Fic: I Can See For Miles
Title: I Can See For Miles
Author: safiyabat
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of the Cage. Clowns.
Pairing: None - gen
Word Count: 1,153
Characters: Sam Winchester. Mentions of Dean Winchester, Michael, Lucifer, Castiel
Summary: Coda to 11.07, "Plush." [Spoiler (click to open)]After Sam gets back to the bunker, he tries to get some sleep. Dean tried to be reassuring about Sam's visions while they were in the car, but it's hard to offer comfort against so many triggers.
Sam put his duffel up on top of the row of filing boxes in his room. The bed was still rumpled from when Cas had occupied it to binge on Netflix; Sam hadn’t had the stomach to kick him out. The sheets still kind of stank of angel, of ozone and feathers and of that dreadful new trench coat Castiel refused to take off. He should change the sheets, but he hadn’t bothered to buy a second set (what would be the point?) and he was too tired right now to deal with laundry.
Maybe he should just go sleep in the library.
No, that was stupid. He could just put a towel down over the pillow; that would be enough to keep the smell at bay. At least, it should be enough to keep him from flashing back to anything unpleasant. God knew that the sheets in here - and all of Sam’s clothes - had reeked of angel for months after Gadreel. He’d figured out plenty of ways to mask the stink. He knew how to cope. He’d be fine. He was fine.
He went and got the towel fresh from the pile in the laundry room, burying his face in the terrycloth and letting the cheap fabric softener scent wash over him. Yeah, that was good. It would do the job, anyway.
Of course, it was going to take more than a little bit of artificial scent to set his mind at ease tonight. He’d held it together up in Minnesota, or at least he’d thought he had. He hadn’t killed the guy in the possessed clown mask, although he could still feel panic sloshing up the sides of his brain if he stopped to think about it. He’d wanted to - well, no. He hadn’t wanted to kill the thing, he’d wanted to run as fast and as far as his legs would carry him. It just hadn’t been an option, considering that he’d been trapped in a freaking elevator at the time.
And that was the thing. He’d been trapped, with the thing he’d feared, and if that wasn’t a metaphor for the whole situation breathing down their neck he didn’t know what to think. He wouldn’t have been trapped with the clown if he’d been better, if he’d been smarter, if he’d have figured it out first. If he weren’t so weak as to have this stupid phobia in the first place, and seriously? Clowns? He’d faced down angry archangels, he’d faced the first demon without flinching, but clowns had him whimpering and looking for someplace to hide?
But he’d been weak, and he’d been slow and stupid, and he’d been caught. Trapped, with no other options but to fight the killer clown. Just like his own weakness and stupidity was going to send him right back to the Cage.
Not that he didn’t belong there anyway.
Sam barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up. The great thing about the bunker, he thought as he rested his head against the cool porcelain, was that Sam could get away with throwing up everything he’d eaten for the past six days, like he’d just done, and Dean would never know the difference. Dean would never have to see how weak he was. Dean had enough on his plate, between the Darkness and whatever the hell he was hiding about Amara; he didn’t need to worry about Sam and his failures too.
He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t. Even on the good days he could still feel Lucifer’s icy breath on the back of his neck, Michael’s hateful hands burning a new hole into his body just for them. It hadn’t taken long before Lucifer had found out about his phobia, and now Sam couldn’t remember if he was afraid of clowns because of childhood trauma or because of his cellmates’ creative interpretations on a theme. Archangels were bad enough. Archangels in greasepaint were something else entirely.
He’d thought he’d finished emptying his stomach, but apparently his insides hated bile too.
He could do this. Sam was fine. He was out, for now anyway, and he had one hell of a mess to clean up. He hadn’t known, or had any way to know, that clearing up the Mark of Cain would unleash the Darkness and cost so many people their souls. He hadn’t known, or had any way to know, that killing Lilith would release Lucifer from the Cage and unleash the Apocalypse either. That had been on Sam, and so was this. The reasons behind the act didn’t matter. It was all on his fault, he was the unclean one, the one who had destroyed Dean’s life from the moment of his birth, and he had a moral obligation to fix it.
“Anything having to do with that Cage is - it - it’s suicide. And you of all people know that.” That had been Dean’s response, back in the car, when Sam had confessed that someone (possibly God) was sending him visions of the Cage. Like that was some kind of an argument.
The thing was - well, it wasn’t like they’d ever gained anything without losing. Big. Sure they’d killed Azazel, but only at the cost of Dean’s soul and the opening of the Devil’s Gate. Great, they’d killed Lilith, but only by opening Lucifer’s Cage. Sure they’d stopped the Apocalypse, but only with Sam sacrificing himself and his younger half brother to eternal torment the likes of which made even demons blanch. They’d gotten rid of the Leviathans, but only by losing Dean to Purgatory. They’d gotten rid of the Mark of Cain, but only by unleashing the Darkness.
So it was no surprise to Sam that one of them was going to lose, and in a big way, if they wanted to stop the Darkness. And honestly, Sam wanted it to be him. The Darkness was his fault, and he’d been a drain on Dean for so long that he deserved to suffer for it.
And Billie had promised there would be no more coming back. No one was going to be able to make the world even worse by bringing him back. It wasn’t that he wanted to spend eternity in the Cage; he’d be fine if Billie’s promise of eternity in the Void (whatever that might be) turned out to be true, but coming back to a life of loneliness and recrimination wasn’t exactly worth risking the world for.
Dean, on the other hand - Dean deserved a shot. Dean was good, all the way good. Sometimes he did bad things, like cram an angel into his notably unwilling brother, but he was good. He had earned Heaven.
His hands shook as he flushed and went to clean himself up. He would do what he had to in order to keep Dean safe. If that meant going back to the Cage, so be it.
