Fic: It’s like walking on snow, without leaving a trace.
This is for my puppy auntshoe! Happy birthday again bb! ♥ ♥ ♥
And huge thanks to my awesome beta sulfuricfusion, who is always up to work on my little somethings ♥
Comments are always ♥
It’s like walking on snow, without leaving a trace.
(Dean, Sam; AU; PG-13; ~1500 words)
Red snow is falling on the ground
As deadly silence fills the space;
I know there is no one around.
It’s over; death has left the trace.
Vasilisa Lisitsyna
When Sam says "yes," Dean is there, and he has no soul to sell for his brother.
Time doesn’t stop, and oceans aren’t boiling; frogs aren’t falling from the skies. Time doesn’t stop for anyone. It never does.
He says, "Don’t leave me, Dean," looking him straight in the eyes as if trying to reach down into his soul to convince him to stay, convince him that he did the right thing.
"I already did," Dean answers, sadness in his voice, because he’s known this all along. He’s been there once before, lived through it already.
"I’m cold," Sam says, and his hands are trembling. Dean doesn’t remember ever seeing his brother’s hands trembling - always so steady, so sure, so strong.
"You walked too much," Dean tells him, lowering his head, watching the snow melting under his feet. "You walked too far."
There’s no ‘too far’ for them, Dean tries to remind himself. There’s always a choice and a way out. But now Dean doesn’t have a soul to sell for his brother, only this deep black hole inside of him, bottomless, so big he’s not sure how he’s made it this far. Too far.
Dean watches the snow, his brother’s feet, and he thinks, absentmindedly, that maybe he still has time; he can still make it right. He’s already made his choice in his head, though his heart still doesn’t want to believe it.
Dean watches the knife, the same knife he’s held so many times before, ripping warm flesh, and he’s watching another demon dying. He knows how it is, when the blade cuts through the soft skin, then the muscle, straight to the heart. He watches his brother’s feet, switching his gaze from the blade to Sam.
He’s played this situation in his head so many times since he saw the future, and he’s thought about all the little details. He’s thought about what he would do and how, he’s thought about all the ways out and all the ends; all the "if onlys" and "what ifs." And still, every time, he’s ended up here, in Detroit, watching his brother, moving his gaze from the blade to Sam.
"I tried," Dean says, feeling his voice trembling. He thought he could do it, he thought he wouldn’t be so scared. He’s not afraid of the darkness, he’s not afraid of death. He’s afraid of what comes after it, of where he will be. With or without his brother.
"Yeah, me too," Sam answers, and for a moment Dean thinks that Sam knows everything. That he knew it from the very beginning, since Dean told him that they were going to make their own future. For a moment Dean thinks his brother’s eyes blank with a glimpse of darkness.
His fear is so black that for a moment that Dean thinks the sky goes red. He thought that the moment Sam said “yes” everything would die. Except them - Sam to see it all, and Dean to see his brother watching the end and smiling at the sight.
Dean holds the knife, thinking about stopping. Going away, leaving his… Sam, not looking back. And the very next moment he knows he can’t do it, he knows he’s the only one who survived. He grips the knife tightly.
Dean makes a step forward, closer to the body that used to be his brother, and he wonders if Sam recognizes him. He’s not sure, he hasn’t been for awhile now, and he doesn’t know what else to do. He takes one more step, hearing the crisping snow under his boots, and he takes a breath.
"I’ll be right here," he says, as quietly as he can, because he doesn’t trust his voice. Sam doesn’t move, just watches him, eyes a thin line of almost black. Dean wants to turn away, doesn’t want to see it, not on his baby brother’s face, but he makes himself look straight into depthless black eyes, accepting the present, accepting the future.
They’re standing so close, they are practically sharing the same air - cold and freezing, and Dean feels the numbness in his fingers. Sam smiles, almost like his brother, and Dean feels his heart skipping a beat. Then another one. He thinks he’s dead, maybe long since this moment, long before he sold his soul for the first time in the long line of deals.
Sam’s taller, always has been since he turned fifteen. And now he looks at Dean from the top, and it’s different than it was before. He shouldn’t wait any more, but he can’t make himself move. He shouldn’t be looking Sam in the eyes, feeling like he’s drowning in the darkness, but he can’t turn away. He can’t go away.
He puts his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, feeling the soft curls there, and lets himself loose his fingers in the hair. Sam’s smiling. Dean feels Sam’s smile, not looking back from the fascinating eyes. He breathes in, takes a last breath because he knows there won’t be anything after.
