Title – Listen Prone By The Telephone
Author – El Desperado
Rating – T
Summary – Sam doesn't even listen to it; he simply erases the message from existence. Stanford era.
Warning(s) – Swearing and some sexual content.
Author's Note – Hello! This is my first one shot and I hope it's alright. Constructive criticism is welcomed!
Disclaimer – I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.
"I know, I know – I'm probably the last person you wanna hear from. Well, second last. But, you can't expect me not to worry or anything. I mean, I've heard a lot of STDs get around in college. But, you're smart. Stay away from chicks with the weird rashes. You 'member the Tampa job?
"Anyway, I hope you're getting along just fine with your classes and stuff. Dad's on a job right now and I'm stuck doing research for him. I'm not as good at it as you are– were, but I'm pretty, very sure it's a banshee. Fugly bitch."
"Me again. You still pissy? Geez, Samantha, I thought you were on your period last week. Better see a doctor about that, it ain't a good thing if you're bleeding two weeks straight.
"Just kidding. I'm just trying to lighten up the mood. I've been stuck inside a motel room for four days 'cause of this damned cold. Dad says I ain't any worth if I'm coughing and sneezing all over the place. Tomorrow, we're finally leaving Reno. Place's awfully nice if you can look past the methheads. I hope our next job's in Vegas.
"Study hard, college boy. 'Cause if you screw this up, I'll personally kick your ass to Timbuktu."
"Hey, Sammy. Just checking in. It's been a while since we talked. I don't miss you or anything, but Dad's never been the most fun to talk to when we're on a hunt. Saw Bobby the other night, and man, they were at each other's throats. Don't think we're going to be seeing him for a while.
"How's mid-exams or whatever they're called coming along? Hope you're taking it all in stride, 'cause if you're stressing out, you'll never be as devilishly handsome as me. Though, you never know: some chicks dig the whole grey hair thing. Speaking of which, you should check out that new George Clooney movie that just came out on tv. Fuckin' boss, man.
"What's MSN? This chick the other night tried giving me her email and said that we could 'IM' or something like that. Fuckin' crazy. 'Course, I gave her a phoney address, but damn, she was real hot. Maybe more your type what with the blonde hair, though, the legs on that lady– damn. Have you found a girl, yet? If not, then why the hell are you in college?"
"Nearly got my ass beat by a lady journalist. She's a feisty one. Real smokin'.
"Do you ever imagine yourself in one of those little houses with the white picket fences and apple pie in the window? If so, obviously you aren't going to enough college parties. I went to one of those the other night to investigate a haunting on campus and boy, I got super trashed. Hangover of the millennium, dude. Do you go to a lotta of those kinds of party? I bet you don't. Samantha has to get that degree and make her way in the world as a strong, independent woman.
"Catch ya later."
"Sammy.
"I know you said to stop leavin' messages–" A husky laugh is heard. "–but, you can't, ah, expect me to liste– Well, whatever. I think I'm a little buzzed now.
"Dad's been good. If it means anything to you. We're alive. Breathing.
"Saw a kid the other day. Kinda reminded me of you when you were about thirteen. Or maybe fourteen. Had the same dumb puppy look on his face that could win its way to an old lady's heart.
"I know you're busy and all, but maybe we could meet up or something– you know what, forget it. Do well on those finals. Shit, it's been a year already? I bet you're top of the class. Always the smart one.
"Dad's got me on a solo hunt; easy one, at that. Salt 'n' burn, kiss the girl, and drive off into the sunset. Well, sunrise. Told him that I was still workin' the case, but I'm really just sitting around, drinking up a bottle of JD." There's a lengthy pause. "I guess I'll leave you to your picket fences. Got a pile of cases waiting for me to crack. Bye, Sammy.
"I… I miss–"
The machine cuts the message short.