SPN FIC - Grip (7.02)
Sometimes, the only thing that's going to save you is if you hold on.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.02
LENGTH: 512 words
GRIP
By Carol Davis
It's the sound of his brother's voice that Sam remembers, far more clearly than the rest of it, which isn't surprising, given that he was no more than a toddler at the time. Really, it's surprising that he remembers anything at all from that far back - but emotion helps lay down memory, and joy is certainly an emotion.
As an infant, he must have held onto Dean's extended forefinger, as babies do.
Later on, he must have held onto Dean's hands as he took a tentative step forward, then another, and another.
And still later, his small hand clasps Dean's larger one as they cross a busy street.
What he remembers best, of all of that, is his brother's voice piping, "Hold on tight, Sammy! Hold on tight!"
~~~~~~~~
Sam's seven years old that summer, when Dean leads him up into a gnarled old tree behind Pastor Jim's place. They go up maybe fifteen feet, an easy climb, to a branch that's more than sturdy enough to support both of them.
They stand up there, rather than sitting.
"Grab my hand," Dean says.
Sam knows better than to argue with him.
"We're not gonna cross the street," Dean groans when Sam complies. "Look - you do it like that, it's not a good grip. Too easy to break loose. Do it like this."
Dean turns his hand so they're palm to palm, then wraps his fingers around Sam's wrist, nodding when Sam copies the grip.
"Now hold on tight!" he hoots, and swings Sam out off the branch.
~~~~~~~~
The visions are terrible. They twist his head and stomach into knots, crush him into a ball, send him stumbling - sometimes crawling, if he can't keep his feet - to the sink or the toilet or a patch of weeds at the side of the road so he can vomit.
"What the hell, Sam," Dean sputters.
Not angry, though. Well, yes, angry, but not at Sam. If he yells, if he criticizes, it's because he can't control this.
Can't make it stop.
So Dean curses, and stomps around. Slams things, throws other things. Too close by, Sam thinks, because he'd rather focus on puking, and not the fact that Dean's upset.
Then Dean brings him water, and a towel.
Crouches down and murmurs, "Hold on, Sammy. Just hold on."
~~~~~~~~
It's hard to tell what's real any more.
He thought he was riding shotgun with Dean, as he's done so many times. The person beside him sounded like Dean, behaved like Dean, smelled like Dean.
He thought…
There's another Dean gripping his hand now. Another Dean driving the ball of his thumb hard into Sam's torn-up palm, creating a pool of blood and a torrent of pain. "This is real," this Dean insists, and it's all Sam can do to keep himself from tearing free and running out of this place.
But Dean's grip is firm, solid, sure.
"This is real, Sammy," he insists.
Still, Sam can't quite believe him until he sees something in Dean's eyes, something Dean doesn't voice.
Hold on tight.
Okay, Sam thinks. Okay.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.02
LENGTH: 512 words
GRIP
By Carol Davis
It's the sound of his brother's voice that Sam remembers, far more clearly than the rest of it, which isn't surprising, given that he was no more than a toddler at the time. Really, it's surprising that he remembers anything at all from that far back - but emotion helps lay down memory, and joy is certainly an emotion.
As an infant, he must have held onto Dean's extended forefinger, as babies do.
Later on, he must have held onto Dean's hands as he took a tentative step forward, then another, and another.
And still later, his small hand clasps Dean's larger one as they cross a busy street.
What he remembers best, of all of that, is his brother's voice piping, "Hold on tight, Sammy! Hold on tight!"
~~~~~~~~
Sam's seven years old that summer, when Dean leads him up into a gnarled old tree behind Pastor Jim's place. They go up maybe fifteen feet, an easy climb, to a branch that's more than sturdy enough to support both of them.
They stand up there, rather than sitting.
"Grab my hand," Dean says.
Sam knows better than to argue with him.
"We're not gonna cross the street," Dean groans when Sam complies. "Look - you do it like that, it's not a good grip. Too easy to break loose. Do it like this."
Dean turns his hand so they're palm to palm, then wraps his fingers around Sam's wrist, nodding when Sam copies the grip.
"Now hold on tight!" he hoots, and swings Sam out off the branch.
~~~~~~~~
The visions are terrible. They twist his head and stomach into knots, crush him into a ball, send him stumbling - sometimes crawling, if he can't keep his feet - to the sink or the toilet or a patch of weeds at the side of the road so he can vomit.
"What the hell, Sam," Dean sputters.
Not angry, though. Well, yes, angry, but not at Sam. If he yells, if he criticizes, it's because he can't control this.
Can't make it stop.
So Dean curses, and stomps around. Slams things, throws other things. Too close by, Sam thinks, because he'd rather focus on puking, and not the fact that Dean's upset.
Then Dean brings him water, and a towel.
Crouches down and murmurs, "Hold on, Sammy. Just hold on."
~~~~~~~~
It's hard to tell what's real any more.
He thought he was riding shotgun with Dean, as he's done so many times. The person beside him sounded like Dean, behaved like Dean, smelled like Dean.
He thought…
There's another Dean gripping his hand now. Another Dean driving the ball of his thumb hard into Sam's torn-up palm, creating a pool of blood and a torrent of pain. "This is real," this Dean insists, and it's all Sam can do to keep himself from tearing free and running out of this place.
But Dean's grip is firm, solid, sure.
"This is real, Sammy," he insists.
Still, Sam can't quite believe him until he sees something in Dean's eyes, something Dean doesn't voice.
Hold on tight.
Okay, Sam thinks. Okay.
* * * * *