Hit Me One More Time
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Humiliation must be good for the creative spirit. Either that or I'm more resilient than I thought. Or more masochistically inclined. Either way, fuck a duck if I'm not giving it one more try. I THINK I've found 2 Supernatural fic communities that don't require a challenge to post there. We'll see, I guess.
On the assumption that the odds are really high that I'll be deleting that post where I make it, I'll go ahead and put it here, too. Like I wouldn't do that anyway.
This is the Supernatural story I've been looking to write. Don't know why it took me this long to find it, but it did.
Title: Take Care of Sammy
Author: dodger_winslow
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I’m just stalking them for a while.
Summary: You see, the thing is, I kinda pulled him from a fire when we were younger. And every since then, I've felt responsible for him.
Take Care of Sammy
The pain was fire. It burned him from the inside out. Hot pokers of it bored through him like so many spindles of incandescent ice. He could feel it gathering in a conflagration around his heart, consuming it, turning it to ash. It hurt more than anything he’d ever known.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry ….”
He recognized his son’s voice in the litany. He wanted nothing more than to surrender to the burn of his pain, but the whispered mantra of his son’s voice tethered him to the world for at least a while longer.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed his eyes to open.
Sammy was crying. Tears ran down his face like water pumped through a fissure on the ocean floor. They smeared his features with dirt and blood and ash. He held his father in his arms like a modern pieta, rocking him back and forth, sobbing, whispering over and over again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” or some derivation thereof.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to speak.
“It’s okay, Sammy. Don’t be sorry, son.” His voice was gravel in his throat. He barely recognized it on the words he knew he was speaking.
Sam’s eyes focused in from the far away place they had been to see his father’s face.
John was wrong. Something did hurt more than the fire inside him.
“It’s all right, Sammy,” he whispered, torn to places that only hurt when he remembered Mary by the agony in his youngest son’s face. “Everything is going to be all right.” He knew it was a lie. Sammy knew it was a lie. But it helped anyway.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”
He couldn’t remember anything of how he came to be on fire. He groped blindly in the black cavern of smoke that was his mind, trying to see something through it, trying to see anything that might help him speak to the horror in his son’s eyes.
They had been hunting. He remembered that suddenly, like someone shined a halogen light on it, like someone wanted him to see. They’d been hunting, and something went wrong.
He remembered pain. He remembered the breaking of his own bones, the boiling of his own blood. And then he remembered nothing.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”
“It’s not your fault, Sammy.”
If they were hunting, Dean wouldn’t be far away. He couldn’t find him in the confusion that was everything but Sammy’s face.
“Dean?” he whispered.
“I’m here, Dad.” Dean’s voice was solid, dependable, secure. He smiled, feeling safer, feeling better, feeling an almost tangible sense of relief.
“Where, son? I can’t see you.”
Dean knelt into the range of his vision. He still had a gun in his right hand, but he reached out with his left to touch his father’s arm. “Right here,” he said.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to smile.
“Guess the old man isn’t quite as quick as he used to be, eh?”
The agony in Dean’s face was no less than the agony in Sammy’s, he just painted it differently on the planes of his expression. Where Sammy sobbed, Dean’s eyes were dry. Where Sammy’s lips were still moving in his mantra of contrition, Dean’s were clenched to a thin, white line. Where Sammy expressed his emotions, Dean held them inside where he’d taught his oldest son they belonged.
“I told you you were getting slow,” Dean said.
“Suppose I should have listened.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to ask.
“What happened?”
“It got you,” Dean said simply. “I’m sorry.”
He could tell by the way Dean said it there wasn’t any hope. He’d already known as much, felt it in the way the pain was consuming him, but it hurt just a small bit more to have it verified. “Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you, son. I always have been.”
The strangulation of Dean’s expression clenched tighter. His eyes were so flatly devoid of emotion they seemed to be screaming. He nodded once, all the verification he could muster to say the words weren’t strangers to him.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to say it.
