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maygra_fic
SPN FIC: A Year and a Day - part nineteen
A Year and a Day - part nineteen
by Maygra
Dean, Sam, Bobby, R overall
Status: Complete
Permanent link is [[here]].
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.
Author's notes to follow.
+++++
Day 702
It starts with
One thing, I don't know why
It doesn't even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind
I designed this rhyme
To explain due time
All I know
Time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down till the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
It's so unreal
You didn't look out below,
Watch the time go right out the window
Tryin to hold on
Didnt even know, I wasted it all
Just to watch you go
I kept everything inside
And even though I tried
It all fell apart
What it's meant to be
Will eventually,
be a memory, of a time
I've put my trust, in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There's only one thing you should know
When I tried so hard and got so far
But in the end, it doesn't even matter
I had to fall, to lose it all
But in the end, it doesn't even matter
In the End ~ Linkin Park
Dean had stubbornly refused to mark the days. Somewhere along the way, Sam had started acting more like himself and less like someone with a massive case of ADD. There had been a few hours of sheer panic from Sam because he couldn't remember how many days it had been and was all for making his payment early and getting ahead of the curve. Even Dean was pretty sure that wasn't how it was supposed to work, and it took a phone call to Bobby to finally get Sam to stop hyperventilating over the whole thing, because Bobby tended to keep track of that shit. Not so much how many days, but the dates of Dean's return and Sam's disappearance.
Then he told Dean to get Sam a damn Dayminder and it wouldn't kill them to drop in now and again for a visit, ungrateful sons of bitches, just like your Dad. Dean had laughed at that and stopped in Wisconsin to ship Bobby an entire bushel of apples. Bobby didn't like them that much but the dog did.
He'd gotten used to the differences in Sam; was sure there were some differences in himself too that Sam had noted but never commented on. He was maybe a little more careful with his own skin, a fact that irritated him when he was aware of it, but he hadn't missed the part where, this deal was all on Sam.
The idea of Sam having to go through this alone wasn't as acceptable as he'd once tried to convince himself it was.
They stayed for awhile -- not quite in Bobby's back pocket, or Ellen's either because she'd been there when they finally showed up after Winslow. There was chatter about Jo and building a new bar, a nicer one, and hints of maybe not for hunters except Jo was still out on the road, and Ellen still didn't like it but she liked even less not having easy access to whatever information might benefit her girl. Jo was becoming a bit of demon expert, it seemed, and Sam had looked away and Dean had made the right noises. Then they hit the road again, as much because Bobby was dying to pick Sam's brain apart (once he got done with the yelling and had slid a hug and a couple of backslaps in there) but Sam seemed to reluctant to talk about it beyond what he'd told Dean. Sometimes it was good to avoid temptation.
It took Sam too long to gain back the weight he lost, longer still for Dean to realize that there wasn't much taste to anything for him, nothing to compare, and Sam ate mostly because it was necessary but it might as well have been dust. Dean found his own appetite returning, and the taste of an overly loaded burger and salt-drenched french fries even sweeter. He bullied Sam -- just a little -- telling him if everything tasted the same, then he might as well load up on the calories.
It was all little things. Dean learned to not flinch from fire and Sam learned to hide his cringing from really loud noises or too many voices; gritting his teeth and forcing himself through crowds and noisy bars and diners.
The silence was the hardest thing. Some days Sam would rally enough to banter and snipe. But he rarely bitched and there was both more purpose and commitment to hunting and a whole shit lot more compassion for the things they hunted -- something Dean wasn't even sure was possible. Sam had always been a bleeding heart -- and he had no idea why both Bobby and Sam always chuckled at that. But the thousand yard stares Sam sometimes got for no real reason Dean could see bothered him. There was no consistent trigger that Dean could suss out. Sam was here and with him, but some part of him wasn't and maybe never would be again.
The closer they got to the date the more anxious Dean got, because while he had absolute faith in Sam, he had less faith in all the players working from the same playbook.
They worked more in synch than they ever had, but Dean worried over the increasing distance -- what felt like distance. Or maybe it was just difference.
There was no more talk of quitting hunting, or Sam fretting over the fact that sometimes they just didn't get there in time, or didn't figure it out quickly enough. It came with no platitudes, and Sam would just hunker down until they did figure it out, put to rest or put out of existence whatever ghost or beast or even demon crossed their path.
The demons became a bit of a problem. They seemed to have lost their love of hearing themselves talk, and even taunting Dean, reminding him of the horror of his time with them seemed to have lost its luster. They tended to come at them hard and fast and the human body count escalated with every encounter, but if their rough count of the number that had escaped was anything to go by, they were winning. They and the other hunters, including Jo, because while these demons were ruthless and clever, they really weren't organized and they seemed to fight among themselves as often as they fought hunters.
And then there was the fact that they seemed to have a real aversion to laying hands on Sam at all. Shoot at him, throw him around like a ragdoll, occasionally (okay, once) try to topple an entire building on him, but none of them ever got close enough to make a grab, or let Sam grab them.
It took Dean longer than it should have to figure it out, and he might never have save for a chance bit of grab and toss with particularly nasty demon with a taste for human hearts, one of those that apparently liked a little soul with his morning coffee.
It was a set up as sweet as a two-play on a basket ball court, Dean with a roll and tuck and twist and Sam with a blade as long as his forearm and inscribed with ten kinds of cantos including this demon's name.
It had seen the blade before it saw Sam and managed one of those completely unfair leaps and twists that Dean only ever saw in ninja movies, that put the damn thing behind Sam.
And it grabbed.
Then it screamed, then it thrashed and spewed some of the most foul things Dean had ever heard -- and he'd heard a lot -- when Sam grabbed it by the wrist and drove the blade in true and sure.
Dean was pretty sure it said something along the lines of forgive, me lord before it dissipated into dust and ash. He might have been more worried except the damned thing didn't actually seem to be talking to Sam.
He hadn't thought much about the tattoo, although he'd finally seen it, back in Winslow, after rousting Sam awake enough to take his much-needed shower. One thing, after all this, to know it was there and why, and another to actually see the damn thing. He'd seen the back first, stretching across Sam's spine from hip to shoulder, the long ladder of it wider than his spread palm and the lettering etched in red and yellow and blue, like some kind of bizarre primary school Latin primer. Only not just Latin, but Dean couldn't make all of it out without obviously staring, and things then had been awkward and uncomfortable enough between them with the twin offerings of sacrifice and redemption so obviously on Sam's body along with the unnatural prominence of his ribs.
