SPN fic: Reality Is A Ticking Time-Bomb
Recipient: 
ambiguous_opal
Title: Reality Is A Ticking Time-Bomb
Characters: Sam, Dean (kindasorta)
Word Count: 3000+
Rating: Gen/PG-13
Author Notes: written for the Fic-Exchange at
spn_thur_nights. I know, this is late, but hey, better late than never right? ambiguous_opal asked for something to do with the knife in the season one promos that we never got to see, and for no kiddie fic. Should have been simple but as it turns out not so easy. Sam didn’t want to talk. Think, sure, talk, not so much. *le sigh* Stubborn Winchester. I’m playing a little loose with Greek mythology (combining what is really two different myths to make one uber-baddie) but isn’t that part of the fun? I jump around in time a bit too, so sorry if there’s any confusion about sequence. >_< Thanks to 
mizbhaven13 & Autumn Sigh at PC for the quick betas. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.
Summary: Flashback sequence. Stanford down-time – Sam finds himself looking for danger and biting off a bit more than he can chew. Involves a game of Texas Hold-Em and an imaginary Dean giving his brother hell.
“Dude, you’re telling me I can’t open this box?”
“It’s none of your damn business, Dean. Just leave it alone,” Sam growls, snatching the flat box back from his brother and stashing it back under the spare tire. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
Unfortunately, Sam can never forget and the memories roll in. They may be a bit dusty from avoidance and time passed, but they still give him a hard chill down his spine as he slams the Impala’s trunk closed.
***
“Submit, Winchester. This is only going to get worse for you, the longer you resist.”
“Bite me.”
The blade digs deeper and Sam hears a sharp grinding noise of metal shaving bone. He swallows a scream, but it lodges in his throat, determined to be set free. The pressure worsens until he can feel the hilt carving an imprint into his thigh and the curved blade tip has gone clean through the other side of his leg. He can’t move his hands and he wonders what the hell that’s all about. Lightless eyes glare at him through a curtain of greasy blonde hair. Sam watches the man grip the knife tighter and then twist.
He’s screaming now, and there’s no holding back because the pain is just there, but the scream morphs into a hysterical laugh that tumbles from his mouth without warning. He had asked for this, hadn’t he?
Yes.
***
College is supposed to be good times, bad beer, and better sex than anyone knows their entire lives. So why does Sam feel like he’s moving through quicksand and sinking fast?
The first few months feel like he’s coming up for air, ironically. No more awkward silences. No more pressure beating down on his back. No more tight spaces full of obligation and regret. But normal starts to hurt, like a small cut in an unreachable place that aches out of sight. The people around him are so carefree, so naïve, and he envies them their ignorance. As much as he enjoys a night out with the boys, a good beer in hand, the burn in his gut of something unnamed is enough to harden the edges of his smile.
He starts sneaking away from the apartment late at night, after Jess is making those little snoring noises that he loves. They aren’t enough to keep him in bed, though. He wanders the streets for hours on end with nothing more than a vial of holy water, a box of rock salt, and one ragged reprint of Bodin’s Demonomanie de Sorciers. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. It’s not Sam. It’s not like him to be foolish, begging for danger, looking for trouble.
It takes weeks of awkward ghost encounters and near death experiences for him to realize the ache isn’t because he misses the life. It’s that he misses them. Dean. Dad. Each day away from them stacks up like an unstable house of cards, waiting for the moment when he exhales too strongly and it can all come crashing down.
It doesn’t matter. He can’t go back. Call it stubbornness. Call it pride. He can’t go back. He can’t beg Dad to let him come home, wherever home is at the moment. He picks up his cell at least a dozen times, cycles through the phonebook until he gets to D, and stares at his brother’s name on the screen while Jess sings in the shower across the room. She has a thing for Air Supply. Dean would probably groan and give him the look.
The cell phone clicks shut with an audible finality every time.
***
“Are you sure?” Jess says, a pleading lilt to her voice as she finishes packing her carry-on. “I mean, we could pick you up some medicine on the way to the airport. You could sleep on the plane…”
Sam listens to her trail off and knows he’s hurting her feelings but can’t stand the thought of spring break in Miami, surrounded by the unaware, the oblivious. He’s learned how to fake happy and content even when his stomach churns with the urge to run screaming, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He’ll tell Dean, sometime in the future, that he wanted normal, that he wanted this.
Lies come easy for a Winchester.
