Supernatural Fic: Loophole to Salvation
Title: Loophole to Salvation
Author: Anja
Rating: PG-13
Warning: DEATHFIC! You be warned. Angst!Sam'nDean, Hurt!Sam
Wordcount: 2400
Spoiler: AHBL
Disclaimers: Nothing's mine. Pity but true.
A/N: Betad by geminigrl11. She did one hell of a good job. Seriously, me and commas don't do well together.
Summary: In the end the deal was unmade... kinda.
It was a faint huff that woke him up. A breeze of something familiar. Like the smell of coffee in the morning. Or of worn leather in the car you'd been driving for the last twenty-five years.
Deep down inside, he knew something would be missing if he only tried to grasp for reality. So no grasping for reality, he decided and slipped back to unconsciousness, leaving reality behind like a puppy bound to a lamp post.
The next time he woke, something tickled his nose and it definitely wasn't the smell of coffee. And this time reality hit back with a vengeance.
...
Ten hours earlier
It was a stupid idea. No more and no less. Dean's last evening on earth before his irrevocable path to hell and he wanted to do one last ride to rescue for some strangers with a freaking poltergeist in the barn.
Ludicrous, Dean had said. But totally fitting, don't ya think? He had grinned widely but Sam hadn't been around Dean for twenty-five years for nothing. He was able to read him as well as his numerous books. A twitch, a slight pull of muscle in Dean's neck and he spoke volumes filled with more words than Shakespeare, Blake or Keats had ever encountered.
Sam had given up hoping months before. Stopped feeling and wishing. Because maybe, if he didn't feel it, it wouldn't happen.
Yeah, sure. That had gone so well after four years in Stanford.
They had stopped talking about it. Dean had even mentioned going to Hawaii next year. There would be some nice little voodoo monsters on the beach. Little Hula girls swinging their straw skirts in the light of fire. Dean didn't remember the name of that drink he'd imagined in his hand.
“This... whatsitsname? Lizard? Alligator?”
“Caipirinha.”
“Yeah that piranha-thing. What do you think? Just the two of us?”
He had tried to laugh it of, ignoring the fact that he wouldn't be there to enjoy his own fantasy.
Right now, “pack my suitcase”-games were the least on their mind. The barn was stuffy and cramped with old lawn mowers, rusty buckets and a few pieces of sheet-covered furniture. The beams of their flashlights were swallowed as if fed to the thing haunting between the walls.
“Neat,” Dean muttered. “Guess you could make a fortune with this stuff in a garage sale. Is it a garage sale if it's in the barn?”
Sam didn't answer. Afraid he'd have to see his meager meal consisting of a salad and white bread make another appearance. At least it would give this shack a little colour.
The moving pool of light made his eyes hurt, but still he didn't take his eyes off his brother. Like keeping him in sight could keep Sam from losing him.
“Anything?” Dean asked, his own flashlight lighting up a collection of gardening tools.
“Nothing,” Sam answered, his voice strained like the ghost fed from it, too. The blood whooshed in his ears like an unnerving tinnitus.
“You think this is a bust?”
“Don't know.”
Sam waited for a reply. Something witty and snarky. Something that would make his eyes roll. Something that would make him snort exasperation. Dean would grin, twiddle his eyebrows and grin like a maniac. In the end, they'd get pushed around a little, do an exorcism and go back to the motel, happy to have accomplished another well-done job.
Tears pooled in Sam's eyes and he blinked them away hurriedly. He didn't want to cry. Well, actually he wanted to scream out his misery at the world but he swallowed any noise, receiving a strange look from his brother.
“Dusty, eh?” Dean said and went on searching every corner of the shack.
Sam shook his head, pushing his dark thoughts away and concentrating on their situation. The only thing he had to do was his Latin mojo. No biggie. But his tongue lay heavy in his mouth, every part of his body too lethargic to move. Walking and listening sheer monumental in their need of mastering. Like an underwater ballet without oxygen mask. There was the grinding noise of his brother's feet on the ground. The wind was rattling the wooden boards and the tools were clinking against each others. The perfect soundtrack for the impending doom.
