![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mimblexwimbleTitle: Deliver Me (Into My Fate)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean’s been seeing him at his lowest for a while now, and it’s only Sam who didn’t realize it.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_30snapshots. Prompt first thing under the cut. Written before season five aired, no spoilers past 4x22. Gratuitous angst.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean’s been seeing him at his lowest for a while now, and it’s only Sam who didn’t realize it.
Notes: For
spn_30snapshots. Prompt first thing under the cut. Written before season five aired, no spoilers past 4x22. Gratuitous angst.There has been a key
for every lock you’ve picked
& when you picked the locks
the keys lost all their weight.
- Skin
Kevin A. González
for every lock you’ve picked
& when you picked the locks
the keys lost all their weight.
- Skin
Kevin A. González
They’re in Ruby’s car. This Sam registers. Ruby’s car, and screams are echoing in his ears and a bright, pulsing white light is flashing in front of his eyes, and he’s got his right hand down, clutching the edge of the seat, gripping so hard his fingers are aching. He wants to let go, but can’t, because the moment he does, he’s going to fling open the door and jump. He doesn’t want to be in this car. Not now, not ever. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
But they don’t have the Impala because Dean was rushed here on an angel’s wings, and they don’t have any other way to run, and run they must.
Dean is driving.
Sam presses his fingers into the seat until he can’t feel his arm. His left hand rests on his lap, held loosely open, a picture of calm, where Dean can see it and take comfort from it. If he still needs to. If taking care of Sam is still something that helps him breathe easier; Sam’s not sure.
That voicemail.
He was wrong about everything.
Sam swallows. His body wants to curl, curl into the car door until his head is pressed against the cool window and he’s as small as he can possibly be, and pretend that none of this is happening. It takes a constant effort to keep his limbs relaxed, his body stretched, the position of not-hurting, not-bleeding, not-dying.
He reminds himself to breath. Sucks air in as quietly as possible, pushes it out and feels cold seeping through his body. He blinks. Everything is a shimmering haze outside the window, streetlights merging together until they’re one long stream of yellow, signs flashing past so quickly that there’s no time to read, find out where they are and how much farther they have to go.
Edge of the world, Sam thinks. Edge of the world and straight on till morning.
The only way they will ever get away, be far enough, survive.
There’s a camera shutter of blood painted on his retinas, a heavenly light from the depths of Hell, the feeling of a hand grabbing him, an anchor.
It always had to be you. He’s gonna be grateful. He’s gonna repay you in ways you can’t even imagine!
A breath escapes him, harder than intended and Dean glances over.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Sam manages.
“Not going into – into withdrawal?” continues Dean. His voice is a little harder. Like he doesn’t want to say it. Any of it. “How long was it last time?”
“I – what?” Sam says. He’s confused. He doesn’t understand the question. Ruby’s face is dancing in front of his eyes, telling him lies that ring of truth, telling him he can save the world, telling him—
“How long was it?” Dean repeats. His eyes aren’t on the road, and then are, like he can’t look too long. “Sam?”
“I – uh – it was—” Where are you Ruby? This isn’t funny anymore. But no – he’d had blood then, in that tiny flask. He’d had some right in front of Dean, too, afterwards. Even with that fix, it hadn’t taken long for the chills to start. The pain. The hallucinations. “Couple of days. Less. You – were there.”
“Right – yeah,” Dean says, fidgeting on his seat. “We’ve got time then.”
No, we don’t, Sam wants to say. We don’t have time, we never had time, Dad was right, Dad was right.
They drive past cars and cars drive past them and Sam tries not to glance over and see who’s inside and wonder where they’re going and if they’ll be alive tomorrow. Hell on earth, Dean had said once, to him. There’s irony in that, somewhere. How Sam sent his brother to Hell, and then sent the world there as well, first in an attempt to save him and then in an attempt to save it.
How much time has passed? Shouldn't the sun be rising? He wonders if it’s really dark because it’s night, or if it’s because there can be no dawn, now that he’s set Lucifer free. Maybe Hell is dark.
He looks over at Dean. Looks away quickly.
It comes back to him, suddenly, (again), where they are. Where he is. Who was sitting in the driver’s seat mere hours ago. Who was screaming from the trunk, screaming, screaming, screaming.
Who had a husband, a family, and who is now dead and whose blood is inside Sam.
“Sam?”
“Pull over,” Sam chokes out. “Pull over, please, God, pull over.”
The car’s slowing, shifting, inertia tugging him towards Dean, where he can should never be again, and he forces himself against it. Grabs the door handle and wrenches it open before the car’s stopped, Dean’s shout of protest is quickly drowned out by the pain in his knees as he falls from the car. He tries to stand, stumbles. Manages to crawl a few feet before his stomach clenches and it’s all on the gravel and tufts of grass. Dark.
How did he do that? Drink – drink – how? What had that been for?
Crunching behind him, rocks under Dean’s boots, and his every step forward is like a weight on Sam’s shoulders, the dread of Dean seeing him at his lowest – but maybe Dean’s been seeing him at his lowest for a while now, and it’s only Sam who didn’t realize it.
