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withimpunityTitle: I was me, but now he’s gone
Pairing: Gen - Sam, Dean, fictional characters.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1140
Summary: Dean was still a senior when Sam started ninth grade at Quincy High School.
Disclaimer: Supernatural c/o Kripke & Co. I write about them for entertainment purposes only. Title taken shamelessly from Metallica’s “Fade to Black.”
Dean was still a senior when Sam started ninth grade at Quincy High School. John assumed it was because he’d missed those two weeks hunting that Were down in Missouri, and Dean had told himself the same thing so many times he’d almost started believing it too.
Truth was, it had been about Sam. Dean knew how fragile his brother was. He wasn’t made for this life, wasn’t like Dean and their dad. Dean had been hardened by it, had long ago put up a thick, impenetrable shell to protect himself. He could look at Sam and see how vulnerable his brother was; it scared the daylights out of him.
Dean knew how kids treated kids like them, the ones that lived on the outskirts of town and didn’t come to any football games or have any friends. He knew how cruel they could be just ‘cause you didn’t have the right brand of sneakers or know the words to whatever brain-damaging music was popular at the given moment. Deep down, Dean knew why he’d flunked out of his last year. He couldn’t let Sam walk the same halls he had without Dean’s hardened shell, without Dean to protect him. So he stayed and he watched over his little brother; he did his job.
***
Sam’s dime store jeans were too short, was the brat ever going to stop growing, and his (Dean’s) old Zeppelin shirt still smelled faintly of Clorox and gun powder. They all laughed at him when he walked into class or down the halls with his backpack slung low on his back, head down. He was too busy ignoring them, thinking about how hungry he was and wondering if he should bother Dean for lunch money, when the first shove jarred his body. He stumbled into the metal lockers, scraping a layer of skin off both his palms.
“Nice shoes, fag,” Some huge guy with a buzz cut and a letterman jacket was grinning at him, head tilted all cocky, same way Dean got when he was about to pump a pissed off poltergeist full of rock salt. Sam reached down and scooped his backpack off the ground, hoping that if he ignored the bastard he’d just go away and leave him alone.
“Look at his pants,” Sam heard the gum-chewing, bleach-blond that flanked the jock’s side whisper indiscreetly behind him. He clenched his jaw, hitched his backpack higher up on his shoulder, so intent on walking forward (just keep walking) that he didn’t notice the foot jut out in front of him. He tripped, not catching himself with his hands soon enough, busting his nose when he hit the ground with a thud.
Blood poured from Sam’s nose and he gagged when he tasted copper on his top lip (always had been a bleeder), wiping at it with the back of his shirt sleeve as he turned around and stared back at the dozens of amused faces watching him.
“Whatcha gonna do now, bitch?” The guy in the football jacket asked, stepping challengingly toward Sam. “Gonna run home now?”
“If he even has one,” The bitch behind him snorted and laughed like a diseased hyena, popping a loud bubble between her teeth.
Sam looked up, feeling the thick, warm liquid seeping down his nose, his face now only a few inches from the jock’s. He wasn’t much taller than Sam, actually. He dragged his sleeve back across his face, smearing the faded black material with dark crimson.
“This was my brother’s favorite shirt,” He said, moving so quickly the dude didn‘t even expect it, twisting his right arm behind him, kicking him in the middle of his back, his jaw cracking as it hit the hard tile floor.
“You fucking prick,” Josh (the blond bitch had screamed his name) grit out against the tile. “Andy! Jeff! Show this little bitch a good time, will you?”
Sam still had Josh’s arm pinned against his back when his buddies approached, grinning ear to ear like they were going to eat Sam for dinner. Sam’s pulse raced as he played the scenario through in his head, then let Josh’s arm go, rolled him over on his back and hit him hard in the face. A wave of satisfaction washed over Sam when he saw bright red begin to drip from Josh’s nose, then he spun around, first sweeping his leg under the tall, black guy‘s legs, knocking him to the ground, then throwing his elbow in the other guy’s face, shattering his designer sunglasses. Andy (his letter jacket read) clutched at his nose with both hands and stalked off; maybe he was giving up, maybe he was going to get more friends. Sam didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to find out.
