Supernatural Fic: From the Ground (2/4)
Jun. 19th, 2006 09:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraTitle: From the Ground (2/4)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xaara
Rating: PG-13, gen
Timeline: AU (breaks from canon after Dead Man's Blood)
Summary: People have long since forsaken their belief in God. Only ghost stories remain.
Previous Parts: One
From the Ground
Two
--
“My shoulder healed,” Dean says after attempting to wake his brother by staring at him and thinking, There’s a frog in your bed. It doesn’t work; apparently, this mind meld thing only works one way. Or when they’re in danger. Or when they’re fighting. Or when they’re about to die (see above). Dean reaches out to poke Sam in the ribs. “Sam. Wake up, man. There’s weird shit going on.”
Sam rolls over and says something intelligent and helpful that sounds like, “Mummf.”
“Sammy. Wake up.” Dean grabs one of Sam’s arms and tugs, then gives up, stands, and hauls Sam off the bed.
A thunk, a squawk, and Sam is on his feet, blinking sleep back, saying something intelligent and helpful that sounds like, “Mummf?”
“My shoulder healed,” Dean repeats. Just in case Sam isn’t processing information yet, he points at the shoulder in question, the shoulder that last night bled all over his fourth-favorite shirt. The shoulder that bears no marks except a slight pink ridge where the vampire’s knife sliced the skin and muscle almost to the bone.
“What the hell?” Sam says. His eyelids drift to half-staff and his jaw locks as he tries to suppress a yawn.
“Are you listening now?”
“I’m listening.” Sam scrubs his hands over his face and back through his hair before flopping back onto his bed. “You couldn’t have stopped for coffee before your crisis?”
Dean frowns and ignores the comment. “Dude, my shoulder healed overnight.”
“You’ve pointed that out like ten times, Dean.”
It’s important that Sam listen, that he pay attention, that he make this make sense. “What’s going on?” Dean asks.
“Hell if I know. But if you can hear my thoughts and I can feel it when you get hurt, it’s probably just something tied in with that package.” Sam peers out from beneath lowered eyebrows. “It freaks you out?”
Dean thinks about it for a second, then says, “No, not really.” And it’s true. It’s not so much scary as just...you know. Weird.
“Okay, then.” Sam shrugs, stands, and pads into the bathroom. A few seconds later, Dean hears the shower start.
Okay, then. Weird shit is going on. Then again, weird shit is always going on. It’s just that the last time Dean made a miraculous recovery, he managed to kill someone else in the process, a kid who had nothing to do with it, whose life was selected by a human trying to play Reaper.
Dean no longer believes in coincidences. He believes in consequences.
--
The four hundred and twenty-eighth pair of twins survived for three decades. They bickered and hated each other and loved each other and fought like a matched set. But in the end, they still died, like all the others. By the time the wraith painted the walls of its lair with their blood, Good had already begun to rework its plan.
Could we renegotiate this deal a little? Good asked. I just want to tweak some aspects of it, make it so it’s not just killing off my people.
Sure, said Evil. Name your terms, we can talk about it. Seabreeze?
Mojito. If you have fresh mint.
So what’s on your mind?
I was thinking, said Good, that this whole two warriors, immortal souls business isn’t going to work quite like I planned. I think they should have some powers. I mean, your demons get to throw them around with their minds, and they’re stronger and faster, don’t need cars. It’s not like they have all these needs that humans have.
Not my fault you didn’t design them to be more self-sufficient, Evil said. Humans in general’re kind of pathetic, actually. Full of moral anguish and have you ever noticed how easily they get sick? I mean, seriously. It’s almost embarrassing. We put them together; it seems like we could have come up with something a little more durable for the long haul.
What I was saying, Good continued, ignoring Evil’s interjection, is that I want my Two to have special powers.
Fine, said Evil. No immortality, though.
Healing, said Good. I want them to heal.
Evil shrugged. That’s fine with me, it said. Whatever you want. Anything else?
--
“Your gas gauge is fine,” says the mechanic, wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag.
Dean frowns. “No, it’s not,” he says. “I woke up this morning and it was reading full.”
“You know, pal, sometimes the gauge is on full because your tank is full of gas.”
Sam watches his brother’s frown deepen and steps into the conversation. “What Dean means,” he says, “is that when we parked the car last night, it was only a quarter full. And now it’s reading as topped off.”
