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Like a Freak
Like a Freak
PG | (Gen) Sam | ~1200 words
Your hands feel like they're too big and your skin's stretched too tight between your shoulder blades and, oh yeah, there's this thing uncurling in your gut that feels a little like it's going to burn your insides out from your eye sockets to your toenails.
It's easy to be yourself when you never have to be yourself. Which is exactly the kind of fucked over logic that makes it's way through your head these days. It makes sense though, because your hands feel like they're too big and your skin's stretched too tight between your shoulder blades and, oh yeah, there's this thing uncurling in your gut that feels a little like it's going to burn your insides out from your eye sockets to your toenails and that could very well have something to do with it, maybe.
"Quit brooding, Sam," Dean tells you. Like it's your fault that the weird feeling of your skin stretching over your fingers is more fascinating than listening to him talk about the length of the waitress' skirt or the freaking angel that's stalking him.
In fact, it's really hard not to throttle him right then and there, but you don't. Instead you play the good and not homicidal brother and roll your eyes.
"I'm not brooding," you say, because you really aren't. You're contemplating.
"Whatever, dude," Dean says, stealing a fry off your plate. You let him take it, even though it's painfully hard not to grab his hand and just--
But you don't.
___
Sitting in the Impala makes you claustrophobic, you shift and stretch in your seat, your shirt riding up between your back and the leather and it's maddening. Your hair hangs in your face and scritches along the top of your nose.
"Dean," you say, trying to look out the side window and the windshield at the same time, "Dean!" It's way too fucking small in this fucking car and you're going to explode if you don't get out.
"What?" Dean asks jokingly. Or, jokingly until he looks at you and sees just how much you're freaking out and instantly tips over to worried.
"Stop the car," you say and the first wave of... something hits you and you yell "stop the fucking car, Dean!" The car screeches-- literally screeches, which is only supposed to happen in bad movies-- to a halt, spinning a little to the right and lining your door up with the side. You open it and tumble out, like water out of a glass, landing hard on your side with your feet still in the car and your cheek pressed up against the scrub grass. Good thing Dean likes back roads.
"Sam!" Dean yells, fumbling his way out of the drivers side and running around the car. "Jesus, Sammy," he says, kneeling next to you. His eyes run over you for visible wounds, but there aren't any.
Another wave hits you, and it feels like your insides are rippling upwards, like a snake, and it doesn't hurt but it makes you want to throw up. At least you can breathe out here, which is worth having weeds in your hair.
"Talk to me, Sammy," Dean says.
"I-" you say. The world spins a little when you breathe out, so you take a second to make it stop. "I'm gonna lay here a sec'. "
"Yeah, you do that, man," Dean sighs, sounding relieved and worried, kind of like an exasperated parent. You close your eyes, dizzy from your new angle.
Later, when you get up, the grass under your palms will be dead and brown. Dean won't notice.
___
The two of you rent a motel room, Dean hovering around you like you're about to have an epileptic fit any minute and it's a little sweet but mostly annoying, because you're fine right now, as long as you don't have to get back in the car anytime soon without rolling all the windows down and laying in the backseat. You throw your duffel down on your bed and sit down on the floor next to it, letting the back of your skull rest on the mattress. Having fits takes it out of a guy.
"Y'alright?" Dean asks.
"I'm resting," you tell him. Keep it simple. Dean nods and unpacks his own stuff, watching out of the corner of his eye as you sluggishly get up and move things around in the bag. You feel light headed, like you can't quite get enough air. Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket the second he can do it without being overly obvious in his fretting and speed dials Bobby. You can hear his voice through the door.
"He's just... weird. Sick. He hasn't been acting quite right since Jersey..." there's more, but it doesn't matter. You've heard what you need to. Dean has caught on, and now it's time to go.
Dean's on the porch and you go into the bathroom, pressing your ear up against the door for a second. No noise. You turn on the shower, cold, and quickly pull up the window, wincing as it creaks and you climb out, trying to fold your huge body into the small space while straddling the windowsill. You climb out the other side with minimal damage to your vitals and walk off, crouched over, to the parking lot. The first car you see is kind of a junker, but perfectly inconspicuous, so you take a few looks around and, seeing no one, put your fist through the passenger side window.
Hotwiring the engine takes all of three seconds and then you're driving off, absently sucking a scratch on your finger. Dean's nowhere to be seen, so he's probably inside waiting for you to get out of the shower so he can make sure you're not dying. It'll give you about twenty minutes before he's worried enough to open the door.
You'll be long gone by then.
___
When you finally get to the city, it's early evening dark and the sidewalks are nearly empty. You pull the car into an empty alley and get out. There's absolutely no one around.
You walk purposely forward and try to think of a face. Something simple, ordinary. Hard to place. You think of waitress that served you and Dean on the way there, tweak her a bit in your mind, larger nose, whiter teeth, until she looks like any other person and then you start to strip. You peel off your clothes and then your skin, growling with pain and keeping the face in the center of your mind.
When you're done, you calmly put Sam Winchesters oversized clothes back on and tuck your hair into the collar of his shirt.
It's time to make yourself scarce. When you met up with the Winchesters in Newark, you were expecting a ride in a nice car, some free meals, and a chance to piss off a couple of the worst hunters you've ever heard of. Instead you accidentally made a psychic connection with one very pissed off antichrist, who should be digging his way out of the sewer by now.
You leave, doing your best to vanish into the night where he can't find you.
