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Timestamp #6 - As You Sow, So Shall You Reap, PG, Dean & Sam, Reaper 'verse
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap
By Maygra
Dean/Sam. PG. Part of the Reaper 'verse. For Jellicle - six months after Speaking in Tongues
word count - 4,050
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.
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
++++++
Dean never quite understood how to take the "guardian" part of what Sam was now. Not that the rest of it made that much more sense, but at least he'd seen a reaper before. And the whole wing thing was almost a joke more than anything because no matter what Sam looked like with black wings or white, he was no angel by anybody's definition, in or out of church or synagogue or mosque.
And then some fool went and found a way to open a devil's gate in Wyoming and it was all Dean or anyone could do to even try and track down the score or so of demons that spread out like a virus. It was like trying to stem an arterial bleed with a band aid.
And Sam just disappeared.
Not like he didn't occasionally, but days passed then a week and then Dean had to drive to Wichita to meet up with Bobby and Sam still hadn't shown so much as a feather, which made Dean crazy and angry and scared the hell out of him.
All Bobby would say was that he was glad they had some things to deal with that made all Dean's focused fury more benefit than distraction. Because Dean pissed off was less likely to listen to the crap a demon could spew and it didn't take any of them long to realize that trying to taunt Dean with his brother's death was a sure way to get to Dean rattling off an exorcism like a barker at a cattle action.
Right up to the one that decided that Dean's tongue would be of better benefit to everyone if it were outside his mouth and flopping on the ground rather than inside where it could be do some harm.
Bobby was already down and bleeding so much Dean was scared that was the end of it for his old friend. And the first thing he thought when he saw Sam suddenly show up right behind the demon was that he was right and Bobby was dead, and fighting for his life was secondary to the mix of joy and grief he had on seeing Sam again.
Only it wasn't his Sam. It took him a moment or two, and it was all fuzzy because his vision was dimming and that damn demon had its clawed hand halfway down his throat, choking him at the same time it was trying to rip his tongue out.
Sam's face, only not because there was too much bone and not enough softness of flesh, they eyes were cold and silvery, and Sam had never been so big, taken up so much space and room and that was even before Dean's fading eyesight took in the wings.
But suddenly he could breathe again, even if every breath tasted of blood and sulfur, if his throat felt swollen enough that he might choke to death anyway.
And Sam held up the body the demon occupied, stretching it wide with a hand around each wrist until the demon itself poured out of the limp body of a guy who didn't look to be old enough to go to college.
Sam let go of the body, of the boy, but not of the demon. It still looked like all smoke and ashes but the form held together, a dark shadow with gaps for eyes, and parts striking out like it had more than four limbs and shrieking enough to make Dean have to cover his ears.
Sam didn't really move, didn't fight it, or try to avoid clawed feet or striking darkness even though Dean could see blood starting to mark Sam's face and his clothes, run down his arms. What wounds he got he didn't seem to feel, and he just stood there, hands wrapped around parts of the demon that no longer looked like arms and spread his own wide, stretching the demon out until it started to shred in the middle. Its own struggles tore it apart and making it bleed blackness and a viscous yellow kind of ichor that was rank and vile and sizzled against the wood floor like acid.
Dean did manage to find out where all those old block prints and texts got the idea that a reaper carried around a long scythe, though. Because when Sam finally let the thing go, it was only long enough to wrap his fingers around a long handled sickle that showed up much like his wings did -- out of nowhere. And it cut through what was left of the demon like a hot knife through soft butter.
Sam didn't stop there, though, but rocked that thing back and forth through the spattering blackness like he was chopping vegetables. Every single damn piece shrieked as it was cut, until Dean thought his ears would bleed from the sound of it. He had to close his eyes and curl up in a ball and not look because the thing making mincemeat of the demon was no more his Sam than the demon itself was.
When the shrieking stopped, Dean finally opened his eyes and tried to get a good breath without coughing. Sam wasn't really looking at him, only shrugged those huge black wings and lifted his face, still steely-eyed and inhuman. He shed feathers like the last autumn oak, the tips of them shredded and bloody and drew himself up, until it almost looked like he was being sucked upward by a whirlwind.
Then the room exploded in light and sound, like a hundred doors slamming closed, and those black wings folded over Dean before he could even think…
…this is it…
++++
He came to himself on a soft and too saggy bed, in an almost familiar hotel room, staring at the ceiling and finding it difficult to swallow, although he didn't really feel like he was choking any longer. Someone had bandaged the cuts on his arms and there was the slick feel and sharp smell of arnica salve on his throat.
