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Fic Post: Somatic, Supernatural
I... cannot explain this one. It just is. It's a little weird; an experiment in perspective writing, if you will.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Possibly for Nightmare, although it’s more conceptual than plot-oriented.
Feedback: Is snuggled like a firstborn child. Even if it's ugly.
Summary: Sam, on a bad day and from the outside.
Somatic
He’s crazy.
James has been watching him for a good while now, and that’s the one thing he’s sure of. The guy is pacing back and forth, one shoulder trailing against the wall. He’s talking quietly to himself, and that’s not a sign of mental stability in anyone’s book. There’s not much light down here, but it’s enough to see that. James might be tempted to try rushing him, bound hands be damned, if there weren’t a tie running from the cuffs on his wrists to the old furnace at his back. He knows he’d be jerked down like a dog on a leash before he got halfway across the space between them.
He’s afraid to call attention to himself, but there’s nothing else left to try. “Hey. Hey, buddy.”
The guy stops dead, and his head snaps up and towards James, and for the first time James sees how young he is. Not much older than his own Tommy, probably. “Look, I don’t know what I did to piss you off, kid, but I promise I won’t do it again. Mind letting me go?”
The kid blinks at him a few times, and opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
James is about ready to put him down as slow or high when he finally straightens and seems to shake it off. “That’s… not a good idea.”
James disagrees. “Now, see, I really can’t stick around. My wife, she’s expecting me home after my shift, and she’ll worry if I don’t get there soon.”
He’s careful to keep his voice as light as he can while the metal digs into his wrist and his ass goes numb from the concrete. Twenty years on the force and more than a few domestic disturbance calls have taught him about hostage negotiation. He knows about making yourself and the victims human to the perp, and he’s working hard at that because tonight he’s wearing both hats. It seems to be working, and the kid is looking at him with more curiosity than homicidal intent.
“Who are you?”
He takes this as a good sign. “I’m James. James Grendle. You?”
The kid swallows hard, arms wrapped tightly around himself, but he answers. “Sam.”
“So, Sam. I gotta tell you, I don’t quite know what’s going on here. You want to maybe fill me in?”
Sam’s jaw flexes. “What do you remember?”
James can play along. “I was driving home – I work the late shift one week a month – and saw some lights in the old Parson house from the road. I stopped in to take a look, make sure the local kids weren’t up to trouble again. Place is supposed to be haunted, and they’ve been breaking in since I can remember. Hell, I did it when I was their age, too.” He grins, doing his best to look friendly. “I remember checking the first floor, going up the stairs to the second… and then I woke up here. I’m guessing you had something to do with that.”
Sam gives him another one of those blank looks before saying, slowly, “Yeah. I might have.”
James nods. “Yeah. It’s okay, though. You can just turn me loose and we’ll both get out of here, go home. No hard feelings.”
Sam's teeth glint a little in their wry grin, and James’ hopes fall. Not an idiot, then. Sam sighs and leans harder into the far wall, sliding down without a word.
James regroups. “Okay. Well, if we’ll be here a while, we should at least get to know each other a little. Like I said, I’m married. Twenty-five years in August. My wife is Sarah, and our boy is Tommy.”
Sam’s head is back in the deepest shadows, and James can’t read his face at all.
“What about you? You have any family?”
The sound that he hears is low and choked, like a laugh that isn’t quite. “Yeah. My dad. And my brother, Dean.”
The silence after is charged somehow, and James clears his throat. “You live around here? You don’t look familiar.”
A little of the tension leaves his voice. “No. We were – we are just passing through. Dean and I. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“So what brings you to town? Not much going on this time of year. We get real busy in July for the fair, but mostly it’s pretty quiet.”
Sam doesn’t answer right away.
“We were in the neighborhood, and we heard about the haunted house. Thought we’d check it out. It’s kind of… it’s something that we do.”
James nods companionably. “My wife and I like the ghost towns, ourselves. We took the kid to them all the time when he was younger. Just pack up the cooler and drive on out. You do that with your family, take trips?”
Sam snorts. “Something like that.”
He doesn’t volunteer any more, and James isn’t sure what to say next. They are quiet for a while instead. It’s been long enough that he’s startled when there’s a soft hiss from the darkness. Looking up, he can just make out the kid pinching his forehead. There’s the feel of something solid and heavy in James’ hand for a moment, and he thinks maybe he didn’t go down without a fight. He’s gratified by that, especially as his lip stings like it’s split and his own head aches a little. He tries, “Sorry about that.”
Sam doesn’t raise his head, just keeps rubbing. “Not your fault.” It sounds like an automatic response, learned and familiar.