It had been easier to make out his own name etched into the rest, in the ribbons of black and color that arched across Sam's stomach and disappeared under his jeans. The part that spanned Sam's shoulder was mostly invocations to the archangels, under a couple of different names, and Dean finally got part of what had set Bobby off so hotly. Whether he believed in angels or not, you didn't invoke the actual names or aspects of death without being pretty damn desperate.
It hadn't been six months when they ran into the heart-munching demon with the filthy mind, and it all kind of snicked together in Dean's brain like gun part snapping in place: the demons had an aversion to laying hands on Sam's skin, the way they would on a holy relic. Dean might think his little brother was pretty damn special but that was a far cry from being anything functionally divine, which meant something else was at play.
So the next time Sam came out of the shower to get dressed, Dean stopped him and turned him around, told him to shut up when he protested and tilted the desk lamp up so he could see better. Some of it Dean flat out couldn't read without a reference book, although he was pretty sure he recognized a few of the languages. He wondered if Sam even knew half the invocations he'd had Nell carefully draw into his skin, and how long he'd been collecting them.
The invocation of angels didn't surprise him, but there were a few less savory things Sam had called on, had been willing to call to him -- he was a walking multi-cultural, pan-mythological sign board. Only some of what Dean could make out seemed to be screaming "Good Eats!" more than help me out here. He didn't have to be a linguistic scholar to make out some of the more common sigils -- things Nell probably hadn't even recognized as words.
But Dean knew them, and it didn't help that Sam had only chosen about nine out of several hundred possible, including one for a demon they both knew was dead in pretty much any and every way that counted.
It wasn't just the naming. There was danger in that, but Dean knew the frame and structure of an invocation as well as Sam did, the patterns of ward and bind, of cleanse and sacrifice.
"Who answered?" he asked. "Of all the names you called on, which one answered, Sam."
Sam ducked away then and reached for his shirt. "None of these answered. I wasn't expecting anyone specific." He shrugged into the shirt, but Dean stopped him before he could button it, palm resting over the tat closest to Sam's heart and the name etched there.
"You've got the names of nine of the princes of hell inked on your back, and the angel of death right here." Dean slapped Sam's chest lightly.
"You were dead," Sam whispered. "So I figured it was the lords of the dead that I needed to talk to."
"Who answered?" Dean asked again.
"Does it matter?"
"Given that demons seem to find you a little hard to hold onto, it might," Dean said and let Sam finished getting dressed.
"It wasn't a demon that answered or an angel, if that's what you're worried about. And the demons might not want to touch me, but I don't think they'd have a problem gutting me, given the opportunity," Sam said. "The rest of it's their own superstition."
"Touching you is like getting a face full of holy water, Sam. I'm not sure that's good."
"Well, seeing as I'd just as soon they didn't lay their slimy paws on either of us, I'm not sure it's bad," Sam said with a hint of anger and had finished packing his gear and carried it out to the car.
They didn't talk about it again, but every time Dean saw Sam without his shirt, he wondered what else the marks on his brother's skin might be repelling -- or attracting. Something had answered Sam.
And the closer they got to the anniversary of Sam's return and Dean's release, the more he worried about it.
Sam did as well, growing more detached as the day drew nearer. Dean didn't know what to expect and he suspected Sam didn't either, really.
A week before the year was up, they headed southwest again.
"Does it matter where you are?" Dean asked, trying not to dwell on how driving through the flat barren land might be foreshadowing of something else.
"I don't know. Just a reason why I ended up there -- when I started from someplace else and ended up there."
"How did you get there the first time?"
"I jumped off a cliff."
It took Dean a moment to realize Sam wasn't speaking metaphorically. "You did what?"
"I climbed the cliff at the playa and jumped."
"You're not jumping off a cliff, Sam."
Sam smiled and ducked his head. "I wasn't planning to. You asked me, who came for me."
"And you didn't tell me. You said it didn't matter."
"I don't think it did. I mean…I think it could have been anything. I didn't set out to fulfill someone else's destiny."
"But we're headed back to the reservation anyway. So, who -- what was it?"
"Masauwu." The name meant nothing to Dean and it showed on his face. "Masauwu is the Hopi God of the dead. The stone you brought the people, the one you found at the playa, it's part of his prophecy."
"And that prophecy is--?"
"About two brothers, who are supposed to make a new world for the People," Sam said. "It's part of why I used Masauwu's name -- the older brother would come to clear the way for the younger. It seemed….appropriate."
"Appropriate? So now you've got a debt to pay to some Hopi Death God?" Dean stopped the car on the side of the road. He could just as easily stopped in the middle. There was nothing but sand and rock and scrub for miles. "You know, you ending up dead is what started this. I don't want you waiting for me. I want you here."
"One or the other. You don't have as many options. Those are your choices, Dean," Sam said quietly.
Dean stared at him for a long moment and then jerked the keys out of the ignition and got out.
Sam let him have a few minutes and Dean was oddly grateful for that. The past year had been good, mostly. Not perfect, and he never forgot, but as with his own year, it was easier to get lost in the moments…to not look too far ahead.
Once he thought that the worst hell was living without his brother. He knew that wasn't entirely true, but a lesser hell was still hell. When Sam got out, he didn't speak, only leaned against the front quarter panel, hands in his pockets.
"What's going to happen?" Dean said at last.
"I don't know."
Dean turned around to stare at him. "You don't know? We're headed to the back end of nowhere, to summon some god or spirit or whatever, and you don't know how or what's going to happen?"
"I figured if I ended up back at the spring, you'd have less of a drive to make."
"Your consideration is duly noted, Sam."
"I'm coming back, Dean."
It wasn't Sam's coming back that was the problem. It was the going at all. Sam's eyes met his own and Dean was kind of stunned by the complete lack of fear he saw there.
Maybe it made sense. Dean had enough for both of them. He stepped up, able to look Sam in the eye, with Sam slouching against the car. He remembered a time when he'd looked down into those eyes, eyes that trusted him to make everything better.
"Don't make me come after you."
Sam's smile broke slow, taking over his whole face, and laughter burbled up, escaping into the silence around them.
And Dean knew this was why he'd agreed to go to hell in the first place.
No one seemed surprised to see them, and Sam's hesitant request for a place, for a room, got them an empty kiva and Chosovi brought them blankets, and her uncle brought them firewood and grandmother brought them food and water. Outside the People talked and sang a little but no one disturbed them at all.
The temperature dropped quickly, and wary or not, the small fire in the center of the kiva warmed the chamber up noticeably, but colder air whipped around the edges, and hung like a barrier just inside the door. The last of the sun's rays bounced off the pueblo, barely lighting the doorway.
Sam had spread one of the blankets near the fire and stripped down, shrugging when Dean cocked an eyebrow.