He moved cautiously, feeling aches where he was pretty sure he had neither bone nor muscle left and managed to sit up. Bobby was in the other bed, pale and bruised along the side of his face Dean could see, chest bandaged from collarbone to the paunch of his stomach. There was some blood spotting the near shoulder and side, but it was only spotting and Bobby was breathing steady and even as you please.
Dean tucked a hand under his ribs -- they felt bruised but not broken -- and sat up. The bathroom door was open but it was empty, and no sign of Sam anywhere.
And it had to be Sam, because Dean's car keys were on the age-marred dresser, and his and Bobby's weapons laid out along the edge, already cleaned and ready to go.
Water eased the ache in his throat, and while his tongue felt swollen to twice its size, it was still attached. He got the door open and stared out, his baby parked right in front. No sign of Sam until he squinted and saw that the dark shape he thought was a leaf under the wiper was really half a feather pinned there. It was black and felt heavy and sodden in his hand like Sam's wing feathers usually didn't.
But that was it. No note, no clue, and Dean didn't know what to make of it at all, but he thought about it hard and a lot, because if he didn't, he'd end up thinking about Sam as he'd seen him last and he didn't want to actually think about that at all.
By mid afternoon, Bobby was stirring and waking and didn't do anything but grip Dean's arm hard to get sitting up, then again to get to the bathroom. He moved stiffly and carefully and all that salt and pepper hair usually hidden under a trucker's cap was wild and filthy and going thin in places that Dean had never noticed before. He didn't protest Dean bringing him back some food, even though he picked at it, before settling in again. "Give me a day or so and you can run me home," Bobby said, tight lipped and tired sounding and it took Dean about that long to realize that while Bobby didn't eschew his help or his company, he never really looked at Dean straight on either, not like he used to.
And never once did he ask about Sam, even though Sam being missing again was all they'd talked about on the drive down.
Not until he did have Bobby back home, and rescued the kid who helped out around the yard from Bobby's dog. (Kid and dog were fine, but the kid had ended up just shoving food and water outside the door every day because the dog snarled and snapped at him the whole five days they'd been gone. Bobby didn't have a clean bowl in the house, just a lot of dirty ones on the porch) did Dean even try to bring it up.
"I need to be where he can find me," he said, asking if he could stay a few days.
Bobby had looked at him long and hard, licked his lips like his mouth was too dry. "I don't think that's ever gonna be a problem, son," he said and had quietly closed the door in Dean's face.
Never once had Bobby ever refused to help Dean, help them, and he knew what Sam was, what he'd become and why.
Maybe even better than Dean did.
He was an hour out, when his phone chirped and he saw the text message from Bobby --nothing but an address, southern part of Ohio, and look under the frog.
The address turned out to be a split-level house, with a long circular drive. The yard was cleared a good five hundred feet out toward the road and woods that surrounded it. It looked empty, but not entirely abandoned., planks on the front porch not rotting, gutters looked to have been cleaned.
There was a concrete birdbath in the tiny barren garden off the front steps, squat ugly frog prince raising one webbed foot in greeting. Dean tipped it up and saw the hollow and the key.
There wasn't much in the way of furniture, the kitchen barely usable, beds in both upstairs bedrooms but stripped of anything but plastic covers to protect them. Nothing to say who owned the house or how Bobby had come to know of it, if it was his or a friend's.
He thumbed his phone open and stared at Bobby's number for along while before punching it. The relief when Bobby actually answered made his knees weak and he sat suddenly on the old sofa in the living room.
"What am I doing here, Bobby?"
"I had a half dozen calls waiting when I got back. You're brother…he's been busy."
The hair rose on the back of Dean's neck. "Busy as in…?"
"Busy as in you'd best keep your head down for a bit. Words is you've summoned something not quite right, and while it's taking demons apart like a Bass-o-matic, it's not Sam they're seeing. Odds are pitching against this being something better than demons. At least other hunters on this trail know how to deal with them. With what's coming after them, not so much."
"I can't sit by--"
"Then you find a way to rein him in."
"He doesn't come when I call."
"No? Then why is your name stamped across his back like a binding rune? Find a way, Dean." Bobby hung up.
Dean stared at his phone for a long time before setting it aside and heading out to find food, and bedding and, whatever else he needed for a long stay.
It was full dark by the time he got back and got the car unloaded. He'd left no lights on, which was stupid, and the house sat in shadow while moonlight played over the cut back grass and broken fence. The house was set pretty far out of town, with no close neighbors and Dean sat on the porch for awhile, listening to the buzz of insects, and the rustling n the grass of small animals.
