Idumea - Part III of III
Title: Idumea - Part III of III
Author:
hopeintheashes
Rating: PG-13 for language and content; see warnings
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean; also featuring John, Pastor Jim, the little girl, and the woman.
Word count: 2,300 out of 7,500
Summary: Blood has a gravity that’s stronger than the sun’s; a tether that keeps pulling him back. Set very early in Season 2 and Pre-Series.
Warning: Highlight to read. ( skip) Suicidal ideation, including in a child.
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N: Full notes in Part I. A million thanks to my beta, kat_of_rafters, who stuck with me through this very long process, was kind enough to tell me hard truths, and turned this around in record time in spite of Life. All delays (and there were several) are my fault alone.
Also available on AO3.
Part I
Part II
Part III:
Part III
They drive, just like they always have. Sam’s earliest memories are in the Impala: straining to see over the front seat, fighting Dean’s feet for space in the middle, sleeping with his head in Dean’s lap. The car they’ve borrowed still feels foreign, a constant reminder of everything they’ve lost.
They wordlessly change places every six hours or so, sleeping in the passenger’s seat, barely stopping for food. Somewhere in Idaho, Sam sees her again. She’s at her bedroom window, looking out over the ocean, speaking to the mist: Mama, Daddy, I’ll be there soon. The woman stops in the doorway. Sam can see her reflection in the windowpane, but the girl is still looking out to sea, hands pressed up against the glass. Mama, don’t go. No, don’t leave me, Mama, no- and her pleas become a wordless scream, small fists pounding against old, warped glass. The woman grabs her around the waist and pulls her back just as the glass shatters. They stumble back to the bed, intertwined; the girl still screaming, the woman crying. The woman wraps a blanket around the girl’s injured hand, and a tiny rose of blood blooms through the yellow quilt. They lie together on the old wooden bed, the woman holding the girl tightly, tears falling into the little girl’s hair. The girl’s screams have turned to sobs, but she takes no comfort from the woman. Instead, she’s staring out to sea.
There’s salt on Sam’s lips when he comes out of the dream, and his fingers ache from being tightly clenched. Dean side-eyes him from the driver’s seat, tense and quiet. Two hours later, at a gas station on the Idaho-Oregon border, he refuses to give up the wheel. Sam doesn’t argue.
By the time they make it to Portland, Dean’s hands are shaking. When he gets out at a convenience store, Sam digs through his bag and comes up with the mostly-crushed box of cigarettes. He rolls it around in his hands for a minute, then passes it over when Dean gets back to the car. Dean pauses like this might be some kind of test, then rolls down the window and pulls out his lighter. Sam keeps his eyes front. The next time he sneaks a glance, Dean’s hands are steady on the wheel.
. . .
They find a motel, because Dean’s dead on his feet and Sam’s one vision away from being the same. It’s getting dark. Dean falls into bed without a shower and doesn’t move. Sam lies on his bed, waiting for the girl to tell him something. Anything. When that doesn’t work, he pulls out his laptop and sets about searching the old-fashioned way.
He falls asleep with the laptop beside him, the browser still open to an article dated 3 weeks ago with the headline, “Small Town Rocked by Boating Deaths,” and, smaller, “Victims leave behind daughter, 8.” The article below begins, “William, 36, and Olivia McIntyre, 35, of Tillamook, were pronounced dead following a boating accident near Cape Lookout on Saturday. Their sailboat capsized due to high winds. ‘The weather looked perfect,’ said Gail Carter, who was at the marina that day. ‘Just perfect, and then that freak storm swept in and took them away. So sad, especially about that little girl.’” The obituaries list among the survivors Grace McIntyre, their 8-year-old daughter, and Sarah Mills, Olivia’s sister. Sam had been about to search for a picture of Sarah when he’d fallen asleep, but he’s sure she's the woman he saw with Grace.
When he wakes up, the laptop is gone. Dean’s studying it intently at the kitchen table. “Ready?”
Sam blinks and stretches. “Yeah.”
They put on their suits and drive.
. . .
