fic: Empty Lots and Early Graves
It's a wonderful, rainy day. And I'm allowed to say it's wonderful because it's my day off, so I don't have to go out in it. Instead, I can just sit and listen and go 'aaah, rain'. (My attic may get chilly this time of year, but the acoustics make it totally worth it.)
Because silverpenlight is my zombie bitch, she wrote me fic based on the ridiculousness of yesterday, and she even posted it! It's called Incest Powers ACTIVATE, which I think tells you everything you need to know.
And on that note, here's some fic I wrote a while ago. Um. She said it was good, so I'm posting it... Maybe I'll even share it with the rest of the internets, later.
Empty Lots and Early Graves
Gen, PG-13, indulging my love of morally ambiguous!Sam
Season three fic, which I think tells you enough re spoilers.
empty lots and early graves
Sam buys a calendar during one of their rare stops in civilisation: watercolour scenes of forests and lakes, probably painted by little old ladies with no family left; it seems fitting. (Sam is a bright and attentive boy, his first grade teacher wrote, but his sense of humour is inappropriate and verging on macabre.)
He spends an hour in the bathroom with the shower running, numbering the days from now to 365. His hand doesn’t cramp; his pen doesn’t run out; he doesn’t lose count, not once. So much can happen in a year, yeah, but you put it on paper and it’s no time at all. It’s nothing.
+
On day 127, he wraps the calendar up in an old t-shirt and stuffs it down to the bottom of his bag.
On day 130, he takes it out again.
+
“Let’s go to the movies, man,” Dean exclaims, day 174, as he bursts through the bedroom door with a bright, broad grin. “Die Hard 5 is out, and I wanna see Bruce Willis be badass one last time.”
Sam spits out white foam into the sink and runs his toothbrush under the cold tap. 365-174=191, 365/100=3.65 and 174/3.65=47.67. That’s 48%; almost halfway. Dean is almost halfway. Dean is...
Dean is flicking through a painfully colourful magazine he must have picked up with his coffee, waving glossy pictures of explosions in Sam’s face and, “It’s got twice as much bloodshed as the last one and they got that guy who did Dracula to be the bad guy and- dude! Keira Knightley! You can’t tell me she’s not hot, Sammy. I’d have to disown you-”
3.65x50=182.5, 182.5-174=8.5, just over a week until they really are halfway and Christ, he has no idea what he’s doing.
“-and she’s British, so she’s gotta be wild in bed, they’re all so repressed-”
“Dean.” Sam lathers up the soap, rubs his hands together with his back to his brother. “You sure we can afford it?”
He dries his hands on the courtesy towel, picks at a stain that looks like blood. Whose? he wonders as Dean, magazine tossed to one side, pulls the latest phoney credit-card out of his wallet with a flourish. “Marcus Zakovich’s treat, Sammy.”
He’s grinning. Oh God, he’s grinning so brightly.
“No, I mean-” Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. “You sure we can afford it?”
And just like that, the smile has gone. Dean’s eyes harden and his jaw tightens. Like magic. “I’m paying my price, Sam. You saying I can’t have fun while I wait?”
8.5 days, and then they cross the line.
“Yeah, Dean,” he murmurs, glancing up. His eyes are burning and he can’t meet Dean’s gaze, focussing on elbows, ears, the fuzz of too-long hair. “I guess I am.”
The magazine had landed by Dean’s feet in his excitement, and he kicks it viciously as he stalks out.
+
182.5/7=26 weeks left.
Every second is a second Sam has lost.
+
Ruby reappears on day 190, which is 12 days (288 hours, 17280 minutes...) since she last visited them- visited Sam, to dispense her cryptic and infuriating remarks. “Hey Sammy,” she croons, trailing her nails up and down the back of his neck like an announcement of arrival. “Working hard, are we?”
“You’d know,” Sam grinds out. He’s not far away from cracking the password on yet another promising-but-protected site, and he will not turn around to look at her, he will not turn around to look at her-
“But where’s our third musketeer, Sammy?” Footsteps behind his back, and he can hear her pouting, stalking around the room- come play with me- like a hungry lioness. “It’s getting late. Getting dark. Room sure seems empty without him, doesn’t it?”
