Waiting to Fall (the 'Can You hear Me Now?' remix) (R Sam/Dean)
A little while ago I got a really sweet note from a_phoenixdragon in reference to this story. I wrote it a little over two years ago but I just realized today that I never added the tags so anyone could actually find it. So, I'm reposting it, with a couple of minor changes.
I've also made some new Sam artwork to go with it. But, be sure to read the story before you look at the art, otherwise it's spoilery. Hope you like both of them. :)
Title: Waiting to Fall (Remix of both Voices Over the Phone & its companion piece, Who Can Afford It?)
Author: digitalwave
Pairing: Dean/Sam (implied wincest)
Rating: PG-13, for language
Warnings: for language, implied Wincest & suggested violence
Spoilers: Up through AHBL, Part 2
Title, Author and URL of the original story: delphinapterus - This story is a remix of both of the related stories; Voices Over the Phone (Bobby POV) & Who Can Afford It? (Sam POV)
Summary: Dean watches, horrified, as it all falls apart around them.
Notes: Thanks so much to my wonderful beta, mickeym, you truly saved my butt. Thank you to our amazing mods for making this run so smoothly. And, lastly, thank you to delphinapterus for letting me play in your words. I hope you think I did them justice.
Don't know why my warped brain decided to make remixing someone else's idea just a little bit harder, but it did. All of the first sections of the story are interconnected drabbles.
Day Ten
Dean sat on the threadbare brocade of their ancient motel bed, methodically cleaning their guns. As he worked he kept track of Sam, nose deep in another ancient spell book.
He held no illusions as to what Sam researched so carefully. He got it. He wasn't half as dumb as he liked to pretend. They were coming up on day ten of his last year; 355 days left now, until his deal came due. Hell, he'd do it again, in a heartbeat, if it meant saving Sam's life. The world would probably be better off, anyhow, once he was gone.
Day Sixty-One
Another town, another hunt, bones burnt and dusted. They were doing it; trading quips, cracking jokes. Both trying their damnedest to pretend nothing was wrong. Cracks shone through their facade, though, growing wider every day.
Sam looked like crap, skin drawn tight, clothes hanging too loosely on his lanky frame. Dean knew he wasn't sleeping, heard the quickly cut off conversations with Bobby whenever he walked into a room.
Something had changed, something bad. Sam wouldn't tell him what it was. Hell, he'd even tried pimping the info out of Bobby but, no go. He wasn't saying jack shit, either.
Day Two Hundred Forty-Three
Sam, what the fuck? He threatened Bobby on the phone! Since when did Sam pull stupid crap like that?
Last night was bad. Last night was a fricking neon sign that things had gone to shit. It was just some beers, a game of pool. This dumb-ass tried to deck him, pulled a knife. He was harmless, too drunk to know better. Sam almost put him in the morgue. Forget the damned hospital; he'd almost killed the stupid fucker before Dean could pull him off.
All Dean had wanted was to make Sam smile. Was that too much to ask?
Day Three Hundred and Four
There's a stranger living in his brother's skin. Dean wishes it was a shifter, that he could understand, fix somehow. Sam's falling, falling hard. Most nights he had blood caked under his fingernails so bad that no amount of scrubbing seemed to get 'em clean.
He vibrates like old glass; worn thin from constant use. Too much coffee, too damned little food, or sleep, for way too fucking long. Does he think that looming dates with Hellhounds have struck Dean blind and deaf? Sam's breaking right in front of his eyes and he chooses now to want a fricking burger?
Day Three Hundred and Five
He'd woken up to a killer headache. Dean paced, his heart kept time to the trip-hammer beating white-hot flashes of pain in his head. Sam was gone! He was fucking gone!
First thing he'd done was call Sam; fucker went straight to voice-mail. The second call was Bobby. No matter how much Dean begged, Bobby either couldn't, or wouldn't, tell Dean what Sam had done.
Dean sat in the middle of the bed, shaking, pillow clutched to his chest like a life-line. "Sam, you stupid son of a bitch! If whatever lame-assed stunt you've pulled hasn't killed you, I will!"
Day Three Hundred and Seven
Sam's back. He stumbled in soon after dawn, beat to hell. Dean wanted to curse, to scream; especially after he saw the bloody, mangled mess of Sam's left hand.
One look at his haunted, pain-filled eyes stopped him. As he lowered his brother to the dirty tile, cradled in his arms, only one word escaped, a quietly whispered, "Sam."
Dean felt power thrumming underneath Sam's skin, like static electricity after a summer's rain. He held his breath, muscles clinched with tension. Thankfully the only thing the blessed water in the rusty tub did to Sam was wash away the grime.
