I Might Lose the Sun, 4/4
So, we're finally here. Now, for--
warnings before reading: major character death, dark!fic, some religious themes. Hope you guys enjoy!
I Might Lose the Sun, 4/4
He sees them, every once in a while. When he's walking through the woods, or looking out the windows of the little cabin, he can see...things moving; black shadows that ripple across his vision, and if he looks long enough it's like vertigo, spinning him in place. The first few days that Dean stayed, Sam felt different, felt electric currents in the air, tingling through him, as if there was always a threat of an impending storm. But now, ten days after Dean came to Washington, decided to stay, Sam's seeing. It's not the first time demons have gathered in one place, they've tended to flock around his family, but this is the first time that he's never had his brother or father there, at his back.
Sometimes he wants to ask Dean what they look like. He remembers Dean's face the nights before his year was up. The horror and disgust every time he looked at Ruby or had seen someone possessed. Even, he thinks, when Dean would look at him; he had wondered about that, then, about what it meant. But he had been fixated on Dean's deal, on what was coming for him, and he had never asked. Now, he's starting to think that was a mistake. Maybe he should have made time, found out what Dean saw, if it was the skittering shadows like Sam's seeing now, or if it's the completed form that he knows lurks in Ruby's shell, and maybe in Dean's.
But every time he opens his mouth, full of questions and accusations, the only words that come out are I'm sorry. And he is; it's what's weighted him down for these past months. What's stilled him every time he thought of stopping his brother, thought of saving the people Dean's eyed. He's been guilty of failing for so long that he can't remember what it's like to fight. Somewhere, after Dean's deal was done, Sam just broke. The parts that made him a hunter collapsed, and where his brother or his father would have kept on, he fell. He's ashamed of it, but the only other thing with him is Dean, and he's gone so far that he can almost make enough sense of it to see it through.
The certainty's coming easier to him, now. Dean's here, with Sam, and never goes far, or for long, without him in tow. Sam's comfortable with that, though being with his brother is a lot like being caged with a wild animal. The violence is there, always as an undercurrent that seems to run right beneath Dean's skin; sometimes Sam'll trail his fingers along Dean's back, feel the muscles bunch and shift, and think of the things that would claw their way out of his brother if they could; he knows Dean's aware of it, has seen him turn his head at the touch, stare at him with knowing eyes and a smirk.
So, yeah, it's always there, right in between them; but so many things are, and Sam thinks that if he loses out on a few, well, then, at least Dean is where Sam is, and even if he can't send Dean back to hell like he should at least he's keeping him from hurting more people. For now, anyway. He's went on less, much less and made do, so he'll take this for as long as he can.
888
Sam's days bleed into one another. There isn't much to do except explore the area, and they do. Every day they go out, farther and farther, and look. Sam watches the shapes flicker in the corner of his eyes, but they never do anything, they're just there--a presence that feels almost solid, like a brick wall hidden by the trees. They aren't going to do anything, Sam decides, but he still carries a vial of holy water and the twice-blessed knife his dad had given him for his sixteenth birthday.
It's a medium length, two-sided blade, wicked and curved; it's blessed by holy water and, according to his dad, the prayers of eight priests. He's always kept it clean, sharp; loved the way the light danced along the metal, skirted the smooth edge and fractured in the teeth of the serrations on the other. Dean had kept it, when Sam moved to California, and had given it back the day after Jess burned up on the ceiling. It was as taken care of as if Sam had never left. Even the leather on the hilt had retained his hand's shape, as if Dean took special care not to touch when he cleaned it, as if another's print would ruin what was Sam's.
Now, whenever he straps it on (sheathe cool, tight, familiar against his thigh), Dean stays a step or two ahead. It doesn't fool Sam; he's seen his brother handle the knife without a flinch. He's even whisked the smooth edge across Dean's flesh, drawn blood (he wonders separately if that's just an illusion, a human nicety his brother indulges in), and only seen the tentative beginnings of smoke. No, the weapon doesn't hurt what his brother's become, any more than holy water would. Sam knows Dean's moved beyond those things, and he thinks Dean keeps up the act for Sam's benefit, so Sam might think that he could use them, in anger, and hurt his brother.
