SPN FIC - Legend (Part Eight: Deanna and Samuel)
I'd heard whispered bits of the story since I was a kid. Just after Halloween, back in '83, the demon Azazel had crept into the nursery of a baby boy, intending to drip blood into the child's mouth and turn him into demon spawn. But Mary Campbell was waiting for him. She had a gun a stranger had brought to her family ten years before: a gun that could kill anything. She used it to kill Azazel that night. Saved her child. Then she disappeared.
Legends are told in bits and pieces, spread by word of mouth over the years. This is the story of Mary Campbell's family: the husband to whom she told the truth of who she was. The son who grieved the loss of her so deeply that he spent half his life on the road alone, searching for her. And the son who found success, and love, and peace ... until things went a little bit sideways.
Part One: Dean and Jo
Part Two: Dean, Sam, and Jessica
Part Three: John and Deacon
Part Four: Missouri and Pamela
Part Five: Sam and Dean
Part Six: John, Mary, Dean and Sam
Part Seven: Dean and Pamela
CHARACTERS: Deanna and Samuel Campbell
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 897 words
LEGEND
By Carol Davis
Eight: Deanna and Samuel
She died in this house.
She remembers that night, in a distant, distracted way, as if it were something she saw in a movie.
No pain; it was sudden. There were warm hands on her neck. A feeling of pressure. Then nothing.
There was something walking around in his body that night. Sam’s body. Something that spoke in Sam’s voice, about demon blood and special children. Something that pinned their young visitor
(Dean it was Dean)
in a chair and crooned at him. Laid out exactly what its plans were.
Samuel is here now, wandering the rooms of this house the way he sometimes did late at night when he couldn’t sleep. She could hear his movements back then, could hear the creak of his footfalls on the old floorboards and stairs and the rustling and thumping as he checked doors and windows and refreshed salt lines that had been interrupted. Or maybe they hadn’t been; maybe they were all just fine. Maybe checking them gave him something to do at a time of night when he should have been sound asleep.
She wondered, back then, if he was ever sound asleep, or if he was simply very good at pretending.
She could follow him now, through the house that no longer belongs to them, but there’s no point in that. Instead, she hovers near the archway between the dining room and the living room, watching her grandson, the young man who came to visit her and Samuel the night before she died.
(Dean)
If she could, she’d sit beside him and wrap her arms around him.
She didn’t know him as the newborn Mary delivered, or as the little boy who played in this house; the little boy who helped his father care for a baby brother who grew up fine and strong and smart, without the burden of grief that Dean carries around with him every day of his life. She didn’t know him as the teenager who left this house, desperate and angry, to search for the mother who vanished.
She didn’t know this Dean at all.
Somehow, the Dean she met the night before she died was someone else. Wasn’t the man who’s sitting in Samuel’s favorite chair.
How that’s possible… She doesn’t know that, either.
Nor does she know why she’s here, or how.
(Samuel?)
She finds him after a moment, running a hand along a windowsill in what used to be Mary’s bedroom.
(Samuel.)
He turns to look at her. It’s clear he doesn’t understand this any more than she does, that he has no clue why they’ve been brought here, or sent here, how long they’ll be here, any of it. She was somewhere else, a little while ago: a place he sometimes came to, when it suited him. It was summer there, a beautiful day early in their marriage. He’d insisted there was a job that needed handling, but she’d pulled him away, told him the job would wait a few hours, that he owed her some time together, that he’d promised.
I didn’t…
You did. You took a vow, Sam. Remember that?
I remember promising to love, honor, cherish. I didn’t promise “picnic.”
He gave in.
And it was a beautiful day, mild and bright, with a light breeze blowing, carrying on it the sweet, pure scent of wildflowers. He left her long enough to gather a small, ragged, wilted bouquet, and it was clear from the look on his face that that sort of thing wasn’t common for him, that maybe he’d never done anything like it before. She kept a few of the flowers for years after that, neatly pressed between the pages of a book.
(That wasn’t it.)
(Wasn’t what?)
(Heaven. I know you think it was, but -)
(What else would it be? It certainly wasn’t Hell.)
(I don’t think it’s an either-or, Deanna.)
(Then where were we?)
(Someplace else.)
His gaze holds hers, steady and unblinking. It’s one of the things that both drew her to him and repelled her, back when they were young. He wasn’t one for “common courtesy,” for following arbitrary rules of behavior, saying hello and goodbye, holding doors, letting someone else have their say - not if it didn’t suit him, and it very seldom did.
They’re no longer alive, neither one of them, and she supposes that’s reason enough to ignore the rules now.
(Why are we here, Sam?)
He begins to move away. This time she follows him, remaining a couple of paces behind as he moves from room to room, as he says hello to the house they knew, the place that was their home until the night they died. It seems, in a way, that he’s saying goodbye to it as well.
When he finally stops moving, he captures her gaze again and holds it firm.
(Something’s coming.)
(What is it?)
(I don’t know. But it’s coming.)
(Is that why we’re here?)
