Supernatural fic:Exitus Acta Probat 1/1 [PG-13] Dean, Bobby - 6.11 coda
Title: Exitus Acta Probat
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Bobby
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.11
Notes: Coda #3 to 6.11
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take.
Dean waits for Sam to wake up. Bobby just waits.
For
samidha, to address the blanket problem. ;)
02/02/11 11:36:09 AM
Exitus Acta Probat
One minute, Sam was screaming.
It was impossible not to think of it as Sam, even though Dean had been practicing, working hard at separating what was walking around right now - well, up to now - without a soul as Sam, his brother Sam. This version of Sam even admitted it wasn't his brother. Didn't care about Dean at all. Obviously didn't care about Bobby. Dean's blood ran colder than liquid ice when he thought about what he might have found had he been just moments slower getting back.
So, this wasn't Sam, screaming. This was something... some thing, Sam's meatsuit, walking around on its own with... Sam's memories.
Sam's gestures.
Sam's face and body.
Sam's eyes had never been that flat, that cold... except sometimes, this version was so good at mimicking the puppy eyes. Sincere enough to get under Dean's skin, so he had to... to work at it. Remind himself.
Not Sam. Sam without his soul. Nothing but a perfect hunter, a perfect killing machine, devoid of feelings, only instincts. That "it" didn't want his soul back, well, that proved it wasn't Sam. Sam would never have wanted to live without his soul. Even though the lack of it left him free of guilt and free of pain....
Screaming.
The next minute, Death was gone, and the screaming was silence and Sam was... still. So very still.
Heart hammering in his throat, Dean swallowed and moved towards the cot, checking for a pulse. Call it seventy-five percent.
For a moment Dean thought he'd done it. Killed his brother.
The pulse under his probing fingertips was so faint.
Dean looked up at Bobby, relief giving the answer the older hunter was asking with his eyes. Dean expected Bobby to come over to the cot, to help him unfasten the metal restraints.
Bobby swallowed, and nodded, lips pressed together. Then with a flash of something less regret and more self loathing, Bobby turned away, leaving the rest to Dean.
It wasn't until the next morning that Bobby came back downstairs, his steps slow, not quite dragging. He had a mug of coffee in one hand.
Dean was asleep, head pillowed on his arm, ass in a chair, arm on the cot.
Sam hadn't moved. His features were so still they might have been carved out of tan-colored alabaster.
A muscle in Bobby's jaw clenched as he wrestled with himself. Sam had been like a son to him. He should have stayed, watched over him, made sure Dean got some dinner, tried to chase him to bed, though it likely wouldn't have worked.
When he looked at the still figure he wanted to feel worry, and concern. He did feel those things. But the terror of watching that knife flash upwards and then down towards his own chest...
His hand shook, sloshing hot coffee over his knuckles.
By the time Dean woke up - just a minute or so later - Bobby had the shake under control. He crossed the space to hand the mug to Dean and had to wait while the older Winchester brother checked Sam's pulse, and the temperature of his skin.
Dean wiped a hand over his face and reached for the coffee without registering Bobby's tension, not at first anyway.
"Still not awake?" Bobby's voice sounded rougher than its usual other-than-dulcet tones. Dean chalked it up to worry.
"No," he answered the obvious, the frown lines cutting deep.
Naively, he'd let himself expect Sam to just... wake up. Smile or cry or want a hug, or something.
Stupid, and he knew it. But there was always that part of Dean that refused to grow up, even after hell and everything.
"I'll get a blanket," Bobby managed gruffly, starting to move away. The tone of it finally got at least a part of Dean's attention.
"Don't, he's already too warm. Like a banked fire."
The words didn't come easily, any more than Dean could stop from obsessively speculating unpleasantly on what was happening inside the shell of flesh and bone that wore Sam's face.
Sam had to wake up. Had to.
Dean had tried his best to prepare himself for his brother being a basket case, even while part of him still expected to get Sam back, good as new.
Deep, deep inside, Dean had never really eradicated the tiny voice that insisted, because he needed it. Needed Sam. Needed Sam to come back. To be okay. Needed, ultimately, not to have failed.
