where we are, what we see [spn][one-shot]
Sep. 25th, 2009 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mimblexwimbleFor the record, this isn't what I was supposed to write today.
Title: Where We Are, What We See
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean, (mentions of) John
Word Count: 1100
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is Sam's first hunt. This is where it all changes.
Sam’s thirteen when Dad takes him on his first hunt.
He’s supposed to stay behind Dean, no matter what. Dad repeats this fifteen times in the car, and six times after they get out, before looking at Sam and then at Dean and saying, “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
But “maybe this is a bad idea” means “maybe Sam’s not ready” and Sam’s spent his whole life trying to prove himself to Dad, and he’s not going to be left behind now, when he finally has the chance to be part of something big.
He’s not.
So he says, “No, I get it. I promise,” and Dad nods and sets his firm gaze upon him, and Sam wishes for once it was trust, wishes for once it was confidence. Dad presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder and Sam shies away behind his brother, like he’s supposed to.
There’s a werewolf, somewhere around here. It’s already killed six people, and the only reason a hunter hasn’t gotten to it yet is because it hides in the forest, between trees and the thick cloak of darkness. The only reason a hunter hasn’t gotten to it yet is because they all die before they get the chance.
Dad thinks he can finish it, and Dean thinks Dad can finish it and Sam thinks whatever Dean thinks, still. So he trudges along behind them and tries not to trip and tries not to look too scared.
Sam’s never seen a werewolf before, but Dean’s told him enough.
Now, he just says, “You’ll know it when you see it,” and leaves it at that. Sam picks up his pace, until he’s closer to Dean than his shadow on a wall.
The gun feels heavy in his hand and too big. He fiddles with the safety nervously, rubs a finger across the trigger, branches snapping under his sneakers, the blaze from his flashlight lighting the way.
It feels like forever, stepping over roots and watching everything around him, swiveling to find the source of every rustle, every crunch, just waiting. Sam feels like he’s been waiting all night but, when it starts, it’s too soon. Much too soon. He doesn’t realize that until later.
It’s like it’s been building up for years, like everything’s been rushing up to this moment and Dad’s shout is Gabriel’s trumpet, heralding the end of innocence. There’s a blur in the white beams of light and a silver glint in Sam’s periphery which means Dad’s lost his gun. Another shout and Dean’s pushing Sam back and down and the safety clicks as it’s disengaged. Sam fumbles with his light and his gun and flounders to keep an eye on the blur.
All of it, the training, the advice, the rules – it all falls away – and suddenly, he realizes what this is. What hunting is. It’s not what you can learn or what you know, but what you are and what you’re willing to do, and nothing really matters, because there’s no choice.
Dean goes down, a vicious swipe to his legs, and Sam’s light goes up and he sees. Not the teeth or the claws, but the eyes, and it – he’s – only human and there’s no fucking choice.
You either shoot that damn gun or watch everyone around you die, and Sam knows suddenly, and it’s not training. It’s not work. It’s not a job.
He gets a fist around Dean’s shirt, right at the neck and drags him back even as Dean clutches at his leg and then, Sam shoots.
He shoots for all he’s worth, and more, because how much is he worth when he compares what he might lose?
Nothing, nothing at all, and even less.
He shoots it in the head and in the heart and in so many other places and he can’t look away and not once does he see a monster in that choking, gasping, dying man.
Not even with Dean collapsed against Sam’s legs, breathing through clenched teeth.
Not even with Dad sitting up a few feet away, face clawed bloody.
Not even then.
Not ever.
Later, Sam sits on his bed at the cheap apartment they’ve rented out for three weeks. The wind roars outside, rattling loose windowpanes.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He can hear Dean and Dad in the living room. He can hear Dean’s sharp breaths, the thump of the whiskey bottle against wood, the heaviness of Dad’s footsteps. Eventually, Dad says something, and Dean murmurs a reply, and Sam hears the sounds of the first-aid box being closed.
Dad’s boots clump away and don’t come back.
There’s silence for a moment, and then the light coming through the crack under the door vanishes. The door opens a moment later, Dean a tall shadow in its frame.
“Sam?” he says softly.
“Are you—” Sam begins, standing.
“I’m fine, kiddo,” Dean says, walking forward. Sam can see the limp, he can hear it. Something heavy presses onto his chest and he sits down again, like his legs have been kicked out from under him.