"Last time I went with some clothes and came back with none. Seems easier."
"Are you going to disappear?"
Sam shook his head and laid out a small circle of salt, a bowl of water, a feather, a stone, and lit a small votive candle from the fire. "I don't know. I just don't, Dean."
The last of the light faded and Dean moved away from the doorway, not sure where he should settle or even if he could. Finally he chose a position on the low stone bench carved from the wall, behind Sam but not touching him.
Sam was murmuring something but on his knees sitting absolutely still otherwise. Just his breathing made the long tattoo on his back shift and seem to move, all in shadow, dark on dark until Dean realized it wasn't just the shadows. The glow of the fire and Sam's candle were contained somehow, casting little light, and the cold crept along the walls, chilling his back, wicking away the sweat under his shirt.
He couldn't hear the People singing outside, or hear Sam; couldn't see beyond the doorway. The fire seemed in danger of going out entirely, burning low, casting light but no heat.
It errupted suddenly, a column that nearly reached the low roof, and Dean lurched forward, wanting to get Sam out of danger, flinching at the brushing heat on his skin, but hooking hands under Sam's arms anyway and heaving backward. The fire was between them and the door and Sam was a dead weight in his arms, heavy and awkward, legs still half crossed.
And despite the sudden influx of heat in the room, Sam was chill and cold and for a terrifyingly long moment everything seemed still and holding its breath while Dean hunted for a pulse and found nothing. Nothing. Not at wrist or neck and no thump of a heart beat in Sam's chest when Dean pressed his ear there.
The fire hissed and flattened, opening like some kind of livid red and gold flower, and Dean pulled Sam toward him, cradling his brother's too long body against his chest and reaching one hand toward his bag for the dozen or so methods of both destruction and protection tucked inside it.
Something big and dark formed in the heart of the flames, taking on shape, colors as vivid as the flames, but not human, not even remotely so, but familiar anyway and he knew the manifestation…if not the actual name. Kachina with the heavy face mask and the cloth wrapped arms and legs, feathers draped this way and that in streams of grey and white.
Only the mask didn't actually seem to be a mask despite the long hooked beak and the wide apart eyes. The hands were thin like bird claws, the neck disproportionately long on broad shoulders.
Maybe it was Masauwu, or some other Hopi spirit but Dean didn't care. Sam wasn't breathing and he was cold and it was just as horrible and impossible to believe as the first time it had happened. The only difference was that no blood marked Sam's skin this time. He fought back the urge to force air into Sam's lungs, to push him on the floor and make his heart beat again, even if Dean had to do all the work himself.
The kachina settled in across from him, and Dean stared at it for along moment. The door behind it, the door to the kiva was gone. He was pretty sure it was still there, only he couldn't see it. He put his back to the bench and pulled Sam up hard against him, so he'd know the moment there was change -- and scary as it was to hold Sam's cold dead body to his chest, he wasn't to the point of doubting Sam would come back. Something was going on, and the fact that he was sharing airspace with an actual living kachina made it seem like this was the way it was supposed to go.
Twenty four hours was a long time though.
His companion didn't seem inclined to talk, even though it watched him with its odd bird-eyes, blinking occasionally and shrugging, which was accompanied by the sound of rustling wings even though Dean couldn't see them. Once it rose and pulled a bundle of sage and sweetgrass from the pouch at it's side and tossed them into the fire, filling the chamber with a light and heady smoke that made Dean feel dizzy and his eyes water.
He wrapped a blanket around Sam, because the feel of his cold, rigid skin was bringing up a panic Dean wasn't sure he could keep a lid on. His legs and arms started to numb and his mouth was dry, sweat tricking down his throat and making his shirt stick to his skin. It was hot in the room, the fire never dimming though neither he or the creature across form him ever added wood to it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there before the doubt started taking hold. His watch told him nothing -- it had stopped at some point. And though the kiva they'd started in had a hole in the ceiling to let the smoke out, this chamber now seemed to stretch up and up into a darkness Dean's eyes couldn't penetrate.
Staring at the kachina made him uncomfortable and he looked away. The fire lent and illusion of warmth to Sam's face, even though his skin was chill, but he didn't look greyed-out and dead, blood pooling in places where it lay. Sam looked like Sam, as Dean rarely saw him, even in sleep, features lax and soft, no worry lines creasing forehead or mouth, dark hair falling in his eyes.
So maybe this wasn't hell, but it was a little like death, and hope was hard to come by when he didn't have Sam's laugher in his ears, or the warmth of him at his back. Even the year he'd been hunting for Sam, hadn't felt like this, like Sam was gone someplace Dean couldn't follow. Sam had been out of his sight, out of his reach, but not gone. And partly that was ignorance and partly that was hope.
His mouth felt dry but the thought his throat might be too tight to swallow anything anyway and instead he pressed his forehead to the top of Sam's head and closed his eyes. He may have slept or dozed and when he woke again, Sam was still not breathing, the imposing figure still sat across the fire from him, but the pitcher of water and the covered plate of food Chosovi had brought him was with arm's reach. Dean took the water, awkward with only one hand but he wouldn't let his fingers slip from Sam's throat.
Bird-eyes was watching him still and he chewed on his lip, because the damn thing looked to be waiting for something, only Dean didn't know what. He held out the jug of water, in offering. He didn't even know if the damn thing needed to drink.
The thing chuckled. Laughed softly, as human sounding as Dean did not expect and it rose and circled the fire, to take the jug in its thin, bird-like claws, tipping the jug back and drinking deep.
Dean gestured at the food, clearing his throat a little. "Go ahead, man. I'm not hungry," he offered.
As before, the creature chuckled a little and squatted, pulling the cloth back and taking up a piece of the flat bread. It tore it in half and held out one section to Dean. He didn't want it, but he took it anyway, carefully -- the claws on the end of it's hands were wicked sharp -- a bird of prey, a raptor's claws.
Dean hesitated and the creature shook it at him until he reached out to pluck the bread from its claws. The small dark eyes watched him, and he took a bite, wondering if this were part of all of it, like the food of the fae, or Persephone and her pomegranate seeds, or a communion for the forgiveness of sin.
It was dry and tasteless in his mouth, and the bird-thing made a noise and gestured at Sam. Dean stared and swallowed, the creature rising up, although looking less like a kachina and more like a different denizen of the afterlife, with a man's broad shoulders, sun darkened skin and the head of a hawk.
Horus now, and he gestured again, fingers to mouth and looking at Sam and held up his portion of the bread.