Dean had taken out his EMF, holding it in every direction. But nothing seemed to spark, not even a fucking mouse. Only the two brothers and their private misery.
“Maybe... maybe we should go home,” Sam suggested. “We could...”
“Do what, Sammy?” Dean bellowed back. His façade of coolness broken by the harsh words. His security blanket of ignorance shattered by one simple burst of emotion. “Do what? Play pool? Write some postcards to say goodbye?” He became silent and Sam's throat constricted painfully. “I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean...”
“I know. Just... shut up and let's do this, okay?”
Dean illuminated his own face and grinned lopsidedly. “Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
Dean went back to studying his EMF and Sam had to make an effort to even get his feet moving. How could they have done this? How the hell were they supposed to get rid of a fucking barn ghost when he couldn't even walk straight?
He wanted to suggest coming back tomorrow but his heart stopped beating at the mere thought of it. How could he do anything tomorrow? Ever again?
“This is a stupid idea,” he mumbled. He turned around. He wanted to grab Dean, take him back to the motel. They still had time, sixty-seven minutes precisely. Maybe there was something he could do?
“De...”
A face appeared in the darkness. Only a few inches in front of his face and he looked into the white eyes of a very angry ghost. In a heartbeat, his skin grew cold while his fingers grabbed the handle of his gun. One shot and another one and the ghost had vanished, dispersing its supernatural molecules in every gap of the room.
“Sam, you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Dean had sprinted back from the far corner of the shack and now they stood together, both of their weapons ready. Their backs towards each other. Then everything was a blur, like a flip book arranged in wrong order. Pieces seemed to go missing and there was only brightness, then darkness. Pain erupted behind Sam's eyes and he tried so very hard to look out for his brother but something pushed him away. Probably Dean, who had been standing right behind him.
Dean would be fine, really.
Because there were still things to be done, contracts to be broken. They really didn't have the time to be pummeled by a non-corporeal being made of freaking ectoplasm.
Sam willed his pain away and scrunched his eyes in confusion. He was lying on his stomach and his cheek was pressed painfully against the rough floor, splinters eating their way into his skin. Something warm pooled against his forehead and made his face sticky. Licking his dry lips he tried to call for Dean. Just to ask if he was okay. Cos they still had enough time to find an answer. At least an hour, he guessed. That was still enough time. In sixty minutes, everything could happen. You could drive from New York to New Jersey in sixty minutes, read a book (a small one, but still) or exorcise a demon. Twice, if your tongue was fast enough.
His fingernails scratched against the floor and he wanted to heave himself up, when a voice beside him reached his ear.
“Sammy?”
“D..Dean?”
“Yeah, little brother, I'm right here.”
Sam gave a relieved laugh only to have spears of white-hot pain shoot through his head.
“Just stay calm, Sammy. Everything's going to be alright.” The voice said and Sam wanted to cry at the pure honesty of this statement. He believed it, he really did. And then, everything would turn out just fine. Dean wouldn't go to hell and Sam would have his brother around for a long time. Anything else was not acceptable.
“You okay?” he asked and felt blood run along the back of his throat. Keeping his eyes open was so very hard and he shut them. It was pretty much dark anyway. Only the faint illumination of his flashlight shone a few feet away. He must have dropped it, when...
“Wha' happen'd?” he asked and Dean answered immediately.
“You hit your head pretty hard.”
“Oh,” Sam replied stupidly. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” Dean said and Sam could hear an inappropriate amount of amusement in his brother's voice. Like all tension had died away. And they still had about forty-five minutes, right? “Just a scratch, don't worry. Just take care of you, okay?”
“What do you mean?” It was so hard to keep track of everything. Deans voice seemed to zoom in and out. Maybe he moved to get some stuff done. Sam giggled.
“What's so funny?” Dean asked and this time Sam wondered why his brother didn't touch him though his voice sounded so close. Like he was whispering in his ear.
“Nothing, I guess.” Sam said and the first tendrils of unconsciousness reached him, enveloping him like a warm blanket of oblivion. “It's just...”
He must have zoned out because Dean's voice was suddenly loud and demanding. “Sam, stay awake, okay? You need to stay awake! Promise!”
