Sunrise 1/1 [PG-13] Sam, Dean - 6.16 coda
Title: Sunrise
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.16
My standard SPN disclaimer: This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take. Also likely to be Kripked or Gambled at the first available opportunity.
03/13/11 01:58:27 PM
Sunrise
There hadn't been much conversation while the boys helped Bobby prepare Rufus for the ground. Dean at first had wanted to spare the older hunter from the whole process but one glare from under Bobby's worn bill-cap had ended that loving attempt stillborn.
For Bobby there would probably be more drinking, and while Dean had every intention of keeping him company, the worst work a hunter had to do wasn't finished yet. There were two more bodies to attend to.
"I'll take care of this," Dean said to his brother, quiet and rough.
"Don't be stupid," Sam answered, not flat, not harsh. Now's not the time to try and save me from anything. Yes, I know that's what you're thinking.
And because, for however long, they really were back to that level of silent communication, there weren't any more words for a while.
The rituals of a hunter's funeral were simple and expedient, but not entirely devoid of grace. Dean wiped Gwen's face clean with a damp rag, iron bands tight within his chest as he tried, in spite of the advice he would have given Sam or anyone else, to remember, to pierce the flat blankness and see her face, eyes widening as he pulled the trigger. But... nothing. Nada.
His stillness got Sam's attention but there was little Sam could do, nothing he could offer. Only understanding that was soul deep. It wasn't you, but nonetheless. Yes. Sam knew that one, inside and out. Trust me, what I did pales in comparison to what you did, and on more than one occasion.
So instead of words, he handed Dean a comb. Gwen's dark hair would need that.
Sam had his own moment, staring at the closed eyes of Samuel's face (neat bullethole through the lined forehead). What he did remember, what he wasn't supposed to dwell on, weren't the best memories, and they were flat, without strong emotional associations. His grandfather. His grandfather, his mother's father. What would Sam have given for just ten minutes, to just sit and talk, ask questions, things only this man could tell him, like what had she been like as a little girl. Mary. His mother.
And without even nudging that memory wall, Sam knew he had never had that talk. Never asked. His unsouled self wouldn't have seen the point in it.
From what Dean had told him, Samuel might have had his reasons to sell out Sam, but not Dean. Not both of them. Not to Crowley.
From what Dean had said, though, Samuel had been motivated by the same curse, the family curse. A deal, to bring back his daughter.
With all his knowledge of the supernatural, all the lore he seemed to have that went further than any other hunter, Samuel hadn't believed Mary was in a good place. Did he have any reason for that? Had Crowley told him something? Or had he just been that selfish?
So many unanswered questions, and Sam had put an end to ever resolving them.
The small relief that Samuel had been the vessel of a monster and not otherwise was compensated by the regret that if they'd known, maybe he could have been saved.
Yeah, saved just so Dean could kill him.
But if it played out in the end in not the worst way, that took nothing off Sam's shoulders. It never would. Never could.
After the pyre they buried what remained. No marker, just charms buried with them to hide the site from both angels, and devils.
After washing up, they found Bobby well near the bottom of his second, cheaper bottle of whiskey. Dean opened a third and poured, four fingers for himself, two for Sam. A joke? A jibe? An instinct that never quit to caretake?
Sam didn't offer a murmur. No matter what it was, it suited him. Not since Roy and Walt had Sam ignored the designated driver option. If his brother wanted to join Bobby in getting blind, he could sit shotgun and make sure there was one conscious and aware soul on the property. He drank slow, returning the look Dean gave him evenly, with no offer of provocation.
Even over a junkyard, dawn skies can be beautiful. Sam went outside for some air and to stretch his legs. He paused, leaning on the Impala, unconscious of his hand resting on her cool metal, or the silent comfort it provided.
Rose and gold edged distant clouds that looked both soft as down and solid as ice cream scoops. Lavender above gave way to the slowly growing light. Sam could still smell smoke and ash somewhere, from his hair or clothes, or only in his mind.
He heard the door open and knew Dean's steps - not unsteady but slower than usual, careful - and didn't turn around.
"Bobby?"
"Finally snoring. I threw a quilt on him. The bastard can drink hard core."
"Said the kettle," Sam replied, the corner of his mouth twitching, as Dean pulled himself to a seat on the side-panel above the front left wheel. No one else was allowed to sit on Dean's baby any more. Just them, the Winchester brothers. Not even Ben had gotten that pass.
"Said the lightweight," Dean retorted, but he followed Sam's gaze to the panorama of colors and light that made up every ordinary dawn. Never the same twice, never ugly, never less than breathtaking.
"Whatever." Sam's eyes flickered over to study his brother's profile, while Dean's attention was occupied. There were creases and shadows, the bones were a little more chiseled. As if it were yesterday, Sam remembered how he'd never hoped to see it whole again.
He looked away a millisecond before Dean glanced his way, making his own assessment, wondering over his own unlookedfor chances, second, third, fourth.
Sammy... you're going to stay with me, right? Going to leave the wall alone, beat even Death's expectations. Going to stay...
Between them, they had hundreds of things to say, to ask, to share, reveal or discuss. But scabs were thin and forming, ice was fragile and numbing, and both their clothes still smelled a little of smoke and ashes.
Sunrise blessed them with the latest set of chances.
"'M going to bed," Dean groaned, turning from the increasing light.
"Yeah. Me too."
