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apocalypsosTitle: So Lonesome I Could Die
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,802 words
Pairing: None (Gen)
Warnings: The occasional bad word.
Spoilers: "Provenance"
Disclaimer: Other people's toys are fun to play with.
Summary: Dean goes to a seer to question a new strangeness in his life.
Author's note: So I had this theory about how Sam's powers really work considering he didn't move the desk to save Sarah and decided to play with it in fic. (Like most of my theories, it's probably complete and utter crap, but hell, it's fun to play with.)
*****
So Lonesome I Could Die
*****
1.
Boy calls me after one in the morning like I ain't got a care in the world other than to wait for his voice at the end of my phone, but I was waiting and I guess that's the point of the whole thing anyway.
"He knows," is all he says, a deep boom this time. Kid speaks in barks and grumbles and booms like he can't just talk, like his voice ain't ever been high enough to grasp on to regular human speech.
I laugh, and if flinching is a sound, it's that rustle against the end of my phone line and the sharp hitch in his breath.
"Oh, hell, son, he don't know just yet," I say, "but it's only a matter of time, you keep this up."
Don't need to see his face to know that ain't what he wants to hear from me.
2.
My parlor hasn't ever looked the part of what it is, which is only fair considering I ain't never looked the part, neither. Didn't look the part when I was a boy, didn't look the part when I was sweeping the floors at the local supermarket and sure as hell don't look the part now. Eighty-seven years on me, and at the rate I'm going, I'll end up with the same amount of hair and the same kind of diapers I started out this crazy life with.
Boy don't think me much, not that first day, and that's even with his brand of special circumstances.
He takes in the photos on the wall -- my mother at the height of her theater days, her costume a mere scrap of a thing; my twin grandsons in their roadie days, showing off the new tattoos they got before the Aerosmith tour; my wife in her skydiving attire, God rest her soul -- and I get shot this betrayed look, like I ain't mystical enough for him.
Isn't my call to get all riled up over something like that, but can't resist flicking my gaze at the part of his hip hidden by his jacket and snapping, "Son, hope you don't think you're firing off that weapon of yours in my fine establishment."
His eyes narrow and so do mine, 'cept this time they're aiming at the boot of his that's hiding sharp steel. "That better not make a shining appearance anytime soon, neither," I say, and those eyes of his glisten hard and cold and green like shattered bottle glass.
It takes him a while to draw out the words he wants to say, and I wait. Wait while he rearranges all the snow globes on the mantel, wait while he blows dust off my shelves and makes a face, wait while he tilts the frame holding my medals of service from the war like it was tilted to begin with and he was just straightening it. Boy's got nervous fingers when they ain't holding a gun or a blade. I'd call it a bad trait but I've got nervous fingers myself, the kind that itch to do something now, now, now, and something tells me this one needs that in his life.
"People tell me you're good," he says, and I bark out sharp laughter at that.
"People tell you I'm good, and I'm definitely dealing with the wrong clientele, as it were," I say. "These people got a name?"
He tilts his head just so as he fiddles with one of the books on car repair I've got lying around, flashing me this cock of one eyebrow and a twist of his lips that pair up together like those twin grandsons of mine. In his former lives, kid must have been a snake charmer, a gambler, a gunfighter, a sword for hire. The same qualities still apply. "Pastor Jim," he says, and now I get it like I didn't before.
I sink into the armchair I use most, curved just so to the lines of my back after a good many years, and let out a low whistle. "Well, then," I say, "how's about you come over and start being a little more upfront with me about what you came here for?"
The first thing I learn about the boy is that "upfront" ain't a concept he does very well with.
3.
In my mind's eye, I only see the aftermath, one boy behind a door and the other in front both frozen like they're a pair of deer staring down a set of headlights. The one behind the door is this one's brother, I can tell, the resemblance vague but there. Nice kid, seems like, but a shame about the haircut.
They're both pressed up against the door, the brother's back to the cold hard wood and this one's forehead touching its painted surface like it's the only thing supporting his weight. Both boys gleam from inside in cloudy fogs like bathroom glass reflecting the light. The whole scene feels warm, like they're giving off energy, and whatever chills float through this old body of mine fade away like they ain't never been there.
