Fic: Celestial Navigation
Title: Celestial Navigation
Author: Molly
Summary: You already know how this will end.
Characters: Sam
Rating/Genre: PG/Gen
Spoilers/Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the WB/CW and Eric Kripke.
A/N: Thanks to my beta Em for putting up with a lot of crap.
*
Your life twines around your dad's journal. You never thought of keeping one for yourself, added only fragments in the margins from time to time, when it was yours. Dean never even did that. There're a few sketches that you think might be his; the dates correlate; New Orleans catches some memory without unveiling it.
The journal isn't your dad's story, isn't Dean's story, or your story. It isn't what you're looking for.
But it's a start.
Dean would laugh at this, at you. He'd say it was a waste of time. He'd say you didn't care that much when he was alive --
No. That's you. You're saying that.
You're trying to prove yourself wrong. You're trying to prove something. You're trying something. Not to forget, maybe. Or maybe that's all you're doing. Forget that he's gone, forget that you're alone, forget that you don't know what you're doing, where you're going, forget, forget, forget.
*
Story: Once upon a time, you had an older brother. Once upon a time, you had a mother and a father. Once upon a time, you had a girl you were going to marry.
Fact: Beginnings are easy.
*
Keep moving, a voice you'd thought was his, in the beginning. You'd listened. You haven't stopped yet. The voice comes and goes.
"Why're you bothering, man?" it says, and if it had a body, it'd be lounging against the passenger-side door. "It won't bring him back. You can't save him. Now a necromancer -- " If it had a head, it would nod. "But this? This is pointless," it says.
You don't argue because it's true. It won't bring Dean back. You've never been able to save him, not even in your dreams.
"You didn't do this for Jess," it says.
You think of everything you did for Jess and everything you didn't do for Dean, and that list, that list will kill you if you think too long.
"I'm not doing this for--I'm doing this for me," you say.
If it had shoulders, it would shrug, because it's your version of Dean, and he'll let you do whatever you need to do, even as he adds, "Just watch out for those Voodoo priestesses, Sammy, okay? Don't let them talk you into anything... zombie-centric."
*
Story: Your brother called you from the road, one time He said, "New Orleans, Sammy," he said, "With chicks and alcohol, and dude, drunk chicks," he said, "You know you want to." And you did want to, because it'd been a while, because you missed him, but he said it in that way, that smirking, knowing way, and instead you said no, and then you hung up on him.
Fact: Everyone you love has become a list of regrets.
*
The city is dark when you get there, warmth hanging low and damp in the air, and you're checking off the list. New Orleans? Check. Next: chicks and alcohol.
Check.
Not the way he'd meant, but it's a woman and she's carrying your beer, and you can't imagine he'd disapprove of the way she bends over on delivery.
"Nice," you say without thinking, without meaning to, and it isn't your voice, but she doesn't know that, and she's glaring -- No, she's staring. At your chest, and hell, no wonder he was always -- No. She's staring at your -- his -- charm. She's staring at his charm that's hanging around your neck because it works so damn well.
In the end, she's the one who apologizes. Says, "I thought," laughs, "Well," shrugs, "Must be thousands of those things, right?"
There aren't.
So she sits down and you hear about your brother the fireman on vacation and what a great guy he was, so funny, and charming, and -- She stops, blushes, her hand is cool on your wrist. "Anyway," she says. "I'm really sorry, Sam."
It takes five minutes, less, and you don't know why you feel... if not better, then more there. Everything's been fuzzy around the edges, everything falling through your fingers, but now you know the table's solid under your hands, and it's not much, but it's something.
"Did you, did he happen to say where he'd come from? I mean, uh, not home, obviously," you add, out of habit, still covering tracks that've ended.
She's standing, looking at someone over your shoulder, waitress settling over her features. "I think he said something about a town in...Arizona, I think," she offers. Her forehead scrunches. "It was a word, not--like, celebration or something. Not celebration, but..." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. About everything." She kisses your cheek good-bye, light and quick, it's all the blessing you need.
*
Story: You saw Cassie one time, after. It was quick and quiet -- too many things to say, and neither of you was the person who needed to hear them. You wanted to ask why she didn't try harder, why she let him go, but you were too afraid her answers would be better than yours. So you gave her things, indiscriminately handed over articles of Dean, and got the hell out.
Fact: You have always known how to make a fast escape.
