all fires burn out - SN fic - R
So,
tru_faith_lost made this post(spoilery for the finale!) and I got inspired and started writing an off-the-cuff story. But I'd wait until she commented back from my itty-bitty bit of story before writing the next part, so it's kinda choppy. Anyway. Here 'tis in it's complete glory.
Title: all fires burn out
Fandom: "Supernatural"
Disclaimer: them prettily broken boys are not my creatures
Warnings: spoilers for everything(except unaired stuff--I think)
Pairings: nada
Rating: R for language
Wordcount: 1150
Point of view: third
Notes: one (-) means scene change. three (---) means pov change.
Dedication:
tru_faith_lostDarlin', you rock.
It's done. Just like that, it's done. The crusade is over, Dad's dead, Sam... Sam's dead, and the demon, the fucking yellow-eyed bastard who'd had nothing better to do than ruin his life over and over is dead.
It's done. Rose petals and hunter's blood, sage and gunpowder, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, suddenly it's over.
The Colt lies at his feet.
Useless thing. If it'd worked in November, like it was fucking supposed to, none of this would've happened.
Dad'd be alive. And Sam.
Sammy. Dead in that cabin, killed--killed by the bastard that took everything Dean has ever cared about.
The Colt lies at his feet. He's got bullets in his pocket.
All he needs is one.
He's got plenty.
Dead family, no friends, no hopes, hunters and FBI on his tail, no dreams that can come true now, because Sam is dead.
Sammy's gone. All he ever had, stolen by that fucking yellow-eyed piece of shit.
Dead piece of shit, now.
He stoops, caresses the cold metal. Grips lightly, just hard enough to lift.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Mommy dead, Daddy dead, Sammy dead--
Four chambers to the heart, three ripped away and tossed on the ground.
One bullet into the chamber, Colt cocked; elbow bent, metal cold on his temple.
Sammy's dead.
It's funny, though, because as he pulls the trigger, he almost thinks he sees Sammy runni--
---
He wakes instantaneously and knows everything's fucked up. He has to get there--even though he doesn't know where 'there' is.
But it's thrumming in his blood--hurry, hurry, now--and he takes off, breathing heavily because he just can't get enough air.
The highway stretches north and south--he rushes south, body screaming, heedless of the stinging rain or pain in his feet, heedless of the cars swerving to avoid him.
One stops right in front of him and he runs to the driver's door, yanks it open. The guy recoils and Sam pulls him out of the way.
The key's in the ignition and Sam doesn't care that it's theft.
Dean's in trouble. If Sam isn't in time--
No. He'll be time. He's got to be.
He doesn't remember what happened before waking, but blood--so much blood.
And none of it was his.
-
He's been awake for nearly an hour, traveling constantly south in a stolen car, and he still can't remember what happened.
But time's running out and he knows it, can feel it deep in his blood and his bones.
He kicks up the speed, not caring about the storm or the cops, not caring about anything but getting there in time.
He can't be late. He won't be late.
-
And he gets there too fucking late.
Field away from a town scratched out of the mountains. Ashes and blood littering the flowerbeds. Storm blowing itself out overhead, wind howling, and Dean--
Dean--
The fucking useless Colt--Dad's last bargain--held to his head, finger squeezing the trigger, and Sam opens his mouth, poised to scream--
But the gunshot echoes off the mountains, louder than thunder, and Sam's too fucking late.
His heart stops. Eyes widen impossibly, because Dean can't do this, can't kill himself, not after everything they've survived.
He smells roses on the air, lightning singes the atmosphere, and Dean will not die.
Their eyes meet across the ravaged field and Sam watches as Dean drops the Colt, as the bullet never even leaves the chamber, because this--this--
This is what he was born for.
---
He just stares.
Sammy?
Sammy.
"You're dead." He doesn't even recognize his voice, it's so wartorn and weary, but the Sammy-imposter steps forward.
He swiftly stoops, grabs the Colt and raises it, points it at NotSammy, who lifts his hands slowly, holding them out.
"Dean," NotSammy calls, and damn, it he don't sound just like Sammy.
But Sammy's dead.
The bullets aren't the ones Samuel Colt made, but they'll get the job done.
The scent of roses and fire wafts on the air, and he pulls the trigger.
---
A vision--it was a vision. That's the second time he's kept Dean from dying.
And now Dean's holding the Colt that can kill anything on him.
"Dean," he tries placating, but Dean--Dean--what the fuck can't he remember? Why is Dean looking at him like--like--
He's dead. Dean thinks he's dead.
