Memefic: Your Name in Lights
Your Name in Lights
Summary: For the current Oh_Sam comment-fic meme, for rokhal's prompt: What torments Sam most about his memories of the Cage, after he gets a tenuous grip on the flashbacks and fear, is how he broke there: in the worst way a Winchester could possibly break. He remembers wishing Dean was there instead of him. Dean assumes that Sam is miserable and ashamed because of something done to him, instead of anything he'd done, and Sam is inconsolable.Does Dean ever figure it out? Can Sam ever move on?
Note: Flashfic, written in 30 minutes. Very short.
THIS IS THE LAST ONE SRSLY
Literally written in 30 minutes. Whoops!
_________________________
Up in Lights
_________
There was my name up in lights.
I said, 'God, somebody's made a mistake.'
But there it was, in lights. And I sat there and said,
'Remember, you're not a star.'
Yet there it was up in lights.
--Marilyn Monroe
_________
He fumbles the glass and it crashes into the sink. It doesn’t shatter but a crack splits from the heavy base clear up the side, and a tiny chip falls away somewhere. Sam doesn’t know where. Light flashes along the crack as he sets the glass on the sink counter with a lightly trembling hand.
No matter how hard he looks, Sam can’t find the missing piece.
--
Dean says, “Lay the hell off the coffee, would ya?”
Sam smoothes his hands over his thighs, denim biting his palms. “Sorry,” he says, “Sorry.”
Dean stares, and Sam thinks he might recognize that expression. Vague disgust, maybe. It’s incongruous. It sits wrong, not just on his face but in the room. Doesn’t match the wallpaper. Doesn’t match.
“I-Dean?” He almost bites his lip, remembers not to at the last moment. “I’m so-I’m going out. Okay? I’ll be back. I just need-”
“Sam!” Dean cuts the air with the edge of his hand. “Just…go, okay? Before you vibrate right outta your clothes, Jesus.”
He can’t keep the smile off his face (grateful, relieved), and Dean stares.
Sam scuttles out the door and grabs both his hands, holds them close to his belly.
--
And they
And they say
They say, “Sam,”
They say his name
His name
It burns because it’s his and it’s all of him. And it burns star-bright and it’s him. It’s never anything, anyone else.
Always him.
Say, “Sam”
“Sam”
Clear and bright and white and burning.
No other names but one.
--
Dean says, “Sam, you gotta…” his hand passes across his face as if it belongs to somebody else. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. I…look, if anyone can understand. I just. You can tell me, okay?”
Sam looks at the two pieces of glass in his hand. He broke it, in the end, because he couldn’t stand looking at it. At the pieces that didn’t come apart when they should have. Held it in both hands and pulled, until they gave up. Snapped apart. Easy. Like they were meant to be, all along.
He says, “There’s nothing to tell. Dean. It’s fine.”
He says, “It’s fine.
“Dean.”
--
They say
“Who are you?”
“How dare you?”
“What have you”
“Sam what have you”
He whispers, “I didn’t”
It’s a lie. Of course. But it burns down deep. All the way to the bottom. Nothing but.
“Sam. What have you done?”
He says “No”
Says, “Not me”
Stop.
It wasn’t me.
--
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dean tells him, standing in the five a.m. sunlight, hands open and calm at his side. “Whatever it-Sam you have to know. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t.”
Sam lifts his head from his hands but doesn’t stand up from the asphalt. They’re the only people in the lot and it’s Sunday morning.
“S-” he starts, and Sam leaps to his feet.
“Shut up! Just-don’t. Don’t say it! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t say it. I’m sorry.”
Dean’s mouth hangs slightly open, gobsmacked. Jaw quivering. He licks his lips, lightning fast, and looks away.
“Sorry,” Sam says again, and turns away, wraps his arms around himself. Shivers when he hears Dean’s voice, low and flecked with dismay. Sam tightens his grip, but it doesn’t matter.
“Sam?” Dean’s voice pitches up at the end of his name, and Sam can’t help but flinch. “What did you do?”
--
“It was Dean,” he whispers. “Dean. It was D-Dean.”
“Please.”
Please. Oh please.
--
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I. I.”
“You have to tell me.” Dean’s voice is a long way off, but it carries. It was made to carry. “You have to tell me the truth.”
He stares at the pavement with dry eyes.
The light burns all the way down.
-end-
__________________
There are about 12 prompts that make me drool a little bit, but I’m being good and resisting.
Every time I do a fic I think, "I'll write a happy ending.