*
In Surprise, Arizona, an elderly woman feeds you a slice of blueberry pie, tells you how polite your brother was, and so helpful, asks if he died in the war, gives you the whole pie when you don't answer immediately. In Philipsburg, Montana, your drinks are on the house in memory of your brother the firefighter. Sutherlin, Oregon -- Woonsocket, South Dakota -- Idabel, Oklahoma -- Cuervo, New Mexico -- your brother the police detective, the paramedic, the soccer coach, the talent scout, the pilot -- You tell them all that you're writing a book. None of them seems surprised. They tell you everything.
"At least kill something," the voice pleads on the border between Nebraska and Iowa. "I mean, shit, Sammy, look at all that corn, there's got to be something evil out there."
It'd be easy to find the cases, the grateful people, the people who know, who'd understand, whose sympathy would be... You don't look for them.
*
Story: When you left the first time, Dean didn't say good-bye, didn't watch you walk out the door, never even paused from cleaning his weapons. He said he'd see you later. He said, This is who we are, Sammy. It wasn't who you were. It isn't who you would be, if things had gone the way you'd planned.
Fact: Plans have never gotten you anywhere.
*
You didn't know what you were looking for; twenty cities later, you're still not sure what you've found. In the car, in the betweens, you file people's words, the expressions on their faces. People you'd never met, giving you pieces of someone you knew better than anything left in this world, giving you proof that they knew him, that he was real, that he hadn't closed himself off when you left, that his life wasn't so exclusively tied to yours. And maybe, if all those things were true, then maybe it's also true that you can do the same.
*
Story: You had a family, once. A mother who loved you, a father who taught you how to be a man, and a brother who was everything they couldn't be. They all died fighting the same demon. They all died trying to protect you. They're gone, but you're still here, still breathing, still on your feet, and maybe they'd think this is a happy ending. But you doubt it.
Fact: There is nothing after you.
*
Credo in deum.
You've said those words so many times, always in Latin because they mean more that way. They might've been the last words you said to your brother. You think he would've liked that, more than anything you could've thought up with more time and better knowledge.
Credo in deum.
You believe in God. You believe in this. You're driving your brother's car north on the I-43, towards Grand Rapids, Wisconsin where a family is waiting for you to make their furniture stop flying. Your dad's journal is open on the seat beside you. Your hands are steady on the wheel.
Author: Molly
Summary: You already know how this will end.
Characters: Sam
Rating/Genre: PG/Gen
Spoilers/Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the WB/CW and Eric Kripke.
A/N: Thanks to my beta Em for putting up with a lot of crap.
*
Your life twines around your dad's journal. You never thought of keeping one for yourself, added only fragments in the margins from time to time, when it was yours. Dean never even did that. There're a few sketches that you think might be his; the dates correlate; New Orleans catches some memory without unveiling it.
The journal isn't your dad's story, isn't Dean's story, or your story. It isn't what you're looking for.
But it's a start.
Dean would laugh at this, at you. He'd say it was a waste of time. He'd say you didn't care that much when he was alive --
No. That's you. You're saying that.
You're trying to prove yourself wrong. You're trying to prove something. You're trying something. Not to forget, maybe. Or maybe that's all you're doing. Forget that he's gone, forget that you're alone, forget that you don't know what you're doing, where you're going, forget, forget, forget.
*
Story: Once upon a time, you had an older brother. Once upon a time, you had a mother and a father. Once upon a time, you had a girl you were going to marry.
Fact: Beginnings are easy.
*
Keep moving, a voice you'd thought was his, in the beginning. You'd listened. You haven't stopped yet. The voice comes and goes.
"Why're you bothering, man?" it says, and if it had a body, it'd be lounging against the passenger-side door. "It won't bring him back. You can't save him. Now a necromancer -- " If it had a head, it would nod. "But this? This is pointless," it says.
You don't argue because it's true. It won't bring Dean back. You've never been able to save him, not even in your dreams.
"You didn't do this for Jess," it says.
You think of everything you did for Jess and everything you didn't do for Dean, and that list, that list will kill you if you think too long.
"I'm not doing this for--I'm doing this for me," you say.
If it had shoulders, it would shrug, because it's your version of Dean, and he'll let you do whatever you need to do, even as he adds, "Just watch out for those Voodoo priestesses, Sammy, okay? Don't let them talk you into anything... zombie-centric."
*
Story: Your brother called you from the road, one time He said, "New Orleans, Sammy," he said, "With chicks and alcohol, and dude, drunk chicks," he said, "You know you want to." And you did want to, because it'd been a while, because you missed him, but he said it in that way, that smirking, knowing way, and instead you said no, and then you hung up on him.
