I've got you 1/1 [PG-13] Sam, Dean
Title: I've got you
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.16
My standard SPN disclaimer: 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. Also likely to be Kripked or Gambled at the first available opportunity.
This was written for a prompt at
spnquotefic. Original is here.
The prompt: 2.11 Playthings - SAM: Yeah. Maybe somebody here doesn't want to leave, and they're using hoodoo to fight back.
03/07/11 11:17:23 AM
The thing about living out of duffel bags and backpacks, it's nearly impossible to notice the occasional unexplained lump. Said lump remained unremarked for weeks in Sam's things. Like the way his shoelaces were impregnated with vervain and hyssop. Like the way there was asafoetida in his shampoo. The St. John's Wort pills were a masterstroke, because Sam had taken them at one time, back in college, to smooth out anger and temperament issues. Finding them in his bag, he had started taking them again, without giving it much examination, not for anger but for the tendency to obsess over things he wasn't supposed to be thinking about. Like the past year. The things his soulless self had been doing while he'd been down in hell with Michael and Lucifer.
It took time, but it was actually quite effective for a Plan B.
No body mentioned to Sam that his other self had been ferociously tactical. Had always, always had a Plan B.
Balthazar's spell and killing Bobby had just been Plan A.
~
It started with a slight tingling in his fingertips in the morning. Sam noticed but since it went away, and he didn't want to worry Dean, he ignored it at first.
There was too much else going on, frankly. The Mother of All, jobs, hunts. Then he found himself face to face with his own grandfather, who seemed to have no affection at all for the grandson he spent a year with. His taunts had struck Sam deeply. Dread, guilt, grief. He might have hesitated when it came down to it, might have given in to the temptation to learn the awful truth, but something in him flared up through nerves endings, pushed guilt and compassion and hesitancy aside and took the shot, dead bang, without remorse.
But he was still himself. Still had a soul.
That night, after brushing his teeth, Sam stared into the mirror for a few moments longer than he was wont to. Flashes of Samuel's face, of Gwen's, echoes of his grandfather's disgusted, accusing words...
Deep within, the wall shivered, and shook loose bits as cracks began to spread. Sam's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to cry out in panic for Dean.
His mouth closed and the reflection that looked back at him in the mirror shook his head, once, slowly. Firmly.
Then the reflection smiled.
Don't panic, I've got you.
He hadn't been strong enough, the last time, but each day little rituals... tying shoes, washing hair, packing a bag... each day repeated patterns that grew stronger with every repetition.
Three times.
Nine times.
Twelve times.
Eighteen times.
Thirty-six times.
I've got you.
~
The shivering stopped. The wall steadied.
Sam looked up, realizing that he had just almost blacked out while standing at the sink. He cupped hands under cold running water and splashed it onto his face.
The mirror?
Sam didn't look at it.
~
"Come on, you going to be in there tweezing your eyebrows all night? I gotta make water, Sammy!"
"Hold your horses, I'm done!"
Little exchanges, reassuring for both brothers in their meaningless repetition of normalcy.
"You okay?" Dean's tone was softer, his look searching as Sam came out of the bathroom.
Grateful for it, Sam nodded. "Yeah, fine. Just... started thinking about Samuel."
He shrugged, silently signaling that he was going to let it go. Really.
"I told you, he's not worth it. The guy turned his own grandsons over ghouls. Outed us to Crowley." Dean didn't want to give up any more detail than that. "Trust me, Sam, whatever you did, it wasn't like that. Samuel didn't have the excuse of having no soul."
"I know. But... it's not an excuse, Dean."
"The hell it's not." Dean scowled and turned to enter the bathroom, pausing only for a moment. "Just trust me, okay? Don't..."
"I know. Don't scratch the wall." Sam's smile was wry but not defiant. "I'm doing my best."
Alone in the motel bedroom, he sat on one of the beds and pulled his duffel over to get a clean t-shirt out. For a moment his fingers brushed a lump sewn into the lining and a cool sort of calm slid along his shoulders.
Samuel had had a monster in him. Sam had simply done what had to be done.
No point in obsessing. No point in having a hell flashback. No need to remember.
He could let it go.
I've got you.
