SPN fic! - Follower - Teen Sam, Dean and John
I wrote fic! It's been so long - I've been working on this for a couple of weeks, in between working on school stuff. Now I have to get my head around my Sweet Charity fic. Wish me luck..
TITLE: Follower
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Teen Sam, Dean and John
DISCLAIMERS: Not my boys
NOTES: 2300 words. Set pre-series. Sam hates training.
Dean’s out in front.
Not by much, only a few yards at most, but just enough that Sam can’t ever catch up. He’s almost as tall as Dean is now, way taller than Dean was at thirteen, but he’s always a few steps behind.
Head in the sky, with legs too long to keep up with. That’s what Dean says, flashing that smartass grin each time Sam misjudges his stance when they spar. His legs constantly betray him, stealing any semblance of balance he’s ever possessed, sending him crashing ass-backwards into the dust pretty much every time.
They’re almost done; four circuits round the edge of the lake, Dad had decreed. As a cool down, boys. Sam had snorted at that. Not like it’s a big lake; Sam can swim across it easily now, but four laps at the end of an hour’s training is too much. But Dean had set off without protest, like his legs weren’t about ready to fall off from that last set of mountain climbers. And Sam had no choice but to follow.
He can see Dad up ahead, late afternoon sun low in the sky behind him. Dean reaches him first, slowing up and then leaning over, pressing his palms against his thighs. Breathing slow and controlled, like they’ve been taught. Dad steps forward and Dean’s swallowed up by his shadow, just as the sun drops low enough in the sky to slip beneath the branches of the trees.
Sam is instantly blinded, throws his arm up to shield his eyes, and stumbles almost immediately. He lurches to the left, his feet tangling in a weird uncoordinated rhythm, but somehow he manages to remain upright. It doesn’t matter; he can still hear the unspoken disappointment in Dad’s quiet sigh.
Sam jogs over to them, then drops to the ground, flat on his back on the soft sand. His left ankle aches, and the muscles in his calves and thighs burn and spasm involuntarily. He knows he should, but right now he can’t find the energy to give a shit about proper cool down techniques.
He closes his eyes, and sees the spots that the sun has seared onto his retina, sparkling and bright. Then it’s suddenly dark and Sam cracks an eyelid, sees his brother standing over him.
“How’s the ankle, Salazar?” Dean drops to a crouch, crocodile-toothed grin bright in his shadowed face.
Sam flips him off, curling his lip. He’s not in the mood for Dean’s predictably triumphant crowing. He closes his eyes again, wonders if he crashed here maybe Dad would let him just sleep.
“Boys.” Drill sergeant voice, still. Dad’s not done with training yet. Sam’s legs sink into the sand, weighted and leaden.
Dean’s on his feet again in a flash, snapping to attention so fast he could give himself whiplash. Sam grits his teeth at that, the way Dean responds instantly to Dad’s orders. Good little clockwork soldier. Wind him up and watch him go.
“Sammy.”
It’s Sam, he thinks. Sammy is the dumb little kid who believed everything his brother said about hunting, who bought into whole hunters as heroes mythos. Sam knows it’s not heroic, not noble or fine or any other damn thing that Dean swears it is, all shining eyes and hand on his heart. Sam knows it’s dangerous and fool-hardy and thankless, and no one’s ever going to write comic books about what they do.
“On your feet, son.” It’s an order, not a request, and even if Sam wanted to resist, his body betrays him. Obedience to that particular tone has been trained into him, an automatic reflex.
Dad nods in appreciation of his compliance, setting Sam’s teeth on edge. But as much as he doesn’t want to be a good little soldier, the alternative is far less attractive. Last time he’d smarted off during training, he’d ended up doing push-ups until his arms gave out and he’d fallen face first into the dirt.
So he sucks it up, curling his hands into loose fists, resting them lightly on his thighs. Concentrates on the dull ache thrumming through the back of his calves.