I hear snippets of sound, as it happens sometimes.
sam youve got to come with me all right i just cant do this without you it said
no dean i wont do this anymore man if youve ever given a damn about me youll keep this supernatural shit away from me
a door slams
a lock clicks shut like its saying and for good measure
Wouldn't think it's much, if you hadn't been around this sort of thing for years like I have, and my grin gets a little dopey. "You going to tell me about those dreams of yours anytime soon?" I say, and know it's a bad move immediately.
Hard not to, the way that boy hightails it out of there.
4.
Two weeks later, he stalks in as if he just left, as if he just expects to find me exactly where he left me. Well, hell, didn't get that fine reputation of mine without due cause, and he finds me just where I was, sitting in my warped old armchair just waiting for an answer.
"I've been dreaming about my mother," he says. His hands grip the arms of his chair like it'll get scared and leave if he don't.
Anyone else, I might make some crack about visiting a therapist instead, but therapy ain't an option with a boy like this. His boot taps out a heartbeat on the hardwood floor, and his knuckles go bone-white like the skin over them's faded away to nothing.
I get one of those feelings you just don't ignore, fine and dandy like it is, and say, "You sure it's your mother you're seeing on that ceiling, son?"
I expect him to run again, but he doesn't.
Just shakes his his head no, one-two back-forth like someone's snapping his neck.
5.
"What's this?" he asks, and taps the amulet with his fingertip like I've rigged it with dynamite.
I putter around my kitchen searching for the sugar bowl, two cups of hot tea waiting for us while I do. Absently, he reaches behind the flower arrangement on the kitchen table -- well, hell, can't expect to find a thing if it hides on you so -- and I shovel sugar into his cup with a tablespoon as I say, "You're the one saying you ain't slept a full night in months, son."
"So, what, this thing's head tips back and it pops out sleeping pills, right?"
Bold remarks like that are the sort of thing my mother used to smack my rump for as a warning, but he's a man fully grown who goes through more than most people he meets give him credit for, so I decide to let the sass slide. "It'll calm your nerves some," I say, passing him his cup of tea. He glares at the cup like doing so will turn it into beer -- not in my house, son, not since my eldest had to start attending those meetings.
He downs the cup in a single gulp before draping the amulet around his neck just so.
That night he stays in my guest bedroom, and it's the first time since I first let him stay in my home that I don't have to launder the sweat from the sheets the morning after.
6.
So I'm setting out the candy for the trick-or-treaters, hovering near the phone just waiting for it to go off, and when I pick it up, he doesn't even bother to greet me with a hello. "My father's gone missing and I'm going to pick up my brother," he says, and it sounds nothing like the confession it is even if the words rush out on a single breath.
"Warned you that'd be a bad idea, son," I say.
At the other end of the phone, that black rattletrap of his roars and growls, and I mentally add lion tamer to the list of past lives he's carrying over into this one. "I can't leave him out of this," he says.
"He ain't ready for what's going to happen to him, you show up all of a sudden like this."
The silence that follows makes it feel like I'm clenching razor blades in my palm, and he says, "Then I'll make him ready," before hanging up.
7.
A week later, another phone call. His voice wakes me from the other end of the phone all quiet and rough, not like the insolent kid I know, not like him at all.
"You're right, it wasn't my mother in the dreams," he says, and that's how it starts.
8.
In between the holiday messages from the kids -- Keith's in California with his little girl and can't make it for Christmas, Lynn makes her boys sing "Jingle Bells" into the phone and I can't delete it fast enough -- that boy keeps leaving me messages like he's taping hastily scribbled Post-It notes to my door and ding-dong-ditching.
I do the same damn thing back to him. Only fair, really.
"Sam still won't sleep through the night. What should I do?"
I tell him to ditch the kid in a motel for a week and drive in the opposite direction until calls to the brother's cell phone go straight to voicemail and doubt that boy'll listen to a word I say.
"Sam dreamed about our old house. What should I do?"
I tell the kid to keep his goddamn guards up and stop thinking about home his own damn self and know at least that much, the boy'll take to heart.
"Sam's having visions when he's awake. What should I do?"
I wait until the kid answers his phone, say, "What in the hell did I teach you about keeping other people out of your head, son, and especially that brother of yours?", rant and rave at him for a good five minutes, then hang up before he gets a word in edgewise.
Little bastard deserves it, for heaven's sake. He knows better by now, and knows better by far.
9.
After that phone call -- and as my grandsons would say, 'He knows', my ass -- I stay up and wait because I know he ain't far away. Wouldn't have bothered calling like that if he were, sounding the closest to scared I've ever heard from him. Boy don't do scared well, like it's hanging around his neck and choking him every so often when he least expects it.