“I’m—”
“Hey,” Dean cuts him off. “Wasn’t your fault. Nothing to be sorry for.” Sam watches as he shuffles closer to the bed, leaning down a little to touch the edge with his fingers.
The mattress bounces when Dean finally flops onto it, with a muffled groan. Then there’s silence.
Sam can’t breathe.
Cars rush past on the street nearby, ambulance sirens ring somewhere in the distance, and none of them know.
None of them are any different for it.
“You know,” says Dean, breaking the silence. “When you’re a baby, the first thing they make you do is cry.”
Sam blinks, his headache rapidly increasing in intensity. Dean’s voice is low, and Sam doesn’t understand. “What—?”
“I’m mean, life’s a pretty fucked up thing to be born into, you know. Gotta deal with it right away or who knows what’ll happen,” Dean goes on, voice light.
Sam doesn’t say anything. He pulls his legs up onto the bed, leans against the headboard and swallows.
“Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak, Sammy,” Dean sighs, eventually. The dark outlines of his fingers pick at the sheets. Red light falls across his face, from some advertisement board beyond the gauzy curtains and glass. “It just means you’re alive.”
Sam hears everything he’s not saying, like he always has and always will, fate sealed the moment Dean climbed into his crib all those years ago and two beings of silence learned to speak.
When he takes that first shuddering, heaving breath a moment later, Dean reaches out and pulls him close.
He keeps a hand in Sam’s hair while Sam shakes against his ribs.
Sam tries to show him he’s alive, even though he doesn’t believe it himself.
Title: Where We Are, What We See
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean, (mentions of) John
Word Count: 1100
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is Sam's first hunt. This is where it all changes.
Sam’s thirteen when Dad takes him on his first hunt.
He’s supposed to stay behind Dean, no matter what. Dad repeats this fifteen times in the car, and six times after they get out, before looking at Sam and then at Dean and saying, “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
But “maybe this is a bad idea” means “maybe Sam’s not ready” and Sam’s spent his whole life trying to prove himself to Dad, and he’s not going to be left behind now, when he finally has the chance to be part of something big.
He’s not.
So he says, “No, I get it. I promise,” and Dad nods and sets his firm gaze upon him, and Sam wishes for once it was trust, wishes for once it was confidence. Dad presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder and Sam shies away behind his brother, like he’s supposed to.
There’s a werewolf, somewhere around here. It’s already killed six people, and the only reason a hunter hasn’t gotten to it yet is because it hides in the forest, between trees and the thick cloak of darkness. The only reason a hunter hasn’t gotten to it yet is because they all die before they get the chance.
Dad thinks he can finish it, and Dean thinks Dad can finish it and Sam thinks whatever Dean thinks, still. So he trudges along behind them and tries not to trip and tries not to look too scared.
Sam’s never seen a werewolf before, but Dean’s told him enough.
Now, he just says, “You’ll know it when you see it,” and leaves it at that. Sam picks up his pace, until he’s closer to Dean than his shadow on a wall.
The gun feels heavy in his hand and too big. He fiddles with the safety nervously, rubs a finger across the trigger, branches snapping under his sneakers, the blaze from his flashlight lighting the way.
It feels like forever, stepping over roots and watching everything around him, swiveling to find the source of every rustle, every crunch, just waiting. Sam feels like he’s been waiting all night but, when it starts, it’s too soon. Much too soon. He doesn’t realize that until later.
It’s like it’s been building up for years, like everything’s been rushing up to this moment and Dad’s shout is Gabriel’s trumpet, heralding the end of innocence. There’s a blur in the white beams of light and a silver glint in Sam’s periphery which means Dad’s lost his gun. Another shout and Dean’s pushing Sam back and down and the safety clicks as it’s disengaged. Sam fumbles with his light and his gun and flounders to keep an eye on the blur.
All of it, the training, the advice, the rules – it all falls away – and suddenly, he realizes what this is. What hunting is. It’s not what you can learn or what you know, but what you are and what you’re willing to do, and nothing really matters, because there’s no choice.
Dean goes down, a vicious swipe to his legs, and Sam’s light goes up and he sees. Not the teeth or the claws, but the eyes, and it – he’s – only human and there’s no fucking choice.
You either shoot that damn gun or watch everyone around you die, and Sam knows suddenly, and it’s not training. It’s not work. It’s not a job.
He gets a fist around Dean’s shirt, right at the neck and drags him back even as Dean clutches at his leg and then, Sam shoots.
He shoots for all he’s worth, and more, because how much is he worth when he compares what he might lose?
