Hi! One time, I read a fanfic of the book Hush, Hush with characters from a show. I decided to do something like this. I own nothing.
This is the story Wake by Lisa McMann re-written with Supernatural characters. Sam is Janie, Lucifer is Cable, Dean is Carrie, Cas is Stu, and so on. Some original characters were left in from the book. I own nothing of Wake or Supernatural. Please enjoy!
SIX MINUTES
December 9, 2005, 12:55 p.m.
Sam Winchester's math book slips from his fingers. He grips the edge of the table in the school library. Everything goes black and silent. He sighs and rests his head on the table. Tries to pull himself out of it, but fails miserably. He's too tired today. Too hungry. He really doesn't have time for this. And then.
He's sitting in the bleachers in the football stadium, blinking under the lights, silent among the roars of the crowd.
He glances at the people sitting in the bleachers around him -fellow classmates, parents- trying to spot the dreamer. He can tell this dreamer is afraid, but where is he? Then he looks to the football field, finds him, rolls his eyes.
It's Ian Drake, no question about it. He is, after all, the only naked player on the field for the homecoming game.
Nobody seems to notice or care, except him. The ball is snapped and the lines collide, but Ian is covering himself with his hands, hopping from one foot to the other. Ian's panics increases. Sam's fingers tingle and go numb.
Ian looks over to Sam, eyes pleading, as the football moves toward him, a bullet in slow motion. "Help," he says.
Sam thinks about helping him. Wonders what it would take to change the course, of Ian's dream. He even considers that a boost of confidence to the star receiver the day before the big game could put Lawrence High in the running for the Regional Class A Championship.
But Ian's really a jerk. He won't appreciate it. So he resigns himself to watching the debacle. He wonders if Ian will choose pride or glory.
He's not as big as he thinks he is. That's for damn sure.
The football nearly reaches Ian when the dream starts over again. 'Oh, get ON with it already!' Sam thinks. He concentrates in his seat on the bleachers and slowly manages to stand. He tries to walk back under the bleachers for the rest of the dream so he doesn't have to watch, and surprisingly, this time, he is able.
That's a bonus.
Sam's mind catapults back inside his body, still sitting at his usual remote table in the library. He flexes his fingers painfully, lifts his head and, when his sight returns, he scours the library.
He spies the culprit at a table about fifteen feet away. Ian's awake now. Rubbing his eyes and grinning sheepishly at the two other football players who stand around him, laughing, shoving him, whappig him on the head.
Sam shakes his head to clear it and he lifts up his math book, which sits open and facedown on the table where he dropped it. Under it, he finds a fun-size Snickers bar. He smiles to himself and peers to the left, between rows of bookshelves.
But no one is there for him to thank.
WHERE IT BEGINS
Evening, December 23, 1996
Sam Winchester is eight. He wears a thin, faded red sweatshirt with too-short sleeves, an old pair of jeans that have some tears here and there from the years of use. His shaggy, brown hair stands up with static. He rides on a public bus with his father from their home in Lawrence, Kansas to the other side of town to visit his Uncle Bobby.
His father reads the Globe across from him. There is a picture on the cover of an enormous man wearing a powder-blue tuxedo. Sam rests his head against the window, watching his breath make a cloud on it.
The cloud blurs Sam's vision so slowly that he doesn't realize what's happening. He floats in the fog for a moment, and then he is in a large room, sitting at a conference table with five men and three women. At the front of the room is a tall, balding man with a briefcase. He stands in his underwear, giving a presentation, and he is flustered. He tries to speak but he can't get his mouth around the words. The other adults are all wearing crisp suits. They laugh and point at the bald man in his underwear.
The bald man looks at Sam.
And then he looks at the people laughing at him.
He holds his briefcase in front of his privates, and that makes the others laugh harder. He runs to the door of the conference room, but the handle is slippery -something slimy drips from it. He can't get it open; it squeaks and rattles loudly in his hand, and the people at the table double over. The man's underwear is grayish-white, sagging. He turns to Sam again, with a look of panic and pleading.
Sam doesn't know what to do.
He freezes.
The bus' breaks whine.
And the scene grows cloudy and is lost in fog.