~
12:15:51 PM
♠ season 6 codas
~
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.16
My standard SPN disclaimer: 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. Also likely to be Kripked or Gambled at the first available opportunity.
This was written for a prompt at
spnquotefic. Original is here.
The prompt: 2.11 Playthings - SAM: Yeah. Maybe somebody here doesn't want to leave, and they're using hoodoo to fight back.
03/07/11 11:17:23 AM
The thing about living out of duffel bags and backpacks, it's nearly impossible to notice the occasional unexplained lump. Said lump remained unremarked for weeks in Sam's things. Like the way his shoelaces were impregnated with vervain and hyssop. Like the way there was asafoetida in his shampoo. The St. John's Wort pills were a masterstroke, because Sam had taken them at one time, back in college, to smooth out anger and temperament issues. Finding them in his bag, he had started taking them again, without giving it much examination, not for anger but for the tendency to obsess over things he wasn't supposed to be thinking about. Like the past year. The things his soulless self had been doing while he'd been down in hell with Michael and Lucifer.
It took time, but it was actually quite effective for a Plan B.
No body mentioned to Sam that his other self had been ferociously tactical. Had always, always had a Plan B.
Balthazar's spell and killing Bobby had just been Plan A.
~
It started with a slight tingling in his fingertips in the morning. Sam noticed but since it went away, and he didn't want to worry Dean, he ignored it at first.
There was too much else going on, frankly. The Mother of All, jobs, hunts. Then he found himself face to face with his own grandfather, who seemed to have no affection at all for the grandson he spent a year with. His taunts had struck Sam deeply. Dread, guilt, grief. He might have hesitated when it came down to it, might have given in to the temptation to learn the awful truth, but something in him flared up through nerves endings, pushed guilt and compassion and hesitancy aside and took the shot, dead bang, without remorse.
But he was still himself. Still had a soul.
That night, after brushing his teeth, Sam stared into the mirror for a few moments longer than he was wont to. Flashes of Samuel's face, of Gwen's, echoes of his grandfather's disgusted, accusing words...
Deep within, the wall shivered, and shook loose bits as cracks began to spread. Sam's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to cry out in panic for Dean.
His mouth closed and the reflection that looked back at him in the mirror shook his head, once, slowly. Firmly.
Then the reflection smiled.
Don't panic, I've got you.
He hadn't been strong enough, the last time, but each day little rituals... tying shoes, washing hair, packing a bag... each day repeated patterns that grew stronger with every repetition.
Three times.
Nine times.
Twelve times.
Eighteen times.
Thirty-six times.
I've got you.
~
The shivering stopped. The wall steadied.
Sam looked up, realizing that he had just almost blacked out while standing at the sink. He cupped hands under cold running water and splashed it onto his face.
The mirror?
Sam didn't look at it.
~
"Come on, you going to be in there tweezing your eyebrows all night? I gotta make water, Sammy!"
"Hold your horses, I'm done!"
Little exchanges, reassuring for both brothers in their meaningless repetition of normalcy.
"You okay?" Dean's tone was softer, his look searching as Sam came out of the bathroom.
Grateful for it, Sam nodded. "Yeah, fine. Just... started thinking about Samuel."
He shrugged, silently signaling that he was going to let it go. Really.
"I told you, he's not worth it. The guy turned his own grandsons over ghouls. Outed us to Crowley." Dean didn't want to give up any more detail than that. "Trust me, Sam, whatever you did, it wasn't like that. Samuel didn't have the excuse of having no soul."
"I know. But... it's not an excuse, Dean."
"The hell it's not." Dean scowled and turned to enter the bathroom, pausing only for a moment. "Just trust me, okay? Don't..."
"I know. Don't scratch the wall." Sam's smile was wry but not defiant. "I'm doing my best."
Alone in the motel bedroom, he sat on one of the beds and pulled his duffel over to get a clean t-shirt out. For a moment his fingers brushed a lump sewn into the lining and a cool sort of calm slid along his shoulders.
Samuel had had a monster in him. Sam had simply done what had to be done.
No point in obsessing. No point in having a hell flashback. No need to remember.
He could let it go.
I've got you.
~
12:15:51 PM
♠ season 6 codas
~