fic: Counting The Days
Man, I'm fighting off the worst case of writer's block, but hopefully this turned out okay...
title. Counting The Days
pairing. pre-Sam/Dean? Maybe? I meant this as gen, but on the reread, it has wincesty undertones. *headdesk*
rating. PG-13
word count. ~1400
note. Written for elizah_jane's prompt of "I got tired of waiting" in silverbullets.
summary. This is how the story goes: The world was overrun by the Croatoan virus, Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer, and Dean hasn't talked to his brother in five years. One of these things is not like the others.
~
He can smell them.
There isn't a fire to give them away--whoever is camping over the ridge isn't careless enough for that--but Sam has been living alone in these hills for a very long time. He's familiar with every inch: There's the dilapidated, overgrown biology path about three miles down. There's the weird outcropping near it, where he can hear the sounds for miles around him, where Bible passages and random prayers have been scratched into the rocky walls. The biology path once belonged to a nearby university--closed now, just like everything else is closed--and it was a religious institution, a Christian college. Sam finds that funny: He’s surrounded by scripture, and Lucifer is his only company these days.
That smell, though. That smell doesn't belong.
"One, two, three, four," Sam mutters under his breath. He does it just to hear someone talk, but he flattens himself to the top of the ridge and reminds himself to be quiet, because the smell belongs to people maybe twenty feet away. They're just over the hill, and he should be running in the opposite direction. They're probably Croats. They smell rank, unwashed, human, and there's very little chance that they haven't been infected--but he can't help it. It's been years since he's seen anybody else.
Sam slowly extends his arms in front of him, pushes back with the toes of his boots; he slithers forward with dust in his mouth and his belly to the ground. Like a snake. Like a serpent. He'll have to tell Lucifer all about it the next time He appears in Sam's dreams; maybe one of them will find the circumstance funny.
"That's far enough, sunshine."
Sam freezes. He didn't sense anybody coming up around him, didn't smell or hear anything out of the ordinary, but come to think about it, that voice is familiar. He knows it. He's been wanting to hear it for years--
The universe goes dark.
~
It's Dean, of course, Dean.
Sam sits very small, hunching forward, crowding his arms around his knees. He looks up only once in a while, quick searching glances to confirm that yes, yes, it is his brother. It really is Dean, and he lurches forward, instinctively wanting to touch--
The rope cuts him off short, constricts around his neck, and Sam--
~
"If you quit that shit," he wakes to Dean's voice, "then maybe you'll stop knocking yourself unconscious."
Sam groans, reaches out. Can't help it.
"Don't touch me," Dean says sharply.
Sam makes himself lie still, his only concession to the twisting need to touch the wringing of his hands, the way he clenches his own fingers together. He opens his eyes slowly, and maybe he hadn't really believed it, because he feels his breath come short, shorter, impossible when he sees Dean's face.
"...holy water. I've tested you with salt and silver," Dean is saying, "and far as I can tell, you're no skinwalker or shapeshifter."
Sam moans a little, tries to make his tongue work.
"But my brother." Dean's voice is harsh, unforgiving. "Now, him? He's in Detroit. I saw him there maybe a week ago--he had his foot on my neck, killed me, even. Didn't keep, of course, but then, nothing does these days. Funny how that works."
Sam knows that. The angels left, but Sam and Dean, they remain.
"So who the fuck," Dean says, staring down at him, "are you?"
Sam stares back. "One, two, three, four," he says, and yes, test test test, his voice is working, his tongue can flip, flop, move. There's enough moisture in his mouth. He can do this. "Sam," he tells his brother. "Sammy. Sam."
Dean's teeth flash. "Cut it out."
"Sam," Sam says again, this time more desperately.
"My brother," Dean spits out, "is fucking Lucifer."
Sam shakes his head, because Dean is wrong. Dean has been wrong for a long time, left him five years ago for a stupid idea, a stupid plan, because the world has been destroyed anyway and the two of them separating? Hasn't done anybody any good. "No," Sam tells him.
"Yes."
Sam bares his teeth. "No, no, no."
