** The motel room was a mess. Sam couldn’t remember doing it, but he might have. Everything was a little vague. A little hazy. The mess bothered him.
Sam started picking it up. He stopped, put everything back where it was. He was here, wasn’t he? Yes, sitting there, by that broken glass. When they called. When they called male gunshot wound to the head, phone in his pocket listed you as his ICE.
Sir?
Sir?
Oh god, Sam thought he said then. And then nothing. Because this didn’t happen. Not like this.
We need you to identify the body. (Stitching gaping wounds together, the smell of death thick in the air, not sure how he was still breathing. Indiana.) I’m sorry.
“What are you going to do, Sam?” Lucifer asked again. His fingers trailed through the broken remnants of the glass. He picked one up and examined it. “Stone number one,” he said, “Isn’t that right?” Sam shuddered.
He sat down on the bed. “I can’t do this,” he said.
“You never could,” Lucifer said softly. He smiled a little. “You were just fooling yourself.” Sam dropped his face into his hands. (A parking lot and a scared kid and that was a gunshot, too, but he was there, and that never happened, not really-)
“You should really salt and burn the corpse,” Lucifer told him. “Course, I don’t know who’s going to do yours.”
“I’m not,” Sam said, and wasn’t sure why he protested. Lucifer’s smile widened.
“Yes you are,” he said. “Maybe not today. Maybe even not tomorrow. But all those days, Sam. All that time. What are you going to do?”
Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.
We need you to identify the body.
“No,” said Sam, grabbed a handful of glass and clenched his fist around it. “No.”
** It was dark out. Still cold. He’d forgotten to put on a jacket. It didn’t seem to matter. His hand felt wet. And it hurt.
He walked. Somewhere out here was the man who’d shot his brother. Somewhere out here. Somewhere. (You’re a hunter. You’ll find him.)
And then what, Sam?
And then what? Dean thought he was strong. Dean didn’t know how wrong he was. Dean-
Dean-
“Fucking shit,” Someone said, right in front of him. “Are you high, man?” Sam bared his teeth at them, and they skittered out of the way. Blood slid across his knuckles. It felt cold.
Maybe he wouldn’t even kill the guy. He just wanted to know why. Why killing Dean was so necessary. So important. Why everyone thought they needed to (had the right to) take him away. Maybe that was all he needed to know. Maybe then he would get it. Make sense of this. Of everything.
Someone slammed him into a wall. “Sam, stop,” someone was saying, “Jesus, hold on, didn’t you hear me, where the fuck do you think you’re-”
“No,” Sam mumbled. “That’s not. You can’t. We need you to identify the body get away from me, stop, stop-”
“Sam, it’s me,” he said, and that echoed and spiraled and echoed and Sam lifted his left hand and smeared blood and glass on warm, living skin and said, “Oh.”
The gun slipped out of his right hand. It was so cold outside. He should have put on a coat.
“Oh.”
** Dean picked the glass shards out of his palm one at a time, muttering under his breath. Sam tried to breathe shallowly, in case loud noises chased him away. “Are you here?” He asked. Dean’s head jerked and he didn’t answer, so maybe Sam hadn’t actually said it.
Except then he paused and said, “Yeah, I’m here,” so he apparently had.
“You were dead,” Sam accused.
Dean rubbed his forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind. “Some asshole grabbed my stuff,” Dean said. “Wallet, phone, the works. Did you…the guy down at the morgue doesn’t even look like me, Sam.”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t.” Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat, and then again. “They wanted me to…” Identify the body. We need you to identify the body.
Dean swore under his breath. “I’m alive,” he said, low and fierce and tired. “Okay? I’m alive. I’m fine. Pissed off as fuck, yeah, but alive…Jesus, Sam. Your hand’s a mess.”
“It was the glass,” Sam said. “On the table.” The world was wobbling back and forth, and he felt a little woozy.
“Yeah,” Dean said darkly. “I figured.” He yanked out a large shard and Sam flinched; so did Dean. “Sorry. Jesus fuck. Sorry.”
“I thought you were dead,” Sam said. Quietly, quietly. Dean swallowed hard.
“I gathered that. Where were you…what were you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. His hand hurt. Dean’s hands were warm. “It’s happened before. It’s happened a hundred times before. I couldn’t - I couldn’t. Dean. I couldn’t.”
Dean muttered something that sounded like if I ever see that rat bastard again I swear.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered. “I didn’t mean to - didn’t mean to fall apart. I’ll be okay. I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” Dean said wearily. “Sure. You’re okay.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and then grabbed the gauze, started wrapping Sam’s hand. “You gotta stop this, all right? You’re going to have really fucking ugly palms.”
“I’m glad you’re alive,” Sam said, because their rules didn’t let him say the world doesn’t make sense when you’re not there anymore. The rules were important, though. They were what let them keep going and going and going.
Energizer Winchesters.
Sam choked on a laugh.
