SPN FIC - Not Any More
Told ya: it's a quiet day. So have another one. Stanford!Sam, taken by surprise by a small, simple question: "Do you know where -"
Why he can remember buildings and not people, he's never been sure. Maybe because they were never really people to him. Maybe because he was never really a person to them.
CHARACTERS: Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 669 words
NOT ANY MORE
By Carol Davis
Grade school, middle school, high school - so many different schools that thinking of how many there must have been makes Sam Winchester's head ache, although if he had to, yes, he could sit down and make a list. He remembers the miles that made up his life, the towns and cities, the places that were so far from anywhere else that "school" was a single-story cinderblock building no bigger than a service station.
Yes, he remembers some of the faces, the names, the sound of their voices. But not many. They've all blended in together over the years, becoming a vast vegetable soup of people, some adults, some teenagers, some younger kids.
Why he can remember buildings and not people, he's never been sure. Maybe because they were never really people to him.
Maybe because he was never really a person to them.
He was always The New Kid, in every last one of those places: the one made to stand up at the front of the class, sometimes with a teacher's hand on his shoulder, as if that would be a comfort of some kind, would smooth over the rough edges, help make him unaware of the thirty-odd sets of eyes studying him and finding him wanting, sometimes in a couple of ways, sometimes in many. He was the one who heard, "Class, this is Sam Winchester," over and over and over again, to the point where he wanted to do what Dean did, tell them his name was John McClane or Heathcliff Huxtable or Woody the Woodpecker, just to see what would happen.
He was always the odd man out. The stranger. The outsider.
He had things thrown at him, before he learned to stand up for himself.
Somehow, though, over the years, that place of not-belonging became familiar. Getting through the first day in a new place became a song-and-dance he had performed before, knew so intimately, so much in his bones, that he did it almost without thinking. Accepted it as same old, same old, an old sweater of a life, nothing anyone else would want but shaped to fit him, stretched to accommodate his arms, the span of his chest, his breath and heartbeat.
He was always that, the Other, the does-not-belong.
Until a moment ago.
There's a kid standing in front of him now, a few yards away from the steps of the campus library - a pale, nervous kid in a dark-blue hoodie and jeans, arms full of textbooks and notebooks, all of them brand-new and brittle, like this kid.
New.
The New Kid. A freshman, green and terrified.
Sam stands there, silent, stunned by the kid's small, simple question, almost to the point of being unable to answer. For a moment, his heart flutters. This is new. It's so, so new.
But he's not. Not any more.
This, here - Stanford University - this is his school. Has been, for a year now. He knows every inch of it: the buildings, the corridors, the pathways. The best table in the dining hall, the best carrel in the library, the best quiet spot under a tree for a sandwich and some studying.
He knows the people, too. The professors, the TAs, his classmates. He has a roommate here.
He has friends.
Has had all of that for a while now. He knew that, was aware of it, of the way his life was progressing toward what he'd always wanted it to be - but it took that one small question for him to move his shoulders. Shuck off that old sweater of a life.
He's a friggin' butterfly, he thinks, and that's so dumb it makes him grin.
Done, he thinks, and he grins, big and giddy, in a way he's sure must make him look a little freakish, a little scary. I am done with all that crap. It's OVER.
"Yeah," he tells the kid. "I know where it is. Come on. I'll take you."
It is, he thinks, the best moment of his life.
* * * * *
Why he can remember buildings and not people, he's never been sure. Maybe because they were never really people to him. Maybe because he was never really a person to them.
CHARACTERS: Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 669 words
NOT ANY MORE
By Carol Davis
Grade school, middle school, high school - so many different schools that thinking of how many there must have been makes Sam Winchester's head ache, although if he had to, yes, he could sit down and make a list. He remembers the miles that made up his life, the towns and cities, the places that were so far from anywhere else that "school" was a single-story cinderblock building no bigger than a service station.
Yes, he remembers some of the faces, the names, the sound of their voices. But not many. They've all blended in together over the years, becoming a vast vegetable soup of people, some adults, some teenagers, some younger kids.
Why he can remember buildings and not people, he's never been sure. Maybe because they were never really people to him.
Maybe because he was never really a person to them.
He was always The New Kid, in every last one of those places: the one made to stand up at the front of the class, sometimes with a teacher's hand on his shoulder, as if that would be a comfort of some kind, would smooth over the rough edges, help make him unaware of the thirty-odd sets of eyes studying him and finding him wanting, sometimes in a couple of ways, sometimes in many. He was the one who heard, "Class, this is Sam Winchester," over and over and over again, to the point where he wanted to do what Dean did, tell them his name was John McClane or Heathcliff Huxtable or Woody the Woodpecker, just to see what would happen.
He was always the odd man out. The stranger. The outsider.
He had things thrown at him, before he learned to stand up for himself.
Somehow, though, over the years, that place of not-belonging became familiar. Getting through the first day in a new place became a song-and-dance he had performed before, knew so intimately, so much in his bones, that he did it almost without thinking. Accepted it as same old, same old, an old sweater of a life, nothing anyone else would want but shaped to fit him, stretched to accommodate his arms, the span of his chest, his breath and heartbeat.
He was always that, the Other, the does-not-belong.
Until a moment ago.
There's a kid standing in front of him now, a few yards away from the steps of the campus library - a pale, nervous kid in a dark-blue hoodie and jeans, arms full of textbooks and notebooks, all of them brand-new and brittle, like this kid.
New.
The New Kid. A freshman, green and terrified.
Sam stands there, silent, stunned by the kid's small, simple question, almost to the point of being unable to answer. For a moment, his heart flutters. This is new. It's so, so new.
But he's not. Not any more.
This, here - Stanford University - this is his school. Has been, for a year now. He knows every inch of it: the buildings, the corridors, the pathways. The best table in the dining hall, the best carrel in the library, the best quiet spot under a tree for a sandwich and some studying.
He knows the people, too. The professors, the TAs, his classmates. He has a roommate here.
He has friends.
Has had all of that for a while now. He knew that, was aware of it, of the way his life was progressing toward what he'd always wanted it to be - but it took that one small question for him to move his shoulders. Shuck off that old sweater of a life.
He's a friggin' butterfly, he thinks, and that's so dumb it makes him grin.
Done, he thinks, and he grins, big and giddy, in a way he's sure must make him look a little freakish, a little scary. I am done with all that crap. It's OVER.
"Yeah," he tells the kid. "I know where it is. Come on. I'll take you."
It is, he thinks, the best moment of his life.
* * * * *