“In my defense, I was acting in my defense. I think.”
Sam hisses again. “Yeah, yeah you were. You… it wasn’t your fault. I’m used to it, actually. I’ve had a lot of practice with headaches lately.” He laughs once, low and dark.
It’s probably the wrong move, but the tension is starting to wear on him. “What do you plan to do with me, if you’re not going to let me go?”
He doesn’t breathe until Sam looks up and says, surprised, “No, it’s not… I’ll let you go. Just not yet. Soon, though.” His head goes back into his hand. “A few hours. Sunrise should do it.”
He doesn’t know what to make of that. “Why the hold up?”
Sam freezes. After a moment, he says quietly, “Dean will be back then. I need to wait for him.”
They are quiet again for a while. James works his wrists back and forth in the cuffs, not thinking about how much flack he’ll get if the boys down at the station ever hear that he was trussed up with his own gear. Never mind that the guy who did it is half his age and has a good five inches on him. And broad shoulders. It won’t make a difference.
That’s assuming he gets out of this. Suddenly, he doesn’t like the silence.
“So, tell me about your family. What’s your dad like?”
“Dad is… Huh. I don’t really know.” There’s a soft huff, like surprised laughter. “That might be part of the problem.”
“You don’t get along?”
“Not for years.” Another pause, and then Sam sounds almost wistful. Definitely sad. “I think maybe we’d do better now. We finally have something in common.”
“You don’t see each other much, huh?”
The tone is still soft. “No. We’ve really only talked once in the last few years, and that… didn’t go well.”
James is thinking about not seeing his son for that long. “I’m sure he misses you.”
“Yeah. I actually think he might.” Sam sounds a little bemused. “I think I might miss him, too.”
James doesn’t know what to say to that.
“How about your brother? What’s he like?”
“Dean?” For the first time, James can hear a smile in his voice. It makes it warmer. “Dean… Dean’s about as different from me as you can get. A little cocky, a lot corny. Smarter than he thinks. Smarter than he thinks I think.”
There’s a considering pause. “He’s tough. Never lets anything stop him.” He snorts. “He’s a total marshmallow, though, under it all. Loves the kind of music that requires spandex and big hair. And his car. It’s really not healthy to be that attached to an inanimate object.” A breath. Then, quieter, “And me. He doesn’t say it, but I know.” That last holds an odd intensity.
After a beat of silence, Sam clears his throat. His tone is light again. “Has the common sense of a mule, sometimes. He’s not afraid of much of anything. Except spiders. Really doesn’t like spiders.” The smile sounds like a grin now.
James’ lips curve up involuntarily. “Not so fond of them, myself. I’m a little glad the lighting in here is bad, truth be told.”
Sam laughs faintly. “Yeah. Me too.”
Finally, he sighs and drags himself to his feet. The part of James that is a caregiver knows that the movement is probably good, even despite the possible spine injuries, that going to sleep would be a bad idea with a head wound. The rest of James – the part that is being held against his will and afraid – is rooting for Sam to sit back down.
He doesn’t, though. Ten minutes later he’s still pacing, slowly, bracing one hand against the wall. James is following him with his eyes, and catches it immediately when Sam stops. He holds himself very still, and then stumbles away. The basement is divided into three sections, and Sam angles for the farthest. James can hear him retching, and now he’s sure it’s at least a concussion.
When the sound stops and Sam doesn’t return, James starts pulling at his hands in earnest. Visions of being trapped down here until he starves are starting to invade, and he’s realizing that he needs Sam alive and preferably awake. All the parts of him are regretting his earlier train of thought by the time Sam staggers slowly back into view.
James calls his name, tries to get his attention, maybe tries to get him to let him go again, but Sam doesn’t acknowledge him. He goes back to the wall and slides down it, lying awkwardly against the damp bricks. He doesn’t move any more, and James finally gives up and sits back, hands clenched behind him.
Sam moans quietly and shifts a bit. James yawns.
“Welcome back.”
Sam moans again in response.
“Head hurts.”
James nods sympathetically. “Yeah. I’ll bet it does.”
Sam gets slowly to his feet, shuffling across the room, and James thinks he’s going to be sick again. He only makes it halfway to the entrance, though, before his knees give out. The light’s good enough there that James can see his face a little better, and it’s written in lines of pain.
James keeps his voice soft. “Sam. Sam, let me help you.”
“Do me a favor.” His voice is harsh at the edges, shaking a little.
James’ heart jumps into his throat. “Sure. Just let me go and I’ll –“
“When you see Dean, tell him I said I was sorry. Tell him it wasn’t his fault. Tell him it was okay. Please.” Sam is staring straight at James now, and he can’t look away. Sam’s teeth are clenched and his chest is rising with gasps of air.