“Take care of Sammy.”
Sam sobbed, a guttural sound of pure grief.
“I will.”
John smiled at his oldest son. He wished he could stay with him just a little longer. He wished he could teach him just a little more.
“You always have.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to reach for Dean’s hand.
It wasn’t a gesture he could accomplish, but the smallest of motions was enough to tell Dean what he wanted. His son took his hand, held it securely, held it with a tangible pressure he could feel even through the liquid incineration his blood had become in his veins.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be sorry, Dad.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself not to cry.
He wondered if this was how Mary felt, pinned to the ceiling, watching him watch her die.
He turned his attention back to his younger son. Sammy was still holding him, still rocking him, still sobbing in quiet, broken mantras of “I’m sorry”s.
“I love you, Sammy.”
Sam fractured. His head bowed under the weight of the words, and he sobbed harder.
It was then that he noticed them. Deep, rending mutilations in the flesh of his son’s shoulder and neck, each laceration too evenly spaced from the next to be anything less than familiar. There were puncture wounds, too, also evenly spaced.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to look.
His hand was drenched in blood. There was a bullet hole in his palm, and it burned with the fire of the damned. He didn’t know how, but he could smell that most of the blood wasn’t his. He could smell the blood was Sammy’s.
He was wrong again. Something could hurt more than seeing Sammy sob.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to meet Dean’s eyes.
It was there. Everything was there. The fire in him became more than he could bear.
“Take care of Sammy,” he whispered again.
“I will.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to let go.
Sammy’s sobbing marked the moment of his passing. It didn’t become more, didn’t become louder, it just became broken beyond repair.
Dean stood. He watched Sam rock their father for a minute longer before he said, “I love you, Sammy. You know that, don’t you?”
Sam nodded. He was still rocking his father, still nodding to his brother, when Dean put the gun to the back of Sammy’s head and pulled the trigger.
-finis-
If you take the time to read it, please take the time to comment. Thanks!
.
Humiliation must be good for the creative spirit. Either that or I'm more resilient than I thought. Or more masochistically inclined. Either way, fuck a duck if I'm not giving it one more try. I THINK I've found 2 Supernatural fic communities that don't require a challenge to post there. We'll see, I guess.
On the assumption that the odds are really high that I'll be deleting that post where I make it, I'll go ahead and put it here, too. Like I wouldn't do that anyway.
This is the Supernatural story I've been looking to write. Don't know why it took me this long to find it, but it did.
Title: Take Care of Sammy
Author: dodger_winslow
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I’m just stalking them for a while.
Summary: You see, the thing is, I kinda pulled him from a fire when we were younger. And every since then, I've felt responsible for him.
Take Care of Sammy
The pain was fire. It burned him from the inside out. Hot pokers of it bored through him like so many spindles of incandescent ice. He could feel it gathering in a conflagration around his heart, consuming it, turning it to ash. It hurt more than anything he’d ever known.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry ….”
He recognized his son’s voice in the litany. He wanted nothing more than to surrender to the burn of his pain, but the whispered mantra of his son’s voice tethered him to the world for at least a while longer.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed his eyes to open.
Sammy was crying. Tears ran down his face like water pumped through a fissure on the ocean floor. They smeared his features with dirt and blood and ash. He held his father in his arms like a modern pieta, rocking him back and forth, sobbing, whispering over and over again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” or some derivation thereof.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to speak.
“It’s okay, Sammy. Don’t be sorry, son.” His voice was gravel in his throat. He barely recognized it on the words he knew he was speaking.
Sam’s eyes focused in from the far away place they had been to see his father’s face.
John was wrong. Something did hurt more than the fire inside him.
“It’s all right, Sammy,” he whispered, torn to places that only hurt when he remembered Mary by the agony in his youngest son’s face. “Everything is going to be all right.” He knew it was a lie. Sammy knew it was a lie. But it helped anyway.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”
He couldn’t remember anything of how he came to be on fire. He groped blindly in the black cavern of smoke that was his mind, trying to see something through it, trying to see anything that might help him speak to the horror in his son’s eyes.