They start in Tillamook, and within an hour they learn that Sarah has moved into the McIntyres' house, which is out of town, near the coast. When they pull up in front of the large, friendly-looking home, they don’t even get to the door before a woman-Sarah-comes running out.
“Ms. Mills,” Dean begins, holding up his badge of the day.
She pauses and turns, tears in her eyes. “She’s gone.”
Sam rubs the heel of his hand into his forehead, then feels his knees go out as the light comes back, a knife behind his eyes. Dean’s hand is at his elbow, holding him up, and just when he thinks he’ll pass out, he feels… happiness. Anticipation.
His stomach turns and he’s shaking hard, trying not to puke in the McIntyres’ garden. Dean drags him to the car, throwing some sort of explanation over his shoulder to Sarah Mills. It must be a good one (maybe even the truth), because she gets in the back seat, taking deep breaths to try to calm herself.
Dean’s the only one in any shape to drive, and his hands are tight on the wheel. “Which way?”
Sarah points toward the sea.
. . .
They’re running down the beach, good shoes slipping in the sand, toward a small pair of socks and sneakers that have been placed carefully at the high-tide line. Grace is already chest-deep in the water, the afternoon sun a halo in her dark hair. Sarah screams her niece’s name, but Grace walks on, arms stretched out, fingers trailing in the surf. Two figures float before her, feet just below the waves, shimmering like a mirage. From out past the breakers, they call her on. Sam can feel her joy.
Dean’s shedding his jacket and shoes, leaving a breadcrumb trail in his wake. He drops his dress shirt next to her sneakers and plunges into the water, fighting his way through the tide toward Grace. She’s still for a moment, waves lapping at her shoulders, fingers reaching out through the foam. Sarah stumbles toward the water, tears mixing in with the saltwater spray. Sam catches her and holds her back. She fights him, pulling toward the sea.
With a silent, sudden drop, Grace goes under.
Sarah gives a strangled cry and breaks away from Sam, pushing her way into the water, Sam following close behind. Dean dives beneath the waves, bare feet visible for just a moment before he’s gone. Sam can feel Grace’s heart beating in his chest. She is not afraid.
There’s an endless moment when they’re both underwater, when Sam wonders if an 8-year-old can fight hard enough to hold his brother down. He forces his way toward Dean and Grace, pushing against the current, a guttural yell of frustration burning in his throat. Just as his fear turns into panic, they burst through the waves, Dean pulling Grace up and holding her tight.
She spits and coughs, and then she screams. The figures grow brighter, more solid, fed by the sound. A sharp wind picks up, scattering her words, but Sam hears them as clearly as he had from 3,000 miles away. She’s screaming for Dean to let her go. To let her drown.
To let her die.
Sam’s in deep enough to swim now, but he’s fighting against the winds that began the moment Grace came back up out of the water. The figures are no longer mirages, but swirls of grey and white: terrible gods calling up a hurricane. Dean’s fighting to stay afloat, turning his face away from the wind, but Grace reaches out to them, leaning out as far as she can. Dean loses his footing and they slip beneath the waves. Sam dives for them, but the current pushes him back. He comes up to see Dean and Grace gasping for air, heads just above the surface. There’s a moment of struggle, and then Dean holds something up to the sky. It gleams, metallic, in the muted sunlight. The ghosts scream and burn white with fury, the whistling of the winds reaching a painful, shrieking peak as Dean throws the necklace out to sea. It arcs over the water, buffeted by the wind, and then hits the surface. It floats for a moment, and then falls out out of sight.
The ghosts, still white and shrieking, sink with it, pulled beneath the waves in a narrow whirlpool. Grace is still kicking and screaming, trying to swim to them, when the last of the wind follows them down, the sky clears, and the whitecaps fade away. Grace freezes, still staring at the spot where the ghosts disappeared, then goes limp in Dean’s arms so suddenly that he almost loses his grip. Sam pushes his way toward them. When he glances back, Sarah is moving toward them, sobbing but seemingly unhurt. He turns back to Dean and Grace. He’s almost close enough to touch them, but neither seems to know he’s there.
