#Still wipset wenesday babe

[pupyr0arz]

Snippets

(Soulless Sam/Vamp Dean, Stalker JohnSam and weecest slow burn wips)

soulless sam + vampire dean.

Dean, at his core, is a simple creature driven by simple needs. Lust and loyalty drive him, silly wants and the bone deep need to serve and fight for those he deems worthy. For John, for Sam.

 These moments, when his base nature, stark and clear, shines through….that is when Sam understands him most, when he’s slipping into another skin to pursue a girl eyeing him at a bar, the sparkle of want in his eyes when they find a good place to eat, and the occasional longing glances Dean shoots towards him when he thinks Sam isn’t looking. The way he sticks by his side without prompting, the drive to throw himself into danger for the safety of a nameless person. This is the most familiar shape his brother can take, burned into Sam’s eyelids, carved into what remains of his tattered subconscious.

But his time with Lisa has muddled his brother, and Sam’s time spent away and <i>different</i> has already made Dean a stranger to him. He can’t predict him as accurately anymore, can’t steer the conversation with the simple ease he once had. Can’t figure out what to say to make Dean agree, what to avoid to set him off. Sam is stumbling in the details, the little things he has found so bright and sharp since his return everywhere else. Sam finds Dean looking at him with more and more suspicion and dawning fears. 

Sam doesn’t find himself strongly…motivated much anymore, but Dean slots neatly back into his life despite rough edges. All Dean needs is careful trimming, guidance. He’s Sam’s perfect partner, born and bred for him and Sam finds the idea of having to settle for subpar distasteful. He’s back to being used to Dean at his side, back to being able to glance and find the definition of safety spanning his whole life a step behind. He isn’t nearly as stupid as he was before, doesn’t buy into the hype, doesnt have that stupid boyish statue of a superhero in the shape of Dean he had kept carefully polished since boyhood looming over him anymore. He knows just how falible Dean is, knows how to look at it head on. But with the clarity of Dean’s failings also comes with the clarity of his successes.

Dean is a talented hunter. Obviously. One of the best of this age. 

Dean would happily lie down and die for him at any given moment, has before. Dean would protect Sam from any accusation if he stayed loyal to Dean. As long as he kept Dean at that pedestal, replayed the devotion with his focus, Dean would do anything for him or die trying.

Math is becoming his strong suit more and more by the day as he has to deal with peoples baffling stupidity, and this is a rather simple equation. Insert Sammy, receive Dean. 

Easier said than done.

There is a solution. It will fix all of his problems. Rewrite the equation in a solvable format.

Problem : the Campbells and Dean will not allow Sam to work with them simplgi get rid of the Campbells, and rewrite the equation in a solveable format.

Sam kills Samuel and keeps his brother a vampire.

Sam didn’t stop growing when he left. It’s a thought that haunts John as he prowls the Californian streets. He welcomes the angry sting of it, the bitter darkness to stain his thoughts, make him grip the wheel a bit too tight. Better than guilt. Anything is better than thinking about why he’s even here. 

He has his goddamn reasons. He doesn’t need to explain himself, least of all to Sam who up and left him and Dean for this. Dean wouldn’t dare ask, not really, and John has no one left to peer at him suspiciously through windows or loudly complain that he isn’t being transparent. All he has are quiet hours in his truck and in alleys, places to slip out of his skin where no one can see the gleam of teeth and shining eyes he knows he carries.

He worries to look in the mirror that one day his hands and eyes will find some blue and blacked mark, where fang rended flesh and spread infection, seeded darkness in him and carved the creature out of his core and into his bones. John never does. It’s only always him.

The last day of school is a drawn out affair, activity after activity, slowly drawing to a close in their classrooms.

“Everyone, gather around,” Mrs (name) calls, taking out a bag on her desk. Sam doesn’t jostle to the front, lets himself drift at the back of the pack as his classmates form a rough circle around the desk.

“We’re going to be doing a goodbye exercise I’ve done with every class I’ve ever had.” She tells them like it’s a secret smiling. She has dimples and a wide, cheerful smile. She’s one of Sam’s favorite sorts of teachers, warm and plump and cheerful in a way he imagines would remind him of his mother. “I want everyone here to pick a rock.” 

Not lolipops then. She dumps the bag out on her desk, and it’s mid to small sized pebbles. Sam recognizes some from around the area, others must’ve been bought. Geography.

He steps up as his classmates head back to their desks or squabble over the coolest looking rock, and spots his. It’s small, and with blackish spots, sitting off away from the pile. Sam feels sort of silly picking it up, but it feels right for a moment, like he’s a character in some great novel and this is something meaningful, something that will matter later and be representative of him.

“Now, I want everyone to sit down quietly at their desk. We’e going to go around the room, and everyone is going to hold one person’s rock and think good thoughts. Happy memories or things you like about them. They’ll be good luck charms, reminders of your year here at (school name).”

Sam looks down at his rock, thinks of how he will probably never see any of his classmates or teachers again, and even if he would he wouldn’t be able to recognize them. How their faces and names, aside from the most notable, will fade away into a blurry mess. How he will quietly pack away his friendships and leave them abandoned at the side of the road, mewling in some cardboard box, and this rock in the bushes beside the school. 

New state, new life.

He passes it along to the teacher, and tries to think of something for Adam Summerland’s rock.

❁

The sky feels rounded out here, curving to meet the grassland and covering everything in a blanket of powder blue. The Impala runs smooth even as the roads get worse and Dean starts wincing. Sam’s not sure why he’s so obsessed with making sure nothing touches the car, he’s half convinced it’s indestructible by now and the other half of him is sure Dean could repair it if it was a pile of scrap with a toothpick and rubber bands.

❁

Sam wiggles the doorknob of their motel room, easing it open. The door jams seemingly every time it closes, but he can’t expect much more from any place that lets a twelve year old live for weeks alone.

Twenty-eight days John and Dean have been gone. 

❁

He scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve, furious with Dean for being such a jerk, even more furious with himself for crying.

❁

Sam doesn’t go far, he’s mad at Dean but the pulse of anxiety at the thought of coming back and finding him crumpled on the floor wins out.

❁

Three things Sam can see. The yellow white of the bathroom tiles, Dean’s blood on the floor, the needle in his hands.

Three things Sam can taste. Sweat, tears, and iron.

Three things Sam can hear. The soft moaning of his brother in the bedroom, the low tones of his father, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

❁

The Impala waits for them at the end of the road proper. Dad’s leaning against it, hands in his pockets as he watches them come back to the house. 

He can’t have seen anything, wouldn’t look so calm if he did but a chill runs through Sam anyways, putting out the fire Dean lit in him. Suddenly the sunlight is cold on his skin, the warmth leached out of the land.

Dean climbs up the porch steps and doesn’t look back, leaving Sam standing in the grass, lips tingling. He can feel the weight of his brother's hand where it rested on nis shoulder, like it burned a scar there.

They’re going to Washington this time. New state, new life.