So Sam lies, and Jess leaves, and Sam spends two blissful weeks licking at the crumbs of a life he thinks he’ll never have again.
***
Place looks shady, two dark alleys riding parallel to its tattooed walls, front door cracked hard down the center. The sign flickers half-lit. He thinks it once said Around the Bend but now it’s just the end and he wonders if foreshadowing is really only a literary tool or something normal people just don’t notice when it happens in the real world.
It takes a few minutes to shrug off that tell-tale foreboding as he stands just below the pulsing sign.
It’s only a bar, he thinks as the door swings open with a hitching grumble. And if it’s not, well, he’ll deal with that too.
A half hour later he finds himself at a poker table surrounded by unsavory types. The guy across from him has a bar through his nose the size of a Roman lance and that’s only one of many piercings. There’s a woman to the left, with nut brown hair and dead eyes. He’s fairly sure she’s figuring out the easiest way to kill him later. Or maybe she’s just empty. In the head. The beer in his hand is extra cold, unexpectedly so. He can’t help imagining Dean there, in the vacant seat next to him, half-empty bottle of PBR in front of him, body lounging out over the limits of his chair.
“Can’t believe you stayed in with a two, eight unsuited. You’re getting ballsy, Sammy,” Dean smirks.
Sam throws out a few dollars into the pot and tries not to think. Impossible.
“Think the redhead at the bar is single? Speaking of which, that girl of yours is major hot. What the hell are you doing in some craphole like this when you could be watching her dance around in a bikini drinking margaritas?
“Hey, man, you awake? Those cards aren’t gonna change the longer you stare at ‘em.”
Sam blinks away his phantom brother and folds.
The reasons he shouldn’t be here are starting to line up in his head like an army preparing for battle. But the empty feeling in his stomach (or is that his heart that hurts?) just won’t go away.
***
“Call. And I’ll raise you. But I’m outta cash. Will…this do?” the man says as he lays a heavy object on the dark grain table, holding his cards loosely in his other hand. They’ve been passing the large stack back and forth for two hours, and the woman with the dead eyes is gone. Off to look for a more entertaining victim maybe.
Sam drops his eyes to the tabletop for only a second before pulling every dollar he has out of his wallet and adding it to the pot. Eight hundred and forty six dollars to be exact. His textbook budget. Who needs books when you can find entire manuscripts on the net for free? It’s worth the risk, either way.
A wicked smile dances at the edges of Sam’s mouth as the river card comes up ace of spades.
“Don’t go countin’ chickens and all that, Sammy.”
“Shut up,” Sam murmurs, drawing the curious attention of his opponent.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out, bro. Hate to see you get your little heart broken,” Dean quips, leaning back in his chair until the front legs lift off the ground.
Sam wonders if he’s losing his mind or if it’s been gone for years.
“Pretty sure it doesn’t make a difference, dude. You’re nuts, either way. Hey, speaking of, awesome! Peanuts!” Dean reaches over Sam’s arms and grabs a handful out of a bowl.
“Dude, don’t eat that! You don’t have half a clue who’s touched what and then stuck their germ-infested hands in ther…”
Sam sputters off as he realizes he’s chastising a mirage and the guy across the table is giving him a wide-eyed stare. He clears his throat and lays his cards down on the table. Full house, Aces over tens. Guy has a straight, Ace high and he groans as Sam sweeps the winnings off the table and stands in one smooth motion. A flick of Sam’s hands and he slides the sheath off the knife. He spins it, testing the weight, the feel, delights in the glint of steel. A bit top heavy, sure, but the hard curve of the blade balances it out somewhat. Technically, it’s a modern sickle, but there is a sense of age and power to it that excites his fingertips where they are clasped hard around the hilt. Dad would consider it ridiculous. Impractical. That thought only makes Sam like it more.
Screw practical.
Two minutes later, he’s walking along the sidewalk in the direction of his apartment, still car-less after three years at school because he can’t stand the thought of working extra hours just to dump all his cash on some piece of crap that couldn’t outrun a charging poltergeist in even the best weather. He thinks he sees a shadow take shape down the road and rumble past him, all glistening black metal and chrome. The Impala is several states away, most likely, but he can hear it in his head anyway, feel it at his back like a distant promise.
Cash winnings in his pocket, knife tucked in the back of his waistband under the checkered green plaid of his button up, Sam heads through Peers Park as a shortcut to Leland Ave. He’s halfway across a wide-open space when a noise catches his attention. Stopping short, Sam spins his head and scans the circle of oak trees around him. He can see a play area to the northeast, and a parking lot beyond that, but the source of the noise eludes him.