Day Three Hundred and Eight
Dean coped. Crawled in behind Sam, wrapped his arms around him, held on through the nightmares and screams.
He'd lied his ass off when the manager came to complain about the noise. Said Sam was wounded in the war; that sometimes he still got lost. Hell of it is, much as he wishes otherwise, there's way too much fucking truth hidden in his words.
When Sam woke up, he wouldn't talk, wanted him to ignore the fricking telekinetic elephant with them in the room. So he did what he's always done; looked after Sam and dealt the best he could.
Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Eight
Okay, so he'd panicked. Maybe taking off wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done. But, damn it, he didn't throw his life away for nothing! Sam was supposed to be fine, move on, find a girl, make a life without him. Not stand shattered in a motel room in Bumfuck, Arizona begging him to stay.
That night, with Sam wrapped around him like a shield, Dean finally got it: they make it out together, or they die. There were no take-backs, no do-overs. They're freaking con-joined twins, connected at the heart. Any way you looked at it, they were screwed.
Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Four
They'd been holed up in a better dive than usual, it being his last day and all. Had enough junk food to last through a fucking siege, touch was what they craved though; Dean storing up memories to get him through the fire, Sam just trying to hang on.
When the Queen Bitch appeared it was almost a relief. Course, it all went to hell when Sam decided to 'Vaderize' her ass.
'Where were you when the world changed?' If Dean didn't think it'd get him slapped in a loony-bin he'd ask that question of every fricking person they saw.
Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Five
The silence screamed and shadows moved as he watched her melt away. Sam looked at him with a Demon's eyes before burying his head against Dean's shoulder, a litany of 'you're safe' rained down upon him like a benediction.
Suddenly, Sam dropped like a stone to the dirty floor. Dean held on fast, heart shattered, bleeding out against Sam's silent chest.
"Sammy, no, fuck you, no! Don't do this. You don't fucking get to do this to me, man..."
He had no other soul to sell to bring him back. No single coin to barter for a life already claimed.
The Ever After
Dean doesn't know how long he sat there, Sam draped across his lap so still and cold. He felt the scream building; raw and primal, fighting to break free. Finally released, it ripped across their skin, bound them both in fire, pure and blazing white.
Sam drew a ragged, precious breath, opened hazel eyes, red with tears. A shaking hand reached out for Dean, touched un-noticed tracks upon his cheek.
"Never again, please. Promise me, Dean." Tired eyes slipped closed at his silent nod.
Dean looked past his brother to the quiet shadow in the corner of the room. Memories spanning millennia swamped him, burned away a veil that he'd never even known was there.
"So, Gabe, come to join the party?" Dean glanced around the room, a wry smile upon his face. "Looks like you're just a little late..."
He moved across the floor on silent feet, crouched down next to them with a dancer's deadly grace.
"Michael. Seems to me you've handled things just fine all on your own." He reached out, took Sam into his arms and stood as Dean struggled up from the floor on legs long since gone numb.
Taking his brother back, Dean placed him on the bed, crawled in behind him, settling with a tired sigh.
"Yeah, well, Gabe, it sure would have been nice to remember I had that nifty trick a little sooner." Dean reached out clumsy fingers, tried without success to smooth unruly curls. "Woulda' saved us both a world of hurt, you know?"
Gabriel leaned down; lips soft upon Sam's face as he placed a gentle kiss upon his brow. "Samael wasn't ready then, Michael. Your sword had to be forged and tempered in the fire."
Dean felt the burn of anger at remembered pain as he shifted on the bed, looked up into azure eyes. "Fuck you, Gabe. Tell Dad, no more, I'm tired of his games. We'll be his weapons, do the job, but, from now on, it's on our terms."
He pulled Sam, closer, lulled by the feel of his heartbeat, so strong against his own.
"Foolish, child, it always was. You both just had to learn to see them." Gabriel straightened, stood looking down at them both. "When Samael wakens, he'll remember, too. He'll finally know his true heart. There's something he needs to know."
Dean opened sleep-heavy eyes, knowing this was important. "What?"
"Tell him the men he killed in your name, were sent from me. They were sinners all, black as night. Their blood places no stain upon his soul, make sure he understands this."
Dean nodded, shuddered at the memory of Sam, night after night, scrubbing his hands until they bled. "I will, I promise."
Gabriel smiled. "Good, now rest, Michael. Know that nothing will touch you in this place. You have my word upon it."
Dean closed his eyes, felt strong fingers combing through his hair, dragging him even further into sleep.
Whatever tomorrow brought, they'd face it. First and foremost, they were still John Winchester's sons. The job remained the same; all that'd really changed was that they'd added a few, new kick-ass weapons for their side.
Dean chuckled as he burrowed deeper into their covers, surrounded by the sleep-warmed scent of Sam. Forget the legions of the Damned; they still had to face a pissed off Bobby Singer at some point.