He dumps the brother off in a motel, I figure, waits until that kid ain't waking up anytime soon and drives over to my place like it'll disappear if he doesn't.
I'm on the porch when he gets there, and he tumbles out of that rattletrap of his as if he's preceding a half-dozen clowns. He walks up to the steps in that smooth and antsy way of his, like maple syrup flows through his veins and the extra sugar's getting to him, then looks me straight in the eye and says, "Sam moved a dresser with his mind."
Don't know what he expects, but he sure looks confused when I laugh in his face like I do.
10.
"Told you this might happen," I say, and this time I've actually got the beer, left over from the last visit with the grandsons. When I'd made a special request for it, they hadn't questioned it, but then again, they'd had years to get used to it. "What happened to the real mover, if you care to mention?"
Boy doesn't lift his gaze from the bottle, and I feel like I'm talking to him across the Grand Canyon. "He shot himself in the head with my gun," he says.
I shuffle over to my armchair and sink down into it, breathe a sigh of relief once I get settled in, and say, "You should be grateful then, son. That brother of yours can't channel nothing, it ain't there for him to use."
He nods at that, distracted by the cool sweat from the icy chill on the bottle's surface. The worry lines are back, the ones that were there near his eyes when he first came to me, and I think I can figure out why without any mystical gifts. He may have learned how to sleep through the night through those godawful dreams of his, but I'll bet that brother of his sure as hell hasn't, and ain't nothing you can do to stop someone else from seeing your nightmares.
Especially not a channeler like that brother of his, tuning into every psychic that walks past him and picking up the signal like a a cheap radio.
"He going to move anything again?" he asks, and I know what he's getting at in that wrong, wrong way of mine. He ain't feeling it anymore, the pain that can come during the visions when they're new and shiny, the sharp stab of agony through his brain like the drop of a guillotine. I doubt the brother's got that same luxury, new to this whole thing like he is.
I shake my head, because that brother of his ain't moving a damn thing unless they encounter another mover, then say, "You plan on telling him about you anytime soon? Can't play stupid forever, you know, even a grand master at it like yourself."
He smiles in spite of himself at that, but shakes his head just the same. I wonder how he does it, pretends it's not his visions rampaging through his brother's head, pretends he doesn't even have visions. I'll bet there's some sort of Oscar nomination on deck for the boy, spending all his time making like he don't see the future when he tries hard enough and sometimes when he doesn't.
"Keep this supernatural shit away from me," I hear in my head, and maybe it's coming from the boy and maybe it ain't, but that's the point, isn't it?
Keep this supernatural shit away from me, the brother says, and there are visions of the future running through this boy's head like a goddamn stampede.
Boy finishes his beer, this cloud in his eyes that tells me he's seeing something even if he won't tell me what it is, and I slip another bottle into his hands. When he shakes it off, his brow furrows at the newly filled bottle before he relaxes and takes a long pull off it.
Somewhere in a motel out there, his brother's fast asleep on a big uncomfortable bed, and maybe with this boy not in the room, he's actually sleeping through the night for once.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,802 words
Pairing: None (Gen)
Warnings: The occasional bad word.
Spoilers: "Provenance"
Disclaimer: Other people's toys are fun to play with.
Summary: Dean goes to a seer to question a new strangeness in his life.
Author's note: So I had this theory about how Sam's powers really work considering he didn't move the desk to save Sarah and decided to play with it in fic. (Like most of my theories, it's probably complete and utter crap, but hell, it's fun to play with.)
So Lonesome I Could Die
*****
1.
Boy calls me after one in the morning like I ain't got a care in the world other than to wait for his voice at the end of my phone, but I was waiting and I guess that's the point of the whole thing anyway.
"He knows," is all he says, a deep boom this time. Kid speaks in barks and grumbles and booms like he can't just talk, like his voice ain't ever been high enough to grasp on to regular human speech.
I laugh, and if flinching is a sound, it's that rustle against the end of my phone line and the sharp hitch in his breath.
"Oh, hell, son, he don't know just yet," I say, "but it's only a matter of time, you keep this up."
Don't need to see his face to know that ain't what he wants to hear from me.
2.
