ad vitam aeternam (very mild Sam/Dean, pg-rated, 1400ish words)
ad vitam aeternam
(very mild Sam/Dean, pg-rated, 1400ish words, spoilers for 3.16)
This is simply my happy place after 3.16. I needed a happy ending and this is it. It has not been beta'd and may seem a bit bizarre. Sorry about that.
Whenever Sam crosses over the threshold into the abbey, he feels a bone-gnawing ache. Not painful but disquieting. It's the same now as it was that first time he walked through the crumbling stone archway: Dean soft and wretched in his arms, and his own acceptance of the title of antichrist hot and sour in his mouth, a taste that lingered for weeks, months. Years.
Now though, Sam relishes that moment of shuddering chill, because it reassures him that this place he has hidden his brother away in is holy ground. It's holy enough that even he feels it.
There's a soft mist of rain in the air, a grey pall over the rolling hills and woodland dips of the Dorset countryside. The bell for the end of matins begins to toll, its sound reverberating clear and clean through the hush, and Sam slows to a stop. He pauses, uncertain whether to head for the chapel or the gardens.
There was a time when Sam thought all he'd accomplished was the damnation of his own soul and the postponement of Dean's damnation. He'd claimed his birthright as antichrist, made the demons bow down to him as he walked through Hell and he'd brought Dean back. But Dean had been so broken Sam hadn't believed he could ever be fixed.
It's hard to believe he's living the same life.
"He's still in the chapel," says Brother Alan, coming down the damp stone cloisters towards Sam. There's something of Bobby about Alan, less gruff though. It was Alan who helped organise the more mundane details of Dean's life at the abbey and Sam would be grateful to him for that, even without everything else he's done for them.
Sam guesses he shouldn't be surprised that they all know his first thought is always to get to Dean but it makes him flush, the heat creeping up the back of his neck all the same. Brother Alan smiles slightly and gestures for Sam to come with him.
"Did you have any luck on your trip?" Brother Alan says. Sam just grins and pats the leather case slung over his shoulder. He sees the smile mirrored on Alan's face. "So we'll have your dinner brought to you in the library then this evening?"
"You're kidding, right?" Sam says. "Risk getting food on the book? After the trouble I had to go to to get it?"
Alan laughs and claps Sam on the shoulder.
"Quite right," he says.
They reach the chapel and there's a second where Alan is about to walk right on in with Sam, before he catches himself and stops. There's an unspoken awareness that although Sam and Dean are part of the community at the abbey, there is a separate space just for each other.
The chapel is just barely large enough for the twenty or so monks who worship there. It's old - even the rough layer of plaster on the walls is discoloured with age. The single gothic arch window lets in a river of dim, grey light. There's an ascetic purity to the chapel that soothes even Sam's gnarled soul.
Dean is lighting a candle and Sam stops where he is, simply to appreciate the serenity of Dean's expression as the candlelight flickers warm and gold in the cup of his hands. Although Dean has been invited more than once to wear the simple brown habit worn by the monks of the order, he's still in his jeans and flannel shirt. They're clothes that should be incongruous in a religious brotherhood but Dean fits here, much better than Sam expected.
This is where Sam brought Dean and claimed sanctuary for him. This is where they both found home.
"Four years today," says Dean without looking over his shoulder.
"I know," says Sam.
"Crazy how it feels like I've been here forever and like I've only just got here." Dean sets his candle down and considers it for a moment. "Keep waiting for this to be one giant mindfuck. Like I'm gonna open my eyes and realise I never left-"
Sam tries to find words to reassure Dean but he can't, because he doesn’t quite believe it himself. After all of it - the months knowing Dean was suffering in Hell, the things he had to do and become in order to save him, and then the months watching over the wrecked shell of that he'd carried out of Hell, waiting for his brother to crawl back to humanity - Sam can't exactly be sure this isn't just some beautifully vivid dream.
Maybe he'll wake up and be back there.
"The asafoetida's coming on good. Had fucking slugs chowing down on the feverwort but I've hunted them sons of bitches down and salted their slimy asses off." Dean's voice comes in a sudden rush, bright and cheerful and so clearly desperate to reassure Sam that he's all right, really he is, scars and trauma and all. "And dinner tonight, in the soup, they're using some of the mushrooms I grew. So, y'know, if you spend the night puking your guts up…" He trails off and grins hopefully at Sam.
"Oh? Well I ate on the plane, don't think I could eat another mouthful."
"Fuck you, you're having the soup and fucking well liking it," says Dean mildly. "How's my baby?"
"Bobby's taking good care of her, polishing her up every day. He said to say 'hi', by the way. Oh and I saw Jo too, she helped me track down the book I was looking for."