“Dean?”
“Yes, it's me, Sammy. You hear me? You have to stay awake. Bobby will be here in a few minutes, okay? He'll take care of you.”
“No”, Sam whispered. “Thisis you' job. You won' getaway s' eas'ly.” He wondered, if his brother could actually understand him, since his words slurred together.
“Yeah I know, but I have somewhere to go, you know?”
“No!” Sam wanted to yell. But it came out as a moan. “You won' gotohell.”
“I know, Sammy. That's not what I meant. I'm not going to hell. Promise.”
“Scout's honour?”
Dean mocked surprise. “Scout's honour? What are you? Five?” It was a lame joke but it made things easier because Dean couldn't lie when telling a joke, could he?
“You just... promise.”
“That's what I said.”
Sam opened his eyes once more. There was Dean kneeling beside him. Somewhere there was light and his contours were illuminated. Had the sun come up already? That would be great, because then Dean was still here. He wasn't dead. And he was right next to him, looking down with a concerned face and a bright shimmer in his eyes.
Thirty minutes left. A guess as good as any.
“Bobby's coming,” Dean repeated and looked up like their old friend was standing in the doorway already. But Sam had closed his eyes, feeling too protected and cared for in the safe watch of his big brother. Nothing could happen as long as Dean was around to look out for him.
He must have napped away again and Dean's voice echoed loudly in his ears. How much time had passed? How much time was left now?
He could hear a pounding noise which was accompanied by a vibrating sensation against his cheek.
“Dean?” A familiar voice hollered in the shack and made Sam wince. He wanted to sleep so badly but he had promised Dean he wouldn't.
“Oh my god” There it was again, the familiar voice. It came closer and the pounding of boots made his ears ring. His brain felt like mashed potatoes and he wondered if maybe his brain WAS made of mashed potatoes.
“Sam?”
Something warm touched his neck and obviously felt for a pulse. But he was alive, wasn't he? Dean could confirm this. Because he had sat next to him until right now.
I think, therefore I still am, Sam thought.
“Dean?”
Bobby, yeah. Bobby was here. He'd take care of them. He'd get them back to the motel and together, they'd find a way. They still had time. A few minutes at least. You could do a lot in a few minutes. Eat a cheeseburger, write an email or watch a trailer for the newest blockbuster. Time wouldn't be the problem.
But Bobby sounded odd and not like himself. He had stood up and walked somewhere. His steps gave away his position and then there was a bright light again. Had Bobby found his flashlight? And now he was looking for Dean. That was a good explanation for everything.
“Nonono... not you. Not like this.” Bobby's strangled cry made Sam's world tumble out of balance and he concentrated every fiber of his body on the simple task of opening his eyes. Only for a second to see what Bobby was talking about.
The sight stole breath he hadn't to spare. The beam of the flashlight showed Dean standing against the wall. The only thing holding him upright was a pitchfork, its tines protruding from his blood-soaked chest. His eyes open but empty. Why wasn't he talking? He had been, only minutes ago. So why wasn't he now?
“Dean,” Sam managed to croak and Bobby turned around, obscuring his view at his brother who was obviously sleeping. “Wak'im up, Bobby! W'only hav'a fu minutes lef'.”
His eyes fell close and he felt a hand again, touching his neck and running along his back. Then he was turned around, his head pillowed against warm legs and the calloused hand stroke his head.
“It's okay, Dean.” Bobby said. “You can go now, I got him.”
Go? Where? No, they still had things to do.
Somehow, in the scrambled line of Sam's thoughts, there was the recognition of a dreaded noise. Barking dogs closing in and sounding seriously pissed. He tensed under his old friend's gentle ministrations.
“Go now!” Bobby ordered and there was a sound of pages being turned over. A soft noise, soothing and familiar. But still more like a feeling than a real sound. Like a wave of warmth and peace. Like there was a good memory linked to it. But before Sam was able to follow this thought, darkness claimed him accentuated by the hiccuping hitch of someone's weeping.
And the dogs never came.
Ten hours later
...
The next time he woke, something tickled his nose and it definitely wasn't the smell of coffee. And this time, reality hit back with two-edged vengeance.