“Let me go.” The words are quiet. Hurt.
“I can’t.”
“Mama!” A sudden, desperate cry.
“She’s gone. They’re gone.” He’s holding her tight, waist-deep in the Pacific in his undershirt and dress pants, both of them rocked by the waves.
“Daddy.” Quiet again.
“I am so sorry, Grace.” Whispered in her ear.
“I can’t…”
“I know, sweetheart.” She’s wrapped around him now, arms and legs. “Some days I can’t, either.”
“I want to be with them.”
“Me too.” His voice gives out and they’re sobbing together, holding each other as the waves break over their bodies, small in the vastness of the ocean. “Me too.”
They turn back toward the beach, Grace’s arms around Dean’s neck, face buried against him. Sam follows a few steps behind, and Sarah pushes forward to meet them. Grace holds onto Dean for a moment before turning to Sarah, who presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek as she takes Grace in her arms, holding on tight, then covers her niece in kisses and tears. Sam moves toward Dean, but he walks away, still ankle-deep in the ocean, following the curve of the coast. Sam pulls a hand down his face and turns back toward Grace and Sarah.
Sarah pulls him in for a hug, still holding Grace. “Thank you,” she whispers, lips to his ear. When she pulls away, she stops. “Will and Livy’s wedding rings.” She knows the answer to her unspoken question, but needs Sam to tell her, all the same.
“Gone.” She lets a sob escape. “He had to. To save her.”
She bites her lips for a moment, holding back more tears, then takes a breath and nods. “To save her.”
Grace is starting to shake in her arms. “I have to get her back.” She looks Sam straight in the eyes. “Thank you.” Her gaze goes to Dean, who’s sitting in the sand a little way down the beach. “And tell him thank you, too.” One more glance, and a hand motion that indicates that a hundred more words couldn’t cover what they owe these two nameless strangers, and they’re gone.
Sam watches them walk away. Grace looks up for a moment over her aunt’s shoulder, and her dark eyes are different than they’d been in his dreams. Full of grief, but no longer haunted and dead. The ghosts are buried at sea.
She nestles into Sarah’s shoulder, and they walk on. Sam gives Dean another minute alone, then joins him in the sand. They sit in silence, watching the sun sink down in the sky.
“You don’t have to stay.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, worn thin.
“I know.”
He meant it as reassurance, but Dean huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah. Of course you do.”
He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and then decides that he’s done dancing around it. “Sometimes I think about going back.” Dean flicks his eyes up: I knew it. “I think about Jess, and about being a lawyer and having a house and kids and…” he trails off. “But just ’cause I think about it doesn’t mean I’m going to run off in the middle of the night.”
“Never stopped you before.” His voice is cold.
“That was…” He blows out a breath. “Different times.” He looks at Dean, and then out to sea. “You’re all I’ve got, man. I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s quiet for a long time. In his peripheral vision, he can see Dean watching him.
When Sam was seven, he made Dean pinky-swear to every promise, no matter how small. Dean’s got that same not-quite-trusting look, like just saying it isn’t enough.
Sam stands and offers Dean a hand. He looks up at Sam, then takes it. Promise?
Sam helps him up. Claps him on the shoulder. Promise.
They stand together and watch the sun go down, and then they turn their backs on the Pacific and head for the Plains. Save the world or die tryin’. They may be born to die for strangers who won’t ever know their names, but damn it, today is not that day.
Dean puts in a cassette: Metallica. Dean’s convinced that he can get the Impala back up and running. Sam has his doubts, but if anyone can make it happen through sheer force of will, it’s Dean. Maybe soon enough they’ll be back where they belong.
The beat kicks in and Dean’s hands start moving, drumming on the steering wheel. A smile, small but genuine, slips in during the first verse, and suddenly it’s easier to breathe. He keeps getting pulled back to his brother’s side, and maybe that will kill him in the end. If it does, he’ll go down fighting, and he won’t be fighting alone. He settles back and listens to the rhythm of his brother’s hands over the hum of the car on a long, flat road. He always dreamed of other lives, but this, right here, is home.