He hadn't lied to Bobby. He had no way to call Sam up. Sam had just been coming back, remaining until he was forced to go. Done what he'd needed to do and returned. Ridden alongside when Dean did what he needed to do.
It wasn't like he could just wish Sam into being.
He tossed the rest of his coffee out and stood up. The moon moved behind the clouds and Dean stared at it, seeing the hints of silver through the darkness, the twist of the clouds as they reshaped themselves.
"I don't know what you're doing, Sam. I don't even know what you are anymore, but if you are mine, you need to come back. You need to come home."
He barely said the words at all, and there was no one around to hear him.
He headed back inside only to stop when he heard a thump on the roof, the rustle of something other than rodents in the grass.
He stepped back and then further, staring up, roof suddenly bright as the clouds moved on. There was a dark shape there, rounded and ragged, settled on the high pitch of the roof, all shadow and no details until one shadow stretched out, split ends and sheened black. A few small shadows broke free, drifting downward.
Black feathers.
"Sam?"
Sam lifted his head and peered down, eyes still silver and gleaming, he twisted and then he was sliding, tumbling over shingles, falling. He caught on the gutter briefly and then dropped like a stone.
Dean felt dirt and gravel dig under his jeans as he ran toward the shadowed form and hit his knees only inches from the long curve of one enormous wing. Sam was wearing the same clothes he'd worn weeks ago, when he'd first disappeared, though it was a minor miracle that let Dean identify that much. The rest of Sam hadn't fared much better. His skin was filthy, bruised and cut, even burned in places and even the wings had the ragged, unhealthy look to them, like Sam had spent the entire time flying into the face of a hurricane. They were oily and heavy to Dean's touch.
Man-handling Sam into the house so Dean could get a better look at him would have been difficult under any circumstances, doing it when Sam had a twenty-foot wingspan would be impossible.
None of the wounds were fatal, if only by virtue of the fact that Sam was already dead, had already died, and they'd vanish again down to the last bruise, when Sam slid between again as he usually did. Dean's bigger question was why he hadn't already and what the hell was going on.
He managed to skirt the bent and listless wings enough to get his knees under Sam's head and shoulders, wiping at the worst of the dirt and ash and dried blood that marked Sam's face and hair as much as the rest of him. Sam's eyes were closed, which Dean felt guilty about finding some comfort in. The silver and steel of the gaze Sam had worn most often of late was disconcerting at best and downright creepy at worst.
Clouds moved over the moon a dozen or more times before Sam made any sound or even shifted slightly and Dean's legs were cramping. But he kept his hands threading through Sam's hair and his eyes on the area surrounding them, not entirely sure why but it seemed like a good idea.
It never occurred to him that Sam wouldn't come out of his faint or stupor or whatever it was. He just had to wait him out, wait this out, and it paid off when Sam finally opened his eyes (normal -- not freaky -- hazel-green Sam eyes) and shifted, maybe groaned a little and just like that the wings rustled and receded. Their disappearance stirred up a little dust, and left behind a circle of the more broken and damaged feathers.
Sam was still no light-weight, and he seemed to have minimal control over his arms or legs or anything else. Both of them swayed like a good breeze would knock them over when Dean finally got them to their feet and had to wait while the circulation returned to his own. But then they hobble-staggered up the steps and into the house.
The bedroom on the first floor was the only one Dean had made up, and he didn't think twice about dumping Sam on the new sheets or about the smudges of dirt and blood that appeared as starker stains against the cloth. It wasn't like the wounds would kill Sam, no matter how bad they were, and cleaning them was a waste of time and supplies, but Dean did it anyway, cutting through the thin T-shirt Sam wore that was already more rag than clothing.
Sam had claw marks all over his chest and belly, probably more on his back. They looked nasty and red and livid, but there was no sign of any infection, they just weren't healing. "Sam…Sammy --" he said, waiting for Sam to focus on him. His eyes had been open the whole time, tracking Dean's movements, his hands, but he hadn't said anything. "Sam…you need to go where ever. Get these healed up."
Sam made a wide arc with his hand, trying to grip Dean's wrist. He missed and caught Dean's upper arm. "You called me," he said.
Dean used the damp washcloth to wipe dirt and ash from Sam's face. "Yeah, I did. I kind of expected you to show up in better shape. Where have you been?"
"They opened a gate."
"Yeah, they did. We're working on it. You were too, apparently."
Sam let his hand drop. "They are hunting the hunters. I've been busy."
