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Supernatural Fic: Epistolary
I'm not sure what this is. I'm in the middle of writing a fairly complex, very dark fic, and it just...happened.
ETA: I need to get into the habit of replying to the stuff I read here on LJ. Because I'm not really a lurker--I just...haven't been replying lately, even to the most amazing fic. Self, consider this a note.
Title: Epistolary
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xaara
Rating: PG, gen
Timeline: Pre-series to just before the pilot
Summary: One morning, he wakes to find a strange clawed footprint in the front yard and a line of salt across the outside of his windowsill.
Epistolary
You know, Sam writes on a receipt he digs from his pocket, this isn’t exactly an inconspicuous car.
He slips the note beneath a windshield wiper and shakes his head, takes the stairs to his room two at a time.
The next day, the car is gone, but a piece of paper, folded in half, awaits him in his mailbox. Not trying to be inconspicuous, it reads. Too much effort.
Sam never sees the car again, except when he’s not looking. It only appears in his peripheral vision: reflected in a store window or parked around the corner. Behind an SUV or through the gaps between a chain of freight cars or sometimes, when he’s tired, across the surface of his coffee.
One morning, he wakes to find a strange clawed footprint in the front yard and a line of salt across the outside of his windowsill. He leaves a note tucked between the window and the frame: Cut it out.
That afternoon the response: No.
But weeks and months pass, and he thinks that maybe it’s over. Nothing new, no salt blowing in across his just-swept floor, no pentagrams carved into the paint outside his window. No slippery impressions of a black car in the corner of his eye.
He takes his first breath of relief, and loses his job. Sorry, his boss says. We’re closing this branch. Gonna open a new one, other side of town. I really hate to have to let you go.
Sam smiles and nods and shakes hands all around and thinks, Fuck you too.
Two months later, he comparison shops instant soup and wonders how the hell he’s going to keep his half-room of the apartment. Considers breaking into tears on a streetcorner, see if that’d raise him a few hundred bucks. Considers going to the first minimum-wage shit job he got in college and begging his way back in. Considers throwing himself off a bridge.
You idiot, the note says. It’s wrapped around almost five hundred dollars in cash. You need something, just ask. Nicely.
Sam stares at the money for almost an hour, then uses it the next day to pay his rent. Later, when he’s back on his feet, he leaves the same amount in an envelope on his windowsill. Thanks.
He can almost hear the smile in the reply. No prob, bro.
Hey, Sam, Jessica says. So I was walking to class today and I saw this amazing car--old Chevy. Black. It was, like, straight out of a movie.
Sam wraps an arm around her waist. Cool, he says.
(i love her), he writes. He’s not sure where to leave the note, so he folds it and leaves it on his doorstep. It’s gone the next morning. He waits for weeks. Nothing.
I hate Halloween, he tells her. It’s such bullshit.
Come on, Sam, she says. Just this once. It’s just a party. We’ll go and get wasted and be home before one.
He thinks he’s trying to roll his eyes but then all five feet and eleven inches of her are pressed up against him, along him, atop him, and he can’t remember.
He wakes and rolls over to make sure she’s still there, then rises and splashes cold water on his face to chase off the remnants of the dream-flashover that destroys his life, night after night, searing him awake. He’s just barely back asleep when there’s a sound from the front room. A click, then another. Someone trying to break in.
His feet meet the floor before his mind processes the information. Not much of a deal, probably just a burglar. Just a person.
He’s seen worse. He creeps into the living room on silent tiptoe and waits.
ETA: I need to get into the habit of replying to the stuff I read here on LJ. Because I'm not really a lurker--I just...haven't been replying lately, even to the most amazing fic. Self, consider this a note.
Title: Epistolary
Author:
xaaraRating: PG, gen
Timeline: Pre-series to just before the pilot
Summary: One morning, he wakes to find a strange clawed footprint in the front yard and a line of salt across the outside of his windowsill.
Epistolary
You know, Sam writes on a receipt he digs from his pocket, this isn’t exactly an inconspicuous car.
He slips the note beneath a windshield wiper and shakes his head, takes the stairs to his room two at a time.
The next day, the car is gone, but a piece of paper, folded in half, awaits him in his mailbox. Not trying to be inconspicuous, it reads. Too much effort.
Sam never sees the car again, except when he’s not looking. It only appears in his peripheral vision: reflected in a store window or parked around the corner. Behind an SUV or through the gaps between a chain of freight cars or sometimes, when he’s tired, across the surface of his coffee.
One morning, he wakes to find a strange clawed footprint in the front yard and a line of salt across the outside of his windowsill. He leaves a note tucked between the window and the frame: Cut it out.
That afternoon the response: No.
But weeks and months pass, and he thinks that maybe it’s over. Nothing new, no salt blowing in across his just-swept floor, no pentagrams carved into the paint outside his window. No slippery impressions of a black car in the corner of his eye.
He takes his first breath of relief, and loses his job. Sorry, his boss says. We’re closing this branch. Gonna open a new one, other side of town. I really hate to have to let you go.
Sam smiles and nods and shakes hands all around and thinks, Fuck you too.
Two months later, he comparison shops instant soup and wonders how the hell he’s going to keep his half-room of the apartment. Considers breaking into tears on a streetcorner, see if that’d raise him a few hundred bucks. Considers going to the first minimum-wage shit job he got in college and begging his way back in. Considers throwing himself off a bridge.
You idiot, the note says. It’s wrapped around almost five hundred dollars in cash. You need something, just ask. Nicely.
Sam stares at the money for almost an hour, then uses it the next day to pay his rent. Later, when he’s back on his feet, he leaves the same amount in an envelope on his windowsill. Thanks.
He can almost hear the smile in the reply. No prob, bro.
Hey, Sam, Jessica says. So I was walking to class today and I saw this amazing car--old Chevy. Black. It was, like, straight out of a movie.
Sam wraps an arm around her waist. Cool, he says.
(i love her), he writes. He’s not sure where to leave the note, so he folds it and leaves it on his doorstep. It’s gone the next morning. He waits for weeks. Nothing.
I hate Halloween, he tells her. It’s such bullshit.
Come on, Sam, she says. Just this once. It’s just a party. We’ll go and get wasted and be home before one.
He thinks he’s trying to roll his eyes but then all five feet and eleven inches of her are pressed up against him, along him, atop him, and he can’t remember.
He wakes and rolls over to make sure she’s still there, then rises and splashes cold water on his face to chase off the remnants of the dream-flashover that destroys his life, night after night, searing him awake. He’s just barely back asleep when there’s a sound from the front room. A click, then another. Someone trying to break in.
His feet meet the floor before his mind processes the information. Not much of a deal, probably just a burglar. Just a person.
He’s seen worse. He creeps into the living room on silent tiptoe and waits.