~
12:34:01 PM
♠ season 6 codas
~
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Bobby
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.11
Notes: Coda #3 to 6.11
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take.
Dean waits for Sam to wake up. Bobby just waits.
For
samidha, to address the blanket problem. ;)
02/02/11 11:36:09 AM
Exitus Acta Probat
One minute, Sam was screaming.
It was impossible not to think of it as Sam, even though Dean had been practicing, working hard at separating what was walking around right now - well, up to now - without a soul as Sam, his brother Sam. This version of Sam even admitted it wasn't his brother. Didn't care about Dean at all. Obviously didn't care about Bobby. Dean's blood ran colder than liquid ice when he thought about what he might have found had he been just moments slower getting back.
So, this wasn't Sam, screaming. This was something... some thing, Sam's meatsuit, walking around on its own with... Sam's memories.
Sam's gestures.
Sam's face and body.
Sam's eyes had never been that flat, that cold... except sometimes, this version was so good at mimicking the puppy eyes. Sincere enough to get under Dean's skin, so he had to... to work at it. Remind himself.
Not Sam. Sam without his soul. Nothing but a perfect hunter, a perfect killing machine, devoid of feelings, only instincts. That "it" didn't want his soul back, well, that proved it wasn't Sam. Sam would never have wanted to live without his soul. Even though the lack of it left him free of guilt and free of pain....
Screaming.
The next minute, Death was gone, and the screaming was silence and Sam was... still. So very still.
Heart hammering in his throat, Dean swallowed and moved towards the cot, checking for a pulse. Call it seventy-five percent.
For a moment Dean thought he'd done it. Killed his brother.
The pulse under his probing fingertips was so faint.
Dean looked up at Bobby, relief giving the answer the older hunter was asking with his eyes. Dean expected Bobby to come over to the cot, to help him unfasten the metal restraints.
Bobby swallowed, and nodded, lips pressed together. Then with a flash of something less regret and more self loathing, Bobby turned away, leaving the rest to Dean.
It wasn't until the next morning that Bobby came back downstairs, his steps slow, not quite dragging. He had a mug of coffee in one hand.
Dean was asleep, head pillowed on his arm, ass in a chair, arm on the cot.
Sam hadn't moved. His features were so still they might have been carved out of tan-colored alabaster.
A muscle in Bobby's jaw clenched as he wrestled with himself. Sam had been like a son to him. He should have stayed, watched over him, made sure Dean got some dinner, tried to chase him to bed, though it likely wouldn't have worked.
When he looked at the still figure he wanted to feel worry, and concern. He did feel those things. But the terror of watching that knife flash upwards and then down towards his own chest...
His hand shook, sloshing hot coffee over his knuckles.
By the time Dean woke up - just a minute or so later - Bobby had the shake under control. He crossed the space to hand the mug to Dean and had to wait while the older Winchester brother checked Sam's pulse, and the temperature of his skin.
Dean wiped a hand over his face and reached for the coffee without registering Bobby's tension, not at first anyway.
"Still not awake?" Bobby's voice sounded rougher than its usual other-than-dulcet tones. Dean chalked it up to worry.
"No," he answered the obvious, the frown lines cutting deep.
Naively, he'd let himself expect Sam to just... wake up. Smile or cry or want a hug, or something.
Stupid, and he knew it. But there was always that part of Dean that refused to grow up, even after hell and everything.
"I'll get a blanket," Bobby managed gruffly, starting to move away. The tone of it finally got at least a part of Dean's attention.
"Don't, he's already too warm. Like a banked fire."
The words didn't come easily, any more than Dean could stop from obsessively speculating unpleasantly on what was happening inside the shell of flesh and bone that wore Sam's face.
Sam had to wake up. Had to.
Dean had tried his best to prepare himself for his brother being a basket case, even while part of him still expected to get Sam back, good as new.
Deep, deep inside, Dean had never really eradicated the tiny voice that insisted, because he needed it. Needed Sam. Needed Sam to come back. To be okay. Needed, ultimately, not to have failed.
~
12:34:01 PM
♠ season 6 codas
~