"Next time."
Summary: For the current Oh_Sam comment-fic meme, for rokhal's prompt: What torments Sam most about his memories of the Cage, after he gets a tenuous grip on the flashbacks and fear, is how he broke there: in the worst way a Winchester could possibly break. He remembers wishing Dean was there instead of him. Dean assumes that Sam is miserable and ashamed because of something done to him, instead of anything he'd done, and Sam is inconsolable.Does Dean ever figure it out? Can Sam ever move on?
Note: Flashfic, written in 30 minutes. Very short.
THIS IS THE LAST ONE SRSLY
Literally written in 30 minutes. Whoops!
_________________________
Up in Lights
_________
There was my name up in lights.
I said, 'God, somebody's made a mistake.'
But there it was, in lights. And I sat there and said,
'Remember, you're not a star.'
Yet there it was up in lights.
--Marilyn Monroe
_________
He fumbles the glass and it crashes into the sink. It doesn’t shatter but a crack splits from the heavy base clear up the side, and a tiny chip falls away somewhere. Sam doesn’t know where. Light flashes along the crack as he sets the glass on the sink counter with a lightly trembling hand.
No matter how hard he looks, Sam can’t find the missing piece.
--
Dean says, “Lay the hell off the coffee, would ya?”
Sam smoothes his hands over his thighs, denim biting his palms. “Sorry,” he says, “Sorry.”
Dean stares, and Sam thinks he might recognize that expression. Vague disgust, maybe. It’s incongruous. It sits wrong, not just on his face but in the room. Doesn’t match the wallpaper. Doesn’t match.
“I-Dean?” He almost bites his lip, remembers not to at the last moment. “I’m so-I’m going out. Okay? I’ll be back. I just need-”
“Sam!” Dean cuts the air with the edge of his hand. “Just…go, okay? Before you vibrate right outta your clothes, Jesus.”
He can’t keep the smile off his face (grateful, relieved), and Dean stares.
Sam scuttles out the door and grabs both his hands, holds them close to his belly.
--
And they
And they say
They say, “Sam,”
They say his name
His name
It burns because it’s his and it’s all of him. And it burns star-bright and it’s him. It’s never anything, anyone else.
Always him.
Say, “Sam”
“Sam”
Clear and bright and white and burning.
No other names but one.
--
Dean says, “Sam, you gotta…” his hand passes across his face as if it belongs to somebody else. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. I…look, if anyone can understand. I just. You can tell me, okay?”
Sam looks at the two pieces of glass in his hand. He broke it, in the end, because he couldn’t stand looking at it. At the pieces that didn’t come apart when they should have. Held it in both hands and pulled, until they gave up. Snapped apart. Easy. Like they were meant to be, all along.
He says, “There’s nothing to tell. Dean. It’s fine.”
He says, “It’s fine.
“Dean.”
--
They say
“Who are you?”
“How dare you?”
“What have you”
“Sam what have you”
He whispers, “I didn’t”
It’s a lie. Of course. But it burns down deep. All the way to the bottom. Nothing but.
“Sam. What have you done?”
He says “No”
Says, “Not me”
Stop.
It wasn’t me.
--
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dean tells him, standing in the five a.m. sunlight, hands open and calm at his side. “Whatever it-Sam you have to know. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t.”
Sam lifts his head from his hands but doesn’t stand up from the asphalt. They’re the only people in the lot and it’s Sunday morning.
“S-” he starts, and Sam leaps to his feet.
“Shut up! Just-don’t. Don’t say it! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t say it. I’m sorry.”
Dean’s mouth hangs slightly open, gobsmacked. Jaw quivering. He licks his lips, lightning fast, and looks away.
“Sorry,” Sam says again, and turns away, wraps his arms around himself. Shivers when he hears Dean’s voice, low and flecked with dismay. Sam tightens his grip, but it doesn’t matter.
“Sam?” Dean’s voice pitches up at the end of his name, and Sam can’t help but flinch. “What did you do?”
--
“It was Dean,” he whispers. “Dean. It was D-Dean.”
“Please.”
Please. Oh please.
--
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I. I.”
“You have to tell me.” Dean’s voice is a long way off, but it carries. It was made to carry. “You have to tell me the truth.”
He stares at the pavement with dry eyes.
The light burns all the way down.
-end-
__________________
There are about 12 prompts that make me drool a little bit, but I’m being good and resisting.
Every time I do a fic I think, "I'll write a happy ending.
"Next time."