Dad shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a coin. Tosses it into the air, and at first Sam thinks he’s going make them call heads or tails for some dumb imagined privilege - like first shower. Right now Sam could happily forego showering and go straight for the collapsing onto the nearest soft landing and sleeping for a week option.
Then Dad catches the coin and holds it out, small and bright in the flat of his palm. “Okay, boys. Cool off in the lake.” He tosses the coin again, higher this time; and it twists and flips, winking silver in the falling sunlight.
“Little incentive,” he says, snatching the coin on its downward spiral, then whipping his arm forward, lightning quick. The coin sails out beyond the shallows, spinning on a tight curve. It slips edge-first into the water, sinking soundlessly beneath the surface. “First one back is the winner,” Dad pronounces. “Loser takes another lap of the lake.”
They’ve done this before. Motel pools; Dad’s dropped a coin in, and they have to dive for it, like dogs fetching a stick. Sam can do it; he’s pretty good at it, but not as good as Dean. Just like shooting, and archery, and running and every other stupid goddamn training exercise that Dad has ever given them.
Dad grins, and it’s not even a mean grin, because he thinks this is fun for them, thinks that this is what they want to be doing. Dean’s reaction does nothing to discourage Dad, his eagerness evidenced by the excitement in his eyes, the matching grin plastered across his face. Sam understands that maybe it is fun if you always get it right. If you always win. If you’re stronger and faster and better than Sam knows he can ever be.
Sam bends to untie his shoes, the muscles in his calves screaming in protest. Dean has already stripped off his t-shirt and is headed to the water’s edge, kicking off his shoes as he goes. He wades in until the water hits mid-thigh, then pushes off, sun-warmed arms slicing through the darkening ripples.
Behind him, Sam hears Dad’s sigh of amused exasperation. “You gonna let your brother beat you again, Sammy?”
There’s just enough scorn in his tone to spur Sam into action. He strips off his own shirt and follows Dean out into the water. It’s cold, but not unpleasantly so, the cool waves lapping against his shoulders, refreshing against his sweat-sticky skin.
Dean still leads the way, and Sam kicks harder, struggling to catch up with him. They’re almost half-way across the lake when Dean stops, turns to him, treading water. He grins stupidly, like this is the most fun he’s ever had with his clothes off, which, if Dean’s unrelentingly lurid accounts of his sexual exploits are to be believed, is blatantly untrue.
Then Dean launches himself up, twisting his body as he flips into a dive, slipping otter-slick through the waves. There’s a final splash as his bare feet flicker on the surface, then he disappears.
Sam sighs, then takes a deep breath and follows Dean down into the depths. The water is murky; the thin layer of sunlight ends a foot below the surface, the color shifting from misty blue to opaque green. Sam follows the faint flash of white that he thinks must be Dean’s feet.
The bottom of the lake isn’t much more than twelve feet down, but Sam’s lungs are aching even before his fingertips graze the tops of the weeds. Crap. He fights the urge to kick back to the surface, and pushes through to the mud and silt below.
The weeds trail across his face, and Sam tries not to think about water sprites and mermaids and whatever other weird underwater demons might be lurking in the depths, lying in wait for the unwary. They could grab him now, their spindly fingers reaching up through the weeds to wrap around his arms and ankles. Wouldn’t even have to hurt him, they’d just hold him there long enough for his lungs to fill with rancid lake water. Dad and Dean would have to come searching for him, and all they’d find was his bloated corpse and then they’d be sorry…
A face looms through the murk and Sam reacts instinctively, reeling away and opening his mouth on a silent scream, before he recognizes Dean as his imaginary water sprite. Sam grimaces, then pushes off from the soft silt and kicks up towards the water-sparkled sky. He feels Dean’s hands close around his feet, guiding him upwards until at last, after almost too long, his head breaks the surface.
He gasps, coughing and choking as he drags huge gulps of air into his unwilling lungs. Beside him, Dean is shaking his head like one of Bobby’s dumb mutts, tiny water droplets flicking over Sam’s nose and cheeks.
“You - ass-h-hole,” Sam splutters, when he finally draws enough breath into his lungs to speak. His teeth chatter involuntarily.