"Sam!" Sam's father is leaning towards Sam. His breath smells like gin, and his straggly hair falls in his face. "Sam, I said, maybe Uncle Bobby will take you that big fancy toy train store. I thought you would be excited about that, but I guess not." Sam's father sips from a flask in his ratty old jacket pocket.
Sam focuses on his father and smiles. "That sounds fun," he says, even though he doesn't like trains. He would rather have new clothes. He wriggles on the seat, trying to adjust his pants to cover his ankles. He thinks about the bald man and scrunches his eyes.
Weird.
When the bus stops, they step into the aisle. In front of Sam's father, a disheveled, bald businessman emerges from his seat.
He wipes his face with a handkerchief.
Sam stares at him. His jaw drops. "Woah," he whispers.
The man gives him a bland look when he catches Sam staring, and turns to exit the bus.
September 6, 1999, 3:05 p.m.
Sam sprints to catch the bus after his first day of sixth grade. Brady Thompson, on of the Lawrence North Side boys, sticks his foot out, sending Sam sprawling across the gravel. Brady laughs all the way to his mother's shiny red Jeep Cherokee. Sam fights back the urge to cry, and dusts himself off. He climbs on the bus, flops into the front seat, and looks at the dirt and blood on the palms of his hands, and the rip in the knee of his already well-worn pants.
Sixth grade makes his throat hurt.
He leans his head against the window.
When he gets home, Sam walks past his father, who is on the couch watching ESPN and drinking from a clear glass bottle. Sam washes his stinging hands carefully, dries them, and sits down next to his father, hoping he'll notice. Hoping he'll say something.
But Sam's father is asleep now.
His mouth is open.
He snores lightly.
The bottle tips in his hand.
Sam sighs, sets the bottle on the beat-up coffee table, and starts his homework.
Halfway through his math homework, the room turns black.
Sam is rushed into a bright tunnel, like a multicolored kaleidoscope. There's no floor, and Sam is floating while the walls spin around him. It makes him feel like throwing up.
Next to Sam in the tunnel is his father, and a woman that looks like a blonde Saint Mary. The woman and Sam's father are holding hands and flying. They look happy. Sam yells, but no sound comes out. He wants it to stop.
He feels the pencil fall from his fingers.
Feels his body slump to the arm of the couch.
Tries to sit up, but with all the whirling colors around him, he can't tell which way is upright. He overcompensates and falls the other way, onto his father.
The colors stop, and everything goes black. Sam hears his father grumbling, feels him shove.
Slowly the room comes into focus again, and Sam's father slaps Sam in the face.
"Get offa me," his father says. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Sam sits up and looks at his father. His stomach churns, ad he feels dizzy from the colors. "I feel sick," he whispers, and then he stands up and stumbles to the bathroom to vomit.
When he peers out, pale and shaky, his father is gone from the couch, retired to his bedroom.
'Thank god', Sam thinks. He splashes cold water on his face.
January 1, 2001, 7:29 a.m.
A U-Haul truck pulls up next door. A man, a woman, and a boy Sam's age climb out and sink into the snow-covered driveway. Sam watches them from his bedroom window.
The boy is light-haired and good-looking.
Sam wonders if he'll be snooty, like all the other boys who call Sam white trash at school. Maybe, since this new boy lives next to Sam on the wrong side of town, they'll call him white trash too. But he's really good-looking. Good-looking enough to make a difference.
Sam dresses hurriedly, puts on his boots and coat, and marches next door to have the first chance to get to the boy before the North Siders get to him. Sam's desperate for a friend.
"You guys want some help?" Sam asks in a voice more confident than he feels.
The boy stops in his tracks. A smile deepens the dimples in his cheeks, and he tilts his head to the side. "Hi," he says. "I'm Dean Smith."
Dean's green eyes sparkle.
Sam's heart leaps.
March 2, 2001, 7:34 p.m.
Sam is thirteen.
He doesn't have a sleeping bag, but Dean has an extra that Sam can use. Sam sets his plastic grocery bag on the floor by the couch in Dean's living room.
Inside the bag:
a hand-made birthday gift for Dean
Sam's pajamas
a toothbrush
He's nervous. But Dean is chattering enough for both of them, waiting for Dean's other new friend, Brady Thompson, to show up.
