He wants to kill Jake (a vestigial need for revenge begging its way through his veins) and he wants to get on his knees and thank him--for her, for sending him home to her--until the stars themselves explode their way out of the sky. But then Jake shoves the key in the lock and Hell pours forth (thick and quick and sly, ready to take him and twist him and hold him forever away) so fast Sam can’t do much else but shoot and kill.
Thou shalt not kill, Sam. Now you’re never going back.
Sam burns so many bullets on the face of the man who ruined everything (except not really--that would be Dean, dear older brother, now wouldn’t it) that Jake Talley is more a John Doe.
From behind him, Dean watches and watches but doesn’t really see--Why can’t you see and why didn’t you before?--only watches what he wreaked and wrought and dares to wonder what he did so wrong.
(Just let me go home.)
--
“I was happy there.” What should be screamed, so quiet.
“You’ll go back, Sammy.” The instant reassurance from a brother blind with fear more than love. Fear of being alone? Fear of failure? (And isn’t that funny, ‘cause he’s failed already.) Sam is laughing, and the galloping weight of it startles him quiet again. “Just... You can be happy here, Sammy. Can’t you?”
Sam watches demons rise like the smoke that baptised him and tempered him again twenty odd years later, not saying a word. He tries to trace out John Winchester amongst the stars and thinks They’re almost a whole family up there.
“Mom and Dad will never see you again, and I’ll have to go back alone,” Sam says. “You did this, you selfish prick.”
“We still have time. We’ll... figure something. And you can be happy again, with me.”
Dean doesn’t even phrase that one like a question. Deep inside his rotten, rotting, leaden dead and earthly brain, Sam remembers loving the man standing before him. He remembers it, and the memory tastes so different. See, Dean pulled him down from Heaven, straight into the arms of Hell, and yet…
Sam stares and stares straight at the bridge of Dean’s nose, dusted with freckles and more familiar to Sam than any part of himself. He loves Dean, and that love is mingled with so much hate. It wasn’t that way before.
It wasn’t anything like that way before.
--
But maybe Sam can still go home--Jesus set out to save the sinners, murderers so chief among them, that’s what Is Written and it must be true, oh it has to be true. He will spend the rest of his (please, let them be short) days on his knees in penance. He will never again raise himself up, nor lift his head from its prostrations. Latin will fall in endless waves from his lips, and he will never cease his search for forgiveness.
(Here, Jess is burning everyday, and there, she never burned at all.)
There is one thing Sam wants, and it is worlds away. He spends two weeks prostrated on the floor beside his bed (Dean, Bobby circling like snakes to tempt him, but they can’t--they can’t stop him) even as his knees soften under him and bruise and splinter, but the flesh is not what matters here. He will be ready for Heaven when it comes for him again. Even if Heaven is to be forever without Dean, he will be ready.
(Why do you have to go to Hell, Dean, with Sam so set on Heaven?)
--
Sam will find a way--he’s always been able to get to places he shouldn’t (like Stanford, a heaven in its own right, and Wyoming’s Hell Gate as the walking miracle man, still half-dead) and this will be no different.
He knows this much--that he can’t follow the slow and even beat of time to his end so far away.
(Dean watches him, and watches his fall into an obsession focused so high up, and resigns himself to the Pit in the darkest corners of his heart.)
--
Here’s the thing: Suicides don’t go to Heaven. Sam’s almost (yet not quite) certain of that one fact.
WOW dark, but I guess that was the prompt. I wonder if that was the case, if Sam was in the clear until the first time Dean dragged him back. What a twisted life to be cursed with. Poor boys. This was really fantastic.
Hee, thanks! I dunno, I always thought there was a little something more going on at the tail end of season two than SPN let on. (And I like dark things, okay?!) Anyway, thanks for reading and commenting!
Makes sense to me. No problem with dark things. Way more interesting than all the kitchy-solved-in-30-minutes stuff. :D I liked reading it, thank YOU for writing it!
Thou shalt not kill, Sam. Now you’re never going back.
Sam burns so many bullets on the face of the man who ruined everything (except not really--that would be Dean, dear older brother, now wouldn’t it) that Jake Talley is more a John Doe.
From behind him, Dean watches and watches but doesn’t really see--Why can’t you see and why didn’t you before?--only watches what he wreaked and wrought and dares to wonder what he did so wrong.
(Just let me go home.)
--
“I was happy there.” What should be screamed, so quiet.
“You’ll go back, Sammy.” The instant reassurance from a brother blind with fear more than love. Fear of being alone? Fear of failure? (And isn’t that funny, ‘cause he’s failed already.) Sam is laughing, and the galloping weight of it startles him quiet again. “Just... You can be happy here, Sammy. Can’t you?”
Sam watches demons rise like the smoke that baptised him and tempered him again twenty odd years later, not saying a word. He tries to trace out John Winchester amongst the stars and thinks They’re almost a whole family up there.
“Mom and Dad will never see you again, and I’ll have to go back alone,” Sam says. “You did this, you selfish prick.”
“We still have time. We’ll... figure something. And you can be happy again, with me.”
Dean doesn’t even phrase that one like a question. Deep inside his rotten, rotting, leaden dead and earthly brain, Sam remembers loving the man standing before him. He remembers it, and the memory tastes so different. See, Dean pulled him down from Heaven, straight into the arms of Hell, and yet…
Sam stares and stares straight at the bridge of Dean’s nose, dusted with freckles and more familiar to Sam than any part of himself. He loves Dean, and that love is mingled with so much hate. It wasn’t that way before.
It wasn’t anything like that way before.
--
But maybe Sam can still go home--Jesus set out to save the sinners, murderers so chief among them, that’s what Is Written and it must be true, oh it has to be true. He will spend the rest of his (please, let them be short) days on his knees in penance. He will never again raise himself up, nor lift his head from its prostrations. Latin will fall in endless waves from his lips, and he will never cease his search for forgiveness.
(Here, Jess is burning everyday, and there, she never burned at all.)
There is one thing Sam wants, and it is worlds away. He spends two weeks prostrated on the floor beside his bed (Dean, Bobby circling like snakes to tempt him, but they can’t--they can’t stop him) even as his knees soften under him and bruise and splinter, but the flesh is not what matters here. He will be ready for Heaven when it comes for him again. Even if Heaven is to be forever without Dean, he will be ready.
(Why do you have to go to Hell, Dean, with Sam so set on Heaven?)
--
Sam will find a way--he’s always been able to get to places he shouldn’t (like Stanford, a heaven in its own right, and Wyoming’s Hell Gate as the walking miracle man, still half-dead) and this will be no different.
He knows this much--that he can’t follow the slow and even beat of time to his end so far away.
(Dean watches him, and watches his fall into an obsession focused so high up, and resigns himself to the Pit in the darkest corners of his heart.)
--
Here’s the thing: Suicides don’t go to Heaven. Sam’s almost (yet not quite) certain of that one fact.
(But that just means he has to get creative.)
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