SPN: Fourteen by Legoline
Title: Fourteen
Author: legoline
Notes: PG-13. Gen, teen!chesters, angst. Probably a little out of sync with the canon established in 4x13. 1,300 words.
Summary: He can lose them any day, every time they go on one of their hunts.
Fourteen
by Steffi
The engine of the Impala roars one last time before it dies with an exhausted grumble. A moment passes, then a door creaks open and is smashed shut, and the time that it takes until the other door to the passenger seat opens is precisely the time Dad needs until he’s walked around the trunk of the car.
Sam digs his fingers deeply into his stuffed bear and ignores the tiny voice in his head that tells him that at fourteen, he shouldn’t hold on to a stuffed animal like a baby anymore. Sam’s stomach cramps, and he releases a slow breath. The hair on his neck stand up one by one. Sam shuts his eyes, and focuses on the sounds coming from the drive way.
He hates this town, hates this old shit hole of a house whose walls barely hold together, hates the room he shares with Dean especially and come to think of it, hates holding on to stuffed animals too. He tosses it away with a short movement of his hand, and it rolls over the floor a little until it bumps against the frame of Dean’s bed.
The sheets on Dean’s bed are neatly folded for once. Sam has done that. He couldn’t stand looking at the bed the way Dean left it that night.
The other door creaks, then smashes shut. Muffled voices come in from across the lawn. Sam pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around him. His stomach begins doing somersaults.
He didn’t visit Dean in hospital this time, not once. He couldn’t have looked him in the eye. Not after the things he’d said.
Dean had been especially annoying that evening. Sam had been working on his schoolwork, and Dean had known exactly just how important the homework was for Sam’s grade. Still, he just wouldn’t shut up. Dean kept chatting and mocking him, snatching the paper and books from Sam and keeping it out of Sam’s reach, singing along to the music from his walkman loudly.
Only later, when Sam was lying in his bed alone and the empty house echoed with stillness, Sam realised that Dean had just been nervous about the hunt. They’d gone out to kill a particularly nasty spirit that night, and Sam hadn’t noticed how anxious Dean had been about going out and hunting it. If he’d realised, Sam wouldn’t have said those things to him. When the phone had rung at five in the morning, Sam had known that something had gone wrong.
The knob to the front door turns and the thuds of heavy steps resound in the hallway. Sam hugs his legs tighter. He can’t do this. He wants to run away. Maybe climb out of the window, down the rain pipe. He could do that. He can say hello to Dean later.
He’d called him a jerk and a moron. He’d called him a loser and too dumb to read a picture book. Dean had laughed about that. When Sam had shouted that just because Dean liked to be a failure it didn’t mean Sam would want to become a hunter too, Dean’s face had, for a moment, lost all expression. He’d looked hurt in a way that Sam had never seen him before.
Dean had nodded quietly, and closed the door behind him. He’d not bothered Sam for the rest of the evening and when Dad and Dean left the house around ten, Sam had been too stubborn to tell them to be careful. Seven hours later Dad had called to say that there’d been an accident.
They’re ascending the stairs now, slowly. Dad’s talking to Dean, sounding like he’s trying to half support Dean, half ordering him to take it easy. Dean’s leg is broken, Dad said. Nothing that won’t heal. Still, Sam had refused to visit Dean at hospital. He’d used schoolwork as excuses as best as he could, and Dad for once hadn’t pressed the matter. Maybe Dean had told him he didn’t want to see Sam either.
He could’ve lost Dean that night, or Dad for that matter. This time, it was just a broken leg, but judging from Dad’s words, it’d been a close call.
He can lose them any day, every time they go on one of their hunts. Every time they drag him along. It’s going to happen one day. It’s just a matter of time.
Sam eyes the stuffed animal now glancing at him from the ground and wishes for a heartbeat he wouldn’t have thrown it away. Dad and Dean are approaching, just outside the door. His instincts tell him to run, and the window looks so tempting. But his feet won’t move, and so Sam sits on the bed, eyes fixed on the ground, and watches as the door slides open across the carpet, opening to a rectangle.
Shit, it’s too late to run now. He should’ve run. He could’ve faced Dean later. Or maybe he could’ve run away for good. If he doesn’t know when they’re going on hunts, he doesn’t have to worry.
Shoes appear. Dad’s boots. Then crutches, then a leg in a cast. Sam’s throat dries up.
Dean must be mad. Sam won’t blame him if he hates his annoying little brother now. He’ll just keep out of Dean’s way. That’ll make it easier for them, he hopes. If only he hadn’t said those stupid things, if only he’d said “Be careful.” That wouldn’t have been so hard, right?