Shit.
And he meets Dean's eyes just as Dean pulls the trigger.
He throws himself to the side, gunshot echoing of the mountains--just like in the vision. Dean's eyes are cold and Sam can't look away.
"Dean, it's me," he yells, trying to put everything he is into the words.
"You're dead," Dean snarls. "I watched you die."
Sam shakes his head. "I didn't. I don't--I can't explain it, Dean." He can't find the words, so he steps forward.
Dean steps back, hand white around the Colt. "Stay away."
"Dean," he tries again. "I can't tell you stuff only we'd know--you wouldn't believe me." He sighs. Damned Meg. Her possessing him took away all options of that. "So, just... can't you look in my eyes and know I'm me?"
Dean scoffs. "Why, so you can hypnotize me? No."
He takes one more step forward, gaze never leaving Dean's shattered eyes. "It's me. You know it. Please."
And Dean slightly--so slightly--lowers the gun.
---
It looks so much like Sammy... sounds like him... moves like him... breathes like him.
But Sammy died. He watched Sammy die.
"You're not him," he whispers, unable to look away from NotSammy's green eyes, eyes he hasn't been able to look from since that first time he ever held Sammy, tiny, newborn Sammy, a crusade away and a lifetime ago.
And tears spill out of NotSammy's eyes.
He falters, lets his arm drop. Even if this isn't Sammy... he's just so tired. He fought the devil and won, believing it was too late to matter, but maybe...
"Sammy," he whispers and lets himself crumble to the ground, tossing the Colt away.
He doesn't care anymore.
---
He rushes across the field, eating up the ground in three strides. Dean's curled up, going deep inside himself, and he knew he was too fucking late.
Whatever that goddamned demon did--what the hell can't he remember?--it's destroyed some part of Dean, some vital part, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fix his brother.
"Dean," he murmurs, turning Dean over, pulling Dean into his lap. "C'mon, man, don't do this. Please, Dean, c'mon back."
Dean doesn't look at him, stares past him, up at the darkening sky. No acknowledgment, no hint of his big brother anywhere in Dean's eyes.
Roses and fire and blood on the air, Dean slumped in his arms, storm in the distance--and it's done.
tru_faith_lost made this post(spoilery for the finale!) and I got inspired and started writing an off-the-cuff story. But I'd wait until she commented back from my itty-bitty bit of story before writing the next part, so it's kinda choppy. Anyway. Here 'tis in it's complete glory.
Title: all fires burn out
Fandom: "Supernatural"
Disclaimer: them prettily broken boys are not my creatures
Warnings: spoilers for everything(except unaired stuff--I think)
Pairings: nada
Rating: R for language
Wordcount: 1150
Point of view: third
Notes: one (-) means scene change. three (---) means pov change.
Dedication:
tru_faith_lostDarlin', you rock.
It's done. Just like that, it's done. The crusade is over, Dad's dead, Sam... Sam's dead, and the demon, the fucking yellow-eyed bastard who'd had nothing better to do than ruin his life over and over is dead.
It's done. Rose petals and hunter's blood, sage and gunpowder, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, suddenly it's over.
The Colt lies at his feet.
Useless thing. If it'd worked in November, like it was fucking supposed to, none of this would've happened.
Dad'd be alive. And Sam.
Sammy. Dead in that cabin, killed--killed by the bastard that took everything Dean has ever cared about.
The Colt lies at his feet. He's got bullets in his pocket.
All he needs is one.
He's got plenty.
Dead family, no friends, no hopes, hunters and FBI on his tail, no dreams that can come true now, because Sam is dead.
Sammy's gone. All he ever had, stolen by that fucking yellow-eyed piece of shit.
Dead piece of shit, now.
He stoops, caresses the cold metal. Grips lightly, just hard enough to lift.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Mommy dead, Daddy dead, Sammy dead--
Four chambers to the heart, three ripped away and tossed on the ground.
One bullet into the chamber, Colt cocked; elbow bent, metal cold on his temple.
Sammy's dead.
It's funny, though, because as he pulls the trigger, he almost thinks he sees Sammy runni--
---
He wakes instantaneously and knows everything's fucked up. He has to get there--even though he doesn't know where 'there' is.
But it's thrumming in his blood--hurry, hurry, now--and he takes off, breathing heavily because he just can't get enough air.