Author: safiyabat
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of the Cage. Clowns.
Pairing: None - gen
Word Count: 1,153
Characters: Sam Winchester. Mentions of Dean Winchester, Michael, Lucifer, Castiel
Summary: Coda to 11.07, "Plush." [Spoiler (click to open)]After Sam gets back to the bunker, he tries to get some sleep. Dean tried to be reassuring about Sam's visions while they were in the car, but it's hard to offer comfort against so many triggers.
Sam put his duffel up on top of the row of filing boxes in his room. The bed was still rumpled from when Cas had occupied it to binge on Netflix; Sam hadn’t had the stomach to kick him out. The sheets still kind of stank of angel, of ozone and feathers and of that dreadful new trench coat Castiel refused to take off. He should change the sheets, but he hadn’t bothered to buy a second set (what would be the point?) and he was too tired right now to deal with laundry.
Maybe he should just go sleep in the library.
No, that was stupid. He could just put a towel down over the pillow; that would be enough to keep the smell at bay. At least, it should be enough to keep him from flashing back to anything unpleasant. God knew that the sheets in here - and all of Sam’s clothes - had reeked of angel for months after Gadreel. He’d figured out plenty of ways to mask the stink. He knew how to cope. He’d be fine. He was fine.
He went and got the towel fresh from the pile in the laundry room, burying his face in the terrycloth and letting the cheap fabric softener scent wash over him. Yeah, that was good. It would do the job, anyway.
Of course, it was going to take more than a little bit of artificial scent to set his mind at ease tonight. He’d held it together up in Minnesota, or at least he’d thought he had. He hadn’t killed the guy in the possessed clown mask, although he could still feel panic sloshing up the sides of his brain if he stopped to think about it. He’d wanted to - well, no. He hadn’t wanted to kill the thing, he’d wanted to run as fast and as far as his legs would carry him. It just hadn’t been an option, considering that he’d been trapped in a freaking elevator at the time.
And that was the thing. He’d been trapped, with the thing he’d feared, and if that wasn’t a metaphor for the whole situation breathing down their neck he didn’t know what to think. He wouldn’t have been trapped with the clown if he’d been better, if he’d been smarter, if he’d have figured it out first. If he weren’t so weak as to have this stupid phobia in the first place, and seriously? Clowns? He’d faced down angry archangels, he’d faced the first demon without flinching, but clowns had him whimpering and looking for someplace to hide?
But he’d been weak, and he’d been slow and stupid, and he’d been caught. Trapped, with no other options but to fight the killer clown. Just like his own weakness and stupidity was going to send him right back to the Cage.
Not that he didn’t belong there anyway.
Sam barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up. The great thing about the bunker, he thought as he rested his head against the cool porcelain, was that Sam could get away with throwing up everything he’d eaten for the past six days, like he’d just done, and Dean would never know the difference. Dean would never have to see how weak he was. Dean had enough on his plate, between the Darkness and whatever the hell he was hiding about Amara; he didn’t need to worry about Sam and his failures too.
He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t. Even on the good days he could still feel Lucifer’s icy breath on the back of his neck, Michael’s hateful hands burning a new hole into his body just for them. It hadn’t taken long before Lucifer had found out about his phobia, and now Sam couldn’t remember if he was afraid of clowns because of childhood trauma or because of his cellmates’ creative interpretations on a theme. Archangels were bad enough. Archangels in greasepaint were something else entirely.
He’d thought he’d finished emptying his stomach, but apparently his insides hated bile too.
He could do this. Sam was fine. He was out, for now anyway, and he had one hell of a mess to clean up. He hadn’t known, or had any way to know, that clearing up the Mark of Cain would unleash the Darkness and cost so many people their souls. He hadn’t known, or had any way to know, that killing Lilith would release Lucifer from the Cage and unleash the Apocalypse either. That had been on Sam, and so was this. The reasons behind the act didn’t matter. It was all on his fault, he was the unclean one, the one who had destroyed Dean’s life from the moment of his birth, and he had a moral obligation to fix it.
“Anything having to do with that Cage is - it - it’s suicide. And you of all people know that.” That had been Dean’s response, back in the car, when Sam had confessed that someone (possibly God) was sending him visions of the Cage. Like that was some kind of an argument.
The thing was - well, it wasn’t like they’d ever gained anything without losing. Big. Sure they’d killed Azazel, but only at the cost of Dean’s soul and the opening of the Devil’s Gate. Great, they’d killed Lilith, but only by opening Lucifer’s Cage. Sure they’d stopped the Apocalypse, but only with Sam sacrificing himself and his younger half brother to eternal torment the likes of which made even demons blanch. They’d gotten rid of the Leviathans, but only by losing Dean to Purgatory. They’d gotten rid of the Mark of Cain, but only by unleashing the Darkness.
So it was no surprise to Sam that one of them was going to lose, and in a big way, if they wanted to stop the Darkness. And honestly, Sam wanted it to be him. The Darkness was his fault, and he’d been a drain on Dean for so long that he deserved to suffer for it.
And Billie had promised there would be no more coming back. No one was going to be able to make the world even worse by bringing him back. It wasn’t that he wanted to spend eternity in the Cage; he’d be fine if Billie’s promise of eternity in the Void (whatever that might be) turned out to be true, but coming back to a life of loneliness and recrimination wasn’t exactly worth risking the world for.
Dean, on the other hand - Dean deserved a shot. Dean was good, all the way good. Sometimes he did bad things, like cram an angel into his notably unwilling brother, but he was good. He had earned Heaven.
His hands shook as he flushed and went to clean himself up. He would do what he had to in order to keep Dean safe. If that meant going back to the Cage, so be it.