Finally stepping back from the altar, Dean looks over at Sam, eyebrow raised.
"You got your book then. Is this the last time I'm gonna see you outta the library for the next six weeks then?"
"You'll see me," Sam says. "'Sides, these translations are important. It's something I can do for the abbey. Least I can do for them."
At last Dean's close enough for Sam to wrap his arm around his shoulders. Sometimes, he feels like it's wrong, to touch Dean like this, to love Dean like he does, as if it might taint the holy ground. Sometimes he wonders if he brings his own evil into the abbey by coming here. And then other times, he thinks it's the holy ground purifying him. Maybe it's loving Dean that keeps him human.
They walk together back out to the cloisters. The rain has stopped and the air is fresh, rainwater glistening on the tips of the leaves in the courtyard.
"Show me the herb garden?" Sam says.
He knows it bugs Dean whenever he calls it an herb garden. But that's what it is and Dean's macho tendencies are just going to have to accept it. Besides, the things Dean's growing there are all on the fierce side of protective: his own little, holy-plant army.
Alongside the asafoetida and feverwort, there's heather, rue, angelica and bay. The garden is in the corner of the abbey grounds, a little patch of thriving verdure hidden out of sight. It never stops being fascinating to Sam that his brother's hands, so long familiar only with guns and the Impala's engine, have become so adept at coaxing the seeds into such lush life.
"Pretty awesome, huh?" says Dean. He drops to a crouch and examines the leaves of some small, dark green plant. "Had a pretty bad frost a few weeks back. Thought I'd lose a lot but… they hung on. Tough little guys."
When he rises again, he leans into Sam and lets Sam turn them about to look out over the wide expanse of countryside. The wind buffets them and Sam knows it'll take him a while to adjust from the warmth of the Florida sunshine where he hunted down his text, to the less friendly English weather, which ranges from grey to wet and grey.
From here, they can see beyond the abbey grounds, past the line of consecration. The world out there is not holy, is not safe. Dean hasn't left the abbey since Sam brought him here. He doesn't think Dean ever will now.
It's not what he imagined their life becoming, but he's happy with it all the same. There will always be nights that Dean is too cold with remembered terror to sleep, always be the scars from wounds he shouldn't have survived (didn't survive). There will always be a hundred little reminders that Sam is hellish, inhuman.
Dean tilts his face up and kisses the corner of Sam's mouth.
This is more like heaven than Sam ever thought he'd see.
(very mild Sam/Dean, pg-rated, 1400ish words, spoilers for 3.16)
This is simply my happy place after 3.16. I needed a happy ending and this is it. It has not been beta'd and may seem a bit bizarre. Sorry about that.
Whenever Sam crosses over the threshold into the abbey, he feels a bone-gnawing ache. Not painful but disquieting. It's the same now as it was that first time he walked through the crumbling stone archway: Dean soft and wretched in his arms, and his own acceptance of the title of antichrist hot and sour in his mouth, a taste that lingered for weeks, months. Years.
Now though, Sam relishes that moment of shuddering chill, because it reassures him that this place he has hidden his brother away in is holy ground. It's holy enough that even he feels it.
There's a soft mist of rain in the air, a grey pall over the rolling hills and woodland dips of the Dorset countryside. The bell for the end of matins begins to toll, its sound reverberating clear and clean through the hush, and Sam slows to a stop. He pauses, uncertain whether to head for the chapel or the gardens.
There was a time when Sam thought all he'd accomplished was the damnation of his own soul and the postponement of Dean's damnation. He'd claimed his birthright as antichrist, made the demons bow down to him as he walked through Hell and he'd brought Dean back. But Dean had been so broken Sam hadn't believed he could ever be fixed.
It's hard to believe he's living the same life.
"He's still in the chapel," says Brother Alan, coming down the damp stone cloisters towards Sam. There's something of Bobby about Alan, less gruff though. It was Alan who helped organise the more mundane details of Dean's life at the abbey and Sam would be grateful to him for that, even without everything else he's done for them.
Sam guesses he shouldn't be surprised that they all know his first thought is always to get to Dean but it makes him flush, the heat creeping up the back of his neck all the same. Brother Alan smiles slightly and gestures for Sam to come with him.
"Did you have any luck on your trip?" Brother Alan says. Sam just grins and pats the leather case slung over his shoulder. He sees the smile mirrored on Alan's face. "So we'll have your dinner brought to you in the library then this evening?"
"You're kidding, right?" Sam says. "Risk getting food on the book? After the trouble I had to go to to get it?"
Alan laughs and claps Sam on the shoulder.
"Quite right," he says.
They reach the chapel and there's a second where Alan is about to walk right on in with Sam, before he catches himself and stops. There's an unspoken awareness that although Sam and Dean are part of the community at the abbey, there is a separate space just for each other.
