fic: "Remember Me" - Sam/Dean - PG
TItle: Remember Me
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean (also hints at Wincestiel)
Rating: PG
Warning: Some language, a shot of soulless!Sam, slight angst, alternating POV's
Spoilers: If you've watched through s6 you're good
Length: 1,529
Summary: It had been so easy in the end, getting Sam's soul back.
A/N: This was written for babykid528, who is saintlike in her patience, when I nearly gave up and forgot about this thing. And I almost did. I almost gave up because it just wasn't coming together quite the way I wanted. And it still isn't quite there, but it never will be. So I'm letting go and letting God, or...whatever. I started writing it about a year and a half ago. However long ago it was when we were still in the heart of s6 and I wanted to write my own version of how Dean got Sam's soul back. A version that maybe hurt a little bit less. Or more. Depending on your perspective.
A/N: This could also be seen as a companion piece to my fic, Evening's Empire, but you don't need to have read that one to read this.
----
It was a late Wednesday afternoon in the middle of April when Dean enclosed Sam in a ring of salt in their motel room, at the spot where the sun shown through a break in the curtains, casting a warm streak of yellow light across the floor.
It had been so easy in the end, getting Sam's soul back. That was the funny thing. Like Dean had the power the whole time, and all he’d had to do was click his heels together and Sam would be home.
Cas had offered to do it all at first, of course, but Dean made it clear that this was his job. His alone.
So Castiel acquiesced.
And the spell was simple enough after he taught Dean the Enochian needed to perform the ritual, so he simply waited patiently by Dean’s side, standing sentry in the corner, ready to step in at a moment's notice-and he did-whenever Dean needed him. He'd nod, and murmur his encouragements or corrections quietly, and only offer his assistance when asked.
And Dean asked. He let Cas draw the various sigils on the floor around them, and check the concealment charms on the windows and doors. And while he waited for Cas to do all of this he took a moment to just...look around the room. He looked at the frayed curtains barely hanging on the window; at the tattered, ill-fitting bedspread; at the threadbare carpet beneath their feet; took in the unmistakable scent of stale cigarettes and musty bedding that he’d come to associate with home since he was nine years old, and he almost laughed. They were always doing the most extraordinary things in the most ordinary places. Sam would say it was poetic; Dean just thought it fucking figured.
Throughout all of this, Sam remained quiet. Observing his brother’s and the angel’s tedious preparations with what seemed only a mild interest and a distracted sort of amusement. And it was that distraction, that...lack of interest that drove Dean and Cas to do this: to finish their job. To get Sam back to that same troubled thing he once was, instead of this hollow shell of a man that neither Dean nor Cas could bring themselves to love.
After a few minutes, Cas stood up from where he’d been putting the finishing touches on one of the symbols near Sam’s right foot. He gave Dean a small nod-everything’s ready-and with a deep breath, Dean began. He held Sam’s gaze as he carefully formed each syllable on his tongue, letting it fall softly from his mouth, filling the air with a hum of ancient words that vibrated through the walls and ceiling with a magic so old even Castiel wasn’t sure he understood it completely. The lights dimmed, and the air turned heavy and warm, the smell of ozone thick around them. Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head and slid shut, and Dean was distantly aware of Cas’s clenched fists where he watched from the sidelines, on-guard and prepared, needing to do something but unable to do anything.
Suddenly, with a small popping sound that startled them both into silence, the room went unbelievably still. They each held their breath for what seemed like an eternity before...
“Is it done?” Dean asked. “Did it work?” He looked at Cas, his eyes were wide and pleading, begging for something, anything, a reassurance that Castiel would have given anything at that moment to give him, but...he had no idea if it had worked.
He was about to say as much when Sam suddenly gasped, taking a deep, heaving breath, and opened his eyes.
“Hey,” Sam said. Simple as that. And he smiled. The first real smile Dean had seen in months, and it knocked the breath out of him.
“Hey.” Dean smiled back, and then he frowned. "How do you feel?"