Instinct takes over and he hustles towards the closest line of trees. He’s suddenly afraid, suddenly more terrified than he’s been in years. He knows to trust that feeling and lets it pull him towards cover. There’s a soft hill two hundreds yards to the west and he aims for it. The height may be enough advantage to see who, or what, is tailing him. Besides, Dad always taught him to go for higher ground. Lot harder to sneak up on someone who has an uninterrupted line of sight.
Once he’s found a good spot behind a coast live oak that has thick green foliage, near black in the moonlight, Sam turns and scans the breadth of the park. Three minutes tick by and nothing. But the fear doesn’t recede and he starts holding his breath for long moments. Five more minutes and he hasn’t heard a sound. Not even birdsong.
Not a good sign.
Sam feels his gaze drawn to the sky, watching for cloud movement. There is none. Could be lack of wind, but not a single cloud moving? Unlikely. Unnatural, even. Turning his sight back to the park, he finally sees it. A figure stalking across all that lonely grass, headed right for him like his pounding heart is a beacon. That’s when he realizes his heart and that figure are the only thing moving within eyesight. The trees aren’t rustling. No cars can be heard in the distance. The swing at the park off in the distance is unwavering.
It’s like this small place in the world has been locked in a bubble, taken out of space and time to stand still and silent. Sam focuses on the man walking calmly toward him like there is nothing out of the ordinary. The trees cast long shadows across the man’s face when he stops just out of reach.
Sam keeps his breathing under control, with every bit of effort he can maintain. Won’t do to look scared, though he can’t imagine fear isn’t etched across his face, visible even in the moonlight. He doesn’t understand the fear at first. It’s uncontrollable.
”Don’t be a pansy, Sammy. Say hello. Let’s get this party started.”
Sam’s blinks slowly to distract himself. This imagining your pain-in-the-neck brother giving you a hard time thing was funny at first, even mildly entertaining, but there couldn’t be a worse time for hallucinations. Really.
“Hello, Sam Winchester.”
The power in the man’s voice etches chills down Sam’s spine. He’s dealing with a Big Bad here, as Dean would call it. This isn’t your everyday ghost, or even a demon. Sam’s frantically recalling what he knows about minor gods when the man steps full into the moonlight, exposed. It’s the guy from the bar, and Sam’s face must be crunched in confusion as he tries to reconcile the power he still feels radiating his way with the pierced simpleton that stands in front of him.
”Watch it, little brother.”
The man’s eyes glow red at that, like he can hear Sam’s imagination at work.
“Not only demons can possess human flesh, Sam,” the man says, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. “I’ll keep this simple, so as not to confuse that little human brain of yours. I am Time. I am a god once feared and revered.”
He keeps his gaze locked on Sam’s and raises a hand to gesture vaguely.
“I am Kronos. God of the moment. Once I was a Titan, capable of destruction and murder unheard of in your simple mortal world, but that was a long time ago.” The god almost sighs, as if he is wistful for those days of malicious glory. “Now I am but a shadow of my former self, forced to move between these fleshy prisons to see my will done.”
Sam can feel his mouth going dry. What he remembers about the Kronos myth is bloody and terrifying. The god begins to pace and his voice takes on a darker cast, a deeper meaning.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Sam. I needed someone to protect something very valuable to me. You will keep it safe, until I can put it to good use again. You will keep it safe,” Kronos hisses and Sam feels the echo of it at his back where the curved blade rests against his skin.
Well, damn. You’ve really gotten yourself in a screwed up situation, Sammy. Good job.
“That blade is a locus, Sam. A place for me to rest my most precious powers. You will not use it. You will store it away, protect it, keep it safe. And in return, I will not destroy everything you’ve ever cared about.”
Sam’s eyes darken, his hand creeping toward the hilt of the knife. “That’s quite a threat. Considering you’ve already told me you’re just a ‘shadow of your former self.’”
It’s a ballsy move, stupid really, and his imaginary brother shakes his head silently. One second, Kronos is ten feet away, his profile set against a moonlit backdrop. The next second, he is grinding Sam into the ground, with the blade in his hand. The curved end is a hairsbreadth from Sam’s neck.
“You reckless fool!” Kronos rages. “You will do what I want. You will hide this blade until I call on you again.” The blade flashes in the moonlight as Kronos lifts his arm and buries the knife in Sam’s thigh.
