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Oct. 22nd, 2010 07:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gavemea_45Some people mark the passing of time by the calendar.
Sam keeps track by how long it's been since that fateful Wednesday when Dean died and time kept going.
It's been six months since the Trickster taunted him and disappeared, and Sam's still not giving up. Not now; not ever.
He wears Dean's amulet around his neck, drives the Impala from one place to another, and goes on doing the job to the absolute best of his ability. He draws on every bit of experience he's got from how Dean and Dad had raised and taught him, as well as everything he'd ever noticed about how John Winchester had pursued the yellow-eyed demon while still doing a hunter's work from day to day.
It turns out he's better at it than he ever thought he really could be.
* * * * * * *
He tries out Sameth's knife on a demon in Death Valley. While it definitely does something, it doesn't seem to work like either Ruby's knife or the Colt had. Maybe it's because Sameth hadn't really known what to do with holy symbols, like he'd said, maybe it's something else -- Sam doesn't care enough to take any chances, but cracks the demon over the head with an iron bar and follows up with salt water and an exorcism just to be sure.
(It's too damn bad they hadn't still had the Colt when they ended up in Broward. It might have worked, even though the stake hadn't; it might still. God help Bela Talbot if he runs across her now.)
* * * * * * *
He discovers that the number Susannah Toren had given him calls 'Dial-A-Prayer.' Pressing the extension gets him a company operator who's never heard of Tet Security, and who asks him if he's speaking in tongues when he tries the password. Sam hangs up the phone, and channels his frustration into burning out the vampire nest that'd brought him down to Austin in the first place.
* * * * * * *
He'd stopped answering Bobby's calls three months ago. He's not interested in the worry he can hear in the older man's voice, and he doesn't have the time or energy to spare reassuring him, especially when they both know it's a lie anyway. Sam lets his voice mail do the talking for him instead: "It's Sam. Leave me a message." Short and to the point, it says everything that needs saying.
In between jobs he spends his days in his own version of a military routine. He eats a lot of grilled chicken sandwiches without the bread, with steamed vegetables on the side, and cleans his guns every night. He does sit-ups, and pull-ups, and more pushups than he can count, and knows he's in the best physical shape of his life. He keeps each motel room neat and his files ruthlessly organized-- especially the file on the Trickster. That one he puts up on the wall first thing, every time he checks into a new motel. He studies it constantly, even while he's doing everything else, endlessly reviewing every old and new detail and looking for patterns and clues. He'll find the right one eventually. He's sure of it.
One other thing he does is a methodical check of each motel room's doors to see if any of them open to Milliways. Not a door in Broward had, and he'd tried every one of them more than once, every single Tuesday. None of them have since, either, but Sam's not inclined to quit trying that or anything else.
When one of them finally does, he already knows exactly what he's going to do next.
Sam keeps track by how long it's been since that fateful Wednesday when Dean died and time kept going.
"This is so not about killing Dean. This joke is on you, Sam. Watching your brother die every day, forever?"
"You son-of-a-bitch."
"How long will it take you to realize? You can't save your brother. No matter what."
It's been six months since the Trickster taunted him and disappeared, and Sam's still not giving up. Not now; not ever.
He wears Dean's amulet around his neck, drives the Impala from one place to another, and goes on doing the job to the absolute best of his ability. He draws on every bit of experience he's got from how Dean and Dad had raised and taught him, as well as everything he'd ever noticed about how John Winchester had pursued the yellow-eyed demon while still doing a hunter's work from day to day.
It turns out he's better at it than he ever thought he really could be.
"What, you expect me to go on living and just let you die in my place?"
"Yeah, Sam. Because you and I both know you're the one that can."
He tries out Sameth's knife on a demon in Death Valley. While it definitely does something, it doesn't seem to work like either Ruby's knife or the Colt had. Maybe it's because Sameth hadn't really known what to do with holy symbols, like he'd said, maybe it's something else -- Sam doesn't care enough to take any chances, but cracks the demon over the head with an iron bar and follows up with salt water and an exorcism just to be sure.
(It's too damn bad they hadn't still had the Colt when they ended up in Broward. It might have worked, even though the stake hadn't; it might still. God help Bela Talbot if he runs across her now.)
He discovers that the number Susannah Toren had given him calls 'Dial-A-Prayer.' Pressing the extension gets him a company operator who's never heard of Tet Security, and who asks him if he's speaking in tongues when he tries the password. Sam hangs up the phone, and channels his frustration into burning out the vampire nest that'd brought him down to Austin in the first place.
He'd stopped answering Bobby's calls three months ago. He's not interested in the worry he can hear in the older man's voice, and he doesn't have the time or energy to spare reassuring him, especially when they both know it's a lie anyway. Sam lets his voice mail do the talking for him instead: "It's Sam. Leave me a message." Short and to the point, it says everything that needs saying.
In between jobs he spends his days in his own version of a military routine. He eats a lot of grilled chicken sandwiches without the bread, with steamed vegetables on the side, and cleans his guns every night. He does sit-ups, and pull-ups, and more pushups than he can count, and knows he's in the best physical shape of his life. He keeps each motel room neat and his files ruthlessly organized-- especially the file on the Trickster. That one he puts up on the wall first thing, every time he checks into a new motel. He studies it constantly, even while he's doing everything else, endlessly reviewing every old and new detail and looking for patterns and clues. He'll find the right one eventually. He's sure of it.
One other thing he does is a methodical check of each motel room's doors to see if any of them open to Milliways. Not a door in Broward had, and he'd tried every one of them more than once, every single Tuesday. None of them have since, either, but Sam's not inclined to quit trying that or anything else.
When one of them finally does, he already knows exactly what he's going to do next.
