quigonejinn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quigonejinn) wrote2007-06-17 10:46 pm
quigonejinn) wrote2007-06-17 10:46 pm
Entry tags:
For A Long Time.
Sam had a full ride at Stanford: he could not have gone any other way. Credit card fraud didn't pay enough, and he never had any intention of letting his father take part in his getting away from the family business. In fact, Sam only applied to schools that guaranteed meeting 100% of an applicant's financial need, and at the admissions interview for Princeton, Sam went out to a house in a private development. The shirt felt strange. So did sitting in a home with real walls and real furniture. No motel sign out front. Overstuffed couches. A kitchen that he saw when he was being welcomed to the house, but in which he would never eat.
They had been talking about mythology and literature for almost an hour and a half; Sam had noticed some travel souvenirs on the table in the front foyer. He knew they were from South America; he pushed the conversation in that direction, and they had been talking and talking. Now, the interviewer leaned forward, smiling.
"You must have been very lucky to have such a broad education. Are your parents interested in anthropology?"
...
Six weeks into his freshman term, during an argument about gun control at dinner with some of his floormates, Sam realized that none of them had seen a real gun, much less fired one. One of the boys was from some place in New Jersey; he claimed that it wasn't guys that killed people, but rather, people that killed people. If you made guns illegal, only criminals would have them.
He wasn't getting much in the way of support, except from the libertarian who lived by the bathroom.
"What do you think, Winchester?"
The question surprised Sam, and he looked from his food. The table was looking at him, and he had a mouthful of meatloaf with macaroni-and-cheese. In all truth, it was more than a mouthful. A mouthful and a half. He couldn't remember the last time he had so many meals so regularly, when he hadn't cooked for himself in almost a month.
His floormates were still looking at him, so Sam swallowed.
"I think this meatloaf tastes like it was made from rat. I'm going to get dessert."
...
Sam remembered one time when he'd gone out with Dad and Dean. In particular, he was too young to actually hunt with them, but for some reason, it wasn't possible to leave him at the motel the way that it usually happened. Dad didn't have a credit card that a motel clerk would take; it wasn't likely that they would be back from hunting before the sun came up. There was mist on the ground, and trees close. Before they started, Sam watched his father put a ring of salt around the car.
"Remember, don't leave this car for anything, Sam. If you have to pee, you do it now, while we're here."
Sam shook his head. They were in a clearing, and the only light was the lantern that Dean held. One of the camping kind.
Dean spoke. "Do you have holy water?"
It was sitting on the seat next to him. There was a flashlight, too, for emergencies. And Skittles.
His father leaned over the salt line to ruffle Sam's hair and kiss him on the forehead. Sam remembered that, and he also remembered that Dean had made sure to check the batteries on the flashlight, demonstrating them, so that Sam wouldn't have to be scared of the dark. He also remembered, though, Dean's face, lit from underneath, and the flask of holy water on his hip, holstered like a gun. There was mist on the ground, rain in the trees. A shotgun, loaded with silver-coated bullets, under his father's arm.
...
On the eighth town after leaving Lawrence, Sam decided that he didn't want to be bothered with going to the shitty school for their trailer park was located because it was 1) cheap 2) close to a suspected nest of vampires. Dean was skipping school regularly enough so that he didn't care, so Sam talked him into taking him out to the good high school in the expensive part of town.
Dean brought the car to a stop in front of the main office and let out a long whistle. They were both swivelling around and staring at the grounds. That looked like a planetarium in the back.
"Fuck, Sammy, are they even going to let you through the front door?"
...
The admissions interviews were easy: there were benefits to having a father who conned his way into other people's houses. Sam even managed to suppress the tic of reaching inside his jacket for the fake badge.
...
In the summer between his sophomore and junior years, Sam took small jobs to stay in Palo Alto. He did research work for a professor; he also worked odd jobs for the school. One time, he was helping some summer program people move into dorms, and his shirt hitched up. One of them was trying to flirt with him in front of her parents, so she asked him about the scar. Even touched it. Sam jumped a foot, then looked down, remembered that on the night he'd been left in the car, the thing had given Dean and Dad the slip, trailed their scent back to the car. Along with the holy water and Skittles and Dean-checked flashlight, there was a shotgun, which Sam braced against the other door.
At nine, Sam destroyed his first supernatural creature -- a veo, far from home -- but not before it brought a tree down on the car, trying to break the circle of salt.
...
By the time he was eighteen, Sam was bigger than either his father or Dean and faster, too, on open spaces. Especially if Dean ran like a girl, the way he usually did when he was being chased by something, and Sam remembered one of the last hunts before he had gone to college. It was through woods again, and again, there was mist on the ground and rain in the trees. Instead of a gun, though, he had a can of gasoline, and Dean had a box of kosher salt. It was a race against the ghost's brain; how long would it take to realize that their father was just distraction?
Afterwards, they were in a diner, getting an early morning breakfast. Dean was in the men's room, scrubbing, because some dead person coffin goo had gotten down his shirt. They could hear him cursing, and Sam listened to it increase in volume when he found more of it. It died away, and after that, Sam could, out of the corner of his eyes, see Dean coming back to the table with his hair and shirt wet a thoroughly disgusted expression on his face.
Sam's throat hurt from whooping after they'd salted and burned the ghost's bones.
Dean sat down in the booth and looked at them both. He took a menu and started talking about how he was hungry enough to eat two of the big breakfast specials, but Sam kept on looking at his father. Dean grew nervous, and he began to look at both of them from the corners of his eyes. Sam had told him before, but he wasn't saying anything now, and when it was clear that there still weren't going to be any words, not even an explanation, Sam took the acceptance letter and statement of scholarship award and folded them up and put them inside his jacket, then went to eat his breakfast alone at the counter.
They could have each other and their ghosts; he wanted to belong.
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And I cannot stop listening to that particular Johnny Cash song. It's so right for Supernatural.
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JARED
HOW COULD YOU
DO THIS
TO ME?
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But I am gad ye liked this fic. :D
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But what I like best is how you never give us a whole picture. Never the entire interview or hunt or conversation but pieces that we can put together. <333333333
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With that out of the way: HURRAY! I am glad you like this. I've been spending a lot of time recently thinking about how to tell a story with less and even more time to clean up my writing, so :D :D :D YAY FOR FRAGMENTATION or something.
It always thrills me immensely when I find out that you like a story of mine.
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And :( you are leaving us for weeks and weeks. :(
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Though at times, I suspect that not writing is a good thing. My fic would be about whether a search of the Metallicar revealing the hidden gun compartment would have to be supported by probable cause.
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I wonder how many hidden compartments the car might have, actually.
Also, I can't really tell when you might enjoy a show or not, but have you seen any of Life on Mars? It's good; you might like it.
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I do not know what I could offer you to continue writing in the Supernatural fandom but it would be large and impressive <3
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Thankee for the kind words.