Title: the one that got away
Summary: The child can't be more than seven, all floppy hair and big green eyes that waver between curiosity and wariness.
Spoilers: None (pre-series)
Warnings: Um...not much. A little violence. Very mild language. Some creepiness.
Characters: Mainly Sammy and an OFC, with mentions of John and a cameo by Dean.
Pairings: None
Category: Wee!chesters, some angst, a wee bit of humor.
Word Count: 880
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The child can't be more than seven, all floppy hair and big green eyes that waver between curiosity and wariness. He's wearing a too-big t-shirt, threadbare jeans, and a worn jacket that comes down to his knees—definitely hand-me-downs.
She pauses in front of the tall chair she put him in, watching as his feet swing back and forth slightly. His hands and feet are too big for his small frame—he has height in his genes, probably, just waiting to emerge during some far-future growth spurt.
"What's your name?" She asks casually.
He watches her, eyes definitely wary now, mouth clamped shut and forehead wrinkled in an adorably intense way. She knows children, and this child is about as cute as they come, despite his mistrustfulness. It's warm in her kitchen, but he keeps his jacket on, holds it shut with one skinny hand. The broken zipper hangs forlornly, half-torn off.
"Sam," the child replies finally, the word clipped and short, his tone warning that he hasn't decided to trust her. Quite the contrary; he's leaning toward mistrust.
She looks at him, dark brown hair that needs a trim, beautiful child's face already turning thin and angular. There are smudges of dirt on his face and a fading bruise wrapping around his left cheekbone. On impulse, she reaches out to touch his hair; he flinches slightly and some indefinable emotion flickers in his green eyes. She's seen the type before, so starved of a mother's love that they've forgotten they ever needed it. This one is more cautious than most; he's brave, but he knows there are things he should be afraid of.
She lets her hand drop and walks over to turn on the oven. For a moment the only sound is the faint pop-pop-pop of heating metal and Sam's slightly shaky breathing. Finally he asks, in a voice that almost doesn't waver: "Are you going to hurt me?"
She turns back to look at him. His feet are swinging faster now, hand clenched in his jacket so tight that his bony knuckles are white, but no sign of tears. He's brave, this one—perhaps the bravest she's seen yet. He's terrified, but holding himself together admirably for a child his age.
"Yes," she replies. "I'm going to kill you." She doesn't apologize for what she is—never has and never will.
Sam's eyes widen almost comically—the last thing he expected was the truth—and his gaze flickers to the heating oven. Fear sparks bright and his bottom lip starts to tremble and she thinks here come the tears, but instead he speaks, voice shaky but strong. "No," he says. "You won't."
She stares at him. Well, that's a new one. She's accustomed to tears and pleading—not the kind of certainty she hears behind the fear in this child's voice. "Why not?" She asks, intrigued despite herself.
His chin comes up and he makes a deliberate effort to stop his bottom lip trembling. "Because my daddy's going to kill you," he says. "And my big brother. He's eleven." She's pretty sure that's meant to impress her. It doesn't.
"He's going to toast your ass," Sam continues, all bravado thinly layered over fear. She thinks that must be a phrase he learned from his brother, and she smiles to herself as she turns to check the oven. Too bad she couldn't get the brother too. Of course, he's probably too old. They get tough so fast when they pass ten, she thinks, and sighs sadly.
The oven's still preheating and Sam's courage is starting to crack. He scrambles off the chair and retreats to the far side of the room, where he curls into a little, trembly bundle, long skinny limbs all tucked up under his big jacket. "They'll save me," he says too loudly, voice breaking, tears definitely beginning now. She thinks he's trying to convince himself as much as her.
She shrugs, doesn't contradict him. Let the child die with hope; it's more than most children get in the ugly world out there. She bears no malice toward him, toward any of them; she only does what she has to do to survive. She's even careful to ensure that they don't suffer, which makes her practically a philanthropist among her kind.
She walks toward Sam, and he draws up tighter like a turtle in a shell, tears streaking his face. "Daddy," he says, more an invocation than a plea. "Daddy! Dean! Dean!"
She reaches out to him, almost soothing. It will be over quickly. He'll hardly even feel it—
The consecrated iron bullet enters beneath her left shoulder blade and continues into her heart. She gasps, mouth forming a soundless scream as she begins to burn from the inside, skin blackening and flesh peeling away. She never realized it would hurt this much.
Her vision beginning to fade, she sees an older child (the brother) run toward Sam, arms open. Sam uncurls and flings himself at his brother, clinging like a spider monkey while the older boy runs a hand through Sam's hair and murmurs softly.
The last thing she ever sees is Sam looking at her over his brother's shoulder, his eyes shining with a seven-year-old's vindictive glee.
"Told you so," he says smugly.
-end-