Author: Anja
Rating: PG-13
Warning: DEATHFIC! You be warned. Angst!Sam'nDean, Hurt!Sam
Wordcount: 2400
Spoiler: AHBL
Disclaimers: Nothing's mine. Pity but true.
A/N: Betad by geminigrl11. She did one hell of a good job. Seriously, me and commas don't do well together.
Summary: In the end the deal was unmade... kinda.
It was a faint huff that woke him up. A breeze of something familiar. Like the smell of coffee in the morning. Or of worn leather in the car you'd been driving for the last twenty-five years.
Deep down inside, he knew something would be missing if he only tried to grasp for reality. So no grasping for reality, he decided and slipped back to unconsciousness, leaving reality behind like a puppy bound to a lamp post.
The next time he woke, something tickled his nose and it definitely wasn't the smell of coffee. And this time reality hit back with a vengeance.
...
Ten hours earlier
It was a stupid idea. No more and no less. Dean's last evening on earth before his irrevocable path to hell and he wanted to do one last ride to rescue for some strangers with a freaking poltergeist in the barn.
Ludicrous, Dean had said. But totally fitting, don't ya think? He had grinned widely but Sam hadn't been around Dean for twenty-five years for nothing. He was able to read him as well as his numerous books. A twitch, a slight pull of muscle in Dean's neck and he spoke volumes filled with more words than Shakespeare, Blake or Keats had ever encountered.
Sam had given up hoping months before. Stopped feeling and wishing. Because maybe, if he didn't feel it, it wouldn't happen.
Yeah, sure. That had gone so well after four years in Stanford.
They had stopped talking about it. Dean had even mentioned going to Hawaii next year. There would be some nice little voodoo monsters on the beach. Little Hula girls swinging their straw skirts in the light of fire. Dean didn't remember the name of that drink he'd imagined in his hand.
“This... whatsitsname? Lizard? Alligator?”
“Caipirinha.”
“Yeah that piranha-thing. What do you think? Just the two of us?”
He had tried to laugh it of, ignoring the fact that he wouldn't be there to enjoy his own fantasy.
Right now, “pack my suitcase”-games were the least on their mind. The barn was stuffy and cramped with old lawn mowers, rusty buckets and a few pieces of sheet-covered furniture. The beams of their flashlights were swallowed as if fed to the thing haunting between the walls.
“Neat,” Dean muttered. “Guess you could make a fortune with this stuff in a garage sale. Is it a garage sale if it's in the barn?”
Sam didn't answer. Afraid he'd have to see his meager meal consisting of a salad and white bread make another appearance. At least it would give this shack a little colour.
The moving pool of light made his eyes hurt, but still he didn't take his eyes off his brother. Like keeping him in sight could keep Sam from losing him.
“Anything?” Dean asked, his own flashlight lighting up a collection of gardening tools.
“Nothing,” Sam answered, his voice strained like the ghost fed from it, too. The blood whooshed in his ears like an unnerving tinnitus.
“You think this is a bust?”
“Don't know.”
Sam waited for a reply. Something witty and snarky. Something that would make his eyes roll. Something that would make him snort exasperation. Dean would grin, twiddle his eyebrows and grin like a maniac. In the end, they'd get pushed around a little, do an exorcism and go back to the motel, happy to have accomplished another well-done job.
Tears pooled in Sam's eyes and he blinked them away hurriedly. He didn't want to cry. Well, actually he wanted to scream out his misery at the world but he swallowed any noise, receiving a strange look from his brother.
“Dusty, eh?” Dean said and went on searching every corner of the shack.
Sam shook his head, pushing his dark thoughts away and concentrating on their situation. The only thing he had to do was his Latin mojo. No biggie. But his tongue lay heavy in his mouth, every part of his body too lethargic to move. Walking and listening sheer monumental in their need of mastering. Like an underwater ballet without oxygen mask. There was the grinding noise of his brother's feet on the ground. The wind was rattling the wooden boards and the tools were clinking against each others. The perfect soundtrack for the impending doom.