He grabbed his backpack once more, looking over at the blond in the corner and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt again, barely bleeding anymore. The girl just stood there, slack-jawed, gum resting on her tongue. She was staring at him like he was a monster.
***
Dean was waiting for Sam when he rounded the corner, hitching his backpack up on his shoulder.
‘I guess you saw that, huh?” Sam asked, slipping the other strap on his shoulder as they walked toward the parking lot.
Dean clapped Sam on the back and laughed. Sam usually liked it when Dean laughed like that, so hearty and full of life, but this time it just annoyed him. “Dude, you were awesome. Didn’t know you had it in you, Sammy boy.”
“I hate fighting,” Sam muttered, screwing and unscrewing the cap on his twenty ounce soda.
Dean just chuckled and fished the keys to the Impala out of his jeans. “Sure couldn’t tell it from what I just saw.”
Sam set his jaw and threw the flat coke into the trash can. “Did you see the way that girl looked at me, Dean? She probably thinks I’m in a gang or something.”
Dean laughed as he unlocked the driver’s side door, leaning over to let Sam in. “No offense man,” He said. “You were pretty bad ass back there. Not quite gangsta though.”
Sam flipped him off, muttering “Whatever,” as he rested his forehead on the cool window and stared out at the groups of students peppering the parking lot; rich kids, not so rich kids, stoners, smart kids. He wondered if he’d ever belong. Anywhere.
“I just don’t like fighting,” He murmured, barely audible, as Dean pulled out of the parking lot, “Doesn’t feel right.”
Dean shrugged as his fingers curled around the wheel, flooring the gas once they were out of the school zone. “You just need to do it more. Soon it’ll feel like second nature.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, his throat tightening as he blinked. That’s what he was afraid of.
Pairing: Gen - Sam, Dean, fictional characters.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1140
Summary: Dean was still a senior when Sam started ninth grade at Quincy High School.
Disclaimer: Supernatural c/o Kripke & Co. I write about them for entertainment purposes only. Title taken shamelessly from Metallica’s “Fade to Black.”
Dean was still a senior when Sam started ninth grade at Quincy High School. John assumed it was because he’d missed those two weeks hunting that Were down in Missouri, and Dean had told himself the same thing so many times he’d almost started believing it too.
Truth was, it had been about Sam. Dean knew how fragile his brother was. He wasn’t made for this life, wasn’t like Dean and their dad. Dean had been hardened by it, had long ago put up a thick, impenetrable shell to protect himself. He could look at Sam and see how vulnerable his brother was; it scared the daylights out of him.
Dean knew how kids treated kids like them, the ones that lived on the outskirts of town and didn’t come to any football games or have any friends. He knew how cruel they could be just ‘cause you didn’t have the right brand of sneakers or know the words to whatever brain-damaging music was popular at the given moment. Deep down, Dean knew why he’d flunked out of his last year. He couldn’t let Sam walk the same halls he had without Dean’s hardened shell, without Dean to protect him. So he stayed and he watched over his little brother; he did his job.
***
Sam’s dime store jeans were too short, was the brat ever going to stop growing, and his (Dean’s) old Zeppelin shirt still smelled faintly of Clorox and gun powder. They all laughed at him when he walked into class or down the halls with his backpack slung low on his back, head down. He was too busy ignoring them, thinking about how hungry he was and wondering if he should bother Dean for lunch money, when the first shove jarred his body. He stumbled into the metal lockers, scraping a layer of skin off both his palms.
“Nice shoes, fag,” Some huge guy with a buzz cut and a letterman jacket was grinning at him, head tilted all cocky, same way Dean got when he was about to pump a pissed off poltergeist full of rock salt. Sam reached down and scooped his backpack off the ground, hoping that if he ignored the bastard he’d just go away and leave him alone.
