Bits from a thing I'm working on

[terresdebrume]

So as you may or may not know I’ve decided to write a remake of If it’s not Happy, at least it’s not Sad either. It’s taken a life of its own (it’s trying to grow ~chapters) and I’m questioning my life choices, but also some of the passages just make me get all the Dean feels and I have to share them.

PS: Don’t pay attention to the numbers, they’re just here for timeline-tracking purposes and won’t feature in the end product.

TW for physical abuse, violent discrimination, and John Winchester being a terrible human being.

006. Out with it

You’ve known about Sam’s power for six years when Dad finds out, and a small part of your brain is grimly proud you lasted that long. There was no anticipating the harpy—the tear in Sam’s glove—the abandoned compass that’s been there for centuries and makes Sam scream with the flood of information.

You shoulder the harpy aside like it doesn’t weight anything—barely feel your knife go through the flesh of its chest before you’re kneeling by your brother’s side, terrified to the bones with a migraine battering at your temples. You prod and paw at him—try to figure out a way to help until, for lack of a real solution, you find yourself holding Sam down while he shakes an pants in pain.

Dad barely waits until Sam’s coherent again before he turns away and leaves the two of you alone on a mountain top, with rain coming along and nothing but your feet to take you back to the motel.

006.1

You find Sam’s stuff—minus weapons—packed next to the door when you reach your room.

Dad’s sitting in the rickety old chair that came with the ugly formica table you’ve seen a thousand versions of, with a shotgun in hand and his worst days’ look on his face…he doesn’t have to say anything before fear sinks into your stomach and re-emerges as a solid wall of anger.

You put yourself between Sam and the barrel, hold him in place by the wrist—his pulse flickers against your fingers like a rabbit trying to escape, but you stand your ground, steel your features into your hunting mask and say:

“He’s not leaving now.”

Dad gets to his feet without hurry, confident you won’t move—and you don’t.

You watch him set the shotgun aside, fingers tightening around it like he’s tempted to just shoot you instead. Slowly, deliberately, Dad straightens up, steps closer to you—you square your shoulders up and take the first punch without so much as a twitch to defend yourself.

It’s the middle of the night—the middle of summer, the last year of high school for Sam.

He can’t just be stuck on his own right now.

(It doesn’t end until Sam seizes the shotgun and threatens to shoot. There’s only rock salt in it, you’re pretty sure, but it still works. You’re still grateful for the creaky door that covers your pained whimper.)

006.2

You’re black and blue all over when the three of you leave the next morning.

The sound of a SWAT team storming a building catches you by surprise as you round a corner out of Los Angeles, and you end up having to duck down or be impaled by thorn the size of your forearm. John drives faster, knuckles white against the steering wheel, and you mold yourself to the passenger seat.

In the mirror, Sam leans his head against the window, cheeks shining in the early light.

Nobody says a word until you reach Detroit.