“That’s because,” the mechanic says, enunciating, “your tank is full of gas.” He rolls his eyes and drops his rag before walking away.
Still frowning, Dean circles around to the front of his car and wipes at a spot Sam guesses isn’t there. “You okay, sweetheart?” Dean murmurs. Murmurs in a tone Sam’s only ever heard employed across a bar or a diner table, a tone that says I’m here for tonight and I’m a good fuck with no entanglements, wanna come back to my motel room?
It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Maybe we have gas tank demons.” He’s half-joking, but Dean looks at him with narrowed eyes, a pensive expression.
“There will be no demons in my car,” Dean says, running a protective hand down one side of the hood. He pauses for a moment, then gestures impatiently with his free hand. “Get to it.”
“Get to what?”
“Exorcise her.”
Sam’s lived with Dean, on and off, for a quarter-century. They’ve traveled together and eaten together and fought demons together and in the end Sam still doesn’t quite understand Dean’s obsession with the black steel hulk that is his car. “I have no idea how to exorcise a car.” The words come out of his mouth, which he knows because he hears them. He’s taken to reassuring himself of those basic facts, because sometimes Dean can hear his thoughts and he’s still not quite used to that. He wonders in an abstract sense whether he should be less concerned with Dean’s ability to tap into his brainwaves and more concerned with the fact that Dean expects him to cure the car.
Sam has a distinct feeling that suggesting they salt and burn the Impala would not go over well.
“I’ll think about it,” he says. “Look up some stuff. Maybe Dad wrote something about it in his journal.”
Dean grunts and climbs into the driver’s seat while Sam circles to the passenger’s side and slouches in. They drive back to the motel in silence broken only by Dean’s whispered endearments and gentle touch on the gas pedal. Sam refuses to clear his throat pointedly or otherwise. He pretends not to hear when Dean leaves Dad a message (something...there’s something wrong with her. Mechanic doesn’t know what it is. I don’t know what it is. Could you.... I don’t know. What the fuck.)
The next morning, Sam wakes up alone and steps outside to see Dean under a pilled flannel blanket, bent awkwardly into the backseat, asleep.
--
I’m bored, Evil said. Humans are boring.
Good agreed in spirit, though it was less willing to generalize. Some of the humans were interesting enough to pass the time. Besides, these Two were determined to survive a while, and it wanted to try something new with them.
I have a sort of idea I’ve been working on for a while, Good said. Humans pretty much all believe there’s some sort of afterlife, right? And last time I checked, we were running neck and neck with the soul tally.
Your point? Evil asked.
I was thinking maybe we could move on. There’s a planet a few solar systems over, critters there are starting to think. Might be interesting to start over.
You ceding the match?
Of course not, Good said. Just saying that we should’ve put some sort of time limit on it in the first place. Or a point system. Not just this tally thing we’ve got going.
What are you suggesting?
Good paused for dramatic effect, then said, We play for all the marbles.
What is that supposed to mean? Is that one of those human slang phrases you’ve picked up again? I thought we talked about those.
Whatever, Good said. It means all or nothing. Win or lose. The final roll of the dice.
Okay, said Evil. I’m interested.
My people against your people, said Good. My Two against any two demons of your choosing.
Nah, too easy. I mean, my people have killed your people hundreds of times by now. Besides, demons? They’re practically perfect. There’s nothing to stop them from just taking over the world when we leave. Good made an unnecessary and rather rude sound which Evil ignored. I think we need to focus on the human end of things, Evil said. How about just your Two?
What do you mean just my Two?
You try to get ‘em to go good, I try to get ‘em to go evil. Scratch the score we already have, screw the Balance. All or nothing.
Hmm, said Good.
--
“It knew,” John says when Dean opens the motel room door, gasps, and hauls him into a hug that sets all his broken parts screeching against each other but eases a pain so old he sometimes forgets about it.
Sam is at the door, has arrived in milliseconds. John didn’t know he could move that fast. “Dad?” Sam asks. “Dad. Jesus, what happened to you?”
It’s a long story, and John doesn’t have time to explain it all. He can feel his body shutting down, can feel something giving way inside of him, does like that Dutch boy and plugs it, holds back the flood. But there’s no help coming, nothing can stop this, and he only has ten fingers. Dean gets him to the bed, shuffles through the first aid kit for medicine and bandages that won’t help. “Can’t stay,” John says. He wants to tell Dean to save the medicine, but he notices Dean’s harsh breath, the way his hands lack their usual deftness. The way Sam is huddled into a knot of knees and elbows on the other bed, rocking slightly, his eyes wide and full.
