Hey. Name's Sam. Sam Winchester. [Full bio] You're here because you have a job for me, right? Scribble down the specifics on this piece of paper and I'll see what I can do. If we're talking about off-the-case business, throw me a line from your phone.
This was new. And stupid. And far-fetched. Least of all expected, but definitely stupid.
God. This was supposed to be God. Short-cropped hair, gray at the roots, tattered with wears of age and throes of time. Slouchy, aloof, with an air of cockiness to him that more closely resembled a familiar of Gabriel than the creator of all. Sam wasn’t even religious. Why would he be? He spent months warring with his will power to do right, to fight the urge to bring poison to his lips and drink it greedily like a rebellious son was Fated to do. And even when he failed, the consequences were manifold. His bloodlust for the crimson coursing through demon veins brought about the Apocalypse. And he had to face it alone. He and his brother and Castiel, they faced it alone.
They searched for God, and just like their father on Earthly grounds, he was a no-show. For the brothers, it was nothing new. In fact, the sting of abandonment was barely recognizable by their standards. But this joker, he was supposed to be the all mighty, making an appearance after the worst of the storm had tided over? No matter what lense you looked through, the situation was either ludicrous or disappointing. A lose-lose, catch-22, paradox of washouts and ‘what-ifs’. Approaching the man was no easy task, “… So you’re the big man upstairs?”
“Hi! I’m Stiles.”
"Oh, uh — hey, man. Pleasure. Call me Sam. Are you… usually this friendly towards strangers or do I just strike you as the neighborly type?" Not that you’d be wrong, given your options. You caught a break, running into me and not my brother. He’d pull a gun on you and ask questions later.
dancing-withdevils burned in the Hale residence
“—Wow, you are much taller then I expected.”
"Yeah, I get that a lot. Something about being the little brother makes people expect… little." He chuckled, the sonance sprinkled with gruff undertones and slight amusement, his lips curling into a obligatory smile. He didn’t know her, but her entry line gave the impression that she knew him, or at least knew of him. Then again, who didn’t know about the Winchesters? They were like the poster-boys of what hunters should aspire to be, like some kind of personal goal for every stem of business to branch out to. Sam wasn’t thrilled with the prospect, knowing that his primal instinct to survive was a ‘you must be this skilled to hunt this savage’ target, but a choice in the matter would be too much to hope for. “So apart from my height, did I live up to rumor? Feel free to fire with guns blazing, I can handle constructive criticism.” Honesty was the best policy — and he really had to work on his use of puns.
She listens, of course she listens - trying to be patient and wait for a turn to talk. When she gets that chance, she takes a deep breath, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not about money, or living a life like in the movies - it’s about..” After a short exhale, she looks up at him.
“Sam, if you’re worried about me being lonely - then I already am. You know - a couple weeks before the whole big Dick situation, I met somebody. I was happy - I had a good job, a best friend who was a total dork just like me and a girl who was willing to watch Battlestar Galactica and Firefly and have that be our dates. But after you came along and my boss was eaten by a monster and then became a frackin’ monster and I broke into Dick’s email and almost got more than just my arm broken - I had to leave town, and disappear. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye before I was gone. So loneliness isn’t going to be a big issue. I need to do something with my life, I need - something, I don’t know. Nobody is hiring me because guess what? I had to wipe my old resumes. If these monsters that you hunt go around killing people and I knew they were out there and I just - sat around like I have? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. So just - hear me out, okay? Your friend, Frank, had a lot of information on what you guys do. Annnd I may have saved some on my USB drive.” After a deep breath she shuffles around for a bit and she sighs. “Look - I could help, even by helping with research or something. I just - need to be doing something. How about you let me help when you guys are doing your whole hunty business? I can totally do research and help with your fake FBI and other stuff. Also on a semi related note - tell Dean that Agent Sully is a really stupid fake alias cause it’s really fake.”
Sam listened. He was always good at that — listening without interruption. He listened attentively, to every detail, every suggestion, every pitifully-contained plea, and he nodded in quiet when a sound point was made. He didn’t speak up until she was done, and even minutes after, he bit his tongue. What could he say? She didn’t have a purpose, she didn’t have an anchor. She was an aimless ghost drifting from mindless hobby to mindless hobby, hoping to grapple to something that would make waking up in the morning bearable. In that sense, Sam could relate. All he ever had for show was Dean. Hell, he’d do anything for Dean. But even those grounds didn’t justify the means. Hunting had it’s perks, top case in point? Saving people. The look on people’s faces when they’ve gained a renewed since of living is one thing he would never forget. The humbleness, the appreciation. All of it made the bad worth it, if only for a moment.
But then there was the blood, and the sweat, and the tears. The lives that had been wasted just by merely brushing paths with the Winchesters, the friends they had lost to the hand of cataclysm. The rifts and tears it had created in family ties, and worst yet, the wear it put on him as a person. Sam had changed because of the family business. He had become a hardened, socially dysfunctional machine that operated on fast food and fake alibis. He couldn’t go near anything that radiated heat, for fear flickers of Hell would torture his mantra. He couldn’t go into a convenient store and look at table salt with the simple intention of buying it and using it for consumption. He couldn’t wake up in the middle of the night and not instinctively reach for the gun stowed under his pillow. He couldn’t be normal. Not now, not ever. He had tried once, and almost succeeded.
"It sounds like you have it all mapped out, huh?" Sam commented grimly, a sad smile playing across his lips. "Listen to me: you don’t want this. Really, CB. As boring as a half-life at a comic store might be, you’ll regret quitting if you trade it in for this job. You’ve got all the talent in the world, and I’m not saying you don’t have what it takes, but think about it. Hours on end in seedy motels, living off of cheap food and week-old clothes? Putting yourself in the line of fire just for some research spent behind a computer screen? You wouldn’t be able to live where you are now. All this progress you’ve made to wipe the slate clean, it’ll all go down the drain for a fourth of what you’re experiencing in this town. You could be killed like that,” He snapped his fingers, “without ever getting to put that skill to the test and use it for something life-changing.” The once sad smile morphed into that of a gentle breed, wetting his bottom lip and sucking in a gust of air before continuing with a new tone, a softer one. “You know you don’t have to make a difference by slaying bedtime stories. There’s a lot of opportunity out there for you, you just gotta fight for it. Dean and I, we’ve got connections. If it’s a jump start you need, we can make sure you’re recommended by the very best at whatever you want to do. Just — please, don’t choose this.”