[Supernatural]: Everything Dies Given Time
Title: Everything Dies Given Time
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: AU from 5.03. Sam discovers something wrong with himself, and learns to live with it. Only a lot less functional. Character deaths.
Notes: So this has sort of been written before, but it crawled into my head and I decided to just go along with it. I am weak, what can I say.
Really, he should have known better than to try to leave the hunting life behind.
After the hunters came through, after Lindsey and the demon blood and god, Dean (we’re weaker), it wasn’t like he could pretend anymore. Hunting didn’t let you leave it behind. It didn’t work like that, and Sam had been stupid to think that it would just because he wanted it to.
So he was on his own, with a few weapons and no ID and nothing else to do. That was fine. It was all…fine.
Other than Lucifer in his head and the misery like claws between his ribs. Yeah. Fine.
**
He found out that something was wrong with him entirely by accident. He was poking around looking for whatever had been killing and eviscerating people in Western Pennsylvania woodlands when it found him first.
It happened too fast for Sam to even see it properly before he was down and holding his guts in his hands. He toppled to the floor, almost surprised, staring up at the sky with warm blood rushing out of his body, and thought vaguely, so this is how it ends. Alone, and I didn’t even finish off the hunt.
Sam let his eyes fall closed. It was like sinking. He was so cold, shivering; if Hell was really fire maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. It was over, all over.
And then it wasn’t. He woke up with the sun in his eyes, back damp from dew. It was early morning and there was blood all over his shirt but no mark underneath.
I’d only bring you back, Sam remembered, and went limp, feeling suddenly…
“Fantastic,” he said. His throat felt dry and rusty. “Just…fantastic.”
**
It was almost, Sam thought, funny. Here he was, invincible. Or the next best thing to it. And all he could do was find more creative ways to die.
Which, sure, was a bleak way of putting it, but Sam wasn’t feeling much other than bleak these days. After all, he had Lucifer whispering sweet nothings into his ear and not much else. A growing arsenal made mostly of stolen weapons. And his deaths.
It wasn’t like it’d been intentional. Not at first, anyway. It was dangerous to hunt alone, and not just because there was no one to watch your back. Because when you’d had a chunk bitten out of your shoulder, it turned out the time it took to bleed out was less than the time it took to drag an uncooperative body back to a parked car. Because when you went down, there was no one to distract the ghost until you got back up. Because when you were sleep-deprived and sloppy there was no one to shove your ass into bed and make sure it stayed there so you don’t get us both killed.
And with all that, he just figured that if he was going to pop right back up then hell, why not take the dangerous jobs, the jobs out in the middle of nowhere, the ones no hunter in his right mind would face without company?
Key words: in his right mind. Sam wasn’t sure he had a right mind anymore. Because the last time he’d woken up from being dead, this time from drowning (and that was a new one, Sam made a note to avoid kelpies) he had only been able to laugh.
He wondered, sometimes, what it looked like. Or what it would have looked like, if anyone had ever been there to see. If Lucifer came himself, or if it was just some sort of spell, when he stopped working it would just wind him up again from a distance.
Sam tried to avoid dying around civilians. Mostly it worked out pretty well. The rest of the time, either he stayed dead until they were gone or they were dead by the time he was back. But that was just life. Or it was Sam’s, anyway.
Sometimes he thought he was becoming blasé. Jaded.
Dying usually cured him of that one.
**
In the Panhandle of Oklahoma, Sam went up against a poltergeist. It had chased out two families, put three children in the hospital, and killed one teenager. He was trying to place the last of the little sachets to banish the damn thing when he heard his name.
“Sam, get down!”
And because it was the last thing he expected to hear, and because he was tired and stupid and just a little bit insane, Sam didn’t get down, he just turned.
Had one glimpse of Dean’s horrified face before the knife floating in the air opened Sam’s throat to the spine, a gaping red mouth and he couldn’t say a word. And Dean started to move, but Sam never saw him finish.
Hearing was always the last thing to go. Oh god, he heard, oh god oh god oh fuck, Sam!
And then nothing.
**
He opened his eyes to a ceiling. Plain white.
That was new. He’d never ended up in a hospital. Certainly never a morgue. Then he felt the blanket under his hands. Not a morgue. A motel. Cheap, by the smell of it.
It took a moment for things to come back. He could hear someone outside the door, pacing back and forth, voice raised for a few moments, “I know, Bobby, I know-”
Huh, thought Sam. Out of habit, he checked his throat with one hand. No scar. He kept one eye on the door as got to his feet, rubbing his eyes. His head hurt, which might have been hunger or dehydration or exhaustion. Apparently being dead didn’t equate to sleeping.
Pity, that. He spent a lot more time in one than the other.
