And I Shall Become Weak [Gen, PG]
So I should really be working on my big bang and sweet charity fics, but instead, this came out. Oops?
And I Shall Become Weak [Gen, PG, 1184 words]
"That's what happens when you go to hell, Dean. That's what hell is. Forgetting what you are."
Warning: spoilers for 3.09. (Last week's ep, for those of you not counting.) The title's a quote from Samson in Judges 16:17. Beta'd by madame_meretrix, who never ceases to amaze me.
And I Shall Become Weak
It's darker when she leaves, even though the lights have steadied, picked up right where they left off, painting shapes and shadows across the pavement like she'd never been there at all.
Oblivion must be nice, he thinks.
The bulb in the vacancy sign's still flickering. Didn't get the message that the show's over, or maybe it's just not screwed in tight enough. Hell, maybe it's just the first to fall, maybe he's gonna be leaving Sam alone in a world gone dark.
He drags his knuckles along the Impala's curved flank, knows the dip and swell of the metal by heart, knows there’ll come a day when he doesn’t, and he hits the ground on all fours, spews bile and leftover blood, heaves silently onto a patch of dirt that's supposed to be grass.
His ribs ache and he breathes slowly, feels out the depth of the pain, squeezes his eyes shut against it. It's his own fault, he thinks, concrete cool against his forehead, for holding on to even a tiny bit of hope.
*
Sam's hair is damp, pushed back off his face in waves, and Dean's trapped on the threshold, caught up in the decision between intrusion and escape.
He focuses on the strip of skin that separates the neckline of Sam's grey t-shirt from the flipped up ends of his hair, watches it disappear when Sam's head snaps up, turns in Dean's direction.
"Dean," he says. A few loose strands fall into his eyes, and Dean fights the impulse to turn away from Sam on his knees on a blood-stained rug, elbows solemn and solid on a gutted mattress in a red room, asking someone who's not listening for something that can't be done.
"Sorry, I... I can give you a minute," he says. "I didn't know you were... busy."
"No, I’m not-I don't pray anymore, Dean," Sam says. "I haven't for a long time." He rocks back a little; his knees pop, the second one louder than the first. His mouth quirks into a half smile, crooked and tight, and he says, "Just my knees, man. I’m gettin' too old for this."
Dean makes it to the bed without vomiting and closes his eyes.
*
He wakes to darkness in front of his eyes, red behind, legs tangled in the sheets and he can’t remember the name of this place, just another cheap-ass motel in another town he’s decorated with his blood, but his throat tightens like it’s choking on a word that won’t come out.
He presses his forearm down over his eyes till it comes to him, spits it out in a harsh whisper and breathes.
It’s the first victory in a war he hasn’t even begun to fight, but he holds onto it like a prize, says it again-“Conquistador. Friggin’ stupid ass name for a motel.”-and it’s a piece of his life, a piece of his mind that’s still his.
He crosses the room to the light switch, flips it up just to be sure and goes back to bed without turning it off.
Sam doesn't stir, and Dean thinks maybe he could just tie him to the bed, spend the time he's got left building a wall made of salt or a mile wide devil's trap; let the world go to hell, or let Ruby save it herself if that's what she wants so badly, as long as Sammy's safe inside.
He watches Sam’s chest rising and falling, the door in the background, doesn’t want to know whether it’s coincidence or design that’s put him on the inside, Sam between him and the outside world.
*
"What do you mean you don't pray anymore?" Dean says, dragging his fork through a puddle of syrup.
Sam doesn't look up. "Don't see the point," he says.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Sam says, setting down his fork, "we live in a world where-where either there really isn't a God, or there is, and he's just gonna let you die. And the way I see it, I just don't want to waste my breath."
"That's not fair, Sam," Dean says. "I made a deal, and you know it."
Sam stands and throws a couple of dollar bills down on the table. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know it."
Dean pushes his plate across the table, throws down enough cash to cover the rest of the bill. He sips his coffee, lets it scald his throat, waits for it to burn away the taste in his mouth, the bitterness of another little piece of hope he didn’t know he was hiding.