“Oh, man, that was freakin’ awesome.” Dean is laughing. Head thrown back, mouth open wide kind of laughing. And right then, just for a moment, Sam hates him.
“Dude, total Jaws freak-out. Bloated head in the wreck.” Dean shakes his head, like he can’t get over how freaking hilarious almost drowning his brother is. Then he sobers up a little, reaches out to poke Sam’s shoulder. “You okay, Sammy?”
“Fine,” Sam snaps, kicking back out of Dean’s reach.
“Dude, chill,” Dean offers, in a vaguely conciliatory tone.
“Seeing as we’re stuck in the middle of a freezing lake, doesn’t look like I’ve got a lot of choice,” Sam points out.
Dean shrugs. “Okay. You stay close this time, and stop freaking out down there.” He pauses, his face softening. “They’re just weeds, Sam.”
And this is what bugs him about his brother. It’s like Dean thinks he knows Sam, knows what he’s thinking all the damn time. And okay, he’s right this time, but that’s not the point.
Sam takes a deep breath, fills his lungs until they’re burning, then gulps a little more and dives down after Dean.
It’s easier this time; Sam’s lungs are still almost full when his fingertips stir up a flurry of silt from the bottom. He wafts his hands through the clouded water, peering through the green haze, searching for a tell-tale flash of silver. Then Dean’s waving to him, making that stupid ‘okay’ sign with his thumb and forefinger, like he’s Jacques freaking Cousteau.
Dean’s found it, of course. The coin flickers in the gloom, fish-scale bright. Dean flashes him a grin, and then scoops a handful of silt up, launching the coin towards Sam. It drifts through the water in lazy slow motion, landing in his palm as if it belongs there.
That can’t be right. Sam looks over at Dean, but he’s already swimming up to the surface. Sam closes his hand over the coin, traps it tight in his fist and kicks up behind his brother.
They race back to shore; Dean leading the way until they’re within twenty yards of the water’s edge. Then Sam finds himself out in front, his haphazardly flailing windmill stroke suddenly more effective than Dean’s efficient front crawl. His knees meet the sand in the shallows and Sam stumbles out onto the sandy shore, his trembling legs somehow carrying him over to where Dad is waiting.
Sam drops the coin into his extended palm, then leans over, bleeding lake water onto the warm sand.
“Good job, Sammy,” Dad says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s faking it. He’s really impressed. He wraps his t-shirt around Sam’s shoulders, his hand warm in the small of Sam’s back. “Knew you could do it, son,”
Sam ducks his head shyly; he can’t help flushing at the praise. He doesn’t deserve it, but it’s been so long since he’s heard Dad address him with anything but weary disappointment in his tone.
“Go on down to the house and hop in the shower.” Dad shoves him gently, his hand coming up to rub briskly through Sam’s hair. Sam tries really hard not to lean into the rough caress.
“And don’t use all that hot water, bitch.”
Sam turns then, and Dean is right behind him, his look of feigned discontent wholly unconvincing.
Dad reaches over and swipes his hand across the back of Dean’s head. “You need to get your ass in gear, sunshine. What the hell were you doing out there?”
Sam’s chest aches then, at Dad’s easy expectancy of Dean’s success, his good-natured reprimand.
Dean just grins, shrugs nonchalantly. “Muscle cramp, I guess.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Right. Guess a couple more laps of the lake will help with that, then.”
Dean fakes an exaggerated sigh, but he’s still grinning wildly. “Two laps? You said one. Maybe your memory’s playing tricks on you. I hear that can happen when you hit middle age.”
“Maybe we should make it three.” Dad grins right back, and then they both laugh, like Dad just cracked the funniest joke in the history of ever.
Sam doesn’t get it. Doesn’t think he’ll ever understand it, this love they share for training; for hunting.
He makes his way back down towards Pastor Jim’s, and he turns back to look at them. He sees them together, laughing, Dean saying something to Dad, and Dad throwing his head back, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder.
