Sam's Got A Lot Of Things To Do Tonight
Title: Sam's Got A Lot Of Things To Do Tonight
Summary: The night before Detroit, Sam has a change of heart.
Warnings/Spoilers: R for language, Spoilers through S5
Author's Note: Aftermath-verse. Sort of a prequel, actually :)
“Dean?”
He’s not really asleep, he’s too wound up with the intensity of what they’re about to do, but he’s dozing a little. Sam’s voice cuts through the vague, horrifying images on the backs of his eyelids like a steak knife Alistair’s knife.
“Hey, Sammy.”
He’s tousle-haired, sitting up in bed, hugging himself and looking about six years old. “I can’t sleep,” he says helplessly.
Of course he fucking can’t.
It does not help that Dean has been right exactly where Sam is, has sat awake knowing it’s his last night on earth and that he’s bound for someplace horrible beyond comprehension and that he will never, never, never be free.
It does not help that Dean knows what hell is now.
It does not fucking help one bit that he can feel the moments Sammy isn’t being torn apart and tortured ticking down in his head, that he can look at Sam right now and see him whole and intact and sane and fucking comfortable and know that Sam is going to be irreparably destroyed and it’s never going to end.
It does not help that Sam chose it.
But somehow, when Sam looks into his eyes, shaking and breathing unsteadily like he might cry, and whispers, “I don’t want to, okay?” it all gets a thousand times worse.
***
The thing is, Dean doesn’t want him to either.
And, of course, obviously, but the thing is that Dean wants him not to so fucking badly that he’d accept the apocalypse at this point. Whatever. Just don’t make the baby Dean carried out of the fire throw himself back into it. It’s too much to ask. It’s too fucking much to ask of either of them.
He hates himself for agreeing to it. He doesn’t agree to it. He hates himself for not standing between Sammy and that fucking pit and preventing it. He wants to shove Sam in the car and drive and drive forever until none of this can reach them. He wants to kill Sammy himself, put a gun to his head or a knife in his back or drug his food and let him die peacefully in his sleep and spend eternity in heaven where he fucking belongs. He wants to carry Lucifer into hell himself, fuck it, he’ll go back, just not Sammy.
That Sam doesn’t want to do it either is, he thinks, conclusive. It’s all that’s required. They’re not going to do this. They’ll find another way.
There is no other way.
I don’t fucking care.
He goes to Sam and holds him and now Sam does cry, desperate, shaky sobs, and Dean whispers “It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay, you don’t have to. You don’t have to.”
Sam looks up at him with some combination of shame and hope warring for dominance of his features, his face still a mess from crying, and he chokes out, “I’m sorry, Dean, I wanted to fix it, I wanted to stop it, I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m so scared, I’m so scared.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”
“You don’t have to, Sammy.” Dean kisses his forehead, shaky with relief and gratitude, their solution is gone, but thank fucking Christ. “I don’t want you to. Please don’t. Stay.”
“Y-yeah?”
“Fuck, Sammy, jesus, yeah.”
And Sam’s out of commission, heavy and sobbing so hard he can’t get his breath. Dean drags him down onto the pillow and rubs his back. “Sleep, Sam, it’s all right. It’s all right. My Sam. My Sam. Lucifer can’t have any of you.”
He isn’t crying. Not really.
But Sam’s hair is a little damp when he finally falls asleep.
***
He wakes up and Sam’s standing out on the balcony letting the sun rise and kiss his skin, and this isn’t Sam’s last sunrise. Dean could just watch this happen all day, could just sit quietly and enumerate all the things that Sam has a lifetime left to experience.
He gets up, though, and joins Sam on the balcony. They stand quietly, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the world spread below them.
A wind kicks up and blows the hair back from Sam’s face, and Dean sees a tear tracking down his cheek. “Sammy?”
Sam swallows visibly. “Dean…”
Dean knows what he’s going to say. He just knows.
He wants to run inside and not hear it, go back to bed, go back to the moment when everything was infused with hope and everything was fine.
“Sammy, no,” he says. “Please.”
“I have to, Dean.”
“No you don’t.”
“I started this.”
“Ruby did. Zachariah did. I did. You were a fucking tool, Sam, you were used, it’s not your fault, don’t do this because of that.”
“Ruby can’t stop it, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “Zachariah can’t. You can’t.”
“I can! Give me time, I’ll figure it out, please, Sam!” He’s breathless, near hysterical, pleading, he was so close to getting Sam out of this.
“I’m the one who can stop it,” Sam says. “I have to. Because I can.”
Sammy Sammy god fuck no.
“But I’m scared,” Sam says, and it shows through in his eyes. “I’m so fucking scared, Dean” - and sure enough, he’s shaking and another tear finds its way loose - “I’m barely keeping it together, I don’t know what I’m doing and I need you to be strong for me, I need you to be my big brother and I need you to tell me I can do it?” He makes this a question. Can I do it?
Are you asking if you’re capable, Sammy?
Or are you asking for permission?
Because if it’s the latter then no no no never.
Dean pulls Sam into his arms. “You’re strong, Sam. You’re the strongest.” It’s the truth, and it’s the most he can offer, because he can’t say everything will be all right because nothing ever will, ever again.