Heaven's warriors or no, he was so going to kick their ass.
fin
I've also made some new Sam artwork to go with it. But, be sure to read the story before you look at the art, otherwise it's spoilery. Hope you like both of them. :)
Title: Waiting to Fall (Remix of both Voices Over the Phone & its companion piece, Who Can Afford It?)
Author: digitalwave
Pairing: Dean/Sam (implied wincest)
Rating: PG-13, for language
Warnings: for language, implied Wincest & suggested violence
Spoilers: Up through AHBL, Part 2
Title, Author and URL of the original story: delphinapterus - This story is a remix of both of the related stories; Voices Over the Phone (Bobby POV) & Who Can Afford It? (Sam POV)
Summary: Dean watches, horrified, as it all falls apart around them.
Notes: Thanks so much to my wonderful beta, mickeym, you truly saved my butt. Thank you to our amazing mods for making this run so smoothly. And, lastly, thank you to delphinapterus for letting me play in your words. I hope you think I did them justice.
Don't know why my warped brain decided to make remixing someone else's idea just a little bit harder, but it did. All of the first sections of the story are interconnected drabbles.
Day Ten
Dean sat on the threadbare brocade of their ancient motel bed, methodically cleaning their guns. As he worked he kept track of Sam, nose deep in another ancient spell book.
He held no illusions as to what Sam researched so carefully. He got it. He wasn't half as dumb as he liked to pretend. They were coming up on day ten of his last year; 355 days left now, until his deal came due. Hell, he'd do it again, in a heartbeat, if it meant saving Sam's life. The world would probably be better off, anyhow, once he was gone.
Day Sixty-One
Another town, another hunt, bones burnt and dusted. They were doing it; trading quips, cracking jokes. Both trying their damnedest to pretend nothing was wrong. Cracks shone through their facade, though, growing wider every day.
Sam looked like crap, skin drawn tight, clothes hanging too loosely on his lanky frame. Dean knew he wasn't sleeping, heard the quickly cut off conversations with Bobby whenever he walked into a room.
Something had changed, something bad. Sam wouldn't tell him what it was. Hell, he'd even tried pimping the info out of Bobby but, no go. He wasn't saying jack shit, either.
Day Two Hundred Forty-Three
Sam, what the fuck? He threatened Bobby on the phone! Since when did Sam pull stupid crap like that?
Last night was bad. Last night was a fricking neon sign that things had gone to shit. It was just some beers, a game of pool. This dumb-ass tried to deck him, pulled a knife. He was harmless, too drunk to know better. Sam almost put him in the morgue. Forget the damned hospital; he'd almost killed the stupid fucker before Dean could pull him off.
All Dean had wanted was to make Sam smile. Was that too much to ask?
Day Three Hundred and Four
There's a stranger living in his brother's skin. Dean wishes it was a shifter, that he could understand, fix somehow. Sam's falling, falling hard. Most nights he had blood caked under his fingernails so bad that no amount of scrubbing seemed to get 'em clean.
He vibrates like old glass; worn thin from constant use. Too much coffee, too damned little food, or sleep, for way too fucking long. Does he think that looming dates with Hellhounds have struck Dean blind and deaf? Sam's breaking right in front of his eyes and he chooses now to want a fricking burger?
Day Three Hundred and Five
He'd woken up to a killer headache. Dean paced, his heart kept time to the trip-hammer beating white-hot flashes of pain in his head. Sam was gone! He was fucking gone!
First thing he'd done was call Sam; fucker went straight to voice-mail. The second call was Bobby. No matter how much Dean begged, Bobby either couldn't, or wouldn't, tell Dean what Sam had done.
Dean sat in the middle of the bed, shaking, pillow clutched to his chest like a life-line. "Sam, you stupid son of a bitch! If whatever lame-assed stunt you've pulled hasn't killed you, I will!"
Day Three Hundred and Seven
Sam's back. He stumbled in soon after dawn, beat to hell. Dean wanted to curse, to scream; especially after he saw the bloody, mangled mess of Sam's left hand.
One look at his haunted, pain-filled eyes stopped him. As he lowered his brother to the dirty tile, cradled in his arms, only one word escaped, a quietly whispered, "Sam."
Dean felt power thrumming underneath Sam's skin, like static electricity after a summer's rain. He held his breath, muscles clinched with tension. Thankfully the only thing the blessed water in the rusty tub did to Sam was wash away the grime.
Day Three Hundred and Eight
Dean coped. Crawled in behind Sam, wrapped his arms around him, held on through the nightmares and screams.