Sam wonders why he ever thought that winning would make any difference at all. No matter how hard he tries, it’s still Dean out in front, and Sam isn’t ever going to catch up.
TITLE: Follower
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Teen Sam, Dean and John
DISCLAIMERS: Not my boys
NOTES: 2300 words. Set pre-series. Sam hates training.
Dean’s out in front.
Not by much, only a few yards at most, but just enough that Sam can’t ever catch up. He’s almost as tall as Dean is now, way taller than Dean was at thirteen, but he’s always a few steps behind.
Head in the sky, with legs too long to keep up with. That’s what Dean says, flashing that smartass grin each time Sam misjudges his stance when they spar. His legs constantly betray him, stealing any semblance of balance he’s ever possessed, sending him crashing ass-backwards into the dust pretty much every time.
They’re almost done; four circuits round the edge of the lake, Dad had decreed. As a cool down, boys. Sam had snorted at that. Not like it’s a big lake; Sam can swim across it easily now, but four laps at the end of an hour’s training is too much. But Dean had set off without protest, like his legs weren’t about ready to fall off from that last set of mountain climbers. And Sam had no choice but to follow.
He can see Dad up ahead, late afternoon sun low in the sky behind him. Dean reaches him first, slowing up and then leaning over, pressing his palms against his thighs. Breathing slow and controlled, like they’ve been taught. Dad steps forward and Dean’s swallowed up by his shadow, just as the sun drops low enough in the sky to slip beneath the branches of the trees.
Sam is instantly blinded, throws his arm up to shield his eyes, and stumbles almost immediately. He lurches to the left, his feet tangling in a weird uncoordinated rhythm, but somehow he manages to remain upright. It doesn’t matter; he can still hear the unspoken disappointment in Dad’s quiet sigh.
Sam jogs over to them, then drops to the ground, flat on his back on the soft sand. His left ankle aches, and the muscles in his calves and thighs burn and spasm involuntarily. He knows he should, but right now he can’t find the energy to give a shit about proper cool down techniques.
He closes his eyes, and sees the spots that the sun has seared onto his retina, sparkling and bright. Then it’s suddenly dark and Sam cracks an eyelid, sees his brother standing over him.
“How’s the ankle, Salazar?” Dean drops to a crouch, crocodile-toothed grin bright in his shadowed face.
Sam flips him off, curling his lip. He’s not in the mood for Dean’s predictably triumphant crowing. He closes his eyes again, wonders if he crashed here maybe Dad would let him just sleep.
“Boys.” Drill sergeant voice, still. Dad’s not done with training yet. Sam’s legs sink into the sand, weighted and leaden.
Dean’s on his feet again in a flash, snapping to attention so fast he could give himself whiplash. Sam grits his teeth at that, the way Dean responds instantly to Dad’s orders. Good little clockwork soldier. Wind him up and watch him go.
“Sammy.”
It’s Sam, he thinks. Sammy is the dumb little kid who believed everything his brother said about hunting, who bought into whole hunters as heroes mythos. Sam knows it’s not heroic, not noble or fine or any other damn thing that Dean swears it is, all shining eyes and hand on his heart. Sam knows it’s dangerous and fool-hardy and thankless, and no one’s ever going to write comic books about what they do.
“On your feet, son.” It’s an order, not a request, and even if Sam wanted to resist, his body betrays him. Obedience to that particular tone has been trained into him, an automatic reflex.
Dad nods in appreciation of his compliance, setting Sam’s teeth on edge. But as much as he doesn’t want to be a good little soldier, the alternative is far less attractive. Last time he’d smarted off during training, he’d ended up doing push-ups until his arms gave out and he’d fallen face first into the dirt.
So he sucks it up, curling his hands into loose fists, resting them lightly on his thighs. Concentrates on the dull ache thrumming through the back of his calves.
Dad shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a coin. Tosses it into the air, and at first Sam thinks he’s going make them call heads or tails for some dumb imagined privilege - like first shower. Right now Sam could happily forego showering and go straight for the collapsing onto the nearest soft landing and sleeping for a week option.