My boys, John thinks, and loves them with a ferocity that leaves him struggling for air.
“What happened?” Dean asks.
Back to the point. Good boy. “Was after the demon,” John says. “Had it almost tracked down, but the fucker knew exactly where I was going to be. But I’ve got one on it, know where--” he coughs, his body spasming. “Know where it’s going to be.”
“What? No. You’re not in any condition to--”
John levers himself into a sitting position. Upon reflection, he’s not sure how he stayed conscious and standing long enough to reach the door in the first place, but goddamnit, he’s going to lay this out. Lay it bare, strip it to the bone, leave his sons the only thing he has besides a truck and too many scars. The paisley blanket swerves in and out of focus and the lights glare until John has to close his eyes, find a center in the darkness. When he finally speaks, he doesn’t recognize his own voice.
“Colorado,” he says.
“What?” Sam’s voice is wrong, too--low and hoarse, gritty, like a palmful of sand. “What’s Colorado?”
“A state,” John says, smiling a little. “And you with the college education.”
Sam lets out a laugh that sounds far too much like a sob and John forces his eyes open, because that’s his son on the next bed curled into himself, nine again, terrified because his dad isn’t like the other ones, his dad might come back broken. There are no tears, but Sam’s breath hitches again and John thinks You were the smart one, Sammy, you always knew what you wanted, and I’m so sorry about your girlfriend and I wish I’d been there because Dean loves you enough to keep you alive but I know how it feels to watch someone die like that. Know how it feels to watch your world crumble.
“I know,” Sam says. “It’s okay.”
John remembers the first time he saw Sam, a squirming twist of baby-soft skin and hair and eyes wise like the ocean before a storm. He and Dean had peered at the newest addition to the family with twin expressions composed of equal parts trepidation and understanding that this, this here, was so very right. Mary had only winced a little when Dean launched himself into bed with her and had ruffled his hair, tilting her chin up to meet John’s kiss. Isn’t he beautiful? she’d asked.
And John had looked at both his boys, small and fragile and so fucking perfect, and known peace.
“Dad?” Dean stands, all vibrating tension, at the foot of his bed. “Dad, that’s it, we’re getting you to a hospital.”
“No,” says John. “No time for that. You need to go to Colorado.”
The tension increases, and Dean literally bounces on the ball of one foot. “We need to get you to a hospital,” he says again. Always the quick one, Dean, always needs to do something, fix something, make it better now. Miracle he and Sammy made it through all those days alone in motel rooms just like this one, door bolted and chained against the dark.
So John turns to his youngest, meets his eyes and it’s just like he remembered, dragging undertow, the surface burning above a well so deep John’s sure other people have drowned in it. Jess, maybe.
There are so many things he doesn’t know.
Stay on target, on task. No time; it’s slipping, he can feel it, the room dark around the edges but sharp in the middle, a honed knife edge, watch this ladies and gentlemen, it’ll slice paper, leather, anything you’ve got, do I have a volunteer? You, sir, the gentleman in the front row with the two boys, fine specimens those--both yours? Of course, of course, but you need to have a look at this knife, sir, need to have a look.
John shakes himself back to the present. “Simla, Colorado,” he says to Sam. “The demon’s going there next. Going to Frank and Evelyn Stewart, going to do to them what.... Going to.”
“We’ll protect them,” says Sam, and it feels like forgiveness.
“Dad,” says Dean, and it feels like love.
John looks up at them, my boys, and smiles.
--
On the day of the funeral, Dean remains perfectly, terribly silent. Sam tries to talk to him, and when that fails, tries to ignore him, but both options have their drawbacks in that at the end of each, Dean has still not spoken.
Underlying Sam’s grief blossoms an element of fear. He tamps it down and goes through the motions, nods at Pastor Jim who flew here in under eight hours and arranged everything with an efficiency that left Sam’s head spinning, his breath coming in short, quick bursts. He feels like he’s been running for days, but his body won’t slow down, won’t stop for even a moment. He hasn’t slept.
Because he mourns his father, and because if there’s something out there good enough to kill John Winchester, Sam never wants to meet it. But if it’s still out there, he wants to meet it so badly it makes his head throb, his hands shake. He wants to meet that sonofabitch and look it in the eyes and then shoot it fucking dead.
