Fic :: Supernatural :: In This Part of the Story I am the One Who Dies
In This Part of the Story I am the One Who Dies
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 3x11 Mystery Spot missing scene.
Posting date: February 2008
Title from Pablo Neruda.
*
He’s been standing by the roadside for two hours already when the truck pulls over. Bobby’s out of it before it’s even stopped moving, and Ellen follows close behind him; they are the united front, the allied fucking forces. They’re talking and touching him from one thousand miles away and there’s a body in a bed sheet on the backseat of his car, four days cold. Dean’ll kill him for getting corpse on the upholstery, Sam thinks and then he’s laughing.
He lets Bobby drive, folds into the passenger seat he’s always secretly preferred, and the leather creaks out normalcy. The Impala is a hearse today, this is the funeral march. Maybe it’s how Dean would have liked it, but Sam doesn’t know. There is too fucking much he doesn’t know.
“You Winchesters,” Bobby croaks, pulling out behind Ellen in the truck. Sam puts on the first tape he finds and rests his forehead on his knees and waits for something else to break.
Dean’s body burns on Tuesday. Another of life’s little jokes.
Ha ha.
The first few weeks are the easiest, when everything tastes like a funeral pyre and it still hurts too much to think. Dean’s ring, the amulet Sam gave him, are tucked away under his pillow, wrapped in a spare sock because actually touching them is like prising them from stiff and greying flesh all over again. Sam’s newest, freshest, final memories of his brother are of him looting the goddamn corpse, and there’s a reason why undertakers are paid to deal with that shit. He feels sick. He feels so fucking sick.
This is messy and human and grieving, all part of the healing process. It’s natural. It’s easy. It’s when the second, third, fourth week ticks around and you realise that nothing will change that things get a little difficult.
Nothing will change.
“I know it’s hard,” Bobby says, laying a hand on his shoulder, “being the one left behind.”
Dean was here, Sam knows. Dean walked these floors and sat in these chairs and that spot there, right there by the wall, is where Dean existed. And once upon a time Bobby was probably telling him the exact same thing.
There’s a lump of concrete lodged inside his throat, scratching his insides away. “Yeah,” he mumbles. It feels like choking.
He knows he can’t do this forever.
The sign comes in black and white and torn pages. Bobby drives thirty miles every morning to pick up the latest newspapers, to keep on the ball, and leaves them folded by Sam’s elbow. Sometimes he circles this column or that, and he looks at Sam from under the peak of his cap and says, “I hear there’s a haunting not so far from here.” It’s unsubtle, because it’s Bobby and when has this life ever been about pussy-footing.
Sam should be grateful, but he can’t remember the tune. Turning pages feels alien, his hands too big and all movement that is not Dean something far away and in the past. His fingers jump and it tears, ripping ‘mysterious’ neatly in half. The word is a hook that goes right through his eyes.
Local pensioner’s myster ious disappearance
Neighbours say ‘flying mo nkeys took her’
It is crocodiles and UFOs and one day that lasts forever. It is something flat and dark locked away in Sam’s heart.
It's a signal.
Bobby says, “Don’t be a stranger, you hear,” and he squeezes Sam’s arm. His face is a general sending troops into battle, mouth pulled tight with worry as he steps back onto the porch and watches Sam swing out of the driveway and away.
Sometimes, you can make things change.
He’s forgetting the sound of his own voice. The Impala is his vocal cords, lips and teeth and tongue, and there are nights where he makes the engine scream until it sinks into his bones. It’s easy then, to close his eyes and loosen his hands and think Dean until the dark is shaking. He can feel it, and every breath he takes is another breath closer.
Everything is sharper now.
The world is a joke, and Sam is gonna laugh so hard.
He can. He can. He can.
(In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.)
*
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 3x11 Mystery Spot missing scene.
Posting date: February 2008
Title from Pablo Neruda.
*
He’s been standing by the roadside for two hours already when the truck pulls over. Bobby’s out of it before it’s even stopped moving, and Ellen follows close behind him; they are the united front, the allied fucking forces. They’re talking and touching him from one thousand miles away and there’s a body in a bed sheet on the backseat of his car, four days cold. Dean’ll kill him for getting corpse on the upholstery, Sam thinks and then he’s laughing.
He lets Bobby drive, folds into the passenger seat he’s always secretly preferred, and the leather creaks out normalcy. The Impala is a hearse today, this is the funeral march. Maybe it’s how Dean would have liked it, but Sam doesn’t know. There is too fucking much he doesn’t know.
“You Winchesters,” Bobby croaks, pulling out behind Ellen in the truck. Sam puts on the first tape he finds and rests his forehead on his knees and waits for something else to break.
Dean’s body burns on Tuesday. Another of life’s little jokes.
Ha ha.
The first few weeks are the easiest, when everything tastes like a funeral pyre and it still hurts too much to think. Dean’s ring, the amulet Sam gave him, are tucked away under his pillow, wrapped in a spare sock because actually touching them is like prising them from stiff and greying flesh all over again. Sam’s newest, freshest, final memories of his brother are of him looting the goddamn corpse, and there’s a reason why undertakers are paid to deal with that shit. He feels sick. He feels so fucking sick.
This is messy and human and grieving, all part of the healing process. It’s natural. It’s easy. It’s when the second, third, fourth week ticks around and you realise that nothing will change that things get a little difficult.
Nothing will change.
“I know it’s hard,” Bobby says, laying a hand on his shoulder, “being the one left behind.”
Dean was here, Sam knows. Dean walked these floors and sat in these chairs and that spot there, right there by the wall, is where Dean existed. And once upon a time Bobby was probably telling him the exact same thing.
There’s a lump of concrete lodged inside his throat, scratching his insides away. “Yeah,” he mumbles. It feels like choking.
He knows he can’t do this forever.
The sign comes in black and white and torn pages. Bobby drives thirty miles every morning to pick up the latest newspapers, to keep on the ball, and leaves them folded by Sam’s elbow. Sometimes he circles this column or that, and he looks at Sam from under the peak of his cap and says, “I hear there’s a haunting not so far from here.” It’s unsubtle, because it’s Bobby and when has this life ever been about pussy-footing.
Sam should be grateful, but he can’t remember the tune. Turning pages feels alien, his hands too big and all movement that is not Dean something far away and in the past. His fingers jump and it tears, ripping ‘mysterious’ neatly in half. The word is a hook that goes right through his eyes.
Local pensioner’s myster ious disappearance
Neighbours say ‘flying mo nkeys took her’
It is crocodiles and UFOs and one day that lasts forever. It is something flat and dark locked away in Sam’s heart.
It's a signal.
Bobby says, “Don’t be a stranger, you hear,” and he squeezes Sam’s arm. His face is a general sending troops into battle, mouth pulled tight with worry as he steps back onto the porch and watches Sam swing out of the driveway and away.
Sometimes, you can make things change.
He’s forgetting the sound of his own voice. The Impala is his vocal cords, lips and teeth and tongue, and there are nights where he makes the engine scream until it sinks into his bones. It’s easy then, to close his eyes and loosen his hands and think Dean until the dark is shaking. He can feel it, and every breath he takes is another breath closer.
Everything is sharper now.
The world is a joke, and Sam is gonna laugh so hard.
He can. He can. He can.
(In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.)
*