Yes, that Brady Thompson. Of the Lawrence North Side Thompson's.
Apparently, Brady Thompson is also the president of the "Make Sam Winchester Miserable" Club. Sam wipes his sweating hands on his jeans.
When Brady arrives, Dean doesn't fawn over him. Sam nods hello.
Brady smirks. Tries to whisper something to Dean, but Dean ignores him and says, "Hey! Let's go play a game!"
Brady throws a daggered look at Dean.
Dean smiles brightly at Sam, asking him with his eyes if it's okay.
Sam squelches a grin, and Brady shrugs and pretends like he doesn't mind after all.
Even though Sam knows it's killing him.
The three boys slowly grow more comfortable, or maybe just resigned, with one another. They grab some snacks and watch one of Dean's favorite videos of old comedians, some of whom Sam's never heard of before. And then they play truth or dare.
Dean alternates: truth, dare, truth, dare.
Brady always picks truth.
And then there's Sam.
Sam never picks truth.
He's a dare boy.
That way, nobody gets inside.
They might find out about his secret.
The giggles become hysterics when Brady's dare for Sam is to run outside through the snow barefoot, around to the backyard, take off his clothes, and make a naked snow angel.
Sam doesn't have a problem doing that.
Because, really, what does he have to lose?
He'll take that dare over giving up his secrets any day.
Brady watches Sam, arms folded in the cold night air, and with a sneer on his face, while Dean giggles and helps Sam get his sweatshirt and jeans back on over his wet body. Dean takes Sam's underwear, makes a snowball and places it in the waistband, and slingshots it at Brady.
"Ew, gross," Brady sneers. "Where'd you get those old grungy things, Salvation Army?" Sam's giggles fade. He grabs his underwear back from Dean and shoves them in his jeans pocket, embarrassed. "No," he says hotly, then giggles again. "It was Goodwill. Why, do they look familiar?"
Dean snorts.
Even Brady laughs, reluctantly.
They trudge back inside for popcorn.
11:34 p.m.
The noise level in the living room of Dean's house fades along with the lights after Mr. Smith, Dean's father, stomps to the doorway and hollers at the three boys to shut up and get to sleep.
Sam zips up the musty-smelling sleeping bag and closes his eyes, but he's too hyper to sleep after that exhilarating naked snow angel. He had a fun evening despite Brady. He learned what it's like to be a rich kid (sounds nice for about a day, but too many stinking lessons), and that Michael Jeffers is supposedly the hottest boy in the class (in Dean's mind), and what people like Brady do four times a year (they take vacations to exotic places). Who knew?
Now the hushed giggles subside around him, and Sam opens his eyes to stare at the dark ceiling. He is glad to be here, even though Brady teases him about his clothes. Brady even had the nerve to ask Sam why he never wears anything new. But Dean shut him up with a sudden exclamation: "Sam, you look simply stunning with your hair back like that. Doesn't he, Brady?"
He has to pee, but he is afraid to get up, in case Dean's father hears him and starts yelling again. He rests quietly like the other boys, listening to them breathe as they drift off to sleep. Brady is in the middle, curled on his side facing Dean, his back to Sam.
12:14 a.m.
The ceiling clouds over and disappears. Sam blinks and he is at school, in civics class. He looks around and realizes he is not in his normal fourth-period class, but in the class that follows his. He stands at the back of the room. There are no empty seats. Ms. Parchelli, the teacher, drones on about the judicial branch of government and what the Supreme Court wears under their robes. No on seems surprised that Ms. Parchelli is teaching them this. Some of the kids take notes.
Sam looks around at the faces in the room. In the third row, seated at the center desk, is Brady. Brady has a dreamy look on his face. He is staring at someone in the next row, one seat forward. As the teacher talks, Brady stands up slowly and approaches the person he's been staring at. From the back of the room, Sam can't see who it is.
The teacher doesn't appear to notice. Brady kneels next to the desk and touches the person's hand. In slow motion, the person turns to Brady, touches his cheek, and then leans forward. The two of them kiss. After a moment, they both rise to their feet, still kissing. When they part, Sam can see the face of Brady's kissing partner. Brady leads his partner by the hand to the front of the room and opens the door of the supply closet. The bell rings, and like ants, the students crowd at the door to leave.