The chapel is just barely large enough for the twenty or so monks who worship there. It's old - even the rough layer of plaster on the walls is discoloured with age. The single gothic arch window lets in a river of dim, grey light. There's an ascetic purity to the chapel that soothes even Sam's gnarled soul.
Dean is lighting a candle and Sam stops where he is, simply to appreciate the serenity of Dean's expression as the candlelight flickers warm and gold in the cup of his hands. Although Dean has been invited more than once to wear the simple brown habit worn by the monks of the order, he's still in his jeans and flannel shirt. They're clothes that should be incongruous in a religious brotherhood but Dean fits here, much better than Sam expected.
This is where Sam brought Dean and claimed sanctuary for him. This is where they both found home.
"Four years today," says Dean without looking over his shoulder.
"I know," says Sam.
"Crazy how it feels like I've been here forever and like I've only just got here." Dean sets his candle down and considers it for a moment. "Keep waiting for this to be one giant mindfuck. Like I'm gonna open my eyes and realise I never left-"
Sam tries to find words to reassure Dean but he can't, because he doesn’t quite believe it himself. After all of it - the months knowing Dean was suffering in Hell, the things he had to do and become in order to save him, and then the months watching over the wrecked shell of that he'd carried out of Hell, waiting for his brother to crawl back to humanity - Sam can't exactly be sure this isn't just some beautifully vivid dream.
Maybe he'll wake up and be back there.
"The asafoetida's coming on good. Had fucking slugs chowing down on the feverwort but I've hunted them sons of bitches down and salted their slimy asses off." Dean's voice comes in a sudden rush, bright and cheerful and so clearly desperate to reassure Sam that he's all right, really he is, scars and trauma and all. "And dinner tonight, in the soup, they're using some of the mushrooms I grew. So, y'know, if you spend the night puking your guts up…" He trails off and grins hopefully at Sam.
"Oh? Well I ate on the plane, don't think I could eat another mouthful."
"Fuck you, you're having the soup and fucking well liking it," says Dean mildly. "How's my baby?"
"Bobby's taking good care of her, polishing her up every day. He said to say 'hi', by the way. Oh and I saw Jo too, she helped me track down the book I was looking for."
Finally stepping back from the altar, Dean looks over at Sam, eyebrow raised.
"You got your book then. Is this the last time I'm gonna see you outta the library for the next six weeks then?"
"You'll see me," Sam says. "'Sides, these translations are important. It's something I can do for the abbey. Least I can do for them."
At last Dean's close enough for Sam to wrap his arm around his shoulders. Sometimes, he feels like it's wrong, to touch Dean like this, to love Dean like he does, as if it might taint the holy ground. Sometimes he wonders if he brings his own evil into the abbey by coming here. And then other times, he thinks it's the holy ground purifying him. Maybe it's loving Dean that keeps him human.
They walk together back out to the cloisters. The rain has stopped and the air is fresh, rainwater glistening on the tips of the leaves in the courtyard.
"Show me the herb garden?" Sam says.
He knows it bugs Dean whenever he calls it an herb garden. But that's what it is and Dean's macho tendencies are just going to have to accept it. Besides, the things Dean's growing there are all on the fierce side of protective: his own little, holy-plant army.
Alongside the asafoetida and feverwort, there's heather, rue, angelica and bay. The garden is in the corner of the abbey grounds, a little patch of thriving verdure hidden out of sight. It never stops being fascinating to Sam that his brother's hands, so long familiar only with guns and the Impala's engine, have become so adept at coaxing the seeds into such lush life.
"Pretty awesome, huh?" says Dean. He drops to a crouch and examines the leaves of some small, dark green plant. "Had a pretty bad frost a few weeks back. Thought I'd lose a lot but… they hung on. Tough little guys."
When he rises again, he leans into Sam and lets Sam turn them about to look out over the wide expanse of countryside. The wind buffets them and Sam knows it'll take him a while to adjust from the warmth of the Florida sunshine where he hunted down his text, to the less friendly English weather, which ranges from grey to wet and grey.
From here, they can see beyond the abbey grounds, past the line of consecration. The world out there is not holy, is not safe. Dean hasn't left the abbey since Sam brought him here. He doesn't think Dean ever will now.
It's not what he imagined their life becoming, but he's happy with it all the same. There will always be nights that Dean is too cold with remembered terror to sleep, always be the scars from wounds he shouldn't have survived (didn't survive). There will always be a hundred little reminders that Sam is hellish, inhuman.
Dean tilts his face up and kisses the corner of Sam's mouth.
This is more like heaven than Sam ever thought he'd see.