The highway stretches north and south--he rushes south, body screaming, heedless of the stinging rain or pain in his feet, heedless of the cars swerving to avoid him.
One stops right in front of him and he runs to the driver's door, yanks it open. The guy recoils and Sam pulls him out of the way.
The key's in the ignition and Sam doesn't care that it's theft.
Dean's in trouble. If Sam isn't in time--
No. He'll be time. He's got to be.
He doesn't remember what happened before waking, but blood--so much blood.
And none of it was his.
-
He's been awake for nearly an hour, traveling constantly south in a stolen car, and he still can't remember what happened.
But time's running out and he knows it, can feel it deep in his blood and his bones.
He kicks up the speed, not caring about the storm or the cops, not caring about anything but getting there in time.
He can't be late. He won't be late.
-
And he gets there too fucking late.
Field away from a town scratched out of the mountains. Ashes and blood littering the flowerbeds. Storm blowing itself out overhead, wind howling, and Dean--
Dean--
The fucking useless Colt--Dad's last bargain--held to his head, finger squeezing the trigger, and Sam opens his mouth, poised to scream--
But the gunshot echoes off the mountains, louder than thunder, and Sam's too fucking late.
His heart stops. Eyes widen impossibly, because Dean can't do this, can't kill himself, not after everything they've survived.
He smells roses on the air, lightning singes the atmosphere, and Dean will not die.
Their eyes meet across the ravaged field and Sam watches as Dean drops the Colt, as the bullet never even leaves the chamber, because this--this--
This is what he was born for.
---
He just stares.
Sammy?
Sammy.
"You're dead." He doesn't even recognize his voice, it's so wartorn and weary, but the Sammy-imposter steps forward.
He swiftly stoops, grabs the Colt and raises it, points it at NotSammy, who lifts his hands slowly, holding them out.
"Dean," NotSammy calls, and damn, it he don't sound just like Sammy.
But Sammy's dead.
The bullets aren't the ones Samuel Colt made, but they'll get the job done.
The scent of roses and fire wafts on the air, and he pulls the trigger.
---
A vision--it was a vision. That's the second time he's kept Dean from dying.
And now Dean's holding the Colt that can kill anything on him.
"Dean," he tries placating, but Dean--Dean--what the fuck can't he remember? Why is Dean looking at him like--like--
He's dead. Dean thinks he's dead.
Shit.
And he meets Dean's eyes just as Dean pulls the trigger.
He throws himself to the side, gunshot echoing of the mountains--just like in the vision. Dean's eyes are cold and Sam can't look away.
"Dean, it's me," he yells, trying to put everything he is into the words.
"You're dead," Dean snarls. "I watched you die."
Sam shakes his head. "I didn't. I don't--I can't explain it, Dean." He can't find the words, so he steps forward.
Dean steps back, hand white around the Colt. "Stay away."
"Dean," he tries again. "I can't tell you stuff only we'd know--you wouldn't believe me." He sighs. Damned Meg. Her possessing him took away all options of that. "So, just... can't you look in my eyes and know I'm me?"
Dean scoffs. "Why, so you can hypnotize me? No."
He takes one more step forward, gaze never leaving Dean's shattered eyes. "It's me. You know it. Please."
And Dean slightly--so slightly--lowers the gun.
---
It looks so much like Sammy... sounds like him... moves like him... breathes like him.
But Sammy died. He watched Sammy die.
"You're not him," he whispers, unable to look away from NotSammy's green eyes, eyes he hasn't been able to look from since that first time he ever held Sammy, tiny, newborn Sammy, a crusade away and a lifetime ago.
And tears spill out of NotSammy's eyes.
He falters, lets his arm drop. Even if this isn't Sammy... he's just so tired. He fought the devil and won, believing it was too late to matter, but maybe...
"Sammy," he whispers and lets himself crumble to the ground, tossing the Colt away.
He doesn't care anymore.
---
He rushes across the field, eating up the ground in three strides. Dean's curled up, going deep inside himself, and he knew he was too fucking late.
Whatever that goddamned demon did--what the hell can't he remember?--it's destroyed some part of Dean, some vital part, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fix his brother.
"Dean," he murmurs, turning Dean over, pulling Dean into his lap. "C'mon, man, don't do this. Please, Dean, c'mon back."
Dean doesn't look at him, stares past him, up at the darkening sky. No acknowledgment, no hint of his big brother anywhere in Dean's eyes.
Roses and fire and blood on the air, Dean slumped in his arms, storm in the distance--and it's done.