Fic: The Wind Cries Mary (Sam/Dean)
Title: The Wind Cries Mary
Author: nemo_88, but you can call me Nemo
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Character: Sam/Dean (if you want it to be. :P)
Word Count: ~1400
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death. Angst.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This story is not meant to infringe upon anyone's rights, only to entertain.
Summary: “Why are you still here?”
Author’s Note: Set about a year after AHBL part 2. No spoilers. Title is from the song by Jimi Hendrix. A huge thanks to saklani2 and sinoftheday for the beta. ♥ This is the first time I've posted anything Sam/Dean that I've written, so feedback is much appreciated. :)
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness standing on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
And shine the emptyness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
Cause the life that lived is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past, and
With its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
It whispers no, this will be the last
And the wind cries Mary
The gravel crunches underneath the soles of his shoes as he walks up to the house. A car starts up somewhere in the distance; a murder of crows caw in protest as they flee a nearby tree upon his arrival.
Sam carries a brown paper bag under his left arm, the other hand fiddling nervously with his car keys. Walking up to the stone porch, he gives his surroundings, a lonesome road - now the parking place for the Impala - a grove of trees and a long-forgotten parch of arable land, a last look before entering the house. It’s unlocked.
“Hello?” Sam shouts as he closes the door behind him. There’s no answer.
The metal of a gun is cold where it’s tucked safely against the small of his back. Precaution, Sam reminds himself. He doesn’t intend to use it.
Sam walks into what long ago must have been the living room. There are a few pieces of furniture left, worn and covered with a thick layer of dust. Sam pushes a three-legged chair to the side and slides down to the floor, resting his head against the dirty wall. He picks a few block candles out of his paper bag, and lighting them with brittle motel-matches, the dim room starts to fill with flickering light.
Sam waits.
He has almost nodded off when he’s startled awake sometime close to midnight. The front door is thrown open with a loud bang, seemingly on its own accord, and Sam scrambles to sit upright, his head still foggy with sleep.
“Sam?” A voice from the hallway.
He spots Dean’s figure now, and croaks out in response, “Yeah.”
“Ah, there you are.” Dean enters the living room. He’s carrying one of their duffel bags, and sitting down on a rickety coffee table, he throws it on the floor at his feet. “Where were you?”
“Out,” Sam answers, voice unsteady.
“Did you get beer?”
Sam shakes his head.
“Oh, come on,” Dean whines. “You can at least stash up if you’re going out. I let you use the Impala, dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, with a sadness that doesn’t match Dean’s carefree tone. “Thank you.”
“See? A little gratitude. Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
“Why are you still here?” Sam asks out of the blue.
“Chin up, Sammy. We’ve got a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs. Did you know this place still gets cable? Could be worse, I’m just sayin’.”
“No, I mean, why are you still here?”
“What, you found a job? What are you waiting for? Spill.”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever, man,” Dean says, ignoring the way Sam seems to close in on himself. He opens his duffel bag, picks up one of his glocks and starts to clean it.
When Sam speaks again, it’s no more than a whisper. “I just. Don’t understand. I burned the body. Did it all. We had a service, you know? You shouldn’t…” Sam stops himself, purses his lips together.
“What are you talking about, Sam?” Dean asks, brow furrowed, but voice too absent to really be interested. He gets up, leaves the gun on the table and looks out the window.
“Fuck, Sam. Did you-? Did you break one of the headlights? I swear to God, man-”
Sam’s eyes go wide. Suddenly, he starts laughing. It’s a hollow laugh - coming from a man who hasn’t laughed in a very long time - filled with irony and a note of remembrance. A sad smile plays upon his lips. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s not funny!” Dean turns to Sam. “That’s my car!”
“A piece of you,” Sam states.
“Yeah!” Dean agrees, nodding furiously.
“I’m not getting rid of the car.”
“You were gonna what?!”
