Only Illusions
Title: Only Illusions
Author: Semperama
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam (but no more than the show already is)
Warnings: Spoilers for 5.22
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me as much as I wish they did.
Summary: This is my official first attempt at fanfiction. Hooray! I wanted to write a coda for 5.22 so badly, and now I've done it. This is pretty much how I imagine things would go down.
Dean had been seeing Sam everywhere for months. There was a flash of floppy hair across the bleachers at Ben’s soccer game; a Sasquatch-sized, olive-colored jacket disappearing around a street corner. Sometimes he just looked up and saw Sam standing there, plain as day. After years of being glued to his brother’s side all the time, Sam’s face had been burned into his eyes. It was like what happens when you stare at a bright light too long and then look away. The after-images just would not fade.
Sleep was no escape. His dreams seemed to be and endless stream of haunting scenes - Sam leaving him for Stanford, Sam lying lifeless on the dirty mattress, Sam walking out the door to confront Lilith without him, Sam falling backwards into the dark mouth of hell. Sam was always leaving. Sam was always gone. He would wake up in the guest bedroom of Lisa’s house, the sheets twisted around his legs, his breathing labored and Sam’s name on his lips, and that was when he would realize that Sam being gone was not a dream at all. He was in a strange bed, in a strange house, living a strange life, and Sam was in a cage in the worst part of hell.
Dean saw Sam so much that when he got up in the middle of the night and headed down to the kitchen to get a drink, he barely blinked when he saw his brother sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a half-smile on his lips.
“Leave me alone, Sammy,” he muttered to the Sam mirage as he walked by the table and around to the sink, reaching toward the cabinet above it when he got there.
“Hi, Dean.”
That was new. He was used to seeing Sam, but hearing his voice was unexpected. His hands stopped halfway toward the cabinet, and he glanced over at the table again. Mirage Sam was still sitting there, but this time he was looking expectantly at Dean.
“Great. I’m officially going nuts.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand across his face before gripping the edge of the sink, willing his mind to straighten itself out. He could not keep doing this. He promised Sam. Promised him.
“Dean,” Mirage Sam spoke again, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut harder, resisting the urge to cover his ears with his hands. He heard the chair squeak against the wood floor and then footsteps crossing the room, stopping just behind his back. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear the sound of Sam’s breathing in the silent house, could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck. “Dean,” the voice came again, quieter now, too close.
Dean felt something break inside of him, and, whirling around, he hauled back and aimed a punch right for Mirage Sam’s jaw, figuring it would go sailing right through thin air and the hallucination would disappear. When his fist connected with flesh and bone, his cry of surprise mingled with Sam’s cry of pain, and he pulled his wrist back as if he had been stung, stumbling backward until the edge of the counter was digging into the small of his back.
“Oww, Jesus.” Dean watched in disbelief as the Sam-shaped person reached up and rubbed his jaw.
“Christo,” he said reflexively, but not-Sam did not so much as flinch.
“Dean…Dean. It’s me.” Sam’s voice. Sam’s face. Sam’s shape. Sam’s size. But it couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be.
So, Dean did the only logical thing. He punched not-Sam again. And then again. And he would have gone for a third time, but strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and stopped him.
“Let go,” he said, meaning it to sound firm but instead sounding pleading and desperate. He was sure that all of this was a dream, and any minute he was going to wake up from it, but right now it was too unbearable. Sam was too close, and he smelled like he had not showered in days, and he had that look in his eyes like he always did when he knew Dean was mad and he didn’t know what to do to make it better. Everything about him was so distinctly Sam, and Dean could barely breathe.
Vaguely, he realized that he could taste salt and that his upper lip was a little wet, and he wondered when he had started crying.
Sam did let go, but it was only to bring his hand up to the back of Dean’s neck. “I’m here,” he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m here,” he repeated.
Dean looked into his brother’s eyes, and he knew that it was the truth. He knew what Lucifer looked like staring out through those eyes, and this was not it. That was Sam in there. Sammy. His Sammy. Slowly, tentatively, Dean reached out and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, fisting the fabric there as if he could anchor Sam to the spot and make sure that he never moved.
“Sammy,” he rasped just before dragging his brother forward, wrapping his arms around him and holding on for dear life. The tears were coming in earnest now, months and months of aching loneliness pouring out of him like a dam had burst somewhere inside. He resisted the urge to turn and press his face into his brother’s neck, settled for just hanging on to him for now. It seemed like they stood there for ages, just holding on to each other, breathing in sync. Dean could not remember the last time they shared a hug like this, but it felt good, felt natural.
Dean was the first to pull away, but he kept a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He searched his brother’s face for a moment, studying it as if he was looking for the answer to a question. After several long seconds, he nodded.
“Okay, Sammy. Let’s go.”
They fell in step naturally as they walked out the front door into the night.