. . .
. . .
Author:
hopeintheashes
Rating: PG-13 for language and content; see warnings
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean; also featuring John, Pastor Jim, the little girl, and the woman.
Word count: 2,300 out of 7,500
Summary: Blood has a gravity that’s stronger than the sun’s; a tether that keeps pulling him back. Set very early in Season 2 and Pre-Series.
Warning: Highlight to read. ( skip) Suicidal ideation, including in a child.
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N: Full notes in Part I. A million thanks to my beta, kat_of_rafters, who stuck with me through this very long process, was kind enough to tell me hard truths, and turned this around in record time in spite of Life. All delays (and there were several) are my fault alone.
Also available on AO3.
Part I
Part II
Part III:
Part III
They drive, just like they always have. Sam’s earliest memories are in the Impala: straining to see over the front seat, fighting Dean’s feet for space in the middle, sleeping with his head in Dean’s lap. The car they’ve borrowed still feels foreign, a constant reminder of everything they’ve lost.
They wordlessly change places every six hours or so, sleeping in the passenger’s seat, barely stopping for food. Somewhere in Idaho, Sam sees her again. She’s at her bedroom window, looking out over the ocean, speaking to the mist: Mama, Daddy, I’ll be there soon. The woman stops in the doorway. Sam can see her reflection in the windowpane, but the girl is still looking out to sea, hands pressed up against the glass. Mama, don’t go. No, don’t leave me, Mama, no- and her pleas become a wordless scream, small fists pounding against old, warped glass. The woman grabs her around the waist and pulls her back just as the glass shatters. They stumble back to the bed, intertwined; the girl still screaming, the woman crying. The woman wraps a blanket around the girl’s injured hand, and a tiny rose of blood blooms through the yellow quilt. They lie together on the old wooden bed, the woman holding the girl tightly, tears falling into the little girl’s hair. The girl’s screams have turned to sobs, but she takes no comfort from the woman. Instead, she’s staring out to sea.
There’s salt on Sam’s lips when he comes out of the dream, and his fingers ache from being tightly clenched. Dean side-eyes him from the driver’s seat, tense and quiet. Two hours later, at a gas station on the Idaho-Oregon border, he refuses to give up the wheel. Sam doesn’t argue.
By the time they make it to Portland, Dean’s hands are shaking. When he gets out at a convenience store, Sam digs through his bag and comes up with the mostly-crushed box of cigarettes. He rolls it around in his hands for a minute, then passes it over when Dean gets back to the car. Dean pauses like this might be some kind of test, then rolls down the window and pulls out his lighter. Sam keeps his eyes front. The next time he sneaks a glance, Dean’s hands are steady on the wheel.
. . .
They find a motel, because Dean’s dead on his feet and Sam’s one vision away from being the same. It’s getting dark. Dean falls into bed without a shower and doesn’t move. Sam lies on his bed, waiting for the girl to tell him something. Anything. When that doesn’t work, he pulls out his laptop and sets about searching the old-fashioned way.
He falls asleep with the laptop beside him, the browser still open to an article dated 3 weeks ago with the headline, “Small Town Rocked by Boating Deaths,” and, smaller, “Victims leave behind daughter, 8.” The article below begins, “William, 36, and Olivia McIntyre, 35, of Tillamook, were pronounced dead following a boating accident near Cape Lookout on Saturday. Their sailboat capsized due to high winds. ‘The weather looked perfect,’ said Gail Carter, who was at the marina that day. ‘Just perfect, and then that freak storm swept in and took them away. So sad, especially about that little girl.’” The obituaries list among the survivors Grace McIntyre, their 8-year-old daughter, and Sarah Mills, Olivia’s sister. Sam had been about to search for a picture of Sarah when he’d fallen asleep, but he’s sure she's the woman he saw with Grace.
When he wakes up, the laptop is gone. Dean’s studying it intently at the kitchen table. “Ready?”
Sam blinks and stretches. “Yeah.”
They put on their suits and drive.
. . .