“I’m not,” Sam says and looks sternly up at Dean, who seems to get little comfort by that. “You’ll just have to do this on your own. Some other way.”
“Sam, are you talking crazy again?”
“I can’t do this anymore, okay?” Sam exclaims, exasperated, his voice on the verge of breaking. “And I don’t have many things of yours left.”
Sam fiddles with the leather cord around his neck, fingers brushing the angry horns of a golden amulet. Dean’s eyes widen at the sight, his lips part in surprise and he touches his own chest to find an exact copy underneath the thin layer of his shirt.
“Sam?” Dean says, and there’s a frightened tone to his voice that makes Sam’s chest clench someplace deep.
“I know...” Sam begins, unsteadily. He takes a deep breath before continuing, gathering strength to say what’s been haunting his mind. “I know I’m the reason you’re holding on. I have no idea how you do it, and I admire your strength, but Dean… we can’t keep doing this.”
Dean’s frozen in place like a statue. In the moonlight, shining in from one of the windows, his skin is pale white like marble and Sam knows from experience it’s just as cold upon touch.
“I know what awaits you and I pray to God I didn’t because I can’t stand the thought of you in pain. But… even if you stay, I won’t come back. I can’t. It’s killing me, Dean.”
Sam gets up off the floor, takes a few tentative steps up to his brother. Dean’s still quiet but he’s breathing heavily now and that’s answer enough.
“Dean, he - you - wouldn’t have wanted this. Becoming one of the things we’ve hunted. I’m okay with shades of gray. You weren’t.” Sam swallows, tries to find some kind of recognition in his brother’s - or what bears his brother’s - face but comes up empty-handed. “I think it’s time.”
“I don’t know what...” Dean stutters weakly. Lost, like a child, he turns to Sam for answers. “How can I...”
Sam cups Dean’s chin in his hand, brushing his thumb fondly over his cheek and effectively silencing him. “It’s okay,” he says. But the broken way he says it doesn’t offer much comfort. “In time, it will be.”
Dean clutches Sam’s hand, squeezes it over his own face and closes his eyes as he leans into Sam’s palm. A minute, maybe more, passes before he releases his grip and takes a step back. He looks around the room like the walls hold answers and Sam watches how desperation, panic, fear flash over his features.
“What do I do?”
Sam releases a deep breath. “You let go.”
They stand in silence. Moments pass, and Sam can feel when the change comes. A wind starts up out of nowhere and blows out Sam’s candles, leaving the two of them in darkness. Dean turns around, walks into the hallway, and Sam can only trail after.
At Dean’s right, the basement door flies open, and that is where the wind blows, somewhere down below.
Dean looks at Sam one last time, long and hard, before taking that first step. If Dean wants to say something, Sam doesn’t know, and he can’t form any words of his own. He only smiles reassuringly and nods before Dean turns away.
Dean takes a step down the stairs. The long-ago burnt-out light bulb over his head flickers to life for a second before a dark fog creeps up the stairs, surrounds it and drowns it out.
Sam watches, hand covering his mouth in shock, as Dean descends into darkness. The wind speeds up, Sam wobbles on his feet in the draft before the last of Dean, his familiar back, his neck, has disappeared and the basement door slams shut.
A complete silence follows. Sam’s alone, staring openmouthed in front of him and with his heart racing in his chest. He glances into the living room, lets the turned over candles be before turning around and walking - past bloodstains, claw marks and broken lines of salt - out the front door.
It’s not until he’s in the car, driving without a destination, that his tears start to fall. He steps on the brake somewhere on a lonely country road, fists angrily hitting the steering wheel time after time before the air has gone out of his lungs and he bends over with sobs. His left hand repeatedly touches the band of silver on his right ring finger, a recent keepsake just like his necklace, and the only thing that can offer him some resemblance of comfort.
“I’ll get you out,” Sam murmurs aloud, in between sobs. “Promise. I’ll get you out.”
And when Sam lifts his head and looks out the windshield, the sight of two roads intertwining in an X stares him right in the face.