But Sam's had nothing but time to watch Dean, and he knows that what could hurt Dean is hidden in their father's journal (maybe), which he hasn't really looked at since this whole thing began, or it's in some text of Bobby's, but that's an even more remote possibility than their dad's scrawled out notebook. The truth is, though, that he doesn't wear them to protect himself from Dean--his brother is too far under Sam's skin for that anyway; he wears them to make sure the things that flit at the corners of his eyes stay there, at a distance. Maybe he's never fought Dean, maybe he would let his brother take whatever he wanted, but those things have no hold on Sam; there's no debt to justify their presence, so Sam keeps the water and the knife close as he trails behind his brother, and ignores the voices muttering in his head about learning curves and rates of exchange. Ignores the flashes of Ava and Jake, eyes glassy, movements manic and jerky. It's over, he thinks, it's over.
888
It's on one of these walks that they stumble across the graveyard. It's been abandoned for years; the grass is thick and lush brushing up their jeans, pressing against the sides of tombs and gravemarkers. Everything is crumbling, little pieces of stone lie everywhere, and Sam's feet find them easily until he's walking like an old man, trying to carefully search the area before placing his foot anywhere.
There's rustling all around them; wind, animals scurrying in the woods, and it feels alive, which isn't anything Sam's ever used to describe a grave site before. But it's true, and he walks around, trying to read the epitaphs, but the years have bleached the words from the stone, and there's only one that still reads Frederick, but that's all. No date or message, but Sam sees the distance between that headstone and the next, and figures the man had been an adult, or close to.
"Sam." Dean's voice is farther away than he expected, and he looks up to see his brother standing at another grave, and he makes his way slowly to him. His shoulder brushes Dean's and he hears a thick sound, before, "Look."
It's a child's grave (infant); there are blocks of bone-white stone at each end of a small rectangular plot. Sam imagines digging it up and seing a tiny coffin hiding tiny, brittle bones. He gazes around, is surprised to see many more; they vary in length, but none are anywhere close to the others Sam's been finding.
"The children's cemetery," he says, voice soft. He feels Dean shift, feels his brother's shoulder dig into his for a second before he eases away. He doesn't know what killed these kids, but judging from the age of the place, he thinks it could have been anything from starvation to hypothermia. For some reason, it saddens him to think of all the little bodies losing warmth, life, somewhere in the mountains. It doesn't seem quite fair.
His brother is quiet, hands in the pockets of his jeans. They stay that way for a long time, and Sam sees the sun start to set, bleeding orange and pink over the clearing. He doesn't want to pull Dean from whatever thoughts his brother's lost in, because that one quick glance that Sam got before Dean had looked back down at the marker was filled with sorrow. It shocks Sam, who's gotten used to the cool and aloof version of his brother. And he doesn't want it to end, to see that emotion slip away, but Dean's stirring, says, "Let's go, Sammy." And as simple as that it's gone, the Dean Sam knows is back, and he casts one last glance backwards, sees the fading light fall on stone, on earth, before he turns away.
888
They go to the graveyard almost every day after that. Just stand or sit, and it would have reminded Sam of Wyoming, of the Devil's Gate, and everything they had let loose, except this one is peaceful; there's the weight of years here, but nothing else. Even the specters following them don't invade this place, and Sam doesn't mind coming, doesn't mind running his finger against time-blunted memories and thinking about who these people might have been.
But at night Dean lies wrapped around him, arms strong and unyielding. He breathes into the back of Sam's neck, and whispers--vibrations Sam feels spreading through his back before his ears relay sound--about chains and hooks and pain. It's as if seeing that place has crumbled some wall inside his brother, and he tells Sam everything of hell, everything he remembers. Sam never says anything, there's no comfort he can give, and he doesn't think Dean wants it, anyway. He just lays there, shivering as hot breath ghosts over him, and tries not to put pictures to the words Dean says.
Then, Dean says, "I forgot about you, Sammy." And Sam wonders why that feels like a curse, why there's something heavy and intent behind it. "I forgot about you in there. But." The arms tighten, and Sam's ribs protest, but it never quite makes it into sound. "You were the first thing I remembered when I got out." The kiss Dean plants is soft, lingering, but Sam feels it like a burn.