He grits his teeth. He will not turn around.
“Doesn’t it, Sammy?”
“My name is Sam, Ruby. Sam. Okay? And yeah, Dean’s gone out, which is why you’re here, because you never appear when you think he’s gonna catch you. And no, I don’t know where he is. You’re the demon here- if anyone knows, it’s you, so just-” he’s turned around, back twisted painfully, and neck twisted painfully, with the chair digging into his ribs. What wouldn’t he give right now for a real office with a swivelling chair?
He breathes in deeply, counts to ten, and drops the hand he hadn’t meant to raise. “Just stop with the tacky mind games and tell me what you want, okay?”
Her grin is all teeth and no eyes, filled with cold delight. She’s got- no, the body she’s stolen has got the kind of looks that first drew him to Jess (January 24, drinking alone in a crowded bar), but she will never, ever be beautiful.
“Whatever you say, Sammy. No need to lose your temper,” she tosses her hair, advances on him with a swish of her hips, and bends down to whisper in his ear, “I was going to tell you some information about your quest to save Dean-o, but we’ve spent so long chatting there just isn’t time.”
Her nails dig in at his hairline. Sam can hear, now, the distinctive purr of the Impala drawing close; she must have heard it minutes ago. Before she even appeared, perhaps.
“Wait.” He grabs her wrist as she pulls away. Her skin is cold. “When can you tell me?”
The engine cuts off; Dean’s parked, he’s home, locking the car doors. Ruby licks her lips, still smiling. “Go outside on day 195. You know when that is, don’t you, Sammy?” Footsteps, keys rattling. “And if you don’t... well, just check your little calendar, hmm?”
She blows him a kiss and then she’s gone, as Dean unlocks the door. Sam twists around quickly and minimises the website on the laptop screen, and his voice is calmly measured when he calls over his shoulder “Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Out,” Dean snaps, clattering and thudding as he kicks off his boots. He smells of smoke and booze and something sweet. “Having fun. Remember that, Sammy?”
195 days is 53% is not long enough.
Sam swallows thickly. “Yeah, I remember.”
+
191: they check out in brittle silence, the woman behind the desk watching them with wary eyes as she takes back the key. They drive.
192: another stupid, ugly room with a stack of newspapers and rumours of a banshee in town. Dean sings along to the radio, loud and cheerful. Sam circles and underlines and works out that website’s password in the back of his mind.
193: Sam’s hand is sore from where the banshee chewed on it. It screamed at Dean until he shot it in the head, ‘Just shut up, will you?’, and they limp back to the car laughing so hard they can’t breathe.
194: it’s a bright, sunny day, and Dean leans across the table to flick Sam with a spoon and say: “Wanna see a movie?” Sam has ice-cream in his hair. He shrugs, “Okay.”
+
Sam goes outside. It’s day 195, like she said, and they’re staying in the middle of nowhere, in a motel full of truckers and bikers who stare at the pair of them suspiciously. Dean thinks it’s hilarious. Sam’s just too tired to care.
It’s a cold night, clear and blank and with the road fading into distant darkness on either side. He’s hanging around in the parking lot, praying nobody mistakes him for a hooker and thinking longingly of his warm bed. When Dean was about eighteen, he remembers, he went through a cigarette phase; they’d sneak out of bed together to smoke and laugh and- in Sam’s case- cough, until Dad came home late one night and ripped Dean a new one. Neither of them took it up again after that, but Sam almost wishes he had, for a warming taste of smoke in his lungs.
He rubs his arms and shivers, packing back and forth. The website was a false lead, a waste of time, password hacked for no good reason, but he’ll call Bobby tomorrow while Dean’s having breakfast and see if he’s made any breakthroughs and then-
“Hey there, stranger. Not keeping you up, am I?” Ruby emerges from the shadows. Her eyes are liquid black in the dark.
“How long have you been there?” he tries to snarl, but his teeth are chattering.
Ruby beams, stretching her pale arms like she’s basking in the sun. Her skin is goose-pimpled, and she’s wearing only a t-shirt and jeans, but she doesn’t shiver. “Long enough to know you talk to yourself. Wow, Sam, you just get weirder by the minute. And you went to college?”