03:44:08 PM
♠ season 6 codas
~
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.16
My standard SPN disclaimer: This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take. Also likely to be Kripked or Gambled at the first available opportunity.
03/13/11 01:58:27 PM
Sunrise
There hadn't been much conversation while the boys helped Bobby prepare Rufus for the ground. Dean at first had wanted to spare the older hunter from the whole process but one glare from under Bobby's worn bill-cap had ended that loving attempt stillborn.
For Bobby there would probably be more drinking, and while Dean had every intention of keeping him company, the worst work a hunter had to do wasn't finished yet. There were two more bodies to attend to.
"I'll take care of this," Dean said to his brother, quiet and rough.
"Don't be stupid," Sam answered, not flat, not harsh. Now's not the time to try and save me from anything. Yes, I know that's what you're thinking.
And because, for however long, they really were back to that level of silent communication, there weren't any more words for a while.
The rituals of a hunter's funeral were simple and expedient, but not entirely devoid of grace. Dean wiped Gwen's face clean with a damp rag, iron bands tight within his chest as he tried, in spite of the advice he would have given Sam or anyone else, to remember, to pierce the flat blankness and see her face, eyes widening as he pulled the trigger. But... nothing. Nada.
His stillness got Sam's attention but there was little Sam could do, nothing he could offer. Only understanding that was soul deep. It wasn't you, but nonetheless. Yes. Sam knew that one, inside and out. Trust me, what I did pales in comparison to what you did, and on more than one occasion.
So instead of words, he handed Dean a comb. Gwen's dark hair would need that.
Sam had his own moment, staring at the closed eyes of Samuel's face (neat bullethole through the lined forehead). What he did remember, what he wasn't supposed to dwell on, weren't the best memories, and they were flat, without strong emotional associations. His grandfather. His grandfather, his mother's father. What would Sam have given for just ten minutes, to just sit and talk, ask questions, things only this man could tell him, like what had she been like as a little girl. Mary. His mother.
And without even nudging that memory wall, Sam knew he had never had that talk. Never asked. His unsouled self wouldn't have seen the point in it.
From what Dean had told him, Samuel might have had his reasons to sell out Sam, but not Dean. Not both of them. Not to Crowley.
From what Dean had said, though, Samuel had been motivated by the same curse, the family curse. A deal, to bring back his daughter.
With all his knowledge of the supernatural, all the lore he seemed to have that went further than any other hunter, Samuel hadn't believed Mary was in a good place. Did he have any reason for that? Had Crowley told him something? Or had he just been that selfish?
So many unanswered questions, and Sam had put an end to ever resolving them.
The small relief that Samuel had been the vessel of a monster and not otherwise was compensated by the regret that if they'd known, maybe he could have been saved.
Yeah, saved just so Dean could kill him.
But if it played out in the end in not the worst way, that took nothing off Sam's shoulders. It never would. Never could.
After the pyre they buried what remained. No marker, just charms buried with them to hide the site from both angels, and devils.
After washing up, they found Bobby well near the bottom of his second, cheaper bottle of whiskey. Dean opened a third and poured, four fingers for himself, two for Sam. A joke? A jibe? An instinct that never quit to caretake?
Sam didn't offer a murmur. No matter what it was, it suited him. Not since Roy and Walt had Sam ignored the designated driver option. If his brother wanted to join Bobby in getting blind, he could sit shotgun and make sure there was one conscious and aware soul on the property. He drank slow, returning the look Dean gave him evenly, with no offer of provocation.
Even over a junkyard, dawn skies can be beautiful. Sam went outside for some air and to stretch his legs. He paused, leaning on the Impala, unconscious of his hand resting on her cool metal, or the silent comfort it provided.
Rose and gold edged distant clouds that looked both soft as down and solid as ice cream scoops. Lavender above gave way to the slowly growing light. Sam could still smell smoke and ash somewhere, from his hair or clothes, or only in his mind.
He heard the door open and knew Dean's steps - not unsteady but slower than usual, careful - and didn't turn around.
"Bobby?"
"Finally snoring. I threw a quilt on him. The bastard can drink hard core."
"Said the kettle," Sam replied, the corner of his mouth twitching, as Dean pulled himself to a seat on the side-panel above the front left wheel. No one else was allowed to sit on Dean's baby any more. Just them, the Winchester brothers. Not even Ben had gotten that pass.
"Said the lightweight," Dean retorted, but he followed Sam's gaze to the panorama of colors and light that made up every ordinary dawn. Never the same twice, never ugly, never less than breathtaking.
"Whatever." Sam's eyes flickered over to study his brother's profile, while Dean's attention was occupied. There were creases and shadows, the bones were a little more chiseled. As if it were yesterday, Sam remembered how he'd never hoped to see it whole again.
He looked away a millisecond before Dean glanced his way, making his own assessment, wondering over his own unlookedfor chances, second, third, fourth.
Sammy... you're going to stay with me, right? Going to leave the wall alone, beat even Death's expectations. Going to stay...
Between them, they had hundreds of things to say, to ask, to share, reveal or discuss. But scabs were thin and forming, ice was fragile and numbing, and both their clothes still smelled a little of smoke and ashes.
Sunrise blessed them with the latest set of chances.
"'M going to bed," Dean groaned, turning from the increasing light.
"Yeah. Me too."
03:44:08 PM
♠ season 6 codas
~