***
He had asked for this. He had asked for danger, for excitement, for an end to his boring college existence. The dream of normal had been so much more than the reality. Only reality was so much more painful than he remembered.
***
Kronos leans into the blade and growls, “You would do well not to taunt me, silly human. Perhaps I should give the blade to Jessica Moore? Her address is rattling around in that thick skull of yours, all lit up in neon. You really should learn to hide the things that are precious to you.”
Another twist of the blade and Kronos is laughing. Sam can’t move. Jessica’s face swims through his mind’s eye and he can’t bury it away, though he tries and the effort brings sweat to his brow.
Kronos stops laughing, abruptly and leans over Sam’s face to give him a mystified smile. “Oh no. Not Jessica. She’s just cannon fodder in this world, isn’t she, Sam? No, not Jessica. Dean would be much more appropriate don’t you think? Dean.” Kronos says the name like it’s magic.
And maybe it is, because Sam’s resistance is snuffed out by the thought of Dean at the hands of this cruel god. Not Dean. No.
“N-no,” Sam sputters, choking on pain and fear. “I’ll do it. Please.”
And with that, the pain is gone and Sam is standing where he was before the angry god attacked him. The wound no longer exists but the memory remains.
“Good. Keep it safe. Don’t talk about it. Don’t use it. Just keep it safe or Dean will know more pain than you could ever imagine. I will return for it, soon enough.”
Sam watches Kronos fade back into the shadows as the park comes back to life, no longer locked down by Father Time. He tucks his shirt back down over the blade in his waistband and takes a deep breath. He can’t believe he just agreed to help a vicious, ancient god who once swallowed his own children to avoid a prophecy that one of his sons would defeat him.
All in a day’s work for a Winchester.
***
“Dean. Look, I never really ask you for anything. Just this once, just…don’t. Don’t ask. Don’t go looking in the box while I’m sleeping. Just don’t. Please, give me this one thing. Give me your word.”
Dean’s eyebrows raise, a startled look bearing down on his features. “Sam…”
“Your word, Dean. This one time. For me.”
Sam sees his brother’s face fall then the look is gone and all that’s left is cold, stony acceptance.
“Fine. You have my word.”
ambiguous_opalTitle: Reality Is A Ticking Time-Bomb
Characters: Sam, Dean (kindasorta)
Word Count: 3000+
Rating: Gen/PG-13
Author Notes: written for the Fic-Exchange at
spn_thur_nights. I know, this is late, but hey, better late than never right? ambiguous_opal asked for something to do with the knife in the season one promos that we never got to see, and for no kiddie fic. Should have been simple but as it turns out not so easy. Sam didn’t want to talk. Think, sure, talk, not so much. *le sigh* Stubborn Winchester. I’m playing a little loose with Greek mythology (combining what is really two different myths to make one uber-baddie) but isn’t that part of the fun? I jump around in time a bit too, so sorry if there’s any confusion about sequence. >_< Thanks to mizbhaven13 & Autumn Sigh at PC for the quick betas. Any remaining mistakes are my own.Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.
Summary: Flashback sequence. Stanford down-time – Sam finds himself looking for danger and biting off a bit more than he can chew. Involves a game of Texas Hold-Em and an imaginary Dean giving his brother hell.
“Dude, you’re telling me I can’t open this box?”
“It’s none of your damn business, Dean. Just leave it alone,” Sam growls, snatching the flat box back from his brother and stashing it back under the spare tire. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
Unfortunately, Sam can never forget and the memories roll in. They may be a bit dusty from avoidance and time passed, but they still give him a hard chill down his spine as he slams the Impala’s trunk closed.
***
“Submit, Winchester. This is only going to get worse for you, the longer you resist.”
“Bite me.”
The blade digs deeper and Sam hears a sharp grinding noise of metal shaving bone. He swallows a scream, but it lodges in his throat, determined to be set free. The pressure worsens until he can feel the hilt carving an imprint into his thigh and the curved blade tip has gone clean through the other side of his leg. He can’t move his hands and he wonders what the hell that’s all about. Lightless eyes glare at him through a curtain of greasy blonde hair. Sam watches the man grip the knife tighter and then twist.
He’s screaming now, and there’s no holding back because the pain is just there, but the scream morphs into a hysterical laugh that tumbles from his mouth without warning. He had asked for this, hadn’t he?
Yes.