He’s not in the mood. Rolling his eyes and hugging himself tightly, he turns to go back inside. The air flickers and- just like that- she’s standing in front of him again, one hand on his chest.
“Easy, tiger. I know how to keep a secret. And besides, don’t you wanna save your poor, dear brother?” She walks her fingers up his body, punctuates her question with a sharp tap on his nose.
Sam sighs. “Are all the renegade demons as annoying as you?”
“Well, sure. We gotta get our fun from somewhere,” but she steps back, eyes travelling over him like he’s a work of art. “You aren’t going to like this.”
“Just tell me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to divulge my valuable information to the class. But first...” a thin smile and wide black eyes. “I want you to kill a guy for me.”
“What? I-” he’s shaking his head, backing away, mouth open as he struggles for words. “I’m not a killer.”
“Oh please, Sammy. Cut the morals crap. You killed the crossroads demon. You killed demons who did absolutely nothing to you. Tell me, what’s the difference between a kinda nice one of us, and a really bad one of you?” Her words are whip-sharp, but she’s still smiling as she says them, head titled coyly to one side.
He can’t speak. He can’t answer. And that’s answer enough for her, as she says “Well, then, I guess it’s bye-bye to Dean-o. Tell him it was nice knowing him,” and she’s turning and strolling away.
365-195=170 days. 4080 hours. Dean was always better at math.
Sam whispers “Wait.”
It’s not loud. It’s loud enough.
+
Day 199; breakfast; so close to the point of no return Sam can almost taste it. Dean can’t. The pretty waitress who tops up their coffee with a smile can’t, and nor can the passers-by in the streets. It’s obscene; it’s incomprehensible. It’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s going to hurl next time he opens his mouth.
Dean’s talking enough for the both of them. “-I don’t see why you were so desperate to come to New Orleans anyway. These are my dying days; you never heard of last requests? Kidding, I’m kidding, it’s cool. I like New Orleans- man, did I ever tell you about the time I came here with dad? There was this little cafe, did the best damn gumbo I’ve ever tasted... I wonder if it’s still around. ‘Though, I gotta say, Sam, for a guy who was so desperate to give the place a visit, you’re looking a bit on the mopey side.”
He pauses, fork hovering in mid-air, and the look he shoots Sam is filled with the kind of sharpness people never expect the first time they meet Dean. “You haven’t been dreaming again, have you?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Sam murmurs. His stomach holds steady. Dean visibly relaxes, turning back to his bacon.
There’s a thick brown envelope hidden under Sam’s pillow back at their hotel. It was waiting for him at the desk when they got there, under ‘Jimmy Page’- a name Dean had given him all of ten minutes before they arrived, and the check-in guy said it had been there for almost a week already. He read it while Dean was showering, memorised the details and the guy’s face in the photos.
The guy was scum. He deserved to die. He deserved to die. He deserved-
“Sam? Sammy? Earth to geekboy?” Dean’s waving a hand in his face, and has been for a while if the way he’s frowning is anything to go by.
“Sorry.” Sam sits up straight, shakes his head and sips his coffee. It’s gone cold.
“If it’s the fairies you’re away with, I’m gonna have to salt you, you realise?” Dean says with a grin. All the waitresses and barmaids up and down the country who swoon when he smiles would probably be brought to tears by that grin.
“I’d like to see you try, shortass,” Sam snorts. He’s aiming for disdain, but the surge of affection must have leaked through because Dean’s smile only widens.
It doesn’t matter, Sam realises, whether the guy deserves to die or not.
+
Day 200. 165 days left and 55% is over halfway and oh God, oh God, he’s just killed a man. A man. A human being with friends and family and a life, and yeah, the guy wasn’t about to win any awards for good behaviour, but since when was it up to Sam to decide?
Sam, who is shaking and scrubbing his hands and gasping for breath, maybe because he’s sobbing so hard or maybe because he emptied his stomach a couple minutes ago.
