SPN FIC - Self-Inflicted
For this week's prompt (#41) over at
found_fic_spn . Let's take another walk on the dark side...
Characters: Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Mystery Spot
Length: 476 words
SELF-INFLICTED
By Carol Davis
The shooter is dead.
That wouldn't be true if Sam hadn't walked straight toward the gun, as if he were Superman and expected the bullet to bounce off his chest like popcorn. He thought of Dean as he took those few steps: thought of his brother tying a cheap motel towel around his neck and jumping from bed to bed while Sam (Sammy) clapped his hands and giggled in glee. Thought of Dean saying, The first thing you need to know about Dad is that he's a superhero.
Dad was no superhero. Neither was Dean. Neither one of them was invulnerable. They're gone now, both of them, and whatever they felt for Sam, or about Sam, is gone with them. He understood the day Dean died (for real, because it was Wednesday) that it was Dean's love that tempered him, kept him from sliding down the greased slope toward being what they want him to be, kept him human and sane. But that's gone now. Bobby and Ellen have done their best to reel him back in, calling him "son" and "sweetie" because no matter what he's becoming, he means something to them.
Maybe he means something to them because if he doesn't end this headlong slide he's on, Dean's sacrifice will have meant nothing.
He doesn't want Dean's sacrifice - Dean's life - to have meant nothing.
Every breath he takes is for Dean. So, every day, he does the job Dean taught him: saving people. Hunting things.
Killing things.
He would have left her alone, would have let her live, except that she greeted him with a mocking sneer and said, "I heard about Dean. Shame." His expression didn't change much in response, but the little it did change must have been enough, because she started to blink, rapid-fire, like she realized she'd said the wrong thing, in the wrong way. An instant later she raised her gun and pointed it at him. When he took a step toward her, his expression dark and frozen as winter midnight, she pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him, lodged itself in him somewhere - he can feel the burn of it, like a message from that place he knows he'll find eventually - but it didn't stop him.
She shot him the first time, a few months ago, to prove how sassy she was. How badass.
She shot him this second time to save herself.
She won't get to shoot him a third time. He grabbed the gun away from her with her gaping at him wide-eyed and stupid, cowlike, flummoxed by what he is, what he's become without his brother to protect him.
He flung the gun aside, his gaze locked with hers.
Then he strangled Bela Talbot with his bare hands. And it was her own fault.
Bitch, he thinks hollowly as he walks away from her body.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
found_fic_spn . Let's take another walk on the dark side...
Characters: Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Mystery Spot
Length: 476 words
SELF-INFLICTED
By Carol Davis
The shooter is dead.
That wouldn't be true if Sam hadn't walked straight toward the gun, as if he were Superman and expected the bullet to bounce off his chest like popcorn. He thought of Dean as he took those few steps: thought of his brother tying a cheap motel towel around his neck and jumping from bed to bed while Sam (Sammy) clapped his hands and giggled in glee. Thought of Dean saying, The first thing you need to know about Dad is that he's a superhero.
Dad was no superhero. Neither was Dean. Neither one of them was invulnerable. They're gone now, both of them, and whatever they felt for Sam, or about Sam, is gone with them. He understood the day Dean died (for real, because it was Wednesday) that it was Dean's love that tempered him, kept him from sliding down the greased slope toward being what they want him to be, kept him human and sane. But that's gone now. Bobby and Ellen have done their best to reel him back in, calling him "son" and "sweetie" because no matter what he's becoming, he means something to them.
Maybe he means something to them because if he doesn't end this headlong slide he's on, Dean's sacrifice will have meant nothing.
He doesn't want Dean's sacrifice - Dean's life - to have meant nothing.
Every breath he takes is for Dean. So, every day, he does the job Dean taught him: saving people. Hunting things.
Killing things.
He would have left her alone, would have let her live, except that she greeted him with a mocking sneer and said, "I heard about Dean. Shame." His expression didn't change much in response, but the little it did change must have been enough, because she started to blink, rapid-fire, like she realized she'd said the wrong thing, in the wrong way. An instant later she raised her gun and pointed it at him. When he took a step toward her, his expression dark and frozen as winter midnight, she pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him, lodged itself in him somewhere - he can feel the burn of it, like a message from that place he knows he'll find eventually - but it didn't stop him.
She shot him the first time, a few months ago, to prove how sassy she was. How badass.
She shot him this second time to save herself.
She won't get to shoot him a third time. He grabbed the gun away from her with her gaping at him wide-eyed and stupid, cowlike, flummoxed by what he is, what he's become without his brother to protect him.
He flung the gun aside, his gaze locked with hers.
Then he strangled Bela Talbot with his bare hands. And it was her own fault.
Bitch, he thinks hollowly as he walks away from her body.
~~~~~~~~~~~~