***
College is supposed to be good times, bad beer, and better sex than anyone knows their entire lives. So why does Sam feel like he’s moving through quicksand and sinking fast?
The first few months feel like he’s coming up for air, ironically. No more awkward silences. No more pressure beating down on his back. No more tight spaces full of obligation and regret. But normal starts to hurt, like a small cut in an unreachable place that aches out of sight. The people around him are so carefree, so naïve, and he envies them their ignorance. As much as he enjoys a night out with the boys, a good beer in hand, the burn in his gut of something unnamed is enough to harden the edges of his smile.
He starts sneaking away from the apartment late at night, after Jess is making those little snoring noises that he loves. They aren’t enough to keep him in bed, though. He wanders the streets for hours on end with nothing more than a vial of holy water, a box of rock salt, and one ragged reprint of Bodin’s Demonomanie de Sorciers. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. It’s not Sam. It’s not like him to be foolish, begging for danger, looking for trouble.
It takes weeks of awkward ghost encounters and near death experiences for him to realize the ache isn’t because he misses the life. It’s that he misses them. Dean. Dad. Each day away from them stacks up like an unstable house of cards, waiting for the moment when he exhales too strongly and it can all come crashing down.
It doesn’t matter. He can’t go back. Call it stubbornness. Call it pride. He can’t go back. He can’t beg Dad to let him come home, wherever home is at the moment. He picks up his cell at least a dozen times, cycles through the phonebook until he gets to D, and stares at his brother’s name on the screen while Jess sings in the shower across the room. She has a thing for Air Supply. Dean would probably groan and give him the look.
The cell phone clicks shut with an audible finality every time.
***
“Are you sure?” Jess says, a pleading lilt to her voice as she finishes packing her carry-on. “I mean, we could pick you up some medicine on the way to the airport. You could sleep on the plane…”
Sam listens to her trail off and knows he’s hurting her feelings but can’t stand the thought of spring break in Miami, surrounded by the unaware, the oblivious. He’s learned how to fake happy and content even when his stomach churns with the urge to run screaming, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He’ll tell Dean, sometime in the future, that he wanted normal, that he wanted this.
Lies come easy for a Winchester.
So Sam lies, and Jess leaves, and Sam spends two blissful weeks licking at the crumbs of a life he thinks he’ll never have again.
***
Place looks shady, two dark alleys riding parallel to its tattooed walls, front door cracked hard down the center. The sign flickers half-lit. He thinks it once said Around the Bend but now it’s just the end and he wonders if foreshadowing is really only a literary tool or something normal people just don’t notice when it happens in the real world.
It takes a few minutes to shrug off that tell-tale foreboding as he stands just below the pulsing sign.
It’s only a bar, he thinks as the door swings open with a hitching grumble. And if it’s not, well, he’ll deal with that too.
A half hour later he finds himself at a poker table surrounded by unsavory types. The guy across from him has a bar through his nose the size of a Roman lance and that’s only one of many piercings. There’s a woman to the left, with nut brown hair and dead eyes. He’s fairly sure she’s figuring out the easiest way to kill him later. Or maybe she’s just empty. In the head. The beer in his hand is extra cold, unexpectedly so. He can’t help imagining Dean there, in the vacant seat next to him, half-empty bottle of PBR in front of him, body lounging out over the limits of his chair.
“Can’t believe you stayed in with a two, eight unsuited. You’re getting ballsy, Sammy,” Dean smirks.
Sam throws out a few dollars into the pot and tries not to think. Impossible.
“Think the redhead at the bar is single? Speaking of which, that girl of yours is major hot. What the hell are you doing in some craphole like this when you could be watching her dance around in a bikini drinking margaritas?
“Hey, man, you awake? Those cards aren’t gonna change the longer you stare at ‘em.”
Sam blinks away his phantom brother and folds.
The reasons he shouldn’t be here are starting to line up in his head like an army preparing for battle. But the empty feeling in his stomach (or is that his heart that hurts?) just won’t go away.
***
“Call. And I’ll raise you. But I’m outta cash. Will…this do?” the man says as he lays a heavy object on the dark grain table, holding his cards loosely in his other hand. They’ve been passing the large stack back and forth for two hours, and the woman with the dead eyes is gone. Off to look for a more entertaining victim maybe.
Sam drops his eyes to the tabletop for only a second before pulling every dollar he has out of his wallet and adding it to the pot. Eight hundred and forty six dollars to be exact. His textbook budget. Who needs books when you can find entire manuscripts on the net for free? It’s worth the risk, either way.