"I feel...” Sam considered the question with a seriousness that almost made Dean laugh. "Tired," he said. Then he laughed softly, and...passed out.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Dean quickly stepped forward and caught Sam's giant frame before he could hit the floor. He staggered a little under the weight, “Cas, hey. A little help?"
Cas was there, instantly taking the weight, and together they maneuvered Sam to the nearest bed. They laid him down, and Cas stepped back, letting Dean gently tug and pull, carefully situating his brother's legs and laying his hands gently across his chest and stomach because he knew that’s how Sam liked to sleep. Finally, when he was settled to Dean’s liking, Dean stepped back and he and Cas just…watched.
There was an awkward moment when Dean hovered at the edge of the bed, tense and uncomfortable. He shifted back and forth, and his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out and touch, but seemed to think better of it. Castiel could hear him mumble something under his breath, and after a moment he apparently made some conscious decision with himself, and with a muttered ‘fuckit’ he carefully crawled into the bed next to Sam.
He sidled up close, pressing himself almost flush against his brother’s side. He lifted his hand, letting it hover over Sam’s chest for a brief moment before letting it fall gently over Sam’s own, laying still and un-moving against his own chest. Dean’s fingers flexed lightly against Sam’s, and he let out a shaky breath as he closed his eyes and nuzzled in closer.
Castiel watched all of this carefully, keeping his eye on the two boys laid out across the sheets as he slowly made his way around to the other side of the bed across from Dean.
He reached out and reverently touched Sam’s forehead, smoothing away the worry-lines that reappeared with his soul. He pushed his fingers back through Sam’s long hair, brushing the soft strands out of his eyes. He let his hand trail gently down the side of Sam’s face, running his thumb absentmindedly along Sam’s bottom lip, parting it slightly, with a soft, distracted, press and pull of his thumb. He slowly dragged his hand away then, and when he glanced over and caught Dean’s gaze on him he quickly looked away.
“You can stay, you know. If you want,” Dean said.
Castiel looked at Dean, and then he let his gaze fall to Sam. “Thank you,” he said, and he looked back at Dean, “but you should be alone. You need your rest.”
Dean nodded a little, reluctantly, but understanding. He looked back at Sam then, and Castiel watched him study the side of his brother’s face for a few moments, long enough to feel like he was intruding on something private and personal, and he knew it was time to go.
He started to turn when Dean quickly reached out, stopping him.
“Hey.” He grabbed Cas’s wrist, holding it loosely in the warm circle of his fingers. “Thanks,” he said. “For everything.”
Castiel smiled, and when Dean’s hand slowly slipped away from his, their fingers tangled together for a moment, before Dean’s hand gently settled back on his brother's chest, and Castiel left on a whisper of displaced air in the quiet motel room.
----
Dean took a deep breath and sighed, the sound of it loud in the quiet room. He felt his breath against the side of Sam’s face, and he thought about the night he came back from hell and Sam had crawled into bed with him. How Sam had curled up against him and breathed in his air and his skin like if he could just breathe deeply enough he’d trap enough of Dean inside to keep him safe. And Dean had thought it was a little weird then, but all he could think about now was the best way to get as close as he possibly could to Sam without actually crawling inside of him. To curl himself around his little brother and hold him still and quiet while the world turned around them.
Dean let his eyes drift shut, and he carefully pressed his nose against Sam’s cheek. He took a slow, deep breath, and the smell that hit him...that smell. Sam. His Sam. The sharp tang of rock salt and gun oil. The Impala. Cheap motel soap, and that weird shit Sam sometimes sprayed on himself. And Dean suddenly couldn’t get enough. He let out a quiet sob and reached up to grip the side of Sam’s head, pulling him closer so he could bury his face in that spot just behind Sam’s ear, where his hair curled under a little, and it was nothing but SamSamSam.
Dean slowly ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, twisting it and gently petting it back down while he just breathed.
Here-his eyes closed, face buried in the crook of Sam’s neck-the world was dark and still, narrowed down to that perfect spot that was Sam and only Sam, and Dean was fifteen years old again...the windows on the Impala rolled down, and dry summer air blowing through the car...dad’s in a good mood, and Sammy’s laughing in the back seat, and they’re good.