Then Dad catches the coin and holds it out, small and bright in the flat of his palm. “Okay, boys. Cool off in the lake.” He tosses the coin again, higher this time; and it twists and flips, winking silver in the falling sunlight.
“Little incentive,” he says, snatching the coin on its downward spiral, then whipping his arm forward, lightning quick. The coin sails out beyond the shallows, spinning on a tight curve. It slips edge-first into the water, sinking soundlessly beneath the surface. “First one back is the winner,” Dad pronounces. “Loser takes another lap of the lake.”
They’ve done this before. Motel pools; Dad’s dropped a coin in, and they have to dive for it, like dogs fetching a stick. Sam can do it; he’s pretty good at it, but not as good as Dean. Just like shooting, and archery, and running and every other stupid goddamn training exercise that Dad has ever given them.
Dad grins, and it’s not even a mean grin, because he thinks this is fun for them, thinks that this is what they want to be doing. Dean’s reaction does nothing to discourage Dad, his eagerness evidenced by the excitement in his eyes, the matching grin plastered across his face. Sam understands that maybe it is fun if you always get it right. If you always win. If you’re stronger and faster and better than Sam knows he can ever be.
Sam bends to untie his shoes, the muscles in his calves screaming in protest. Dean has already stripped off his t-shirt and is headed to the water’s edge, kicking off his shoes as he goes. He wades in until the water hits mid-thigh, then pushes off, sun-warmed arms slicing through the darkening ripples.
Behind him, Sam hears Dad’s sigh of amused exasperation. “You gonna let your brother beat you again, Sammy?”
There’s just enough scorn in his tone to spur Sam into action. He strips off his own shirt and follows Dean out into the water. It’s cold, but not unpleasantly so, the cool waves lapping against his shoulders, refreshing against his sweat-sticky skin.
Dean still leads the way, and Sam kicks harder, struggling to catch up with him. They’re almost half-way across the lake when Dean stops, turns to him, treading water. He grins stupidly, like this is the most fun he’s ever had with his clothes off, which, if Dean’s unrelentingly lurid accounts of his sexual exploits are to be believed, is blatantly untrue.
Then Dean launches himself up, twisting his body as he flips into a dive, slipping otter-slick through the waves. There’s a final splash as his bare feet flicker on the surface, then he disappears.
Sam sighs, then takes a deep breath and follows Dean down into the depths. The water is murky; the thin layer of sunlight ends a foot below the surface, the color shifting from misty blue to opaque green. Sam follows the faint flash of white that he thinks must be Dean’s feet.
The bottom of the lake isn’t much more than twelve feet down, but Sam’s lungs are aching even before his fingertips graze the tops of the weeds. Crap. He fights the urge to kick back to the surface, and pushes through to the mud and silt below.
The weeds trail across his face, and Sam tries not to think about water sprites and mermaids and whatever other weird underwater demons might be lurking in the depths, lying in wait for the unwary. They could grab him now, their spindly fingers reaching up through the weeds to wrap around his arms and ankles. Wouldn’t even have to hurt him, they’d just hold him there long enough for his lungs to fill with rancid lake water. Dad and Dean would have to come searching for him, and all they’d find was his bloated corpse and then they’d be sorry…
A face looms through the murk and Sam reacts instinctively, reeling away and opening his mouth on a silent scream, before he recognizes Dean as his imaginary water sprite. Sam grimaces, then pushes off from the soft silt and kicks up towards the water-sparkled sky. He feels Dean’s hands close around his feet, guiding him upwards until at last, after almost too long, his head breaks the surface.
He gasps, coughing and choking as he drags huge gulps of air into his unwilling lungs. Beside him, Dean is shaking his head like one of Bobby’s dumb mutts, tiny water droplets flicking over Sam’s nose and cheeks.
“You - ass-h-hole,” Sam splutters, when he finally draws enough breath into his lungs to speak. His teeth chatter involuntarily.