Sam's comment, dispassionate and quiet put Bobby's words and his reaction in some perspective. Busy took on a whole new meaning when he knew what Sam did hardly took more than a dozen heartbeats to accomplish. "You haven't been out there saving them."
Sam shook his head. "I can't save them. That's not the job. But I can stop the demons from getting through. Can't let them through." His eyes closed again and Dean chewed on his lip.
He didn't point out that Sam had saved him.
He curled fingers around Sam's neck and felt the steady pulse there. It was still the weirdest thing of all of this, that Sam still had one, that his skin was warm, that he sweated and could eat and needed to bathe once in awhile.
He'd gotten used to the idea that Sam didn't really need sleep or rest, that he did both out of habit more than necessity. Yet, he was exhibiting all the signs of exhaustion, of a tiredness that shouldn't be, of a weakness in body and spirit that Dean hadn't seen since before Sam died.
It made him more human than not.
It worried Dean more than reassured him. He gave Sam a rough shake, and a light slap across the face, rousing him again. "Come on, wing-boy. You need to take a little spa retreat to your vacation home between life and death."
Sam's eyes opened, and he struggled to sit up. "You want me to go?"
"I want you to go and get your wounds licked and then come back and tell me what the hell is going on." He didn't really do it consciously but Dean's fingers traced across the back of Sam's shoulders, feeling the faint raised scars there. He let them trace lower, patterns by memories and Sam shivered. The odd writing didn't appear again but Sam's eyes cleared a little and he focused a bit more on Dean's face.
Dean continued to rub, but inside felt a chill. He still didn't know what was going on, but whatever Sam had been doing, it appeared that he was forgetting. All the ground they'd made up over the past six months or so, was close to being lost -- he could see it in Sam's eyes, how close Sam had come to being only what he did: a reaper with no history and no past and only the obligation of it's duty.
He'd fought too hard to get his own Sam back to lose him now.
"Sam…Sammy. You're a mess. Do it -- go between or wherever, come back and take a shower, and you can tell me. I'll be here." He brushed affection with his lips across Sam's shoulders like he usually didn't. "Remember to come back."
Sam blinked and seemed to pull himself together, staggering to his feet.
"Remember," Dean said again.
Sam nodded and rubbed at his face then shrugged. They didn't appear, but Dean could almost feel the wings resettle, displacing air and adding weight to the room.
Sam didn't fade or launch himself upward, didn't fold in on himself. Dean blinked and like the Cheshire cat's grin, all he remembered seeing was Sam's eyes and the furrow in his brow like he was already confused. Sam was gone within a heartbeat, between one breath and the next.
Dean didn't move, still staring into the empty space his brother had occupied, trying not to count seconds or minutes, because it shouldn't take long, it never did. His fingertips dug into the sheets, into the blankets. He heard the furnace rattle to life, and still Sam didn't return.
It grew darker and he didn't move.
He should have waited. He should have kept Sam here until he was more grounded here.
He could call Sam back. He knew that now. He hadn't lied when he'd talked to Bobby, at least not consciously or willingly in denying he had control over Sam in any way. But he'd laid his name on Sam for a reason. And as much as Sam might have some will or desire to remain with him, it was still Dean's desire that he acted on.
Can I come back?
Do you want me here; am I what you want or need?
That was as true for himself as it was for Sam.
His whole life Sam had been hounded by death and demons. That even in his death he still was, was as unfair as Dean being denied his brother's presence -- the only thing that had really ever mattered to him beyond his father's approval.
He wasn't sure if his father would approve of any of this.
He finally unclenched his fists and got up, hovering in the doorway but not turning on any lights. The doorway seemed appropriate,
If he called Sam back it would change things Dean wasn't sure should be changed. That he had a right to change. There was a death sentence at the end of all this -- his own, when the years finally caught up to him, or something else a whole lot sooner.
But for Sam…maybe forgetting, maybe oblivion was kinder.
Or maybe some hunter would figure out what Sam really was and try to do something about it -- or someone else once more try to bind a reaper, thinking it was a good idea.
He had.
Can I come back?
"Come back, Sam," Dean said, barely a whisper…
"I'm here."
The rustle of wings was almost welcome, but he didn't feel the feathers when Sam came up behind him and reached his hands out to rest lightly, almost hesitantly on Dean's shoulders.
Dean didn't say anything, didn't turn around, just kind of slid along the door frame to sit with his shoulder on the frame and his back to the open door.
Behind him, Sam did the same, on the inside of the room, his back to Dean's, his hand braced on the floor.
"I remember," Sam said quietly and leaned his head against Dean's.
Dean reached out and covered Sam's hand and didn't ask him what.