Dean tore a bit of his own portion free, and used his thumb to open Sam's mouth slightly, glancing at his dark companion before placing the fragment of bread on Sam's tongue. He got an inclination of the hawk-like head and Horus too tossed something on the fire, amber colored rocks that hissed and spit and smelled like desert air and eucalyptus. It pushed the jug back toward him and gestured again.
Dean picked it up, sniffed and drank, expecting water and finding the water sweet and cloying, like honey in beer. At Horus's insistence he drank three times, knowing there was significance but the brew went to his head like something far stronger, pooled the blood in his veins, and made him curl over Sam, afraid he would pass out.
He might have, or fallen asleep because when he jerked his head up again, he was alone with Sam, the fire had burned low, and he could hear the People singing again.
Sam remained still and silent, the only thing moving was a few wisps of hair around his face where a breeze through the open doorway stirred them. He felt neither warm nor cold, body not stiff, skin color unchanged. Dean's body was cramped from long hours of holding and he felt the urge to stretch, to unkink muscles and legs, but half afraid if he let go to stand or stretch, to go outside to relieve the pressing call of nature, that it might have some significance he didn't understand and couldn't reverse.
He still felt light headed and sniffed at the bottle but smelled only water, and took a swallow to clear the cloying thick taste in his mouth.
A shadow crossed the door and he looked up to see one of the women crouching there, leaving a fresh jug of water, and another plate of food. She met Dean's eyes only briefly and glanced at Sam for a long moment before nodding to Dean and turning to leave.
She hadn't crossed the threshold, but had left the food there, obviously for Dean, but in order to reach it, Dean would have to get up, and wondered if these people knew more than he, understood this more than he did.
He eased Sam down, settling him back on the blankets, reluctant to let go, and held his breath when he finally did but nothing changed, nothing happened. Sam remained the same, the fire didn't flare, nothing but the same small breeze moved through the kiva.
Stretching -- standing -- brought a hiss of pain to his lips and a sharper discomfort to his bladder and back. He went to the door and pulled the food further in and then saw the small covered pot just inside the doorway. He opened it and it was empty, but there was a dull scent of old urine, not strong or offensive but no doubt what the pot was for.
It made things easier physically, and on recovering the pot, he stood in the doorway, but went no further. He glanced back at Sam, who looked like he was sleeping rather than lifeless.
Nothing had come for him except his strange visitors in the night -- who in the daylight might have as easily been dreams or fear and exhaustion induced hallucinations.
He didn't want to leave the small space. It felt safe here, even with Sam present but missing. Gone, yet still remaining. He was likely to be bored out of his mind in a few hours, or equally as likely to be completely freaked out by his complete inability to do anything but wait. There were no deals to be made here, no options but stay or go.
He couldn't even summon the fear of what would happen if this all went wrong, if it already had. He rubbed at the scars on his hands, and threw more wood on the fire, stretching his fingertips toward it until it was painful, body twitching in reaction and eyes tearing. Held it longer until his hand throbbed and the rush of adrenaline and endorphins made him feel sick, the curled his hand back into his chest, biting his lip through the pain. It didn't ease and the chances were he'd have blisters, maybe new scarring.
The reminder kept him company well into the middle of the day.
He drank some of the water, nibbled at the cold offering of tortillas and beans and some kind of stewed vegetable mash, and then settled down next to Sam again, fingers tracing the dark marks on his shoulder, the names of the lords of the dead.
Finally he stretched out next to Sam and pulled the blanket over both of them. He was glad that Sam was neither cold or stiff, and feeling less awkward than he might with his brother's naked body pulled close to his own.
When he slept he dreamed of nothing.
When he woke, it was near dark again, the last of the sun turning the kiva dark red, and the fire had all but gone out. Sam had rolled over to face him, eyes open to Dean's, watching him. There were tear tracks on Sam's face and his lashes were clumped.
Dean swallowed and pressed his hand to the center of Sam's chest, felt the reassuring thump of his heart, before pulling Sam in closer and brushing his lips across Sam's sweaty forehead. He held onto Sam while he cried a little more and closed his eyes.
Behind him, he thought he heard the rustle of massive wings, and a deep throated chuckle, an admonition.
It sounded a lot like, happy new year.
~end~
Author's notes: Firstly, apologies for how long it took me to post the last section. A combination of the story twisting itself into places I hadn't planned and real life matter needing my attention, made this process a lot longer than I intended.
I won't apologise for it not going to the Dean/Sam happy place, because while it was possible and in my head I think it does (or they do) eventually -- it didn't happen here or in the time frame of this story.
I've been having a great time with the ask me anything polls during the writing of this, and more than one person has asked about the juxtaposition of religion and myth and spirituality that often crops up in my writing, and this story is very much an example of that trend. The idea that all human faith and myth and religion flows from one source and then splits up into various rivers and streams and backflows and diversions appeals to me on a lot of levels. That Dean and Sam would find themselves at a different kind of crossroads where those things converge and mingle also appeals to me.
I think the concepts of heaven and hell in many ways boil down to a single set of points; heaven is that which we desire to be good and true and hell is what we desire not at all and abhor, and either of those two states can be fixed or fluid. There is a point in which Dean feels that life without Sam, without his ability to protect and keep Sam is a hell of it's own, and he trades one for another. There is a point where what Sam desires is to have a life he has only dreamed of without his brother, to make it on his own, only to find that the truth of that is less than ideal. So, in a way, this story is about them both trying to escape a hell that is unbearable, and for Sam, even heaven or paradise is empty if he's there alone.
I have no idea if I'll write more in this. There's a good 5,000 plus words sitting unused on my hard drive -- some of which is about the year Dean is without Sam and working through his own recovery, and tracing Sam's footsteps. Some of it is Sam's decisions and the choices he makes and how -- none of which seemed to fit properly here despite having rewritten them several times.
It's not the first time I've written about an annual pilgrimage Sam makes to save his brother. I doubt it will be the last. It's also not the only time I've written about Dean making a sacrifice to save something he values, only to have it become true that the value is mostly in his own eyes and that without him to be there to give it worth, what he saves is worth nothing.
I should remark here that much of my knowledge of the Hopi and their traditions is cursory rather than a product of deep study or even heavy reading. I'm far more familiar with eastern tribes of native americans than plains or southwest. The prophecies of the pahana are available to anyone with a search engine, and the description of Masauwu, and the kachina are equally available. I don' t think anyone really needs much imagination to see the similarities between the bird-head kachinas of the Hopi and the hawk-headed representation of the Egyptian god of the dead and afterlife, Horus. Funny how the distance of continents and cultures breeds similar myth, no?
For those of you who stuck with this, thank you, and apologies for not responding to the many kind comments.