He’s cold. His heart is racing. Dean’s feet are on the floor.
“I’ll be right back,” Dad says and his feet walk out of the door and down the stairs again. The crutches and the cast and Dean’s left foot remain where they are. Sam wants to cry, he is that scared, but fourteen-year olds don’t cry, especially fourteen-year old Winchesters.
Dean takes an awkward step forward, and Sam pulls his shoulders up, attempting to shrink in size.
He could’ve lost Dean. He doesn’t even want to think about it. He could’ve lost him and he acted like the bitch that Dean says he is. He--
“Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam jerks at the use of his nickname. Dean doesn’t sound angry, more…sad, Sam guesses. Yes, that’s it. Sad. Sam stubbornly chokes down a tear.
“You didn’t come to visit me in hospital.” Again, no anger.
Sam shakes his head.
“Sam…,” Dean begins and Sam winces, oh shit, here it comes, here it comes…
“Sam, are you still mad at me? ‘Cause I’m sorry about that…”
Sam thinks that his ears must be playing a trick at him. He lifts his eyes though, slowly, until they meet Dean’s gaze. Dean looks pale and exhausted, like it’s costing him a lot of strength to keep on his feet. He glances at Sam and there’s worry in his eyes, like he’s really afraid that Sam might still be mad at him.
Sam’s not quite sure what happens next. All he knows that one moment he’s sitting huddled on the bed, and the next moment he’s flinging his arms around Dean’s waist and pulling his brother into a hug.
Dean stiffens for a moment in surprise, before he lets go of one of the crutches and puts one arm around Sam’s shoulders.
“Be careful next time,” Sam mutters.
Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder lightly. “You know me, Sammy.”
“Yeah,” Sam replies. “Exactly.”
He withdraws from the embrace then even though he doesn’t really want to, but Dean’s not all that big on hugging and stuff. Sam steps back and twitches his mouth into a half-smile, and then Dad’s voice thunders through the house that pizza’s going to get there in five minutes.
“What do you say, Sammy,” Dean says, cocking his head. “How about pizza and an old Star Wars video?”
Sam nods enthusiastically. As he passes Dean by, he says, “You know, I think Han Solo is the real hero of that story.”
He glances up at Dean, and Dean smiles.
-end-
Author: legoline
Notes: PG-13. Gen, teen!chesters, angst. Probably a little out of sync with the canon established in 4x13. 1,300 words.
Summary: He can lose them any day, every time they go on one of their hunts.
Fourteen
by Steffi
The engine of the Impala roars one last time before it dies with an exhausted grumble. A moment passes, then a door creaks open and is smashed shut, and the time that it takes until the other door to the passenger seat opens is precisely the time Dad needs until he’s walked around the trunk of the car.
Sam digs his fingers deeply into his stuffed bear and ignores the tiny voice in his head that tells him that at fourteen, he shouldn’t hold on to a stuffed animal like a baby anymore. Sam’s stomach cramps, and he releases a slow breath. The hair on his neck stand up one by one. Sam shuts his eyes, and focuses on the sounds coming from the drive way.
He hates this town, hates this old shit hole of a house whose walls barely hold together, hates the room he shares with Dean especially and come to think of it, hates holding on to stuffed animals too. He tosses it away with a short movement of his hand, and it rolls over the floor a little until it bumps against the frame of Dean’s bed.
The sheets on Dean’s bed are neatly folded for once. Sam has done that. He couldn’t stand looking at the bed the way Dean left it that night.
The other door creaks, then smashes shut. Muffled voices come in from across the lawn. Sam pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around him. His stomach begins doing somersaults.
He didn’t visit Dean in hospital this time, not once. He couldn’t have looked him in the eye. Not after the things he’d said.
Dean had been especially annoying that evening. Sam had been working on his schoolwork, and Dean had known exactly just how important the homework was for Sam’s grade. Still, he just wouldn’t shut up. Dean kept chatting and mocking him, snatching the paper and books from Sam and keeping it out of Sam’s reach, singing along to the music from his walkman loudly.
Only later, when Sam was lying in his bed alone and the empty house echoed with stillness, Sam realised that Dean had just been nervous about the hunt. They’d gone out to kill a particularly nasty spirit that night, and Sam hadn’t noticed how anxious Dean had been about going out and hunting it. If he’d realised, Sam wouldn’t have said those things to him. When the phone had rung at five in the morning, Sam had known that something had gone wrong.