Dean had taken out his EMF, holding it in every direction. But nothing seemed to spark, not even a fucking mouse. Only the two brothers and their private misery.
“Maybe... maybe we should go home,” Sam suggested. “We could...”
“Do what, Sammy?” Dean bellowed back. His façade of coolness broken by the harsh words. His security blanket of ignorance shattered by one simple burst of emotion. “Do what? Play pool? Write some postcards to say goodbye?” He became silent and Sam's throat constricted painfully. “I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean...”
“I know. Just... shut up and let's do this, okay?”
Dean illuminated his own face and grinned lopsidedly. “Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
Dean went back to studying his EMF and Sam had to make an effort to even get his feet moving. How could they have done this? How the hell were they supposed to get rid of a fucking barn ghost when he couldn't even walk straight?
He wanted to suggest coming back tomorrow but his heart stopped beating at the mere thought of it. How could he do anything tomorrow? Ever again?
“This is a stupid idea,” he mumbled. He turned around. He wanted to grab Dean, take him back to the motel. They still had time, sixty-seven minutes precisely. Maybe there was something he could do?
“De...”
A face appeared in the darkness. Only a few inches in front of his face and he looked into the white eyes of a very angry ghost. In a heartbeat, his skin grew cold while his fingers grabbed the handle of his gun. One shot and another one and the ghost had vanished, dispersing its supernatural molecules in every gap of the room.
“Sam, you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Dean had sprinted back from the far corner of the shack and now they stood together, both of their weapons ready. Their backs towards each other. Then everything was a blur, like a flip book arranged in wrong order. Pieces seemed to go missing and there was only brightness, then darkness. Pain erupted behind Sam's eyes and he tried so very hard to look out for his brother but something pushed him away. Probably Dean, who had been standing right behind him.
Dean would be fine, really.
Because there were still things to be done, contracts to be broken. They really didn't have the time to be pummeled by a non-corporeal being made of freaking ectoplasm.
Sam willed his pain away and scrunched his eyes in confusion. He was lying on his stomach and his cheek was pressed painfully against the rough floor, splinters eating their way into his skin. Something warm pooled against his forehead and made his face sticky. Licking his dry lips he tried to call for Dean. Just to ask if he was okay. Cos they still had enough time to find an answer. At least an hour, he guessed. That was still enough time. In sixty minutes, everything could happen. You could drive from New York to New Jersey in sixty minutes, read a book (a small one, but still) or exorcise a demon. Twice, if your tongue was fast enough.
His fingernails scratched against the floor and he wanted to heave himself up, when a voice beside him reached his ear.
“Sammy?”
“D..Dean?”
“Yeah, little brother, I'm right here.”
Sam gave a relieved laugh only to have spears of white-hot pain shoot through his head.
“Just stay calm, Sammy. Everything's going to be alright.” The voice said and Sam wanted to cry at the pure honesty of this statement. He believed it, he really did. And then, everything would turn out just fine. Dean wouldn't go to hell and Sam would have his brother around for a long time. Anything else was not acceptable.
“You okay?” he asked and felt blood run along the back of his throat. Keeping his eyes open was so very hard and he shut them. It was pretty much dark anyway. Only the faint illumination of his flashlight shone a few feet away. He must have dropped it, when...
“Wha' happen'd?” he asked and Dean answered immediately.
“You hit your head pretty hard.”
“Oh,” Sam replied stupidly. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” Dean said and Sam could hear an inappropriate amount of amusement in his brother's voice. Like all tension had died away. And they still had about forty-five minutes, right? “Just a scratch, don't worry. Just take care of you, okay?”
“What do you mean?” It was so hard to keep track of everything. Deans voice seemed to zoom in and out. Maybe he moved to get some stuff done. Sam giggled.
“What's so funny?” Dean asked and this time Sam wondered why his brother didn't touch him though his voice sounded so close. Like he was whispering in his ear.
“Nothing, I guess.” Sam said and the first tendrils of unconsciousness reached him, enveloping him like a warm blanket of oblivion. “It's just...”
He must have zoned out because Dean's voice was suddenly loud and demanding. “Sam, stay awake, okay? You need to stay awake! Promise!”
“Dean?”
