R | After All It Was You and Me
Title: After All It Was You and Me
Words: 1,840
Rating/Warning: R/language
Summary: Sam's falling, when he's not tortured, until a hand reaches out.
NotesL 5.22 coda, so all those spoilers pertain to this. I wrote this soon after the one or two Dean-centric codas, back in May, then thought I lost it. Finally! I think it kind of works as a companion to 6.01 in a way, almost explaining bits of that ep? IDK. You tell me. And HUGE thanks to standing_fic for reading through this and giving me bits to work through <333
There was falling. And darkness, and dust. But mostly falling.
He was given a short reprieve when he smacked the side of the hole, tumbling against broken earth before spinning over himself and only falling more. When he reached out, his knuckles ground into rocks and settlement, ripping open, pain burning into his bones.
It was a familiar feeling. When there weren’t chains and long spears and scheduled beatings, there was this. It felt like a break from the monotony of torture, but the way it disoriented him did more than any of the slicing and dicing they did to his body.
A shock spread above him. In the free fall, he turned himself over, watched a hand reach out, aglow with righteous power. It snatched the front of his shirt then tugged, yanking Sam around painfully.
He opened his eyes with the pain of his lungs unable to catch air, absolutely aware of how he hung from this grip like a rag doll. Oh, dear God, he panicked. Here it comes.
For as much as he knew of Dean’s tenure in hell, for all that he’d experienced so far, there was so much he had to imagine for himself. Hanging from a death grip and dangling above the rancid fires of hell was pretty much aligned with everything he’d been expecting.
Except the hand fumbled, dropping Sam a few dozen feet before snatching him back up. The light ebbed away and Sam saw feet dig into the earth surrounding him before he could find the voice. “Okay, that could’ve gone better.”
He was hauled up to his feet, yanked by the hand until there was … Chuck. Sam couldn’t manage words, lungs tight and throat tighter as he’d prepared for all that awaited him. Hundreds of demons had been standing in line to pick up a knife with exacting revenge. Maybe their newest game was to tease him with people he knew. He panicked then, praying he’d never see Dean down here with him.
The hand fumbled again, and Sam anxiously grabbed at Chuck’s arm, one hand closing around the wrist and the other tight in his shirt. A pristine, white, neatly pressed shirt. Sam frowned as he pulled at the fabric.
“You’re not making this any easier,” Chuck complained as he yanked Sam up again. “God, you’re mammoth.”
He tried to respond, but his throat was coarse and full of sand and clay. Every bit of earth coated his insides and he tried to cough it out, every single layer. But Chuck just tugged again and they were gone.
*
Sam woke to yellow sun above and soft grass below. They were back in the cemetery, but it had to be a dream, finding light amongst the dark of hell. But the colors were dulled and typical, the world as he’d known it for twenty-eight years, not ethereal and plush with shades like so many of his dreams and halfway notions of heaven had been.
He took in a long breath only to choke on fresh air. He rolled to his side to release all the dust in his lungs, coughing up soot and mantle, he was sure of it. He didn’t forget the fall, had seen the earth change colors the further in he got, only to be pulled out ...
When he turned over, Chuck was sat beside him with an awkward smile. And waved. “Hi, Sam.”
He coughed once more, soot flying through the air between them. His lungs continued burning at the pain, but he was at least thankful he wasn’t burning down in Hell at that moment. “How did you?” he wheezed.
Chuck swiped fingers over his shoulder, instantly freeing grime and returning his shirt to gleaming white perfection. “Few tricks up my sleeve.”
“But you,” and he coughed again, trying so hard to clear his throat of the filth that affected his voice. Then he remembered Dean, so hoarse and broken when he came out of the pit.
“Saved you, yeah,” Chuck admitted while tugging at blades of grass but never pulling. “You could say thank you, you know.”
Sam sat up and took in the dark, equally neat slacks that were belted around the tuck of Chuck’s white shirt. It was not the Chuck Shurley that constantly had a bottle of whiskey within reach and a tall list of female escorts and call centers. “Thank you?”
“Yeah. I pull you out of the eternal fires of hell … literally … and you’re just staring at me like it’s nothing. Could spare a little gratitude for my troubles.”
“But how could you … how is it even possible that you would?”
“Some things just happen, Sam,” Chuck said rather calmly, nearly sweet. “We don’t always need explanations.”
Sam chuckled harshly. “In our line of business, I’d kind of like to know.” But then he sobered with fear. “He didn’t … Dean didn’t do this, did he?”
Chuck flicked an eyebrow then slowly stood. “Not exactly. But he had a hand in it.”
Fear ebbed away into exhilaration that Dean had saved him, had done … whatever to free him. But then it all was overtaken by rage and disbelief. “No. No, I told him. I made him promise. He said he wouldn’t do anything. He made a promise!” he bellowed, voice echoing across the cemetery.