They’re good.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean (also hints at Wincestiel)
Rating: PG
Warning: Some language, a shot of soulless!Sam, slight angst, alternating POV's
Spoilers: If you've watched through s6 you're good
Length: 1,529
Summary: It had been so easy in the end, getting Sam's soul back.
A/N: This was written for babykid528, who is saintlike in her patience, when I nearly gave up and forgot about this thing. And I almost did. I almost gave up because it just wasn't coming together quite the way I wanted. And it still isn't quite there, but it never will be. So I'm letting go and letting God, or...whatever. I started writing it about a year and a half ago. However long ago it was when we were still in the heart of s6 and I wanted to write my own version of how Dean got Sam's soul back. A version that maybe hurt a little bit less. Or more. Depending on your perspective.
A/N: This could also be seen as a companion piece to my fic, Evening's Empire, but you don't need to have read that one to read this.
----
It was a late Wednesday afternoon in the middle of April when Dean enclosed Sam in a ring of salt in their motel room, at the spot where the sun shown through a break in the curtains, casting a warm streak of yellow light across the floor.
It had been so easy in the end, getting Sam's soul back. That was the funny thing. Like Dean had the power the whole time, and all he’d had to do was click his heels together and Sam would be home.
Cas had offered to do it all at first, of course, but Dean made it clear that this was his job. His alone.
So Castiel acquiesced.
And the spell was simple enough after he taught Dean the Enochian needed to perform the ritual, so he simply waited patiently by Dean’s side, standing sentry in the corner, ready to step in at a moment's notice-and he did-whenever Dean needed him. He'd nod, and murmur his encouragements or corrections quietly, and only offer his assistance when asked.
And Dean asked. He let Cas draw the various sigils on the floor around them, and check the concealment charms on the windows and doors. And while he waited for Cas to do all of this he took a moment to just...look around the room. He looked at the frayed curtains barely hanging on the window; at the tattered, ill-fitting bedspread; at the threadbare carpet beneath their feet; took in the unmistakable scent of stale cigarettes and musty bedding that he’d come to associate with home since he was nine years old, and he almost laughed. They were always doing the most extraordinary things in the most ordinary places. Sam would say it was poetic; Dean just thought it fucking figured.
Throughout all of this, Sam remained quiet. Observing his brother’s and the angel’s tedious preparations with what seemed only a mild interest and a distracted sort of amusement. And it was that distraction, that...lack of interest that drove Dean and Cas to do this: to finish their job. To get Sam back to that same troubled thing he once was, instead of this hollow shell of a man that neither Dean nor Cas could bring themselves to love.
After a few minutes, Cas stood up from where he’d been putting the finishing touches on one of the symbols near Sam’s right foot. He gave Dean a small nod-everything’s ready-and with a deep breath, Dean began. He held Sam’s gaze as he carefully formed each syllable on his tongue, letting it fall softly from his mouth, filling the air with a hum of ancient words that vibrated through the walls and ceiling with a magic so old even Castiel wasn’t sure he understood it completely. The lights dimmed, and the air turned heavy and warm, the smell of ozone thick around them. Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head and slid shut, and Dean was distantly aware of Cas’s clenched fists where he watched from the sidelines, on-guard and prepared, needing to do something but unable to do anything.
Suddenly, with a small popping sound that startled them both into silence, the room went unbelievably still. They each held their breath for what seemed like an eternity before...
“Is it done?” Dean asked. “Did it work?” He looked at Cas, his eyes were wide and pleading, begging for something, anything, a reassurance that Castiel would have given anything at that moment to give him, but...he had no idea if it had worked.
He was about to say as much when Sam suddenly gasped, taking a deep, heaving breath, and opened his eyes.
“Hey,” Sam said. Simple as that. And he smiled. The first real smile Dean had seen in months, and it knocked the breath out of him.
“Hey.” Dean smiled back, and then he frowned. "How do you feel?"
"I feel...” Sam considered the question with a seriousness that almost made Dean laugh. "Tired," he said. Then he laughed softly, and...passed out.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Dean quickly stepped forward and caught Sam's giant frame before he could hit the floor. He staggered a little under the weight, “Cas, hey. A little help?"
