Eyes Wide Shut
Title: Eyes Wide Shut.
Verse: SPN.
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Sam-centric, mentions and appearances of other characters from the show.
Wordcount: 1,218
Disclaimer: I sit on a throne of lies.
A/N: Just another fic I wrote two years ago. Only the first legitimate fic I ever wrote for this show, no big deal.
“The only reason you're still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you've been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true-the second you become more trouble than you're worth-one word, one, and I will turn you to dust.”
It's been hours since Uriel left, but the words are still echoing in Sam's head. Dust. He knows Uriel has the power to do it, too, has known it since he first laid eyes on the angel gazing out of their motel window. Is it the vessel, or the being itself that reeks of cold strength and contempt? The answer is easy enough, but still, Sam wonders what happened to Uriel to make him that way. But it isn't long before his attention drifts, and his mind begins to wander. It's not directionless for very long-this late at night is always when the thoughts he's had to repeatedly shove away during the day return to stay until sunrise, and staring at the ceiling isn't proving to be much of a distraction.
There's rustling to his right, and he raises from the pillow just long enough to see that it's only Dean shifting in his sleep. His brother had been quiet when he returned to the motel, which Sam had taken as a bad sign, but at the time he'd still been too shaken up to push.
Dust.
For a little while he's content to merely lie there, lulled to idling by the sound of his brother breathing. But even that, that tiny signal telling him that Dean's there, safe, alive, is enough for the torrent of thoughts to begin.
Dean's alive. Dean's alive, not thanks to him, but to an angel- a real life angel-who was kind enough to pluck him out of Hell. With his bare hands, or hand, according to the mark Dean's been left with. Dean's alive, and is now associating with angels.
One of whom has threatened Sam's life.
He, the one who had never wanted to be a part of this life, had tried to run from it, is now practically that which he hunts. Tainted. Condemned by that which he'd prayed to, asked desperately for there to just be some way…
And Dean, the one who never truly gave a damn and would have gladly admitted so, who probably didn't know three of the Ten Commandments, is now marked by the hand of an angel of the Lord, with that same angel practically perched on his shoulder.
The light flickers on, suddenly distracting Sam from his thoughts. Dean is standing at the foot of his bed fully dressed, looking down at him.
"Get up," he says gruffly. "It's time to go."
It's the middle of the night (the sun's not even up, he knows), but Sam rises without questioning. Rather than heading to the bathroom though, he stops in front of the room's dresser. It's dark oak with an oval mirror, large but not quite big enough for him to be able to see his features without ducking and craning his neck. Sam rubs a hand over his face, and the second he lowers his hands from his eyes is he notices. They're… tawny.
Yellow.
"Should have known," Sam mutters. And he's not upset. Actually, he feels somewhat relieved. It was only a matter of time before this happened; sure took long enough, though-he was getting tired of waiting, feeling paranoid.
"What?" Dean asks from behind him.
"It's nothing." Inevitable as it may have been, it's not like he wants to talk about it. Besides, Dean would never understand.
"Sam-" Dean's hand is on his shoulder now as he cuts himself off. Sam's eyes flicker reflexively toward Dean, and then back to the mirror; he sees that his eyes still haven't gone back to normal and attempts to shrug his brother off. But Dean's grip only tightens.
"Sammy, your eyes-" But now it's Sam cutting him off, throwing his arm back without turning, fist curled. No blow connects, but still his brother goes flying. Sam doesn't look to see where he lands, hears the thud of Dean impacting against the far wall.
He's suddenly angry; so angry.
For a moment he just leans forward, head hung, gripping the edge of the dresser in front of him rigidly, fingertips white with the pressure.
And then he's across the room, standing in front of Dean, who isn't pinned to the wall, but appears to be having some trouble getting up. Just how hard did Sam throw him? He can't quite bring himself to care; finally, he's poised to end what has been nothing but fightfightfight for entirely too long, to twist the power he has inside of him to do-to be-whatever he wants.
Sam stares down at Dean an ample distance away, derision coloring his features. His brother fears him, he knows. Scorn soon yields to concentration, however; he's working something out in his head, something that just doesn't make sense to him.
"Why you?"
The question hangs in the air almost tangibly. There's only the barest second of confusion on Dean's face before he picks up on the meaning of the question. Now while Sam's face, though certainly not pleased, is of genuine curiosity, his older brother's twists into a grimace of pure disgust.
"Why not you, you mean?"
The silence that follows, other than the sound of Dean's labored breathing, says it all.
"The thing is, Sam," a voice drawls; both of them look up. The door of their motel room is open, and in its frame leans John, arms crossed. His eyes match Sam's. Or maybe it's the other way around. "I'm not sure that you would have been worth it."
John gestures with a nod of his head outside.
Hell burns clearly behind him.
It's dark; the shadow looming above is reaching out to him. Instinct takes over and Sam swings, glances off a shoulder. His wrists are encircled in a tight grip in the same moment that panic hits.
"Sammy, it's me."
He stills, and Dean lets him go. The second he's released the images come flooding back, and the sheets twined around him are the strongest thing he's fought in a long time as he rushes for the bathroom.
He locks himself in, back to the door briefly before padding fully into the small space. It's now that he becomes aware of the light sheen of sweat on him, making the hairs on his nape curl. His eyes are hazel, no traces of yellow to be found, not even black or white, only a myriad of green and brown. But as he rests against the wall behind him, there is a new echo in his head.
"I'm not sure that you would have been worth it."
Sam pulls his head forward, lets it fall back. Does it again even when he can hear Dean pounding on the bathroom door, shouting through the wood. Does it a third time and asks himself why.
He doesn't feel the pain. But the wall behind him is weak, old-flecks of paint and other material fall from it and settle on his shoulders, in his hair.
