[Fic] septembers_coda: Toward the Lie
[ Random ]
Title: Toward the Lie
Writer: septembers_coda
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings, kinks & contents: None.
Length: 3,700 words
Summary: What will Sam remember of his life, when memory dissolves in the line between life and death? And what does he really know, if he were to turn to the truth, about what Dean will do to bring him back? Takes place within the timeline of episode 9.01.
Reccer's notes: In my comment to this fic, I offer a garbled attempt to describe what reading this fic feels like, and why the feeling it evokes is both unique and vital. Reading the fic over again for this fic, I've found the description I was looking for: This fic is an affirmation. Of what, you need to read and work through on your own, because that's the magic of this fic. It's wonderfully written and powerfully felt, all verbal trills and acrobatic metaphoric registers, with moments of utter stillness and silence that do just as much.
[Short excerpt]He knew that this was what living was. This was being born. This was lying in his crib, demon blood dripping into his mouth, his mother burning on the ceiling. This was his brother, carrying him through the smoke. This was the broken sound of his father’s voice.
This was the laughter of children who all knew each other, who relaxed into play with each other like the steps of a dance, and the dance stopped when Sam tried to join. This was Sam, always new, always a stranger, always strange. This was Sam, fighting, running as hard as he could, always in a circle, back home to no home.
He heard a voice calling him back, forcing him into the bruise, into the bloody cough and the brokenness. This was Dean, taking his bullet, stitching him up, grabbing his arm and dragging him back from the edge, again and again and again. This was Dean, diving in after him when he couldn’t catch him before he jumped. This was Dean, selling his soul to drag Sam back. This was Dean, laughing and making jokes as he brushed his teeth on a thousand mornings of the day he would die.
This was Dean, never, ever, ever letting him go.