SPN Fic: If the dam breaks open many years too soon (1/2)
Fic Title: If the dam breaks open many years too soon
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8400
Author's Notes: Written for spn_reversebang. So many thanks to my amazing artist, glasslogic, for producing such gorgeous art and for being a joy to work with. Also to the sheer wonder and delight that is cherie_morte for betaing this sucker at literally the last minute. I am so grateful to de_nugis for being my Latin consultant. And thank you to the city of New York, for being brave and resilient and extraordinarily kickass in the face of the horrifying recent storm. Title from a lyric by Pink Floyd.
Summary: Sam’s soul springs a leak, and Dean’s the one who can repair it.
Dean is an asshole.
Okay, Sam will admit Dean can be heroic and generous and loyal and stupidly sentimental, but the rest of the time he’s a fucking asshole. Especially right now.
Because Sam had just managed to fall asleep at daybreak after a long night of trying not to scratch at his stitches and searching for a comfortable position that wasn’t on his front or back, when Dean just happened to choose that particular moment to start hammering away at the loose front step of the cabin.
Two weeks have gone by, and he’s still mad at Sam for throwing himself in front of a couple of onrushing hellhounds, slowing them long enough for Dean to finish consigning Crowley permanently to Hell. They’d won and it was over. Again. And if that meant Sam had to get chewed on a bit, well, it’s just another case of ends justify means. Again.
Dean let him know the minute Sam had woken up from surgery that he didn’t exactly see it that way and hadn’t stopped making Sam pay for it since. If Dean holds onto his grudge about it any harder, it’s going to start oozing through his fingers.
Sam smiles into his pillow. It could be worse. Dean could not care at all. Dean could be mad at him instead of worried for him. Sam’s been there- too recently- and he’ll take the bitchiness any day.
There was a brief moment, long ago, when Sam had more, when he had all of Dean, and a long time after that when he regretted ever giving it up. But after all these years, Sam’s figured out how to be satisfied with what he’s got: him and Dean, safe and reconciled.
The pounding continues, speeding up, and Sam considers shouting Shut up just to make Dean happy that he got a rise out of Sam. But he’s just so tired. Instead, moving like an old man, he tugs the ratty, gray blanket over his head. He slips back into sleep with the muffled cracks of Dean’s hammer echoing through him like a second heartbeat.
Another week goes by, with Dean dividing his time between useless projects, fidgeting, and porn, and Sam concentrating on making an entire trip to the refrigerator without having to sit down to rest. It reminds him of the time Dean was recouping on this couch from a broken leg, except this time it’s Sam laid up, and Dean prowling around like a tiger in a cage, the enforced idleness leaving both of them twitchy and sharp-tongued. Sam figures they’re just moments from doing what the demons never managed and finally killing each other for good, when Rufus’s landline rings.
Dean’s head whips around in surprise. “You expecting someone?” he says, laying a hand on the receiver but not picking up.
“I didn’t even know it was still connected.”
Dean goes ahead and answers, and Sam figures that he’ll quickly send the random hunter or bill collector or telemarketer on their way. But the conversation goes on and then on some more, Dean providing a string of short monosyllable responses to whoever's on the other end of the line.
Finally, with a “Let me check with my brother and get back to you,” he hangs up.
“So?” Sam says, eyebrows raised. If it’s a case, he wonders whether Dean will insist on taking it by himself. Sam figures he’s at approximately 70% of fighting form, but it’s that 30% that will get them into deep trouble. But despite how sick of each other they are right now, Sam’s reluctant to send Dean out there without backup. Crowley may be defeated and the warring armies of angels and demons disbanded and disappeared, but it’s long past time to face facts: bad things happen when he and Dean split up.
“Get this,” Dean starts, swinging around a chair from the kitchen table and straddling it, settling in with arms crossed along the back. “Remember Missouri Moseley? From Lawrence?”
“Yeah.” Sam pictures his younger self, sitting next to Missouri on the stoop of their childhood home, all those years ago. His mind skitters away from the memory of Mom’s ghost. “Was that her?”
“No, it was her lawyer. She died a week ago.”
It’s a sign of how tired Sam is that the news generates a small ping of regret, but no real sadness. He and Dean have lost so many; one more barely makes a dent.
“From cancer, though,” Dean continues. “Ain’t that a kicker?” He pulls a face, the one that means you know we’ll never make it that long, and Sam wonders again why Dean takes it so hard every time they have a brush with death, if he’s so certain they’re marked men. “Her lawyer said she’d made a will. And she left us something.”