My parlor hasn't ever looked the part of what it is, which is only fair considering I ain't never looked the part, neither. Didn't look the part when I was a boy, didn't look the part when I was sweeping the floors at the local supermarket and sure as hell don't look the part now. Eighty-seven years on me, and at the rate I'm going, I'll end up with the same amount of hair and the same kind of diapers I started out this crazy life with.
Boy don't think me much, not that first day, and that's even with his brand of special circumstances.
He takes in the photos on the wall -- my mother at the height of her theater days, her costume a mere scrap of a thing; my twin grandsons in their roadie days, showing off the new tattoos they got before the Aerosmith tour; my wife in her skydiving attire, God rest her soul -- and I get shot this betrayed look, like I ain't mystical enough for him.
Isn't my call to get all riled up over something like that, but can't resist flicking my gaze at the part of his hip hidden by his jacket and snapping, "Son, hope you don't think you're firing off that weapon of yours in my fine establishment."
His eyes narrow and so do mine, 'cept this time they're aiming at the boot of his that's hiding sharp steel. "That better not make a shining appearance anytime soon, neither," I say, and those eyes of his glisten hard and cold and green like shattered bottle glass.
It takes him a while to draw out the words he wants to say, and I wait. Wait while he rearranges all the snow globes on the mantel, wait while he blows dust off my shelves and makes a face, wait while he tilts the frame holding my medals of service from the war like it was tilted to begin with and he was just straightening it. Boy's got nervous fingers when they ain't holding a gun or a blade. I'd call it a bad trait but I've got nervous fingers myself, the kind that itch to do something now, now, now, and something tells me this one needs that in his life.
"People tell me you're good," he says, and I bark out sharp laughter at that.
"People tell you I'm good, and I'm definitely dealing with the wrong clientele, as it were," I say. "These people got a name?"
He tilts his head just so as he fiddles with one of the books on car repair I've got lying around, flashing me this cock of one eyebrow and a twist of his lips that pair up together like those twin grandsons of mine. In his former lives, kid must have been a snake charmer, a gambler, a gunfighter, a sword for hire. The same qualities still apply. "Pastor Jim," he says, and now I get it like I didn't before.
I sink into the armchair I use most, curved just so to the lines of my back after a good many years, and let out a low whistle. "Well, then," I say, "how's about you come over and start being a little more upfront with me about what you came here for?"
The first thing I learn about the boy is that "upfront" ain't a concept he does very well with.
3.
In my mind's eye, I only see the aftermath, one boy behind a door and the other in front both frozen like they're a pair of deer staring down a set of headlights. The one behind the door is this one's brother, I can tell, the resemblance vague but there. Nice kid, seems like, but a shame about the haircut.
They're both pressed up against the door, the brother's back to the cold hard wood and this one's forehead touching its painted surface like it's the only thing supporting his weight. Both boys gleam from inside in cloudy fogs like bathroom glass reflecting the light. The whole scene feels warm, like they're giving off energy, and whatever chills float through this old body of mine fade away like they ain't never been there.
I hear snippets of sound, as it happens sometimes.
sam youve got to come with me all right i just cant do this without you it said
no dean i wont do this anymore man if youve ever given a damn about me youll keep this supernatural shit away from me
a door slams
a lock clicks shut like its saying and for good measure
Wouldn't think it's much, if you hadn't been around this sort of thing for years like I have, and my grin gets a little dopey. "You going to tell me about those dreams of yours anytime soon?" I say, and know it's a bad move immediately.
Hard not to, the way that boy hightails it out of there.
4.
Two weeks later, he stalks in as if he just left, as if he just expects to find me exactly where he left me. Well, hell, didn't get that fine reputation of mine without due cause, and he finds me just where I was, sitting in my warped old armchair just waiting for an answer.
"I've been dreaming about my mother," he says. His hands grip the arms of his chair like it'll get scared and leave if he don't.
Anyone else, I might make some crack about visiting a therapist instead, but therapy ain't an option with a boy like this. His boot taps out a heartbeat on the hardwood floor, and his knuckles go bone-white like the skin over them's faded away to nothing.
I get one of those feelings you just don't ignore, fine and dandy like it is, and say, "You sure it's your mother you're seeing on that ceiling, son?"
I expect him to run again, but he doesn't.
Just shakes his his head no, one-two back-forth like someone's snapping his neck.
5.
"What's this?" he asks, and taps the amulet with his fingertip like I've rigged it with dynamite.