The ceiling in Dean Smith's living room reappears as Brady sighs and flops onto his stomach in the sleeping bag next to Sam. 'Cripes!'
thinks Sam. He looks at the clock. It's 1:23 a.m.
1:24 a.m.
Sam rolls to his side and he's walking into a forest. It's dark from shade, not night. A few rays of weak sunlight slip through the tree cover. Walking in front of Sam is Dean. They walk for what seems to be a mile or more, and suddenly a rushing river appears a few steps in front of them. Dean stops and cups his ear, listening for something. He calls out in a desperate voice, "Jo!" Over and over, Dean calls the name, until the forest rings with his voice. Dean walks along the high bank and stumbles over a tree root. Sam bumps into him, falls, and then Dean helps him up. He gives Sam a puzzled look and says, "You've never been here." Dean turns back to his search for Jo, his cries growing louder.
There is a splash in the river, and a little girl appears above the surface, bobbing and moving swiftly in the current. Dean runs along the bank and cries, "Jo! Get out of there! Jo!"
The girl grins and chokes on the water. She goes under and resurfaces. Dean is frantic. He reaches out his hand to the girl, but it makes no difference - the bank is too high, the river too wide for him to come close to reaching her. He is crying now.
Sam watches, his heart pounding. The girl is still grinning and choking, falling under the water. She is drowning.
"Help her!" screams Dean. "Save her!"
Sam leaps toward the girl in the water, but he lands on the bank in the same spot he took off from. He tries again as Dean screams, but the results are the same.
The girl's eyes are closed now. Her grin has turned eerie. From the water behind the girl, an enormous shark bursts above the surface, mouth open, hundreds of sharp teeth gleaming. It closes its mouth around the girl and disappears.
Dean sits up in his sleeping bag and screams.
Sam screams too, but it catches in his throat.
His voice is hoarse.
His fingers are numb.
His body shakes from the nightmare.
The two boys look at each other in the darkness, while Brady stirs, groans, and goes back to sleep. "Are you okay?" Sam whispers, sitting up.
Dean nods, breathing hard. He whisper-laughs, embarrassed. His voice shakes. "I'm sorry I woke you. Bad dream."
Sam hesitates. "You want to talk about it?" His mind is racing.
"Nah. Go back to sleep." Dean rolls to his side. Brady stirs, rolls a few inches closer to Dean, and is quiet again.
Sam glances at the clock. 3:42 a.m. He is exhausted. He drifts off to sleep...
3:51 a.m.
...he is jolted awake when he falls into a huge, beautiful bedroom. There are framed posters of Green Day and Linkin Park on the walls. At a desk sits Brady, doodling on the edge of his notebook. Sam tries to blink himself out of the room. He feels himself sit up in the sleeping bag, but his motions don't affect what he sees. He lies back down, resigned to watch.
Brady is drawing hearts. Sam walks toward him. He says, "Brady," but no sound comes out. When someone knocks on the bedroom window, Brady looks over and smiles. "Help me open this window, will you?"
Sam stares at Brady. Brady stares back, then points to the window with a jerk of his head. Sam, feeling compelled, stumbles over to the window next to Brady and they open it. Dean climbs in.
He is naked from the waist down.
And has the dick the size of two-liter bottle.
It sways from side to side when Dean scrambles over the sill.
He walks through Sam and stands shyly in front of Brady.
Sam tries to turn away, but he can't. He waves a hand in front of Dean's face, but Dean doesn't respond. Brady winks at Sam and folds Dean into his arms. They embrace and kiss. Sam rolls his eyes, and suddenly all three are back in Ms. Parchelli's civics classroom. Once again, Brady is embracing someone in the aisle. It's Dean. He leads Dean to the front of the room. Sam can see that no one else in the class gives an ounce of notice to the naked Dean and his enormous dick.
Sam sits up in his sleeping bag again and shakes his head wildly. He feels the ends of his hair slap the sides of his cheeks, but he is unable to remove himself from the classroom. He is forced not only to
be there, but also to watch.
Brady glides to the supply closet and leads Dean in there with him.