Footsteps approach and stop just behind him; Sam resists the urge to reach for a weapon and instead stands. “Something I can do for you?” Something about a funeral home makes people polite and Sam’s not exempt.
“Robert Groves,” the man says, extending a hand. “I was a friend--”
Then recognition blooms and Sam thinks Bobby before shaking the hand and pulling the man into a hug.
Bobby smiles, his eyes old and worn as the suit that hangs awkwardly from his shoulders. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me, kiddo. Last time, you know. Didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms.”
“He’d be glad to see you.”
“Hope so.” A moment of hesitation before Bobby asks, “That brother of yours around?”
Sam understands the pause. It’s the pause just before the body count, the calculation of loss. Here, it’s not about the war, best you can hope for is a draw, so you win the battles, one after another after another until the one you can’t win and then, well, there’ll be others to take up the fight. Seers and warriors and mothers who will fight and mothers who will wait at home with brownies and milk and warm hands and whispers of It’s all right, sweetheart, all right, shh.
Sam’s girlfriend (maybe wife someday, maybe) was killed by a demon who pinned her to the ceiling, opened a gash in her stomach, and burnt the apartment to cinders.
Sam understands the pause.
“He’s around,” Sam says. “Probably won’t talk to you, though. He won’t talk to anybody.”
“Fine,” says Bobby. “Don’t need him to talk, I need him to listen. Both of you, actually. Soon’s this is over, you need to get out of here. Demon knows where you are now, and this thing isn’t going to wait around for you to mosey on over. It wants you both dead, the sooner the better.”
And this is it, Sam thinks. This is it. The demon wants them dead, they want the demon dead, neither one for any reason other than the archaic eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Life for a life. Last one standing buries his dead and moves on.
It’s so fucking pointless.
The weather outside is pleasant, crisp; the edge of winter has not yet taken hold. Sam stands stiffly, watching the hole in the ground that will soon claim his father. It’s strange, surreal as the September sky, melting and shimmering at the corners of his vision.
(I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.)
He sneaks a glance at Dean, who still hasn’t spoken, who stares straight out across the cemetery, jaw clenched tight. Sam had to wake him up five times this morning, haul him out of bed, make sure he showered and shaved and dressed in appropriate clothing. Cracks ripple out from the core of formality Sam has built for himself. He wonders, fingering the hem of his suit jacket, exactly how long it will take him to shatter into a thousand shards glinting like sea glass in the sunlight.
He wonders if Dean could piece him back together.
(Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.)
There is no rest for them.
(I pray the Lord my soul to keep, I’ve miles to go before I sleep, hush little baby, don’t say a word, and never mind that noise you heard.)
Part Three
Author:
xaaraRating: PG-13, gen
Timeline: AU (breaks from canon after Dead Man's Blood)
Summary: People have long since forsaken their belief in God. Only ghost stories remain.
Previous Parts: One
From the Ground
Two
--
“My shoulder healed,” Dean says after attempting to wake his brother by staring at him and thinking, There’s a frog in your bed. It doesn’t work; apparently, this mind meld thing only works one way. Or when they’re in danger. Or when they’re fighting. Or when they’re about to die (see above). Dean reaches out to poke Sam in the ribs. “Sam. Wake up, man. There’s weird shit going on.”
Sam rolls over and says something intelligent and helpful that sounds like, “Mummf.”
“Sammy. Wake up.” Dean grabs one of Sam’s arms and tugs, then gives up, stands, and hauls Sam off the bed.
A thunk, a squawk, and Sam is on his feet, blinking sleep back, saying something intelligent and helpful that sounds like, “Mummf?”
“My shoulder healed,” Dean repeats. Just in case Sam isn’t processing information yet, he points at the shoulder in question, the shoulder that last night bled all over his fourth-favorite shirt. The shoulder that bears no marks except a slight pink ridge where the vampire’s knife sliced the skin and muscle almost to the bone.
“What the hell?” Sam says. His eyelids drift to half-staff and his jaw locks as he tries to suppress a yawn.
“Are you listening now?”
“I’m listening.” Sam scrubs his hands over his face and back through his hair before flopping back onto his bed. “You couldn’t have stopped for coffee before your crisis?”
Dean frowns and ignores the comment. “Dude, my shoulder healed overnight.”
“You’ve pointed that out like ten times, Dean.”