I putter around my kitchen searching for the sugar bowl, two cups of hot tea waiting for us while I do. Absently, he reaches behind the flower arrangement on the kitchen table -- well, hell, can't expect to find a thing if it hides on you so -- and I shovel sugar into his cup with a tablespoon as I say, "You're the one saying you ain't slept a full night in months, son."
"So, what, this thing's head tips back and it pops out sleeping pills, right?"
Bold remarks like that are the sort of thing my mother used to smack my rump for as a warning, but he's a man fully grown who goes through more than most people he meets give him credit for, so I decide to let the sass slide. "It'll calm your nerves some," I say, passing him his cup of tea. He glares at the cup like doing so will turn it into beer -- not in my house, son, not since my eldest had to start attending those meetings.
He downs the cup in a single gulp before draping the amulet around his neck just so.
That night he stays in my guest bedroom, and it's the first time since I first let him stay in my home that I don't have to launder the sweat from the sheets the morning after.
6.
So I'm setting out the candy for the trick-or-treaters, hovering near the phone just waiting for it to go off, and when I pick it up, he doesn't even bother to greet me with a hello. "My father's gone missing and I'm going to pick up my brother," he says, and it sounds nothing like the confession it is even if the words rush out on a single breath.
"Warned you that'd be a bad idea, son," I say.
At the other end of the phone, that black rattletrap of his roars and growls, and I mentally add lion tamer to the list of past lives he's carrying over into this one. "I can't leave him out of this," he says.
"He ain't ready for what's going to happen to him, you show up all of a sudden like this."
The silence that follows makes it feel like I'm clenching razor blades in my palm, and he says, "Then I'll make him ready," before hanging up.
7.
A week later, another phone call. His voice wakes me from the other end of the phone all quiet and rough, not like the insolent kid I know, not like him at all.
"You're right, it wasn't my mother in the dreams," he says, and that's how it starts.
8.
In between the holiday messages from the kids -- Keith's in California with his little girl and can't make it for Christmas, Lynn makes her boys sing "Jingle Bells" into the phone and I can't delete it fast enough -- that boy keeps leaving me messages like he's taping hastily scribbled Post-It notes to my door and ding-dong-ditching.
I do the same damn thing back to him. Only fair, really.
"Sam still won't sleep through the night. What should I do?"
I tell him to ditch the kid in a motel for a week and drive in the opposite direction until calls to the brother's cell phone go straight to voicemail and doubt that boy'll listen to a word I say.
"Sam dreamed about our old house. What should I do?"
I tell the kid to keep his goddamn guards up and stop thinking about home his own damn self and know at least that much, the boy'll take to heart.
"Sam's having visions when he's awake. What should I do?"
I wait until the kid answers his phone, say, "What in the hell did I teach you about keeping other people out of your head, son, and especially that brother of yours?", rant and rave at him for a good five minutes, then hang up before he gets a word in edgewise.
Little bastard deserves it, for heaven's sake. He knows better by now, and knows better by far.
9.
After that phone call -- and as my grandsons would say, 'He knows', my ass -- I stay up and wait because I know he ain't far away. Wouldn't have bothered calling like that if he were, sounding the closest to scared I've ever heard from him. Boy don't do scared well, like it's hanging around his neck and choking him every so often when he least expects it.
He dumps the brother off in a motel, I figure, waits until that kid ain't waking up anytime soon and drives over to my place like it'll disappear if he doesn't.
I'm on the porch when he gets there, and he tumbles out of that rattletrap of his as if he's preceding a half-dozen clowns. He walks up to the steps in that smooth and antsy way of his, like maple syrup flows through his veins and the extra sugar's getting to him, then looks me straight in the eye and says, "Sam moved a dresser with his mind."
Don't know what he expects, but he sure looks confused when I laugh in his face like I do.
10.
"Told you this might happen," I say, and this time I've actually got the beer, left over from the last visit with the grandsons. When I'd made a special request for it, they hadn't questioned it, but then again, they'd had years to get used to it. "What happened to the real mover, if you care to mention?"
Boy doesn't lift his gaze from the bottle, and I feel like I'm talking to him across the Grand Canyon. "He shot himself in the head with my gun," he says.
I shuffle over to my armchair and sink down into it, breathe a sigh of relief once I get settled in, and say, "You should be grateful then, son. That brother of yours can't channel nothing, it ain't there for him to use."
