SPN Fic: The Flash of Light on a Burial Shroud
Title: The Flash of Light on a Burial Shroud
A/N: This is a missing/expanded scene toward the end of ITGPSW. This has been completed as part of the awesome Summer of Sam Love 2010 Celebration. Beta provided by the inestimable geminigrl11 with inspiration from the unparalleled sendintheklowns . The title is borrowed from the Third Eye Blind song “Jumper,” which also inspired the companion art for this fic/episode.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Sometimes there is no right and wrong, there’s just wrong and worse, and Sam has to pick between the lesser of two evils.
-o-
I wish you would step back from the ledge, my friend
-from “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind
-o-
Sam tries.
Story of his life, but it’s still true. Sam tries to do the right thing. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. It’s all he’s ever worked for. Try, try, try--
And fail.
Samhain is too powerful. The knife Sam has can kill, but he has to get close enough for a fatal blow. Samhain will kill him first at this rate, and Dean’s still not here, and there will be no angels coming for Sam, just like there are no angels coming for this town. The angels think this is an acceptable loss.
Sam does not agree. His own life--that’s one thing. A whole town?
He can’t let that happen.
Not when he has the power to do more.
And he does have the power to do more.
That truth lurks within him, tingling in every part of his body. He knows he has this power, he knows it like he knows he’s already damned, like he knows Dean was right when he called him a monster, so far from human.
This is why he agreed to stop. Because this power isn’t natural. Even now, he can feel it throbbing in his veins, pulsing with an evil origin Sam can never wash clean, never bleed dry. It’s in him, it’s part of him, and to deny it is to deny himself.
And he could do that, he could--but at what cost? At the death of a town? Dean’s life forfeit again?
Sometimes there is no right and wrong, there’s just wrong and worse, and Sam has to pick between the lesser of two evils. Hold fast to dying ideals and let the world burn or sacrifice his soul on the altar of self indulgence and save them all.
The rush of adrenaline is too much to fight, and Sam throws his hand up and feels Samhain’s power collide with his own.
It’s an electric moment, and sparks fly in Sam’s head. The power is building now, coursing through him and rallying deep in who he is. He feels alive with it, burning and aching and being. It’s a vitality he almost doesn’t know what to do with, so powerful that he can barely hold onto it, and it’s a struggle to bend it to his meager will.
Samhain surges against him, and the power flares in him instinctually. A little more, a little more, a little more--
And then, it mounts, reaching a climax. Samhain’s black essence is pulled out, pulled toward him. Sam bears down with a fevered pitch, pulling, yanking, grasping.
The demon is yielding to him, a begrudging submission that only fuels the power in Sam. It’s almost done now, his unholy exorcism almost complete. He’s holding his breath as he finishes it, and the power within him reaches one last high--
And then crashes down.
The energy leaves Sam with a palpable rush, and his hand drops as he pants to catch his breath. His vision is dimmed around the edges, but Samhain’s former vessel is limp on the ground.
And there, on the edge of his vision, is Dean.
Standing there. Mouth open, arms at his side. Staring.
The knife is between them, discarded and forgotten. His brother stands at the far end of the hallway, the shock evident on his face. The distance is not that great, but Dean might as well be miles away.
This is a broken promise, Sam thinks. This is a failed hope, he knows. He tastes blood in his mouth, and can now feel the warmth of it trickling from his nose.
How far from human? Does Dean still know him well enough to not want to hunt him? What kind of monster?
Sam blinks. He’s out of practice; Ruby would reprimand him if she saw him. All weak and ready to pass out, just dispatching one piddly demon. How is Sam going to save anyone if he can’t even stay conscious?
Suddenly, Sam’s energy plummets and his vision fades out entirely. His body feels loose and his limbs like jelly. He’s wavering on his feet, eyes swimming in his sockets, and he thinks he might just go down.
But he can’t.
He’s learned the hard way that there’s no one left to pick him up if he does. He’s not Sammy, the needy little brother, anymore. Sammy died when Dean got taken to Hell. Now he’s just Sam, and he stands alone or he falls alone; it’s entirely up to him.
Swallowing back the nausea, Sam tries to clear his vision, but it’s a sketchy prospect. He has to put his hands out, this time for balance, but Sam’s too dizzy to know if it’s working. There’s a rushing sound in his ears, and his eyes seem to be open but the world is a confusing place of light and dark, sun and shadow.
His flailing arm makes contact--something warm and familiar.
Dean.
Startled, Sam blinks again, surprised to find his brother so close.
But Dean has closed the gap and is standing right in front of him. The blank look of uncertainty is still on his face, but he has one hand out, hovering next to Sam’s.
It’s instinct, Sam knows. A lifetime they’ve spent together, of giving and taking, of supporting and needing. They had a balance once, where one was weak, the other was strong. There’s something of that still in them, deep inside, but it’s getting harder to find, no matter how much they both miss it. But there’s been forty years in hell and four months of demon blood and powers, and they’re just as much strangers as brothers these days, and sometimes Sam thinks what keeps them together is less than what threatens to tear them apart.
They stand like that for a moment, Dean almost offering support that Sam almost takes, but Sam’s equilibrium restores itself and Dean’s hand falls away.
Their eyes meet, locking for a moment. There are questions to be asked, answers to be given. Apologies to be made, regrets to be expressed.
But the time has come and passed, and Sam doesn’t know how to start this conversation any more than Dean does. There are dark places in both of them now, and they threaten to consume, whole and apart. Sam thinks they might be able to save each other if they’d allow it, but even Hell and demons can’t change some things.