It’s important that Sam listen, that he pay attention, that he make this make sense. “What’s going on?” Dean asks.
“Hell if I know. But if you can hear my thoughts and I can feel it when you get hurt, it’s probably just something tied in with that package.” Sam peers out from beneath lowered eyebrows. “It freaks you out?”
Dean thinks about it for a second, then says, “No, not really.” And it’s true. It’s not so much scary as just...you know. Weird.
“Okay, then.” Sam shrugs, stands, and pads into the bathroom. A few seconds later, Dean hears the shower start.
Okay, then. Weird shit is going on. Then again, weird shit is always going on. It’s just that the last time Dean made a miraculous recovery, he managed to kill someone else in the process, a kid who had nothing to do with it, whose life was selected by a human trying to play Reaper.
Dean no longer believes in coincidences. He believes in consequences.
--
The four hundred and twenty-eighth pair of twins survived for three decades. They bickered and hated each other and loved each other and fought like a matched set. But in the end, they still died, like all the others. By the time the wraith painted the walls of its lair with their blood, Good had already begun to rework its plan.
Could we renegotiate this deal a little? Good asked. I just want to tweak some aspects of it, make it so it’s not just killing off my people.
Sure, said Evil. Name your terms, we can talk about it. Seabreeze?
Mojito. If you have fresh mint.
So what’s on your mind?
I was thinking, said Good, that this whole two warriors, immortal souls business isn’t going to work quite like I planned. I think they should have some powers. I mean, your demons get to throw them around with their minds, and they’re stronger and faster, don’t need cars. It’s not like they have all these needs that humans have.
Not my fault you didn’t design them to be more self-sufficient, Evil said. Humans in general’re kind of pathetic, actually. Full of moral anguish and have you ever noticed how easily they get sick? I mean, seriously. It’s almost embarrassing. We put them together; it seems like we could have come up with something a little more durable for the long haul.
What I was saying, Good continued, ignoring Evil’s interjection, is that I want my Two to have special powers.
Fine, said Evil. No immortality, though.
Healing, said Good. I want them to heal.
Evil shrugged. That’s fine with me, it said. Whatever you want. Anything else?
--
“Your gas gauge is fine,” says the mechanic, wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag.
Dean frowns. “No, it’s not,” he says. “I woke up this morning and it was reading full.”
“You know, pal, sometimes the gauge is on full because your tank is full of gas.”
Sam watches his brother’s frown deepen and steps into the conversation. “What Dean means,” he says, “is that when we parked the car last night, it was only a quarter full. And now it’s reading as topped off.”
“That’s because,” the mechanic says, enunciating, “your tank is full of gas.” He rolls his eyes and drops his rag before walking away.
Still frowning, Dean circles around to the front of his car and wipes at a spot Sam guesses isn’t there. “You okay, sweetheart?” Dean murmurs. Murmurs in a tone Sam’s only ever heard employed across a bar or a diner table, a tone that says I’m here for tonight and I’m a good fuck with no entanglements, wanna come back to my motel room?
It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Maybe we have gas tank demons.” He’s half-joking, but Dean looks at him with narrowed eyes, a pensive expression.
“There will be no demons in my car,” Dean says, running a protective hand down one side of the hood. He pauses for a moment, then gestures impatiently with his free hand. “Get to it.”
“Get to what?”
“Exorcise her.”
Sam’s lived with Dean, on and off, for a quarter-century. They’ve traveled together and eaten together and fought demons together and in the end Sam still doesn’t quite understand Dean’s obsession with the black steel hulk that is his car. “I have no idea how to exorcise a car.” The words come out of his mouth, which he knows because he hears them. He’s taken to reassuring himself of those basic facts, because sometimes Dean can hear his thoughts and he’s still not quite used to that. He wonders in an abstract sense whether he should be less concerned with Dean’s ability to tap into his brainwaves and more concerned with the fact that Dean expects him to cure the car.
Sam has a distinct feeling that suggesting they salt and burn the Impala would not go over well.
“I’ll think about it,” he says. “Look up some stuff. Maybe Dad wrote something about it in his journal.”
Dean grunts and climbs into the driver’s seat while Sam circles to the passenger’s side and slouches in. They drive back to the motel in silence broken only by Dean’s whispered endearments and gentle touch on the gas pedal. Sam refuses to clear his throat pointedly or otherwise. He pretends not to hear when Dean leaves Dad a message (something...there’s something wrong with her. Mechanic doesn’t know what it is. I don’t know what it is. Could you.... I don’t know. What the fuck.)