"Don't fucking lie to me!"
"No!" Sam's had it. He's sick of this game--Lucifer will be here any minute, and then the score will be for keeps. "No, no, no, no, nonononononononono," and he'll say it to the world, he'll say it till he dies, till he's resurrected and he comes back. His bone will knit together, and his blood will return, and no matter what Lucifer does to him, he'll keep on saying it, because it's the only word that matters, it's the only guarantee he'll ever have that one day he'll go home--
Dean looks startled. "What?"
But Sam doesn't hear him.
~
One day? Two days? Three days, four?
Sam screams his denial.
No Dean. Never any Dean.
Just Lucifer and noise and no, no, no---
~
There's nothing but the silence. Sam listens, but Lucifer isn't there. Maybe He hasn't been around for a while. Dean is near--or did Sam imagine him? He's done that before. Sam looks around, looks looks looks, and he whimpers when he can't find him, but that is nothing new either. "Dean?" he asks. Pleads.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
"Never say yes," Sam says then, like an offering, and it's the only one he has left to give. But maybe those are the magic words, or maybe Dean comes cheap these days, because suddenly his brother is coming around from behind him. Sam can see the uncertainty in his face, doesn't quite understand it, but that's okay. Well, not okay, but it's better than it was before.
"Sammy?" Dean whispers, looking stricken.
"Sam," Sam corrects, but then he bites his lip. Tries not to move, and only then does he realize he's free. There's nothing at his neck. Nothing on his wrists or ankles. Sam assumes that if he looks around, he'll find rope somewhere. But he doesn't move, doesn't twitch a single muscle, because if he does, Dean might disappear again. Spells and hallucinations are funny that way. "Is it time?" he asks instead, keeping his voice low and soft, but he can't hide the yearning in his voice.
Dean sits down in front of him. His eyes never leave Sam's face, like he's spooked, like he's seeing Sam's ghost. "Is what time?"
Sam shakes his head, hates how hard it is to think. Lucifer with his voice in Sam's head, all the time, it ruins things. "Been waiting for you," he tries to explain. His voice sounds weird at this volume, too loud when he's not screaming. He might have to test his tongue again. "I want to come back," he says quietly, working through each word slowly, carefully.
"Come back?"
"Please," Sam pleads. "Too long, Dean."
Dean shakes his head, and Sam stays absolutely still as Dean reaches out, as Dean brushes his hair out of his face. Sam's hair is dirty, dirty and long, and Sam knows that Dean hates that, but there's no soap, hasn't been any in years. "Too long for what, Sammy?"
"Been five years," Sam whispers. He closes his eyes. The touch of Dean's fingers is perfect, is all he's ever wanted, and he tries not to feel ungrateful for the short time he'll have that. "You can't forgive me. It's okay."
"Sammy--"
"No, please," Sam begs him, "hear me out. If you won't let me come back, at least let me--I'll wait, Dean, I swear I'll wait. Just," and his voice turns small, "please, when can I see you again?"
"What are you, stupid?" Dean says harshly, but before Sam can cringe away, Dean drags him back, drags him closer. "I thought--fuck, Sam, why didn't you find me?" Dean's fingers dig into his face, his shoulder, ripping at what's left of his shirt, but Sam knows what that's like, knows how it feels to reach for something just to know it's there. He lets it happen, can't help himself, and he hides his face against Dean's neck.
"I'll be good," Sam promises him. "I swear--"
"Shut up, Sam. Just shut the fuck up."
"I'll never say yes," Sam tells him insistently.
Dean only holds him tighter. "I'm beginning to get that."
~
There’s a camp empty of soldiers, and Castiel is dead. Lucifer is the only angel left on Earth, and the Colt doesn’t work. They have no leads. They don’t know what to do. Dean tells him everything, the whole sorry wreck of it.
Sam doesn’t care.
“Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” Dean asks him, and it’s ridiculous, but they’re grinning at each other. Wide stupid carefree grins, as if the war has already been won, and Sam supposes that in some ways, maybe it has been.
“Race you,” Sam says, and he's laughing.
