Title: Five Things That Never Happened to Sam Winchester
, AKA ME!
Characters: Sam, Dean, mentions of John, various beasties
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 1,166
Warning: None. Except not beta'd.
Author's Notes: Written for agt_bush
, with ♥ And X-posted everywhere.
Summary: Five things that never happened to Sam Winchester at ages 3, 10, 15, 19, and 21. Pretty self-explanatory.
Disclaimer: I own none of this, except the laptop I wrote it on. For fun, not profit.
Five Things That Never Happened to Sam Winchester
He was two years old, and entranced by the rippling surface of the lake just out of his reach. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just touch
it, but every time he got close enough, Dean was right there, tugging gently on his hand.
“Come on, Sammy,” he’d say gently each time he pulled Sam back to sit back on the sand, pouting slightly as he watched the waves.
They were pretty
, he thought, and sparkling like the hood of the car when Daddy put special stuff on it. He just wanted to touch them.
But he knew Dean didn’t want him to, so even when Dean got up, walked over to Daddy for a brief moment and he would have been free to run forwards and see what they waves felt like, he stayed put, watching the rolling blue-green-white
teasingly close to his fingertips.
And later, when Dean finally held his hand and guided him into the water, never once letting go of his slippery-slick-teeny hand, Sam was glad that he’d waited until Dean could see how sparkly-soft the waves were, too.
2. Amputation, right leg.
He was ten years old, and for the first time, Dad had let him do something on a hunt without leaving him behind in the hotel room. He was lookout, watching Dean and Dad’s backs as they dug up the grave of a particularly vengeful fifteen-year-old girl who’d been murdered by her father fifty years before.
His hands were sweaty-slick on the shotgun he was holding, machete resting on the ground behind him, and for the first time he wished that he had
decided to keep his hair short, seeing as how sweat was making his bangs cling to his face. He was scared to move, afraid to brush them out of his eyes for fear of missing something.
He heard a rustle and inhaled sharply, gun immediately swinging towards the sound, finger poised on the trigger—he may have been scared, sure, but he wasn’t stupid
. He knew you only shot when the threat was visible. He held his breath, waiting. Wanting to glance over to where he knew Dean and Dad were, but not able to move his eyes away from the space.
He blinked, and then heard the whooooosh
of air and the icy blow that signaled ghost, and before he was able to do anything, he was flat on his back, sliding backwards across grass and leaves, shotgun spiraling out of his hands. He slammed into a headstone, black spots obscuring his vision, but he got enough of a look to know that Ella-Lousie Mayson was intent on killing him before his family could salt and burn.
And then she had his machete. Which, since he was the lookout, he needed to defend himself against corporeal attackers, seeing as the gun was full of salt.
And then she had one icy cold hand wrapped around his throat, fingers tangling in his hair, sending shocks up and down his spine as she leaned in, grinning wickedly, blade gleaming in the light.You’re going to die, Sam Winchester.
He heard her voice in his head clear as day, even though she wasn’t making a sound. He gasped, hands scrabbling at his throat, trying to make a noise, say something, anything
, to warn Dad, to warn Dean.
Then she glanced down at him, smiled, and he had a vivid image of how, exactly, she’d died. Legs cut off, then arms. The her throat, only slit deep enough to sever the windpipe, but not deep enough to ensure she’d die right away. She teased the blade along his inner thigh and he let out a strangled choke, the hands now clawing at her face going right through her, sneaky bitch.
She tested the edge, slamming him back against the headstone again when he struggled, his vision going black. Dean
, he wanted to scream. She pressed down on his leg, hard enough to draw blood, and he yelped, choked, sputtered when she smashed him against the headstone again.
Then there was a loud hhiiiiiiisssss
, and Ella-Lousie looked down at him, face twisted in anger. She tried to draw the blade down, but by that point half her body was up in flames, and the rest of her followed after, angry shrieks echoing in the night.
Sam lay on his back, chest heaving as he drew in shaking breaths, head spinning from the sudden excess of oxygen and the couple of hits he’d taken. He heard his name being shouted, and he tried to answer, but could only manage a hoarse, “Over here,” before he passed out.
When he woke up in the hotel, Dean was sitting on the opposite bed, pretending not to watch him. When he was informed he had a concussion, seven stitches in his right leg, and a very pissed-off father, he merely grumbled and slipped back into sleep. He missed the relieved look on his brother’s face entirely.
3. Broken bones, left hand.
He was fifteen, and he and Dean had been dispatched on a hunt the night before that had left him with less than three hours of sleep and not enough time to study for a huge test he had in chemistry the following day.
Dean had teased him about it, stupid fucker—how the hell he managed to get banged up by a ghost, get less sleep than Sam, and
manage to be cheerful and wide awake was beyond Sam’s knowledge.
He grunted in response to the teasing on the way to school, for once totally not even caring that every girl within a fifteen-mile radius was ogling his brother, including his supposed girlfriend, Sarah. When he climbed out of the car, muttering goodbyes, his sleep-deprived brain began to slam the door shut.
He realized about three seconds too late that his other hand was still pulling his backpack out of the car.
Sam braced himself for the pain that was going to follow, but Dean’s arm shot out across the seats and stopped the door inches away from Sam’s hand. Dean was watching him with worried, level eyes, all traces of sarcasm gone.
“You okay, kid?” he asked. Sam nodded once, yanking his bag the rest of the way out.
“Thanks.” Dean grinned, back to his old self.
“Left your brain at the motel, huh?” he asked, and Sam snorted and closed the door, shouldering his bag.
There wasn’t just one time, Sam thought, one time
that the fucking demon or ghost or rawhead or fucking whatever could go after Dean’s throat instead, was there?
They don’t talk about this one. Never mention the week that Sammy spent, cold and lying on a spare bed in a motel room, slowly becoming a shell of his former self as Dean tried to figure out what to do.
As Dean sold his soul for Sam’s back.
They don’t talk about it.