Disambiguation (gen-fic, 926 words, PG)
Originally written for spnflashfic
Disambiguation
(gen-fic, 926 words, PG)
In which Sam is nothing like the gun.
The man behind the desk takes the register that John pushes back towards him then frowns at the signature. He looks up with a quizzical half-smile on his red-cheeked shiny face. He glances over the three of them: John looking tired and with one arm in a sling, Sam at his side, clutching a crumpled newspaper from three weeks ago, and Dean with two duffel bags slung over his shoulder and another one in his hand.
“Winchester?” the man says. “Like the gun?”
John opens his mouth to answer but as he’s dragging in a weary breath, Sam beats him to it.
“No. Like the small English town that was its capital in the tenth and eleventh century.”
There’s a silence, sliced by the steady sweep of the fan above their heads. John shoots a look at Sam, who is apparently now intent on reading his ancient newspaper.
The man shrugs and holds out the motel room key. It glints dully in the shade.
“Winchester like the English town, got it.”
:::
Sam finds an empty chair in the classroom and sinks into it. Carefully and slowly so as not to attract any more attention than necessary, Sam takes his books out of his bag. He spends a moment organising his pens in a line so he looks busy and uninterested in the chaos of students being reunited after the long summer break.
“Hey, new kid!”
He looks up and sees a boy staring at him. The boy has an entourage, which is never a good sign. They’re all watching him, sizing up whether he’s going to be a victim or a groupie. The boy who addressed him is fairly tall and has a very square jaw. Sam guesses he’s a swimmer rather than on the football team. Either way, he’s clearly God’s gift to this particular school.
“What’s your name, new kid?” he says.
Well it’s not ‘new kid’, is Sam’s immediate response but he bites it back and manages a smile instead.
“Sam Winchester.”
“Like the gun?”
That’s it. Sam hates him. He hates this school. He hates his dad for dragging him out of the last school. He hates his life. He wishes he were dead.
“Like the bottles for corrosive chemicals in labs,” he says.
So it’s victim rather than groupie. Doesn’t matter, Sam won’t be in this school long enough to care.
:::
Stanford is not what Sam expected. Granted, his expectations had been informed only by the teen-dramas on TV, but still, he finds the best way to cope with the upheaval is to go to any and every welcome event that is being held in a bar. Alcohol plus Sam equals a Sam who can act normal around all these normal people he’s meeting.
It’s the sixth bar this week and that’s where he meets her.
She invites him to buy her a drink. Actually it's more of an order, but she phrases it nicely and flashes him a killer smile, and Sam's grateful that she gives him an excuse to talk to her without any of the awkward approach. She's direct and coming from a family like the Winchesters, Sam appreciates that.
"I'm Sam," he says finally. "Sam Winchester."
"Oh, like the gun? Cool."
He watches her tuck a spiralling blonde curl back behind her ear. Her eyes are dark and bright like something wild. He likes that about her too.
"More like Caleb Winchester. Y'know, the English Lit. professor? Published 'Some Principles of Literary Criticism' in 1899?"
She snorts inelegantly on her cocktail then presses her fingertips to her lips to cover her mouth. She stares at him for a moment; there's more intensity in her look than there has been since the conversation started. Then a smile forms.
"Then I guess I'm Jessica Moore... Moore like-" She tilts her head on one side as she thinks. "George Moore, the Irish novelist." She quirks an eyebrow at Sam. "You were thinking Demi, weren't you?"
Honestly? He wasn't. Demi's nowhere near as hot.
:::
Romero was right: the brain is a weak spot for zombies. Of course, the zombie has to have been raised in the right way for that to be a vulnerability, but that's not going to stop Dean from forcing a Living Dead marathon on Sam later in the interests of 'his education as a hunter'.
Sam will worry about that when it comes. Right now, he's more concerned about how to get his thumbs out of the zombie's eyesockets. He can feel undead-brain squidging up under his fingernails and the zombie's still thrashing about.
He yanks hard and his thumbs come free with a disgustingly wet noise. Sam flicks his wrists, shaking free the slippery grey matter. The zombie slumps to the ground.
"Awesome," says Dean, wiping his knife off on his overshirt.
"Who... who did you say you were again?"
Dean looks at the girl. She can't be more than sixteen, small and frightened. He looks to be on the verge of lecturing her about being out this late on her own. In fact, if he gets the chance, Dean'll probably drag her along for the Living Dead marathon too.
"Sam and Dean Winchester," says Sam before Dean gets the chance.
"Oh," she says. Then she looks at him and says, "Like the gun?"
Sam considers the question. He considers the zombie on the ground, still spasming and two mush-filled holes where its eyes used to be. He sighs and wipes his hands off on his jeans.