“Holy fuck, Sam—”
There’s a rush of air as Dean hurries to his side, and then freezes. As Dean realizes it’s not Sam’s blood on the earth. It’s not Sam’s blood. It’s not Sam bleeding out.
He sees Dean step back from his periphery. His arm falls to his side.
Sam’s stomach clenches again.
This time, nothing comes up.
But they don’t have the Impala because Dean was rushed here on an angel’s wings, and they don’t have any other way to run, and run they must.
Dean is driving.
Sam presses his fingers into the seat until he can’t feel his arm. His left hand rests on his lap, held loosely open, a picture of calm, where Dean can see it and take comfort from it. If he still needs to. If taking care of Sam is still something that helps him breathe easier; Sam’s not sure.
That voicemail.
He was wrong about everything.
Sam swallows. His body wants to curl, curl into the car door until his head is pressed against the cool window and he’s as small as he can possibly be, and pretend that none of this is happening. It takes a constant effort to keep his limbs relaxed, his body stretched, the position of not-hurting, not-bleeding, not-dying.
He reminds himself to breath. Sucks air in as quietly as possible, pushes it out and feels cold seeping through his body. He blinks. Everything is a shimmering haze outside the window, streetlights merging together until they’re one long stream of yellow, signs flashing past so quickly that there’s no time to read, find out where they are and how much farther they have to go.
Edge of the world, Sam thinks. Edge of the world and straight on till morning.
The only way they will ever get away, be far enough, survive.
There’s a camera shutter of blood painted on his retinas, a heavenly light from the depths of Hell, the feeling of a hand grabbing him, an anchor.
It always had to be you. He’s gonna be grateful. He’s gonna repay you in ways you can’t even imagine!
A breath escapes him, harder than intended and Dean glances over.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Sam manages.
“Not going into – into withdrawal?” continues Dean. His voice is a little harder. Like he doesn’t want to say it. Any of it. “How long was it last time?”
“I – what?” Sam says. He’s confused. He doesn’t understand the question. Ruby’s face is dancing in front of his eyes, telling him lies that ring of truth, telling him he can save the world, telling him—
“How long was it?” Dean repeats. His eyes aren’t on the road, and then are, like he can’t look too long. “Sam?”
“I – uh – it was—” Where are you Ruby? This isn’t funny anymore. But no – he’d had blood then, in that tiny flask. He’d had some right in front of Dean, too, afterwards. Even with that fix, it hadn’t taken long for the chills to start. The pain. The hallucinations. “Couple of days. Less. You – were there.”
“Right – yeah,” Dean says, fidgeting on his seat. “We’ve got time then.”
No, we don’t, Sam wants to say. We don’t have time, we never had time, Dad was right, Dad was right.
They drive past cars and cars drive past them and Sam tries not to glance over and see who’s inside and wonder where they’re going and if they’ll be alive tomorrow. Hell on earth, Dean had said once, to him. There’s irony in that, somewhere. How Sam sent his brother to Hell, and then sent the world there as well, first in an attempt to save him and then in an attempt to save it.
How much time has passed? Shouldn't the sun be rising? He wonders if it’s really dark because it’s night, or if it’s because there can be no dawn, now that he’s set Lucifer free. Maybe Hell is dark.
He looks over at Dean. Looks away quickly.
It comes back to him, suddenly, (again), where they are. Where he is. Who was sitting in the driver’s seat mere hours ago. Who was screaming from the trunk, screaming, screaming, screaming.
Who had a husband, a family, and who is now dead and whose blood is inside Sam.
“Sam?”
“Pull over,” Sam chokes out. “Pull over, please, God, pull over.”
The car’s slowing, shifting, inertia tugging him towards Dean, where he can should never be again, and he forces himself against it. Grabs the door handle and wrenches it open before the car’s stopped, Dean’s shout of protest is quickly drowned out by the pain in his knees as he falls from the car. He tries to stand, stumbles. Manages to crawl a few feet before his stomach clenches and it’s all on the gravel and tufts of grass. Dark.
How did he do that? Drink – drink – how? What had that been for?
Crunching behind him, rocks under Dean’s boots, and his every step forward is like a weight on Sam’s shoulders, the dread of Dean seeing him at his lowest – but maybe Dean’s been seeing him at his lowest for a while now, and it’s only Sam who didn’t realize it.
“Holy fuck, Sam—”
There’s a rush of air as Dean hurries to his side, and then freezes. As Dean realizes it’s not Sam’s blood on the earth. It’s not Sam’s blood. It’s not Sam bleeding out.
He sees Dean step back from his periphery. His arm falls to his side.
Sam’s stomach clenches again.
This time, nothing comes up.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-09-14 08:44 pm (UTC)This is intense, deep and rich. Simply awesome.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 04:46 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading. ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-09-14 10:50 pm (UTC)THIS. Should have been the opening scene of 5x01. Oh, Sam...:(
no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-15 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-18 03:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-15 01:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-15 03:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-15 10:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-15 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-15 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-19 03:33 pm (UTC)Intense and heartwrenching.
Just. Damn.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-19 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 04:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-26 01:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-27 04:22 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for reading!