He'd lied his ass off when the manager came to complain about the noise. Said Sam was wounded in the war; that sometimes he still got lost. Hell of it is, much as he wishes otherwise, there's way too much fucking truth hidden in his words.
When Sam woke up, he wouldn't talk, wanted him to ignore the fricking telekinetic elephant with them in the room. So he did what he's always done; looked after Sam and dealt the best he could.
Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Eight
Okay, so he'd panicked. Maybe taking off wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done. But, damn it, he didn't throw his life away for nothing! Sam was supposed to be fine, move on, find a girl, make a life without him. Not stand shattered in a motel room in Bumfuck, Arizona begging him to stay.
That night, with Sam wrapped around him like a shield, Dean finally got it: they make it out together, or they die. There were no take-backs, no do-overs. They're freaking con-joined twins, connected at the heart. Any way you looked at it, they were screwed.
Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Four
They'd been holed up in a better dive than usual, it being his last day and all. Had enough junk food to last through a fucking siege, touch was what they craved though; Dean storing up memories to get him through the fire, Sam just trying to hang on.
When the Queen Bitch appeared it was almost a relief. Course, it all went to hell when Sam decided to 'Vaderize' her ass.
'Where were you when the world changed?' If Dean didn't think it'd get him slapped in a loony-bin he'd ask that question of every fricking person they saw.
Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Five
The silence screamed and shadows moved as he watched her melt away. Sam looked at him with a Demon's eyes before burying his head against Dean's shoulder, a litany of 'you're safe' rained down upon him like a benediction.
Suddenly, Sam dropped like a stone to the dirty floor. Dean held on fast, heart shattered, bleeding out against Sam's silent chest.
"Sammy, no, fuck you, no! Don't do this. You don't fucking get to do this to me, man..."
He had no other soul to sell to bring him back. No single coin to barter for a life already claimed.
The Ever After
Dean doesn't know how long he sat there, Sam draped across his lap so still and cold. He felt the scream building; raw and primal, fighting to break free. Finally released, it ripped across their skin, bound them both in fire, pure and blazing white.
Sam drew a ragged, precious breath, opened hazel eyes, red with tears. A shaking hand reached out for Dean, touched un-noticed tracks upon his cheek.
"Never again, please. Promise me, Dean." Tired eyes slipped closed at his silent nod.
Dean looked past his brother to the quiet shadow in the corner of the room. Memories spanning millennia swamped him, burned away a veil that he'd never even known was there.
"So, Gabe, come to join the party?" Dean glanced around the room, a wry smile upon his face. "Looks like you're just a little late..."
He moved across the floor on silent feet, crouched down next to them with a dancer's deadly grace.
"Michael. Seems to me you've handled things just fine all on your own." He reached out, took Sam into his arms and stood as Dean struggled up from the floor on legs long since gone numb.
Taking his brother back, Dean placed him on the bed, crawled in behind him, settling with a tired sigh.
"Yeah, well, Gabe, it sure would have been nice to remember I had that nifty trick a little sooner." Dean reached out clumsy fingers, tried without success to smooth unruly curls. "Woulda' saved us both a world of hurt, you know?"
Gabriel leaned down; lips soft upon Sam's face as he placed a gentle kiss upon his brow. "Samael wasn't ready then, Michael. Your sword had to be forged and tempered in the fire."
Dean felt the burn of anger at remembered pain as he shifted on the bed, looked up into azure eyes. "Fuck you, Gabe. Tell Dad, no more, I'm tired of his games. We'll be his weapons, do the job, but, from now on, it's on our terms."
He pulled Sam, closer, lulled by the feel of his heartbeat, so strong against his own.
"Foolish, child, it always was. You both just had to learn to see them." Gabriel straightened, stood looking down at them both. "When Samael wakens, he'll remember, too. He'll finally know his true heart. There's something he needs to know."
Dean opened sleep-heavy eyes, knowing this was important. "What?"
"Tell him the men he killed in your name, were sent from me. They were sinners all, black as night. Their blood places no stain upon his soul, make sure he understands this."
Dean nodded, shuddered at the memory of Sam, night after night, scrubbing his hands until they bled. "I will, I promise."
Gabriel smiled. "Good, now rest, Michael. Know that nothing will touch you in this place. You have my word upon it."
Dean closed his eyes, felt strong fingers combing through his hair, dragging him even further into sleep.
Whatever tomorrow brought, they'd face it. First and foremost, they were still John Winchester's sons. The job remained the same; all that'd really changed was that they'd added a few, new kick-ass weapons for their side.
Dean chuckled as he burrowed deeper into their covers, surrounded by the sleep-warmed scent of Sam. Forget the legions of the Damned; they still had to face a pissed off Bobby Singer at some point.
Heaven's warriors or no, he was so going to kick their ass.
fin