~end~
01-06-2008
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London by Dylan Thomas
By Maygra
Dean/Sam. PG. Part of the Reaper 'verse. For Jellicle - six months after Speaking in Tongues
word count - 4,050
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.
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
++++++
Dean never quite understood how to take the "guardian" part of what Sam was now. Not that the rest of it made that much more sense, but at least he'd seen a reaper before. And the whole wing thing was almost a joke more than anything because no matter what Sam looked like with black wings or white, he was no angel by anybody's definition, in or out of church or synagogue or mosque.
And then some fool went and found a way to open a devil's gate in Wyoming and it was all Dean or anyone could do to even try and track down the score or so of demons that spread out like a virus. It was like trying to stem an arterial bleed with a band aid.
And Sam just disappeared.
Not like he didn't occasionally, but days passed then a week and then Dean had to drive to Wichita to meet up with Bobby and Sam still hadn't shown so much as a feather, which made Dean crazy and angry and scared the hell out of him.
All Bobby would say was that he was glad they had some things to deal with that made all Dean's focused fury more benefit than distraction. Because Dean pissed off was less likely to listen to the crap a demon could spew and it didn't take any of them long to realize that trying to taunt Dean with his brother's death was a sure way to get to Dean rattling off an exorcism like a barker at a cattle action.
Right up to the one that decided that Dean's tongue would be of better benefit to everyone if it were outside his mouth and flopping on the ground rather than inside where it could be do some harm.
Bobby was already down and bleeding so much Dean was scared that was the end of it for his old friend. And the first thing he thought when he saw Sam suddenly show up right behind the demon was that he was right and Bobby was dead, and fighting for his life was secondary to the mix of joy and grief he had on seeing Sam again.
Only it wasn't his Sam. It took him a moment or two, and it was all fuzzy because his vision was dimming and that damn demon had its clawed hand halfway down his throat, choking him at the same time it was trying to rip his tongue out.
Sam's face, only not because there was too much bone and not enough softness of flesh, they eyes were cold and silvery, and Sam had never been so big, taken up so much space and room and that was even before Dean's fading eyesight took in the wings.
But suddenly he could breathe again, even if every breath tasted of blood and sulfur, if his throat felt swollen enough that he might choke to death anyway.
And Sam held up the body the demon occupied, stretching it wide with a hand around each wrist until the demon itself poured out of the limp body of a guy who didn't look to be old enough to go to college.
Sam let go of the body, of the boy, but not of the demon. It still looked like all smoke and ashes but the form held together, a dark shadow with gaps for eyes, and parts striking out like it had more than four limbs and shrieking enough to make Dean have to cover his ears.
Sam didn't really move, didn't fight it, or try to avoid clawed feet or striking darkness even though Dean could see blood starting to mark Sam's face and his clothes, run down his arms. What wounds he got he didn't seem to feel, and he just stood there, hands wrapped around parts of the demon that no longer looked like arms and spread his own wide, stretching the demon out until it started to shred in the middle. Its own struggles tore it apart and making it bleed blackness and a viscous yellow kind of ichor that was rank and vile and sizzled against the wood floor like acid.
Dean did manage to find out where all those old block prints and texts got the idea that a reaper carried around a long scythe, though. Because when Sam finally let the thing go, it was only long enough to wrap his fingers around a long handled sickle that showed up much like his wings did -- out of nowhere. And it cut through what was left of the demon like a hot knife through soft butter.
Sam didn't stop there, though, but rocked that thing back and forth through the spattering blackness like he was chopping vegetables. Every single damn piece shrieked as it was cut, until Dean thought his ears would bleed from the sound of it. He had to close his eyes and curl up in a ball and not look because the thing making mincemeat of the demon was no more his Sam than the demon itself was.
When the shrieking stopped, Dean finally opened his eyes and tried to get a good breath without coughing. Sam wasn't really looking at him, only shrugged those huge black wings and lifted his face, still steely-eyed and inhuman. He shed feathers like the last autumn oak, the tips of them shredded and bloody and drew himself up, until it almost looked like he was being sucked upward by a whirlwind.
Then the room exploded in light and sound, like a hundred doors slamming closed, and those black wings folded over Dean before he could even think…
…this is it…
++++
He came to himself on a soft and too saggy bed, in an almost familiar hotel room, staring at the ceiling and finding it difficult to swallow, although he didn't really feel like he was choking any longer. Someone had bandaged the cuts on his arms and there was the slick feel and sharp smell of arnica salve on his throat.