A wicked smile dances at the edges of Sam’s mouth as the river card comes up ace of spades.
“Don’t go countin’ chickens and all that, Sammy.”
“Shut up,” Sam murmurs, drawing the curious attention of his opponent.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out, bro. Hate to see you get your little heart broken,” Dean quips, leaning back in his chair until the front legs lift off the ground.
Sam wonders if he’s losing his mind or if it’s been gone for years.
“Pretty sure it doesn’t make a difference, dude. You’re nuts, either way. Hey, speaking of, awesome! Peanuts!” Dean reaches over Sam’s arms and grabs a handful out of a bowl.
“Dude, don’t eat that! You don’t have half a clue who’s touched what and then stuck their germ-infested hands in ther…”
Sam sputters off as he realizes he’s chastising a mirage and the guy across the table is giving him a wide-eyed stare. He clears his throat and lays his cards down on the table. Full house, Aces over tens. Guy has a straight, Ace high and he groans as Sam sweeps the winnings off the table and stands in one smooth motion. A flick of Sam’s hands and he slides the sheath off the knife. He spins it, testing the weight, the feel, delights in the glint of steel. A bit top heavy, sure, but the hard curve of the blade balances it out somewhat. Technically, it’s a modern sickle, but there is a sense of age and power to it that excites his fingertips where they are clasped hard around the hilt. Dad would consider it ridiculous. Impractical. That thought only makes Sam like it more.
Screw practical.
Two minutes later, he’s walking along the sidewalk in the direction of his apartment, still car-less after three years at school because he can’t stand the thought of working extra hours just to dump all his cash on some piece of crap that couldn’t outrun a charging poltergeist in even the best weather. He thinks he sees a shadow take shape down the road and rumble past him, all glistening black metal and chrome. The Impala is several states away, most likely, but he can hear it in his head anyway, feel it at his back like a distant promise.
Cash winnings in his pocket, knife tucked in the back of his waistband under the checkered green plaid of his button up, Sam heads through Peers Park as a shortcut to Leland Ave. He’s halfway across a wide-open space when a noise catches his attention. Stopping short, Sam spins his head and scans the circle of oak trees around him. He can see a play area to the northeast, and a parking lot beyond that, but the source of the noise eludes him.
Instinct takes over and he hustles towards the closest line of trees. He’s suddenly afraid, suddenly more terrified than he’s been in years. He knows to trust that feeling and lets it pull him towards cover. There’s a soft hill two hundreds yards to the west and he aims for it. The height may be enough advantage to see who, or what, is tailing him. Besides, Dad always taught him to go for higher ground. Lot harder to sneak up on someone who has an uninterrupted line of sight.
Once he’s found a good spot behind a coast live oak that has thick green foliage, near black in the moonlight, Sam turns and scans the breadth of the park. Three minutes tick by and nothing. But the fear doesn’t recede and he starts holding his breath for long moments. Five more minutes and he hasn’t heard a sound. Not even birdsong.
Not a good sign.
Sam feels his gaze drawn to the sky, watching for cloud movement. There is none. Could be lack of wind, but not a single cloud moving? Unlikely. Unnatural, even. Turning his sight back to the park, he finally sees it. A figure stalking across all that lonely grass, headed right for him like his pounding heart is a beacon. That’s when he realizes his heart and that figure are the only thing moving within eyesight. The trees aren’t rustling. No cars can be heard in the distance. The swing at the park off in the distance is unwavering.
It’s like this small place in the world has been locked in a bubble, taken out of space and time to stand still and silent. Sam focuses on the man walking calmly toward him like there is nothing out of the ordinary. The trees cast long shadows across the man’s face when he stops just out of reach.
Sam keeps his breathing under control, with every bit of effort he can maintain. Won’t do to look scared, though he can’t imagine fear isn’t etched across his face, visible even in the moonlight. He doesn’t understand the fear at first. It’s uncontrollable.
”Don’t be a pansy, Sammy. Say hello. Let’s get this party started.”
Sam’s blinks slowly to distract himself. This imagining your pain-in-the-neck brother giving you a hard time thing was funny at first, even mildly entertaining, but there couldn’t be a worse time for hallucinations. Really.
“Hello, Sam Winchester.”