*
He falls asleep reading Dad’s journal, dreams of his father climbing out of hell, of himself, of big hands, strong arms pulling him out of the pit, solid ground under his feet, solid flesh under his fingers and then the snap of cervical vertebrae; nameless corpse at his feet, shaggy hair golden brown against the earth.
The room’s still bright when he wakes up.
He stares at his hands, wonders if they’ve saved as many lives as they might someday take, wonders if Sam would be strong enough to make the promise that Dean never could.
Doesn’t matter; he’ll never ask.
Sam’s outside, leaning against the Impala, holding the dipstick up and squinting into the sun like it’s the pattern of grease on metal, not gods and demons, that’ll give him the answers he’s stopped searching for.
*
It’s late when Sam gets back with dinner; Dean’s waiting on the step, watching the vacancy sign flicker in the darkness, trying to decipher its code.
He thinks he should understand the message, thinks there should be some shared language amongst the dying, but the last flicker comes and goes, inscrutable, leaves nothing behind.
Sam shuts the Impala’s door, turns in Dean’s direction, and Dean turns away, feels a hole growing somewhere inside, a leak that can’t be plugged with the forgotten name of the motel or the relief of waking from a dream.
Sam’s mouth purses, opens like he’s about to list a thousand and one reasons why he’s done the right thing, but all he says is, “Dean,” and when he walks around the car, his boots echo on the pavement, and Dean thinks the sound is somehow louder for all the empty space that’s growing inside of him.
“You wouldn’t’ve done it for me,” Sam says, pushing the inch of hair he’s got left down toward his forehead. “I would’ve asked, but.”
Dean nods and Sam sits, drops a McDonald’s bag in between them. “I still pray every day,” he whispers. “I do, I just-you looked so freaked when you caught me, and I didn’t-I wanted you to think I was strong, I didn’t want you to worry.”
Demons lie, Dean thinks. And they tell the truth, and they know when to split the difference.
“I’m not worried,” he says, “but Sam…”
He reaches up, runs his hand through Sam’s hair, hates the way the short strands release his fingers immediately back into the chilly night air.
“If you’re me, Sammy-then who the hell am I?”
###
And I Shall Become Weak [Gen, PG, 1184 words]
"That's what happens when you go to hell, Dean. That's what hell is. Forgetting what you are."
Warning: spoilers for 3.09. (Last week's ep, for those of you not counting.) The title's a quote from Samson in Judges 16:17. Beta'd by madame_meretrix, who never ceases to amaze me.
And I Shall Become Weak
It's darker when she leaves, even though the lights have steadied, picked up right where they left off, painting shapes and shadows across the pavement like she'd never been there at all.
Oblivion must be nice, he thinks.
The bulb in the vacancy sign's still flickering. Didn't get the message that the show's over, or maybe it's just not screwed in tight enough. Hell, maybe it's just the first to fall, maybe he's gonna be leaving Sam alone in a world gone dark.
He drags his knuckles along the Impala's curved flank, knows the dip and swell of the metal by heart, knows there’ll come a day when he doesn’t, and he hits the ground on all fours, spews bile and leftover blood, heaves silently onto a patch of dirt that's supposed to be grass.
His ribs ache and he breathes slowly, feels out the depth of the pain, squeezes his eyes shut against it. It's his own fault, he thinks, concrete cool against his forehead, for holding on to even a tiny bit of hope.
*
Sam's hair is damp, pushed back off his face in waves, and Dean's trapped on the threshold, caught up in the decision between intrusion and escape.
He focuses on the strip of skin that separates the neckline of Sam's grey t-shirt from the flipped up ends of his hair, watches it disappear when Sam's head snaps up, turns in Dean's direction.
"Dean," he says. A few loose strands fall into his eyes, and Dean fights the impulse to turn away from Sam on his knees on a blood-stained rug, elbows solemn and solid on a gutted mattress in a red room, asking someone who's not listening for something that can't be done.
"Sorry, I... I can give you a minute," he says. "I didn't know you were... busy."
