Supernatural: Willing
Summary: Dean had said--back when they were trying to figure out the whole demon-plane-crash thing--that demons didn't want anything. Just death and destruction for its own sake.
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Demon
Warnings: Spoilers abound
Story Notes: Speculative Sam pov during the cabin confrontation in Devil's Trap. This is an earlier supernatural snippet which was originally posted over at the pit a long while back. I'm bringing it over here as part of my endeavor to... bring stuff over here. :)
Based on reader response (hits, reviews, what have you) it's likely the least "popular" thing I've written in this fandom. Oddly, it's one of my personal favorites. I couldn't exactly tell you why, though after re-reading it to post over here, and though I only watched about half of the fourth season, I feel like it fits even more now than it did then. It's a scattered piece, to be sure, kind of jumbled, not Shakespeare by any stretch of the imagination... but I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: not mine
Read it at The Pit.
Or for a slightly cleaner version...
--------------------------------------
Willing
-----------------------------------
Sam’s not aware of it, in the conscious way he should be, but he’s a mess-bruised exhaustion and hope, hunger and heavy-weary overwhelming emotion, the shaky realization that somehow he’s become the last Winchester standing. His mind is a chaotic, rapid mess of changing thought and memory, torn between his brother and his father-the strongest and most screwed up people he knows-both bloody, on the floor.
Hey Sam? Know that guy I shot?
Dean had said-back when they were trying to figure out that whole demon-plane-crash thing-that demons didn't want anything. Just death and destruction for its own sake.
There was a person in there…
Sam doesn't know why he's remembering it now, but he is-feels the memory, subtle and dark black, leak out from the back of his mind.
He doesn’t know what it means.
He doesn’t know if it means anything.
Only knows it’s a weird time for the memory to wield itself.
Killin’ that guy-killin’ Meg-I didn’t hesitate.
Weird, because he’s pointing a weapon at the thing that killed his mother, at the thing that killed Jess, at the thing that moments ago turned his older brother’s voice into a purely broken plea while painting his chest with blood. He’s pointing the weapon at that Demon-with Dad’s desperate imperative telling him to pull the trigger.
I didn’t even flinch.
And Sam wants to. Something cold and familiar twists in his stomach even as his hands steady on the gun.
He won’t miss.
I’mean…for you or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill...
He's not thinking about whether or not he'll be able to live with himself after, knowing he'd shot-killed-his own father.
…it’s just ah…
That’s all there, underneath, but just…underneath.
And though he’s hearing his dad’s voice, he’s seeing The Demon, and knows-if he were in his father’s place-he’d want the trigger pulled too.
…it scares me sometimes.
His chest feels heavy, tight, and tense.
The gun stays steady.
He feels nothing else.
Even though his lip quivers and his throat tightens and trembles.
And why the hell is Dean afraid of flying anyway? It doesn’t make sense-with all the things they face everyday-why flying?
Sam thinks maybe it has something to do with control. Thinks maybe if Dean were the pilot and could knowledgably act if something went wrong, he wouldn't fear it anymore. Which is ridiculous. Because sometimes, giving up control is so much easier, so devoid of responsibility.
"You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart, son."
Sam’s been trained for years to heed the voice of his father, to follow it with respect and immediacy. Follow orders or people get hurt. Follow orders or people die. It’s ingrained in him to do what his father tells him. And despite all the times he’s argued against it, he wants nothing more right now than to be the good soldier and follow through.
Because he’s not pointing this weapon at his father. He’s pointing THE weapon at THE Demon and can end it if he just follows orders.
All his lectures. All his morals. He hadn't been willing to allow sacrificing-murdering-Max for the greater good but, his own father?
“Sammy!”
And Dean understands orders.
It's going after families, their father had said. And, like his father, Sam knows this Demon has to die.
This needs to end.
Be over.
It killed Mom and Jess and nearly eviscerated Dean.
Mom and Jess and Dean and it's going after families.
It’s not Dad-it’s the Demon.
Dad's holding onto it so they can end it. So Sam can end it. For all of them, Sam could end it-keep countless people from the pain. And wouldn’t that victory make this act worth whatever comes after?
He can do this. He should do this. Dad wants him to. And it's all we’ve ever cared about, even if Sam had only realized that recently.
Dean's broken voice tells him differently-both past and present. Sam hears him say, "Don’t you do it,” in the present and, “Demons don't want anything…just death and destruction for its own sake," in his head.
The gun trembles in his grip-steadiness slipping as he wonders if that is the point. If by taking Dean’s mother, the Demon’s turned Sam into the thing that will take his father.
If he pulls the trigger, he will never be able to look Dean in the eye again. He'll never be able to look at him at all, never be able to say anything, be able to stand in the same room, state, or even country, without feeling the pulse of betrayal.
If he shoots, he damns them all. And that doesn’t feel like victory. The Demon's maybe, but not theirs.
Not his.
Sam would hear it laughing forever after, and he can't do it.
Because no matter what else he does in life, he has to be able to look Dean in the eye.
Yet, his aim doesn't change.
The gun doesn't waver.
Mom and Jess and Dean.
And suddenly, it’s too late-evil pouring out his father’s mouth, escaping the cabin through the cracks, making Sam’s chest heave with the loss of it, nerves raw and snapping, scratchy, achy with the feeling of being so close.
He shifts the gun, no longer pointed-aimed now at nothing.
Behind him, Dean’s head thuds to the cabin floor. In front of him, Dad’s does the same.
He blinks, hard, heaves air into his chest, looks down at his father, feeling keenly a messy confusion of pain, frustration, apathy, and fear because...the things he’s willing to do to kill the demon…
…it just ah…
…it scares him sometimes.
