5.10 Coda
Recently I felt a little frustrated by my inability to just sit down and write anymore. I used to write a LOT and now it always feels like I'm writing for some bigger project. So, as part of my catch-up for new SPN, here is a coda for 5.10. It is a bit scrappy and definitely not happy but I wrote it, so I feel pretty good about it.
Coda for Abandon all Hope
(mild Sam/Dean, 1100 words, unbeta'd)
Morning came, blasted into silence, and Sam was still by the fireside. The coals were black and dead, and there was nothing left of the photo, not even ash.
Dean stirred on the couch. He rolled into a sitting position, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, before looking over at Sam. It was a cursory look, an instinct from when his primary concern was that Sam was still with him. He stood up, hobbled a few steps, then cursed, stamped his foot on the ground. Sam watched without speaking.
"Foot’s gone dead," Dean muttered.
He went out onto the porch and sunlight painted his stretching shadow on the floor through the door, creaking as it wavered open. Sam waited in silence, his gaze turned back to the fireplace while he dully registered the shuffling sound of Dean moving outside. He didn't look up again when Dean came back in.
"Bobby still asleep?" Dean said.
"Yeah," said Sam.
Dean nodded.
He set one of their bags on the kitchen table and laid out the guns. His hands and gaze ran quickly over each in turn as he assessed them, just like John had taught them. Sam watched him for a moment, then he looked down at the bag of knives by his feet, considered it briefly, before he looked back at the fireplace.
Each gun went down with a small thud on the scratched wooden tabletop. Sometimes, there would be a pause while Dean would linger over one, checking a nick or rubbing over a patch of grease. They should have been cleaned last night and Sam felt an itch of guilt that it hadn't been done, even though John had been dead for years and couldn't scold them. Maybe they'd clean them tonight; Dean would do the guns while Sam took the knives, and they'd pass a whole hour in a motel room as depressing as all the others, and it might not feel a pathetic waste of time.
"Puts Hell in perspective, I guess," said Dean, and they'd lived with each other too long for Sam to be surprised that their minds still sometimes ran together. "This whole 'fate worse than death' bullshit, I mean."
All that time spent as children, while Sam was hating John and driven damn close to hating Dean too, and all the time hunting and being scared and being brave, and all the time Dean had been in Hell and Sam had thought he was going to die it hurt so much, was pointless. Sam never needed to worry about Dean being in Hell, because Michael was always going to have him pulled out when he was ready.
Just like the Devil was always going to come calling at Sam's door one day.
"I think maybe we should go back to Ilchester," said Sam. "That's where Lucifer was caged. Maybe we can find out more there."
Dean nodded.
Finished with the guns, Dean packed them away in the bag. Sam moved his feet out of the way when Dean came to collect the bag of blades. Dean opened the second bag, and, too late, Sam remembered the cloth he had shoved in there last night, after he’d hastily wiped the demon blood from Ruby’s knife. Dean unfolded the cloth. The blood was dark and dry, and Sam watched Dean study it. Dean’s lips went tight and Sam waited, expectantly, for Dean’s gaze to rise to him. Sam didn’t bother looking innocent or indignant, let Dean think whatever he wanted.
Instead, Sam got up and went into the kitchen. The room was shabby, because Bobby wasn’t big on housekeeping even when they weren’t hunting the Devil. The two beer bottles that Sam and Dean had been drinking the night before last were still standing on the sideboard, side by side. Sam touched the smear of fingerprints around the neck on one of them, visible in the sunlight, then he looked towards the refrigerator.
He remembered Jo and Dean standing just there, remembered Jo’s delighted dark eyes as she shot Dean down, remembered her blood-crisp blonde curls and waxy skin.
He went back into the living room, stopped by the table where Dean was running the pad of his thumb along the serrated blade of a knife that used to be Sam’s. “You’d’ve married Jo, wouldn’t you? If things were different. I think you would.”