He just killed a man he didn't know to save his brother, because a demon who may or may not be on his side told him to, and the worst of it. Oh God. The worst of it is: he doesn’t even care. It was worth it.
Anything would be worth it.
Christo.
Christo.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum...
Because silverpenlight is my zombie bitch, she wrote me fic based on the ridiculousness of yesterday, and she even posted it! It's called Incest Powers ACTIVATE, which I think tells you everything you need to know.
And on that note, here's some fic I wrote a while ago. Um. She said it was good, so I'm posting it... Maybe I'll even share it with the rest of the internets, later.
Empty Lots and Early Graves
Gen, PG-13, indulging my love of morally ambiguous!Sam
Season three fic, which I think tells you enough re spoilers.
empty lots and early graves
Sam buys a calendar during one of their rare stops in civilisation: watercolour scenes of forests and lakes, probably painted by little old ladies with no family left; it seems fitting. (Sam is a bright and attentive boy, his first grade teacher wrote, but his sense of humour is inappropriate and verging on macabre.)
He spends an hour in the bathroom with the shower running, numbering the days from now to 365. His hand doesn’t cramp; his pen doesn’t run out; he doesn’t lose count, not once. So much can happen in a year, yeah, but you put it on paper and it’s no time at all. It’s nothing.
+
On day 127, he wraps the calendar up in an old t-shirt and stuffs it down to the bottom of his bag.
On day 130, he takes it out again.
+
“Let’s go to the movies, man,” Dean exclaims, day 174, as he bursts through the bedroom door with a bright, broad grin. “Die Hard 5 is out, and I wanna see Bruce Willis be badass one last time.”
Sam spits out white foam into the sink and runs his toothbrush under the cold tap. 365-174=191, 365/100=3.65 and 174/3.65=47.67. That’s 48%; almost halfway. Dean is almost halfway. Dean is...
Dean is flicking through a painfully colourful magazine he must have picked up with his coffee, waving glossy pictures of explosions in Sam’s face and, “It’s got twice as much bloodshed as the last one and they got that guy who did Dracula to be the bad guy and- dude! Keira Knightley! You can’t tell me she’s not hot, Sammy. I’d have to disown you-”
3.65x50=182.5, 182.5-174=8.5, just over a week until they really are halfway and Christ, he has no idea what he’s doing.
“-and she’s British, so she’s gotta be wild in bed, they’re all so repressed-”
“Dean.” Sam lathers up the soap, rubs his hands together with his back to his brother. “You sure we can afford it?”
He dries his hands on the courtesy towel, picks at a stain that looks like blood. Whose? he wonders as Dean, magazine tossed to one side, pulls the latest phoney credit-card out of his wallet with a flourish. “Marcus Zakovich’s treat, Sammy.”
He’s grinning. Oh God, he’s grinning so brightly.
“No, I mean-” Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. “You sure we can afford it?”
And just like that, the smile has gone. Dean’s eyes harden and his jaw tightens. Like magic. “I’m paying my price, Sam. You saying I can’t have fun while I wait?”
8.5 days, and then they cross the line.
“Yeah, Dean,” he murmurs, glancing up. His eyes are burning and he can’t meet Dean’s gaze, focussing on elbows, ears, the fuzz of too-long hair. “I guess I am.”
The magazine had landed by Dean’s feet in his excitement, and he kicks it viciously as he stalks out.
+
182.5/7=26 weeks left.
Every second is a second Sam has lost.
+
Ruby reappears on day 190, which is 12 days (288 hours, 17280 minutes...) since she last visited them- visited Sam, to dispense her cryptic and infuriating remarks. “Hey Sammy,” she croons, trailing her nails up and down the back of his neck like an announcement of arrival. “Working hard, are we?”
“You’d know,” Sam grinds out. He’s not far away from cracking the password on yet another promising-but-protected site, and he will not turn around to look at her, he will not turn around to look at her-
“But where’s our third musketeer, Sammy?” Footsteps behind his back, and he can hear her pouting, stalking around the room- come play with me- like a hungry lioness. “It’s getting late. Getting dark. Room sure seems empty without him, doesn’t it?”
He grits his teeth. He will not turn around.
“Doesn’t it, Sammy?”
