FIC: Ithaca
Title: Ithaca
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,940
Spoilers: Season 3, including the finale.
Thanks: gray_light for the beta! regala_electra is responsible for Dean's beard.
Summary: Sam remains as loyal as the ocean runs deep.
Notes: Largely inspired by Homer's epic poem, The Odyssey. Margaret Atwood's response to it, The Penelopiad. As well as the song Que Vuelvas.
Ithaca
yo quiero que vuelvas
que te están reclamando
mis labios que hace tiempo no besas
yo quiero que regreses
si sabías que eras para mi
y siempre quisiste estar aquí
aún no entiendo cómo, cuándo, dónde,
ni por qué te perdí, yo no sé vivir así
And when he leaves the world behind, his journey begins.
**
The house is full of them, whatever you want to call them; the uninvited guests; the party crashers; the hopeful sycophants. Some nights are quieter than others, nights like these when Sam can take a moment to hear himself think. He looks down on them from the top of the wooden stairs, leaning on the banister.
Other nights they've been loud, angry and excited. They cavort, they eat, drink, and fuck the hours away; and they do so with a smile on their faces. They push the limits of pleasure and pain their human sheaths will yield them. They're like sharks, all primal instinct and rush and need and desire and don't stop moving, never stop moving, stay alive long enough to eat and kill again, nothing matters except the next day and the next meal on my plate-
Sam leans back; he didn't realize that he was skimming the surface of one of them. Touching a mind like a hand lazily ghosting fingertips over water, lifting droplets and letting them fall again. It's like water, Sam thinks, you can beat it back as much as you like but it'll go around your defenses.
It will seep in your pores if you get too close.
The house sags and creaks with age, with the weight of everything it's holding right now. At the very height of their hedonistic revelry the house seems to tremble and quake, the structure almost folding in on itself.
They've been patient with Sam, and they remain patient-but it doesn't mean they're happy about it. Doesn't mean they don't pick fights amongst themselves and threaten to string up and hang every life Sam has ever saved if he doesn't make a decision soon. The tension grows more and more with each passing day, a wound that Sam refuses to cauterize. Abscess that bleeds into the wood and bones of the house-poisoning him slowly, infecting his dreams.
Sam's tried to run from them; this is the twentieth house they've been to in as many years. They follow him, they always follow him ever since the war ended and Lilith fell.
He's tried destroying them, tried trapping them and exorcizing them away, but they always seem to replace themselves within a matter of weeks. Seeping into his life through the cracks.
Like water, again.
**
And when he tastes salt in his mouth, instead of blood; turns his head into the cool touch of the sand, feels the water lapping at his toes. That's when he knows it's over
He's come back.
**
Bobby wants them gone as much as Sam does, if not more. But Bobby is a con-man when it comes down to it, not a tactician like Ruby. He'd rather weasel around them, trick them into collapsing in on themselves rather then charge ahead with some confounded plan cooked up by the demon witch at Sam's left hand.
"Choose one, Sam," he says. "Choose a second-in-command like they want you to, a liaison. Hand-pick an army, make them believe you're doing it. Pick the best and the strongest and the most powerful demons there, and then lead them to their own destruction. We take out the weaker ones on our own."
Sam thinks of Bobby's cleverness and smiles, but shakes his head no.
"We're still waiting."
"He's not coming back, Sam!"
"Missouri said-"
"She said what you wanted to hear," Bobby says, voice softening, hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam worries the pad of his thumb between his teeth. "She said what she wished she'd seen, you know she hadn't had a proper vision since the war blinded her."
"You heard him, we're waiting." Ruby stands in the doorway, bag of supplies slung over her shoulder. "We're waiting until Sam's ready."
"He's coming back," Sam repeats quietly into his hands.
Bobby folds his arms, facing Ruby. She scowls at him, "You gonna make a remark about the witches sticking together, old man?" she asks with a defiant flash in her eyes.
Give me a reason to gut you, throw your entrails to the wolves down there, Sam hears echoing in the crackle of air around them.
"I ain't saying nothing about you or Miss Moseley, just that any plan is better than none at all. And the villagers are more than restless."
Sam shuffles quietly out of the room while Ruby and Bobby continue to bicker.
**
He sits on the white-sand beach, collecting himself, catching his breath, remembering and rerunning the gamut of his emotions as they return to him. Every sad feeling he'd ever felt, every happy one, every angry, everything that frightens and delights him. Every mouth he'd kissed, every name he'd come screaming, every time he couldn't do it, all the nights he could. Every lust and passion, every taste of food or alcohol on his tongue. Every moment his mother held him, every day his father didn't. Every night-
There are tears he's aware of brushing away, and laughter he can't stop. Manic and wonderful laughter of anguish and panic and elation at being returned to himself, of the salt-air in his lungs and the pinch of a tiny fish at his feet. He kicks up the black Mediterranean waters and looks at the pale of his naked skin, almost like the sand. He touches his head where his hair burnt away long ago; wonders if it will grow back like the rest of his body seems to have been restored from the pieces and scraps it was in. He wonders if it's been long enough for it to start coming in gray at the edges, like his father.
He looks to the sea, the sun against the horizon, and knows the journey has not finished. But this?
Purgatory feels like Paradise.
**
Sam prays for dreamless sleep.