Dean’s hands went still, then snapped back into motion. He packed the knives briskly back into the bag and zipped it shut with a snap. Then he turned to Sam, put his hand on Sam’s face, both tender and threateningly heavy, fingers dipping into Sam’s hairline and resting on the smooth skin just in front of his ear. His eyes glittered, faintly crazed, and Sam’s face went hot under his hand.
“No. Stuck with you, aren’t I?” He kissed Sam then, quick and hard and dry. “For bad or for worse, you and me.”
Holding Dean’s gaze, Sam laid his hand over Dean’s. He slowly tangled their fingers together, until their knuckles were grinding together and he could feel his own fingertips pressed to his cheek. Then he used his grip to pull Dean’s hand from his face. Dean didn’t fight him. Sam broke eye-contact to pick the bag of knives up. He swung it up onto his shoulder.
“I’ll stick this in the trunk,” he said.
Outside, the air was still and silent, listening to the storm coming in from Carthage. Bobby’s house looked small under the flat stretch of white sky, like a huff and puff and it’d all be blown away. They’d spent the night hiding under a few bricks and planks.
As he slung the bag into the Impala, Dean’s footsteps crunched on the ground behind him. Sam moved out of the way and Dean put the bag of guns in. Their bodies were close for a moment, both of them pressed into the angle of the open car door, and Sam enjoyed the sensation and felt uncomfortable about it, and he wondered about the day when Dean would be this close and Dean wouldn’t be Dean and he wouldn’t be Sam.
“Stop for breakfast on the way, okay?” said Dean.
He went around the side of the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Sam watched the back of his head as he checked the mirror, swapped cassette tapes in the deck, did the usual business of the start of the day’s driving. Then he stopped, turned a little, and Sam knew Dean was waiting for him.
Sam hesitated, because he could just walk. He could turn and walk back to Carthage, or away from Carthage, or anywhere that was not with Dean. Because Dean hurt too loudly and Sam was tired of feeling that he was going to be making up for this thing that Dean didn’t even properly understand for the rest of his life.
He could just walk.
Except, Lucifer and Michael were just going to put them back together.
Sam climbed in next to Dean. He supposed marriages had survived on less love.
~end
Coda for Abandon all Hope
(mild Sam/Dean, 1100 words, unbeta'd)
Morning came, blasted into silence, and Sam was still by the fireside. The coals were black and dead, and there was nothing left of the photo, not even ash.
Dean stirred on the couch. He rolled into a sitting position, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, before looking over at Sam. It was a cursory look, an instinct from when his primary concern was that Sam was still with him. He stood up, hobbled a few steps, then cursed, stamped his foot on the ground. Sam watched without speaking.
"Foot’s gone dead," Dean muttered.
He went out onto the porch and sunlight painted his stretching shadow on the floor through the door, creaking as it wavered open. Sam waited in silence, his gaze turned back to the fireplace while he dully registered the shuffling sound of Dean moving outside. He didn't look up again when Dean came back in.
"Bobby still asleep?" Dean said.
"Yeah," said Sam.
Dean nodded.
He set one of their bags on the kitchen table and laid out the guns. His hands and gaze ran quickly over each in turn as he assessed them, just like John had taught them. Sam watched him for a moment, then he looked down at the bag of knives by his feet, considered it briefly, before he looked back at the fireplace.
Each gun went down with a small thud on the scratched wooden tabletop. Sometimes, there would be a pause while Dean would linger over one, checking a nick or rubbing over a patch of grease. They should have been cleaned last night and Sam felt an itch of guilt that it hadn't been done, even though John had been dead for years and couldn't scold them. Maybe they'd clean them tonight; Dean would do the guns while Sam took the knives, and they'd pass a whole hour in a motel room as depressing as all the others, and it might not feel a pathetic waste of time.
"Puts Hell in perspective, I guess," said Dean, and they'd lived with each other too long for Sam to be surprised that their minds still sometimes ran together. "This whole 'fate worse than death' bullshit, I mean."
