Today, I Post Fanfic
Title: Owari-Hajimari
Author: procne92
Rating: PG
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Word count: 989
Warnings: Character death, spoilers through 6.11
Disclaimer: Fanfic is fair (ab)use. Enough said. Also, I didn't steal the ideas or story from anyone.
Beta: Still looking for one!
Author's Note: I realize I totally missed the boat on nonspecific wall!fic. Furthermore, plenty of wall!fic is similar to this one. I wrote this before reading any others. Similarity to yours is a benevolent coincidence.
Author's Note #2: The title is from a song, "Owari-Hajimari," on the soundtrack of the Nintendo DS game "The World Ends With You." "Owari-Hajimari" in Japanese means "End-Beginning."
Summary: It happens so fast, the shattering of the figurative wall, like some trusty kid took his chubby thumb out of a little hole and then water, everywhere, breaking stone and clay labors and drowning the land.
How it ends is it doesn't matter, the little details of time and place don't matter. How it ends is it ends. It happens so fast, the shattering of the figurative wall, like some trusty kid took his chubby thumb out of a little hole and then water, everywhere, breaking stone and clay labors and drowning the land. Sam’s freaking out and Dean’s freaking out even more and they’re both out of control, Sam incoherent shreds of himself and Dean frantic, pacing, trying trying trying to get Sam’s attention or Castiel’s help or just one damn thing in this whole mess that he can take care of, get under control. His prayers are loud and desperate, and if this doesn’t get the attention of the beleaguered President of Heaven, nothing will.
Suddenly Castiel is in front of him, grim and silent as always, deus ex machina in a trenchcoat, as Sam would say, and Dean can’t help but feel a little of the weight on his shoulders slide off despite his painfully low expectations of what the angel can actually do to help. “Please. Cas.”
Castiel doesn’t say a word, only approaches with slow, deliberate steps the corner where Sam is still curled up. A good six feet away he stops, kneels, and looks into Sam’s eyes. Sam doesn’t see him, hasn’t really seen anything since he got back back, only keeps sitting there wedged between the bed and the wall, shaking violently and staring at nothing. Castiel’s mouth twists with something like pity, and he turns back to Dean.
“Well?” asks Dean, or at least the part of him that isn’t drowning in chilly fear. “Can you do anything for him?”
Castiel glances back at Sam and resignation flits across his face. Then he turns to Dean and says quietly, “There is one thing I can do.”
Dean’s heart stops. “What…what is it?”
Castiel says nothing. The pity is back, except this time it’s directed at Dean.
Realization comes.
Oh God no no nonono not that anything but that, and Dean sinks to the floor, overcome by the weight of memories and implications. Sam, blinking up at him on the second day of his life, falling asleep on Dean in the backseat of the Impala, ducking shyly behind Dean’s back on the first day of school, laughing his head off at a beer bottle superglued to Dean’s hand, falling on his knees into Dean’s arms in the bloodstained Cold Oak mud, closing infinitely patient eyes falling backwards in slow motion into Hell.
Sam spasming and screaming on the motel room floor, psyche ripped to shreds by somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty years in the Cage.
My brother is gone, and it hurts to think but he can no more deny the thought than deny that Sam ever existed at all.
“There is a refuge,” says Castiel, and somewhere in all this Dean has forgotten that he was even here. “He can…heal…there, given time. And in the future, when you…”
“Do it,” says Dean, and nothing ever hurt as much.
“Are you-”
“Do it.”
Castiel steps over to Sam again. If anything can reach Sam, this is it, because there is no greater terror than a real live angel after a mind-shredding century and a half being tortured by the two most powerful. Sam ceases his incoherent mumblings with a strangled gasp and claws at the walls, trying to escape. Castiel deftly steps over long flailing legs and his two fingers find their mark neatly in the middle of Sam’s forehead. Sam slumps over like a switch just got flicked off and Castiel catches him and leans him against the bed. Dean flinches with surprise when he sees Sam still breathing.
Noticing this, Castiel looks Dean in the eyes and tells him “I gave you a small amount of time.” The ostensible mercy burns as Dean realizes what it means. Then Castiel turns away and vanishes.
Dean is on the bed before he knows it, gently stretching Sam’s legs out and leaning Sam against the pillows. Whatever Cas has done is happening fast, fever burning away in Sam’s pale face, but he’s not moving or making any noise, which maybe means there’s a little peace. Sam’s eyes are open, wide open, and for once he seems to actually see. Dean gazes at him, because he just can’t gaze enough, and Sam stares back, and neither of them say anything because they can’t and don’t need to anyway.
Then Sam blinks once or twice and exhales the tiniest breath of air, and that sigh means goodbye.
How it ends is Dean feels the warmth leave the bed, slowly, slowly, and slides the lids peacefully over a pair of lifeless eyes, and clings to memories as tears finally come.
----------------------------------------------------
The chemo isn’t working so well anymore, and he’s getting on in years anyway, so Dean isn’t all too surprised when he falls asleep in his living room and wakes up on a dark road in his old Impala. The gearshift feels perfect in his hand, and the Chevy’s quiet rumbling as he drives along is like music.
There’s a hitchhiker standing by the side of the road, and Dean feels rather than sees the quiet smile offered as he pulls over. The shotgun door has been unlocked in anticipation of this particular hitchhiker for years and years, and he opens it and slides in. “Still listening to the same crap music?” the hitchhiker asks playfully, and-
And Dean can’t stand it any longer because that’s Sam, it’s Sam, age six and eleven and nineteen and twenty-nine and-
And they’re holding each other, so tightly they could be one person, one soul, stricken, incoherent, smeared with tears and grief and joy-
How it begins is Dean is ten and fifteen and forty and sixty-seven and a few months past his eighty-third birthday, and he’s finally home.