The knob to the front door turns and the thuds of heavy steps resound in the hallway. Sam hugs his legs tighter. He can’t do this. He wants to run away. Maybe climb out of the window, down the rain pipe. He could do that. He can say hello to Dean later.
He’d called him a jerk and a moron. He’d called him a loser and too dumb to read a picture book. Dean had laughed about that. When Sam had shouted that just because Dean liked to be a failure it didn’t mean Sam would want to become a hunter too, Dean’s face had, for a moment, lost all expression. He’d looked hurt in a way that Sam had never seen him before.
Dean had nodded quietly, and closed the door behind him. He’d not bothered Sam for the rest of the evening and when Dad and Dean left the house around ten, Sam had been too stubborn to tell them to be careful. Seven hours later Dad had called to say that there’d been an accident.
They’re ascending the stairs now, slowly. Dad’s talking to Dean, sounding like he’s trying to half support Dean, half ordering him to take it easy. Dean’s leg is broken, Dad said. Nothing that won’t heal. Still, Sam had refused to visit Dean at hospital. He’d used schoolwork as excuses as best as he could, and Dad for once hadn’t pressed the matter. Maybe Dean had told him he didn’t want to see Sam either.
He could’ve lost Dean that night, or Dad for that matter. This time, it was just a broken leg, but judging from Dad’s words, it’d been a close call.
He can lose them any day, every time they go on one of their hunts. Every time they drag him along. It’s going to happen one day. It’s just a matter of time.
Sam eyes the stuffed animal now glancing at him from the ground and wishes for a heartbeat he wouldn’t have thrown it away. Dad and Dean are approaching, just outside the door. His instincts tell him to run, and the window looks so tempting. But his feet won’t move, and so Sam sits on the bed, eyes fixed on the ground, and watches as the door slides open across the carpet, opening to a rectangle.
Shit, it’s too late to run now. He should’ve run. He could’ve faced Dean later. Or maybe he could’ve run away for good. If he doesn’t know when they’re going on hunts, he doesn’t have to worry.
Shoes appear. Dad’s boots. Then crutches, then a leg in a cast. Sam’s throat dries up.
Dean must be mad. Sam won’t blame him if he hates his annoying little brother now. He’ll just keep out of Dean’s way. That’ll make it easier for them, he hopes. If only he hadn’t said those stupid things, if only he’d said “Be careful.” That wouldn’t have been so hard, right?
He’s cold. His heart is racing. Dean’s feet are on the floor.
“I’ll be right back,” Dad says and his feet walk out of the door and down the stairs again. The crutches and the cast and Dean’s left foot remain where they are. Sam wants to cry, he is that scared, but fourteen-year olds don’t cry, especially fourteen-year old Winchesters.
Dean takes an awkward step forward, and Sam pulls his shoulders up, attempting to shrink in size.
He could’ve lost Dean. He doesn’t even want to think about it. He could’ve lost him and he acted like the bitch that Dean says he is. He--
“Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam jerks at the use of his nickname. Dean doesn’t sound angry, more…sad, Sam guesses. Yes, that’s it. Sad. Sam stubbornly chokes down a tear.
“You didn’t come to visit me in hospital.” Again, no anger.
Sam shakes his head.
“Sam…,” Dean begins and Sam winces, oh shit, here it comes, here it comes…
“Sam, are you still mad at me? ‘Cause I’m sorry about that…”
Sam thinks that his ears must be playing a trick at him. He lifts his eyes though, slowly, until they meet Dean’s gaze. Dean looks pale and exhausted, like it’s costing him a lot of strength to keep on his feet. He glances at Sam and there’s worry in his eyes, like he’s really afraid that Sam might still be mad at him.
Sam’s not quite sure what happens next. All he knows that one moment he’s sitting huddled on the bed, and the next moment he’s flinging his arms around Dean’s waist and pulling his brother into a hug.
Dean stiffens for a moment in surprise, before he lets go of one of the crutches and puts one arm around Sam’s shoulders.
“Be careful next time,” Sam mutters.
Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder lightly. “You know me, Sammy.”
“Yeah,” Sam replies. “Exactly.”
He withdraws from the embrace then even though he doesn’t really want to, but Dean’s not all that big on hugging and stuff. Sam steps back and twitches his mouth into a half-smile, and then Dad’s voice thunders through the house that pizza’s going to get there in five minutes.
“What do you say, Sammy,” Dean says, cocking his head. “How about pizza and an old Star Wars video?”
Sam nods enthusiastically. As he passes Dean by, he says, “You know, I think Han Solo is the real hero of that story.”
He glances up at Dean, and Dean smiles.
-end-