In 8th grade, in Florida, Sam had kind of had a girlfriend. Most of the girls in his class were still pretty dumb, hung out in cliques and stuck pictures of boybands inside their lockers and passed little notes in class on behalf of their friends that said 'DO YOU LIKE JENNY SPENCER LIKE THAT? CIRCLE Y OR N'. Hanna Chin was different. She was fourteen early in the year and didn't belong to any clique, read serious books under the desk and was bilingual. She was short and petite with a small secretive smile and her dark hair was so glossy it sometimes shone blue in the sun.
They used to sit out on the wall after class – it was a small school, with few extra-curricular activities, and things were generally pretty quiet after 4 p.m. Dean didn't get off work until 5, then he had to catch the bus across town to walk Sam home, because Dad had the car and the place they were staying in was kind of a bad neighbourhood, and Sam wasn't supposed to walk there alone even in broad daylight. Hanna waited with him voluntarily. If she went home, she said, she'd only have to work in the shop. Her parents thought she spent too much time reading.
They talked about life, and books, and being a youngest child, and how stupid most kids were and how they didn't have any idea about anything. Sam skirted vaguely around the subject of his family. She hoped he would stick around because most boys were so immature, but he wasn't:
"You're special," she said, with that little smile, and initiated his first kiss. It was – a little oxygen deprived, because he wasn't expecting it, but startling how intimate just lips could be, barely any tongue, but enough to make his breath catch and something static whip down his thirteen-year-old body. And he knew he was glad to be special then, even though it was harder, because he would live and know things and feel things stupid ordinary kids never would.
He tried to run away with Hanna when they left the state, but Dad caught him on his way out the window.
For a long time, there was grey. Shifting mists, and darkness. The world roiled and muttered, discontent, subdued, and sick. He felt very ill. He didn't know where he was. He was floating. But probably not dead. He hoped not dead. If he was a ghost, they would have to put him down for sure. Put him down. Was that what had happened?
The grey gradually lessened. More and more shafts of light had begun to penetrate. There was movement around him, and voices, and he realized he was lying on his back, no longer bound to –
Oh. Sam opened his eyes with effort, needing to know what had happened. Dad was – trying to kill him. No, kill it. It? Where was it? But then he was distracted by a ceiling coming into focus, and then the walls, and with the surge of nausea that accompanies focalization he was lying on Jim's couch, in the living room.
"Hey Sammy." His brother's voice, sounding younger and more scared than he had in – ever. Dean was sitting on the floor, which he never did, and he reached up and patted Sam's chest lightly – a gesture of reassurance he considered sufficiently masculine. "Are you okay?"
"Ugh," said Sam.
"I bet you have, like, the worst hangover ever." The joke fell flat.
"Where's Dad?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears, but the room was in focus.
"I sent him out." – Pastor Jim's voice, and Sam sat up, too fast, and had to grip the arm of the couch for a moment as Dean held on to his arm. His brother got up and sat on the sofa next to him. Closer than he did usually. Jim was sitting in the straight-backed chair with his hands folded in his lap. He looked stern: grim, and un-clergylike.
"Sent him…?" Sam repeated.
"Not for good," Jim's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Told him I'd deal with this, and to leave for a while."
Distantly, Sam was shocked. No-one told Dad to do anything. How long was a while? Hours? Days?
"Are you okay now?" Dean asked again.
Sam took a mental inventory. He felt sick, and extremely tired. His head ached. There were rope burns on his wrists and ankles, but they'd already been treated with something and lightly covered with gauze. The thing was silent.
Silent. His heart leapt in his chest suddenly. What had they done to him? Where was it? Was it – dead? Was he nothing now? Was he free? He turned inward, frowning. He couldn't sense it. But he'd never been able to sense it all the time, had he? Only when it wanted him to.
"I'm…okay," he said finally. "Think I'm gonna just…go to bed. What time is it?"
"Ten thirty," Jim said, and seeing Sam's confused look, "In the morning. Wednesday. You've been asleep about four hours."
"Oh." He had no real reaction to that. It could have been seconds – or days.
"Have something to eat before you go to bed. Or some juice, at least."
"Apple juice," Sam said.
"I'll get it," said Dean, and stood up. He messed up Sam's hair. And Sam remembered suddenly how Dean had disobeyed their father. Dean wasn't looking at him, but Sam could read him easily: guilt, overall, in every direction, self-recrimination, and Sam felt a little guilty himself, though he couldn't say why exactly. He drank two glasses of apple juice, used the bathroom, and wearily made his way to the loft, more than ready to sleep again. He was out the moment his head hit the pillow.
The yellow-eyed one was sullen and battered, radiating resentment. The air around him was fiery, lit-up storm clouds restlessly churning.
I've always told you, it advised Sam, how they want to keep you down. I want to raise you up. I can give you everything.
What do you mean? He asked it. He had never addressed it directly before. It had never spoken so plainly.
'Princes, Potentates, Warriors,' as the poet had it: 'The Flow'r of Heaven.' Leave Dickens and his pathetic children. Read the prophet Milton. He's the scribe for you….Lord It smiled slyly.
What did you call me? Sam asked, astonished.
What you are. And it stood, unfurling itself, flames licked around its head, and darkness shifted behind it. You believe that I am powerful. You believe the things you hunt, those scum and scrapings of earth and Hell, are powerful. You believe that your father – arrogant, autocratic, blind – has some kind of power over you. He fears you. As he should: only take up your sceptre, and you will see them for what they are: insects. You are a god.
You're insane, Sam started to back away from it
You're insane, it echoed. So they will tell you. Even your brother will doubt you one day.
That hurt. Even here, that cut him.
But you have always known what you are. It retreated: furled power.
Sam awoke, shivering, in pale light.
The End.
A/N: Thank you very much for the reviews, faves and story alerts. The next thing I'm going to do is seriously start on a Big Bang fic for next year, so it's unlikely I'll be posting any more medium-length fic for a while. I do have more fic over at my Livejournal, http:/reading_is_in[dot]livejournal[dot]com. The masterlist is sticky-posted at the top.