They get back on the road. Together.
~
title. Counting The Days
pairing. pre-Sam/Dean? Maybe? I meant this as gen, but on the reread, it has wincesty undertones. *headdesk*
rating. PG-13
word count. ~1400
note. Written for elizah_jane's prompt of "I got tired of waiting" in silverbullets.
summary. This is how the story goes: The world was overrun by the Croatoan virus, Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer, and Dean hasn't talked to his brother in five years. One of these things is not like the others.
~
He can smell them.
There isn't a fire to give them away--whoever is camping over the ridge isn't careless enough for that--but Sam has been living alone in these hills for a very long time. He's familiar with every inch: There's the dilapidated, overgrown biology path about three miles down. There's the weird outcropping near it, where he can hear the sounds for miles around him, where Bible passages and random prayers have been scratched into the rocky walls. The biology path once belonged to a nearby university--closed now, just like everything else is closed--and it was a religious institution, a Christian college. Sam finds that funny: He’s surrounded by scripture, and Lucifer is his only company these days.
That smell, though. That smell doesn't belong.
"One, two, three, four," Sam mutters under his breath. He does it just to hear someone talk, but he flattens himself to the top of the ridge and reminds himself to be quiet, because the smell belongs to people maybe twenty feet away. They're just over the hill, and he should be running in the opposite direction. They're probably Croats. They smell rank, unwashed, human, and there's very little chance that they haven't been infected--but he can't help it. It's been years since he's seen anybody else.
Sam slowly extends his arms in front of him, pushes back with the toes of his boots; he slithers forward with dust in his mouth and his belly to the ground. Like a snake. Like a serpent. He'll have to tell Lucifer all about it the next time He appears in Sam's dreams; maybe one of them will find the circumstance funny.
"That's far enough, sunshine."
Sam freezes. He didn't sense anybody coming up around him, didn't smell or hear anything out of the ordinary, but come to think about it, that voice is familiar. He knows it. He's been wanting to hear it for years--
The universe goes dark.
~
It's Dean, of course, Dean.
Sam sits very small, hunching forward, crowding his arms around his knees. He looks up only once in a while, quick searching glances to confirm that yes, yes, it is his brother. It really is Dean, and he lurches forward, instinctively wanting to touch--
The rope cuts him off short, constricts around his neck, and Sam--
~
"If you quit that shit," he wakes to Dean's voice, "then maybe you'll stop knocking yourself unconscious."
Sam groans, reaches out. Can't help it.
"Don't touch me," Dean says sharply.
Sam makes himself lie still, his only concession to the twisting need to touch the wringing of his hands, the way he clenches his own fingers together. He opens his eyes slowly, and maybe he hadn't really believed it, because he feels his breath come short, shorter, impossible when he sees Dean's face.
"...holy water. I've tested you with salt and silver," Dean is saying, "and far as I can tell, you're no skinwalker or shapeshifter."
Sam moans a little, tries to make his tongue work.
"But my brother." Dean's voice is harsh, unforgiving. "Now, him? He's in Detroit. I saw him there maybe a week ago--he had his foot on my neck, killed me, even. Didn't keep, of course, but then, nothing does these days. Funny how that works."
Sam knows that. The angels left, but Sam and Dean, they remain.
"So who the fuck," Dean says, staring down at him, "are you?"
Sam stares back. "One, two, three, four," he says, and yes, test test test, his voice is working, his tongue can flip, flop, move. There's enough moisture in his mouth. He can do this. "Sam," he tells his brother. "Sammy. Sam."
Dean's teeth flash. "Cut it out."
"Sam," Sam says again, this time more desperately.
"My brother," Dean spits out, "is fucking Lucifer."
Sam shakes his head, because Dean is wrong. Dean has been wrong for a long time, left him five years ago for a stupid idea, a stupid plan, because the world has been destroyed anyway and the two of them separating? Hasn't done anybody any good. "No," Sam tells him.
"Yes."
Sam bares his teeth. "No, no, no."
"Don't fucking lie to me!"
"No!" Sam's had it. He's sick of this game--Lucifer will be here any minute, and then the score will be for keeps. "No, no, no, no, nonononononononono," and he'll say it to the world, he'll say it till he dies, till he's resurrected and he comes back. His bone will knit together, and his blood will return, and no matter what Lucifer does to him, he'll keep on saying it, because it's the only word that matters, it's the only guarantee he'll ever have that one day he'll go home--
Dean looks startled. "What?"
But Sam doesn't hear him.
~
One day? Two days? Three days, four?
Sam screams his denial.
No Dean. Never any Dean.
Just Lucifer and noise and no, no, no---
~
There's nothing but the silence. Sam listens, but Lucifer isn't there. Maybe He hasn't been around for a while. Dean is near--or did Sam imagine him? He's done that before. Sam looks around, looks looks looks, and he whimpers when he can't find him, but that is nothing new either. "Dean?" he asks. Pleads.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
"Never say yes," Sam says then, like an offering, and it's the only one he has left to give. But maybe those are the magic words, or maybe Dean comes cheap these days, because suddenly his brother is coming around from behind him. Sam can see the uncertainty in his face, doesn't quite understand it, but that's okay. Well, not okay, but it's better than it was before.
"Sammy?" Dean whispers, looking stricken.
"Sam," Sam corrects, but then he bites his lip. Tries not to move, and only then does he realize he's free. There's nothing at his neck. Nothing on his wrists or ankles. Sam assumes that if he looks around, he'll find rope somewhere. But he doesn't move, doesn't twitch a single muscle, because if he does, Dean might disappear again. Spells and hallucinations are funny that way. "Is it time?" he asks instead, keeping his voice low and soft, but he can't hide the yearning in his voice.
Dean sits down in front of him. His eyes never leave Sam's face, like he's spooked, like he's seeing Sam's ghost. "Is what time?"
Sam shakes his head, hates how hard it is to think. Lucifer with his voice in Sam's head, all the time, it ruins things. "Been waiting for you," he tries to explain. His voice sounds weird at this volume, too loud when he's not screaming. He might have to test his tongue again. "I want to come back," he says quietly, working through each word slowly, carefully.
"Come back?"
"Please," Sam pleads. "Too long, Dean."
Dean shakes his head, and Sam stays absolutely still as Dean reaches out, as Dean brushes his hair out of his face. Sam's hair is dirty, dirty and long, and Sam knows that Dean hates that, but there's no soap, hasn't been any in years. "Too long for what, Sammy?"
"Been five years," Sam whispers. He closes his eyes. The touch of Dean's fingers is perfect, is all he's ever wanted, and he tries not to feel ungrateful for the short time he'll have that. "You can't forgive me. It's okay."
"Sammy--"
"No, please," Sam begs him, "hear me out. If you won't let me come back, at least let me--I'll wait, Dean, I swear I'll wait. Just," and his voice turns small, "please, when can I see you again?"
"What are you, stupid?" Dean says harshly, but before Sam can cringe away, Dean drags him back, drags him closer. "I thought--fuck, Sam, why didn't you find me?" Dean's fingers dig into his face, his shoulder, ripping at what's left of his shirt, but Sam knows what that's like, knows how it feels to reach for something just to know it's there. He lets it happen, can't help himself, and he hides his face against Dean's neck.
"I'll be good," Sam promises him. "I swear--"
"Shut up, Sam. Just shut the fuck up."
"I'll never say yes," Sam tells him insistently.
Dean only holds him tighter. "I'm beginning to get that."
~
There’s a camp empty of soldiers, and Castiel is dead. Lucifer is the only angel left on Earth, and the Colt doesn’t work. They have no leads. They don’t know what to do. Dean tells him everything, the whole sorry wreck of it.
Sam doesn’t care.
“Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” Dean asks him, and it’s ridiculous, but they’re grinning at each other. Wide stupid carefree grins, as if the war has already been won, and Sam supposes that in some ways, maybe it has been.
“Race you,” Sam says, and he's laughing.
They get back on the road. Together.
~