“I hope it’s not a premonition.” Suddenly boredom doesn’t seem so bad.
“Not exactly. It’s an apartment. In New York City. She moved there from Kansas a few years ago.”
“An apartment? What are we supposed to do with it?”
“I guess she wants us to go live there. Law-talking Guy told me the will specifies we have to live in it for at least six months.”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know. But he gave me a message from her. It said, ‘A place of your own. It’s what you need. I haven’t bothered you all these years, but mind me now, boys.’”
It’s strange that Missouri never bothered to contact them before. With the incredible amount of shit that’s gone down since they first met, they could’ve used a bit more warning along the way. Maybe it was too much. Maybe she’d never had good news before now.
“What would we do in New York City?” Sam wonders aloud.
“Damned if I know. But at least it’ll get us away from staring at these four walls.” Dean rocks his chair up onto two legs, clearly getting excited by the idea of forward motion and change. “You up for it? Gotta be some pretty easy hunting in the city. Ghosts everywhere you turn.”
“Okay, Dr. Venkman,” Sam sighs, not because he’s opposed to the idea, but because being put-upon is his role in this little two-man play of theirs. If Dean wants to hunt and for them to play Oscar and Felix in New York, Sam’s in. “Let’s go see what she has planned for us.” He eases himself up off the couch. “By the way, did the lawyer say how he got this number?”
“Yeah,” Dean replied, one eyebrow quirking. “It was written right there in our section of the will. The one that she filed with him over a year ago.”
It takes them a few days to cross the country, and Sam’s surprised to find that all the hours in the car don’t bother his nearly-healed wounds as much as he’d feared. They cross the George Washington Bridge straight into upper Manhattan, Dean swearing at every car that comes within a few inches of the Impala, which is most of them.
Missouri’s apartment is on the west side of a neighborhood between Harlem and downtown called Morningside Heights, tucked in between the institutional structures of a hospital, a massive Episcopalian cathedral, and Columbia University. Sam’s done the research on it, glances down at the map to give Dean directions. He’s marked a few points on the map in the surrounding blocks, places he suspects point to supernatural activity from reports since the previous August. He steadfastly refuses to mention the proximity of Grant’s Tomb, delaying the inevitable smartass remarks from Dean about who’s buried there.
They find a parking spot on the street right in front of the squat six-story brick building, which Sam takes as a sign Missouri’s looking out for them. Please, he immediately thinks, don’t let her literally be looking out. He has zero desire to salt and burn another friend.
Sam gets out and stretches to work out the kinks in his back, while Dean grabs his jacket from the backseat. They jog up the concrete front stoop surrounded by neat lines of garbage cans and scrubby potted shrubs, a zig-zag of fire escapes on the building face overhead, and head up the narrow stairs to the fourth floor where the lawyer, Harvey, and his assistant are waiting in the near-empty #402, scuffed wood floors and empty built-in shelves stripped of signs of Missouri’s flamboyant flair.
Harvey walks them through a stack of legal documents, including the deed and a checking account worth more ready cash than they’ve seen in one place in a long, long time. As the assistant carefully notarizes each document they sign with their real names, Dean leans over to Sam and whispers, “Wonder what would happen if we ever showed up in court to contest something?”
“I’m pretty sure between the two of us,” Sam replies in an undertone, smiling pleasantly at Harvey through his teeth, “we have at least five death certificates and six warrants floating around out there.”
They’re left with a big file folder and a couple of keys on a ring and a personal note from their benefactress.
Dean hops up onto the galley kitchen’s yellow laminate counter and reads it aloud.
Dear Dean and Sam,
I’m sorry I’ve stayed out-of-touch all these years. To be honest, I was too much of a coward to join you in the great battles you’ve been fighting. I guess it didn’t matter in the end, did it?
But you came through just fine-
Sam can’t help but snort at that. Dean looks up with a wry grin. “Still here, ain’t we?” and keeps going.
- just fine, and now it’s time to rest. I had them clean my things out, so you can have a fresh start. If you’re determined to keep hunting, my neighbors won’t bother you. They’re used to some strange comings and goings from my old clients. If you need any emergency repairs, call Don (312-927-5625). Don’t hesitate to call that number. He owes me a favor or two.
I wish I could be here to see you in person. Thank you for all you’ve done. I know you’ve both given so much. Your parents would be proud.
Take care of each other,
Missouri
Sam blinks, looks away, scans the empty living room, trying to imagine him and Dean still here in a month, in a year. It’s an impossible task.