Sam’s doesn’t make any sound, he doesn’t even gasp. He just looks at Dean with wide eyes and Dean almost thinks that it’s his brother, his Sam, young and lost, needed to be protected. Dean catches him when Sam falls down on his knees, into the cold snow. His jeans are dirty with blood and something else, and Dean really doesn’t give a shit about it right now. He catches his brother, gripping the knife even stronger, feeling the blade rip the flesh - warm and soft, Dean knows it - and he can’t do it anymore. He feels the cold lines of something wet on his cheeks, and his vision is blurred, and he doesn’t see anything, doesn’t see the darkness coming and the grey sky above the head. His world comes down to his brother’s face and his eyes - crystal clear, with the tint of hazel, and the look on Sam’s face belongs to his brother, not the stranger in his body.
He holds his brother and the tears silently stream down his cheeks, falling on Sam’s dark hair, and his forehead. Dean tries to breathe, but it feels like there’s no air left in the world, because his brother took it all away with his last breath. Dean holds him tighter, embracing not only the human body, but everything that’s left after it. All the dead traces and all the blood lines. All the bodies and saved ones. Dean knows he’s a part of it. Dean knows that in some way he started all of it, saving Sam from that fire when Jess died.
He knows that soon they’ll be gone, both of them, and there won’t be anything but cold ground, and the snow will melt soon, taking with him the red drops on the white carpet. Dean wishes he could erase everything like this and start all over again, like the nature comes to life each spring. The only problem is, that autumn everything died for good. And that winter everything will be buried underneath.
They have no one left to burn their bodies, and no one to bury them underground. Only the cold snow all around them for miles, somewhere with black spots where it melted.
Dean feels the body in his hands going limp, and he knows that this is the end. The end of everything, and he still can’t breathe. He takes his favorite gun, feels the weight of the metal in his hand, and he thinks that, finally, it’ll be over. The long road down to this moment, the trail of blood and bodies, friends and families, of him and his brother. Dean doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t hear the sound of the wind, doesn’t hear the sound of his brother breathing.
He knows he won’t go to hell, and he knows he won’t meet Sam There. Hell broke loose. Hell is now on Earth, and they won’t stay long here, not this time.
Dean presses the barrel of the gun to his temple and closes his eyes. The darkness under his eyelids seems lighter than the one that was around them. He finally feels the warm inside his body. He can finally breathe.
They say there’s always something left after someone goes away. There’s always something for others. But when there’s no one left, there’s nothing to leave behind, and no one to hold on to, and you can let go, losing yourself in the emptiness which used to be your whole universe. The whole world focused on the one person you have to let go and whose place now belongs to nothingness, colored with blood, without a trace of the person you used to be.
~end.
And huge thanks to my awesome beta sulfuricfusion, who is always up to work on my little somethings ♥
Comments are always ♥
It’s like walking on snow, without leaving a trace.
(Dean, Sam; AU; PG-13; ~1500 words)
Red snow is falling on the ground
As deadly silence fills the space;
I know there is no one around.
It’s over; death has left the trace.
Vasilisa Lisitsyna
When Sam says "yes," Dean is there, and he has no soul to sell for his brother.
Time doesn’t stop, and oceans aren’t boiling; frogs aren’t falling from the skies. Time doesn’t stop for anyone. It never does.
He says, "Don’t leave me, Dean," looking him straight in the eyes as if trying to reach down into his soul to convince him to stay, convince him that he did the right thing.
"I already did," Dean answers, sadness in his voice, because he’s known this all along. He’s been there once before, lived through it already.
"I’m cold," Sam says, and his hands are trembling. Dean doesn’t remember ever seeing his brother’s hands trembling - always so steady, so sure, so strong.
"You walked too much," Dean tells him, lowering his head, watching the snow melting under his feet. "You walked too far."
There’s no ‘too far’ for them, Dean tries to remind himself. There’s always a choice and a way out. But now Dean doesn’t have a soul to sell for his brother, only this deep black hole inside of him, bottomless, so big he’s not sure how he’s made it this far. Too far.
Dean watches the snow, his brother’s feet, and he thinks, absentmindedly, that maybe he still has time; he can still make it right. He’s already made his choice in his head, though his heart still doesn’t want to believe it.
Dean watches the knife, the same knife he’s held so many times before, ripping warm flesh, and he’s watching another demon dying. He knows how it is, when the blade cuts through the soft skin, then the muscle, straight to the heart. He watches his brother’s feet, switching his gaze from the blade to Sam.
He’s played this situation in his head so many times since he saw the future, and he’s thought about all the little details. He’s thought about what he would do and how, he’s thought about all the ways out and all the ends; all the "if onlys" and "what ifs." And still, every time, he’s ended up here, in Detroit, watching his brother, moving his gaze from the blade to Sam.
"I tried," Dean says, feeling his voice trembling. He thought he could do it, he thought he wouldn’t be so scared. He’s not afraid of the darkness, he’s not afraid of death. He’s afraid of what comes after it, of where he will be. With or without his brother.