Nothing, nothing at all, and even less.
He shoots it in the head and in the heart and in so many other places and he can’t look away and not once does he see a monster in that choking, gasping, dying man.
Not even with Dean collapsed against Sam’s legs, breathing through clenched teeth.
Not even with Dad sitting up a few feet away, face clawed bloody.
Not even then.
Not ever.
Later, Sam sits on his bed at the cheap apartment they’ve rented out for three weeks. The wind roars outside, rattling loose windowpanes.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He can hear Dean and Dad in the living room. He can hear Dean’s sharp breaths, the thump of the whiskey bottle against wood, the heaviness of Dad’s footsteps. Eventually, Dad says something, and Dean murmurs a reply, and Sam hears the sounds of the first-aid box being closed.
Dad’s boots clump away and don’t come back.
There’s silence for a moment, and then the light coming through the crack under the door vanishes. The door opens a moment later, Dean a tall shadow in its frame.
“Sam?” he says softly.
“Are you—” Sam begins, standing.
“I’m fine, kiddo,” Dean says, walking forward. Sam can see the limp, he can hear it. Something heavy presses onto his chest and he sits down again, like his legs have been kicked out from under him.
“I’m—”
“Hey,” Dean cuts him off. “Wasn’t your fault. Nothing to be sorry for.” Sam watches as he shuffles closer to the bed, leaning down a little to touch the edge with his fingers.
The mattress bounces when Dean finally flops onto it, with a muffled groan. Then there’s silence.
Sam can’t breathe.
Cars rush past on the street nearby, ambulance sirens ring somewhere in the distance, and none of them know.
None of them are any different for it.
“You know,” says Dean, breaking the silence. “When you’re a baby, the first thing they make you do is cry.”
Sam blinks, his headache rapidly increasing in intensity. Dean’s voice is low, and Sam doesn’t understand. “What—?”
“I’m mean, life’s a pretty fucked up thing to be born into, you know. Gotta deal with it right away or who knows what’ll happen,” Dean goes on, voice light.
Sam doesn’t say anything. He pulls his legs up onto the bed, leans against the headboard and swallows.
“Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak, Sammy,” Dean sighs, eventually. The dark outlines of his fingers pick at the sheets. Red light falls across his face, from some advertisement board beyond the gauzy curtains and glass. “It just means you’re alive.”
Sam hears everything he’s not saying, like he always has and always will, fate sealed the moment Dean climbed into his crib all those years ago and two beings of silence learned to speak.
When he takes that first shuddering, heaving breath a moment later, Dean reaches out and pulls him close.
He keeps a hand in Sam’s hair while Sam shakes against his ribs.
Sam tries to show him he’s alive, even though he doesn’t believe it himself.
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Re: powerful
Date: 2009-09-25 07:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-24 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-24 11:05 pm (UTC)Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 03:14 am (UTC)thank you for sharing
no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:18 pm (UTC)(The show is killing me!)
no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 02:10 pm (UTC)*wibbles*
Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak, Sammy... it just means you're alive
yes. right there. exactly that.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 04:52 pm (UTC)In a way... okay, this may sound farfetched... but in a way, it's this exact trait of Sam's you've illumed here that makes him crazier and more dangerous than his brother. It isn't that Dean's not empathetic; he is. It's just, he looks at the werewolf, and he sees a werewolf. A monster.
And Sam -- Sam always sees the man behind the monster. But he always shoots anyway.
That's actually more frightening to me.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-25 07:45 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading. ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-09-26 04:12 pm (UTC)This was great
no subject
Date: 2009-09-27 01:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-30 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-30 04:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-05 11:22 am (UTC)This was fantastic! :)
no subject
Date: 2009-10-05 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-24 08:48 pm (UTC)I loved this.
It’s so Sam to kill something because he has to and still not see it as a monster, to still see the good in it. And like
Dean’s crying speech was great, especially the first line. At first, you’re like, “What?” and then you get it the same time Sam does. And the last line is a stab to the heart. Love it.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 04:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 05:05 am (UTC)Anyways, I'm glad you're still breathing. ;) And writing fic?
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 05:14 am (UTC)I should do a post about all the ideas running around inside my head, ideas I fear will never come to fruition. I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M WRITING FOR BIG BANG.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 05:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-05 03:15 pm (UTC)You have such a gift with words. They're lyrical, they transport us into someone else's heart so that we feel shattered and empty too.
This. Wow.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 04:30 am (UTC)