~fin
PG | (Gen) Sam | ~1200 words
Your hands feel like they're too big and your skin's stretched too tight between your shoulder blades and, oh yeah, there's this thing uncurling in your gut that feels a little like it's going to burn your insides out from your eye sockets to your toenails.
It's easy to be yourself when you never have to be yourself. Which is exactly the kind of fucked over logic that makes it's way through your head these days. It makes sense though, because your hands feel like they're too big and your skin's stretched too tight between your shoulder blades and, oh yeah, there's this thing uncurling in your gut that feels a little like it's going to burn your insides out from your eye sockets to your toenails and that could very well have something to do with it, maybe.
"Quit brooding, Sam," Dean tells you. Like it's your fault that the weird feeling of your skin stretching over your fingers is more fascinating than listening to him talk about the length of the waitress' skirt or the freaking angel that's stalking him.
In fact, it's really hard not to throttle him right then and there, but you don't. Instead you play the good and not homicidal brother and roll your eyes.
"I'm not brooding," you say, because you really aren't. You're contemplating.
"Whatever, dude," Dean says, stealing a fry off your plate. You let him take it, even though it's painfully hard not to grab his hand and just--
But you don't.
___
Sitting in the Impala makes you claustrophobic, you shift and stretch in your seat, your shirt riding up between your back and the leather and it's maddening. Your hair hangs in your face and scritches along the top of your nose.
"Dean," you say, trying to look out the side window and the windshield at the same time, "Dean!" It's way too fucking small in this fucking car and you're going to explode if you don't get out.
"What?" Dean asks jokingly. Or, jokingly until he looks at you and sees just how much you're freaking out and instantly tips over to worried.
"Stop the car," you say and the first wave of... something hits you and you yell "stop the fucking car, Dean!" The car screeches-- literally screeches, which is only supposed to happen in bad movies-- to a halt, spinning a little to the right and lining your door up with the side. You open it and tumble out, like water out of a glass, landing hard on your side with your feet still in the car and your cheek pressed up against the scrub grass. Good thing Dean likes back roads.
"Sam!" Dean yells, fumbling his way out of the drivers side and running around the car. "Jesus, Sammy," he says, kneeling next to you. His eyes run over you for visible wounds, but there aren't any.
Another wave hits you, and it feels like your insides are rippling upwards, like a snake, and it doesn't hurt but it makes you want to throw up. At least you can breathe out here, which is worth having weeds in your hair.
"Talk to me, Sammy," Dean says.
"I-" you say. The world spins a little when you breathe out, so you take a second to make it stop. "I'm gonna lay here a sec'. "
"Yeah, you do that, man," Dean sighs, sounding relieved and worried, kind of like an exasperated parent. You close your eyes, dizzy from your new angle.
Later, when you get up, the grass under your palms will be dead and brown. Dean won't notice.
___
The two of you rent a motel room, Dean hovering around you like you're about to have an epileptic fit any minute and it's a little sweet but mostly annoying, because you're fine right now, as long as you don't have to get back in the car anytime soon without rolling all the windows down and laying in the backseat. You throw your duffel down on your bed and sit down on the floor next to it, letting the back of your skull rest on the mattress. Having fits takes it out of a guy.
"Y'alright?" Dean asks.
"I'm resting," you tell him. Keep it simple. Dean nods and unpacks his own stuff, watching out of the corner of his eye as you sluggishly get up and move things around in the bag. You feel light headed, like you can't quite get enough air. Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket the second he can do it without being overly obvious in his fretting and speed dials Bobby. You can hear his voice through the door.
"He's just... weird. Sick. He hasn't been acting quite right since Jersey..." there's more, but it doesn't matter. You've heard what you need to. Dean has caught on, and now it's time to go.
Dean's on the porch and you go into the bathroom, pressing your ear up against the door for a second. No noise. You turn on the shower, cold, and quickly pull up the window, wincing as it creaks and you climb out, trying to fold your huge body into the small space while straddling the windowsill. You climb out the other side with minimal damage to your vitals and walk off, crouched over, to the parking lot. The first car you see is kind of a junker, but perfectly inconspicuous, so you take a few looks around and, seeing no one, put your fist through the passenger side window.
Hotwiring the engine takes all of three seconds and then you're driving off, absently sucking a scratch on your finger. Dean's nowhere to be seen, so he's probably inside waiting for you to get out of the shower so he can make sure you're not dying. It'll give you about twenty minutes before he's worried enough to open the door.
You'll be long gone by then.
___
When you finally get to the city, it's early evening dark and the sidewalks are nearly empty. You pull the car into an empty alley and get out. There's absolutely no one around.
You walk purposely forward and try to think of a face. Something simple, ordinary. Hard to place. You think of waitress that served you and Dean on the way there, tweak her a bit in your mind, larger nose, whiter teeth, until she looks like any other person and then you start to strip. You peel off your clothes and then your skin, growling with pain and keeping the face in the center of your mind.
When you're done, you calmly put Sam Winchesters oversized clothes back on and tuck your hair into the collar of his shirt.
It's time to make yourself scarce. When you met up with the Winchesters in Newark, you were expecting a ride in a nice car, some free meals, and a chance to piss off a couple of the worst hunters you've ever heard of. Instead you accidentally made a psychic connection with one very pissed off antichrist, who should be digging his way out of the sewer by now.
You leave, doing your best to vanish into the night where he can't find you.
~fin