shatterverse | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Dean is apparently living at Jo's. Leah is working and while she usually has time for a drink, Sam doesn't want to interrupt her, or hang around too much. No jobs to do, that he knows of. No real desire to go out by himself to do them, either. There's nothing wrong with his car and he's not Dean - meaningless tune-ups don't interest him. His guns and knives have been cleaned and polished, he's stocked up on bullets, salt, holy water. Ransacked more than a few bookstores and churches. Sat around the apartment he usually shares with his brother and stared at blank walls.

Sam is bored. Very, very bored.

And in Kansas.

Metropolis is a few hours from Lawrence. What's in Lawrence is... complicated. But maybe it's time he finally checked it out. Looked it in the eye and addressed it's existence.

(the "it" in question is debatable)

For now, Sam Winchester is sitting on the front step of the apartment building he sleeps in, frowning to the north.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's almost startling to have it broken, though Sam's reaction is minor. A tiny lift of his eyebrows, as if suddenly reminded of her presence.

He shrugs, lips turned down and eyes on the road. "Not really? Just... figured I should check it out."

And why not now?

It says something that he might be able to forget she's there. Even quite, even between cars and memories, she hasn't quite forgotten who she's in a very small, enclosed space with.

"You mind a stop by my old place?"

She's quieter than anyone else he's ever had in the car.

Now he glances at her, almost curious, but his eyes are back on the road soon enough. "Is it far?"

She's quieter than anyone would believe Jo Harvelle could be, too. At least those who haven't dealt with the treatment of it for so many weeks the shock is gone.

"Halfway down the same street. Being underfoot blew."

Even if Mary had been kind about the tea and invitation.

He doesn't ask.

But he does nod.

"Sure."

He rarely did.

And never of her, really.

She made a quiet, affirmative noise, and studied the debris of a billboard sign, broken and burned up, as they passed it.

The hours to Lawrence pass slower than the miles.

Sam's only driven this road once before. When they'd first gone, he'd had his eyes on the map constantly, figuring out the route. He never reaches for the glove box this time. His eyes on the road and hands on the wheel, he remembers where to go.

And the street that holds the house he was born in is even lonelier, dustier than it was four years ago.

Jo's eyes narrowed, eying the lack of an impala on the street. "Deana's not here."

She says, with the same even tone. The same way she would if she walked out and Dean's impala wasn't anywhere near her house. The two are tied.

None of it explains why Sam snorts briefly at the mention of 'Deanna.'

And he's still smiling, faintly, as they cruise slowly down the street. He leans forward to look past Jo, checking for any signs of people inside the house. And if there are he'll...

Address it.

The lights are out.

Good.

There's no outright sigh of relief, but Sam's shoulders relax. He slows to a stop, glances back at the street they've come from, ahead at the road left to go. But there are no cars, no bikes, no other sign of life.

And the Porsche's trunk is stocked anyway.

The seat belt's click is the loudest thing that's happened in the car so far. "You need to head to your place first?" Sam asks quietly, pocketing the keys.

Jo opened her car door, not waiting for it, shaking her head.

Feeling the inside of her chest swell at there being more space.

"It can wait."

He's not sure if he's relieved or annoyed by the fact of someone else being there when he enters the house.

It's only the third time he'll have ever stepped foot in it.

The gate creaks. The gate of the white picket fence. That won't ever stop being weird, really, though the paved walk that leads to the porch is a close second place. The paint on the house is peeling and the wood looks a little beat up. The grass is long and there are weeds. That's... better.

Jo's behind him.

"Who all lives here?"

Jo's steps are quiet and even behind him, rather like most things she does. Even though she does stop, tugging the sleeve of her hoodie over her wrist again.

She's not going to sugar coat it, because he knows why he's here even if its not being shared. "Mary, Deana, the other Sam, Jess." Erm. She's looking a little to the side, before at his back. "It was six at the height, and always the Winchester place."

All of them except Jo.

"Six?"

His hand doesn't shake when he reaches for the door knob, and that surprises him a little. It moves slowly, though. He never tries to correct that.

He wonders what the apocalypse did to the house, what the new occupants did. If it's changed and if it's changed enough not to bother him.

"Dean n' me." And didn't that sound weird.

In a way that creaked, was comforting and complicated.

"Back way at the beginning. Before I moved down the street."

She's taking the stairs, and stopped to lean on the porch, thinking oddly enough of the crass teasing she'd given Dean right here on these steps. A girl who was still outrunning her shadow, clueless about her mother.

"He stayed longer, but things got weird when Sam returned with Jess all--" Married is a mutter. And there was Rachel then and Jack's promise to take her away. And the Farm happened, the splitting up. All of it. An endless roll.

Edited 2009-09-23 11:03 (UTC)

"Married."

Said louder but not loud. Stronger but not strong. Simple statement of fact. It doesn't have to bother him - that Sam isn't really Sam. That Jess isn't really Jess.

And he's glad they're both not here.

The door pushes open with a creak and Sam peers inside, frowning a little. Furniture, knick-knacks, blankets over a couch and pillows on cushions.

But empty, all the same.

Jo ran her finger down a table with a can on it.

Coming up with a slight layer of dust.

"Empty for a while."

"Looks like it."

Maybe he shouldn't look around. It's not really his house and people lived here. Maybe not the right people, but people. And Dean, once.

Sam frowns, walking through the halls. He'd like to have a shotgun in his hands. What he's got is the handgun at his back and a few knives. It's the only way he knew to make this feel like a real job.

At the end of the hallway is the kitchen, which only gets a glance before he turns back to Jo-

And turns back to the kitchen. More specifically, to the window that leads to the backyard.

She's watching him.

It's not like the Road House. He's not emptying coffers after taking out the only people who mattered more than breathing. The only people who could gut her. The only people she'd known all her life could always have that happen to them, and that be demanded of her.

It's his home and the people here are not demons.

He doesn't have to kill them and refuses to live with them.

Two different sides of a coin rolling its ways through hell.

When he looks away, she catches the tense of his shoulders. She knows what's out there. She was there for it. "Pretty, ain't it?"

Edited 2009-09-23 14:30 (UTC)

He doesn't appreciate her rhetoric.

Sam's eyes narrow slightly on her. The shake of his head is not in response - not to Jo, anyway, but maybe to the words in his head. He walks away from her, out the back door.

The the backyard, filled with rubble, like haphazardly thrown gravel, and trees with branches out of a Salvador Dali painting.

He knows who did this.

exploded rocks and melted trees

He just doesn't know what.

She follows him out, letting him look.

"That one is from when he brought Jess home."

There's less of a pointing and more of a nod toward.

"He was less than thrilled that I wasn't having it."

Sam hesitates, looking in the direction of her nodding. He's not sure if she's talking about one of three awkward, melting trees or two different crumbles of rock.

"You weren't having with what?"

"Him. All married. Without coming home, without tests, without talking to Dean, or Mary." Her tongue still slides comfortably over the names, even as she's studying the wreckage of the yard.

"There she was, all be-ringed--and he was--" Jo frowned, hands settling on her hips oddly. The word was giddy. "Seriously. Did anyone really think I needed extra excuses to throw holy water at one of you if you even faintly sounded like you'd fallen off the deep end?"

She gets a sharp-eyed glare for that.

No. He didn't think there needed to be an extra excuse. And he doesn't think any of this is particularly funny either.