Author: procne92
Rating: PG
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Word count: 989
Warnings: Character death, spoilers through 6.11
Disclaimer: Fanfic is fair (ab)use. Enough said. Also, I didn't steal the ideas or story from anyone.
Beta: Still looking for one!
Author's Note: I realize I totally missed the boat on nonspecific wall!fic. Furthermore, plenty of wall!fic is similar to this one. I wrote this before reading any others. Similarity to yours is a benevolent coincidence.
Author's Note #2: The title is from a song, "Owari-Hajimari," on the soundtrack of the Nintendo DS game "The World Ends With You." "Owari-Hajimari" in Japanese means "End-Beginning."
Summary: It happens so fast, the shattering of the figurative wall, like some trusty kid took his chubby thumb out of a little hole and then water, everywhere, breaking stone and clay labors and drowning the land.
How it ends is it doesn't matter, the little details of time and place don't matter. How it ends is it ends. It happens so fast, the shattering of the figurative wall, like some trusty kid took his chubby thumb out of a little hole and then water, everywhere, breaking stone and clay labors and drowning the land. Sam’s freaking out and Dean’s freaking out even more and they’re both out of control, Sam incoherent shreds of himself and Dean frantic, pacing, trying trying trying to get Sam’s attention or Castiel’s help or just one damn thing in this whole mess that he can take care of, get under control. His prayers are loud and desperate, and if this doesn’t get the attention of the beleaguered President of Heaven, nothing will.
Suddenly Castiel is in front of him, grim and silent as always, deus ex machina in a trenchcoat, as Sam would say, and Dean can’t help but feel a little of the weight on his shoulders slide off despite his painfully low expectations of what the angel can actually do to help. “Please. Cas.”
Castiel doesn’t say a word, only approaches with slow, deliberate steps the corner where Sam is still curled up. A good six feet away he stops, kneels, and looks into Sam’s eyes. Sam doesn’t see him, hasn’t really seen anything since he got back back, only keeps sitting there wedged between the bed and the wall, shaking violently and staring at nothing. Castiel’s mouth twists with something like pity, and he turns back to Dean.
“Well?” asks Dean, or at least the part of him that isn’t drowning in chilly fear. “Can you do anything for him?”
Castiel glances back at Sam and resignation flits across his face. Then he turns to Dean and says quietly, “There is one thing I can do.”
Dean’s heart stops. “What…what is it?”
Castiel says nothing. The pity is back, except this time it’s directed at Dean.
Realization comes.
Oh God no no nonono not that anything but that, and Dean sinks to the floor, overcome by the weight of memories and implications. Sam, blinking up at him on the second day of his life, falling asleep on Dean in the backseat of the Impala, ducking shyly behind Dean’s back on the first day of school, laughing his head off at a beer bottle superglued to Dean’s hand, falling on his knees into Dean’s arms in the bloodstained Cold Oak mud, closing infinitely patient eyes falling backwards in slow motion into Hell.
Sam spasming and screaming on the motel room floor, psyche ripped to shreds by somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty years in the Cage.
My brother is gone, and it hurts to think but he can no more deny the thought than deny that Sam ever existed at all.
“There is a refuge,” says Castiel, and somewhere in all this Dean has forgotten that he was even here. “He can…heal…there, given time. And in the future, when you…”
“Do it,” says Dean, and nothing ever hurt as much.
“Are you-”
“Do it.”
Castiel steps over to Sam again. If anything can reach Sam, this is it, because there is no greater terror than a real live angel after a mind-shredding century and a half being tortured by the two most powerful. Sam ceases his incoherent mumblings with a strangled gasp and claws at the walls, trying to escape. Castiel deftly steps over long flailing legs and his two fingers find their mark neatly in the middle of Sam’s forehead. Sam slumps over like a switch just got flicked off and Castiel catches him and leans him against the bed. Dean flinches with surprise when he sees Sam still breathing.
Noticing this, Castiel looks Dean in the eyes and tells him “I gave you a small amount of time.” The ostensible mercy burns as Dean realizes what it means. Then Castiel turns away and vanishes.
Dean is on the bed before he knows it, gently stretching Sam’s legs out and leaning Sam against the pillows. Whatever Cas has done is happening fast, fever burning away in Sam’s pale face, but he’s not moving or making any noise, which maybe means there’s a little peace. Sam’s eyes are open, wide open, and for once he seems to actually see. Dean gazes at him, because he just can’t gaze enough, and Sam stares back, and neither of them say anything because they can’t and don’t need to anyway.
Then Sam blinks once or twice and exhales the tiniest breath of air, and that sigh means goodbye.
How it ends is Dean feels the warmth leave the bed, slowly, slowly, and slides the lids peacefully over a pair of lifeless eyes, and clings to memories as tears finally come.
----------------------------------------------------
The chemo isn’t working so well anymore, and he’s getting on in years anyway, so Dean isn’t all too surprised when he falls asleep in his living room and wakes up on a dark road in his old Impala. The gearshift feels perfect in his hand, and the Chevy’s quiet rumbling as he drives along is like music.
There’s a hitchhiker standing by the side of the road, and Dean feels rather than sees the quiet smile offered as he pulls over. The shotgun door has been unlocked in anticipation of this particular hitchhiker for years and years, and he opens it and slides in. “Still listening to the same crap music?” the hitchhiker asks playfully, and-
And Dean can’t stand it any longer because that’s Sam, it’s Sam, age six and eleven and nineteen and twenty-nine and-
And they’re holding each other, so tightly they could be one person, one soul, stricken, incoherent, smeared with tears and grief and joy-
How it begins is Dean is ten and fifteen and forty and sixty-seven and a few months past his eighty-third birthday, and he’s finally home.