(And post edit: yes, I completely confused Horus and Anubis who are related but not exactly the same. mea culpa.)
by Maygra
Dean, Sam, Bobby, R overall
Status: Complete
Permanent link is [[here]].
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.
Author's notes to follow.
+++++
Day 702
It starts with
One thing, I don't know why
It doesn't even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind
I designed this rhyme
To explain due time
All I know
Time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down till the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
It's so unreal
You didn't look out below,
Watch the time go right out the window
Tryin to hold on
Didnt even know, I wasted it all
Just to watch you go
I kept everything inside
And even though I tried
It all fell apart
What it's meant to be
Will eventually,
be a memory, of a time
I've put my trust, in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There's only one thing you should know
When I tried so hard and got so far
But in the end, it doesn't even matter
I had to fall, to lose it all
But in the end, it doesn't even matter
In the End ~ Linkin Park
Dean had stubbornly refused to mark the days. Somewhere along the way, Sam had started acting more like himself and less like someone with a massive case of ADD. There had been a few hours of sheer panic from Sam because he couldn't remember how many days it had been and was all for making his payment early and getting ahead of the curve. Even Dean was pretty sure that wasn't how it was supposed to work, and it took a phone call to Bobby to finally get Sam to stop hyperventilating over the whole thing, because Bobby tended to keep track of that shit. Not so much how many days, but the dates of Dean's return and Sam's disappearance.
Then he told Dean to get Sam a damn Dayminder and it wouldn't kill them to drop in now and again for a visit, ungrateful sons of bitches, just like your Dad. Dean had laughed at that and stopped in Wisconsin to ship Bobby an entire bushel of apples. Bobby didn't like them that much but the dog did.
He'd gotten used to the differences in Sam; was sure there were some differences in himself too that Sam had noted but never commented on. He was maybe a little more careful with his own skin, a fact that irritated him when he was aware of it, but he hadn't missed the part where, this deal was all on Sam.
The idea of Sam having to go through this alone wasn't as acceptable as he'd once tried to convince himself it was.
They stayed for awhile -- not quite in Bobby's back pocket, or Ellen's either because she'd been there when they finally showed up after Winslow. There was chatter about Jo and building a new bar, a nicer one, and hints of maybe not for hunters except Jo was still out on the road, and Ellen still didn't like it but she liked even less not having easy access to whatever information might benefit her girl. Jo was becoming a bit of demon expert, it seemed, and Sam had looked away and Dean had made the right noises. Then they hit the road again, as much because Bobby was dying to pick Sam's brain apart (once he got done with the yelling and had slid a hug and a couple of backslaps in there) but Sam seemed to reluctant to talk about it beyond what he'd told Dean. Sometimes it was good to avoid temptation.
It took Sam too long to gain back the weight he lost, longer still for Dean to realize that there wasn't much taste to anything for him, nothing to compare, and Sam ate mostly because it was necessary but it might as well have been dust. Dean found his own appetite returning, and the taste of an overly loaded burger and salt-drenched french fries even sweeter. He bullied Sam -- just a little -- telling him if everything tasted the same, then he might as well load up on the calories.
It was all little things. Dean learned to not flinch from fire and Sam learned to hide his cringing from really loud noises or too many voices; gritting his teeth and forcing himself through crowds and noisy bars and diners.
The silence was the hardest thing. Some days Sam would rally enough to banter and snipe. But he rarely bitched and there was both more purpose and commitment to hunting and a whole shit lot more compassion for the things they hunted -- something Dean wasn't even sure was possible. Sam had always been a bleeding heart -- and he had no idea why both Bobby and Sam always chuckled at that. But the thousand yard stares Sam sometimes got for no real reason Dean could see bothered him. There was no consistent trigger that Dean could suss out. Sam was here and with him, but some part of him wasn't and maybe never would be again.
The closer they got to the date the more anxious Dean got, because while he had absolute faith in Sam, he had less faith in all the players working from the same playbook.
They worked more in synch than they ever had, but Dean worried over the increasing distance -- what felt like distance. Or maybe it was just difference.
There was no more talk of quitting hunting, or Sam fretting over the fact that sometimes they just didn't get there in time, or didn't figure it out quickly enough. It came with no platitudes, and Sam would just hunker down until they did figure it out, put to rest or put out of existence whatever ghost or beast or even demon crossed their path.
The demons became a bit of a problem. They seemed to have lost their love of hearing themselves talk, and even taunting Dean, reminding him of the horror of his time with them seemed to have lost its luster. They tended to come at them hard and fast and the human body count escalated with every encounter, but if their rough count of the number that had escaped was anything to go by, they were winning. They and the other hunters, including Jo, because while these demons were ruthless and clever, they really weren't organized and they seemed to fight among themselves as often as they fought hunters.
And then there was the fact that they seemed to have a real aversion to laying hands on Sam at all. Shoot at him, throw him around like a ragdoll, occasionally (okay, once) try to topple an entire building on him, but none of them ever got close enough to make a grab, or let Sam grab them.
It took Dean longer than it should have to figure it out, and he might never have save for a chance bit of grab and toss with particularly nasty demon with a taste for human hearts, one of those that apparently liked a little soul with his morning coffee.
It was a set up as sweet as a two-play on a basket ball court, Dean with a roll and tuck and twist and Sam with a blade as long as his forearm and inscribed with ten kinds of cantos including this demon's name.
It had seen the blade before it saw Sam and managed one of those completely unfair leaps and twists that Dean only ever saw in ninja movies, that put the damn thing behind Sam.
And it grabbed.
Then it screamed, then it thrashed and spewed some of the most foul things Dean had ever heard -- and he'd heard a lot -- when Sam grabbed it by the wrist and drove the blade in true and sure.
Dean was pretty sure it said something along the lines of forgive, me lord before it dissipated into dust and ash. He might have been more worried except the damned thing didn't actually seem to be talking to Sam.
He hadn't thought much about the tattoo, although he'd finally seen it, back in Winslow, after rousting Sam awake enough to take his much-needed shower. One thing, after all this, to know it was there and why, and another to actually see the damn thing. He'd seen the back first, stretching across Sam's spine from hip to shoulder, the long ladder of it wider than his spread palm and the lettering etched in red and yellow and blue, like some kind of bizarre primary school Latin primer. Only not just Latin, but Dean couldn't make all of it out without obviously staring, and things then had been awkward and uncomfortable enough between them with the twin offerings of sacrifice and redemption so obviously on Sam's body along with the unnatural prominence of his ribs.
