Fic: Closer To Fine
Title: Closer To Fine
Author LJ Username: safiyabat
Pairing(s): None.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,221
Summary: Coda to 11.02, "Form and Void." [Spoiler (click to open)]Coloring in the spaces between leaving the hospital in Nebraska and the brothers' arrival at the bunker. Sam POV.
Edit: Special thanks to my beta, sweetsamofmine who is made of gold and sunflowers and many other precious things.
It was all over by the time that Dean pulled up to the hospital. A couple of the survivors waited with him, that first woman who had told him “thank you” and a member of the maintenance crew. More of them had helped to find people and cure them, but once that had been done and the corpses had been dragged out from whatever fetid hole they’d crawled into not many people had wanted to stick around.
Sam got that. He did. These two, Ramona and Fred, they were the outliers. The others were the norm. They just wanted to escape, to put this unspeakable trauma behind them and try to build some kind of a life. They deserved it. They’d been touched by something much bigger than them, something that they could barely hope to process. They didn’t have the cycles to do cleanup duty too.
In times past, Ramona and Fred would have been acknowledged for their extraordinary fortitude. Stories - some maybe true, some possibly exaggerated - would have sprung up about their sanctity, and after their deaths people would have asked for their intercession with the Almighty. For now, all they got were blisters from dragging all of those bodies down into the boiler room and soot stains from the blowback.
Dean had pulled up after it was all over. He saw the soot stains and he saw Fred and Ramona. “Found a cure, Sammy?” he asked.
Sam could see the dark circles under his brother’s eyes, the way exhaustion pulled at his lips. His face seemed to have lost all of its color in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe there hadn’t been any coffee stands in whatever town Dean had needed to take Jenna and the baby to. So he just nodded. “Yeah. Holy oil.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Carry a lot of that with you?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Some.” He looked away.
Ramona must not have liked what she saw on Dean’s face, and of course there was no way she could have understood that look. No way she could have known what passed between brothers who were drinking buddies with the king of Hell, or who had wrestled archangels and won. But she stepped toward the Impala nevertheless, survival making her brave. “He saved us,” she said, tone urgent, leaning forward to make sure Dean saw her face. “We were animals. We were beasts! And he, he saved us. It was a miracle.”
Dean gave that tired, exhausted, u-shaped smile he gave when he was at the end of his rope. “I’m sure it was, sister. That’s our Sam. A regular miracle worker.”
She wrinkled her nose at Dean and turned to Sam. “Do you have to go? I’m going to head out to Colorado. I’ve got people out there, cousins. You’d be welcome there.”
Sam huffed out a little laugh, genuinely touched. It had been years, so many years, since anyone had wanted him around like that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t. This thing, it’s part of something bigger. My brother and I - we have to fight it.”
She gave him a sad smile, and put a hand on his arm. She wouldn’t have wanted to do that if she’d known what he was (“You’re unclean, in a Biblical sense, Sam.”) but he was fine, he was okay, Sam, and so he gave her a quick hug that would probably be in his top ten moments for the past five years at least and squeezed into the passenger seat beside his brother.
He could see Ramona and Fred waving, in the distance. Above them, gray smoke rose from the hospital’s smokestack.
“Fun few hours?” Dean asked, voice tight.
Sam glanced at his brother. There was a story there, eighteen chapters in the exact roundness of the shoulders alone. “It got a little dicey,” he admitted. “But we came through.”
Dean didn’t seem to be feeling all that chatty on the forty-five minute drive from Superior, Nebraska back to the bunker. That left Sam plenty of time to think. Well, time to think and time to fret. He hadn’t had time to finish cleaning the library before he’d taken off to go meet with Dean (face his own execution, but that was fine, he was fine, it was all okay) but right now that just didn’t seem like much of an issue in the face of everything he’d heard tonight.
Yes, he’d taken to carrying around a jar of holy oil. That was the kind of thing that rational people did when they got randomly possessed by evil angels (he was fine). He didn’t carry a lot of holy oil with him, because he traveled light, never more than he could carry in one duffel because who knew when he’d have nothing but his own back for transportation?
