Fic: Another Golden Weight on His Shoulders
Title: Another Golden Weight on His Shoulders
Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Gen - Sam and Dean (well...unless you count Jo/ceiling fire)
Words: 1,213
Warnings: Character death (but not the boys), ANGST central!
Summary: Another day, another blonde, and the yellow-eyed demon thinks the world is his personal play-toy to rip apart as the brothers self-destruct.
DISCLAIMER: I am not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country.
A/N: she_eats_worlds go figure right? always says how much she doesn't like Jo. And while I ADORE Jo, we came to the conclusion that Jo/ceiling fire should be a pairing. It's been an inside joke for a while. And I also haven't written for a while. So a bit of fandom ranting to fuel the emotions and give me a reason to spoil, and here it finally is. My sad little baby. I'm kinda proud of it and it's been awhile since I've written present tense, so it pleases me. Just as writing deep angst does. So yey...kinda. Ha!
Btw...this is the BEST fucking song in the world and I wish the artist would release the full version to the public. Guh!
There's a steady blare of old rock and Dean grabs at his waist, glancing over at Sam, still sleeping much to his surprise. One hand still resting on the steering wheel, the Impala speeding down a quiet country road, Dean glances at the phone and answers it without a second thought.
"Ellen, whaddya got for us?"
It's only been a few short seconds when he slams on the brake, jolting Sam awake as the Impala skids to a halt, taking up both lanes, but to Dean it seems like it's been days, months, years. His mouth goes dry, arm growing heavy and he mutters a hesitant "we'll get there soon" before his hand finally drops to his lap and the call ends.
Dean doesn't speak, doesn't take his foot off the brake...doesn't even move. And Sam is worried. Worried for more than he cares to admit to, but still worried. He flicks the car into park, watching as Dean's foot finally relaxes and his body sinks into the seat.
"What happened?"
Dean glances at Sam with sad eyes. He doesn't know how to tell him without Sam feeling like it's his fault. But it isn't. It never is. It's all that damn fucking yellow-eyed demon. But Sam won't see it like that and Dean knows it.
"What happened?" Sam presses again, furrowing his brow.
"It's Jo," Dean finally mumbles, low and aching, and he's not really sure he even said it at all, but Sam has this look, eyes regretful and pleading.
Sam's eyes close and he shakes his head. "No," he mutters, shifting in his seat, head still shaking, voice pleading to something unseen, unfelt. "No, no...no."
"We have to get to the Roadhouse."
And even though Dean's the one driving, neither does a thing to get back on the road. Sam rests his head in his palms and Dean swears to fucking God his heart can't take it anymore. He can't keep seeing Sam like this; lost, broken, pained. He's the one that's supposed to feel that weight, not Sam, never Sam. He's the one that supposed to feel the burden of the family, the one that's lost without Sam (because Sam can move on after he's gone), the one that breaking at the thought of losing everything that's ever mattered to him (because really, what does he have left if something happens to his little brother?). Sam shouldn't have to feel it if Dean can take it all himself.
But Dean doesn't really know what he can possibly do, what he hasn't done already. With shaky hands, he throws the car back into gear, whipping the car around and heading back down the road to Harvelle's Roadhouse. He won't be able to keep the truth from Sam forever, but as long as Sam doesn't have to feel the full effect on the drive home, he hopes it'll be enough.
Sam fights to open his eyes again, digging his fingertips deep into the skin of his denim-clad knees. He ignores the twinge of pain, ignores the urge to rub his temple lest he give Dean a sign of what's really going on, he ignores the desperation to growl and scream and punch the dash. And it's not even about his wrist that's still hasn't been quite up to par from that zombie bitch breaking it so long ago, it's not really about Dean getting an inkling that Sam knows more than he lets on...he just doesn't want to hurt the Impala because it's like stabbing Dean straight in the heart. If something happens to him, the Impala is all Dean has left. At least "she" comes back from the dead.
As his nails dig in further and Sam stares out the window and the scenery zipping by the window, the dreams he wished were only dreams flash through his mind again. The fire is ripping across the ceiling, snapping wickedly, teasing his fear and pain with every crackle of the wood. And the blonde hair, flowing like golden silk...singing, burning, ceasing to exist.
Mom... The drip of blood and his brother's arms wrapped tightly around him, protecting...always protecting.
Jessica... Blood christening...stinging, bitter fear. I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it. It's all my fault. The heat, the ache, the desperate grip of Dean's hands, pulling him away, saving him...always saving.