The next morning, Sam wakes up alone and steps outside to see Dean under a pilled flannel blanket, bent awkwardly into the backseat, asleep.
--
I’m bored, Evil said. Humans are boring.
Good agreed in spirit, though it was less willing to generalize. Some of the humans were interesting enough to pass the time. Besides, these Two were determined to survive a while, and it wanted to try something new with them.
I have a sort of idea I’ve been working on for a while, Good said. Humans pretty much all believe there’s some sort of afterlife, right? And last time I checked, we were running neck and neck with the soul tally.
Your point? Evil asked.
I was thinking maybe we could move on. There’s a planet a few solar systems over, critters there are starting to think. Might be interesting to start over.
You ceding the match?
Of course not, Good said. Just saying that we should’ve put some sort of time limit on it in the first place. Or a point system. Not just this tally thing we’ve got going.
What are you suggesting?
Good paused for dramatic effect, then said, We play for all the marbles.
What is that supposed to mean? Is that one of those human slang phrases you’ve picked up again? I thought we talked about those.
Whatever, Good said. It means all or nothing. Win or lose. The final roll of the dice.
Okay, said Evil. I’m interested.
My people against your people, said Good. My Two against any two demons of your choosing.
Nah, too easy. I mean, my people have killed your people hundreds of times by now. Besides, demons? They’re practically perfect. There’s nothing to stop them from just taking over the world when we leave. Good made an unnecessary and rather rude sound which Evil ignored. I think we need to focus on the human end of things, Evil said. How about just your Two?
What do you mean just my Two?
You try to get ‘em to go good, I try to get ‘em to go evil. Scratch the score we already have, screw the Balance. All or nothing.
Hmm, said Good.
--
“It knew,” John says when Dean opens the motel room door, gasps, and hauls him into a hug that sets all his broken parts screeching against each other but eases a pain so old he sometimes forgets about it.
Sam is at the door, has arrived in milliseconds. John didn’t know he could move that fast. “Dad?” Sam asks. “Dad. Jesus, what happened to you?”
It’s a long story, and John doesn’t have time to explain it all. He can feel his body shutting down, can feel something giving way inside of him, does like that Dutch boy and plugs it, holds back the flood. But there’s no help coming, nothing can stop this, and he only has ten fingers. Dean gets him to the bed, shuffles through the first aid kit for medicine and bandages that won’t help. “Can’t stay,” John says. He wants to tell Dean to save the medicine, but he notices Dean’s harsh breath, the way his hands lack their usual deftness. The way Sam is huddled into a knot of knees and elbows on the other bed, rocking slightly, his eyes wide and full.
My boys, John thinks, and loves them with a ferocity that leaves him struggling for air.
“What happened?” Dean asks.
Back to the point. Good boy. “Was after the demon,” John says. “Had it almost tracked down, but the fucker knew exactly where I was going to be. But I’ve got one on it, know where--” he coughs, his body spasming. “Know where it’s going to be.”
“What? No. You’re not in any condition to--”
John levers himself into a sitting position. Upon reflection, he’s not sure how he stayed conscious and standing long enough to reach the door in the first place, but goddamnit, he’s going to lay this out. Lay it bare, strip it to the bone, leave his sons the only thing he has besides a truck and too many scars. The paisley blanket swerves in and out of focus and the lights glare until John has to close his eyes, find a center in the darkness. When he finally speaks, he doesn’t recognize his own voice.
“Colorado,” he says.
“What?” Sam’s voice is wrong, too--low and hoarse, gritty, like a palmful of sand. “What’s Colorado?”
“A state,” John says, smiling a little. “And you with the college education.”
Sam lets out a laugh that sounds far too much like a sob and John forces his eyes open, because that’s his son on the next bed curled into himself, nine again, terrified because his dad isn’t like the other ones, his dad might come back broken. There are no tears, but Sam’s breath hitches again and John thinks You were the smart one, Sammy, you always knew what you wanted, and I’m so sorry about your girlfriend and I wish I’d been there because Dean loves you enough to keep you alive but I know how it feels to watch someone die like that. Know how it feels to watch your world crumble.
“I know,” Sam says. “It’s okay.”