When Dean says, “Let’s go unload the car,” he follows automatically.
Dean is nesting. That’s the only way Sam can describe it. He discovers Craigslist and spends hours dragging Sam around the streets of the Upper West Side bargaining with old ladies and empty nesters over a sofa and lamps, a table and an old television. The two of them carry Dean’s finds long blocks back to 114th Street, past block after block of pizza joints, under-stocked drug stores, windows full of knock-off boots and purses, used bookstores overflowing with paperbacks, and other scrappy little businesses mixed in with trendy retailers and bistros selling seven dollar cups of coffee and hundred dollar bottles of wine. If it's a long way, he and Dean stop to sit right there in the chairs to rest while they wait for a streetlight to change. Dean seems surprisingly energized by the ebb and flow of the sidewalk life, elbowing Sam in the ribs when they pass a gaggle of oddly-dressed hipsters and getting an elbow in return when he leers obnoxiously at two young girls heading into a local bar.
It’s amusing and bemusing, this new side of Dean. He buys towels and an ottoman and a colander and other mundane things Sam never would have imagined Dean caring about. Sam purchases the few items he needs for his room-an old double bed that’s slightly too short, a nightstand, a desk-and leaves it at that. Dean on the other hand, is displaying an unexpected talent at trash-picking and trolling estate sales and is swiftly filling up the apartment with stuff.
It takes Sam awhile to catch on that, as each new-old item is brought in and carefully placed, there’s something familiar about Dean’s decorating. (Really, that’s the only word Sam can find for it.) He wracks his brain to figure out what it is, and then it strikes him. The way Dean’s setting things up is reminiscent of their old house in Milwaukee, the one they lived in the summer before Sam left for Stanford, the summer Sam had crawled into Dean’s bed one night and begged and not been turned away.
It’s subtle, little things: the position of the chunky oak dining table between couch and kitchen, the shape of the lamp, the height of the table the TV sits on. He wonders if Dean even knows he’s doing it. Sam can’t exactly ask, Hey, are you reconstructing the place we lived when I graduated from high school, because I think I remember you fucking me on a couch that looked just like that one.
It’s not that Sam cares- what the apartment looks like, that is- but it’s uncomfortable. It stirs up memories -teenage fumblings in the dark, opportunities outside of Dad’s eagle-eye few and far between, the feel of Dean all over him, inside him, desperate and addictive- that Sam has labored all this time to keep buried under six feet of self-recrimination and rejection. Dean had made crystal-clear a long time ago he was not interested in starting that up again as adults. And Sam had put strain enough on their relationship through the years to break it several times over; he wasn’t going to add incest back into the mix. He starts spending less time there, telling Dean he wants to exercise to work his strength up, taking hours’ long walks along the Hudson, scouting out Central Park, striking out east through Harlem and south toward the skyscrapers. Out and back, like a homing pigeon.
After two weeks of playing house, Dean decides he wants to get a job at a nearby bar. They’d hung out there a few nights before after their first local hunt, easily banishing a poltergeist at St. Luke’s. Turns out the bar had a part-time job available, one part bouncer and two parts dishwasher. “If we’re gonna stick around awhile, we’re going to need a legit source of income.”
“They’re paying you in cash under the table, right?”
“Well, that’s as legit as we get.” Dean shrugs. “You could probably pick up some shifts there too, if you wanted.” Dean looks at him as if he really wants Sam to join him in this new foray into normalcy, but the one night they’d been there, Sam’d had a hard time shaking the sense-memory of a similar bar in Greeley, banished from Dean and haunted by Lucifer, a girl named Lindsay and the taste of demon blood. It wasn’t a good vibe.
So Dean works and Sam walks. He avoids the college campus, heads farther and farther south, up and down the sharp-lined grid of Midtown, miles and miles under his feet to the short curved warren of streets in the Village and Tribeca to the tip of the island. Sometimes he goes so far he has to take the subway back to Morningside. Sometimes he stays close to home, particularly partial to Riverside Park, the long strip of lawns and broad sidewalks, playgrounds and grassy plots, crowded every afternoon with people strolling, jogging, clusters of old guys playing chess and dominoes at the stone tables at 108th Street.