James can’t help but nod.
Sam holds his eyes for a moment longer, and then curls into himself, forehead pressed to the ground. One hand is stretched out into the light, and James can see his fingers trying to claw through the concrete. He’s making high, choked sounds, like sobs caught in his throat, and James’ hands ache.
And that’s when it gets strange.
The floorboards above them rattle, dust raining down on them. The air suddenly feels thick and charged, like molasses and ozone. It’s loud and frantic, and James is sure the house is going to crash over them and bring hell with it. It builds until the world snaps tight, and the grime-coated windows high on the walls shatter all at once. Then it just bleeds out. The floor goes still, and he can hear the crickets outside and his own harsh breath within.
He can taste the dust on his tongue, drying out his mouth. When he blinks it from his eyes, he sees Sam has fallen to his side, still curled, and his back is to James. His shoulders don’t look so broad.
It’s close to an hour, and James’ voice is giving out when he finally gets a response. By then, he’s talking just to hear himself. “Hey. Hey, kid. Hey, come on, Sammy, talk to me here. It’s getting awfully lonely without any company.”
“It’s Sam.” He doesn’t move, and it’s almost too low to make out, but it’s there.
“My apologies.” James sighs softly with relief, and can’t tell anymore which of them it’s for. “I understand. My wife is the only one who gets to call me Jim.”
Sam rolls onto his back, groaning under his breath. He lays there panting for a moment before pushing himself up one-handed. Another few minutes see him propped against the wall again, mostly sitting.
James asks quietly, because he can’t not, “What happened there?”
Sam sighs. “Me. I have this ‘gift’, sometimes. Not when I need it, of course. It would really have helped to see this one coming.” James can hear the quotes, along with the resigned loathing. “Sorry.”
James thinks that, of all that’s happened tonight, it’s funny that this is what the kid apologizes for. He laughs nervously. “I have to tell you, if I hadn’t seen it myself…”
Sam huffs a laugh, too. “I get that a lot.”
“Yeah, yeah, I bet.”
There’s nothing for a good while. James picks at the rope some more, and Sam doesn’t move. He might be unconscious again.
James licks his lips, decides to go for it, because this can’t get much worse. “Hey, Sam. You need to let me go now.”
Silence.
“Sam.”
“Can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He keeps his voice low and earnest. “You’re not doing so good. I think maybe we need to get you some help. I can do that, but you need to let me loose, here.”
“Can’t. Sorry.” He sounds honestly regretful. He also sounds slurred.
“Sam. Think about this. I need to get home. Sarah and Tommy are waiting on me. If you fall asleep, who’s going to let me out of these cuffs, huh?”
“Dean. He’ll be back.”
James’ voice is still pitched soothingly. “I know, but we can’t really wait for him. How ‘bout we leave him a note?”
“No. Need to stay here. Can’t lose him.” He’s certain, if confused.
“We won’t lose him. He’ll find us. We’ll probably meet him coming in.”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, we’ll find Dean. Come on, Sam.”
“Dean, I’m sorry. I tried. Really, really did.” A chill chases its way up James’ spine.
“Sam, Dean’s not here. I need you to focus now.”
“Nothing else you could have done. Nothing…” He trails off, mumbling something too quiet for James to hear.
James shouts until he’s hoarse, but this time he doesn’t get an answer.
Faint pink light is seeping through the cracked windows when he feels it. He’s been chilled all along, sitting on the ground, and the cool of the night coming in through the broken glass hasn’t helped. May in Nevada is cold before sunrise. Just now he’s feeling flushed, however, and it’s just his luck he’ll get a fever out of this. He’ll probably escape kidnapping only to catch his death of cold. The heat is rising in him, though, faster than it should. For a moment, everything blazes white.
He blinks the world back into focus and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes to clear the flares. It’s then that he realizes the handcuffs are off. He spins to find them lying on the ground behind him, a small sliver of metal beside them. He stares.
And then he’s moving. He stands quickly, and has to catch himself on the furnace as his legs give out. He drags himself to the stairs while the nerves are still coming alive again. At the foot of them, he turns to look at Sam, lying still in the shadows at the base of the wall. The boy needs help, whatever he’s done.
James makes his way stiffly back, and kneels. He checks, warily, and finds a pulse under his fingers. It’s slow and unsteady. Sam doesn’t move. James strips the jacket off his shoulders and slides it under Sam’s head, careful to support his neck. It’s all he can do on his own. There’s no phone out this far, and he’ll have to drive a ways until he can get help.