“Yes, it's me, Sammy. You hear me? You have to stay awake. Bobby will be here in a few minutes, okay? He'll take care of you.”
“No”, Sam whispered. “Thisis you' job. You won' getaway s' eas'ly.” He wondered, if his brother could actually understand him, since his words slurred together.
“Yeah I know, but I have somewhere to go, you know?”
“No!” Sam wanted to yell. But it came out as a moan. “You won' gotohell.”
“I know, Sammy. That's not what I meant. I'm not going to hell. Promise.”
“Scout's honour?”
Dean mocked surprise. “Scout's honour? What are you? Five?” It was a lame joke but it made things easier because Dean couldn't lie when telling a joke, could he?
“You just... promise.”
“That's what I said.”
Sam opened his eyes once more. There was Dean kneeling beside him. Somewhere there was light and his contours were illuminated. Had the sun come up already? That would be great, because then Dean was still here. He wasn't dead. And he was right next to him, looking down with a concerned face and a bright shimmer in his eyes.
Thirty minutes left. A guess as good as any.
“Bobby's coming,” Dean repeated and looked up like their old friend was standing in the doorway already. But Sam had closed his eyes, feeling too protected and cared for in the safe watch of his big brother. Nothing could happen as long as Dean was around to look out for him.
He must have napped away again and Dean's voice echoed loudly in his ears. How much time had passed? How much time was left now?
He could hear a pounding noise which was accompanied by a vibrating sensation against his cheek.
“Dean?” A familiar voice hollered in the shack and made Sam wince. He wanted to sleep so badly but he had promised Dean he wouldn't.
“Oh my god” There it was again, the familiar voice. It came closer and the pounding of boots made his ears ring. His brain felt like mashed potatoes and he wondered if maybe his brain WAS made of mashed potatoes.
“Sam?”
Something warm touched his neck and obviously felt for a pulse. But he was alive, wasn't he? Dean could confirm this. Because he had sat next to him until right now.
I think, therefore I still am, Sam thought.
“Dean?”
Bobby, yeah. Bobby was here. He'd take care of them. He'd get them back to the motel and together, they'd find a way. They still had time. A few minutes at least. You could do a lot in a few minutes. Eat a cheeseburger, write an email or watch a trailer for the newest blockbuster. Time wouldn't be the problem.
But Bobby sounded odd and not like himself. He had stood up and walked somewhere. His steps gave away his position and then there was a bright light again. Had Bobby found his flashlight? And now he was looking for Dean. That was a good explanation for everything.
“Nonono... not you. Not like this.” Bobby's strangled cry made Sam's world tumble out of balance and he concentrated every fiber of his body on the simple task of opening his eyes. Only for a second to see what Bobby was talking about.
The sight stole breath he hadn't to spare. The beam of the flashlight showed Dean standing against the wall. The only thing holding him upright was a pitchfork, its tines protruding from his blood-soaked chest. His eyes open but empty. Why wasn't he talking? He had been, only minutes ago. So why wasn't he now?
“Dean,” Sam managed to croak and Bobby turned around, obscuring his view at his brother who was obviously sleeping. “Wak'im up, Bobby! W'only hav'a fu minutes lef'.”
His eyes fell close and he felt a hand again, touching his neck and running along his back. Then he was turned around, his head pillowed against warm legs and the calloused hand stroke his head.
“It's okay, Dean.” Bobby said. “You can go now, I got him.”
Go? Where? No, they still had things to do.
Somehow, in the scrambled line of Sam's thoughts, there was the recognition of a dreaded noise. Barking dogs closing in and sounding seriously pissed. He tensed under his old friend's gentle ministrations.
“Go now!” Bobby ordered and there was a sound of pages being turned over. A soft noise, soothing and familiar. But still more like a feeling than a real sound. Like a wave of warmth and peace. Like there was a good memory linked to it. But before Sam was able to follow this thought, darkness claimed him accentuated by the hiccuping hitch of someone's weeping.
And the dogs never came.
Ten hours later
...
The next time he woke, something tickled his nose and it definitely wasn't the smell of coffee. And this time, reality hit back with two-edged vengeance.