just moving over some more old Supernatural fic
Title: Get Out In The Light
Rating: PG? mention of Hell & torture
Pairing: implied Sam/Dean
Word Count: 583
Summary: a short little thing written immediately following episode 6x11 ("Appointment in Samarra"). Sam wakes up, slowly, with memories of Hell. Dean is there.
Disclaimers: Sam, Dean, and Supernatural are not mine, but I love them. Title and opening lines from The Who's "The Kids Are Alright".
sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
bells chime, I know I gotta get away
and I know if I don’t, I’ll go out of my mind
He knows that he’s in pain. More accurately, he knows that he should be in pain, but somehow it’s not quite registering yet, like the moment of shock between seeing the knife go into flesh and actually feeling the splitting open of skin and bone and body. Like the second after unexpectedly walking over a cliff, but before hitting the bottom.
And wow, Sam thinks, all his mental metaphors are pretty gruesome today. Maybe being in Hell will do that to you.
Being in Hell…but he doesn’t want to think about that, so he doesn’t. There’s a fuzzy thickness lurking in the back of his head that tells him not-so-politely that pursuing those thoughts would be a bad idea. He also has, for some reason, a distinct memory of a voice telling him not to scratch things. Sam guesses that things refers to the fuzziness, because he can’t see a good reason why someone would tell him not to deal with the itch on his left thigh.
His fingers move. He has fingers again. And they move, when he tells them to, and they aren’t broken or twisted or missing. He can feel worn denim against his skin and it catches on a broken nail. He can smell dust and salt and gunpowder and the warmth of other bodies in the room. He can hear quiet breathing that stops and starts suddenly, as if the person closest to him has forgotten how to inhale, just for a moment. These things are familiar. They are also, abruptly, overwhelming: too present, too real, too much. He is here and alive and he knows that it is not a dream, not a game, unlike the other times; and he finds himself shaking, afraid and assaulted by the knowledge.
He curls into a ball on the bed-he’s on a bed, a real bed, he can feel it and hear it creaking under his weight-and fights back the panic. He’s here. What now is expected of him? What more? What can he have left to give, when he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet and the world is crashing in around him?
There’s a new weight next to him, a body beside him, and it’s a familiar presence. Sam knows this one without looking, the way he knows, without question, that he is alive again and his heart is beating in his chest, for the first time since the things he can’t remember. “Sam,” Dean says, and Dean’s voice doesn’t burn and scrape across flayed senses the way that everything else does: Dean’s voice feels like safety, like coming home.
“Sammy,” Dean says, voice cracking, “please.” And despite all the things that Sam fears and does not know at this particular moment, he does know this: Dean is here, in this painful and brilliant world, and so Sam will be here too. He knows that the pain will come, later, when the knife twists and he finally hits the cliff bottom. He suspects that he will hurt for a very long time. But Dean is here, and there is no choice at all: no place without Dean in it can ever be someplace for Sam to come back to. That is, like his newly alive state, a knowledge beyond question.
Dean says again, “Sammy,” and Sam opens his eyes.
Rating: PG? mention of Hell & torture
Pairing: implied Sam/Dean
Word Count: 583
Summary: a short little thing written immediately following episode 6x11 ("Appointment in Samarra"). Sam wakes up, slowly, with memories of Hell. Dean is there.
Disclaimers: Sam, Dean, and Supernatural are not mine, but I love them. Title and opening lines from The Who's "The Kids Are Alright".
sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
bells chime, I know I gotta get away
and I know if I don’t, I’ll go out of my mind
He knows that he’s in pain. More accurately, he knows that he should be in pain, but somehow it’s not quite registering yet, like the moment of shock between seeing the knife go into flesh and actually feeling the splitting open of skin and bone and body. Like the second after unexpectedly walking over a cliff, but before hitting the bottom.
And wow, Sam thinks, all his mental metaphors are pretty gruesome today. Maybe being in Hell will do that to you.
Being in Hell…but he doesn’t want to think about that, so he doesn’t. There’s a fuzzy thickness lurking in the back of his head that tells him not-so-politely that pursuing those thoughts would be a bad idea. He also has, for some reason, a distinct memory of a voice telling him not to scratch things. Sam guesses that things refers to the fuzziness, because he can’t see a good reason why someone would tell him not to deal with the itch on his left thigh.
His fingers move. He has fingers again. And they move, when he tells them to, and they aren’t broken or twisted or missing. He can feel worn denim against his skin and it catches on a broken nail. He can smell dust and salt and gunpowder and the warmth of other bodies in the room. He can hear quiet breathing that stops and starts suddenly, as if the person closest to him has forgotten how to inhale, just for a moment. These things are familiar. They are also, abruptly, overwhelming: too present, too real, too much. He is here and alive and he knows that it is not a dream, not a game, unlike the other times; and he finds himself shaking, afraid and assaulted by the knowledge.
He curls into a ball on the bed-he’s on a bed, a real bed, he can feel it and hear it creaking under his weight-and fights back the panic. He’s here. What now is expected of him? What more? What can he have left to give, when he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet and the world is crashing in around him?
There’s a new weight next to him, a body beside him, and it’s a familiar presence. Sam knows this one without looking, the way he knows, without question, that he is alive again and his heart is beating in his chest, for the first time since the things he can’t remember. “Sam,” Dean says, and Dean’s voice doesn’t burn and scrape across flayed senses the way that everything else does: Dean’s voice feels like safety, like coming home.
“Sammy,” Dean says, voice cracking, “please.” And despite all the things that Sam fears and does not know at this particular moment, he does know this: Dean is here, in this painful and brilliant world, and so Sam will be here too. He knows that the pain will come, later, when the knife twists and he finally hits the cliff bottom. He suspects that he will hurt for a very long time. But Dean is here, and there is no choice at all: no place without Dean in it can ever be someplace for Sam to come back to. That is, like his newly alive state, a knowledge beyond question.
Dean says again, “Sammy,” and Sam opens his eyes.