It had been easier to make out his own name etched into the rest, in the ribbons of black and color that arched across Sam's stomach and disappeared under his jeans. The part that spanned Sam's shoulder was mostly invocations to the archangels, under a couple of different names, and Dean finally got part of what had set Bobby off so hotly. Whether he believed in angels or not, you didn't invoke the actual names or aspects of death without being pretty damn desperate.
It hadn't been six months when they ran into the heart-munching demon with the filthy mind, and it all kind of snicked together in Dean's brain like gun part snapping in place: the demons had an aversion to laying hands on Sam's skin, the way they would on a holy relic. Dean might think his little brother was pretty damn special but that was a far cry from being anything functionally divine, which meant something else was at play.
So the next time Sam came out of the shower to get dressed, Dean stopped him and turned him around, told him to shut up when he protested and tilted the desk lamp up so he could see better. Some of it Dean flat out couldn't read without a reference book, although he was pretty sure he recognized a few of the languages. He wondered if Sam even knew half the invocations he'd had Nell carefully draw into his skin, and how long he'd been collecting them.
The invocation of angels didn't surprise him, but there were a few less savory things Sam had called on, had been willing to call to him -- he was a walking multi-cultural, pan-mythological sign board. Only some of what Dean could make out seemed to be screaming "Good Eats!" more than help me out here. He didn't have to be a linguistic scholar to make out some of the more common sigils -- things Nell probably hadn't even recognized as words.
But Dean knew them, and it didn't help that Sam had only chosen about nine out of several hundred possible, including one for a demon they both knew was dead in pretty much any and every way that counted.
It wasn't just the naming. There was danger in that, but Dean knew the frame and structure of an invocation as well as Sam did, the patterns of ward and bind, of cleanse and sacrifice.
"Who answered?" he asked. "Of all the names you called on, which one answered, Sam."
Sam ducked away then and reached for his shirt. "None of these answered. I wasn't expecting anyone specific." He shrugged into the shirt, but Dean stopped him before he could button it, palm resting over the tat closest to Sam's heart and the name etched there.
"You've got the names of nine of the princes of hell inked on your back, and the angel of death right here." Dean slapped Sam's chest lightly.
"You were dead," Sam whispered. "So I figured it was the lords of the dead that I needed to talk to."
"Who answered?" Dean asked again.
"Does it matter?"
"Given that demons seem to find you a little hard to hold onto, it might," Dean said and let Sam finished getting dressed.
"It wasn't a demon that answered or an angel, if that's what you're worried about. And the demons might not want to touch me, but I don't think they'd have a problem gutting me, given the opportunity," Sam said. "The rest of it's their own superstition."
"Touching you is like getting a face full of holy water, Sam. I'm not sure that's good."
"Well, seeing as I'd just as soon they didn't lay their slimy paws on either of us, I'm not sure it's bad," Sam said with a hint of anger and had finished packing his gear and carried it out to the car.
They didn't talk about it again, but every time Dean saw Sam without his shirt, he wondered what else the marks on his brother's skin might be repelling -- or attracting. Something had answered Sam.
And the closer they got to the anniversary of Sam's return and Dean's release, the more he worried about it.
Sam did as well, growing more detached as the day drew nearer. Dean didn't know what to expect and he suspected Sam didn't either, really.
A week before the year was up, they headed southwest again.
"Does it matter where you are?" Dean asked, trying not to dwell on how driving through the flat barren land might be foreshadowing of something else.
"I don't know. Just a reason why I ended up there -- when I started from someplace else and ended up there."
"How did you get there the first time?"
"I jumped off a cliff."
It took Dean a moment to realize Sam wasn't speaking metaphorically. "You did what?"
"I climbed the cliff at the playa and jumped."
"You're not jumping off a cliff, Sam."
Sam smiled and ducked his head. "I wasn't planning to. You asked me, who came for me."
"And you didn't tell me. You said it didn't matter."
"I don't think it did. I mean…I think it could have been anything. I didn't set out to fulfill someone else's destiny."
"But we're headed back to the reservation anyway. So, who -- what was it?"
"Masauwu." The name meant nothing to Dean and it showed on his face. "Masauwu is the Hopi God of the dead. The stone you brought the people, the one you found at the playa, it's part of his prophecy."
"And that prophecy is--?"
"About two brothers, who are supposed to make a new world for the People," Sam said. "It's part of why I used Masauwu's name -- the older brother would come to clear the way for the younger. It seemed….appropriate."
"Appropriate? So now you've got a debt to pay to some Hopi Death God?" Dean stopped the car on the side of the road. He could just as easily stopped in the middle. There was nothing but sand and rock and scrub for miles. "You know, you ending up dead is what started this. I don't want you waiting for me. I want you here."
"One or the other. You don't have as many options. Those are your choices, Dean," Sam said quietly.
Dean stared at him for a long moment and then jerked the keys out of the ignition and got out.
Sam let him have a few minutes and Dean was oddly grateful for that. The past year had been good, mostly. Not perfect, and he never forgot, but as with his own year, it was easier to get lost in the moments…to not look too far ahead.
Once he thought that the worst hell was living without his brother. He knew that wasn't entirely true, but a lesser hell was still hell. When Sam got out, he didn't speak, only leaned against the front quarter panel, hands in his pockets.
"What's going to happen?" Dean said at last.
"I don't know."
Dean turned around to stare at him. "You don't know? We're headed to the back end of nowhere, to summon some god or spirit or whatever, and you don't know how or what's going to happen?"
"I figured if I ended up back at the spring, you'd have less of a drive to make."
"Your consideration is duly noted, Sam."
"I'm coming back, Dean."
It wasn't Sam's coming back that was the problem. It was the going at all. Sam's eyes met his own and Dean was kind of stunned by the complete lack of fear he saw there.
Maybe it made sense. Dean had enough for both of them. He stepped up, able to look Sam in the eye, with Sam slouching against the car. He remembered a time when he'd looked down into those eyes, eyes that trusted him to make everything better.
"Don't make me come after you."
Sam's smile broke slow, taking over his whole face, and laughter burbled up, escaping into the silence around them.
And Dean knew this was why he'd agreed to go to hell in the first place.
No one seemed surprised to see them, and Sam's hesitant request for a place, for a room, got them an empty kiva and Chosovi brought them blankets, and her uncle brought them firewood and grandmother brought them food and water. Outside the People talked and sang a little but no one disturbed them at all.
The temperature dropped quickly, and wary or not, the small fire in the center of the kiva warmed the chamber up noticeably, but colder air whipped around the edges, and hung like a barrier just inside the door. The last of the sun's rays bounced off the pueblo, barely lighting the doorway.
Sam had spread one of the blankets near the fire and stripped down, shrugging when Dean cocked an eyebrow.
"Last time I went with some clothes and came back with none. Seems easier."