He moved cautiously, feeling aches where he was pretty sure he had neither bone nor muscle left and managed to sit up. Bobby was in the other bed, pale and bruised along the side of his face Dean could see, chest bandaged from collarbone to the paunch of his stomach. There was some blood spotting the near shoulder and side, but it was only spotting and Bobby was breathing steady and even as you please.
Dean tucked a hand under his ribs -- they felt bruised but not broken -- and sat up. The bathroom door was open but it was empty, and no sign of Sam anywhere.
And it had to be Sam, because Dean's car keys were on the age-marred dresser, and his and Bobby's weapons laid out along the edge, already cleaned and ready to go.
Water eased the ache in his throat, and while his tongue felt swollen to twice its size, it was still attached. He got the door open and stared out, his baby parked right in front. No sign of Sam until he squinted and saw that the dark shape he thought was a leaf under the wiper was really half a feather pinned there. It was black and felt heavy and sodden in his hand like Sam's wing feathers usually didn't.
But that was it. No note, no clue, and Dean didn't know what to make of it at all, but he thought about it hard and a lot, because if he didn't, he'd end up thinking about Sam as he'd seen him last and he didn't want to actually think about that at all.
By mid afternoon, Bobby was stirring and waking and didn't do anything but grip Dean's arm hard to get sitting up, then again to get to the bathroom. He moved stiffly and carefully and all that salt and pepper hair usually hidden under a trucker's cap was wild and filthy and going thin in places that Dean had never noticed before. He didn't protest Dean bringing him back some food, even though he picked at it, before settling in again. "Give me a day or so and you can run me home," Bobby said, tight lipped and tired sounding and it took Dean about that long to realize that while Bobby didn't eschew his help or his company, he never really looked at Dean straight on either, not like he used to.
And never once did he ask about Sam, even though Sam being missing again was all they'd talked about on the drive down.
Not until he did have Bobby back home, and rescued the kid who helped out around the yard from Bobby's dog. (Kid and dog were fine, but the kid had ended up just shoving food and water outside the door every day because the dog snarled and snapped at him the whole five days they'd been gone. Bobby didn't have a clean bowl in the house, just a lot of dirty ones on the porch) did Dean even try to bring it up.
"I need to be where he can find me," he said, asking if he could stay a few days.
Bobby had looked at him long and hard, licked his lips like his mouth was too dry. "I don't think that's ever gonna be a problem, son," he said and had quietly closed the door in Dean's face.
Never once had Bobby ever refused to help Dean, help them, and he knew what Sam was, what he'd become and why.
Maybe even better than Dean did.
He was an hour out, when his phone chirped and he saw the text message from Bobby --nothing but an address, southern part of Ohio, and look under the frog.
The address turned out to be a split-level house, with a long circular drive. The yard was cleared a good five hundred feet out toward the road and woods that surrounded it. It looked empty, but not entirely abandoned., planks on the front porch not rotting, gutters looked to have been cleaned.
There was a concrete birdbath in the tiny barren garden off the front steps, squat ugly frog prince raising one webbed foot in greeting. Dean tipped it up and saw the hollow and the key.
There wasn't much in the way of furniture, the kitchen barely usable, beds in both upstairs bedrooms but stripped of anything but plastic covers to protect them. Nothing to say who owned the house or how Bobby had come to know of it, if it was his or a friend's.
He thumbed his phone open and stared at Bobby's number for along while before punching it. The relief when Bobby actually answered made his knees weak and he sat suddenly on the old sofa in the living room.
"What am I doing here, Bobby?"
"I had a half dozen calls waiting when I got back. You're brother…he's been busy."
The hair rose on the back of Dean's neck. "Busy as in…?"
"Busy as in you'd best keep your head down for a bit. Words is you've summoned something not quite right, and while it's taking demons apart like a Bass-o-matic, it's not Sam they're seeing. Odds are pitching against this being something better than demons. At least other hunters on this trail know how to deal with them. With what's coming after them, not so much."
"I can't sit by--"
"Then you find a way to rein him in."
"He doesn't come when I call."
"No? Then why is your name stamped across his back like a binding rune? Find a way, Dean." Bobby hung up.
Dean stared at his phone for a long time before setting it aside and heading out to find food, and bedding and, whatever else he needed for a long stay.
It was full dark by the time he got back and got the car unloaded. He'd left no lights on, which was stupid, and the house sat in shadow while moonlight played over the cut back grass and broken fence. The house was set pretty far out of town, with no close neighbors and Dean sat on the porch for awhile, listening to the buzz of insects, and the rustling n the grass of small animals.