Still watching the door, Sam edged toward the bathroom, hoping it had a window, when it opened. Ahead of schedule. Dean was rubbing his face in the way that meant he was exasperated or unhappy or maybe both, and he looked…tired.
Then he dropped his hand and raised his head, and stared at Sam. Who gave up on trying to sneak out, and just stayed where he was. Dean glanced at the bed, at Sam’s throat, moved his hand around to where Sam knew he kept a handgun and said, “What the fuck.”
Sam sighed. “You know you can shoot me if you want. I don’t think anyone’s done that yet, but I wouldn’t bet on it working.”
Dean didn’t move his hand. The rest of him didn’t move either. “You were dead,” he said, voice hollow. “Explain to me - what are you, cause you’re sure as hell not-”
Sam wondered if stabbing himself with something silver would get the point across. “Maybe not anymore,” Sam said, keeping his voice flat. “It’s Lucifer, you know. I guess he figured I was a suicide risk.”
Sam could see Dean swallow. “…Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, wishing he could say anything else. “That’s me.”
**
Sam didn’t know what made Dean believe him. Perhaps the fact that no supernatural being pretending to be Sam would have let itself get killed in such a stupid, rookie way in the first place. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sounding almost fervent. “For ages, only no one could get a fix on where you were.”
Sam shrugged. “Yeah, well. Made a few enemies I was trying to avoid.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Yeah, I heard about that,” sounding legitimately pissed, which came almost as a surprise.
“Someone swore you were dead in North Carolina, but I didn’t believe it,” Dean added a moment later. The way he stared at Sam was almost hungry, like he really thought he wanted to see him again. Sam would have found that entertaining if it weren’t so confusing.
“I was dead in North Carolina,” Sam said, and had a sip of water. His throat still hurt a little. It always did, when it happened that way. “Nest of vampires.” He’d been worried they would turn him, not sure what Lucifer would make of that. They hadn’t, though. Hadn’t even seemed to think about it.
Dean blinked. And then seemed to finally understand, and maybe Sam couldn’t blame him. His eyes went momentarily blank, and then he stood up and moved away. “I thought it was just a…that this was the first time. It wasn’t, was it?”
“No,” Sam said, simply.
“How long has it…been like this?”
Sam lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Months. Three, four.”
Dean swallowed, and seemed to almost choke on the next question. “How many times?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said dully.
“How many times,” Dean repeated, his voice thick with…something. Sam sighed, and looked down at his shirt. It was a clean one. Dean’s. He wondered where the one covered in blood had gone. He was so used to waking up covered in blood.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I lost count.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean said, and sounded like he wanted to throw up.
“It’s okay,” Sam said. “You get used to it after a while.”
Dean stumbled into the bathroom and retched loudly. Sam stood still for a few seconds, then went in and rubbed his back until it was over.
**
“Did you even try?” Dean demanded, still pale. “To survive, I mean. Or did you just-”
“I tried,” Sam said. “For a while. It just didn’t work very well.”
“This is all so goddamn fucked,” Dean said, violently, pushing himself to his feet and pacing across the room. Sam snorted.
“You’re telling me. And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
Dean looked sick all over again. In a different way, this time, though. “You know the sad thing is I could think you weren’t joking?” He said, sourly. Sam looked at him, hard and straight.
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s the saddest thing,” Dean said. His right hand clenched and unclenched; Sam watched it. “It’s only been five months and you already gave up on me?”
“We’re not stronger together, we’re weaker,” Sam said flatly. And watched Dean flinch.
“You know I was wrong about that. Sam - I’m sorry, okay?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Okay.” He closed his eyes. Was tempted, briefly, to say you know, Lucifer did it better. If this was what he could have, he would have it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Dean was sorry. He just wasn’t sure how long it would last.
And he almost thought he’d rather die a thousand times than live waiting for the day when Dean would turn on him. At least the dying only hurt for a little while.
**
Dean looked at him like he was broken.
The Impala felt familiar - same hum, same seats, same music. The way Dean looked at him was new, though. Like he was damaged. Fragile.
A fuck-up.
“Maybe we should hold off on the hunting for a little,” Dean said. “Cas is still out there, looking for God. Maybe we should give him some time.”
“Worried I’m going to die on you?” Sam said, voice light. “Oh wait, ha ha, I can’t.”
Dean’s expression spasmed with anger. That was better. It was gone a moment later, though. “You don’t know that. You can’t rely on that. And if you think - I don’t care, okay? I don’t care if it doesn’t stick. I’m not letting you die at all, whether it’s for good or not.”
Dean didn’t deserve this, Sam reminded himself. That’s what you have to remember. What you do to yourself is your own business, but Dean didn’t deserve this. “I’m sorry,” Sam said. He meant it. Dean didn’t answer.
He was tired, so tired. Lucifer waited in his dreams, waiting to wind him up again, get him started down the same road, the same ending.