He nods at that, distracted by the cool sweat from the icy chill on the bottle's surface. The worry lines are back, the ones that were there near his eyes when he first came to me, and I think I can figure out why without any mystical gifts. He may have learned how to sleep through the night through those godawful dreams of his, but I'll bet that brother of his sure as hell hasn't, and ain't nothing you can do to stop someone else from seeing your nightmares.
Especially not a channeler like that brother of his, tuning into every psychic that walks past him and picking up the signal like a a cheap radio.
"He going to move anything again?" he asks, and I know what he's getting at in that wrong, wrong way of mine. He ain't feeling it anymore, the pain that can come during the visions when they're new and shiny, the sharp stab of agony through his brain like the drop of a guillotine. I doubt the brother's got that same luxury, new to this whole thing like he is.
I shake my head, because that brother of his ain't moving a damn thing unless they encounter another mover, then say, "You plan on telling him about you anytime soon? Can't play stupid forever, you know, even a grand master at it like yourself."
He smiles in spite of himself at that, but shakes his head just the same. I wonder how he does it, pretends it's not his visions rampaging through his brother's head, pretends he doesn't even have visions. I'll bet there's some sort of Oscar nomination on deck for the boy, spending all his time making like he don't see the future when he tries hard enough and sometimes when he doesn't.
"Keep this supernatural shit away from me," I hear in my head, and maybe it's coming from the boy and maybe it ain't, but that's the point, isn't it?
Keep this supernatural shit away from me, the brother says, and there are visions of the future running through this boy's head like a goddamn stampede.
Boy finishes his beer, this cloud in his eyes that tells me he's seeing something even if he won't tell me what it is, and I slip another bottle into his hands. When he shakes it off, his brow furrows at the newly filled bottle before he relaxes and takes a long pull off it.
Somewhere in a motel out there, his brother's fast asleep on a big uncomfortable bed, and maybe with this boy not in the room, he's actually sleeping through the night for once.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 08:37 pm (UTC)"Oh my God. Dude, that is so cool! Oh my God. Dude. Dude! Oh my God. Dude! Dude that is so cool! Dude!"
This is such an awesome take on Sam's powers and it would be so perfect and GAH! You need to write for the show so badly.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 08:50 pm (UTC)And very cool concept. Love it.
I know that necklace means something. Just know it!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 09:12 pm (UTC)Have I said YES yet? YES YES YES!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 09:28 pm (UTC)Can you tell I liked this like whoa?
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 10:02 pm (UTC)Care to expand??
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 10:03 pm (UTC)*hand over mouth* This is so perfect! *loves*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 10:40 pm (UTC)xx
no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 11:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 11:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 12:10 am (UTC)The way you write is amazing and until we get told otherwise, this is canon for me!
Please please please write a sequel to this where Sam finds out. If anyone can do it justice, you can.
*hearts*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 01:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 02:10 am (UTC)DUDE! This is so FUCKING cool. Sam as a channeler. *flails*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 09:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 01:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 04:40 pm (UTC)So much pain and hopelessness and oh, Sam and Dean and the last bit killed me.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-16 10:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-17 05:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-17 10:54 am (UTC)Seriously thought that at first that it must be Sam, but then you had Nice kid, seems like, but a shame about the haircut and I thought huh well it must be vice versa then, and then the necklace is mentioned! and Ah DEAN ^_^ dude so in awe
no subject
Date: 2006-04-17 04:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 02:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 05:33 am (UTC)I love the way the visitor is revealed over time, the physical description becoming more and more Dean as he ages and grows into himself.
And I love the idea that Sam is more receptor than psychic, picking up every piece of flotsom floating on the airwaves. Including the visions projecting out of his brother's own head.
I'll second Clex on this: "Dude! Dude! Way cool!" ;)
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Date: 2006-04-26 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-27 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-01 02:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-08 01:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-25 05:43 am (UTC)And yeah, totally neat idea about Sam's powers. Lovely stuff.
I love the list of things this person thinks Dean's been in a past life. Neat.
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Date: 2006-08-05 03:30 am (UTC)Great fic!
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Date: 2006-08-19 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-28 01:28 am (UTC)So Lonesome I could die
Date: 2006-12-31 02:46 am (UTC)The first thing I learn about the boy is that "upfront" ain't a concept he does very well with.
That's just a little bit of an understatement. *g*
Thanks!
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Date: 2007-04-07 05:04 am (UTC)I don't think that's where they're going with Sam anymore, but damn would I have liked to see that.
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Date: 2009-02-12 06:51 am (UTC)That is all.