Shuffling out of Sam’s way, Chuck pushed his hands out, pleading for Sam to calm. “He did, Sam. He did. He kept his promise. He’s with Lisa and Ben.”
Sam’s face softened with the image of it. Dean and a cul-de-sac life. Bar-be-ques and lawns mowed, drinks with buddies and sleeping without a gun under his pillow. Getting everything he ever needed. “Then how,” he started before his voice broke. “How is he part of this?”
“You saved the world. Dean kept his promise. You both did things we hadn’t been counting on. Hoping, sure. But you two have the habit of changing your minds and telling everyone to screw off.”
Sam stared, trying so hard to put the pieces together.
“I mean, you’ve been a pain in the ass for some time,” Chuck let on. “But you finally did it. I’m not so one-track minded as to ignore what you did.”
“But what does a prophet care?”
Chuck awkwardly smiled and tugged at the edge of his beard. “Yeah, funny, that. Not exactly a prophet.”
Sam stared longer yet then frowned. “You were writing our gospel.”
“Someone had to. And now that it’s finished, I can get back to things at my paygrade. Like saving you from Hell.”
Even more staring and even a slight cock of his head; Sam couldn’t manage much more than that, especially taking into consideration how Chuck was unChucklike and looked down upon him as though Chuck were worthy of looking down upon Sam.
Chuck sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not spelling it out for you any more than I already did.”
After Chuck took a few steps, feet carrying over plush grass, Sam stumbled up to his feet. But he tripped under the pain, falling to his knees, repentant for all the wrong reasons. “Wait,” he croaked, throat still thick with dust and grime. With each rough swallow, he managed to shove it deeper, but it did little to ease his voice. “What else do you know?”
“About what?”
“Dean? Where’s my brother?”
Chuck narrowed his eyes then readjusted his stance, feet solid on grass and shoulders strong and confident. “He’s with Lisa.”
“I want to - is he okay?” Sam grunted under the weight of his body struggling to keep itself upright. “Take me there.”
“Uh,” Chuck said with a wince. “I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean you can’t? You just pulled me out hell and you can’t take me to Dean?”
“Okay, maybe it’s not can’t, but more like really, really shouldn’t.”
Buoyed by fierce determination and the instinctive pull of Winchester to Winchester, Sam’s muscles bound together and let him rise, feet steady beneath him. “I want to see Dean.”
“Uh, Sam,” Chuck mumbled.
“Take me to Dean. Now.”
After a few tilts of his head, Chuck pressed his finger to Sam’s forehead, ethereal touch just a tickling sensation that crossed every barrier of Sam’s body - epidermis into muscle, ligaments to marrow, and out through his toes with a great illumination that blinded him.
As light gave way to night, orbs danced in his vision, making him blink until that he could finally make out the picture window before him: suburban, family, dinner, Dean.
It only took one moment for Sam to feel it in his gut. The wringing of tissue and sloshing of bile, the bell of good knowledge in his head telling him that despite a hundred and two promises, Dean couldn’t make Apple Pie work.
Sam yearned for a real snapshot of homelife, but instead Dean was sipping liquor at the dinner table with his eyes pinned to a corner of the room while Lisa and Ben chatted through their meal.
“Take it all away,” Sam murmured before he could even finalize the thought. And like so many times in his 28-year history, Sam’s voice dropped and pleaded with the supernatural. “Please. For all we did, just, put it back the way it was. Before everything.”
Chuck gave him a long look, brow furrowed.
“Before Lucifer. And Dean in Hell. Before Jess.”
Chuck’s eyes went soft, as did his shoulders, betraying the flashes of confidence he’d shown for the heart of their conversation. He shook his head. “I can’t, Sam. This is what was always meant to happen.”
Sam’s gaze dropped to pavement, damp with late-spring humidity and passing showers. He didn’t voice his next plea, but it echoed through his head, and heart, with a whiplash pace.
make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop
A second touch of Chuck’s grace to Sam’s forehead drew emotion to the surface. Hot, wet feelings drenching his skin, reminding Sam of every bond he and Dean had formed and reformed over the last five years. Each look and touch and knowing feeling that they had one another to lean on played out in his mind before they all drifted into the night.
When the last of Dean’s voice flew from Sam’s memory, Chuck vanished and the streetlamp above Sam’s head popped, glass fracturing the quiet, but not Sam.
He stood next to that post and watched his brother fake interest in the shared meal, watched Dean respond, blank of all emotion. Just a moment ago, Sam had felt the depth of emptiness, then suddenly, there was none. It was not filled, nor was he sated. He was still watching his brother, still aware of Dean’s inability to adapt to this new world. But the strength of Sam’s pain lessened, replaced by a determination that shuffled his feet from the scene, down the street, and onto a new block.
