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apocalypsos) wrote2006-02-15 09:28 am
apocalypsos) wrote2006-02-15 09:28 am
Entry tags:
Fic: The Wild One
Title: The Wild One
Author: Troll Princess
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers for: "The Benders"
Pairing: None (Gen)
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters and mythologies belong to someone who isn't me. I'm just playing with them.
Warning: None
Summary: Sam's lone fight in college.
Author's note: Three words: Sam kicking ass. 'Nuff said.
*****
The Wild One
*****
one
He only gets into one fight at college, and it is a mistake.
He is not Jake Peterson, and he didn't fuck the quarterback's girlfriend. He's never even met the quarterback's girlfriend, and if the quarterback is any indication, he wouldn't go near her without some serious body armor and disinfectant. So when he says he's not sorry for sleeping with the quarterback's girlfriend, it's because he wasn't stupid enough to touch her in the first place.
That night, he takes down four football players in the parking lot of some seedy bar, and takes them down so fast you'd think a freight train had gone off the tracks and slammed them to the ground at once.
He stands over them afterwards with the crumple of broken noses and the sensation of bruised flesh rupturing under the impact of his fists still fresh in his memory, his fingers tingling as if he can still feel his punches inflicting more damage than they're supposed to. He looks into the shadows expecting to see Dean watching like an amused spectator, lumbering towards him with feet pounding the pavement and shoulders rolling in that familiar walk, like a cowboy who learned how to stand upright by studying bears in motion.
Raised like a warrior, a quiet voice in his head says, then waits until he takes in those fallen around him and adds, Real battles aren't fought with pads and helmets, are they?
No, he thinks right back, and his scars burn in response. No, they're not..
two
Everything is a weapon if you look at it the right way, and when you're raised the way he was, you're creative in dangerous ways. He could force himself not to do it, but there's a list of things he reflexively registers as soon as he walks in a room. All of the exits, all of the obstacles. How many people are in the room, which ones are left-handed, who moves the most like a warrior. What he'd grab for first in a fight.
The night in the parking lot, the only things he grabs are ankles and wrists, badly thrown fists and stupidly kicked legs.
He breaks nine bones that night. None of them are his.
three
"Hey, you," the guy says, and claps him hard on the shoulder.
He only stopped in to hang out with a friend after a hard week of tests thrown at him like wayward bombs, but now the friend is gone, his beer bottle's empty, he's heading out to the bus stop to catch a cab way too late for safety's sake, and there's a glint in this guy's eyes he doesn't like. "I have a name," he says.
He's about to say what it is, too, but this guy says, "Yeah, I know," and the first punch is the guy's meaty fist coming right at his face.
The guy expects him to crumble, he thinks, expects him to curl up in a ball on the ground and sit through the beating like an all-day visit to Grandma's house. But he takes the punch like a pro, thinks how many times he had to dodge Dean's fist coming at his face to move out of the amateur leagues, and figures, Oh, what the hell?
His fist is the last to fly, cracking bone and blackening an eye. He wishes it were more, and then starts counting injuries on both hands.
four
The self-defense is the only part of it he never argues against, the only part he likes. He likes a challenge, boredom creeping into anything that can't keep his mind occupied for too long. The self-defense starts out hard enough, until the summer he shoots up five inches and his arms and legs race to catch up. His reach grows too long to keep track of it, but a hunter born and bred can track anything eventually.
"Well, come on, little man," Dean says that summer, grinning even though by that time he's got to look up to do it. "Are we going to fight or are you just going to stand there and grow?"
The last guy standing flashes him a set of teeth with a pair of new gaps and a wash of blood over the enamel. Somewhere behind him, he thinks he hears someone crying, and off to his left one of the men on the ground lies with his right knee bent at an unnatural angle. He can barely feel his fists from the pain and he thinks he's cracked a knuckle or two. There's a Glock hidden in his apartment and his Swiss Army knife's slid under a car somewhere, and all he can think is, Lucky them.
All he can do is stand here and take it and try not to think about what Dean would do if he were here, because he thinks it's only fair someone who's not him comes out of this alive.
He spits and the copper in it tastes like heaven.
He stares at the last man standing, bares his teeth in a smile and thinks, But you can't give up now, we just started dancing.
five
The parking lot ends like a modern-day elephant graveyard, huge still bodies littering the ground as an eerie stillness fills the night. Their chests heave and every time one of them moves, groans break the silence. He thinks, This was all a mistake, with a detached calm that makes his stomach roll.
Two hours later, he startles to consciousness in his shower as he scrubs blood from his nails, hair, knuckles, cheek, and has no idea how the hell he got there.