Dean’s eyes softened, worry clear when he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too, Sammy. And I’m not going anywhere, all right?” Sam nodded. Dean’s pat on his leg was solid, like the ground. “Let’s call this one a day,” Dean said, finally, wearily. “You look beat. I’m beat.”
There was probably a rule against it, Sam thought, rocking back onto the bed and then forward. But he couldn’t remember it right now. He shifted to wrap his arms around Dean and hug him tightly enough that he could feel the thud-thud-thud of Dean’s heartbeat, or imagined he could. Dean patted his back awkwardly.
“It’s okay, Sam,” he said. “It’s okay,” and what does that even mean, Sam wondered, what’s okay, what does it mean to be okay, I don’t. Know.
But Dean was there and Dean was alive and letting go didn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe in the morning.
Oh, good, I'm glad it worked. It has been a long time, possibly ever, since I wrote anything this disjointed, but it was what wanted to happen for this particular prompt. >>
It’s weird then, that it doesn’t seem that disjointed? That it pretty much makes perfect sense. lol Oh dear, not a good sign for me. :) Great work. This was so great.
Oh this was so good, so very very good. I have to say that the whole disjointed and weird style was AWESOME for this, because Sam would be a mess, so it was super awesome that everything was just all over the place in the fic too.
But see, neither of them are actually dead, this is practically HAPPY by my standards right right? XD
Thank you so much! I'm glad the style worked, because dlkjf I worry a lot when this style happens, as it is not my Specialty and I sometimes think it just makes things weird and pretentious and not functional. So I'm glad that didn't happen.
So whooooo likes ragged/confused/jumbled prose? RAISE HANDS.
Oo! Ooo! I do! I do! *flails*
Yes! And this is amazing! And no less than the level of awesome I've come to expect from you! And is pretty much exactly what I was looking for in terms of Sam's freakout and complete collapse. The desperateness of his horror, his immediate freefall. His being utterly without any connection to anything in the world (thinking he should call Bobby, only wait...). Everything is spot-on and note perfect. And I love so much his "What are you going to do now, Sam?"
The danger of his hallucinations was very palpable here. How threatening they really are, how close to the edge Sam could be. And his having nothing whatsoever to arrest his headlong plunge--all of it felt like a very realistic depiction of what true mental illness might be like, at least for some. The way Sam's world just suddenly makes no sense, and there's not a single point he can touch on to get his bearings.
Awesome. Really amazing. Thank you so so much for the fill. ♥
OH GOSH let me love you for this comment, it made me smile so much. And I'm glad the prose style worked for you, it is not my usual and slkjdf thank you so much, you are too kind by halfs.
This prompt grabbed me for all of the reasons you have articulated so well, and I'm glad I could reflect them back at you. You give the best prompts, you really do. I think I've actually written for a few of yours now, and they always seem to end up going good (awful?) places.
**
The motel room was a mess. Sam couldn’t remember doing it, but he might have. Everything was a little vague. A little hazy. The mess bothered him.
Sam started picking it up. He stopped, put everything back where it was. He was here, wasn’t he? Yes, sitting there, by that broken glass. When they called. When they called male gunshot wound to the head, phone in his pocket listed you as his ICE.
Sir?
Sir?
Oh god, Sam thought he said then. And then nothing. Because this didn’t happen. Not like this.
We need you to identify the body. (Stitching gaping wounds together, the smell of death thick in the air, not sure how he was still breathing. Indiana.) I’m sorry.
“What are you going to do, Sam?” Lucifer asked again. His fingers trailed through the broken remnants of the glass. He picked one up and examined it. “Stone number one,” he said, “Isn’t that right?” Sam shuddered.
He sat down on the bed. “I can’t do this,” he said.
“You never could,” Lucifer said softly. He smiled a little. “You were just fooling yourself.” Sam dropped his face into his hands. (A parking lot and a scared kid and that was a gunshot, too, but he was there, and that never happened, not really-)
“You should really salt and burn the corpse,” Lucifer told him. “Course, I don’t know who’s going to do yours.”
“I’m not,” Sam said, and wasn’t sure why he protested. Lucifer’s smile widened.
“Yes you are,” he said. “Maybe not today. Maybe even not tomorrow. But all those days, Sam. All that time. What are you going to do?”
Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.
We need you to identify the body.
“No,” said Sam, grabbed a handful of glass and clenched his fist around it. “No.”
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It was dark out. Still cold. He’d forgotten to put on a jacket. It didn’t seem to matter. His hand felt wet. And it hurt.
He walked. Somewhere out here was the man who’d shot his brother. Somewhere out here. Somewhere. (You’re a hunter. You’ll find him.)
And then what, Sam?
And then what? Dean thought he was strong. Dean didn’t know how wrong he was. Dean-
Dean-
“Fucking shit,” Someone said, right in front of him. “Are you high, man?” Sam bared his teeth at them, and they skittered out of the way. Blood slid across his knuckles. It felt cold.