Author: nemo_88, but you can call me Nemo
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Character: Sam/Dean (if you want it to be. :P)
Word Count: ~1400
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death. Angst.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This story is not meant to infringe upon anyone's rights, only to entertain.
Summary: “Why are you still here?”
Author’s Note: Set about a year after AHBL part 2. No spoilers. Title is from the song by Jimi Hendrix. A huge thanks to saklani2 and sinoftheday for the beta. ♥ This is the first time I've posted anything Sam/Dean that I've written, so feedback is much appreciated. :)
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness standing on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
And shine the emptyness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
Cause the life that lived is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past, and
With its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
It whispers no, this will be the last
And the wind cries Mary
The gravel crunches underneath the soles of his shoes as he walks up to the house. A car starts up somewhere in the distance; a murder of crows caw in protest as they flee a nearby tree upon his arrival.
Sam carries a brown paper bag under his left arm, the other hand fiddling nervously with his car keys. Walking up to the stone porch, he gives his surroundings, a lonesome road - now the parking place for the Impala - a grove of trees and a long-forgotten parch of arable land, a last look before entering the house. It’s unlocked.
“Hello?” Sam shouts as he closes the door behind him. There’s no answer.
The metal of a gun is cold where it’s tucked safely against the small of his back. Precaution, Sam reminds himself. He doesn’t intend to use it.
Sam walks into what long ago must have been the living room. There are a few pieces of furniture left, worn and covered with a thick layer of dust. Sam pushes a three-legged chair to the side and slides down to the floor, resting his head against the dirty wall. He picks a few block candles out of his paper bag, and lighting them with brittle motel-matches, the dim room starts to fill with flickering light.
Sam waits.
He has almost nodded off when he’s startled awake sometime close to midnight. The front door is thrown open with a loud bang, seemingly on its own accord, and Sam scrambles to sit upright, his head still foggy with sleep.
“Sam?” A voice from the hallway.
He spots Dean’s figure now, and croaks out in response, “Yeah.”
“Ah, there you are.” Dean enters the living room. He’s carrying one of their duffel bags, and sitting down on a rickety coffee table, he throws it on the floor at his feet. “Where were you?”
“Out,” Sam answers, voice unsteady.
“Did you get beer?”
Sam shakes his head.
“Oh, come on,” Dean whines. “You can at least stash up if you’re going out. I let you use the Impala, dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, with a sadness that doesn’t match Dean’s carefree tone. “Thank you.”
“See? A little gratitude. Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
“Why are you still here?” Sam asks out of the blue.
“Chin up, Sammy. We’ve got a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs. Did you know this place still gets cable? Could be worse, I’m just sayin’.”
“No, I mean, why are you still here?”
“What, you found a job? What are you waiting for? Spill.”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever, man,” Dean says, ignoring the way Sam seems to close in on himself. He opens his duffel bag, picks up one of his glocks and starts to clean it.
When Sam speaks again, it’s no more than a whisper. “I just. Don’t understand. I burned the body. Did it all. We had a service, you know? You shouldn’t…” Sam stops himself, purses his lips together.
“What are you talking about, Sam?” Dean asks, brow furrowed, but voice too absent to really be interested. He gets up, leaves the gun on the table and looks out the window.
“Fuck, Sam. Did you-? Did you break one of the headlights? I swear to God, man-”
Sam’s eyes go wide. Suddenly, he starts laughing. It’s a hollow laugh - coming from a man who hasn’t laughed in a very long time - filled with irony and a note of remembrance. A sad smile plays upon his lips. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s not funny!” Dean turns to Sam. “That’s my car!”
“A piece of you,” Sam states.
“Yeah!” Dean agrees, nodding furiously.
“I’m not getting rid of the car.”
“You were gonna what?!”
“I’m not,” Sam says and looks sternly up at Dean, who seems to get little comfort by that. “You’ll just have to do this on your own. Some other way.”