John remembers the first time he saw Sam, a squirming twist of baby-soft skin and hair and eyes wise like the ocean before a storm. He and Dean had peered at the newest addition to the family with twin expressions composed of equal parts trepidation and understanding that this, this here, was so very right. Mary had only winced a little when Dean launched himself into bed with her and had ruffled his hair, tilting her chin up to meet John’s kiss. Isn’t he beautiful? she’d asked.
And John had looked at both his boys, small and fragile and so fucking perfect, and known peace.
“Dad?” Dean stands, all vibrating tension, at the foot of his bed. “Dad, that’s it, we’re getting you to a hospital.”
“No,” says John. “No time for that. You need to go to Colorado.”
The tension increases, and Dean literally bounces on the ball of one foot. “We need to get you to a hospital,” he says again. Always the quick one, Dean, always needs to do something, fix something, make it better now. Miracle he and Sammy made it through all those days alone in motel rooms just like this one, door bolted and chained against the dark.
So John turns to his youngest, meets his eyes and it’s just like he remembered, dragging undertow, the surface burning above a well so deep John’s sure other people have drowned in it. Jess, maybe.
There are so many things he doesn’t know.
Stay on target, on task. No time; it’s slipping, he can feel it, the room dark around the edges but sharp in the middle, a honed knife edge, watch this ladies and gentlemen, it’ll slice paper, leather, anything you’ve got, do I have a volunteer? You, sir, the gentleman in the front row with the two boys, fine specimens those--both yours? Of course, of course, but you need to have a look at this knife, sir, need to have a look.
John shakes himself back to the present. “Simla, Colorado,” he says to Sam. “The demon’s going there next. Going to Frank and Evelyn Stewart, going to do to them what.... Going to.”
“We’ll protect them,” says Sam, and it feels like forgiveness.
“Dad,” says Dean, and it feels like love.
John looks up at them, my boys, and smiles.
--
On the day of the funeral, Dean remains perfectly, terribly silent. Sam tries to talk to him, and when that fails, tries to ignore him, but both options have their drawbacks in that at the end of each, Dean has still not spoken.
Underlying Sam’s grief blossoms an element of fear. He tamps it down and goes through the motions, nods at Pastor Jim who flew here in under eight hours and arranged everything with an efficiency that left Sam’s head spinning, his breath coming in short, quick bursts. He feels like he’s been running for days, but his body won’t slow down, won’t stop for even a moment. He hasn’t slept.
Because he mourns his father, and because if there’s something out there good enough to kill John Winchester, Sam never wants to meet it. But if it’s still out there, he wants to meet it so badly it makes his head throb, his hands shake. He wants to meet that sonofabitch and look it in the eyes and then shoot it fucking dead.
Footsteps approach and stop just behind him; Sam resists the urge to reach for a weapon and instead stands. “Something I can do for you?” Something about a funeral home makes people polite and Sam’s not exempt.
“Robert Groves,” the man says, extending a hand. “I was a friend--”
Then recognition blooms and Sam thinks Bobby before shaking the hand and pulling the man into a hug.
Bobby smiles, his eyes old and worn as the suit that hangs awkwardly from his shoulders. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me, kiddo. Last time, you know. Didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms.”
“He’d be glad to see you.”
“Hope so.” A moment of hesitation before Bobby asks, “That brother of yours around?”
Sam understands the pause. It’s the pause just before the body count, the calculation of loss. Here, it’s not about the war, best you can hope for is a draw, so you win the battles, one after another after another until the one you can’t win and then, well, there’ll be others to take up the fight. Seers and warriors and mothers who will fight and mothers who will wait at home with brownies and milk and warm hands and whispers of It’s all right, sweetheart, all right, shh.
Sam’s girlfriend (maybe wife someday, maybe) was killed by a demon who pinned her to the ceiling, opened a gash in her stomach, and burnt the apartment to cinders.
Sam understands the pause.
“He’s around,” Sam says. “Probably won’t talk to you, though. He won’t talk to anybody.”
“Fine,” says Bobby. “Don’t need him to talk, I need him to listen. Both of you, actually. Soon’s this is over, you need to get out of here. Demon knows where you are now, and this thing isn’t going to wait around for you to mosey on over. It wants you both dead, the sooner the better.”
And this is it, Sam thinks. This is it. The demon wants them dead, they want the demon dead, neither one for any reason other than the archaic eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Life for a life. Last one standing buries his dead and moves on.
It’s so fucking pointless.