Sam kept his eyes open and watched the tumbleweed slip by.
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: AU from 5.03. Sam discovers something wrong with himself, and learns to live with it. Only a lot less functional. Character deaths.
Notes: So this has sort of been written before, but it crawled into my head and I decided to just go along with it. I am weak, what can I say.
Really, he should have known better than to try to leave the hunting life behind.
After the hunters came through, after Lindsey and the demon blood and god, Dean (we’re weaker), it wasn’t like he could pretend anymore. Hunting didn’t let you leave it behind. It didn’t work like that, and Sam had been stupid to think that it would just because he wanted it to.
So he was on his own, with a few weapons and no ID and nothing else to do. That was fine. It was all…fine.
Other than Lucifer in his head and the misery like claws between his ribs. Yeah. Fine.
**
He found out that something was wrong with him entirely by accident. He was poking around looking for whatever had been killing and eviscerating people in Western Pennsylvania woodlands when it found him first.
It happened too fast for Sam to even see it properly before he was down and holding his guts in his hands. He toppled to the floor, almost surprised, staring up at the sky with warm blood rushing out of his body, and thought vaguely, so this is how it ends. Alone, and I didn’t even finish off the hunt.
Sam let his eyes fall closed. It was like sinking. He was so cold, shivering; if Hell was really fire maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. It was over, all over.
And then it wasn’t. He woke up with the sun in his eyes, back damp from dew. It was early morning and there was blood all over his shirt but no mark underneath.
I’d only bring you back, Sam remembered, and went limp, feeling suddenly…
“Fantastic,” he said. His throat felt dry and rusty. “Just…fantastic.”
**
It was almost, Sam thought, funny. Here he was, invincible. Or the next best thing to it. And all he could do was find more creative ways to die.
Which, sure, was a bleak way of putting it, but Sam wasn’t feeling much other than bleak these days. After all, he had Lucifer whispering sweet nothings into his ear and not much else. A growing arsenal made mostly of stolen weapons. And his deaths.
It wasn’t like it’d been intentional. Not at first, anyway. It was dangerous to hunt alone, and not just because there was no one to watch your back. Because when you’d had a chunk bitten out of your shoulder, it turned out the time it took to bleed out was less than the time it took to drag an uncooperative body back to a parked car. Because when you went down, there was no one to distract the ghost until you got back up. Because when you were sleep-deprived and sloppy there was no one to shove your ass into bed and make sure it stayed there so you don’t get us both killed.
And with all that, he just figured that if he was going to pop right back up then hell, why not take the dangerous jobs, the jobs out in the middle of nowhere, the ones no hunter in his right mind would face without company?
Key words: in his right mind. Sam wasn’t sure he had a right mind anymore. Because the last time he’d woken up from being dead, this time from drowning (and that was a new one, Sam made a note to avoid kelpies) he had only been able to laugh.
He wondered, sometimes, what it looked like. Or what it would have looked like, if anyone had ever been there to see. If Lucifer came himself, or if it was just some sort of spell, when he stopped working it would just wind him up again from a distance.
Sam tried to avoid dying around civilians. Mostly it worked out pretty well. The rest of the time, either he stayed dead until they were gone or they were dead by the time he was back. But that was just life. Or it was Sam’s, anyway.
Sometimes he thought he was becoming blasé. Jaded.
Dying usually cured him of that one.
**
In the Panhandle of Oklahoma, Sam went up against a poltergeist. It had chased out two families, put three children in the hospital, and killed one teenager. He was trying to place the last of the little sachets to banish the damn thing when he heard his name.
“Sam, get down!”
And because it was the last thing he expected to hear, and because he was tired and stupid and just a little bit insane, Sam didn’t get down, he just turned.
Had one glimpse of Dean’s horrified face before the knife floating in the air opened Sam’s throat to the spine, a gaping red mouth and he couldn’t say a word. And Dean started to move, but Sam never saw him finish.
Hearing was always the last thing to go. Oh god, he heard, oh god oh god oh fuck, Sam!
And then nothing.
**
He opened his eyes to a ceiling. Plain white.
That was new. He’d never ended up in a hospital. Certainly never a morgue. Then he felt the blanket under his hands. Not a morgue. A motel. Cheap, by the smell of it.
It took a moment for things to come back. He could hear someone outside the door, pacing back and forth, voice raised for a few moments, “I know, Bobby, I know-”
Huh, thought Sam. Out of habit, he checked his throat with one hand. No scar. He kept one eye on the door as got to his feet, rubbing his eyes. His head hurt, which might have been hunger or dehydration or exhaustion. Apparently being dead didn’t equate to sleeping.
Pity, that. He spent a lot more time in one than the other.
Still watching the door, Sam edged toward the bathroom, hoping it had a window, when it opened. Ahead of schedule. Dean was rubbing his face in the way that meant he was exasperated or unhappy or maybe both, and he looked…tired.