-----------
End
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Demon
Warnings: Spoilers abound
Story Notes: Speculative Sam pov during the cabin confrontation in Devil's Trap. This is an earlier supernatural snippet which was originally posted over at the pit a long while back. I'm bringing it over here as part of my endeavor to... bring stuff over here. :)
Based on reader response (hits, reviews, what have you) it's likely the least "popular" thing I've written in this fandom. Oddly, it's one of my personal favorites. I couldn't exactly tell you why, though after re-reading it to post over here, and though I only watched about half of the fourth season, I feel like it fits even more now than it did then. It's a scattered piece, to be sure, kind of jumbled, not Shakespeare by any stretch of the imagination... but I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: not mine
Read it at The Pit.
Or for a slightly cleaner version...
--------------------------------------
Willing
-----------------------------------
Sam’s not aware of it, in the conscious way he should be, but he’s a mess-bruised exhaustion and hope, hunger and heavy-weary overwhelming emotion, the shaky realization that somehow he’s become the last Winchester standing. His mind is a chaotic, rapid mess of changing thought and memory, torn between his brother and his father-the strongest and most screwed up people he knows-both bloody, on the floor.
Hey Sam? Know that guy I shot?
Dean had said-back when they were trying to figure out that whole demon-plane-crash thing-that demons didn't want anything. Just death and destruction for its own sake.
There was a person in there…
Sam doesn't know why he's remembering it now, but he is-feels the memory, subtle and dark black, leak out from the back of his mind.
He doesn’t know what it means.
He doesn’t know if it means anything.
Only knows it’s a weird time for the memory to wield itself.
Killin’ that guy-killin’ Meg-I didn’t hesitate.
Weird, because he’s pointing a weapon at the thing that killed his mother, at the thing that killed Jess, at the thing that moments ago turned his older brother’s voice into a purely broken plea while painting his chest with blood. He’s pointing the weapon at that Demon-with Dad’s desperate imperative telling him to pull the trigger.
I didn’t even flinch.
And Sam wants to. Something cold and familiar twists in his stomach even as his hands steady on the gun.
He won’t miss.
I’mean…for you or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill...
He's not thinking about whether or not he'll be able to live with himself after, knowing he'd shot-killed-his own father.
…it’s just ah…
That’s all there, underneath, but just…underneath.
And though he’s hearing his dad’s voice, he’s seeing The Demon, and knows-if he were in his father’s place-he’d want the trigger pulled too.
…it scares me sometimes.
His chest feels heavy, tight, and tense.
The gun stays steady.
He feels nothing else.
Even though his lip quivers and his throat tightens and trembles.
And why the hell is Dean afraid of flying anyway? It doesn’t make sense-with all the things they face everyday-why flying?
Sam thinks maybe it has something to do with control. Thinks maybe if Dean were the pilot and could knowledgably act if something went wrong, he wouldn't fear it anymore. Which is ridiculous. Because sometimes, giving up control is so much easier, so devoid of responsibility.
"You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart, son."
Sam’s been trained for years to heed the voice of his father, to follow it with respect and immediacy. Follow orders or people get hurt. Follow orders or people die. It’s ingrained in him to do what his father tells him. And despite all the times he’s argued against it, he wants nothing more right now than to be the good soldier and follow through.
Because he’s not pointing this weapon at his father. He’s pointing THE weapon at THE Demon and can end it if he just follows orders.
All his lectures. All his morals. He hadn't been willing to allow sacrificing-murdering-Max for the greater good but, his own father?
“Sammy!”
And Dean understands orders.
It's going after families, their father had said. And, like his father, Sam knows this Demon has to die.
This needs to end.
Be over.
It killed Mom and Jess and nearly eviscerated Dean.
Mom and Jess and Dean and it's going after families.
It’s not Dad-it’s the Demon.
Dad's holding onto it so they can end it. So Sam can end it. For all of them, Sam could end it-keep countless people from the pain. And wouldn’t that victory make this act worth whatever comes after?
He can do this. He should do this. Dad wants him to. And it's all we’ve ever cared about, even if Sam had only realized that recently.
Dean's broken voice tells him differently-both past and present. Sam hears him say, "Don’t you do it,” in the present and, “Demons don't want anything…just death and destruction for its own sake," in his head.
The gun trembles in his grip-steadiness slipping as he wonders if that is the point. If by taking Dean’s mother, the Demon’s turned Sam into the thing that will take his father.
If he pulls the trigger, he will never be able to look Dean in the eye again. He'll never be able to look at him at all, never be able to say anything, be able to stand in the same room, state, or even country, without feeling the pulse of betrayal.
If he shoots, he damns them all. And that doesn’t feel like victory. The Demon's maybe, but not theirs.
Not his.
Sam would hear it laughing forever after, and he can't do it.
Because no matter what else he does in life, he has to be able to look Dean in the eye.
Yet, his aim doesn't change.
The gun doesn't waver.
Mom and Jess and Dean.
And suddenly, it’s too late-evil pouring out his father’s mouth, escaping the cabin through the cracks, making Sam’s chest heave with the loss of it, nerves raw and snapping, scratchy, achy with the feeling of being so close.
He shifts the gun, no longer pointed-aimed now at nothing.
Behind him, Dean’s head thuds to the cabin floor. In front of him, Dad’s does the same.
He blinks, hard, heaves air into his chest, looks down at his father, feeling keenly a messy confusion of pain, frustration, apathy, and fear because...the things he’s willing to do to kill the demon…
…it just ah…
…it scares him sometimes.
-----------
End