He stopped moving in the dining room. It’s a small room, close quarters under the best of conditions, more so now, with so many people here: the man their daughter chose and the sons she bore, and the two women who can see more than they’d really like to. The five of them have joined hands, at the request of one of the women.
All five of them know it too.
Something’s coming.
* * * * *
Legends are told in bits and pieces, spread by word of mouth over the years. This is the story of Mary Campbell's family: the husband to whom she told the truth of who she was. The son who grieved the loss of her so deeply that he spent half his life on the road alone, searching for her. And the son who found success, and love, and peace ... until things went a little bit sideways.
Part One: Dean and Jo
Part Two: Dean, Sam, and Jessica
Part Three: John and Deacon
Part Four: Missouri and Pamela
Part Five: Sam and Dean
Part Six: John, Mary, Dean and Sam
Part Seven: Dean and Pamela
CHARACTERS: Deanna and Samuel Campbell
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 897 words
LEGEND
By Carol Davis
Eight: Deanna and Samuel
She died in this house.
She remembers that night, in a distant, distracted way, as if it were something she saw in a movie.
No pain; it was sudden. There were warm hands on her neck. A feeling of pressure. Then nothing.
There was something walking around in his body that night. Sam’s body. Something that spoke in Sam’s voice, about demon blood and special children. Something that pinned their young visitor
(Dean it was Dean)
in a chair and crooned at him. Laid out exactly what its plans were.
Samuel is here now, wandering the rooms of this house the way he sometimes did late at night when he couldn’t sleep. She could hear his movements back then, could hear the creak of his footfalls on the old floorboards and stairs and the rustling and thumping as he checked doors and windows and refreshed salt lines that had been interrupted. Or maybe they hadn’t been; maybe they were all just fine. Maybe checking them gave him something to do at a time of night when he should have been sound asleep.
She wondered, back then, if he was ever sound asleep, or if he was simply very good at pretending.
She could follow him now, through the house that no longer belongs to them, but there’s no point in that. Instead, she hovers near the archway between the dining room and the living room, watching her grandson, the young man who came to visit her and Samuel the night before she died.
(Dean)
If she could, she’d sit beside him and wrap her arms around him.
She didn’t know him as the newborn Mary delivered, or as the little boy who played in this house; the little boy who helped his father care for a baby brother who grew up fine and strong and smart, without the burden of grief that Dean carries around with him every day of his life. She didn’t know him as the teenager who left this house, desperate and angry, to search for the mother who vanished.
She didn’t know this Dean at all.
Somehow, the Dean she met the night before she died was someone else. Wasn’t the man who’s sitting in Samuel’s favorite chair.
How that’s possible… She doesn’t know that, either.
Nor does she know why she’s here, or how.
(Samuel?)
She finds him after a moment, running a hand along a windowsill in what used to be Mary’s bedroom.
(Samuel.)
He turns to look at her. It’s clear he doesn’t understand this any more than she does, that he has no clue why they’ve been brought here, or sent here, how long they’ll be here, any of it. She was somewhere else, a little while ago: a place he sometimes came to, when it suited him. It was summer there, a beautiful day early in their marriage. He’d insisted there was a job that needed handling, but she’d pulled him away, told him the job would wait a few hours, that he owed her some time together, that he’d promised.
I didn’t…
You did. You took a vow, Sam. Remember that?
I remember promising to love, honor, cherish. I didn’t promise “picnic.”
He gave in.
And it was a beautiful day, mild and bright, with a light breeze blowing, carrying on it the sweet, pure scent of wildflowers. He left her long enough to gather a small, ragged, wilted bouquet, and it was clear from the look on his face that that sort of thing wasn’t common for him, that maybe he’d never done anything like it before. She kept a few of the flowers for years after that, neatly pressed between the pages of a book.
(That wasn’t it.)
(Wasn’t what?)
(Heaven. I know you think it was, but -)
(What else would it be? It certainly wasn’t Hell.)
(I don’t think it’s an either-or, Deanna.)
(Then where were we?)
(Someplace else.)
His gaze holds hers, steady and unblinking. It’s one of the things that both drew her to him and repelled her, back when they were young. He wasn’t one for “common courtesy,” for following arbitrary rules of behavior, saying hello and goodbye, holding doors, letting someone else have their say - not if it didn’t suit him, and it very seldom did.
They’re no longer alive, neither one of them, and she supposes that’s reason enough to ignore the rules now.
(Why are we here, Sam?)
He begins to move away. This time she follows him, remaining a couple of paces behind as he moves from room to room, as he says hello to the house they knew, the place that was their home until the night they died. It seems, in a way, that he’s saying goodbye to it as well.
When he finally stops moving, he captures her gaze again and holds it firm.
(Something’s coming.)
(What is it?)
(I don’t know. But it’s coming.)
(Is that why we’re here?)
He stopped moving in the dining room. It’s a small room, close quarters under the best of conditions, more so now, with so many people here: the man their daughter chose and the sons she bore, and the two women who can see more than they’d really like to. The five of them have joined hands, at the request of one of the women.
All five of them know it too.
Something’s coming.
* * * * *