"Yeah, me too," Sam answers, and for a moment Dean thinks that Sam knows everything. That he knew it from the very beginning, since Dean told him that they were going to make their own future. For a moment Dean thinks his brother’s eyes blank with a glimpse of darkness.
His fear is so black that for a moment that Dean thinks the sky goes red. He thought that the moment Sam said “yes” everything would die. Except them - Sam to see it all, and Dean to see his brother watching the end and smiling at the sight.
Dean holds the knife, thinking about stopping. Going away, leaving his… Sam, not looking back. And the very next moment he knows he can’t do it, he knows he’s the only one who survived. He grips the knife tightly.
Dean makes a step forward, closer to the body that used to be his brother, and he wonders if Sam recognizes him. He’s not sure, he hasn’t been for awhile now, and he doesn’t know what else to do. He takes one more step, hearing the crisping snow under his boots, and he takes a breath.
"I’ll be right here," he says, as quietly as he can, because he doesn’t trust his voice. Sam doesn’t move, just watches him, eyes a thin line of almost black. Dean wants to turn away, doesn’t want to see it, not on his baby brother’s face, but he makes himself look straight into depthless black eyes, accepting the present, accepting the future.
They’re standing so close, they are practically sharing the same air - cold and freezing, and Dean feels the numbness in his fingers. Sam smiles, almost like his brother, and Dean feels his heart skipping a beat. Then another one. He thinks he’s dead, maybe long since this moment, long before he sold his soul for the first time in the long line of deals.
Sam’s taller, always has been since he turned fifteen. And now he looks at Dean from the top, and it’s different than it was before. He shouldn’t wait any more, but he can’t make himself move. He shouldn’t be looking Sam in the eyes, feeling like he’s drowning in the darkness, but he can’t turn away. He can’t go away.
He puts his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, feeling the soft curls there, and lets himself loose his fingers in the hair. Sam’s smiling. Dean feels Sam’s smile, not looking back from the fascinating eyes. He breathes in, takes a last breath because he knows there won’t be anything after.
Sam’s doesn’t make any sound, he doesn’t even gasp. He just looks at Dean with wide eyes and Dean almost thinks that it’s his brother, his Sam, young and lost, needed to be protected. Dean catches him when Sam falls down on his knees, into the cold snow. His jeans are dirty with blood and something else, and Dean really doesn’t give a shit about it right now. He catches his brother, gripping the knife even stronger, feeling the blade rip the flesh - warm and soft, Dean knows it - and he can’t do it anymore. He feels the cold lines of something wet on his cheeks, and his vision is blurred, and he doesn’t see anything, doesn’t see the darkness coming and the grey sky above the head. His world comes down to his brother’s face and his eyes - crystal clear, with the tint of hazel, and the look on Sam’s face belongs to his brother, not the stranger in his body.
He holds his brother and the tears silently stream down his cheeks, falling on Sam’s dark hair, and his forehead. Dean tries to breathe, but it feels like there’s no air left in the world, because his brother took it all away with his last breath. Dean holds him tighter, embracing not only the human body, but everything that’s left after it. All the dead traces and all the blood lines. All the bodies and saved ones. Dean knows he’s a part of it. Dean knows that in some way he started all of it, saving Sam from that fire when Jess died.
He knows that soon they’ll be gone, both of them, and there won’t be anything but cold ground, and the snow will melt soon, taking with him the red drops on the white carpet. Dean wishes he could erase everything like this and start all over again, like the nature comes to life each spring. The only problem is, that autumn everything died for good. And that winter everything will be buried underneath.
They have no one left to burn their bodies, and no one to bury them underground. Only the cold snow all around them for miles, somewhere with black spots where it melted.
Dean feels the body in his hands going limp, and he knows that this is the end. The end of everything, and he still can’t breathe. He takes his favorite gun, feels the weight of the metal in his hand, and he thinks that, finally, it’ll be over. The long road down to this moment, the trail of blood and bodies, friends and families, of him and his brother. Dean doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t hear the sound of the wind, doesn’t hear the sound of his brother breathing.
He knows he won’t go to hell, and he knows he won’t meet Sam There. Hell broke loose. Hell is now on Earth, and they won’t stay long here, not this time.
Dean presses the barrel of the gun to his temple and closes his eyes. The darkness under his eyelids seems lighter than the one that was around them. He finally feels the warm inside his body. He can finally breathe.
They say there’s always something left after someone goes away. There’s always something for others. But when there’s no one left, there’s nothing to leave behind, and no one to hold on to, and you can let go, losing yourself in the emptiness which used to be your whole universe. The whole world focused on the one person you have to let go and whose place now belongs to nothingness, colored with blood, without a trace of the person you used to be.
~end.