Fact: Everyone you love has become a list of regrets.
*
The city is dark when you get there, warmth hanging low and damp in the air, and you're checking off the list. New Orleans? Check. Next: chicks and alcohol.
Check.
Not the way he'd meant, but it's a woman and she's carrying your beer, and you can't imagine he'd disapprove of the way she bends over on delivery.
"Nice," you say without thinking, without meaning to, and it isn't your voice, but she doesn't know that, and she's glaring -- No, she's staring. At your chest, and hell, no wonder he was always -- No. She's staring at your -- his -- charm. She's staring at his charm that's hanging around your neck because it works so damn well.
In the end, she's the one who apologizes. Says, "I thought," laughs, "Well," shrugs, "Must be thousands of those things, right?"
There aren't.
So she sits down and you hear about your brother the fireman on vacation and what a great guy he was, so funny, and charming, and -- She stops, blushes, her hand is cool on your wrist. "Anyway," she says. "I'm really sorry, Sam."
It takes five minutes, less, and you don't know why you feel... if not better, then more there. Everything's been fuzzy around the edges, everything falling through your fingers, but now you know the table's solid under your hands, and it's not much, but it's something.
"Did you, did he happen to say where he'd come from? I mean, uh, not home, obviously," you add, out of habit, still covering tracks that've ended.
She's standing, looking at someone over your shoulder, waitress settling over her features. "I think he said something about a town in...Arizona, I think," she offers. Her forehead scrunches. "It was a word, not--like, celebration or something. Not celebration, but..." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. About everything." She kisses your cheek good-bye, light and quick, it's all the blessing you need.
*
Story: You saw Cassie one time, after. It was quick and quiet -- too many things to say, and neither of you was the person who needed to hear them. You wanted to ask why she didn't try harder, why she let him go, but you were too afraid her answers would be better than yours. So you gave her things, indiscriminately handed over articles of Dean, and got the hell out.
Fact: You have always known how to make a fast escape.
*
In Surprise, Arizona, an elderly woman feeds you a slice of blueberry pie, tells you how polite your brother was, and so helpful, asks if he died in the war, gives you the whole pie when you don't answer immediately. In Philipsburg, Montana, your drinks are on the house in memory of your brother the firefighter. Sutherlin, Oregon -- Woonsocket, South Dakota -- Idabel, Oklahoma -- Cuervo, New Mexico -- your brother the police detective, the paramedic, the soccer coach, the talent scout, the pilot -- You tell them all that you're writing a book. None of them seems surprised. They tell you everything.
"At least kill something," the voice pleads on the border between Nebraska and Iowa. "I mean, shit, Sammy, look at all that corn, there's got to be something evil out there."
It'd be easy to find the cases, the grateful people, the people who know, who'd understand, whose sympathy would be... You don't look for them.
*
Story: When you left the first time, Dean didn't say good-bye, didn't watch you walk out the door, never even paused from cleaning his weapons. He said he'd see you later. He said, This is who we are, Sammy. It wasn't who you were. It isn't who you would be, if things had gone the way you'd planned.
Fact: Plans have never gotten you anywhere.
*
You didn't know what you were looking for; twenty cities later, you're still not sure what you've found. In the car, in the betweens, you file people's words, the expressions on their faces. People you'd never met, giving you pieces of someone you knew better than anything left in this world, giving you proof that they knew him, that he was real, that he hadn't closed himself off when you left, that his life wasn't so exclusively tied to yours. And maybe, if all those things were true, then maybe it's also true that you can do the same.
*
Story: You had a family, once. A mother who loved you, a father who taught you how to be a man, and a brother who was everything they couldn't be. They all died fighting the same demon. They all died trying to protect you. They're gone, but you're still here, still breathing, still on your feet, and maybe they'd think this is a happy ending. But you doubt it.
Fact: There is nothing after you.
*
Credo in deum.
You've said those words so many times, always in Latin because they mean more that way. They might've been the last words you said to your brother. You think he would've liked that, more than anything you could've thought up with more time and better knowledge.
Credo in deum.
You believe in God. You believe in this. You're driving your brother's car north on the I-43, towards Grand Rapids, Wisconsin where a family is waiting for you to make their furniture stop flying. Your dad's journal is open on the seat beside you. Your hands are steady on the wheel.