Dust.
Verse: SPN.
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Sam-centric, mentions and appearances of other characters from the show.
Wordcount: 1,218
Disclaimer: I sit on a throne of lies.
A/N: Just another fic I wrote two years ago. Only the first legitimate fic I ever wrote for this show, no big deal.
“The only reason you're still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you've been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true-the second you become more trouble than you're worth-one word, one, and I will turn you to dust.”
It's been hours since Uriel left, but the words are still echoing in Sam's head. Dust. He knows Uriel has the power to do it, too, has known it since he first laid eyes on the angel gazing out of their motel window. Is it the vessel, or the being itself that reeks of cold strength and contempt? The answer is easy enough, but still, Sam wonders what happened to Uriel to make him that way. But it isn't long before his attention drifts, and his mind begins to wander. It's not directionless for very long-this late at night is always when the thoughts he's had to repeatedly shove away during the day return to stay until sunrise, and staring at the ceiling isn't proving to be much of a distraction.
There's rustling to his right, and he raises from the pillow just long enough to see that it's only Dean shifting in his sleep. His brother had been quiet when he returned to the motel, which Sam had taken as a bad sign, but at the time he'd still been too shaken up to push.
Dust.
For a little while he's content to merely lie there, lulled to idling by the sound of his brother breathing. But even that, that tiny signal telling him that Dean's there, safe, alive, is enough for the torrent of thoughts to begin.
Dean's alive. Dean's alive, not thanks to him, but to an angel- a real life angel-who was kind enough to pluck him out of Hell. With his bare hands, or hand, according to the mark Dean's been left with. Dean's alive, and is now associating with angels.
One of whom has threatened Sam's life.
He, the one who had never wanted to be a part of this life, had tried to run from it, is now practically that which he hunts. Tainted. Condemned by that which he'd prayed to, asked desperately for there to just be some way…
And Dean, the one who never truly gave a damn and would have gladly admitted so, who probably didn't know three of the Ten Commandments, is now marked by the hand of an angel of the Lord, with that same angel practically perched on his shoulder.
The light flickers on, suddenly distracting Sam from his thoughts. Dean is standing at the foot of his bed fully dressed, looking down at him.
"Get up," he says gruffly. "It's time to go."
It's the middle of the night (the sun's not even up, he knows), but Sam rises without questioning. Rather than heading to the bathroom though, he stops in front of the room's dresser. It's dark oak with an oval mirror, large but not quite big enough for him to be able to see his features without ducking and craning his neck. Sam rubs a hand over his face, and the second he lowers his hands from his eyes is he notices. They're… tawny.
Yellow.
"Should have known," Sam mutters. And he's not upset. Actually, he feels somewhat relieved. It was only a matter of time before this happened; sure took long enough, though-he was getting tired of waiting, feeling paranoid.
"What?" Dean asks from behind him.
"It's nothing." Inevitable as it may have been, it's not like he wants to talk about it. Besides, Dean would never understand.
"Sam-" Dean's hand is on his shoulder now as he cuts himself off. Sam's eyes flicker reflexively toward Dean, and then back to the mirror; he sees that his eyes still haven't gone back to normal and attempts to shrug his brother off. But Dean's grip only tightens.
"Sammy, your eyes-" But now it's Sam cutting him off, throwing his arm back without turning, fist curled. No blow connects, but still his brother goes flying. Sam doesn't look to see where he lands, hears the thud of Dean impacting against the far wall.
He's suddenly angry; so angry.
For a moment he just leans forward, head hung, gripping the edge of the dresser in front of him rigidly, fingertips white with the pressure.
And then he's across the room, standing in front of Dean, who isn't pinned to the wall, but appears to be having some trouble getting up. Just how hard did Sam throw him? He can't quite bring himself to care; finally, he's poised to end what has been nothing but fightfightfight for entirely too long, to twist the power he has inside of him to do-to be-whatever he wants.
Sam stares down at Dean an ample distance away, derision coloring his features. His brother fears him, he knows. Scorn soon yields to concentration, however; he's working something out in his head, something that just doesn't make sense to him.
"Why you?"
The question hangs in the air almost tangibly. There's only the barest second of confusion on Dean's face before he picks up on the meaning of the question. Now while Sam's face, though certainly not pleased, is of genuine curiosity, his older brother's twists into a grimace of pure disgust.
"Why not you, you mean?"
The silence that follows, other than the sound of Dean's labored breathing, says it all.
"The thing is, Sam," a voice drawls; both of them look up. The door of their motel room is open, and in its frame leans John, arms crossed. His eyes match Sam's. Or maybe it's the other way around. "I'm not sure that you would have been worth it."
John gestures with a nod of his head outside.
Hell burns clearly behind him.
It's dark; the shadow looming above is reaching out to him. Instinct takes over and Sam swings, glances off a shoulder. His wrists are encircled in a tight grip in the same moment that panic hits.
"Sammy, it's me."
He stills, and Dean lets him go. The second he's released the images come flooding back, and the sheets twined around him are the strongest thing he's fought in a long time as he rushes for the bathroom.
He locks himself in, back to the door briefly before padding fully into the small space. It's now that he becomes aware of the light sheen of sweat on him, making the hairs on his nape curl. His eyes are hazel, no traces of yellow to be found, not even black or white, only a myriad of green and brown. But as he rests against the wall behind him, there is a new echo in his head.
"I'm not sure that you would have been worth it."
Sam pulls his head forward, lets it fall back. Does it again even when he can hear Dean pounding on the bathroom door, shouting through the wood. Does it a third time and asks himself why.
He doesn't feel the pain. But the wall behind him is weak, old-flecks of paint and other material fall from it and settle on his shoulders, in his hair.
Dust.