambition or is that due to the drug's?
The ritualistic way Dean is killing, profoundly disturbing with its chilling serial murderer dynamics spine inducing yet sinfully thrilling.
Hopefully we see more through the eyes of Sam regarding Dean as that would be tripling the guilt complex.
Though John is harder to define, it will be interesting to hear more of his thoughts.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-04 11:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-09 10:33 am (UTC)But I keep coming back for more. Twisted? Mmmm, yup.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 09:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-09 03:26 am (UTC)