Jo... He saw it. Sam knew the blood dripping to the ground. He knew the spread of the fire, the roar of the flame, the crawl beneath his skin. He should have known it wasn't just a dream. Nightmares weren't the fiction everyone else was lucky to know.
"I couldn't save her."
It's barely above a whisper. If the radio had been on at all, Dean wouldn't have even heard him, would've barely noticed as Sam slumps down in the passenger seat like he's just given up the fight of his life. And maybe he has.
"Whaddya talking about?" Dean grunts, watching Sam with quick side-glances, worrying setting the lines on his face.
"We can't save them all, right?"
If Dean didn't know better he'd say Sam sounded amused. But he does know better, and he hits the brake again, slower, steady, the Impala dragging to a gentle halt. The only sounds are Sam's staggered breaths over the purr of the engine.
"What are you talking about, Sam?"
Dean's more persistent this time, grabbing Sam's wrist and waiting for Sam to look him in the eye. Sam finally looks up, eyes moist as they stare out from beneath the fall of his hair. He bites his lips and Dean swears his heart is fucking shattered, the growing cracks all worn to nothing.
"I knew and I couldn't save her."
Dean lets go of Sam's wrist, swallowing hard as a dry lump builds quickly in his throat. A part of him doesn't want to finish the conversation, a part that just wants to drive and drive and not even go to the Roadhouse. But there's that nagging curiosity, worry, anxiety...and he just has to know, even if the answer is probably obvious.
"Save who, Sammy?"
"He took her. He took Jo for no fucking reason other than making our world his own personal play-toy. The blood, the fire, the ceiling...It'll never end. The yellow-eyed demon will take it all."
Dean rubbed at his mouth, turning away from Sam and hitting the gas again. He couldn't deal with this right now. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart. If the demons didn't take Sam, Sam was likely to destroy himself and Dean couldn't watch that happen. They couldn't both self-destruct. One of them had to stay strong...or at least seem strong.
"You're not telling Ellen," Dean choked, kicking the Impala up past the speed limit, eyes never leaving the road. "She doesn't need to know. It's not your fault."
Neither spoke for the rest of the drive. It was too late to do anything about Jo. She was gone like the rest. But Dean could feel Sam slipping away, and if they weren't careful, no one could save either of them either. For now, all they could do was get to Ellen and hope that in the end, they'd have time to save each other while saving the world.
Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Gen - Sam and Dean (well...unless you count Jo/ceiling fire)
Words: 1,213
Warnings: Character death (but not the boys), ANGST central!
Summary: Another day, another blonde, and the yellow-eyed demon thinks the world is his personal play-toy to rip apart as the brothers self-destruct.
DISCLAIMER: I am not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country.
A/N: she_eats_worlds go figure right? always says how much she doesn't like Jo. And while I ADORE Jo, we came to the conclusion that Jo/ceiling fire should be a pairing. It's been an inside joke for a while. And I also haven't written for a while. So a bit of fandom ranting to fuel the emotions and give me a reason to spoil, and here it finally is. My sad little baby. I'm kinda proud of it and it's been awhile since I've written present tense, so it pleases me. Just as writing deep angst does. So yey...kinda. Ha!
Btw...this is the BEST fucking song in the world and I wish the artist would release the full version to the public. Guh!
There's a steady blare of old rock and Dean grabs at his waist, glancing over at Sam, still sleeping much to his surprise. One hand still resting on the steering wheel, the Impala speeding down a quiet country road, Dean glances at the phone and answers it without a second thought.
"Ellen, whaddya got for us?"
It's only been a few short seconds when he slams on the brake, jolting Sam awake as the Impala skids to a halt, taking up both lanes, but to Dean it seems like it's been days, months, years. His mouth goes dry, arm growing heavy and he mutters a hesitant "we'll get there soon" before his hand finally drops to his lap and the call ends.
Dean doesn't speak, doesn't take his foot off the brake...doesn't even move. And Sam is worried. Worried for more than he cares to admit to, but still worried. He flicks the car into park, watching as Dean's foot finally relaxes and his body sinks into the seat.
"What happened?"
Dean glances at Sam with sad eyes. He doesn't know how to tell him without Sam feeling like it's his fault. But it isn't. It never is. It's all that damn fucking yellow-eyed demon. But Sam won't see it like that and Dean knows it.
"What happened?" Sam presses again, furrowing his brow.
"It's Jo," Dean finally mumbles, low and aching, and he's not really sure he even said it at all, but Sam has this look, eyes regretful and pleading.