Then he dropped his hand and raised his head, and stared at Sam. Who gave up on trying to sneak out, and just stayed where he was. Dean glanced at the bed, at Sam’s throat, moved his hand around to where Sam knew he kept a handgun and said, “What the fuck.”
Sam sighed. “You know you can shoot me if you want. I don’t think anyone’s done that yet, but I wouldn’t bet on it working.”
Dean didn’t move his hand. The rest of him didn’t move either. “You were dead,” he said, voice hollow. “Explain to me - what are you, cause you’re sure as hell not-”
Sam wondered if stabbing himself with something silver would get the point across. “Maybe not anymore,” Sam said, keeping his voice flat. “It’s Lucifer, you know. I guess he figured I was a suicide risk.”
Sam could see Dean swallow. “…Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, wishing he could say anything else. “That’s me.”
**
Sam didn’t know what made Dean believe him. Perhaps the fact that no supernatural being pretending to be Sam would have let itself get killed in such a stupid, rookie way in the first place. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sounding almost fervent. “For ages, only no one could get a fix on where you were.”
Sam shrugged. “Yeah, well. Made a few enemies I was trying to avoid.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Yeah, I heard about that,” sounding legitimately pissed, which came almost as a surprise.
“Someone swore you were dead in North Carolina, but I didn’t believe it,” Dean added a moment later. The way he stared at Sam was almost hungry, like he really thought he wanted to see him again. Sam would have found that entertaining if it weren’t so confusing.
“I was dead in North Carolina,” Sam said, and had a sip of water. His throat still hurt a little. It always did, when it happened that way. “Nest of vampires.” He’d been worried they would turn him, not sure what Lucifer would make of that. They hadn’t, though. Hadn’t even seemed to think about it.
Dean blinked. And then seemed to finally understand, and maybe Sam couldn’t blame him. His eyes went momentarily blank, and then he stood up and moved away. “I thought it was just a…that this was the first time. It wasn’t, was it?”
“No,” Sam said, simply.
“How long has it…been like this?”
Sam lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Months. Three, four.”
Dean swallowed, and seemed to almost choke on the next question. “How many times?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said dully.
“How many times,” Dean repeated, his voice thick with…something. Sam sighed, and looked down at his shirt. It was a clean one. Dean’s. He wondered where the one covered in blood had gone. He was so used to waking up covered in blood.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I lost count.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean said, and sounded like he wanted to throw up.
“It’s okay,” Sam said. “You get used to it after a while.”
Dean stumbled into the bathroom and retched loudly. Sam stood still for a few seconds, then went in and rubbed his back until it was over.
**
“Did you even try?” Dean demanded, still pale. “To survive, I mean. Or did you just-”
“I tried,” Sam said. “For a while. It just didn’t work very well.”
“This is all so goddamn fucked,” Dean said, violently, pushing himself to his feet and pacing across the room. Sam snorted.
“You’re telling me. And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
Dean looked sick all over again. In a different way, this time, though. “You know the sad thing is I could think you weren’t joking?” He said, sourly. Sam looked at him, hard and straight.
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s the saddest thing,” Dean said. His right hand clenched and unclenched; Sam watched it. “It’s only been five months and you already gave up on me?”
“We’re not stronger together, we’re weaker,” Sam said flatly. And watched Dean flinch.
“You know I was wrong about that. Sam - I’m sorry, okay?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Okay.” He closed his eyes. Was tempted, briefly, to say you know, Lucifer did it better. If this was what he could have, he would have it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Dean was sorry. He just wasn’t sure how long it would last.
And he almost thought he’d rather die a thousand times than live waiting for the day when Dean would turn on him. At least the dying only hurt for a little while.
**
Dean looked at him like he was broken.
The Impala felt familiar - same hum, same seats, same music. The way Dean looked at him was new, though. Like he was damaged. Fragile.
A fuck-up.
“Maybe we should hold off on the hunting for a little,” Dean said. “Cas is still out there, looking for God. Maybe we should give him some time.”
“Worried I’m going to die on you?” Sam said, voice light. “Oh wait, ha ha, I can’t.”
Dean’s expression spasmed with anger. That was better. It was gone a moment later, though. “You don’t know that. You can’t rely on that. And if you think - I don’t care, okay? I don’t care if it doesn’t stick. I’m not letting you die at all, whether it’s for good or not.”
Dean didn’t deserve this, Sam reminded himself. That’s what you have to remember. What you do to yourself is your own business, but Dean didn’t deserve this. “I’m sorry,” Sam said. He meant it. Dean didn’t answer.
He was tired, so tired. Lucifer waited in his dreams, waiting to wind him up again, get him started down the same road, the same ending.
Sam kept his eyes open and watched the tumbleweed slip by.