“My name is Sam, Ruby. Sam. Okay? And yeah, Dean’s gone out, which is why you’re here, because you never appear when you think he’s gonna catch you. And no, I don’t know where he is. You’re the demon here- if anyone knows, it’s you, so just-” he’s turned around, back twisted painfully, and neck twisted painfully, with the chair digging into his ribs. What wouldn’t he give right now for a real office with a swivelling chair?
He breathes in deeply, counts to ten, and drops the hand he hadn’t meant to raise. “Just stop with the tacky mind games and tell me what you want, okay?”
Her grin is all teeth and no eyes, filled with cold delight. She’s got- no, the body she’s stolen has got the kind of looks that first drew him to Jess (January 24, drinking alone in a crowded bar), but she will never, ever be beautiful.
“Whatever you say, Sammy. No need to lose your temper,” she tosses her hair, advances on him with a swish of her hips, and bends down to whisper in his ear, “I was going to tell you some information about your quest to save Dean-o, but we’ve spent so long chatting there just isn’t time.”
Her nails dig in at his hairline. Sam can hear, now, the distinctive purr of the Impala drawing close; she must have heard it minutes ago. Before she even appeared, perhaps.
“Wait.” He grabs her wrist as she pulls away. Her skin is cold. “When can you tell me?”
The engine cuts off; Dean’s parked, he’s home, locking the car doors. Ruby licks her lips, still smiling. “Go outside on day 195. You know when that is, don’t you, Sammy?” Footsteps, keys rattling. “And if you don’t... well, just check your little calendar, hmm?”
She blows him a kiss and then she’s gone, as Dean unlocks the door. Sam twists around quickly and minimises the website on the laptop screen, and his voice is calmly measured when he calls over his shoulder “Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Out,” Dean snaps, clattering and thudding as he kicks off his boots. He smells of smoke and booze and something sweet. “Having fun. Remember that, Sammy?”
195 days is 53% is not long enough.
Sam swallows thickly. “Yeah, I remember.”
+
191: they check out in brittle silence, the woman behind the desk watching them with wary eyes as she takes back the key. They drive.
192: another stupid, ugly room with a stack of newspapers and rumours of a banshee in town. Dean sings along to the radio, loud and cheerful. Sam circles and underlines and works out that website’s password in the back of his mind.
193: Sam’s hand is sore from where the banshee chewed on it. It screamed at Dean until he shot it in the head, ‘Just shut up, will you?’, and they limp back to the car laughing so hard they can’t breathe.
194: it’s a bright, sunny day, and Dean leans across the table to flick Sam with a spoon and say: “Wanna see a movie?” Sam has ice-cream in his hair. He shrugs, “Okay.”
+
Sam goes outside. It’s day 195, like she said, and they’re staying in the middle of nowhere, in a motel full of truckers and bikers who stare at the pair of them suspiciously. Dean thinks it’s hilarious. Sam’s just too tired to care.
It’s a cold night, clear and blank and with the road fading into distant darkness on either side. He’s hanging around in the parking lot, praying nobody mistakes him for a hooker and thinking longingly of his warm bed. When Dean was about eighteen, he remembers, he went through a cigarette phase; they’d sneak out of bed together to smoke and laugh and- in Sam’s case- cough, until Dad came home late one night and ripped Dean a new one. Neither of them took it up again after that, but Sam almost wishes he had, for a warming taste of smoke in his lungs.
He rubs his arms and shivers, packing back and forth. The website was a false lead, a waste of time, password hacked for no good reason, but he’ll call Bobby tomorrow while Dean’s having breakfast and see if he’s made any breakthroughs and then-
“Hey there, stranger. Not keeping you up, am I?” Ruby emerges from the shadows. Her eyes are liquid black in the dark.
“How long have you been there?” he tries to snarl, but his teeth are chattering.
Ruby beams, stretching her pale arms like she’s basking in the sun. Her skin is goose-pimpled, and she’s wearing only a t-shirt and jeans, but she doesn’t shiver. “Long enough to know you talk to yourself. Wow, Sam, you just get weirder by the minute. And you went to college?”