"Yeah," he says. "Like the gun."
~end
Disambiguation
(gen-fic, 926 words, PG)
In which Sam is nothing like the gun.
The man behind the desk takes the register that John pushes back towards him then frowns at the signature. He looks up with a quizzical half-smile on his red-cheeked shiny face. He glances over the three of them: John looking tired and with one arm in a sling, Sam at his side, clutching a crumpled newspaper from three weeks ago, and Dean with two duffel bags slung over his shoulder and another one in his hand.
“Winchester?” the man says. “Like the gun?”
John opens his mouth to answer but as he’s dragging in a weary breath, Sam beats him to it.
“No. Like the small English town that was its capital in the tenth and eleventh century.”
There’s a silence, sliced by the steady sweep of the fan above their heads. John shoots a look at Sam, who is apparently now intent on reading his ancient newspaper.
The man shrugs and holds out the motel room key. It glints dully in the shade.
“Winchester like the English town, got it.”
:::
Sam finds an empty chair in the classroom and sinks into it. Carefully and slowly so as not to attract any more attention than necessary, Sam takes his books out of his bag. He spends a moment organising his pens in a line so he looks busy and uninterested in the chaos of students being reunited after the long summer break.
“Hey, new kid!”
He looks up and sees a boy staring at him. The boy has an entourage, which is never a good sign. They’re all watching him, sizing up whether he’s going to be a victim or a groupie. The boy who addressed him is fairly tall and has a very square jaw. Sam guesses he’s a swimmer rather than on the football team. Either way, he’s clearly God’s gift to this particular school.
“What’s your name, new kid?” he says.
Well it’s not ‘new kid’, is Sam’s immediate response but he bites it back and manages a smile instead.
“Sam Winchester.”
“Like the gun?”
That’s it. Sam hates him. He hates this school. He hates his dad for dragging him out of the last school. He hates his life. He wishes he were dead.
“Like the bottles for corrosive chemicals in labs,” he says.
So it’s victim rather than groupie. Doesn’t matter, Sam won’t be in this school long enough to care.
:::
Stanford is not what Sam expected. Granted, his expectations had been informed only by the teen-dramas on TV, but still, he finds the best way to cope with the upheaval is to go to any and every welcome event that is being held in a bar. Alcohol plus Sam equals a Sam who can act normal around all these normal people he’s meeting.
It’s the sixth bar this week and that’s where he meets her.
She invites him to buy her a drink. Actually it's more of an order, but she phrases it nicely and flashes him a killer smile, and Sam's grateful that she gives him an excuse to talk to her without any of the awkward approach. She's direct and coming from a family like the Winchesters, Sam appreciates that.
"I'm Sam," he says finally. "Sam Winchester."
"Oh, like the gun? Cool."
He watches her tuck a spiralling blonde curl back behind her ear. Her eyes are dark and bright like something wild. He likes that about her too.
"More like Caleb Winchester. Y'know, the English Lit. professor? Published 'Some Principles of Literary Criticism' in 1899?"
She snorts inelegantly on her cocktail then presses her fingertips to her lips to cover her mouth. She stares at him for a moment; there's more intensity in her look than there has been since the conversation started. Then a smile forms.
"Then I guess I'm Jessica Moore... Moore like-" She tilts her head on one side as she thinks. "George Moore, the Irish novelist." She quirks an eyebrow at Sam. "You were thinking Demi, weren't you?"
Honestly? He wasn't. Demi's nowhere near as hot.
:::
Romero was right: the brain is a weak spot for zombies. Of course, the zombie has to have been raised in the right way for that to be a vulnerability, but that's not going to stop Dean from forcing a Living Dead marathon on Sam later in the interests of 'his education as a hunter'.
Sam will worry about that when it comes. Right now, he's more concerned about how to get his thumbs out of the zombie's eyesockets. He can feel undead-brain squidging up under his fingernails and the zombie's still thrashing about.
He yanks hard and his thumbs come free with a disgustingly wet noise. Sam flicks his wrists, shaking free the slippery grey matter. The zombie slumps to the ground.
"Awesome," says Dean, wiping his knife off on his overshirt.
"Who... who did you say you were again?"
Dean looks at the girl. She can't be more than sixteen, small and frightened. He looks to be on the verge of lecturing her about being out this late on her own. In fact, if he gets the chance, Dean'll probably drag her along for the Living Dead marathon too.
"Sam and Dean Winchester," says Sam before Dean gets the chance.
"Oh," she says. Then she looks at him and says, "Like the gun?"
Sam considers the question. He considers the zombie on the ground, still spasming and two mush-filled holes where its eyes used to be. He sighs and wipes his hands off on his jeans.
"Yeah," he says. "Like the gun."
~end