They had been hunting. He remembered that suddenly, like someone shined a halogen light on it, like someone wanted him to see. They’d been hunting, and something went wrong.
He remembered pain. He remembered the breaking of his own bones, the boiling of his own blood. And then he remembered nothing.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”
“It’s not your fault, Sammy.”
If they were hunting, Dean wouldn’t be far away. He couldn’t find him in the confusion that was everything but Sammy’s face.
“Dean?” he whispered.
“I’m here, Dad.” Dean’s voice was solid, dependable, secure. He smiled, feeling safer, feeling better, feeling an almost tangible sense of relief.
“Where, son? I can’t see you.”
Dean knelt into the range of his vision. He still had a gun in his right hand, but he reached out with his left to touch his father’s arm. “Right here,” he said.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to smile.
“Guess the old man isn’t quite as quick as he used to be, eh?”
The agony in Dean’s face was no less than the agony in Sammy’s, he just painted it differently on the planes of his expression. Where Sammy sobbed, Dean’s eyes were dry. Where Sammy’s lips were still moving in his mantra of contrition, Dean’s were clenched to a thin, white line. Where Sammy expressed his emotions, Dean held them inside where he’d taught his oldest son they belonged.
“I told you you were getting slow,” Dean said.
“Suppose I should have listened.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to ask.
“What happened?”
“It got you,” Dean said simply. “I’m sorry.”
He could tell by the way Dean said it there wasn’t any hope. He’d already known as much, felt it in the way the pain was consuming him, but it hurt just a small bit more to have it verified. “Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you, son. I always have been.”
The strangulation of Dean’s expression clenched tighter. His eyes were so flatly devoid of emotion they seemed to be screaming. He nodded once, all the verification he could muster to say the words weren’t strangers to him.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to say it.
“Take care of Sammy.”
Sam sobbed, a guttural sound of pure grief.
“I will.”
John smiled at his oldest son. He wished he could stay with him just a little longer. He wished he could teach him just a little more.
“You always have.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to reach for Dean’s hand.
It wasn’t a gesture he could accomplish, but the smallest of motions was enough to tell Dean what he wanted. His son took his hand, held it securely, held it with a tangible pressure he could feel even through the liquid incineration his blood had become in his veins.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be sorry, Dad.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself not to cry.
He wondered if this was how Mary felt, pinned to the ceiling, watching him watch her die.
He turned his attention back to his younger son. Sammy was still holding him, still rocking him, still sobbing in quiet, broken mantras of “I’m sorry”s.
“I love you, Sammy.”
Sam fractured. His head bowed under the weight of the words, and he sobbed harder.
It was then that he noticed them. Deep, rending mutilations in the flesh of his son’s shoulder and neck, each laceration too evenly spaced from the next to be anything less than familiar. There were puncture wounds, too, also evenly spaced.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to look.
His hand was drenched in blood. There was a bullet hole in his palm, and it burned with the fire of the damned. He didn’t know how, but he could smell that most of the blood wasn’t his. He could smell the blood was Sammy’s.
He was wrong again. Something could hurt more than seeing Sammy sob.
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to meet Dean’s eyes.
It was there. Everything was there. The fire in him became more than he could bear.
“Take care of Sammy,” he whispered again.
“I will.”
Because nothing else could have managed it, he willed himself to let go.
Sammy’s sobbing marked the moment of his passing. It didn’t become more, didn’t become louder, it just became broken beyond repair.
Dean stood. He watched Sam rock their father for a minute longer before he said, “I love you, Sammy. You know that, don’t you?”
Sam nodded. He was still rocking his father, still nodding to his brother, when Dean put the gun to the back of Sammy’s head and pulled the trigger.
-finis-
If you take the time to read it, please take the time to comment. Thanks!
.