He’d used a lot more than that to cure the survivors from Superior.
He wasn’t going to read too much into it. God, he knew, had left the building. He’d prayed, briefly, in a moment of desperation. His efforts had earned him a flashback, and what the hell had he expected? At best, his reliance on the being that had let all that crap happen to his family had triggered a normal response to trauma. At worst, an angel had been listening in and decided to remind him what he was.
(Your insides reek of shame and weakness.)
(You’re fine.)
If anything it had been that Reaper, Billie, who had given him the best clue. She’d reminded him of the reality of his existence, the one thing that he could never cleanse no matter how hard he tried, but it had sent him to the right source for the cure. And it had worked. He should really send her a fruit basket, if it weren’t for that eternal-emptiness-for-Dean thing.
He huffed. Yeah, when she’d first told him that the whole unending cycle of dying and returning was over for them he’d dared to have hope. Just for a moment he’d thought that he’d been forgiven, that everything he’d wanted had come true. Idiot. No, Dean was to be punished for Sam's transgressions, and somehow Sam didn’t think that Billie was the type to let Dean charm her out of her decision.
Not that he blamed her. Dean had killed Death. Sam hadn’t had any say in that, but he got that they blamed him in equal measure and frankly he didn’t care that the traditional afterlife was barred to him. It was the best possible option for him. Heaven - well, that had been a disaster at the time, never mind what had happened to his “happiest memories” once Lucifer had gotten done with them. Hell held few terrors after the Cage. Purgatory? Probably appropriate for something like him, but it had an escape hatch.
He wondered, idly, if he’d get a chance to talk to Billie again. She’d given him information, without much of an agenda. That was the great thing about Reapers.
The car pulled into its parking space. “Home sweet home,” Dean said with a falsely cheerful grin. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what memories lay behind that grin. Did he remember the massacre that took place here?
They walked up the stairs and opened the door. (You’re fine, Sam.)
Author LJ Username: safiyabat
Pairing(s): None.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,221
Summary: Coda to 11.02, "Form and Void." [Spoiler (click to open)]Coloring in the spaces between leaving the hospital in Nebraska and the brothers' arrival at the bunker. Sam POV.
Edit: Special thanks to my beta, sweetsamofmine who is made of gold and sunflowers and many other precious things.
It was all over by the time that Dean pulled up to the hospital. A couple of the survivors waited with him, that first woman who had told him “thank you” and a member of the maintenance crew. More of them had helped to find people and cure them, but once that had been done and the corpses had been dragged out from whatever fetid hole they’d crawled into not many people had wanted to stick around.
Sam got that. He did. These two, Ramona and Fred, they were the outliers. The others were the norm. They just wanted to escape, to put this unspeakable trauma behind them and try to build some kind of a life. They deserved it. They’d been touched by something much bigger than them, something that they could barely hope to process. They didn’t have the cycles to do cleanup duty too.
In times past, Ramona and Fred would have been acknowledged for their extraordinary fortitude. Stories - some maybe true, some possibly exaggerated - would have sprung up about their sanctity, and after their deaths people would have asked for their intercession with the Almighty. For now, all they got were blisters from dragging all of those bodies down into the boiler room and soot stains from the blowback.
Dean had pulled up after it was all over. He saw the soot stains and he saw Fred and Ramona. “Found a cure, Sammy?” he asked.
Sam could see the dark circles under his brother’s eyes, the way exhaustion pulled at his lips. His face seemed to have lost all of its color in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe there hadn’t been any coffee stands in whatever town Dean had needed to take Jenna and the baby to. So he just nodded. “Yeah. Holy oil.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Carry a lot of that with you?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Some.” He looked away.