The power in the man’s voice etches chills down Sam’s spine. He’s dealing with a Big Bad here, as Dean would call it. This isn’t your everyday ghost, or even a demon. Sam’s frantically recalling what he knows about minor gods when the man steps full into the moonlight, exposed. It’s the guy from the bar, and Sam’s face must be crunched in confusion as he tries to reconcile the power he still feels radiating his way with the pierced simpleton that stands in front of him.
”Watch it, little brother.”
The man’s eyes glow red at that, like he can hear Sam’s imagination at work.
“Not only demons can possess human flesh, Sam,” the man says, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. “I’ll keep this simple, so as not to confuse that little human brain of yours. I am Time. I am a god once feared and revered.”
He keeps his gaze locked on Sam’s and raises a hand to gesture vaguely.
“I am Kronos. God of the moment. Once I was a Titan, capable of destruction and murder unheard of in your simple mortal world, but that was a long time ago.” The god almost sighs, as if he is wistful for those days of malicious glory. “Now I am but a shadow of my former self, forced to move between these fleshy prisons to see my will done.”
Sam can feel his mouth going dry. What he remembers about the Kronos myth is bloody and terrifying. The god begins to pace and his voice takes on a darker cast, a deeper meaning.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Sam. I needed someone to protect something very valuable to me. You will keep it safe, until I can put it to good use again. You will keep it safe,” Kronos hisses and Sam feels the echo of it at his back where the curved blade rests against his skin.
Well, damn. You’ve really gotten yourself in a screwed up situation, Sammy. Good job.
“That blade is a locus, Sam. A place for me to rest my most precious powers. You will not use it. You will store it away, protect it, keep it safe. And in return, I will not destroy everything you’ve ever cared about.”
Sam’s eyes darken, his hand creeping toward the hilt of the knife. “That’s quite a threat. Considering you’ve already told me you’re just a ‘shadow of your former self.’”
It’s a ballsy move, stupid really, and his imaginary brother shakes his head silently. One second, Kronos is ten feet away, his profile set against a moonlit backdrop. The next second, he is grinding Sam into the ground, with the blade in his hand. The curved end is a hairsbreadth from Sam’s neck.
“You reckless fool!” Kronos rages. “You will do what I want. You will hide this blade until I call on you again.” The blade flashes in the moonlight as Kronos lifts his arm and buries the knife in Sam’s thigh.
***
He had asked for this. He had asked for danger, for excitement, for an end to his boring college existence. The dream of normal had been so much more than the reality. Only reality was so much more painful than he remembered.
***
Kronos leans into the blade and growls, “You would do well not to taunt me, silly human. Perhaps I should give the blade to Jessica Moore? Her address is rattling around in that thick skull of yours, all lit up in neon. You really should learn to hide the things that are precious to you.”
Another twist of the blade and Kronos is laughing. Sam can’t move. Jessica’s face swims through his mind’s eye and he can’t bury it away, though he tries and the effort brings sweat to his brow.
Kronos stops laughing, abruptly and leans over Sam’s face to give him a mystified smile. “Oh no. Not Jessica. She’s just cannon fodder in this world, isn’t she, Sam? No, not Jessica. Dean would be much more appropriate don’t you think? Dean.” Kronos says the name like it’s magic.
And maybe it is, because Sam’s resistance is snuffed out by the thought of Dean at the hands of this cruel god. Not Dean. No.
“N-no,” Sam sputters, choking on pain and fear. “I’ll do it. Please.”
And with that, the pain is gone and Sam is standing where he was before the angry god attacked him. The wound no longer exists but the memory remains.
“Good. Keep it safe. Don’t talk about it. Don’t use it. Just keep it safe or Dean will know more pain than you could ever imagine. I will return for it, soon enough.”
Sam watches Kronos fade back into the shadows as the park comes back to life, no longer locked down by Father Time. He tucks his shirt back down over the blade in his waistband and takes a deep breath. He can’t believe he just agreed to help a vicious, ancient god who once swallowed his own children to avoid a prophecy that one of his sons would defeat him.
All in a day’s work for a Winchester.
***
“Dean. Look, I never really ask you for anything. Just this once, just…don’t. Don’t ask. Don’t go looking in the box while I’m sleeping. Just don’t. Please, give me this one thing. Give me your word.”
Dean’s eyebrows raise, a startled look bearing down on his features. “Sam…”
“Your word, Dean. This one time. For me.”
Sam sees his brother’s face fall then the look is gone and all that’s left is cold, stony acceptance.
“Fine. You have my word.”