He feels torn, and reluctant to go, but makes it up the stairs and out the front door. And there he stops.
His truck is gone. The blue Ford that he’d parked last night is nowhere to be seen. He can’t explain that, but under the circumstances he’s willing to save it for later. He tries the door of the classic car that’s in its place and finds it unlocked. There are no keys above the visor, but part of a country officer’s job is to be locksmith and dogcatcher and mechanic. He slips under the wheel and has the engine running in a few minutes, and then he’s racing down the long drive and toward the nearest neighbors.
He’s a good three miles down the road when true dawn hits. The car is aiming northeast, and the sun crawls over the hood and dash, through the glass. His fingers turn gold where the light hits them.
And suddenly he remembers hearing the step creak behind him, realizing there was someone only a foot or so away. He remembers the kid, Sam – no, not Sam, but… he remembers the gun in his face and the wide eyes behind it. He remembers reaching for his own and not finding it, not even finding the holster. There’s something heavy in his hand, though, and he knows without looking that it’s a rifle. He swings the other arm up to knock the kid’s gun away, already bringing the rifle around against the side of his head. The kid falls without a sound.
He doesn’t stay that way, though. James makes it to the front door, although he doesn’t remember how. His body is flashing hot and cold now, his ears are ringing, and he thinks maybe he’s in shock. His hand is on the door handle when he’s tackled from behind, the rifle knocked away. They roll together, and James fights for his life. He’s not giving in. He’s not ready, yet.
Suddenly he gets a break and they hit a wall, the kid taking the brunt of it. James has just enough time to scramble up and away. His opponent is slower, but pulling himself up, and James is out of options. There’s a weight at the small of his back, and he doesn’t have time to question it as he draws and fires. It’s all instinct, smooth and fluid in a way that does and doesn’t feel right, and the kid goes down.
James stands still for a moment, just seeing it. Then his hands begin to shake, and years of training make him flip the safety on before the gun falls from his grasp. The heat rushes into him, sucking the air from his lungs, and there’s a sound like screaming in his ears.
When he comes to, his hands are cuffed behind him and the kid is pacing carefully. He can see the hunched shoulders, now, the arm wrapped tight around his ribs. It’s too dark to see the blood, but he knows it’s there.
He realizes it isn’t the kid who’s been out of his mind all this time.
He glances down to his hands on the wheel now, clenched tight, and they aren’t his hands. His fingers are longer, his palms not so broad. He can feel the grip of the wheel and the cool, smooth metal of the gun barrel under them, and then suddenly they aren’t his hands. He’s burning. He’s watching with no control now, and the car is slamming to a halt and spinning around with tires screaming. The lips whispering prayers and the teeth grinding curses aren’t his either. He’s abruptly just along for the ride.
The moment they’re through the front door the cold returns. It’s like he’s been dunked in ice water, and it makes him stop in place. Then there’s a young man ahead of him, running for the basement stairs and screaming a name that James wasn’t allowed to say. He understands, now.
It’s less than a blink that takes him downstairs, by the back wall, and he watches the man race toward him. He’s handsome, this one, with a strong face and a long stride. He’s far younger than James. He’s also terrified.
The light through the windows is just enough to make out the hazel of his eyes, and there’s just enough of him left in James to recognize them as Sam’s, too. This is Dean, he realizes.
Dean is on his knees by Sam, reaching hands to his face. His voice is deceptively low, almost calm. “Sam. Sammy, come on.” He shakes him a little, hysteria creeping into the motion. “Now, Sam. Wake up.”
Sam blinks once, slowly, and then again. Dean brushes the bangs off his forehead. “Hey. Hey. There you are.”
Sam just looks at him for a moment. Then his lips twist up at the edges, just a little, and his eyes brighten. “Dean.”
Dean grins tightly. “The one and only.”
Sam sighs. “That’s good. World couldn’t handle more.”
He seems to fade, then, faint smile still in place but eyes going unfocused.
“No. No, come on, eyes on me.” Dean slaps him lightly, and then a little harder. “No. Huh-uh, college boy. You’re smart enough to know it doesn’t work this way. You don’t get to check out on me.”
The voice is mumbled. “Sorry.”
The look in Dean’s eyes makes James think of the day his son was born, and the first time James couldn’t fix everything. “I don’t want sorry. Let’s go, Sam. We need to get you to a hospital.”
Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean calls his name a few more times before his voice breaks on a curse. His hands flutter awkwardly for a moment, trying to do the least damage, before he slips Sam forward and himself behind him. He stands, arms linked around his brother’s ribcage, and drags him across the floor.