Cas was there, instantly taking the weight, and together they maneuvered Sam to the nearest bed. They laid him down, and Cas stepped back, letting Dean gently tug and pull, carefully situating his brother's legs and laying his hands gently across his chest and stomach because he knew that’s how Sam liked to sleep. Finally, when he was settled to Dean’s liking, Dean stepped back and he and Cas just…watched.
There was an awkward moment when Dean hovered at the edge of the bed, tense and uncomfortable. He shifted back and forth, and his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out and touch, but seemed to think better of it. Castiel could hear him mumble something under his breath, and after a moment he apparently made some conscious decision with himself, and with a muttered ‘fuckit’ he carefully crawled into the bed next to Sam.
He sidled up close, pressing himself almost flush against his brother’s side. He lifted his hand, letting it hover over Sam’s chest for a brief moment before letting it fall gently over Sam’s own, laying still and un-moving against his own chest. Dean’s fingers flexed lightly against Sam’s, and he let out a shaky breath as he closed his eyes and nuzzled in closer.
Castiel watched all of this carefully, keeping his eye on the two boys laid out across the sheets as he slowly made his way around to the other side of the bed across from Dean.
He reached out and reverently touched Sam’s forehead, smoothing away the worry-lines that reappeared with his soul. He pushed his fingers back through Sam’s long hair, brushing the soft strands out of his eyes. He let his hand trail gently down the side of Sam’s face, running his thumb absentmindedly along Sam’s bottom lip, parting it slightly, with a soft, distracted, press and pull of his thumb. He slowly dragged his hand away then, and when he glanced over and caught Dean’s gaze on him he quickly looked away.
“You can stay, you know. If you want,” Dean said.
Castiel looked at Dean, and then he let his gaze fall to Sam. “Thank you,” he said, and he looked back at Dean, “but you should be alone. You need your rest.”
Dean nodded a little, reluctantly, but understanding. He looked back at Sam then, and Castiel watched him study the side of his brother’s face for a few moments, long enough to feel like he was intruding on something private and personal, and he knew it was time to go.
He started to turn when Dean quickly reached out, stopping him.
“Hey.” He grabbed Cas’s wrist, holding it loosely in the warm circle of his fingers. “Thanks,” he said. “For everything.”
Castiel smiled, and when Dean’s hand slowly slipped away from his, their fingers tangled together for a moment, before Dean’s hand gently settled back on his brother's chest, and Castiel left on a whisper of displaced air in the quiet motel room.
----
Dean took a deep breath and sighed, the sound of it loud in the quiet room. He felt his breath against the side of Sam’s face, and he thought about the night he came back from hell and Sam had crawled into bed with him. How Sam had curled up against him and breathed in his air and his skin like if he could just breathe deeply enough he’d trap enough of Dean inside to keep him safe. And Dean had thought it was a little weird then, but all he could think about now was the best way to get as close as he possibly could to Sam without actually crawling inside of him. To curl himself around his little brother and hold him still and quiet while the world turned around them.
Dean let his eyes drift shut, and he carefully pressed his nose against Sam’s cheek. He took a slow, deep breath, and the smell that hit him...that smell. Sam. His Sam. The sharp tang of rock salt and gun oil. The Impala. Cheap motel soap, and that weird shit Sam sometimes sprayed on himself. And Dean suddenly couldn’t get enough. He let out a quiet sob and reached up to grip the side of Sam’s head, pulling him closer so he could bury his face in that spot just behind Sam’s ear, where his hair curled under a little, and it was nothing but SamSamSam.
Dean slowly ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, twisting it and gently petting it back down while he just breathed.
Here-his eyes closed, face buried in the crook of Sam’s neck-the world was dark and still, narrowed down to that perfect spot that was Sam and only Sam, and Dean was fifteen years old again...the windows on the Impala rolled down, and dry summer air blowing through the car...dad’s in a good mood, and Sammy’s laughing in the back seat, and they’re good.
They’re good.