The fight is legend within the week, and his name spreads across campus like a curse passed by word of mouth.
It's not his name, and he revels in it.
Author: Troll Princess
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers for: "The Benders"
Pairing: None (Gen)
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters and mythologies belong to someone who isn't me. I'm just playing with them.
Warning: None
Summary: Sam's lone fight in college.
Author's note: Three words: Sam kicking ass. 'Nuff said.
The Wild One
*****
He only gets into one fight at college, and it is a mistake.
He is not Jake Peterson, and he didn't fuck the quarterback's girlfriend. He's never even met the quarterback's girlfriend, and if the quarterback is any indication, he wouldn't go near her without some serious body armor and disinfectant. So when he says he's not sorry for sleeping with the quarterback's girlfriend, it's because he wasn't stupid enough to touch her in the first place.
That night, he takes down four football players in the parking lot of some seedy bar, and takes them down so fast you'd think a freight train had gone off the tracks and slammed them to the ground at once.
He stands over them afterwards with the crumple of broken noses and the sensation of bruised flesh rupturing under the impact of his fists still fresh in his memory, his fingers tingling as if he can still feel his punches inflicting more damage than they're supposed to. He looks into the shadows expecting to see Dean watching like an amused spectator, lumbering towards him with feet pounding the pavement and shoulders rolling in that familiar walk, like a cowboy who learned how to stand upright by studying bears in motion.
Raised like a warrior, a quiet voice in his head says, then waits until he takes in those fallen around him and adds, Real battles aren't fought with pads and helmets, are they?
No, he thinks right back, and his scars burn in response. No, they're not..
Everything is a weapon if you look at it the right way, and when you're raised the way he was, you're creative in dangerous ways. He could force himself not to do it, but there's a list of things he reflexively registers as soon as he walks in a room. All of the exits, all of the obstacles. How many people are in the room, which ones are left-handed, who moves the most like a warrior. What he'd grab for first in a fight.
The night in the parking lot, the only things he grabs are ankles and wrists, badly thrown fists and stupidly kicked legs.
He breaks nine bones that night. None of them are his.
"Hey, you," the guy says, and claps him hard on the shoulder.
He only stopped in to hang out with a friend after a hard week of tests thrown at him like wayward bombs, but now the friend is gone, his beer bottle's empty, he's heading out to the bus stop to catch a cab way too late for safety's sake, and there's a glint in this guy's eyes he doesn't like. "I have a name," he says.
He's about to say what it is, too, but this guy says, "Yeah, I know," and the first punch is the guy's meaty fist coming right at his face.
The guy expects him to crumble, he thinks, expects him to curl up in a ball on the ground and sit through the beating like an all-day visit to Grandma's house. But he takes the punch like a pro, thinks how many times he had to dodge Dean's fist coming at his face to move out of the amateur leagues, and figures, Oh, what the hell?
His fist is the last to fly, cracking bone and blackening an eye. He wishes it were more, and then starts counting injuries on both hands.
The self-defense is the only part of it he never argues against, the only part he likes. He likes a challenge, boredom creeping into anything that can't keep his mind occupied for too long. The self-defense starts out hard enough, until the summer he shoots up five inches and his arms and legs race to catch up. His reach grows too long to keep track of it, but a hunter born and bred can track anything eventually.
"Well, come on, little man," Dean says that summer, grinning even though by that time he's got to look up to do it. "Are we going to fight or are you just going to stand there and grow?"
The last guy standing flashes him a set of teeth with a pair of new gaps and a wash of blood over the enamel. Somewhere behind him, he thinks he hears someone crying, and off to his left one of the men on the ground lies with his right knee bent at an unnatural angle. He can barely feel his fists from the pain and he thinks he's cracked a knuckle or two. There's a Glock hidden in his apartment and his Swiss Army knife's slid under a car somewhere, and all he can think is, Lucky them.
All he can do is stand here and take it and try not to think about what Dean would do if he were here, because he thinks it's only fair someone who's not him comes out of this alive.
He spits and the copper in it tastes like heaven.
He stares at the last man standing, bares his teeth in a smile and thinks, But you can't give up now, we just started dancing.
The parking lot ends like a modern-day elephant graveyard, huge still bodies littering the ground as an eerie stillness fills the night. Their chests heave and every time one of them moves, groans break the silence. He thinks, This was all a mistake, with a detached calm that makes his stomach roll.
Two hours later, he startles to consciousness in his shower as he scrubs blood from his nails, hair, knuckles, cheek, and has no idea how the hell he got there.
The fight is legend within the week, and his name spreads across campus like a curse passed by word of mouth.
It's not his name, and he revels in it.
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