Sam spends long hours in the dog parks despite the melancholy it sometimes brings. Dogs still love him, still approach him, for some strange reason hidden deep in their animal psyches. They stop by his bench for a sniff and a pet, dozens of them by the time he gets up from his bench to walk home to meet Dean for dinner. He makes special friends with a Doberman in Riverside Park that comes every morning, is disappointed when he misses him some days. The dog walker is friendly, there's small talk, it's nice. Sam asks how she likes her job, and she tells him it’s great, that her agency is hiring. He can see himself doing that. Maybe someday soon. Not yet.
Dean is settling in. Sam still feels like he’s waiting for something, restless and roaming. Yet he likes to be home when Dean is, so most of the time he walks at night while Dean’s at work. There’s nothing in the dark that Sam fears.
But when it happens, it happens at night. Sam had thought about staying in, the weather app on his phone predicting thundershowers. However, Dean’s regular Thursday night shift doesn’t end until midnight and the walking habit has become so engrained, Sam simply grabs a canvas jacket with a hood and heads down the stairs, shoving out through the building’s door and through the swirling crackle of autumn leaves and stray papers down the side streets paralleling Broadway.
What comes next is a confused jumble in his mind. He’s only a few blocks down when he’s strafed by a car’s headlights coming on way too fast. It’s weaving, clips a waist-high stack of plastic trash bags on the curb and sends them flying.
Drunk driver, Sam supposes, and steps back into the relatively safe haven of a shuttered laundromat’s doorway.
He doesn't think it's possible more than a minute or two passes between when the sedan’s brakes shriek as it slams into the power transformer on the corner and when he sprints forward to see if he can help the driver. Sam saw the hood crumple, a head slamming into the windshield, heard the pop and crack of electricity as golden sparks spray through the soupy blackness, but nothing is really clear until the second he reaches for the car’s door handle, when a jolt of current surges through him.
Everything goes still, preternaturally quiet. The roar of wind and traffic disappears; a few stray raindrops hang suspended in midair. A couple of yards away, Sam spies two figures, short, slight women, barely backlit by the nearest streetlight. His instinct is to reach for the gun that he still routinely carries at the small of his back, but he holds himself motionless, sensing that a simple firearm isn’t going to help in this particular situation.
Finally one moves, striding toward him while the other stutter-steps to follow. Through the empty silence, his name echoes. “Sam Winchester?”
The two are close enough now to see. The one lagging behind is a stranger, calmly gushing blood from an enormous gash over one eyebrow, but the closer one has a familiar face.
It’s Tessa, the Reaper.
“Sam. You’re not supposed to be here,” she says sharply, like she’s caught him playing hooky from school. “It is not your time… yet? Again?” She peers around, hands on her hips, as if the answer is lying on the sidewalk nearby.
“I think I was electrocuted,” he offers stupidly, brain still scrambling to catch up.
“You can’t be here.” Tessa says again, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m not even assigned to you.”
“Where are we?” Tessa’s companion breaks in, “Who are you people?” Sam realizes she must be the driver from the wrecked car. The dead driver.
Tessa rests a hand on her arm. “I’ll explain in a minute,” she assures the woman gently, and then turns back to Sam. “You’ll have to go back. I wish I could help you with that, but I haven’t got the time. You’ll have to deal with it if you can.”
“Deal with what?” Sam says, still confused.
She points, and he looks down. There’s a glow emanating from right below his chest, from his diaphragm, a small circle shining dimly, as if he’s got a flashlight tucked under his shirt.
“You’re torn and your soul is leaking,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’m not surprised it’s so fragile, after all you’ve put it through. Get it patched up as quickly as you can.”
And with that she flings a hand out toward him, so he’s shoved backward, flying, falling, tumbling, lying on the sidewalk with tiny spikes of rain stinging his face and the sounds of the city rushing back in, shouts of alarm from windows above, sirens not far away, zeroing in on the accident.
He sits up, looks down to find light still oozing out of his chest, brighter than it had been in limbo when Tessa had pointed it out. His soul.
Dean had described the encounter with Death, the replacement of Sam’s soul after it had been left so long in the cage, but Sam hadn’t really been able to imagine how it looked to the naked eye. Yet there it is. His mind tries to make sense of a light that’s bright enough to blind, but doesn’t make him so much as blink. He’s never seen anything so beautiful and so terrifying at the same time. Not his dead father in a graveyard, not his mother as a young hunter, not an angel’s grace, not Lucifer in the Cage, nor Heaven itself. The last time he’d felt like this, Dean had been resurrected and was standing at his motel room door.
Dean. He means to say it out loud, but nothing comes out.
He scrambles to his feet and starts running.
| To Part 2 |