Sam's eyes close and he shakes his head. "No," he mutters, shifting in his seat, head still shaking, voice pleading to something unseen, unfelt. "No, no...no."
"We have to get to the Roadhouse."
And even though Dean's the one driving, neither does a thing to get back on the road. Sam rests his head in his palms and Dean swears to fucking God his heart can't take it anymore. He can't keep seeing Sam like this; lost, broken, pained. He's the one that's supposed to feel that weight, not Sam, never Sam. He's the one that supposed to feel the burden of the family, the one that's lost without Sam (because Sam can move on after he's gone), the one that breaking at the thought of losing everything that's ever mattered to him (because really, what does he have left if something happens to his little brother?). Sam shouldn't have to feel it if Dean can take it all himself.
But Dean doesn't really know what he can possibly do, what he hasn't done already. With shaky hands, he throws the car back into gear, whipping the car around and heading back down the road to Harvelle's Roadhouse. He won't be able to keep the truth from Sam forever, but as long as Sam doesn't have to feel the full effect on the drive home, he hopes it'll be enough.
Sam fights to open his eyes again, digging his fingertips deep into the skin of his denim-clad knees. He ignores the twinge of pain, ignores the urge to rub his temple lest he give Dean a sign of what's really going on, he ignores the desperation to growl and scream and punch the dash. And it's not even about his wrist that's still hasn't been quite up to par from that zombie bitch breaking it so long ago, it's not really about Dean getting an inkling that Sam knows more than he lets on...he just doesn't want to hurt the Impala because it's like stabbing Dean straight in the heart. If something happens to him, the Impala is all Dean has left. At least "she" comes back from the dead.
As his nails dig in further and Sam stares out the window and the scenery zipping by the window, the dreams he wished were only dreams flash through his mind again. The fire is ripping across the ceiling, snapping wickedly, teasing his fear and pain with every crackle of the wood. And the blonde hair, flowing like golden silk...singing, burning, ceasing to exist.
Mom... The drip of blood and his brother's arms wrapped tightly around him, protecting...always protecting.
Jessica... Blood christening...stinging, bitter fear. I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it. It's all my fault. The heat, the ache, the desperate grip of Dean's hands, pulling him away, saving him...always saving.
Jo... He saw it. Sam knew the blood dripping to the ground. He knew the spread of the fire, the roar of the flame, the crawl beneath his skin. He should have known it wasn't just a dream. Nightmares weren't the fiction everyone else was lucky to know.
"I couldn't save her."
It's barely above a whisper. If the radio had been on at all, Dean wouldn't have even heard him, would've barely noticed as Sam slumps down in the passenger seat like he's just given up the fight of his life. And maybe he has.
"Whaddya talking about?" Dean grunts, watching Sam with quick side-glances, worrying setting the lines on his face.
"We can't save them all, right?"
If Dean didn't know better he'd say Sam sounded amused. But he does know better, and he hits the brake again, slower, steady, the Impala dragging to a gentle halt. The only sounds are Sam's staggered breaths over the purr of the engine.
"What are you talking about, Sam?"
Dean's more persistent this time, grabbing Sam's wrist and waiting for Sam to look him in the eye. Sam finally looks up, eyes moist as they stare out from beneath the fall of his hair. He bites his lips and Dean swears his heart is fucking shattered, the growing cracks all worn to nothing.
"I knew and I couldn't save her."
Dean lets go of Sam's wrist, swallowing hard as a dry lump builds quickly in his throat. A part of him doesn't want to finish the conversation, a part that just wants to drive and drive and not even go to the Roadhouse. But there's that nagging curiosity, worry, anxiety...and he just has to know, even if the answer is probably obvious.
"Save who, Sammy?"
"He took her. He took Jo for no fucking reason other than making our world his own personal play-toy. The blood, the fire, the ceiling...It'll never end. The yellow-eyed demon will take it all."
Dean rubbed at his mouth, turning away from Sam and hitting the gas again. He couldn't deal with this right now. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart. If the demons didn't take Sam, Sam was likely to destroy himself and Dean couldn't watch that happen. They couldn't both self-destruct. One of them had to stay strong...or at least seem strong.
"You're not telling Ellen," Dean choked, kicking the Impala up past the speed limit, eyes never leaving the road. "She doesn't need to know. It's not your fault."
Neither spoke for the rest of the drive. It was too late to do anything about Jo. She was gone like the rest. But Dean could feel Sam slipping away, and if they weren't careful, no one could save either of them either. For now, all they could do was get to Ellen and hope that in the end, they'd have time to save each other while saving the world.