“Oh, man, that was freakin’ awesome.” Dean is laughing. Head thrown back, mouth open wide kind of laughing. And right then, just for a moment, Sam hates him.
“Dude, total Jaws freak-out. Bloated head in the wreck.” Dean shakes his head, like he can’t get over how freaking hilarious almost drowning his brother is. Then he sobers up a little, reaches out to poke Sam’s shoulder. “You okay, Sammy?”
“Fine,” Sam snaps, kicking back out of Dean’s reach.
“Dude, chill,” Dean offers, in a vaguely conciliatory tone.
“Seeing as we’re stuck in the middle of a freezing lake, doesn’t look like I’ve got a lot of choice,” Sam points out.
Dean shrugs. “Okay. You stay close this time, and stop freaking out down there.” He pauses, his face softening. “They’re just weeds, Sam.”
And this is what bugs him about his brother. It’s like Dean thinks he knows Sam, knows what he’s thinking all the damn time. And okay, he’s right this time, but that’s not the point.
Sam takes a deep breath, fills his lungs until they’re burning, then gulps a little more and dives down after Dean.
It’s easier this time; Sam’s lungs are still almost full when his fingertips stir up a flurry of silt from the bottom. He wafts his hands through the clouded water, peering through the green haze, searching for a tell-tale flash of silver. Then Dean’s waving to him, making that stupid ‘okay’ sign with his thumb and forefinger, like he’s Jacques freaking Cousteau.
Dean’s found it, of course. The coin flickers in the gloom, fish-scale bright. Dean flashes him a grin, and then scoops a handful of silt up, launching the coin towards Sam. It drifts through the water in lazy slow motion, landing in his palm as if it belongs there.
That can’t be right. Sam looks over at Dean, but he’s already swimming up to the surface. Sam closes his hand over the coin, traps it tight in his fist and kicks up behind his brother.
They race back to shore; Dean leading the way until they’re within twenty yards of the water’s edge. Then Sam finds himself out in front, his haphazardly flailing windmill stroke suddenly more effective than Dean’s efficient front crawl. His knees meet the sand in the shallows and Sam stumbles out onto the sandy shore, his trembling legs somehow carrying him over to where Dad is waiting.
Sam drops the coin into his extended palm, then leans over, bleeding lake water onto the warm sand.
“Good job, Sammy,” Dad says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s faking it. He’s really impressed. He wraps his t-shirt around Sam’s shoulders, his hand warm in the small of Sam’s back. “Knew you could do it, son,”
Sam ducks his head shyly; he can’t help flushing at the praise. He doesn’t deserve it, but it’s been so long since he’s heard Dad address him with anything but weary disappointment in his tone.
“Go on down to the house and hop in the shower.” Dad shoves him gently, his hand coming up to rub briskly through Sam’s hair. Sam tries really hard not to lean into the rough caress.
“And don’t use all that hot water, bitch.”
Sam turns then, and Dean is right behind him, his look of feigned discontent wholly unconvincing.
Dad reaches over and swipes his hand across the back of Dean’s head. “You need to get your ass in gear, sunshine. What the hell were you doing out there?”
Sam’s chest aches then, at Dad’s easy expectancy of Dean’s success, his good-natured reprimand.
Dean just grins, shrugs nonchalantly. “Muscle cramp, I guess.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Right. Guess a couple more laps of the lake will help with that, then.”
Dean fakes an exaggerated sigh, but he’s still grinning wildly. “Two laps? You said one. Maybe your memory’s playing tricks on you. I hear that can happen when you hit middle age.”
“Maybe we should make it three.” Dad grins right back, and then they both laugh, like Dad just cracked the funniest joke in the history of ever.
Sam doesn’t get it. Doesn’t think he’ll ever understand it, this love they share for training; for hunting.
He makes his way back down towards Pastor Jim’s, and he turns back to look at them. He sees them together, laughing, Dean saying something to Dad, and Dad throwing his head back, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder.
Sam wonders why he ever thought that winning would make any difference at all. No matter how hard he tries, it’s still Dean out in front, and Sam isn’t ever going to catch up.