[Samsara; A Wandering-on] 1111.
Sam is Scully, because Sam is a red-haired woman.
And bitch, because well. There's no evidence against it, and plenty for it, though Sam'd have to strip down to prove it and Dean's decided he's pretty okay with taking that on faith.
College Boy, because he'd been that, too. Done a stint in California for a time and Dean knows Sam doesn't want to be reminded, not when he can't ever go back, but hell; Dean hadn't wanted him to go, so bringing it up is like calling it even.
Then Psychic Boy, because isn't there a TV show all about that?
Sammy when Dean's scared, or when he's feeling a little juvenile, and a lot of the time it's both at once, because fear is a little juvenile when you're trying to make it in this business.
...And Lassie, because god, he just looks like such a kicked puppy when Dean's trying to play it cool and Sam is trying to save him and Dean can't care because he doesn't want his last stand to be a losing one.
.
.
.
.
.
In Hell, none of these apply. In Hell, he's SAMSAMSAMSAMSAMSAM.
SAMSAMSAM because it's the shortest, easiest thing to think, the sharpest sound he can make, and it doesn't sound quite so pathetic as help, please, God--fuck when you're spitting it around blood and molars and shrapnel from your own jaw.
He's SAMSAMSAM because it takes him back to sliding in the mud, catching him, catching the sight of some motherfucker's blade shoved through his spine. Watching as the flutter of eyelids and heartbeats and life life life roll on out like the storm in the distance and realizing that he's watching his brother become his brother's body.
The rain comes falling down, samsamsam, as it dribbles down Dean's shoulders and creeps in at his neckline and slides down his skin, wary of shirt and mindful of the vicious cold that lances all through him, the kind that says nothing matters anymore. It forgets it's all a joke, some supernatural edition of Punk'd; the cameras are supposed to come out and the lights are supposed to say "Just kidding." Instead, the rain whispers samsamsam, because it's not a joke; it's not a joke, and it's life, and life is a fucking artistic shitstorm so of course it's raining and here they are, bleeding out in the muck and dark at the very bottom.
samsamsam
It doesn't rain in Hell.
samsamsam
Dean just lets the whole thing play out; anything to keep his mind off the sound of his blood as it drips down, pools at some rock bottom depth he can't see (can't see because where the fuck are this eyes and--), Hell's version of Chinese water torture. Off the snail trail of adipose tissue crusting on his cheek, dribbling into his mouth and gluing it shut. Off the way Alistair turns the knife just right and Dean tries to scream (lungs lungs where are they) and Alistair croons
they are children of God they are all children of God they are the perfect creatures of God, sculpted from Heaven and Earth and Paradise and they are the statuesque little bastard progeny of God and he is going to carve
God's newest masterpiece. Avant garde. New Age. Contemporary-like. You'll love it Dean, you really will. I'd promise you a mirror but, hell (and pun unintended, pardon me, Dean, you don't think that's very funny do you) look at where you are. Just look around. Look at your company.
Whole damned place is just one big mirror.
'M I as pretty as the Sistine Chapel, Alistair? Gotta be a little too monochromatic, for a man of your tastes. Blood-red is very teen goth.
He forgets about yellow--fat between layers of epithelial tissue--and green so THAT'S what a gallbladder looks like and black (everything dries black) and
Black black black is the color of everything in Cold Oak, South Dakota just remember South Dakota just remember Sam his blue-tinged everything remember the
cold
and just remember
what got you here.
And the biggest fucking rip? He's using that night, that fucking night (it's two days clear of the cruelest month, or so it goes yes he's read a poem yes of course it's that Eliot dude and yes it's because he knew he was going to Hell and because he's pretty sure Sam's a fan because Sam is just that nihilistic but there they were surrounded by all the shit that finally caught up with them)--he's using that to hide from Now. To hide from pain. And that's ten shades of fucked up, because.
Because nothing--
Nothing in the world should hurt more than losing Sam.
.
.
.
.
.
That's when Dean knows he's lost.
Yes. Do you hear me, you fucking sadist?
Yes.
samsamsam is the sound flesh makes as it flays open under Dean's direction and Dean hopes to high hell Sam's using Ruby's knife to carve him up some demons, so they can at least pretend there's some balance left in the world.
He's back to just 'Sam' when Dean climbs out of Hell and into Bumfuck, America, because Dean doesn't think there was enough cash in that Mini Mart to get the gravestone guys to carve much more than that--that and Dean doesn't think they'd go for "Sam, who made some dumbass deal to bring his brother back" no matter how much he paid them.
He's Sam when they lock into some kind of awkward embrace, because Sam looks like he still half-believes he's hugging a ghost and for a split moment, Dean thinks he's got his arm's around a corpse, and not a brother.
He's Sam, because Sammy wouldn't understand (of course Sam doesn't either, can't, but he might try). He's Sam, because three letters have never been that powerful (not even S E X).
He's Sam, because I'm not just your kid brother anymore, Dean.
He's Sam, because he's old enough now to prove he's just as big a fuck-up as everyone else left in this family (and Dean's still not exactly comfortable with the bare exclusivity of this).
He's Sam, because take him or leave him, everything just comes back around to
him. Like Sam is the motherfucking Apocalypse, tied up in one neat six-foot-four package.
No.
At the end of the day, he's just Sam.
Just Sam.
Dean means to keep it that way. It wouldn't be the first time he'd--
Chump change. Chump change is all it is, if it's going to keep Sam Sam. Just Sam.
.
.
.
.
.