Sam, against his wishes, follows.
Brady closes the door once Dean and Sam are inside, and Brady starts kissing Dean on the lips again.
Sam lunges in his sleeping bag blindly.
Kicks Brady, hard.
And Sam is back in Dean's living room.
Brady sits up, hair disheveled, and scrambles around to look at Sam. "What the hell did you do that for?" Brady is furious.
Feigning sleep, Sam peers out of one eye. "Sorry," he mumbles. "There was a spider crawling over your sleeping bag. I saved your life."
"What?!"
"Never mind, he's gone."
"Oh, great, Like I'm gonna get back to sleep now."
Sam grins in the darkness. It's 5:51 a.m.
7:45 a.m.
Something nudges Sam's legs. He opens his eyes, wondering where he is. It's pitch dark. Dean turns the sleeping bag flap off of Sam's head. "Wake up, sleepyhead." The sunlight is blinding.
"Mmph," Sam grunts. Slowly he sits up.
Dean is balancing on his haunches, eyeing him, one brow raised.
Sam remembers. Does Dean?
"Did you sleep well?" Dean asks.
Sam's stomach twists. "Um... yeah." He gauges Dean's reaction. "Did you?"
Dean smiles. "Like a baby. Even on this hard floor."
"Ah, hmm. Well, that's great." Sam scrambles to his feet and pulls his shirt down. "Where's Brady?"
"He left about ten minutes ago. He was acting weird. Said he forgot he had a piano lesson at eight." Dean snorts. "Duh."
Sam laughs weakly. He's starving. The two boys fix breakfast. Dean doesn't appear to remember his nightmare.
Sam can't forget it.
As they munch on toast, Sam steals a glance at Dean's waist. There's nothing jumping out at him.
Sam goes home, falls into bed, thinking about the strange night. Wondering if this ever happens to anyone else. Knowing, deep down, it probably doesn't.
He falls into a hard sleep until late afternoon. Decides sleepovers are not for him. They'll never be for him.
June 7, 2004
Sam is sixteen. He buys his own clothing now. Often he buys food, too. The welfare check covers the rent and the booze, and not much else.
Two years ago, Sam started working a few hours after school and on the weekends at Heather Nursing Home. Now he works full-time for the summer.
The office staff and other aides at Heather Home like Sam, especially during school holidays, because he'll pick up anybody's shifts, day or night, so they can take a last-minute sick day or vacation. Sam needs the money, and they know it.
He's determined to go to college.
Five days a week or more, Sam puts on his hospital scrubs and takes abus to the nursing home. He likes old people. They don't sleep soundly.
Sam and Dean are still friends and next-door neighbors. They spend a lot of time at Sam's house, waiting for Sam's father to pass out in his bedroom before they watch movies and talk about boys. They talk about other things too, like why Dean's father is so angry all the time, and why Dean's mother doesn't like company. Mostly, Sam thinks, it's because they're grouchy people. Plain and simple. Whenever Dean asks if he can have Sam sleep over, his mother says, "You just had a
sleepover on your birthday." Dean doesn't bother to remind her that that was four years ago.
Sam thinks about Jo and wonders if Dean really was an only child. But Dean doesn't seem to talk about anything with sharp edges. Maybe he's afraid they might poke into him and then he'd burst.
Dean and Brady are also still friends. Brady's parents are still rich. Brady plays tennis. He's a football player. His parents have condos in Vegas, Marco Island, Vail, and somewhere in Greece. Brady mostly hangs out with other rich kids. And then there's Dean.
Sam doesn't mind being with Brady. Brady still can't stand Sam. Sam thinks he knows the real reason why, and it has nothing to do with having money.
June 25, 2004, 11:15 p.m.
After working a record eleven evenings straight, and being caught by old Mr. Reed's recurring nightmare about World War II seven of those eleven evenings, Sam collapses on the couch and kicks his shoes off. By the number of empty bottles on the ring-stained coffee table, he assumes his father is in his bedroom, down for the count.
Dean lets himself in. "Can I crash here?" His eyes are rimmed in red.
Sam sighs inwardly. He wants to sleep. "'Course. You okay with the couch?"
"Sure. Thanks."
Sam relaxes. Dean, on the couch, would work fine.