“Sam, are you talking crazy again?”
“I can’t do this anymore, okay?” Sam exclaims, exasperated, his voice on the verge of breaking. “And I don’t have many things of yours left.”
Sam fiddles with the leather cord around his neck, fingers brushing the angry horns of a golden amulet. Dean’s eyes widen at the sight, his lips part in surprise and he touches his own chest to find an exact copy underneath the thin layer of his shirt.
“Sam?” Dean says, and there’s a frightened tone to his voice that makes Sam’s chest clench someplace deep.
“I know...” Sam begins, unsteadily. He takes a deep breath before continuing, gathering strength to say what’s been haunting his mind. “I know I’m the reason you’re holding on. I have no idea how you do it, and I admire your strength, but Dean… we can’t keep doing this.”
Dean’s frozen in place like a statue. In the moonlight, shining in from one of the windows, his skin is pale white like marble and Sam knows from experience it’s just as cold upon touch.
“I know what awaits you and I pray to God I didn’t because I can’t stand the thought of you in pain. But… even if you stay, I won’t come back. I can’t. It’s killing me, Dean.”
Sam gets up off the floor, takes a few tentative steps up to his brother. Dean’s still quiet but he’s breathing heavily now and that’s answer enough.
“Dean, he - you - wouldn’t have wanted this. Becoming one of the things we’ve hunted. I’m okay with shades of gray. You weren’t.” Sam swallows, tries to find some kind of recognition in his brother’s - or what bears his brother’s - face but comes up empty-handed. “I think it’s time.”
“I don’t know what...” Dean stutters weakly. Lost, like a child, he turns to Sam for answers. “How can I...”
Sam cups Dean’s chin in his hand, brushing his thumb fondly over his cheek and effectively silencing him. “It’s okay,” he says. But the broken way he says it doesn’t offer much comfort. “In time, it will be.”
Dean clutches Sam’s hand, squeezes it over his own face and closes his eyes as he leans into Sam’s palm. A minute, maybe more, passes before he releases his grip and takes a step back. He looks around the room like the walls hold answers and Sam watches how desperation, panic, fear flash over his features.
“What do I do?”
Sam releases a deep breath. “You let go.”
They stand in silence. Moments pass, and Sam can feel when the change comes. A wind starts up out of nowhere and blows out Sam’s candles, leaving the two of them in darkness. Dean turns around, walks into the hallway, and Sam can only trail after.
At Dean’s right, the basement door flies open, and that is where the wind blows, somewhere down below.
Dean looks at Sam one last time, long and hard, before taking that first step. If Dean wants to say something, Sam doesn’t know, and he can’t form any words of his own. He only smiles reassuringly and nods before Dean turns away.
Dean takes a step down the stairs. The long-ago burnt-out light bulb over his head flickers to life for a second before a dark fog creeps up the stairs, surrounds it and drowns it out.
Sam watches, hand covering his mouth in shock, as Dean descends into darkness. The wind speeds up, Sam wobbles on his feet in the draft before the last of Dean, his familiar back, his neck, has disappeared and the basement door slams shut.
A complete silence follows. Sam’s alone, staring openmouthed in front of him and with his heart racing in his chest. He glances into the living room, lets the turned over candles be before turning around and walking - past bloodstains, claw marks and broken lines of salt - out the front door.
It’s not until he’s in the car, driving without a destination, that his tears start to fall. He steps on the brake somewhere on a lonely country road, fists angrily hitting the steering wheel time after time before the air has gone out of his lungs and he bends over with sobs. His left hand repeatedly touches the band of silver on his right ring finger, a recent keepsake just like his necklace, and the only thing that can offer him some resemblance of comfort.
“I’ll get you out,” Sam murmurs aloud, in between sobs. “Promise. I’ll get you out.”
And when Sam lifts his head and looks out the windshield, the sight of two roads intertwining in an X stares him right in the face.