Winchesters are Winchesters; broken, brave, or bent. They fight together, if only in name, and for now it has to be enough.
A/N: This is a missing/expanded scene toward the end of ITGPSW. This has been completed as part of the awesome Summer of Sam Love 2010 Celebration. Beta provided by the inestimable geminigrl11 with inspiration from the unparalleled sendintheklowns . The title is borrowed from the Third Eye Blind song “Jumper,” which also inspired the companion art for this fic/episode.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Sometimes there is no right and wrong, there’s just wrong and worse, and Sam has to pick between the lesser of two evils.
-o-
I wish you would step back from the ledge, my friend
-from “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind
-o-
Sam tries.
Story of his life, but it’s still true. Sam tries to do the right thing. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. It’s all he’s ever worked for. Try, try, try--
And fail.
Samhain is too powerful. The knife Sam has can kill, but he has to get close enough for a fatal blow. Samhain will kill him first at this rate, and Dean’s still not here, and there will be no angels coming for Sam, just like there are no angels coming for this town. The angels think this is an acceptable loss.
Sam does not agree. His own life--that’s one thing. A whole town?
He can’t let that happen.
Not when he has the power to do more.
And he does have the power to do more.
That truth lurks within him, tingling in every part of his body. He knows he has this power, he knows it like he knows he’s already damned, like he knows Dean was right when he called him a monster, so far from human.
This is why he agreed to stop. Because this power isn’t natural. Even now, he can feel it throbbing in his veins, pulsing with an evil origin Sam can never wash clean, never bleed dry. It’s in him, it’s part of him, and to deny it is to deny himself.
And he could do that, he could--but at what cost? At the death of a town? Dean’s life forfeit again?
Sometimes there is no right and wrong, there’s just wrong and worse, and Sam has to pick between the lesser of two evils. Hold fast to dying ideals and let the world burn or sacrifice his soul on the altar of self indulgence and save them all.
The rush of adrenaline is too much to fight, and Sam throws his hand up and feels Samhain’s power collide with his own.
It’s an electric moment, and sparks fly in Sam’s head. The power is building now, coursing through him and rallying deep in who he is. He feels alive with it, burning and aching and being. It’s a vitality he almost doesn’t know what to do with, so powerful that he can barely hold onto it, and it’s a struggle to bend it to his meager will.
Samhain surges against him, and the power flares in him instinctually. A little more, a little more, a little more--
And then, it mounts, reaching a climax. Samhain’s black essence is pulled out, pulled toward him. Sam bears down with a fevered pitch, pulling, yanking, grasping.
The demon is yielding to him, a begrudging submission that only fuels the power in Sam. It’s almost done now, his unholy exorcism almost complete. He’s holding his breath as he finishes it, and the power within him reaches one last high--
And then crashes down.
The energy leaves Sam with a palpable rush, and his hand drops as he pants to catch his breath. His vision is dimmed around the edges, but Samhain’s former vessel is limp on the ground.
And there, on the edge of his vision, is Dean.
Standing there. Mouth open, arms at his side. Staring.
The knife is between them, discarded and forgotten. His brother stands at the far end of the hallway, the shock evident on his face. The distance is not that great, but Dean might as well be miles away.
This is a broken promise, Sam thinks. This is a failed hope, he knows. He tastes blood in his mouth, and can now feel the warmth of it trickling from his nose.
How far from human? Does Dean still know him well enough to not want to hunt him? What kind of monster?
Sam blinks. He’s out of practice; Ruby would reprimand him if she saw him. All weak and ready to pass out, just dispatching one piddly demon. How is Sam going to save anyone if he can’t even stay conscious?
Suddenly, Sam’s energy plummets and his vision fades out entirely. His body feels loose and his limbs like jelly. He’s wavering on his feet, eyes swimming in his sockets, and he thinks he might just go down.
But he can’t.
He’s learned the hard way that there’s no one left to pick him up if he does. He’s not Sammy, the needy little brother, anymore. Sammy died when Dean got taken to Hell. Now he’s just Sam, and he stands alone or he falls alone; it’s entirely up to him.
Swallowing back the nausea, Sam tries to clear his vision, but it’s a sketchy prospect. He has to put his hands out, this time for balance, but Sam’s too dizzy to know if it’s working. There’s a rushing sound in his ears, and his eyes seem to be open but the world is a confusing place of light and dark, sun and shadow.
His flailing arm makes contact--something warm and familiar.
Dean.
Startled, Sam blinks again, surprised to find his brother so close.
But Dean has closed the gap and is standing right in front of him. The blank look of uncertainty is still on his face, but he has one hand out, hovering next to Sam’s.
It’s instinct, Sam knows. A lifetime they’ve spent together, of giving and taking, of supporting and needing. They had a balance once, where one was weak, the other was strong. There’s something of that still in them, deep inside, but it’s getting harder to find, no matter how much they both miss it. But there’s been forty years in hell and four months of demon blood and powers, and they’re just as much strangers as brothers these days, and sometimes Sam thinks what keeps them together is less than what threatens to tear them apart.
They stand like that for a moment, Dean almost offering support that Sam almost takes, but Sam’s equilibrium restores itself and Dean’s hand falls away.
Their eyes meet, locking for a moment. There are questions to be asked, answers to be given. Apologies to be made, regrets to be expressed.
But the time has come and passed, and Sam doesn’t know how to start this conversation any more than Dean does. There are dark places in both of them now, and they threaten to consume, whole and apart. Sam thinks they might be able to save each other if they’d allow it, but even Hell and demons can’t change some things.
Winchesters are Winchesters; broken, brave, or bent. They fight together, if only in name, and for now it has to be enough.