"No, I’m not-I don't pray anymore, Dean," Sam says. "I haven't for a long time." He rocks back a little; his knees pop, the second one louder than the first. His mouth quirks into a half smile, crooked and tight, and he says, "Just my knees, man. I’m gettin' too old for this."
Dean makes it to the bed without vomiting and closes his eyes.
*
He wakes to darkness in front of his eyes, red behind, legs tangled in the sheets and he can’t remember the name of this place, just another cheap-ass motel in another town he’s decorated with his blood, but his throat tightens like it’s choking on a word that won’t come out.
He presses his forearm down over his eyes till it comes to him, spits it out in a harsh whisper and breathes.
It’s the first victory in a war he hasn’t even begun to fight, but he holds onto it like a prize, says it again-“Conquistador. Friggin’ stupid ass name for a motel.”-and it’s a piece of his life, a piece of his mind that’s still his.
He crosses the room to the light switch, flips it up just to be sure and goes back to bed without turning it off.
Sam doesn't stir, and Dean thinks maybe he could just tie him to the bed, spend the time he's got left building a wall made of salt or a mile wide devil's trap; let the world go to hell, or let Ruby save it herself if that's what she wants so badly, as long as Sammy's safe inside.
He watches Sam’s chest rising and falling, the door in the background, doesn’t want to know whether it’s coincidence or design that’s put him on the inside, Sam between him and the outside world.
*
"What do you mean you don't pray anymore?" Dean says, dragging his fork through a puddle of syrup.
Sam doesn't look up. "Don't see the point," he says.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Sam says, setting down his fork, "we live in a world where-where either there really isn't a God, or there is, and he's just gonna let you die. And the way I see it, I just don't want to waste my breath."
"That's not fair, Sam," Dean says. "I made a deal, and you know it."
Sam stands and throws a couple of dollar bills down on the table. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know it."
Dean pushes his plate across the table, throws down enough cash to cover the rest of the bill. He sips his coffee, lets it scald his throat, waits for it to burn away the taste in his mouth, the bitterness of another little piece of hope he didn’t know he was hiding.
*
He falls asleep reading Dad’s journal, dreams of his father climbing out of hell, of himself, of big hands, strong arms pulling him out of the pit, solid ground under his feet, solid flesh under his fingers and then the snap of cervical vertebrae; nameless corpse at his feet, shaggy hair golden brown against the earth.
The room’s still bright when he wakes up.
He stares at his hands, wonders if they’ve saved as many lives as they might someday take, wonders if Sam would be strong enough to make the promise that Dean never could.
Doesn’t matter; he’ll never ask.
Sam’s outside, leaning against the Impala, holding the dipstick up and squinting into the sun like it’s the pattern of grease on metal, not gods and demons, that’ll give him the answers he’s stopped searching for.
*
It’s late when Sam gets back with dinner; Dean’s waiting on the step, watching the vacancy sign flicker in the darkness, trying to decipher its code.
He thinks he should understand the message, thinks there should be some shared language amongst the dying, but the last flicker comes and goes, inscrutable, leaves nothing behind.
Sam shuts the Impala’s door, turns in Dean’s direction, and Dean turns away, feels a hole growing somewhere inside, a leak that can’t be plugged with the forgotten name of the motel or the relief of waking from a dream.
Sam’s mouth purses, opens like he’s about to list a thousand and one reasons why he’s done the right thing, but all he says is, “Dean,” and when he walks around the car, his boots echo on the pavement, and Dean thinks the sound is somehow louder for all the empty space that’s growing inside of him.
“You wouldn’t’ve done it for me,” Sam says, pushing the inch of hair he’s got left down toward his forehead. “I would’ve asked, but.”
Dean nods and Sam sits, drops a McDonald’s bag in between them. “I still pray every day,” he whispers. “I do, I just-you looked so freaked when you caught me, and I didn’t-I wanted you to think I was strong, I didn’t want you to worry.”
Demons lie, Dean thinks. And they tell the truth, and they know when to split the difference.
“I’m not worried,” he says, “but Sam…”
He reaches up, runs his hand through Sam’s hair, hates the way the short strands release his fingers immediately back into the chilly night air.
“If you’re me, Sammy-then who the hell am I?”
###