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    Summary

    Sam skipped stones. There wasn't much else to do anyway. John was out, and for once, so was Dean. His cabin fever must have hit, Sam reasoned. Sam's had. That's why Sam was even out here, hands seeking stones worn cool and smooth by the elements. Sam felt like that sometimes, a sea pebble people noticed just to throw.

    Sam threw again, relishing the wet plop signaling he'd failed. Sam was good at that some times. When he got paper cuts, he'd press, relishing the sting, so he could attone somehow. Failure was as familiar to young Sam as breathing.

    Sam threw again. Plop. Dean came up behind him, their dad's leather jacket hanging too loose on his teenage frame. Sam braced himself for the anger he expected, but—"Heya Sammy," Dean crowed, cheerfully as anything. Sam winced.

    Language:
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