He had work to do.
Words: 1,840
Rating/Warning: R/language
Summary: Sam's falling, when he's not tortured, until a hand reaches out.
NotesL 5.22 coda, so all those spoilers pertain to this. I wrote this soon after the one or two Dean-centric codas, back in May, then thought I lost it. Finally! I think it kind of works as a companion to 6.01 in a way, almost explaining bits of that ep? IDK. You tell me. And HUGE thanks to standing_fic for reading through this and giving me bits to work through <333
There was falling. And darkness, and dust. But mostly falling.
He was given a short reprieve when he smacked the side of the hole, tumbling against broken earth before spinning over himself and only falling more. When he reached out, his knuckles ground into rocks and settlement, ripping open, pain burning into his bones.
It was a familiar feeling. When there weren’t chains and long spears and scheduled beatings, there was this. It felt like a break from the monotony of torture, but the way it disoriented him did more than any of the slicing and dicing they did to his body.
A shock spread above him. In the free fall, he turned himself over, watched a hand reach out, aglow with righteous power. It snatched the front of his shirt then tugged, yanking Sam around painfully.
He opened his eyes with the pain of his lungs unable to catch air, absolutely aware of how he hung from this grip like a rag doll. Oh, dear God, he panicked. Here it comes.
For as much as he knew of Dean’s tenure in hell, for all that he’d experienced so far, there was so much he had to imagine for himself. Hanging from a death grip and dangling above the rancid fires of hell was pretty much aligned with everything he’d been expecting.
Except the hand fumbled, dropping Sam a few dozen feet before snatching him back up. The light ebbed away and Sam saw feet dig into the earth surrounding him before he could find the voice. “Okay, that could’ve gone better.”
He was hauled up to his feet, yanked by the hand until there was … Chuck. Sam couldn’t manage words, lungs tight and throat tighter as he’d prepared for all that awaited him. Hundreds of demons had been standing in line to pick up a knife with exacting revenge. Maybe their newest game was to tease him with people he knew. He panicked then, praying he’d never see Dean down here with him.
The hand fumbled again, and Sam anxiously grabbed at Chuck’s arm, one hand closing around the wrist and the other tight in his shirt. A pristine, white, neatly pressed shirt. Sam frowned as he pulled at the fabric.
“You’re not making this any easier,” Chuck complained as he yanked Sam up again. “God, you’re mammoth.”
He tried to respond, but his throat was coarse and full of sand and clay. Every bit of earth coated his insides and he tried to cough it out, every single layer. But Chuck just tugged again and they were gone.
*
Sam woke to yellow sun above and soft grass below. They were back in the cemetery, but it had to be a dream, finding light amongst the dark of hell. But the colors were dulled and typical, the world as he’d known it for twenty-eight years, not ethereal and plush with shades like so many of his dreams and halfway notions of heaven had been.
He took in a long breath only to choke on fresh air. He rolled to his side to release all the dust in his lungs, coughing up soot and mantle, he was sure of it. He didn’t forget the fall, had seen the earth change colors the further in he got, only to be pulled out ...
When he turned over, Chuck was sat beside him with an awkward smile. And waved. “Hi, Sam.”
He coughed once more, soot flying through the air between them. His lungs continued burning at the pain, but he was at least thankful he wasn’t burning down in Hell at that moment. “How did you?” he wheezed.
Chuck swiped fingers over his shoulder, instantly freeing grime and returning his shirt to gleaming white perfection. “Few tricks up my sleeve.”
“But you,” and he coughed again, trying so hard to clear his throat of the filth that affected his voice. Then he remembered Dean, so hoarse and broken when he came out of the pit.
“Saved you, yeah,” Chuck admitted while tugging at blades of grass but never pulling. “You could say thank you, you know.”
Sam sat up and took in the dark, equally neat slacks that were belted around the tuck of Chuck’s white shirt. It was not the Chuck Shurley that constantly had a bottle of whiskey within reach and a tall list of female escorts and call centers. “Thank you?”
“Yeah. I pull you out of the eternal fires of hell … literally … and you’re just staring at me like it’s nothing. Could spare a little gratitude for my troubles.”
“But how could you … how is it even possible that you would?”
“Some things just happen, Sam,” Chuck said rather calmly, nearly sweet. “We don’t always need explanations.”
Sam chuckled harshly. “In our line of business, I’d kind of like to know.” But then he sobered with fear. “He didn’t … Dean didn’t do this, did he?”
Chuck flicked an eyebrow then slowly stood. “Not exactly. But he had a hand in it.”
Fear ebbed away into exhilaration that Dean had saved him, had done … whatever to free him. But then it all was overtaken by rage and disbelief. “No. No, I told him. I made him promise. He said he wouldn’t do anything. He made a promise!” he bellowed, voice echoing across the cemetery.