888
Dean shakes him awake one night, murmurs, "Come with me," but Sam's bleary from sleep, trying to shake off some half-forgotten nightmare, and pulls away. He thinks about trying to close his eyes, trying to find some blankness to lull him under, but his brother is an unending presence by the side of the bed. It makes him feel hunted.
"Fine," he mutters, throwing a leg down to find boxers, jeans. "Fine." It should only take him a minute to get dressed, but he can feel Dean's stare, evaluating every movement, and it makes him fumble at zippers, at buttons. He inhales and holds it for a minute, brushing tangled hair from his eyes.
He doesn't know what his brother is doing, but he feels cornered, and reaches for the knife tucked under the mattress. Dean's there before he can blink, hand around Sam's wrist, and each finger feels like an iron band. "No. You don't need it." And Sam wants to argue, feels it jack-hammering in his throat, but the pain races through him, and he swears his bones are about to be crushed, so he nods his head (fool, fool), and sighs when Dean releases him.
He finds his discarded hoodie and slips it on. It'll be cool, he thinks, and wishes he had the forethought to stash something in it's pocket. But he's out of time, out of ideas, as he makes his way to the door, stopping only to glance at the clock hanging on the wall. Three o'clock. The witching-hour, he thinks, but he doesn't wince or startle as Dean steps behind him, a hand on his shoulder to direct him. Sam doesn't really need it; he knows where they're going, knows Dean's been drawn to it ever since that first day. Sam wants to shake his brother off, but the grasp feels more like a clamp, and he's not willing to see who'll win that contest.
As they walk, Sam knows the others are out, can sense the crackle of them over the night-sounds, over the pounding of his pulse. They keep back like always, but the darkness through the woods is too completely black to be natural, and Sam knows that they're there in force; their solidity sends uneasiness through him, and he thinks, power. The only question is who. Is it Dean they're living on, or him?
He twists his head around, catches sight of Dean's face. Every angle is thrown into sharp relief by the shadows and moonlight, until it looks like his brother is comprised solely of bone. "Dean--"
But they've made to the cemetery, and Dean shoves at him, sending him tripping into it. "What--" and it's more breathless than he intended, but his brother's stalking up to him, shadows playing around him, eyes glittering. "Dean," and he's backing away, angling for a better stance when Dean's body crashes into him.
The force of it bears him down, and for a moment he can't breathe, can only feel hands pinning his arms down. Then he's sliding a leg between Dean's, hooking his ankle, and pushing. It unbalances Dean enough that Sam can scramble away, pull himself up by one of the giant slabs of stone (a tomb, a tomb).
Dean's laughing, even as he closes in. "Don't you wanna play, Sammy?" And his brother's closer, easy enough to lash out with a fist. It's a wild throw, but lands evenly on Dean's jaw, brings blood to his mouth. Sam can't talk, his mind is looping endlessly, horrified choruses of nononono; it's all he can do to keep his eyes on his brother, dance away from the form creeping inexorably closer.
His brother blocks another punch, and when Sam spins, intent on getting an elbow to Dean's temple, he wishes he had something, knife or gun, besides his own two hands. But he doesn't, and as his next move is turned, he feels Dean wrap an arm around his throat, using his free hand to yank Sam's up and behind his back. He can feel Dean panting, chest heaving into his back, and he struggles, brings his leg back to slam into knee, but Dean's stance is wide, wider than Sam guessed, and his foot hits empty air, makes him stumble in Dean's grasp. The pressure of Dean's forearm brings tears to his eyes until he can find ground, support himself, and put as much distance between them as possible.
"Come on, man." Dean sounds amused, and Sam knows, knows what's at stake. "You can't tell me you didn't know how this would end," he's turned around, and there's distance between them, an arm's length; before he can break his brother's hold, though, hands are sliding from shoulders to neck, cupping either side, gentle. Sam can feel the threat in it, how easy it would be for his brother to snap his neck. Knows he will if Sam moves.
"Yeah," he manages, feels fingertips drum against his skin. "Yeah, I did." There's a moment of hesitation; Sam can see it shimmer across his brother's pale face, but then Dean's hands are tightening, and Sam is blinded by pain, sharp and throbbing; it feels like his insides are on fire, and he's dimly aware that he's screaming, wordless cries before they're cut off, and he's on his knees in front of Dean, trying to draw in air, something, to still the pulsing ache in his body.