Yes.
samsamsam
This is the first day it rains in Hell.
samsamsam
Hell fucking yes.
And bitch, because well. There's no evidence against it, and plenty for it, though Sam'd have to strip down to prove it and Dean's decided he's pretty okay with taking that on faith.
College Boy, because he'd been that, too. Done a stint in California for a time and Dean knows Sam doesn't want to be reminded, not when he can't ever go back, but hell; Dean hadn't wanted him to go, so bringing it up is like calling it even.
Then Psychic Boy, because isn't there a TV show all about that?
Sammy when Dean's scared, or when he's feeling a little juvenile, and a lot of the time it's both at once, because fear is a little juvenile when you're trying to make it in this business.
...And Lassie, because god, he just looks like such a kicked puppy when Dean's trying to play it cool and Sam is trying to save him and Dean can't care because he doesn't want his last stand to be a losing one.
.
.
.
.
.
In Hell, none of these apply. In Hell, he's SAMSAMSAMSAMSAMSAM.
SAMSAMSAM because it's the shortest, easiest thing to think, the sharpest sound he can make, and it doesn't sound quite so pathetic as help, please, God--fuck when you're spitting it around blood and molars and shrapnel from your own jaw.
He's SAMSAMSAM because it takes him back to sliding in the mud, catching him, catching the sight of some motherfucker's blade shoved through his spine. Watching as the flutter of eyelids and heartbeats and life life life roll on out like the storm in the distance and realizing that he's watching his brother become his brother's body.
The rain comes falling down, samsamsam, as it dribbles down Dean's shoulders and creeps in at his neckline and slides down his skin, wary of shirt and mindful of the vicious cold that lances all through him, the kind that says nothing matters anymore. It forgets it's all a joke, some supernatural edition of Punk'd; the cameras are supposed to come out and the lights are supposed to say "Just kidding." Instead, the rain whispers samsamsam, because it's not a joke; it's not a joke, and it's life, and life is a fucking artistic shitstorm so of course it's raining and here they are, bleeding out in the muck and dark at the very bottom.
samsamsam
It doesn't rain in Hell.
samsamsam
Dean just lets the whole thing play out; anything to keep his mind off the sound of his blood as it drips down, pools at some rock bottom depth he can't see (can't see because where the fuck are this eyes and--), Hell's version of Chinese water torture. Off the snail trail of adipose tissue crusting on his cheek, dribbling into his mouth and gluing it shut. Off the way Alistair turns the knife just right and Dean tries to scream (lungs lungs where are they) and Alistair croons
they are children of God they are all children of God they are the perfect creatures of God, sculpted from Heaven and Earth and Paradise and they are the statuesque little bastard progeny of God and he is going to carve
God's newest masterpiece. Avant garde. New Age. Contemporary-like. You'll love it Dean, you really will. I'd promise you a mirror but, hell (and pun unintended, pardon me, Dean, you don't think that's very funny do you) look at where you are. Just look around. Look at your company.
Whole damned place is just one big mirror.
'M I as pretty as the Sistine Chapel, Alistair? Gotta be a little too monochromatic, for a man of your tastes. Blood-red is very teen goth.
He forgets about yellow--fat between layers of epithelial tissue--and green so THAT'S what a gallbladder looks like and black (everything dries black) and
Black black black is the color of everything in Cold Oak, South Dakota just remember South Dakota just remember Sam his blue-tinged everything remember the
cold
and just remember
what got you here.
And the biggest fucking rip? He's using that night, that fucking night (it's two days clear of the cruelest month, or so it goes yes he's read a poem yes of course it's that Eliot dude and yes it's because he knew he was going to Hell and because he's pretty sure Sam's a fan because Sam is just that nihilistic but there they were surrounded by all the shit that finally caught up with them)--he's using that to hide from Now. To hide from pain. And that's ten shades of fucked up, because.
Because nothing--
Nothing in the world should hurt more than losing Sam.
.
.
.
.
.
That's when Dean knows he's lost.
Yes. Do you hear me, you fucking sadist?
Yes.
samsamsam is the sound flesh makes as it flays open under Dean's direction and Dean hopes to high hell Sam's using Ruby's knife to carve him up some demons, so they can at least pretend there's some balance left in the world.
He's back to just 'Sam' when Dean climbs out of Hell and into Bumfuck, America, because Dean doesn't think there was enough cash in that Mini Mart to get the gravestone guys to carve much more than that--that and Dean doesn't think they'd go for "Sam, who made some dumbass deal to bring his brother back" no matter how much he paid them.
He's Sam when they lock into some kind of awkward embrace, because Sam looks like he still half-believes he's hugging a ghost and for a split moment, Dean thinks he's got his arm's around a corpse, and not a brother.
He's Sam, because Sammy wouldn't understand (of course Sam doesn't either, can't, but he might try). He's Sam, because three letters have never been that powerful (not even S E X).
He's Sam, because I'm not just your kid brother anymore, Dean.
He's Sam, because he's old enough now to prove he's just as big a fuck-up as everyone else left in this family (and Dean's still not exactly comfortable with the bare exclusivity of this).
He's Sam, because take him or leave him, everything just comes back around to
him. Like Sam is the motherfucking Apocalypse, tied up in one neat six-foot-four package.
No.
At the end of the day, he's just Sam.
Just Sam.
Dean means to keep it that way. It wouldn't be the first time he'd--
Chump change. Chump change is all it is, if it's going to keep Sam Sam. Just Sam.
.
.
.
.
.
Yes.
samsamsam
This is the first day it rains in Hell.
samsamsam
Hell fucking yes.