He’s not in the mood. Rolling his eyes and hugging himself tightly, he turns to go back inside. The air flickers and- just like that- she’s standing in front of him again, one hand on his chest.
“Easy, tiger. I know how to keep a secret. And besides, don’t you wanna save your poor, dear brother?” She walks her fingers up his body, punctuates her question with a sharp tap on his nose.
Sam sighs. “Are all the renegade demons as annoying as you?”
“Well, sure. We gotta get our fun from somewhere,” but she steps back, eyes travelling over him like he’s a work of art. “You aren’t going to like this.”
“Just tell me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to divulge my valuable information to the class. But first...” a thin smile and wide black eyes. “I want you to kill a guy for me.”
“What? I-” he’s shaking his head, backing away, mouth open as he struggles for words. “I’m not a killer.”
“Oh please, Sammy. Cut the morals crap. You killed the crossroads demon. You killed demons who did absolutely nothing to you. Tell me, what’s the difference between a kinda nice one of us, and a really bad one of you?” Her words are whip-sharp, but she’s still smiling as she says them, head titled coyly to one side.
He can’t speak. He can’t answer. And that’s answer enough for her, as she says “Well, then, I guess it’s bye-bye to Dean-o. Tell him it was nice knowing him,” and she’s turning and strolling away.
365-195=170 days. 4080 hours. Dean was always better at math.
Sam whispers “Wait.”
It’s not loud. It’s loud enough.
+
Day 199; breakfast; so close to the point of no return Sam can almost taste it. Dean can’t. The pretty waitress who tops up their coffee with a smile can’t, and nor can the passers-by in the streets. It’s obscene; it’s incomprehensible. It’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s going to hurl next time he opens his mouth.
Dean’s talking enough for the both of them. “-I don’t see why you were so desperate to come to New Orleans anyway. These are my dying days; you never heard of last requests? Kidding, I’m kidding, it’s cool. I like New Orleans- man, did I ever tell you about the time I came here with dad? There was this little cafe, did the best damn gumbo I’ve ever tasted... I wonder if it’s still around. ‘Though, I gotta say, Sam, for a guy who was so desperate to give the place a visit, you’re looking a bit on the mopey side.”
He pauses, fork hovering in mid-air, and the look he shoots Sam is filled with the kind of sharpness people never expect the first time they meet Dean. “You haven’t been dreaming again, have you?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Sam murmurs. His stomach holds steady. Dean visibly relaxes, turning back to his bacon.
There’s a thick brown envelope hidden under Sam’s pillow back at their hotel. It was waiting for him at the desk when they got there, under ‘Jimmy Page’- a name Dean had given him all of ten minutes before they arrived, and the check-in guy said it had been there for almost a week already. He read it while Dean was showering, memorised the details and the guy’s face in the photos.
The guy was scum. He deserved to die. He deserved to die. He deserved-
“Sam? Sammy? Earth to geekboy?” Dean’s waving a hand in his face, and has been for a while if the way he’s frowning is anything to go by.
“Sorry.” Sam sits up straight, shakes his head and sips his coffee. It’s gone cold.
“If it’s the fairies you’re away with, I’m gonna have to salt you, you realise?” Dean says with a grin. All the waitresses and barmaids up and down the country who swoon when he smiles would probably be brought to tears by that grin.
“I’d like to see you try, shortass,” Sam snorts. He’s aiming for disdain, but the surge of affection must have leaked through because Dean’s smile only widens.
It doesn’t matter, Sam realises, whether the guy deserves to die or not.
+
Day 200. 165 days left and 55% is over halfway and oh God, oh God, he’s just killed a man. A man. A human being with friends and family and a life, and yeah, the guy wasn’t about to win any awards for good behaviour, but since when was it up to Sam to decide?
Sam, who is shaking and scrubbing his hands and gasping for breath, maybe because he’s sobbing so hard or maybe because he emptied his stomach a couple minutes ago.
He just killed a man he didn't know to save his brother, because a demon who may or may not be on his side told him to, and the worst of it. Oh God. The worst of it is: he doesn’t even care. It was worth it.
Anything would be worth it.
Christo.
Christo.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum...