maygra
in
maygra_fic
SPN FIC: A Year and a Day - part eighteen
A Year and a Day - part eighteen
by Maygra
Dean, Sam, Bobby, possibly Dean/Sam. R overall, WIP
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
Summary: Breaking the deal Dean made was always a given. How Sam would do it, not so much.
+++++
+++++
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,
Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,
Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;
And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows.
~ The Night Journey by Rupert Brooke
Day 373
He hadn't intended to stay gone. He needed space, was all, and time to think without Sam trying to explain or rationalize or promise the impossible again. The parking lot, then the car, and then he found himself driving through Winslow, and onto what was left of Route 66.
He'd always wanted to make that trip. Take the road as far as they could. He'd traveled parts of it -- what parts were left, but Chicago to LA…one of the things on his list that last year, take that road, with Sam, with his car.
There were few true crossroads along the route but here, there were plenty and the first he came to he stopped the car in the middle of the road and got out, leaning against the front grill to stare into the darkness.
Kicking and screaming took too much energy and really, what was the point?
She didn't appear though and he'd half expected her to -- show up and gloat, her or something like her. Dissolute or not, Dean doubted sending one aspect back to hell would actually break such a fine old hellish tradition. Maybe her replacement didn't like asphalt.
"You need some help there, son?"
Dean twisted around fast enough to make his spine pop, half-way to pulling his gun, but the only one there was an old woman, colorless grey sweater wrapped around her thin frame. She seemed to have come out of nowhere, and it took him a minute to realize she stood not at the edge of the crossroad, but at the end of her driveway -- a long dirt track leading off the road. Distantly he could see a light way back of the road, from her house, no doubt.
"No. No, ma'am, just…taking in the road."
"You young people," she said with a shake of her head. "It's just a road. There's thousands of them. This one's no different."
He didn't argue with her, though he thought about it. She just stood there, watching him, looking a little put out. She'd seen his headlights, he guessed, and wondered how many people had used her driveway as a turnaround.
"Sorry to disturb you."
She shrugged. "No matter. Don't sleep much at night. There's a hotel down the way, if you're looking for someplace to stay the night."
"Thanks. I've got a room. Just needed some air."
"There's a point where stopping to smell the roses gets you nothing but thorns, son. You've got all eternity to do that. Living's about appreciating what's important." she said, and shook her head, turning around and heading back up her driveway. "Kids..." she muttered and the crankiness of her just made Dean smile.
"Appreciate the concern, ma'am!" he called after her and she just raised a hand in the air and waved, disappearing into the shadows under the trees that lined her driveway.
She maybe had a point though.
He spread his hands, looking at the scarring there. It didn't look quite so bad in the half-light thrown by the Impala's headlamps, and far less deliberate or orderly than the lines of tiny scars on Sam's arms.
Half of what Sam said still made no sense, but he could do the math. Could see this dragging on into the years maybe, if Sam could do what he said. If Dean could even ask him to do it.
Only he wouldn't have to. Sam was going to do what he was going to do, just like always.
That was a consistency about his brother that drove Dean crazy. Used to.
He wondered if Sam would even be there still when he got back.
He pulled the car forward, already offering a silent apology to the old woman.
There was no driveway.
He jerked the car to a halt and stared.
There was no driveway and no trees and no light in the distance. Even the illusion of a crossroad was gone, the black of the road stretching unbroken in both directions, open land and rock and scrub and not much else.
He broke not a few speed laws getting back into Winslow, half afraid the small motel might have disappeared as well.
The hotel was still there, looking even less attractive as dawn started to crack the horizon. The door to the room was slightly open and he couldn't remember if he had closed it or not. Maybe lucky because he didn't have a key.
Sam was there, looking like he hadn't moved at all in the hours Dean had been gone. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, knees drawn up and arms around them, head down. He didn't move or look up when Dean came in.
"Sam."
Nothing at all, and Dean moved in quickly, heart pounding in his chest, as he closed the distance in two strides and dropped. The skin of Sam's arms was cold, chilled, but the room was cold with the door open and the temperature dropping in the night.
Sam's hair completely covered his face and felt kind of greasy and stringy under Dean's hands, but he got a little murmur of protest when he lifted Sam's head slightly, and felt along his throat for a pulse.
Sam didn't come to himself flailing or quickly, only stirring and opening his eyes, looking confused and bewildered again. His eyes focused on Dean's face slowly.
Asleep. Only not asleep like he was tired, but the sleep of the exhausted. "We've got these things called beds, Sam."
"'m'sor-" Dean pressed his fingers to Sam's mouth.
"Yeah. I got that the first dozen times you said it. You can stop saying it anytime now. Look, Sam…this deal you've made -- the deal I've made. Both sides are screwing with us, but--"
"You didn't have the right." Sam said and unfolded his arms; winced as he stretched his back. "And neither did she."
Dean took in a breath and let it out slowly. "I thought I went into this with my eyes wide open, but--"
"But I didn't," Sam said, and Dean had to rock back on his heels as Sam unfolded his limbs. "I died, Dean."
"I was there, Sam. I remember."
"No," Sam shook his head, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "She didn't have the right to pull me back. And neither did you."
Dean stared at him. "You say that like it makes some kind of sense."
Sam rubbed at his face. "I died," he said, like that explained it all. "I didn't expect to, I didn't want to, but that's what happened. So now I get the choice. I can go on, and I won' t remember or even know or care that you're dead and in hell. Because I won't, Dean. There's a lot of roads out when you die. I chose this one." His eyes rested on Dean's face and there was a hint of anger there, but of determination too.
"She said…she said you were…that they kept you. Outside. Chained outside of wherever. Because you'd asked…to save me, you'd asked and offered for me…"
"I'm outside because I won't walk through," Sam said quietly. "There are no chains. Not there, anyway. Only here. Only you."
Dean understood that much more than he wanted to and it hurt a little knowing that, and he scraped his fingernails over his jeans, scratching an itch that wasn’t really there. "If you don't go back…"
"Then you go back to hell, and I'll be the one that sent you there."
"And if you go and keep going on…"
"Then you'll go back to hell and I won't know it or care."
"Wow. I'm kind of hating both those options."
Sam dropped his head, but there was a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah. I think both those plans suck, so we should go with the first one."
That one didn't sound all that great to Dean either. Not for Sam and not really for himself, although put up against the alternatives…still. "Once a year for…thirty years? That's a long time to keep a promise."
Sam shook his head. "You've kept a promise nearly as long. I'm still here."
Dean swallowed. "It's not the same…and you died, remember?"
"Yeah, I do, now. But that's not the promise you kept. It was never about keeping me alive, Dean."
"The hell it wasn't," Dean said, and got to his feet. The room suddenly felt small and getting a deep breath seemed harder than it should have. "So, after thirty, then what. We'll be old men."
Sam shrugged. "We'll take a road trip, buy a farm…"
"I could die before then. I mean…" Dean said and Sam dropped his gaze. "If I die before then, before this is done, then what?"
"There's no early cancellation on this. I keep my promises. I 'd kind of prefer if you didn't though, you know?"
"And if you… and if -- I mean, I'm guessing you're not immortal."
Sam did look then, eyes wide and chin up. "You'll just have to trust that I'll be waiting for you to catch up." Sam pushed up, getting his legs under him.
"I'm seriously not all that keen on owing you this one," Dean said and offered him a hand.
Sam grabbed on and let Dean pull him to his feet. His smile was a little sly but mostly it was just tired. "Yeah. This is one I'm not letting you live down," he said an leaned forward, aiming to pat Dean's cheek but his hand fell to Dean's shoulder instead. "Suck it up."
Dean gripped his shoulders, and turned him around, mindful of awkward, ungraceful limbs, and the fine, faint tremor in Sam's body. "How about you suck up some actual sleep. And maybe a shower. And a damn haircut," he said, dumping Sam onto the bed.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Sam slurred, but he caught Dean's wrist when he would have stepped away. "Be here."
Pulling the coverlet and tucking Sam's hand back under the blankets, Dean sat on the edge of the bed. "I will be. So there's really a better place?"
Sam was already asleep.
Dean watched him for awhile, finally easing off carefully to find someplace more comfortable. He felt as tired as Sam apparently was but not really sleepy.
He wondered if Sam would remember his own ordeal as viscerally as Dean did and hoped not and he was more afraid to ask exactly what would happen in a year than he wanted to be. A year could both be an impossible amount of time to wait and not nearly enough time for anything. He knew that better than anyone.
Between now and then, though…he hesitated to call it hope, and still too wary to call it faith.
Trusting Sam, though, that much he could do.
I'll be waiting for you to catch up.
That really wasn't much of a leap of faith for Dean at all.
++++++
part nineteen - final
by Maygra
Dean, Sam, Bobby, possibly Dean/Sam. R overall, WIP
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
Summary: Breaking the deal Dean made was always a given. How Sam would do it, not so much.
+++++
+++++
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,
Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,
Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;
And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows.
~ The Night Journey by Rupert Brooke
Day 373
He hadn't intended to stay gone. He needed space, was all, and time to think without Sam trying to explain or rationalize or promise the impossible again. The parking lot, then the car, and then he found himself driving through Winslow, and onto what was left of Route 66.
He'd always wanted to make that trip. Take the road as far as they could. He'd traveled parts of it -- what parts were left, but Chicago to LA…one of the things on his list that last year, take that road, with Sam, with his car.
There were few true crossroads along the route but here, there were plenty and the first he came to he stopped the car in the middle of the road and got out, leaning against the front grill to stare into the darkness.
Kicking and screaming took too much energy and really, what was the point?
She didn't appear though and he'd half expected her to -- show up and gloat, her or something like her. Dissolute or not, Dean doubted sending one aspect back to hell would actually break such a fine old hellish tradition. Maybe her replacement didn't like asphalt.
"You need some help there, son?"
Dean twisted around fast enough to make his spine pop, half-way to pulling his gun, but the only one there was an old woman, colorless grey sweater wrapped around her thin frame. She seemed to have come out of nowhere, and it took him a minute to realize she stood not at the edge of the crossroad, but at the end of her driveway -- a long dirt track leading off the road. Distantly he could see a light way back of the road, from her house, no doubt.
"No. No, ma'am, just…taking in the road."
"You young people," she said with a shake of her head. "It's just a road. There's thousands of them. This one's no different."
He didn't argue with her, though he thought about it. She just stood there, watching him, looking a little put out. She'd seen his headlights, he guessed, and wondered how many people had used her driveway as a turnaround.
"Sorry to disturb you."
She shrugged. "No matter. Don't sleep much at night. There's a hotel down the way, if you're looking for someplace to stay the night."
"Thanks. I've got a room. Just needed some air."
"There's a point where stopping to smell the roses gets you nothing but thorns, son. You've got all eternity to do that. Living's about appreciating what's important." she said, and shook her head, turning around and heading back up her driveway. "Kids..." she muttered and the crankiness of her just made Dean smile.
"Appreciate the concern, ma'am!" he called after her and she just raised a hand in the air and waved, disappearing into the shadows under the trees that lined her driveway.
She maybe had a point though.
He spread his hands, looking at the scarring there. It didn't look quite so bad in the half-light thrown by the Impala's headlamps, and far less deliberate or orderly than the lines of tiny scars on Sam's arms.
Half of what Sam said still made no sense, but he could do the math. Could see this dragging on into the years maybe, if Sam could do what he said. If Dean could even ask him to do it.
Only he wouldn't have to. Sam was going to do what he was going to do, just like always.
That was a consistency about his brother that drove Dean crazy. Used to.
He wondered if Sam would even be there still when he got back.
He pulled the car forward, already offering a silent apology to the old woman.
There was no driveway.
He jerked the car to a halt and stared.
There was no driveway and no trees and no light in the distance. Even the illusion of a crossroad was gone, the black of the road stretching unbroken in both directions, open land and rock and scrub and not much else.
He broke not a few speed laws getting back into Winslow, half afraid the small motel might have disappeared as well.
The hotel was still there, looking even less attractive as dawn started to crack the horizon. The door to the room was slightly open and he couldn't remember if he had closed it or not. Maybe lucky because he didn't have a key.
Sam was there, looking like he hadn't moved at all in the hours Dean had been gone. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, knees drawn up and arms around them, head down. He didn't move or look up when Dean came in.
"Sam."
Nothing at all, and Dean moved in quickly, heart pounding in his chest, as he closed the distance in two strides and dropped. The skin of Sam's arms was cold, chilled, but the room was cold with the door open and the temperature dropping in the night.
Sam's hair completely covered his face and felt kind of greasy and stringy under Dean's hands, but he got a little murmur of protest when he lifted Sam's head slightly, and felt along his throat for a pulse.
Sam didn't come to himself flailing or quickly, only stirring and opening his eyes, looking confused and bewildered again. His eyes focused on Dean's face slowly.
Asleep. Only not asleep like he was tired, but the sleep of the exhausted. "We've got these things called beds, Sam."
"'m'sor-" Dean pressed his fingers to Sam's mouth.
"Yeah. I got that the first dozen times you said it. You can stop saying it anytime now. Look, Sam…this deal you've made -- the deal I've made. Both sides are screwing with us, but--"
"You didn't have the right." Sam said and unfolded his arms; winced as he stretched his back. "And neither did she."
Dean took in a breath and let it out slowly. "I thought I went into this with my eyes wide open, but--"
"But I didn't," Sam said, and Dean had to rock back on his heels as Sam unfolded his limbs. "I died, Dean."
"I was there, Sam. I remember."
"No," Sam shook his head, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "She didn't have the right to pull me back. And neither did you."
Dean stared at him. "You say that like it makes some kind of sense."
Sam rubbed at his face. "I died," he said, like that explained it all. "I didn't expect to, I didn't want to, but that's what happened. So now I get the choice. I can go on, and I won' t remember or even know or care that you're dead and in hell. Because I won't, Dean. There's a lot of roads out when you die. I chose this one." His eyes rested on Dean's face and there was a hint of anger there, but of determination too.
"She said…she said you were…that they kept you. Outside. Chained outside of wherever. Because you'd asked…to save me, you'd asked and offered for me…"
"I'm outside because I won't walk through," Sam said quietly. "There are no chains. Not there, anyway. Only here. Only you."
Dean understood that much more than he wanted to and it hurt a little knowing that, and he scraped his fingernails over his jeans, scratching an itch that wasn’t really there. "If you don't go back…"
"Then you go back to hell, and I'll be the one that sent you there."
"And if you go and keep going on…"
"Then you'll go back to hell and I won't know it or care."
"Wow. I'm kind of hating both those options."
Sam dropped his head, but there was a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah. I think both those plans suck, so we should go with the first one."
That one didn't sound all that great to Dean either. Not for Sam and not really for himself, although put up against the alternatives…still. "Once a year for…thirty years? That's a long time to keep a promise."
Sam shook his head. "You've kept a promise nearly as long. I'm still here."
Dean swallowed. "It's not the same…and you died, remember?"
"Yeah, I do, now. But that's not the promise you kept. It was never about keeping me alive, Dean."
"The hell it wasn't," Dean said, and got to his feet. The room suddenly felt small and getting a deep breath seemed harder than it should have. "So, after thirty, then what. We'll be old men."
Sam shrugged. "We'll take a road trip, buy a farm…"
"I could die before then. I mean…" Dean said and Sam dropped his gaze. "If I die before then, before this is done, then what?"
"There's no early cancellation on this. I keep my promises. I 'd kind of prefer if you didn't though, you know?"
"And if you… and if -- I mean, I'm guessing you're not immortal."
Sam did look then, eyes wide and chin up. "You'll just have to trust that I'll be waiting for you to catch up." Sam pushed up, getting his legs under him.
"I'm seriously not all that keen on owing you this one," Dean said and offered him a hand.
Sam grabbed on and let Dean pull him to his feet. His smile was a little sly but mostly it was just tired. "Yeah. This is one I'm not letting you live down," he said an leaned forward, aiming to pat Dean's cheek but his hand fell to Dean's shoulder instead. "Suck it up."
Dean gripped his shoulders, and turned him around, mindful of awkward, ungraceful limbs, and the fine, faint tremor in Sam's body. "How about you suck up some actual sleep. And maybe a shower. And a damn haircut," he said, dumping Sam onto the bed.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Sam slurred, but he caught Dean's wrist when he would have stepped away. "Be here."
Pulling the coverlet and tucking Sam's hand back under the blankets, Dean sat on the edge of the bed. "I will be. So there's really a better place?"
Sam was already asleep.
Dean watched him for awhile, finally easing off carefully to find someplace more comfortable. He felt as tired as Sam apparently was but not really sleepy.
He wondered if Sam would remember his own ordeal as viscerally as Dean did and hoped not and he was more afraid to ask exactly what would happen in a year than he wanted to be. A year could both be an impossible amount of time to wait and not nearly enough time for anything. He knew that better than anyone.
Between now and then, though…he hesitated to call it hope, and still too wary to call it faith.
Trusting Sam, though, that much he could do.
I'll be waiting for you to catch up.
That really wasn't much of a leap of faith for Dean at all.
++++++
part nineteen - final