"Are you going to disappear?"
Sam shook his head and laid out a small circle of salt, a bowl of water, a feather, a stone, and lit a small votive candle from the fire. "I don't know. I just don't, Dean."
The last of the light faded and Dean moved away from the doorway, not sure where he should settle or even if he could. Finally he chose a position on the low stone bench carved from the wall, behind Sam but not touching him.
Sam was murmuring something but on his knees sitting absolutely still otherwise. Just his breathing made the long tattoo on his back shift and seem to move, all in shadow, dark on dark until Dean realized it wasn't just the shadows. The glow of the fire and Sam's candle were contained somehow, casting little light, and the cold crept along the walls, chilling his back, wicking away the sweat under his shirt.
He couldn't hear the People singing outside, or hear Sam; couldn't see beyond the doorway. The fire seemed in danger of going out entirely, burning low, casting light but no heat.
It errupted suddenly, a column that nearly reached the low roof, and Dean lurched forward, wanting to get Sam out of danger, flinching at the brushing heat on his skin, but hooking hands under Sam's arms anyway and heaving backward. The fire was between them and the door and Sam was a dead weight in his arms, heavy and awkward, legs still half crossed.
And despite the sudden influx of heat in the room, Sam was chill and cold and for a terrifyingly long moment everything seemed still and holding its breath while Dean hunted for a pulse and found nothing. Nothing. Not at wrist or neck and no thump of a heart beat in Sam's chest when Dean pressed his ear there.
The fire hissed and flattened, opening like some kind of livid red and gold flower, and Dean pulled Sam toward him, cradling his brother's too long body against his chest and reaching one hand toward his bag for the dozen or so methods of both destruction and protection tucked inside it.
Something big and dark formed in the heart of the flames, taking on shape, colors as vivid as the flames, but not human, not even remotely so, but familiar anyway and he knew the manifestation…if not the actual name. Kachina with the heavy face mask and the cloth wrapped arms and legs, feathers draped this way and that in streams of grey and white.
Only the mask didn't actually seem to be a mask despite the long hooked beak and the wide apart eyes. The hands were thin like bird claws, the neck disproportionately long on broad shoulders.
Maybe it was Masauwu, or some other Hopi spirit but Dean didn't care. Sam wasn't breathing and he was cold and it was just as horrible and impossible to believe as the first time it had happened. The only difference was that no blood marked Sam's skin this time. He fought back the urge to force air into Sam's lungs, to push him on the floor and make his heart beat again, even if Dean had to do all the work himself.
The kachina settled in across from him, and Dean stared at it for along moment. The door behind it, the door to the kiva was gone. He was pretty sure it was still there, only he couldn't see it. He put his back to the bench and pulled Sam up hard against him, so he'd know the moment there was change -- and scary as it was to hold Sam's cold dead body to his chest, he wasn't to the point of doubting Sam would come back. Something was going on, and the fact that he was sharing airspace with an actual living kachina made it seem like this was the way it was supposed to go.
Twenty four hours was a long time though.
His companion didn't seem inclined to talk, even though it watched him with its odd bird-eyes, blinking occasionally and shrugging, which was accompanied by the sound of rustling wings even though Dean couldn't see them. Once it rose and pulled a bundle of sage and sweetgrass from the pouch at it's side and tossed them into the fire, filling the chamber with a light and heady smoke that made Dean feel dizzy and his eyes water.
He wrapped a blanket around Sam, because the feel of his cold, rigid skin was bringing up a panic Dean wasn't sure he could keep a lid on. His legs and arms started to numb and his mouth was dry, sweat tricking down his throat and making his shirt stick to his skin. It was hot in the room, the fire never dimming though neither he or the creature across form him ever added wood to it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there before the doubt started taking hold. His watch told him nothing -- it had stopped at some point. And though the kiva they'd started in had a hole in the ceiling to let the smoke out, this chamber now seemed to stretch up and up into a darkness Dean's eyes couldn't penetrate.
Staring at the kachina made him uncomfortable and he looked away. The fire lent and illusion of warmth to Sam's face, even though his skin was chill, but he didn't look greyed-out and dead, blood pooling in places where it lay. Sam looked like Sam, as Dean rarely saw him, even in sleep, features lax and soft, no worry lines creasing forehead or mouth, dark hair falling in his eyes.
So maybe this wasn't hell, but it was a little like death, and hope was hard to come by when he didn't have Sam's laugher in his ears, or the warmth of him at his back. Even the year he'd been hunting for Sam, hadn't felt like this, like Sam was gone someplace Dean couldn't follow. Sam had been out of his sight, out of his reach, but not gone. And partly that was ignorance and partly that was hope.
His mouth felt dry but the thought his throat might be too tight to swallow anything anyway and instead he pressed his forehead to the top of Sam's head and closed his eyes. He may have slept or dozed and when he woke again, Sam was still not breathing, the imposing figure still sat across the fire from him, but the pitcher of water and the covered plate of food Chosovi had brought him was with arm's reach. Dean took the water, awkward with only one hand but he wouldn't let his fingers slip from Sam's throat.
Bird-eyes was watching him still and he chewed on his lip, because the damn thing looked to be waiting for something, only Dean didn't know what. He held out the jug of water, in offering. He didn't even know if the damn thing needed to drink.
The thing chuckled. Laughed softly, as human sounding as Dean did not expect and it rose and circled the fire, to take the jug in its thin, bird-like claws, tipping the jug back and drinking deep.
Dean gestured at the food, clearing his throat a little. "Go ahead, man. I'm not hungry," he offered.
As before, the creature chuckled a little and squatted, pulling the cloth back and taking up a piece of the flat bread. It tore it in half and held out one section to Dean. He didn't want it, but he took it anyway, carefully -- the claws on the end of it's hands were wicked sharp -- a bird of prey, a raptor's claws.
Dean hesitated and the creature shook it at him until he reached out to pluck the bread from its claws. The small dark eyes watched him, and he took a bite, wondering if this were part of all of it, like the food of the fae, or Persephone and her pomegranate seeds, or a communion for the forgiveness of sin.
It was dry and tasteless in his mouth, and the bird-thing made a noise and gestured at Sam. Dean stared and swallowed, the creature rising up, although looking less like a kachina and more like a different denizen of the afterlife, with a man's broad shoulders, sun darkened skin and the head of a hawk.
Horus now, and he gestured again, fingers to mouth and looking at Sam and held up his portion of the bread.
Dean tore a bit of his own portion free, and used his thumb to open Sam's mouth slightly, glancing at his dark companion before placing the fragment of bread on Sam's tongue. He got an inclination of the hawk-like head and Horus too tossed something on the fire, amber colored rocks that hissed and spit and smelled like desert air and eucalyptus. It pushed the jug back toward him and gestured again.