They start in Tillamook, and within an hour they learn that Sarah has moved into the McIntyres' house, which is out of town, near the coast. When they pull up in front of the large, friendly-looking home, they don’t even get to the door before a woman-Sarah-comes running out.
“Ms. Mills,” Dean begins, holding up his badge of the day.
She pauses and turns, tears in her eyes. “She’s gone.”
Sam rubs the heel of his hand into his forehead, then feels his knees go out as the light comes back, a knife behind his eyes. Dean’s hand is at his elbow, holding him up, and just when he thinks he’ll pass out, he feels… happiness. Anticipation.
His stomach turns and he’s shaking hard, trying not to puke in the McIntyres’ garden. Dean drags him to the car, throwing some sort of explanation over his shoulder to Sarah Mills. It must be a good one (maybe even the truth), because she gets in the back seat, taking deep breaths to try to calm herself.
Dean’s the only one in any shape to drive, and his hands are tight on the wheel. “Which way?”
Sarah points toward the sea.
. . .
They’re running down the beach, good shoes slipping in the sand, toward a small pair of socks and sneakers that have been placed carefully at the high-tide line. Grace is already chest-deep in the water, the afternoon sun a halo in her dark hair. Sarah screams her niece’s name, but Grace walks on, arms stretched out, fingers trailing in the surf. Two figures float before her, feet just below the waves, shimmering like a mirage. From out past the breakers, they call her on. Sam can feel her joy.
Dean’s shedding his jacket and shoes, leaving a breadcrumb trail in his wake. He drops his dress shirt next to her sneakers and plunges into the water, fighting his way through the tide toward Grace. She’s still for a moment, waves lapping at her shoulders, fingers reaching out through the foam. Sarah stumbles toward the water, tears mixing in with the saltwater spray. Sam catches her and holds her back. She fights him, pulling toward the sea.
With a silent, sudden drop, Grace goes under.
Sarah gives a strangled cry and breaks away from Sam, pushing her way into the water, Sam following close behind. Dean dives beneath the waves, bare feet visible for just a moment before he’s gone. Sam can feel Grace’s heart beating in his chest. She is not afraid.
There’s an endless moment when they’re both underwater, when Sam wonders if an 8-year-old can fight hard enough to hold his brother down. He forces his way toward Dean and Grace, pushing against the current, a guttural yell of frustration burning in his throat. Just as his fear turns into panic, they burst through the waves, Dean pulling Grace up and holding her tight.
She spits and coughs, and then she screams. The figures grow brighter, more solid, fed by the sound. A sharp wind picks up, scattering her words, but Sam hears them as clearly as he had from 3,000 miles away. She’s screaming for Dean to let her go. To let her drown.
To let her die.
Sam’s in deep enough to swim now, but he’s fighting against the winds that began the moment Grace came back up out of the water. The figures are no longer mirages, but swirls of grey and white: terrible gods calling up a hurricane. Dean’s fighting to stay afloat, turning his face away from the wind, but Grace reaches out to them, leaning out as far as she can. Dean loses his footing and they slip beneath the waves. Sam dives for them, but the current pushes him back. He comes up to see Dean and Grace gasping for air, heads just above the surface. There’s a moment of struggle, and then Dean holds something up to the sky. It gleams, metallic, in the muted sunlight. The ghosts scream and burn white with fury, the whistling of the winds reaching a painful, shrieking peak as Dean throws the necklace out to sea. It arcs over the water, buffeted by the wind, and then hits the surface. It floats for a moment, and then falls out out of sight.
The ghosts, still white and shrieking, sink with it, pulled beneath the waves in a narrow whirlpool. Grace is still kicking and screaming, trying to swim to them, when the last of the wind follows them down, the sky clears, and the whitecaps fade away. Grace freezes, still staring at the spot where the ghosts disappeared, then goes limp in Dean’s arms so suddenly that he almost loses his grip. Sam pushes his way toward them. When he glances back, Sarah is moving toward them, sobbing but seemingly unhurt. He turns back to Dean and Grace. He’s almost close enough to touch them, but neither seems to know he’s there.
“Let me go.” The words are quiet. Hurt.