He’s panting by the time they get to the top of the stairs, but he doesn’t stop. Not until he reaches the front door, where James is standing.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
James holds his hands out, placating, but Dean doesn’t wait. He walks right through him and keeps going, out the door and down the steps. James stands behind him as he props Sam against the car and opens the passenger-side door.
“I know where the hospital is.”
Dean freezes in the act of draping Sam into the seat. After a beat, he lays Sam’s hand in his lap and closes the door. He turns to look at James, hard and appraising.
“I’m sorry.”
Dean flexes his jaw and nods. “Do it.”
This time, he feels the heat without becoming it. His hands are moving, turning the keys, shifting the gears, but he knows all the while that they are borrowed. When they reach the only hospital for sixty miles, he gives them back without resistance. Almost without regret.
The nurses pull Sam away, and Dean stands in the emergency room looking lost and young as he mechanically answers questions of medical history and insurance. James is fairly certain the first is a glossed-over version of the truth and the second is a full lie. Dean doesn’t look much like a Domiguez.
When an officer comes to take his statement, a story about a crazed hitchhiker rolls off of Dean’s tongue. He’s both convincing and honestly shell-shocked, and the officer takes pity on him and agrees to continue the whole matter after word of Sam comes through. James is surprised to find the man isn’t anyone he knows. The department has always been small, and for the first time he wonders how long it’s been since he never made it home.
There’s really nothing else for him to do, so he stays. He sits beside Dean in the waiting room, and doesn’t think too hard about the logistics of the chair. He follows when Dean abruptly stands and finds a bathroom, listens until it’s just painful dry heaves. He watches Dean scrub his hands under the faucet until Sam’s blood is gone and he’s in danger of replacing it with his own. Finally, James steps forward, hand almost-touching Dean’s shoulder. It’s like static electricity skating over his palm.
Dean doesn’t look up. “Don’t.”
When he goes back to the hard chairs, James follows.
No one else seems to see him, but no one tries to occupy his space either. He’s not sure whether that’s because of him or his proximity to Dean, who is screaming away in every line of his body. Hours pass. A few times, Dean pulls a small phone from his pocket – smaller than any James’ ever seen, and it takes him a while to understand what it is, exactly – and stares at it. Each time he slips it away again without opening it, and his eyes flick to the doors separating him from Sam.
Dean’s head is resting back against the wall and his eyes are closed when the news comes. He snaps to attention, though, before James can even make a sound. He weaves a bit on his feet, but his eyes are flickering over the doctor’s face piercingly. His shoulders drop and his head bows even as the man’s mouth opens.
There are words about blood loss and blunt force trauma. There are others about recovery and visitation, however. It isn’t good, but it will be, and when it’s over Dean whispers, Thank you.
He’s not speaking to the doctor, and sure as hell not to James.
Less than an hour later, Dean goes to Sam. He puts a hand lightly on his brother’s head, thumb rubbing gently just above his eyebrows, and then curls over until his forehead is against the top of Sam’s shoulder. His back is to James and the rest of the world, and his shoulders are shaking. James stands guard in the doorway and wonders why he’s still here.
His answer comes with the morning. The promised deputy arrives to take Dean’s statement. He’s tall and lanky, blond hair neatly trimmed and buckles all shined. He has his father’s eyes.
James aches. He’s missed so much, and hasn’t even known until now.
The interview is professional and concise, and Dean manages it with considerable dexterity. It isn’t until it’s almost over that his eyes slide over James and catch. He yanks them away again quickly and finishes his sentence. Officer Thomas Grendle stands and offers him a hand, promising to be back for Sam’s statement when he’s conscious. He gives his word that they will do their best to find the attacker. Underneath the placid look, he’s suspicious as all hell, and James’ chest is full. James watches him turn to go and feels the weight of Dean’s eyes.
“Wait.”
Tommy looks back. “Yes, Mr. Dominguez?”
“He’s proud of you.”
Tommy freezes, then turns to face him fully. He opens his mouth, and then snaps it closed. Finally, he swallows hard. “Who?”
Dean doesn’t answer, just looks at him steadily.
Tommy’s voice is strangled. “You were out there?”
Dean nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s what we do.”
“And your brother?” He’s trying to pull his professionalism around him.
“It was an accident.” The muscles in Dean’s throat move. “It was a fucking accident, and it will never happen again.”
Tommy gives him a long, careful look. Finally, he nods.
“They never found out who did it.”
Dean shakes his head. “He didn’t know, either. It was that fast.”
“I go out there, every year. Nothing. Last night was the first time I haven’t gone. Other people see him all the time.”
Dean nods. “It’s okay. He sees you.”
And James does, and it’s enough. It’s all that he needs.
He’s ready.
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