Dean sniffles loudly.
"So, what's wrong?" Sam asks, trying to put as much sympathy in his voice as he can muster. It's enough.
"Dad's yelling again. I got asked out. Dad says no."
Sam perks up. "Who asked you out?"
"Cas. From the body shop."
"You mean that old guy?"
Dean bristles. "He's twenty-two."
"You're sixteen! And he looks older than that."
"Not up close. He's cute. He has a cute ass."
"Maybe he plays Dance Dance Revolution at the arcade."
Dean giggles. Sam smiles.
"So. You got any liquor around here?" Dean asks innocently.
Sam laughs. "There's an understatement. Whaddya want, beer?" He looks at the bottles on the table. "Schnapps? Whiskey? Double-stuff vodka?"
"Got any of that cheap grape wine that the winos at Selby Park drink?"
"At your service." Sam hauls himself off the couch and looks for clean glasses. The kitchen is a mess. Sam has barely been here the past two weeks. He finds two sticky, mismatched glasses in the sink and washes them out, then searches through his father's stash for his cheap wine assortment. "Ah, here it is. Boone's Farm, right?" He unscrews the bottle and pours two glasses full, not waiting for an answer from Dean, and then puts the bottle back in the fridge.
Dean flips on the TV. He takes a glass from Sam. "Thanks."
Sam sips the sweet wine and makes a face. "So what are you gonna do about Cas?" He thinks there's a country song in that sentence somewhere.
"Go out with him."
"Your dad's gonna kill you if he finds out."
"Yeah, well. What else is new?" They both settle on the creaky couch and put their feet on the coffee table, deftly pushing the mess of bottles to the center of it so they can stretch out.
The TV drones. The boys sip their wine and get silly. Sam gets up, rummages around in his bedroom, and returns with snacks.
"Gross - you keep Doritos in your bedroom?"
"Emergency stash. For nights such as these." 'Since father can't be bothered to but actual food at the grocery store when he goes there for booze,' Sam thinks.
"Ahh." Dean nods.
12:30 a.m.
Sam is asleep on the couch. He doesn't dream. Never dreams.
5:02 a.m.
Sam, forced awake, catapults into Dean's dream. It's the one by the river. Again. Sam's been here twice since the first time, when they were thirteen.
Sam, blind to the room his physical body is in, tries to stand. If he can feel his way to his bedroom and close the door before he starts going numb, he might get enough distance to break the connection. He feels with his toes for the bottles on the floor, and goes around them. He reaches out for the wall and finds his way into the hallway as he and Dean are walking through the forest in Dean's dream. Sam
regard for the door frames - first his fathers bedroom (hush, don't bump the door), then the bathroom, and then his room. He makes it inside, turns, and closes the door just as Dean and Sam approach the
riverbank.
The connection is lost.
Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He looks around, blinks in the dark as his eyesight returns, crawls into bed, and sleeps.
9:06 a.m.
When he wakes, both his father and dean are in the kitchen. The living room is cleared of bottles. Dean is drying a sink fill of dishes, and Sam's father is fixing his homemade morning drink: vodka and orange juice on ice. On the stove is a skillet covered by a paper plate. Two pieces of buttered toast, two eggs over easy, and a small fortune of crisp bacon rest on a second paper plate, next to the skillet. Sam's
father picks up a piece of bacon, takes his drink, and disappears back into his bedroom without a word.
"Thanks Dean - you didn't have to do this. I was planning on cleaning today."
Dean is cheerful. "It's the least I can do. Did you sleep well? When did you go to bed?"
Sam peeks in the skillet, thinking, discovering hash browns. "Wow! Um... not long ago. It was close to daylight. But I was so tired."
"You've been working ridiculous hours."
Sam. "Yeah, well. College. One day. How did you sleep?"
"Pretty good..." He hesitates, like he might say something else, but doesn't.
Sam takes a bite of food. He's famished. "Did you have sweet dreams?"
Dean glances at Sam, then picks up another dish and wipes it with the towel. "Not really."
Sam concentrates on the food, but his stomach flips. He waits, until the silence grows awkward. "You want to talk about it?"
Dean is silent for a long time. "Not really. No," he says finally.