“Look at his pants,” Sam heard the gum-chewing, bleach-blond that flanked the jock’s side whisper indiscreetly behind him. He clenched his jaw, hitched his backpack higher up on his shoulder, so intent on walking forward (just keep walking) that he didn’t notice the foot jut out in front of him. He tripped, not catching himself with his hands soon enough, busting his nose when he hit the ground with a thud.
Blood poured from Sam’s nose and he gagged when he tasted copper on his top lip (always had been a bleeder), wiping at it with the back of his shirt sleeve as he turned around and stared back at the dozens of amused faces watching him.
“Whatcha gonna do now, bitch?” The guy in the football jacket asked, stepping challengingly toward Sam. “Gonna run home now?”
“If he even has one,” The bitch behind him snorted and laughed like a diseased hyena, popping a loud bubble between her teeth.
Sam looked up, feeling the thick, warm liquid seeping down his nose, his face now only a few inches from the jock’s. He wasn’t much taller than Sam, actually. He dragged his sleeve back across his face, smearing the faded black material with dark crimson.
“This was my brother’s favorite shirt,” He said, moving so quickly the dude didn‘t even expect it, twisting his right arm behind him, kicking him in the middle of his back, his jaw cracking as it hit the hard tile floor.
“You fucking prick,” Josh (the blond bitch had screamed his name) grit out against the tile. “Andy! Jeff! Show this little bitch a good time, will you?”
Sam still had Josh’s arm pinned against his back when his buddies approached, grinning ear to ear like they were going to eat Sam for dinner. Sam’s pulse raced as he played the scenario through in his head, then let Josh’s arm go, rolled him over on his back and hit him hard in the face. A wave of satisfaction washed over Sam when he saw bright red begin to drip from Josh’s nose, then he spun around, first sweeping his leg under the tall, black guy‘s legs, knocking him to the ground, then throwing his elbow in the other guy’s face, shattering his designer sunglasses. Andy (his letter jacket read) clutched at his nose with both hands and stalked off; maybe he was giving up, maybe he was going to get more friends. Sam didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to find out.
He grabbed his backpack once more, looking over at the blond in the corner and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt again, barely bleeding anymore. The girl just stood there, slack-jawed, gum resting on her tongue. She was staring at him like he was a monster.
***
Dean was waiting for Sam when he rounded the corner, hitching his backpack up on his shoulder.
‘I guess you saw that, huh?” Sam asked, slipping the other strap on his shoulder as they walked toward the parking lot.
Dean clapped Sam on the back and laughed. Sam usually liked it when Dean laughed like that, so hearty and full of life, but this time it just annoyed him. “Dude, you were awesome. Didn’t know you had it in you, Sammy boy.”
“I hate fighting,” Sam muttered, screwing and unscrewing the cap on his twenty ounce soda.
Dean just chuckled and fished the keys to the Impala out of his jeans. “Sure couldn’t tell it from what I just saw.”
Sam set his jaw and threw the flat coke into the trash can. “Did you see the way that girl looked at me, Dean? She probably thinks I’m in a gang or something.”
Dean laughed as he unlocked the driver’s side door, leaning over to let Sam in. “No offense man,” He said. “You were pretty bad ass back there. Not quite gangsta though.”
Sam flipped him off, muttering “Whatever,” as he rested his forehead on the cool window and stared out at the groups of students peppering the parking lot; rich kids, not so rich kids, stoners, smart kids. He wondered if he’d ever belong. Anywhere.
“I just don’t like fighting,” He murmured, barely audible, as Dean pulled out of the parking lot, “Doesn’t feel right.”
Dean shrugged as his fingers curled around the wheel, flooring the gas once they were out of the school zone. “You just need to do it more. Soon it’ll feel like second nature.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, his throat tightening as he blinked. That’s what he was afraid of.
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Date: 2008-02-26 12:56 am (UTC)Dean's pride and Sam hating to fight. And he's good at it but doesn't want to be. BAAAAAH THERE'S UNDERLYING ANGST. YOUR ANGST IS LIKE THE JELLY IN A DONUT, MCGEE. GEEZ.