All that time spent as children, while Sam was hating John and driven damn close to hating Dean too, and all the time hunting and being scared and being brave, and all the time Dean had been in Hell and Sam had thought he was going to die it hurt so much, was pointless. Sam never needed to worry about Dean being in Hell, because Michael was always going to have him pulled out when he was ready.
Just like the Devil was always going to come calling at Sam's door one day.
"I think maybe we should go back to Ilchester," said Sam. "That's where Lucifer was caged. Maybe we can find out more there."
Dean nodded.
Finished with the guns, Dean packed them away in the bag. Sam moved his feet out of the way when Dean came to collect the bag of blades. Dean opened the second bag, and, too late, Sam remembered the cloth he had shoved in there last night, after he’d hastily wiped the demon blood from Ruby’s knife. Dean unfolded the cloth. The blood was dark and dry, and Sam watched Dean study it. Dean’s lips went tight and Sam waited, expectantly, for Dean’s gaze to rise to him. Sam didn’t bother looking innocent or indignant, let Dean think whatever he wanted.
Instead, Sam got up and went into the kitchen. The room was shabby, because Bobby wasn’t big on housekeeping even when they weren’t hunting the Devil. The two beer bottles that Sam and Dean had been drinking the night before last were still standing on the sideboard, side by side. Sam touched the smear of fingerprints around the neck on one of them, visible in the sunlight, then he looked towards the refrigerator.
He remembered Jo and Dean standing just there, remembered Jo’s delighted dark eyes as she shot Dean down, remembered her blood-crisp blonde curls and waxy skin.
He went back into the living room, stopped by the table where Dean was running the pad of his thumb along the serrated blade of a knife that used to be Sam’s. “You’d’ve married Jo, wouldn’t you? If things were different. I think you would.”
Dean’s hands went still, then snapped back into motion. He packed the knives briskly back into the bag and zipped it shut with a snap. Then he turned to Sam, put his hand on Sam’s face, both tender and threateningly heavy, fingers dipping into Sam’s hairline and resting on the smooth skin just in front of his ear. His eyes glittered, faintly crazed, and Sam’s face went hot under his hand.
“No. Stuck with you, aren’t I?” He kissed Sam then, quick and hard and dry. “For bad or for worse, you and me.”
Holding Dean’s gaze, Sam laid his hand over Dean’s. He slowly tangled their fingers together, until their knuckles were grinding together and he could feel his own fingertips pressed to his cheek. Then he used his grip to pull Dean’s hand from his face. Dean didn’t fight him. Sam broke eye-contact to pick the bag of knives up. He swung it up onto his shoulder.
“I’ll stick this in the trunk,” he said.
Outside, the air was still and silent, listening to the storm coming in from Carthage. Bobby’s house looked small under the flat stretch of white sky, like a huff and puff and it’d all be blown away. They’d spent the night hiding under a few bricks and planks.
As he slung the bag into the Impala, Dean’s footsteps crunched on the ground behind him. Sam moved out of the way and Dean put the bag of guns in. Their bodies were close for a moment, both of them pressed into the angle of the open car door, and Sam enjoyed the sensation and felt uncomfortable about it, and he wondered about the day when Dean would be this close and Dean wouldn’t be Dean and he wouldn’t be Sam.
“Stop for breakfast on the way, okay?” said Dean.
He went around the side of the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Sam watched the back of his head as he checked the mirror, swapped cassette tapes in the deck, did the usual business of the start of the day’s driving. Then he stopped, turned a little, and Sam knew Dean was waiting for him.
Sam hesitated, because he could just walk. He could turn and walk back to Carthage, or away from Carthage, or anywhere that was not with Dean. Because Dean hurt too loudly and Sam was tired of feeling that he was going to be making up for this thing that Dean didn’t even properly understand for the rest of his life.
He could just walk.
Except, Lucifer and Michael were just going to put them back together.
Sam climbed in next to Dean. He supposed marriages had survived on less love.
~end