Maybe he wouldn’t even kill the guy. He just wanted to know why. Why killing Dean was so necessary. So important. Why everyone thought they needed to (had the right to) take him away. Maybe that was all he needed to know. Maybe then he would get it. Make sense of this. Of everything.
Someone slammed him into a wall. “Sam, stop,” someone was saying, “Jesus, hold on, didn’t you hear me, where the fuck do you think you’re-”
“No,” Sam mumbled. “That’s not. You can’t. We need you to identify the body get away from me, stop, stop-”
“Sam, it’s me,” he said, and that echoed and spiraled and echoed and Sam lifted his left hand and smeared blood and glass on warm, living skin and said, “Oh.”
The gun slipped out of his right hand. It was so cold outside. He should have put on a coat.
“Oh.”
**
Dean picked the glass shards out of his palm one at a time, muttering under his breath. Sam tried to breathe shallowly, in case loud noises chased him away. “Are you here?” He asked. Dean’s head jerked and he didn’t answer, so maybe Sam hadn’t actually said it.
Except then he paused and said, “Yeah, I’m here,” so he apparently had.
“You were dead,” Sam accused.
Dean rubbed his forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind. “Some asshole grabbed my stuff,” Dean said. “Wallet, phone, the works. Did you…the guy down at the morgue doesn’t even look like me, Sam.”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t.” Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat, and then again. “They wanted me to…” Identify the body. We need you to identify the body.
Dean swore under his breath. “I’m alive,” he said, low and fierce and tired. “Okay? I’m alive. I’m fine. Pissed off as fuck, yeah, but alive…Jesus, Sam. Your hand’s a mess.”
“It was the glass,” Sam said. “On the table.” The world was wobbling back and forth, and he felt a little woozy.
“Yeah,” Dean said darkly. “I figured.” He yanked out a large shard and Sam flinched; so did Dean. “Sorry. Jesus fuck. Sorry.”
“I thought you were dead,” Sam said. Quietly, quietly. Dean swallowed hard.
“I gathered that. Where were you…what were you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. His hand hurt. Dean’s hands were warm. “It’s happened before. It’s happened a hundred times before. I couldn’t - I couldn’t. Dean. I couldn’t.”
Dean muttered something that sounded like if I ever see that rat bastard again I swear.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered. “I didn’t mean to - didn’t mean to fall apart. I’ll be okay. I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” Dean said wearily. “Sure. You’re okay.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and then grabbed the gauze, started wrapping Sam’s hand. “You gotta stop this, all right? You’re going to have really fucking ugly palms.”
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“I’m glad you’re alive,” Sam said, because their rules didn’t let him say the world doesn’t make sense when you’re not there anymore. The rules were important, though. They were what let them keep going and going and going.
Energizer Winchesters.
Sam choked on a laugh.
Dean’s eyes softened, worry clear when he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too, Sammy. And I’m not going anywhere, all right?” Sam nodded. Dean’s pat on his leg was solid, like the ground. “Let’s call this one a day,” Dean said, finally, wearily. “You look beat. I’m beat.”
There was probably a rule against it, Sam thought, rocking back onto the bed and then forward. But he couldn’t remember it right now. He shifted to wrap his arms around Dean and hug him tightly enough that he could feel the thud-thud-thud of Dean’s heartbeat, or imagined he could. Dean patted his back awkwardly.
“It’s okay, Sam,” he said. “It’s okay,” and what does that even mean, Sam wondered, what’s okay, what does it mean to be okay, I don’t. Know.
But Dean was there and Dean was alive and letting go didn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe in the morning.
Maybe tomorrow.
But not now. Not now.
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poor boys!
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Awesome fill!
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Thank you!
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Thank you so much!
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Thank you so much! I'm glad the style worked, because dlkjf I worry a lot when this style happens, as it is not my Specialty and I sometimes think it just makes things weird and pretentious and not functional. So I'm glad that didn't happen.
♥ As always, the kindest things, you say them.
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Oo! Ooo! I do! I do! *flails*
Yes! And this is amazing! And no less than the level of awesome I've come to expect from you! And is pretty much exactly what I was looking for in terms of Sam's freakout and complete collapse. The desperateness of his horror, his immediate freefall. His being utterly without any connection to anything in the world (thinking he should call Bobby, only wait...). Everything is spot-on and note perfect. And I love so much his "What are you going to do now, Sam?"
The danger of his hallucinations was very palpable here. How threatening they really are, how close to the edge Sam could be. And his having nothing whatsoever to arrest his headlong plunge--all of it felt like a very realistic depiction of what true mental illness might be like, at least for some. The way Sam's world just suddenly makes no sense, and there's not a single point he can touch on to get his bearings.
Awesome. Really amazing. Thank you so so much for the fill. ♥
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This prompt grabbed me for all of the reasons you have articulated so well, and I'm glad I could reflect them back at you. You give the best prompts, you really do. I think I've actually written for a few of yours now, and they always seem to end up going good (awful?) places.
Thank you so much!
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