So he just holds Sam as the sun rises.
Summary: The night before Detroit, Sam has a change of heart.
Warnings/Spoilers: R for language, Spoilers through S5
Author's Note: Aftermath-verse. Sort of a prequel, actually :)
“Dean?”
He’s not really asleep, he’s too wound up with the intensity of what they’re about to do, but he’s dozing a little. Sam’s voice cuts through the vague, horrifying images on the backs of his eyelids like a steak knife Alistair’s knife.
“Hey, Sammy.”
He’s tousle-haired, sitting up in bed, hugging himself and looking about six years old. “I can’t sleep,” he says helplessly.
Of course he fucking can’t.
It does not help that Dean has been right exactly where Sam is, has sat awake knowing it’s his last night on earth and that he’s bound for someplace horrible beyond comprehension and that he will never, never, never be free.
It does not help that Dean knows what hell is now.
It does not fucking help one bit that he can feel the moments Sammy isn’t being torn apart and tortured ticking down in his head, that he can look at Sam right now and see him whole and intact and sane and fucking comfortable and know that Sam is going to be irreparably destroyed and it’s never going to end.
It does not help that Sam chose it.
But somehow, when Sam looks into his eyes, shaking and breathing unsteadily like he might cry, and whispers, “I don’t want to, okay?” it all gets a thousand times worse.
***
The thing is, Dean doesn’t want him to either.
And, of course, obviously, but the thing is that Dean wants him not to so fucking badly that he’d accept the apocalypse at this point. Whatever. Just don’t make the baby Dean carried out of the fire throw himself back into it. It’s too much to ask. It’s too fucking much to ask of either of them.
He hates himself for agreeing to it. He doesn’t agree to it. He hates himself for not standing between Sammy and that fucking pit and preventing it. He wants to shove Sam in the car and drive and drive forever until none of this can reach them. He wants to kill Sammy himself, put a gun to his head or a knife in his back or drug his food and let him die peacefully in his sleep and spend eternity in heaven where he fucking belongs. He wants to carry Lucifer into hell himself, fuck it, he’ll go back, just not Sammy.
That Sam doesn’t want to do it either is, he thinks, conclusive. It’s all that’s required. They’re not going to do this. They’ll find another way.
There is no other way.
I don’t fucking care.
He goes to Sam and holds him and now Sam does cry, desperate, shaky sobs, and Dean whispers “It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay, you don’t have to. You don’t have to.”
Sam looks up at him with some combination of shame and hope warring for dominance of his features, his face still a mess from crying, and he chokes out, “I’m sorry, Dean, I wanted to fix it, I wanted to stop it, I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m so scared, I’m so scared.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”
“You don’t have to, Sammy.” Dean kisses his forehead, shaky with relief and gratitude, their solution is gone, but thank fucking Christ. “I don’t want you to. Please don’t. Stay.”
“Y-yeah?”
“Fuck, Sammy, jesus, yeah.”
And Sam’s out of commission, heavy and sobbing so hard he can’t get his breath. Dean drags him down onto the pillow and rubs his back. “Sleep, Sam, it’s all right. It’s all right. My Sam. My Sam. Lucifer can’t have any of you.”
He isn’t crying. Not really.
But Sam’s hair is a little damp when he finally falls asleep.
***
He wakes up and Sam’s standing out on the balcony letting the sun rise and kiss his skin, and this isn’t Sam’s last sunrise. Dean could just watch this happen all day, could just sit quietly and enumerate all the things that Sam has a lifetime left to experience.
He gets up, though, and joins Sam on the balcony. They stand quietly, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the world spread below them.
A wind kicks up and blows the hair back from Sam’s face, and Dean sees a tear tracking down his cheek. “Sammy?”
Sam swallows visibly. “Dean…”
Dean knows what he’s going to say. He just knows.
He wants to run inside and not hear it, go back to bed, go back to the moment when everything was infused with hope and everything was fine.
“Sammy, no,” he says. “Please.”
“I have to, Dean.”
“No you don’t.”
“I started this.”
“Ruby did. Zachariah did. I did. You were a fucking tool, Sam, you were used, it’s not your fault, don’t do this because of that.”
“Ruby can’t stop it, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “Zachariah can’t. You can’t.”
“I can! Give me time, I’ll figure it out, please, Sam!” He’s breathless, near hysterical, pleading, he was so close to getting Sam out of this.
“I’m the one who can stop it,” Sam says. “I have to. Because I can.”
Sammy Sammy god fuck no.
“But I’m scared,” Sam says, and it shows through in his eyes. “I’m so fucking scared, Dean” - and sure enough, he’s shaking and another tear finds its way loose - “I’m barely keeping it together, I don’t know what I’m doing and I need you to be strong for me, I need you to be my big brother and I need you to tell me I can do it?” He makes this a question. Can I do it?
Are you asking if you’re capable, Sammy?
Or are you asking for permission?
Because if it’s the latter then no no no never.
Dean pulls Sam into his arms. “You’re strong, Sam. You’re the strongest.” It’s the truth, and it’s the most he can offer, because he can’t say everything will be all right because nothing ever will, ever again.
So he just holds Sam as the sun rises.