“I can’t.”
“Mama!” A sudden, desperate cry.
“She’s gone. They’re gone.” He’s holding her tight, waist-deep in the Pacific in his undershirt and dress pants, both of them rocked by the waves.
“Daddy.” Quiet again.
“I am so sorry, Grace.” Whispered in her ear.
“I can’t…”
“I know, sweetheart.” She’s wrapped around him now, arms and legs. “Some days I can’t, either.”
“I want to be with them.”
“Me too.” His voice gives out and they’re sobbing together, holding each other as the waves break over their bodies, small in the vastness of the ocean. “Me too.”
They turn back toward the beach, Grace’s arms around Dean’s neck, face buried against him. Sam follows a few steps behind, and Sarah pushes forward to meet them. Grace holds onto Dean for a moment before turning to Sarah, who presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek as she takes Grace in her arms, holding on tight, then covers her niece in kisses and tears. Sam moves toward Dean, but he walks away, still ankle-deep in the ocean, following the curve of the coast. Sam pulls a hand down his face and turns back toward Grace and Sarah.
Sarah pulls him in for a hug, still holding Grace. “Thank you,” she whispers, lips to his ear. When she pulls away, she stops. “Will and Livy’s wedding rings.” She knows the answer to her unspoken question, but needs Sam to tell her, all the same.
“Gone.” She lets a sob escape. “He had to. To save her.”
She bites her lips for a moment, holding back more tears, then takes a breath and nods. “To save her.”
Grace is starting to shake in her arms. “I have to get her back.” She looks Sam straight in the eyes. “Thank you.” Her gaze goes to Dean, who’s sitting in the sand a little way down the beach. “And tell him thank you, too.” One more glance, and a hand motion that indicates that a hundred more words couldn’t cover what they owe these two nameless strangers, and they’re gone.
Sam watches them walk away. Grace looks up for a moment over her aunt’s shoulder, and her dark eyes are different than they’d been in his dreams. Full of grief, but no longer haunted and dead. The ghosts are buried at sea.
She nestles into Sarah’s shoulder, and they walk on. Sam gives Dean another minute alone, then joins him in the sand. They sit in silence, watching the sun sink down in the sky.
“You don’t have to stay.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, worn thin.
“I know.”
He meant it as reassurance, but Dean huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah. Of course you do.”
He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and then decides that he’s done dancing around it. “Sometimes I think about going back.” Dean flicks his eyes up: I knew it. “I think about Jess, and about being a lawyer and having a house and kids and…” he trails off. “But just ’cause I think about it doesn’t mean I’m going to run off in the middle of the night.”
“Never stopped you before.” His voice is cold.
“That was…” He blows out a breath. “Different times.” He looks at Dean, and then out to sea. “You’re all I’ve got, man. I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s quiet for a long time. In his peripheral vision, he can see Dean watching him.
When Sam was seven, he made Dean pinky-swear to every promise, no matter how small. Dean’s got that same not-quite-trusting look, like just saying it isn’t enough.
Sam stands and offers Dean a hand. He looks up at Sam, then takes it. Promise?
Sam helps him up. Claps him on the shoulder. Promise.
They stand together and watch the sun go down, and then they turn their backs on the Pacific and head for the Plains. Save the world or die tryin’. They may be born to die for strangers who won’t ever know their names, but damn it, today is not that day.
Dean puts in a cassette: Metallica. Dean’s convinced that he can get the Impala back up and running. Sam has his doubts, but if anyone can make it happen through sheer force of will, it’s Dean. Maybe soon enough they’ll be back where they belong.
The beat kicks in and Dean’s hands start moving, drumming on the steering wheel. A smile, small but genuine, slips in during the first verse, and suddenly it’s easier to breathe. He keeps getting pulled back to his brother’s side, and maybe that will kill him in the end. If it does, he’ll go down fighting, and he won’t be fighting alone. He settles back and listens to the rhythm of his brother’s hands over the hum of the car on a long, flat road. He always dreamed of other lives, but this, right here, is home.
. . .
. . .