He hadn't lied to Bobby. He had no way to call Sam up. Sam had just been coming back, remaining until he was forced to go. Done what he'd needed to do and returned. Ridden alongside when Dean did what he needed to do.
It wasn't like he could just wish Sam into being.
He tossed the rest of his coffee out and stood up. The moon moved behind the clouds and Dean stared at it, seeing the hints of silver through the darkness, the twist of the clouds as they reshaped themselves.
"I don't know what you're doing, Sam. I don't even know what you are anymore, but if you are mine, you need to come back. You need to come home."
He barely said the words at all, and there was no one around to hear him.
He headed back inside only to stop when he heard a thump on the roof, the rustle of something other than rodents in the grass.
He stepped back and then further, staring up, roof suddenly bright as the clouds moved on. There was a dark shape there, rounded and ragged, settled on the high pitch of the roof, all shadow and no details until one shadow stretched out, split ends and sheened black. A few small shadows broke free, drifting downward.
Black feathers.
"Sam?"
Sam lifted his head and peered down, eyes still silver and gleaming, he twisted and then he was sliding, tumbling over shingles, falling. He caught on the gutter briefly and then dropped like a stone.
Dean felt dirt and gravel dig under his jeans as he ran toward the shadowed form and hit his knees only inches from the long curve of one enormous wing. Sam was wearing the same clothes he'd worn weeks ago, when he'd first disappeared, though it was a minor miracle that let Dean identify that much. The rest of Sam hadn't fared much better. His skin was filthy, bruised and cut, even burned in places and even the wings had the ragged, unhealthy look to them, like Sam had spent the entire time flying into the face of a hurricane. They were oily and heavy to Dean's touch.
Man-handling Sam into the house so Dean could get a better look at him would have been difficult under any circumstances, doing it when Sam had a twenty-foot wingspan would be impossible.
None of the wounds were fatal, if only by virtue of the fact that Sam was already dead, had already died, and they'd vanish again down to the last bruise, when Sam slid between again as he usually did. Dean's bigger question was why he hadn't already and what the hell was going on.
He managed to skirt the bent and listless wings enough to get his knees under Sam's head and shoulders, wiping at the worst of the dirt and ash and dried blood that marked Sam's face and hair as much as the rest of him. Sam's eyes were closed, which Dean felt guilty about finding some comfort in. The silver and steel of the gaze Sam had worn most often of late was disconcerting at best and downright creepy at worst.
Clouds moved over the moon a dozen or more times before Sam made any sound or even shifted slightly and Dean's legs were cramping. But he kept his hands threading through Sam's hair and his eyes on the area surrounding them, not entirely sure why but it seemed like a good idea.
It never occurred to him that Sam wouldn't come out of his faint or stupor or whatever it was. He just had to wait him out, wait this out, and it paid off when Sam finally opened his eyes (normal -- not freaky -- hazel-green Sam eyes) and shifted, maybe groaned a little and just like that the wings rustled and receded. Their disappearance stirred up a little dust, and left behind a circle of the more broken and damaged feathers.
Sam was still no light-weight, and he seemed to have minimal control over his arms or legs or anything else. Both of them swayed like a good breeze would knock them over when Dean finally got them to their feet and had to wait while the circulation returned to his own. But then they hobble-staggered up the steps and into the house.
The bedroom on the first floor was the only one Dean had made up, and he didn't think twice about dumping Sam on the new sheets or about the smudges of dirt and blood that appeared as starker stains against the cloth. It wasn't like the wounds would kill Sam, no matter how bad they were, and cleaning them was a waste of time and supplies, but Dean did it anyway, cutting through the thin T-shirt Sam wore that was already more rag than clothing.
Sam had claw marks all over his chest and belly, probably more on his back. They looked nasty and red and livid, but there was no sign of any infection, they just weren't healing. "Sam…Sammy --" he said, waiting for Sam to focus on him. His eyes had been open the whole time, tracking Dean's movements, his hands, but he hadn't said anything. "Sam…you need to go where ever. Get these healed up."
Sam made a wide arc with his hand, trying to grip Dean's wrist. He missed and caught Dean's upper arm. "You called me," he said.
Dean used the damp washcloth to wipe dirt and ash from Sam's face. "Yeah, I did. I kind of expected you to show up in better shape. Where have you been?"
"They opened a gate."
"Yeah, they did. We're working on it. You were too, apparently."
Sam let his hand drop. "They are hunting the hunters. I've been busy."
Sam's comment, dispassionate and quiet put Bobby's words and his reaction in some perspective. Busy took on a whole new meaning when he knew what Sam did hardly took more than a dozen heartbeats to accomplish. "You haven't been out there saving them."