Ramona must not have liked what she saw on Dean’s face, and of course there was no way she could have understood that look. No way she could have known what passed between brothers who were drinking buddies with the king of Hell, or who had wrestled archangels and won. But she stepped toward the Impala nevertheless, survival making her brave. “He saved us,” she said, tone urgent, leaning forward to make sure Dean saw her face. “We were animals. We were beasts! And he, he saved us. It was a miracle.”
Dean gave that tired, exhausted, u-shaped smile he gave when he was at the end of his rope. “I’m sure it was, sister. That’s our Sam. A regular miracle worker.”
She wrinkled her nose at Dean and turned to Sam. “Do you have to go? I’m going to head out to Colorado. I’ve got people out there, cousins. You’d be welcome there.”
Sam huffed out a little laugh, genuinely touched. It had been years, so many years, since anyone had wanted him around like that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t. This thing, it’s part of something bigger. My brother and I - we have to fight it.”
She gave him a sad smile, and put a hand on his arm. She wouldn’t have wanted to do that if she’d known what he was (“You’re unclean, in a Biblical sense, Sam.”) but he was fine, he was okay, Sam, and so he gave her a quick hug that would probably be in his top ten moments for the past five years at least and squeezed into the passenger seat beside his brother.
He could see Ramona and Fred waving, in the distance. Above them, gray smoke rose from the hospital’s smokestack.
“Fun few hours?” Dean asked, voice tight.
Sam glanced at his brother. There was a story there, eighteen chapters in the exact roundness of the shoulders alone. “It got a little dicey,” he admitted. “But we came through.”
Dean didn’t seem to be feeling all that chatty on the forty-five minute drive from Superior, Nebraska back to the bunker. That left Sam plenty of time to think. Well, time to think and time to fret. He hadn’t had time to finish cleaning the library before he’d taken off to go meet with Dean (face his own execution, but that was fine, he was fine, it was all okay) but right now that just didn’t seem like much of an issue in the face of everything he’d heard tonight.
Yes, he’d taken to carrying around a jar of holy oil. That was the kind of thing that rational people did when they got randomly possessed by evil angels (he was fine). He didn’t carry a lot of holy oil with him, because he traveled light, never more than he could carry in one duffel because who knew when he’d have nothing but his own back for transportation?
He’d used a lot more than that to cure the survivors from Superior.
He wasn’t going to read too much into it. God, he knew, had left the building. He’d prayed, briefly, in a moment of desperation. His efforts had earned him a flashback, and what the hell had he expected? At best, his reliance on the being that had let all that crap happen to his family had triggered a normal response to trauma. At worst, an angel had been listening in and decided to remind him what he was.
(Your insides reek of shame and weakness.)
(You’re fine.)
If anything it had been that Reaper, Billie, who had given him the best clue. She’d reminded him of the reality of his existence, the one thing that he could never cleanse no matter how hard he tried, but it had sent him to the right source for the cure. And it had worked. He should really send her a fruit basket, if it weren’t for that eternal-emptiness-for-Dean thing.
He huffed. Yeah, when she’d first told him that the whole unending cycle of dying and returning was over for them he’d dared to have hope. Just for a moment he’d thought that he’d been forgiven, that everything he’d wanted had come true. Idiot. No, Dean was to be punished for Sam's transgressions, and somehow Sam didn’t think that Billie was the type to let Dean charm her out of her decision.
Not that he blamed her. Dean had killed Death. Sam hadn’t had any say in that, but he got that they blamed him in equal measure and frankly he didn’t care that the traditional afterlife was barred to him. It was the best possible option for him. Heaven - well, that had been a disaster at the time, never mind what had happened to his “happiest memories” once Lucifer had gotten done with them. Hell held few terrors after the Cage. Purgatory? Probably appropriate for something like him, but it had an escape hatch.
He wondered, idly, if he’d get a chance to talk to Billie again. She’d given him information, without much of an agenda. That was the great thing about Reapers.
The car pulled into its parking space. “Home sweet home,” Dean said with a falsely cheerful grin. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what memories lay behind that grin. Did he remember the massacre that took place here?
They walked up the stairs and opened the door. (You’re fine, Sam.)