Fic: Negative Space
Negative Space
Summary: For the sharp_teeth March Madness comment fic meme, for the prompt "Dean was born, Dean died at the age of three. So who/what carries Sam out of the house that night? And why does John keep insisting on calling it, Dean? Is Dean even there?"
Note: This is just weirdness.
__________________________
Negative Space
“Make room,” Dad says.
So Sam makes room, scooting over on the broken-down sofa. He’d like to think there was a breath or a moment of warmth, something tangible and real. But there’s not. Just Sam, settled against the armrest, feet planted on the floor, skinny arms awkward and fingers tangled in on themselves like overgrown thornbushes. Just Sam, and the empty space beside him.
John nods his approval at the table and goes back to work, bending low over the journal and stacks of newspapers. Sam slits a glance to the side. Fights a ridiculous urge to ask, “So whaddaya wanna watch?” of the silence beside him.
In the end, he pulls his feet off the floor, curls in more firmly against the armrest, and reaches for the remote.
--
It’s cold, and dark outside, and the amulet from Uncle Bobby rests heavy in his hand. Dad was supposed to be back today. It’s Christmas and he promised. But he’s not back, and the room is silent without his presence.
“Dean’ll take care of you,” Dad had said, and Sam had to actually physically bite his tongue.
“You’ll be fine for a couple of days.” And he ruffled his hand through Sam’s hair, shouldered his bag, and was gone.
There are two beds in the room. One is Sam’s, covered in books and a few loose candy wrappers. The other belongs to Dean, and is as neatly made as it had been the day they arrived in the room. The poor light from the lamp between the beds falls across the bedspread. Sam looks down at the newspaper-wrapped amulet, and squeezes it slowly in his fist.
Dad was supposed to be back today.
--
“Watch out for your brother,” Dad says, and Sam obediently skirts the empty space where his eyes fall. Doesn’t think about it until afterward, and glances back at the spot.
This is how they move. How they have always moved. Three people moving around each other, the corporeality of one described by the motion of the other two. Motion. Sam moves a lot, has learned to be light on his feet. John buys him soft shoes, reminds him to walk on his toes. Says, “For God’s sake, boy, look where you’re putting your damn feet.”
Sam has learned to make Dean’s shape even when his father isn’t around.
--
There are no ghosts like Dean. That’s what Sam thought it was, for a long time, but it turns out even the most benign ghosts leave evidence. If nothing else, the noticeable drop of air temperature is enough to give their presence away.
Sam knows now that there’s no change in temperature. No spectral images, no ectoplasm or strange odors, no unaccountable sounds. Things don’t move on their own, no unearthly voices whisper from the walls, and Sam has never felt a Presence.
He’s pretty sure Dad hasn’t either.
There’s just this space. At the dinner table, Sam sets a place, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he’s halfway through and then he stands there, alone at the table over an open box of pizza, staring at the paper plate and napkin, and the silence weighs down on him. He’s inside a little circle of light and outside the sky is black and the corners of the room are heavy and dark and empty.
He closes the box and puts it in the fridge.
Dad won’t be back for two more days, at least.
--
Sam takes the amulet from the secret pocket in his bag. It’s still in the wrapping, the newspaper worn and faded by the passage of time. Slowly, with fingers grown deft through years of training, he unwraps it, peeling away the tape and paper, exposing the small brass head to the air.
He weighs it carefully in his palm.
“Don’t come back,” Dad had said.
“If you walk out that door, don’t come back.”
He’s standing in the empty dorm room, his bag at his feet. It’s a double. There’s going to be another person here soon.
He paces the room. Seven steps to the window. Fifteen steps from wall to wall.
He doesn’t move around Dean. It takes two people to make that shape. Sam’s new roommate isn’t going to know how.
Dean isn’t here.
--
Jess burns. She burns.
Sam’s never seen anything like it. Can’t remember feeling heat like this, or sickness, or the warmth of her blood where it’s fallen and smeared on his face. She’s on the ceiling and he has to get her down.
He has to get her down.
When strong hands grab him and haul him backwards, Sam chokes in shock and something like horrible, awful relief. He twists violently around, and finds himself staring into a familiar face.
“Dad?” he gasps, but doesn’t have time for more. Can’t manage any more. Is being dragged backwards and down the stairs and suddenly he’s on the lawn under the stars gasping and coughing and heaving up a lung. The roar of the fire goes on behind him.
He gets to his feet with difficulty, staggering a little and wiping at his face, his streaming eyes. Stares up at the house blazing away in the night. Looks at Dad, scowling and glowering with soot on his face, opening and closing big, scarred hands. Sam’s life goes on burning down into nothing.
Nothing.
He says, “Dad.”
His father looks at him, meets his eyes briefly. Sam quails back from what he sees there.
“Both of you come on,” he barks, and Sam glances briefly to his left, to the empty space in the grass, before hurrying to follow after their father.
The Impala squats low in the grass.
Sam’s going to have to ride in the back.
Again.
--the end--
___________________________
Followed by Lost and Found
___________________________
Um, this just kind of happened. I can't really explain it.