It's only when Dean pushes him against the tomb, Sam's back raking along it, that he realizes he can't move. He stares up at his brother, mute, and he sees something in Dean's hands. Circular and dark, and he thinks what are you doing? Before Dean's in front of him, and he sees it--nails bound together, bent so that the tips curl down. He tries to yell, anything, but his throat's spasming, leaving him voiceless. He hears Dean hum a moment and then he's slamming the thing onto Sam's head, and Sam can feel skin parting at the taste of nails, and then blood oozing down across his forehead, pooling at the back of his neck.
"Hell's own messiah," and it comes out of Dean like a purr. Sam can see a vague outline of his brother through the red that's leaking into his eyes, stealing his vision. Dean's squatting in front of him, veering away from Sam's splayed legs. If he could, he'd swing them, take Dean down, at least for a moment. He wants to put up some kind of fight, but now that he feels that familiar anger, that desire to move, he can't. He can only feel the nails, bent and twined around each other, digging into his forehead, his scalp. Can only listen as Dean murmers, "Got your own crown of thorns, too." Dean leans forward, hands braced on Sam's knee. "All that power, Sammy. Everything. And you didn't come for me. Coulda walked right in, Sam. Walked in, and they woulda bowed to you. Did you know that?" Hands are on him; one grasping his hair, jerking his head back so quick the pain lances through him. The other is around his throat, pressing in, choking off breath. "No, guess you didn't. Bet you didn't even check it out." His head cracks against the tomb, the circle of nails driven deep, and Sam thinks he can feel each piece of flesh rip and tear, can hear it over the pounding in his ears. "Couldn't mark you up like that, huh? You wanna know something, though?" Dean's chuckle sounds like dying, "You're more demon than me. How's that for irony?"
It's not anything he hasn't already imagined, he wants to say. But between the hands and Dean's mojo he's silent, still, even as Dean grasps his legs, pulls until he's flat on the ground. He feels weight on him, knows Dean's on top of him. Cool air is brushing his chest, and he thinks maybe his shirt's gone. Dean's tugging at him, pressure without pain, but Sam can't tell why.
It goes on and on, sensations becoming more vague; there's ripping and tearing and a flood of warmth in his hands, feet, and on his sides, under his ribs. But it's distant, like it's not him lying there, as if it's anyone else, one of the dozens of bodies that Dean's stacked up between them. He feels slightly cheated, had wanted pain from this, had thought it would be atonement of a kind, but it's just his head rolling to the side, overgrown grass tickling his closed eyes, his cheeks. It's Dean's whispered, "I'll always get you, Sammy," that's like a buzz of heat through his veins.
888
The sound winds its way through Bobby's dreams, heavy and beating, and he jerks awake, heart hammering. He's groggy and disoriented, still caught in the edges of sleep, but the unmistakable noise of a horn has him stumbling around, getting to the front door to see a UPS truck sitting in the long stretch of drive-way. He wanders out, scratching his belly and wishing he had on more than a ragged pair of shorts. But he doesn't get many visitors, so this has to be important.
"What?" He's standing by the open door of the truck, watching as the man pulls a cardboard envelope from a box and runs a scanner over it. "What is it?"
"An insured letter, sir." The man hands him the envelope and the scanner. He scrawls his name in the little screen. Watches as the man presses a few buttons, then puts it away. "Have a nice day, sir." The dust is thick as the truck backs away. Red and clinging in the humid air. The sun is free of clouds, and Bobby's always thought days like this were ugly, empty, with the sun beating down from a piercing blue sky. It makes everything bare, inescapable.
So he goes to his porch, stands there and stares at the thing in his hands. Remembers the last package he was sent, and feels slightly queasy. Damn Winchesters, he thinks before ripping at the tabs and peering inside. It's just a slip of paper, and he pulls it out, looks it over and flips it to the back. An address in Washington. That's it.
But he recognizes the handwriting, and he feels something in him tear apart. He shoves the paper back inside, and his fingers spasm, almost like they're trying to seal the damn thing back up. It's too late, he figures, but he'll head that way tomorrow.
fin