Author: Semperama
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam (but no more than the show already is)
Warnings: Spoilers for 5.22
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me as much as I wish they did.
Summary: This is my official first attempt at fanfiction. Hooray! I wanted to write a coda for 5.22 so badly, and now I've done it. This is pretty much how I imagine things would go down.
Dean had been seeing Sam everywhere for months. There was a flash of floppy hair across the bleachers at Ben’s soccer game; a Sasquatch-sized, olive-colored jacket disappearing around a street corner. Sometimes he just looked up and saw Sam standing there, plain as day. After years of being glued to his brother’s side all the time, Sam’s face had been burned into his eyes. It was like what happens when you stare at a bright light too long and then look away. The after-images just would not fade.
Sleep was no escape. His dreams seemed to be and endless stream of haunting scenes - Sam leaving him for Stanford, Sam lying lifeless on the dirty mattress, Sam walking out the door to confront Lilith without him, Sam falling backwards into the dark mouth of hell. Sam was always leaving. Sam was always gone. He would wake up in the guest bedroom of Lisa’s house, the sheets twisted around his legs, his breathing labored and Sam’s name on his lips, and that was when he would realize that Sam being gone was not a dream at all. He was in a strange bed, in a strange house, living a strange life, and Sam was in a cage in the worst part of hell.
Dean saw Sam so much that when he got up in the middle of the night and headed down to the kitchen to get a drink, he barely blinked when he saw his brother sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a half-smile on his lips.
“Leave me alone, Sammy,” he muttered to the Sam mirage as he walked by the table and around to the sink, reaching toward the cabinet above it when he got there.
“Hi, Dean.”
That was new. He was used to seeing Sam, but hearing his voice was unexpected. His hands stopped halfway toward the cabinet, and he glanced over at the table again. Mirage Sam was still sitting there, but this time he was looking expectantly at Dean.
“Great. I’m officially going nuts.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand across his face before gripping the edge of the sink, willing his mind to straighten itself out. He could not keep doing this. He promised Sam. Promised him.
“Dean,” Mirage Sam spoke again, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut harder, resisting the urge to cover his ears with his hands. He heard the chair squeak against the wood floor and then footsteps crossing the room, stopping just behind his back. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear the sound of Sam’s breathing in the silent house, could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck. “Dean,” the voice came again, quieter now, too close.
Dean felt something break inside of him, and, whirling around, he hauled back and aimed a punch right for Mirage Sam’s jaw, figuring it would go sailing right through thin air and the hallucination would disappear. When his fist connected with flesh and bone, his cry of surprise mingled with Sam’s cry of pain, and he pulled his wrist back as if he had been stung, stumbling backward until the edge of the counter was digging into the small of his back.
“Oww, Jesus.” Dean watched in disbelief as the Sam-shaped person reached up and rubbed his jaw.
“Christo,” he said reflexively, but not-Sam did not so much as flinch.
“Dean…Dean. It’s me.” Sam’s voice. Sam’s face. Sam’s shape. Sam’s size. But it couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be.
So, Dean did the only logical thing. He punched not-Sam again. And then again. And he would have gone for a third time, but strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and stopped him.
“Let go,” he said, meaning it to sound firm but instead sounding pleading and desperate. He was sure that all of this was a dream, and any minute he was going to wake up from it, but right now it was too unbearable. Sam was too close, and he smelled like he had not showered in days, and he had that look in his eyes like he always did when he knew Dean was mad and he didn’t know what to do to make it better. Everything about him was so distinctly Sam, and Dean could barely breathe.
Vaguely, he realized that he could taste salt and that his upper lip was a little wet, and he wondered when he had started crying.
Sam did let go, but it was only to bring his hand up to the back of Dean’s neck. “I’m here,” he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m here,” he repeated.
Dean looked into his brother’s eyes, and he knew that it was the truth. He knew what Lucifer looked like staring out through those eyes, and this was not it. That was Sam in there. Sammy. His Sammy. Slowly, tentatively, Dean reached out and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, fisting the fabric there as if he could anchor Sam to the spot and make sure that he never moved.
“Sammy,” he rasped just before dragging his brother forward, wrapping his arms around him and holding on for dear life. The tears were coming in earnest now, months and months of aching loneliness pouring out of him like a dam had burst somewhere inside. He resisted the urge to turn and press his face into his brother’s neck, settled for just hanging on to him for now. It seemed like they stood there for ages, just holding on to each other, breathing in sync. Dean could not remember the last time they shared a hug like this, but it felt good, felt natural.
Dean was the first to pull away, but he kept a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He searched his brother’s face for a moment, studying it as if he was looking for the answer to a question. After several long seconds, he nodded.
“Okay, Sammy. Let’s go.”
They fell in step naturally as they walked out the front door into the night.