Dean picked it up, sniffed and drank, expecting water and finding the water sweet and cloying, like honey in beer. At Horus's insistence he drank three times, knowing there was significance but the brew went to his head like something far stronger, pooled the blood in his veins, and made him curl over Sam, afraid he would pass out.
He might have, or fallen asleep because when he jerked his head up again, he was alone with Sam, the fire had burned low, and he could hear the People singing again.
Sam remained still and silent, the only thing moving was a few wisps of hair around his face where a breeze through the open doorway stirred them. He felt neither warm nor cold, body not stiff, skin color unchanged. Dean's body was cramped from long hours of holding and he felt the urge to stretch, to unkink muscles and legs, but half afraid if he let go to stand or stretch, to go outside to relieve the pressing call of nature, that it might have some significance he didn't understand and couldn't reverse.
He still felt light headed and sniffed at the bottle but smelled only water, and took a swallow to clear the cloying thick taste in his mouth.
A shadow crossed the door and he looked up to see one of the women crouching there, leaving a fresh jug of water, and another plate of food. She met Dean's eyes only briefly and glanced at Sam for a long moment before nodding to Dean and turning to leave.
She hadn't crossed the threshold, but had left the food there, obviously for Dean, but in order to reach it, Dean would have to get up, and wondered if these people knew more than he, understood this more than he did.
He eased Sam down, settling him back on the blankets, reluctant to let go, and held his breath when he finally did but nothing changed, nothing happened. Sam remained the same, the fire didn't flare, nothing but the same small breeze moved through the kiva.
Stretching -- standing -- brought a hiss of pain to his lips and a sharper discomfort to his bladder and back. He went to the door and pulled the food further in and then saw the small covered pot just inside the doorway. He opened it and it was empty, but there was a dull scent of old urine, not strong or offensive but no doubt what the pot was for.
It made things easier physically, and on recovering the pot, he stood in the doorway, but went no further. He glanced back at Sam, who looked like he was sleeping rather than lifeless.
Nothing had come for him except his strange visitors in the night -- who in the daylight might have as easily been dreams or fear and exhaustion induced hallucinations.
He didn't want to leave the small space. It felt safe here, even with Sam present but missing. Gone, yet still remaining. He was likely to be bored out of his mind in a few hours, or equally as likely to be completely freaked out by his complete inability to do anything but wait. There were no deals to be made here, no options but stay or go.
He couldn't even summon the fear of what would happen if this all went wrong, if it already had. He rubbed at the scars on his hands, and threw more wood on the fire, stretching his fingertips toward it until it was painful, body twitching in reaction and eyes tearing. Held it longer until his hand throbbed and the rush of adrenaline and endorphins made him feel sick, the curled his hand back into his chest, biting his lip through the pain. It didn't ease and the chances were he'd have blisters, maybe new scarring.
The reminder kept him company well into the middle of the day.
He drank some of the water, nibbled at the cold offering of tortillas and beans and some kind of stewed vegetable mash, and then settled down next to Sam again, fingers tracing the dark marks on his shoulder, the names of the lords of the dead.
Finally he stretched out next to Sam and pulled the blanket over both of them. He was glad that Sam was neither cold or stiff, and feeling less awkward than he might with his brother's naked body pulled close to his own.
When he slept he dreamed of nothing.
When he woke, it was near dark again, the last of the sun turning the kiva dark red, and the fire had all but gone out. Sam had rolled over to face him, eyes open to Dean's, watching him. There were tear tracks on Sam's face and his lashes were clumped.
Dean swallowed and pressed his hand to the center of Sam's chest, felt the reassuring thump of his heart, before pulling Sam in closer and brushing his lips across Sam's sweaty forehead. He held onto Sam while he cried a little more and closed his eyes.
Behind him, he thought he heard the rustle of massive wings, and a deep throated chuckle, an admonition.
It sounded a lot like, happy new year.
~end~
Author's notes: Firstly, apologies for how long it took me to post the last section. A combination of the story twisting itself into places I hadn't planned and real life matter needing my attention, made this process a lot longer than I intended.
I won't apologise for it not going to the Dean/Sam happy place, because while it was possible and in my head I think it does (or they do) eventually -- it didn't happen here or in the time frame of this story.
I've been having a great time with the ask me anything polls during the writing of this, and more than one person has asked about the juxtaposition of religion and myth and spirituality that often crops up in my writing, and this story is very much an example of that trend. The idea that all human faith and myth and religion flows from one source and then splits up into various rivers and streams and backflows and diversions appeals to me on a lot of levels. That Dean and Sam would find themselves at a different kind of crossroads where those things converge and mingle also appeals to me.
I think the concepts of heaven and hell in many ways boil down to a single set of points; heaven is that which we desire to be good and true and hell is what we desire not at all and abhor, and either of those two states can be fixed or fluid. There is a point in which Dean feels that life without Sam, without his ability to protect and keep Sam is a hell of it's own, and he trades one for another. There is a point where what Sam desires is to have a life he has only dreamed of without his brother, to make it on his own, only to find that the truth of that is less than ideal. So, in a way, this story is about them both trying to escape a hell that is unbearable, and for Sam, even heaven or paradise is empty if he's there alone.
I have no idea if I'll write more in this. There's a good 5,000 plus words sitting unused on my hard drive -- some of which is about the year Dean is without Sam and working through his own recovery, and tracing Sam's footsteps. Some of it is Sam's decisions and the choices he makes and how -- none of which seemed to fit properly here despite having rewritten them several times.
It's not the first time I've written about an annual pilgrimage Sam makes to save his brother. I doubt it will be the last. It's also not the only time I've written about Dean making a sacrifice to save something he values, only to have it become true that the value is mostly in his own eyes and that without him to be there to give it worth, what he saves is worth nothing.
I should remark here that much of my knowledge of the Hopi and their traditions is cursory rather than a product of deep study or even heavy reading. I'm far more familiar with eastern tribes of native americans than plains or southwest. The prophecies of the pahana are available to anyone with a search engine, and the description of Masauwu, and the kachina are equally available. I don' t think anyone really needs much imagination to see the similarities between the bird-head kachinas of the Hopi and the hawk-headed representation of the Egyptian god of the dead and afterlife, Horus. Funny how the distance of continents and cultures breeds similar myth, no?
For those of you who stuck with this, thank you, and apologies for not responding to the many kind comments.
(And post edit: yes, I completely confused Horus and Anubis who are related but not exactly the same. mea culpa.)