Sam shook his head. "I can't save them. That's not the job. But I can stop the demons from getting through. Can't let them through." His eyes closed again and Dean chewed on his lip.
He didn't point out that Sam had saved him.
He curled fingers around Sam's neck and felt the steady pulse there. It was still the weirdest thing of all of this, that Sam still had one, that his skin was warm, that he sweated and could eat and needed to bathe once in awhile.
He'd gotten used to the idea that Sam didn't really need sleep or rest, that he did both out of habit more than necessity. Yet, he was exhibiting all the signs of exhaustion, of a tiredness that shouldn't be, of a weakness in body and spirit that Dean hadn't seen since before Sam died.
It made him more human than not.
It worried Dean more than reassured him. He gave Sam a rough shake, and a light slap across the face, rousing him again. "Come on, wing-boy. You need to take a little spa retreat to your vacation home between life and death."
Sam's eyes opened, and he struggled to sit up. "You want me to go?"
"I want you to go and get your wounds licked and then come back and tell me what the hell is going on." He didn't really do it consciously but Dean's fingers traced across the back of Sam's shoulders, feeling the faint raised scars there. He let them trace lower, patterns by memories and Sam shivered. The odd writing didn't appear again but Sam's eyes cleared a little and he focused a bit more on Dean's face.
Dean continued to rub, but inside felt a chill. He still didn't know what was going on, but whatever Sam had been doing, it appeared that he was forgetting. All the ground they'd made up over the past six months or so, was close to being lost -- he could see it in Sam's eyes, how close Sam had come to being only what he did: a reaper with no history and no past and only the obligation of it's duty.
He'd fought too hard to get his own Sam back to lose him now.
"Sam…Sammy. You're a mess. Do it -- go between or wherever, come back and take a shower, and you can tell me. I'll be here." He brushed affection with his lips across Sam's shoulders like he usually didn't. "Remember to come back."
Sam blinked and seemed to pull himself together, staggering to his feet.
"Remember," Dean said again.
Sam nodded and rubbed at his face then shrugged. They didn't appear, but Dean could almost feel the wings resettle, displacing air and adding weight to the room.
Sam didn't fade or launch himself upward, didn't fold in on himself. Dean blinked and like the Cheshire cat's grin, all he remembered seeing was Sam's eyes and the furrow in his brow like he was already confused. Sam was gone within a heartbeat, between one breath and the next.
Dean didn't move, still staring into the empty space his brother had occupied, trying not to count seconds or minutes, because it shouldn't take long, it never did. His fingertips dug into the sheets, into the blankets. He heard the furnace rattle to life, and still Sam didn't return.
It grew darker and he didn't move.
He should have waited. He should have kept Sam here until he was more grounded here.
He could call Sam back. He knew that now. He hadn't lied when he'd talked to Bobby, at least not consciously or willingly in denying he had control over Sam in any way. But he'd laid his name on Sam for a reason. And as much as Sam might have some will or desire to remain with him, it was still Dean's desire that he acted on.
Can I come back?
Do you want me here; am I what you want or need?
That was as true for himself as it was for Sam.
His whole life Sam had been hounded by death and demons. That even in his death he still was, was as unfair as Dean being denied his brother's presence -- the only thing that had really ever mattered to him beyond his father's approval.
He wasn't sure if his father would approve of any of this.
He finally unclenched his fists and got up, hovering in the doorway but not turning on any lights. The doorway seemed appropriate,
If he called Sam back it would change things Dean wasn't sure should be changed. That he had a right to change. There was a death sentence at the end of all this -- his own, when the years finally caught up to him, or something else a whole lot sooner.
But for Sam…maybe forgetting, maybe oblivion was kinder.
Or maybe some hunter would figure out what Sam really was and try to do something about it -- or someone else once more try to bind a reaper, thinking it was a good idea.
He had.
Can I come back?
"Come back, Sam," Dean said, barely a whisper…
"I'm here."
The rustle of wings was almost welcome, but he didn't feel the feathers when Sam came up behind him and reached his hands out to rest lightly, almost hesitantly on Dean's shoulders.
Dean didn't say anything, didn't turn around, just kind of slid along the door frame to sit with his shoulder on the frame and his back to the open door.
Behind him, Sam did the same, on the inside of the room, his back to Dean's, his hand braced on the floor.
"I remember," Sam said quietly and leaned his head against Dean's.
Dean reached out and covered Sam's hand and didn't ask him what.
~end~
01-06-2008
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London by Dylan Thomas