Shuffling out of Sam’s way, Chuck pushed his hands out, pleading for Sam to calm. “He did, Sam. He did. He kept his promise. He’s with Lisa and Ben.”
Sam’s face softened with the image of it. Dean and a cul-de-sac life. Bar-be-ques and lawns mowed, drinks with buddies and sleeping without a gun under his pillow. Getting everything he ever needed. “Then how,” he started before his voice broke. “How is he part of this?”
“You saved the world. Dean kept his promise. You both did things we hadn’t been counting on. Hoping, sure. But you two have the habit of changing your minds and telling everyone to screw off.”
Sam stared, trying so hard to put the pieces together.
“I mean, you’ve been a pain in the ass for some time,” Chuck let on. “But you finally did it. I’m not so one-track minded as to ignore what you did.”
“But what does a prophet care?”
Chuck awkwardly smiled and tugged at the edge of his beard. “Yeah, funny, that. Not exactly a prophet.”
Sam stared longer yet then frowned. “You were writing our gospel.”
“Someone had to. And now that it’s finished, I can get back to things at my paygrade. Like saving you from Hell.”
Even more staring and even a slight cock of his head; Sam couldn’t manage much more than that, especially taking into consideration how Chuck was unChucklike and looked down upon him as though Chuck were worthy of looking down upon Sam.
Chuck sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not spelling it out for you any more than I already did.”
After Chuck took a few steps, feet carrying over plush grass, Sam stumbled up to his feet. But he tripped under the pain, falling to his knees, repentant for all the wrong reasons. “Wait,” he croaked, throat still thick with dust and grime. With each rough swallow, he managed to shove it deeper, but it did little to ease his voice. “What else do you know?”
“About what?”
“Dean? Where’s my brother?”
Chuck narrowed his eyes then readjusted his stance, feet solid on grass and shoulders strong and confident. “He’s with Lisa.”
“I want to - is he okay?” Sam grunted under the weight of his body struggling to keep itself upright. “Take me there.”
“Uh,” Chuck said with a wince. “I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean you can’t? You just pulled me out hell and you can’t take me to Dean?”
“Okay, maybe it’s not can’t, but more like really, really shouldn’t.”
Buoyed by fierce determination and the instinctive pull of Winchester to Winchester, Sam’s muscles bound together and let him rise, feet steady beneath him. “I want to see Dean.”
“Uh, Sam,” Chuck mumbled.
“Take me to Dean. Now.”
After a few tilts of his head, Chuck pressed his finger to Sam’s forehead, ethereal touch just a tickling sensation that crossed every barrier of Sam’s body - epidermis into muscle, ligaments to marrow, and out through his toes with a great illumination that blinded him.
As light gave way to night, orbs danced in his vision, making him blink until that he could finally make out the picture window before him: suburban, family, dinner, Dean.
It only took one moment for Sam to feel it in his gut. The wringing of tissue and sloshing of bile, the bell of good knowledge in his head telling him that despite a hundred and two promises, Dean couldn’t make Apple Pie work.
Sam yearned for a real snapshot of homelife, but instead Dean was sipping liquor at the dinner table with his eyes pinned to a corner of the room while Lisa and Ben chatted through their meal.
“Take it all away,” Sam murmured before he could even finalize the thought. And like so many times in his 28-year history, Sam’s voice dropped and pleaded with the supernatural. “Please. For all we did, just, put it back the way it was. Before everything.”
Chuck gave him a long look, brow furrowed.
“Before Lucifer. And Dean in Hell. Before Jess.”
Chuck’s eyes went soft, as did his shoulders, betraying the flashes of confidence he’d shown for the heart of their conversation. He shook his head. “I can’t, Sam. This is what was always meant to happen.”
Sam’s gaze dropped to pavement, damp with late-spring humidity and passing showers. He didn’t voice his next plea, but it echoed through his head, and heart, with a whiplash pace.
make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop
A second touch of Chuck’s grace to Sam’s forehead drew emotion to the surface. Hot, wet feelings drenching his skin, reminding Sam of every bond he and Dean had formed and reformed over the last five years. Each look and touch and knowing feeling that they had one another to lean on played out in his mind before they all drifted into the night.
When the last of Dean’s voice flew from Sam’s memory, Chuck vanished and the streetlamp above Sam’s head popped, glass fracturing the quiet, but not Sam.
He stood next to that post and watched his brother fake interest in the shared meal, watched Dean respond, blank of all emotion. Just a moment ago, Sam had felt the depth of emptiness, then suddenly, there was none. It was not filled, nor was he sated. He was still watching his brother, still aware of Dean’s inability to adapt to this new world. But the strength of Sam’s pain lessened, replaced by a determination that shuffled his feet from the scene, down the street, and onto a new block.
He had work to do.