Summary: For the sharp_teeth March Madness comment fic meme, for the prompt "Dean was born, Dean died at the age of three. So who/what carries Sam out of the house that night? And why does John keep insisting on calling it, Dean? Is Dean even there?"
Note: This is just weirdness.
__________________________
Negative Space
“Make room,” Dad says.
So Sam makes room, scooting over on the broken-down sofa. He’d like to think there was a breath or a moment of warmth, something tangible and real. But there’s not. Just Sam, settled against the armrest, feet planted on the floor, skinny arms awkward and fingers tangled in on themselves like overgrown thornbushes. Just Sam, and the empty space beside him.
John nods his approval at the table and goes back to work, bending low over the journal and stacks of newspapers. Sam slits a glance to the side. Fights a ridiculous urge to ask, “So whaddaya wanna watch?” of the silence beside him.
In the end, he pulls his feet off the floor, curls in more firmly against the armrest, and reaches for the remote.
--
It’s cold, and dark outside, and the amulet from Uncle Bobby rests heavy in his hand. Dad was supposed to be back today. It’s Christmas and he promised. But he’s not back, and the room is silent without his presence.
“Dean’ll take care of you,” Dad had said, and Sam had to actually physically bite his tongue.
“You’ll be fine for a couple of days.” And he ruffled his hand through Sam’s hair, shouldered his bag, and was gone.
There are two beds in the room. One is Sam’s, covered in books and a few loose candy wrappers. The other belongs to Dean, and is as neatly made as it had been the day they arrived in the room. The poor light from the lamp between the beds falls across the bedspread. Sam looks down at the newspaper-wrapped amulet, and squeezes it slowly in his fist.
Dad was supposed to be back today.
--
“Watch out for your brother,” Dad says, and Sam obediently skirts the empty space where his eyes fall. Doesn’t think about it until afterward, and glances back at the spot.
This is how they move. How they have always moved. Three people moving around each other, the corporeality of one described by the motion of the other two. Motion. Sam moves a lot, has learned to be light on his feet. John buys him soft shoes, reminds him to walk on his toes. Says, “For God’s sake, boy, look where you’re putting your damn feet.”
Sam has learned to make Dean’s shape even when his father isn’t around.
--
There are no ghosts like Dean. That’s what Sam thought it was, for a long time, but it turns out even the most benign ghosts leave evidence. If nothing else, the noticeable drop of air temperature is enough to give their presence away.
Sam knows now that there’s no change in temperature. No spectral images, no ectoplasm or strange odors, no unaccountable sounds. Things don’t move on their own, no unearthly voices whisper from the walls, and Sam has never felt a Presence.
He’s pretty sure Dad hasn’t either.
There’s just this space. At the dinner table, Sam sets a place, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he’s halfway through and then he stands there, alone at the table over an open box of pizza, staring at the paper plate and napkin, and the silence weighs down on him. He’s inside a little circle of light and outside the sky is black and the corners of the room are heavy and dark and empty.
He closes the box and puts it in the fridge.
Dad won’t be back for two more days, at least.
--
Sam takes the amulet from the secret pocket in his bag. It’s still in the wrapping, the newspaper worn and faded by the passage of time. Slowly, with fingers grown deft through years of training, he unwraps it, peeling away the tape and paper, exposing the small brass head to the air.
He weighs it carefully in his palm.
“Don’t come back,” Dad had said.
“If you walk out that door, don’t come back.”
He’s standing in the empty dorm room, his bag at his feet. It’s a double. There’s going to be another person here soon.
He paces the room. Seven steps to the window. Fifteen steps from wall to wall.
He doesn’t move around Dean. It takes two people to make that shape. Sam’s new roommate isn’t going to know how.
Dean isn’t here.
--
Jess burns. She burns.
Sam’s never seen anything like it. Can’t remember feeling heat like this, or sickness, or the warmth of her blood where it’s fallen and smeared on his face. She’s on the ceiling and he has to get her down.
He has to get her down.
When strong hands grab him and haul him backwards, Sam chokes in shock and something like horrible, awful relief. He twists violently around, and finds himself staring into a familiar face.
“Dad?” he gasps, but doesn’t have time for more. Can’t manage any more. Is being dragged backwards and down the stairs and suddenly he’s on the lawn under the stars gasping and coughing and heaving up a lung. The roar of the fire goes on behind him.
He gets to his feet with difficulty, staggering a little and wiping at his face, his streaming eyes. Stares up at the house blazing away in the night. Looks at Dad, scowling and glowering with soot on his face, opening and closing big, scarred hands. Sam’s life goes on burning down into nothing.
Nothing.
He says, “Dad.”
His father looks at him, meets his eyes briefly. Sam quails back from what he sees there.
“Both of you come on,” he barks, and Sam glances briefly to his left, to the empty space in the grass, before hurrying to follow after their father.
The Impala squats low in the grass.
Sam’s going to have to ride in the back.
Again.
--the end--
___________________________
Followed by Lost and Found
___________________________
Um, this just kind of happened. I can't really explain it.