The weather outside is pleasant, crisp; the edge of winter has not yet taken hold. Sam stands stiffly, watching the hole in the ground that will soon claim his father. It’s strange, surreal as the September sky, melting and shimmering at the corners of his vision.
(I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.)
He sneaks a glance at Dean, who still hasn’t spoken, who stares straight out across the cemetery, jaw clenched tight. Sam had to wake him up five times this morning, haul him out of bed, make sure he showered and shaved and dressed in appropriate clothing. Cracks ripple out from the core of formality Sam has built for himself. He wonders, fingering the hem of his suit jacket, exactly how long it will take him to shatter into a thousand shards glinting like sea glass in the sunlight.
He wonders if Dean could piece him back together.
(Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.)
There is no rest for them.
(I pray the Lord my soul to keep, I’ve miles to go before I sleep, hush little baby, don’t say a word, and never mind that noise you heard.)
Part Three
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-19 07:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-20 02:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-20 04:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-21 12:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-19 08:50 pm (UTC)Looking forward to the next part soon!
--Bailey
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Date: 2006-06-20 02:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-19 10:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-20 02:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-20 11:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-21 01:03 am (UTC)Oh, Archimedes. Such a cocky bastard. And so brilliant.
Thanks for your reply--I do always appreciate feedback.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-20 08:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-21 01:11 am (UTC)See my above response RE: Bobby. The gist of it is that he's cool.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-08 08:39 pm (UTC)Really, really liked the opening scene with Dean trying to wake Sam up first with his mind, and then by pulling Sam out of bed. LOL! Such a big-brother thing to do.
John’s death, of course, was a sad moment, but nicely handled in that you could feel their grief without having to read about a huge emotional scene. You were able to communicate much with just their brief dialogue and a bit of description. (More on that later.)
Favorite lines:
Okay, then. Weird shit is going on. Then again, weird shit is always going on. It’s just that the last time Dean made a miraculous recovery, he managed to kill someone else in the process, a kid who had nothing to do with it, whose life was selected by a human trying to play Reaper.
Dean no longer believes in coincidences. He believes in consequences.
I really liked that section, because you know the events in “Faith” must weigh so heavily on Dean’s mind, and always will.
Could we renegotiate this deal a little? Good asked. I just want to tweak some aspects of it, make it so it’s not just killing off my people.
Sure, said Evil. Name your terms, we can talk about it. Seabreeze?
Mojito. If you have fresh mint.
So what’s on your mind?
I’ve already said this, but will say it again: Love the voices you’ve given to Good and Evil. They’re so casual, and it’s great fun to read.
Still frowning, Dean circles around to the front of his car and wipes at a spot Sam guesses isn’t there. “You okay, sweetheart?” Dean murmurs. Murmurs in a tone Sam’s only ever heard employed across a bar or a diner table, a tone that says I’m here for tonight and I’m a good fuck with no entanglements, wanna come back to my motel room?
LOL! Yeah, Dean has a special relationship with the Impala, doesn’t he? *g*
You try to get ‘em to go good, I try to get ‘em to go evil. Scratch the score we already have, screw the Balance. All or nothing.
Hmm, said Good.
Oh, dear. That doesn’t bode well for the Winchesters, does it?
Sam lets out a laugh that sounds far too much like a sob and John forces his eyes open, because that’s his son on the next bed curled into himself, nine again, terrified because his dad isn’t like the other ones, his dad might come back broken.
Such a sad image here, of a younger Sam worried for his father, and of the current Sam equally angst-ridden.
And John had looked at both his boys, small and fragile and so fucking perfect, and known peace.
I love that line. Simply but beautifully put.
“We’ll protect them,” says Sam, and it feels like forgiveness.
“Dad,” says Dean, and it feels like love.
John looks up at them, my boys, and smiles.
Love, love, love that bit, the way those few words of each son carry so much meaning for John. This whole death scene was just wonderfully handled.
Because he mourns his father, and because if there’s something out there good enough to kill John Winchester, Sam never wants to meet it. But if it’s still out there, he wants to meet it so badly it makes his head throb, his hands shake. He wants to meet that sonofabitch and look it in the eyes and then shoot it fucking dead.
Ooh, that’s good. All that dread and need for vengeance all mixed up together. Nicely written.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-08 11:39 pm (UTC)And then the fun of the Good/Evil sections. Nicely written snark there. I'm enjoying this fic very much. *g*