He gets endless weeks of nightmares. Hands and fingers weaving in and out, pulling at him, tearing his clothes away, his skin and muscle-flesh and hair. Obsidian eyes gleaming at him, hungry like animals, feral and brute and frustrated. Tempers boiling over and voices screaming as the hands deliver the killing blows.
Unworthy false king, they call him. A crown he'd happily renounce if it didn't also require they bleed his royal blood dry.
**
He finds his words again when the sun turns his skin olive and freckled, lightens the soft pelt of hair on his head. He finds his glib tongue and his tricks, but no one speaks enough English in the city for him to use them.
Except her.
White-armed goddess, they call her. Spoiled heiress, he thinks. Easy mark.
Her coral-lipped smile, "I've never seen eyes quite like yours."
She clings to him with red-tipped nails, feline and mewling. She sings to him under her breath, brings him food he fills himself with, despite the sleep-inducing effects they bring on. She lets him in and wishes him to stay.
In the morning he's gone, along with her yacht, The Calypso.
**
"Pick me as your second-in-command, and we'll bring this world to its knees," she says, running a dainty finger under his chin. Her wheat-colored hair makes him look twice, but he slaps her hand away nonetheless, returning to his typing. The laptop sitting in his lap, and the demon-girl leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear.
"Pick me, and I'll help you tear hell apart for him. I'll bring him to you."
"He will come back," Sam says, echoing Missouri Moseley's words years earlier. When she went into the trance, white-eyes rolling back into her head and words flowing out of her mouth, pouring and stuttering but always echoing in his mind, the last thing she said. He will come back. Dean will come back to you.
The demon laughs. "I can make him come back, I can make you come-" she winks, letting her sentence drop.
"I'm not-"
"I'll be your consort. I'll be your wife. Your best friend."
"Ruby," Sam says. And that's the last thing the demon hears as the knife goes into her side, smooth like butter.
**
He sees the lighthouse, peering eye into the sea. Focusing in on his ship. He hears the coast guard sound the alarms, the voice on the loudspeaker telling him to turn away.
The lighthouse, leviathan standing in his way, but guiding him as he grabs his bag and dives into the cold Atlantic, swimming closer and closer to the shore.
They pull him out before he can wash up on the shore, demanding identification, licenses; they speak of trespassing, immigration, and deportation.
He laughs, "God damn, it's good to hear something in English."
**
Ruby's outside, talking to Bobby. Sam watches them from the window. They're not arguing, the body language is all wrong for that. She hands over the knife, and Sam nods to himself. She's taking off, leaving them protection until she returns.
Ruby has been going solo more and more, she is Sam's unofficial second-in-command. But Sam refuses to command any longer, not since the war ended. Not since Missouri gave him his first glimpse of hope in years. She's a free agent, and she always has been. He's given her every opportunity to leave, threatened to kill her, threatened to reach into her psyche and pull out every wicked deed she'd done, make her re-live it.
She told him he didn't have the will to, or he'd have done it already.
So instead he gave her the keys to the Impala, and a single task.
Find him.
**
"Who are you?" they ask him in the lighthouse.
"I'm no one, really," he replies.
"Where did you come from?" they press.
He rubs his face, scratchy beard started to grow in around the Florida coast. He's kept it since.
"Hell."
"Tell us the truth!" A hand cracks across his face. It's the first blow he's taken to his new skin, blood rushing to his brain, adrenaline surges through him. The light overhead finally catches just right, and the men see his eyes.
"What… are you?" one stammers, the others covering their mouths and rubbing their own eyes.
"It's been too long," he murmurs, cracking his knuckles.
**
"The thing I don't get," Rufus says, hunching up his shoulders. "Is why he'll trust second-hand information from the eyes of a blind woman, rather then his own. Everyone knows Sam Winchester's the strongest psychic on the planet, been stronger than Missouri Moseley ever since the war started." Rufus taps the table, checking his hand.
Bobby says nothing, just flips a green chip into the ante.
"She gave him fool's hope, and it's better than nothing at all," Ellen says, raising Bobby another thirty.
Rufus raises an eyebrow. "He can't possibly still deny his own-?"
"He ignores his visions, if he's still having them. Near as I can figure, the only ones he'd ever paid attention to were the ones that helped him save lives, the ones that helped end the war." Ellen takes a drink of her beer.
"He hasn't had any visions of Dean since they day they put him in the ground," Bobby says, laying his cards down. "Trip Jacks."
Sam listens, miles away from where they're holding the card-game. He's still in the house surrounded by the demons, typing away at his laptop.
Writing the letters he can never finish.
**
Off of Nantucket Sound he hears them, and follows them down to their lair, caves carved out of craggy rock. He doesn't fall under their spell, like so many others before, and they spit in his eye. They taunt him, pulling his thoughts out of his head, telling him he'll never reach the end of his journey, never reach home.
"You'll never make it there alive. We'll stop you," the black-eyed creatures say in near-unison. Their screeching voices melding into one terrible wail. He ignores it, ignores all three of them, covering his ears tight.
"Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino," he begins, and the demons bellow loudly in chorus with one another. Hypersonic shrieking. Trickles of blood run down his fingers but he shouts his way through the exorcism.
The three demons scream until black smoke fills the air and they sway and fall to the ground like feathers in the wind. Little broken bird bones, all in a heap of blood and disfigurement.
**
No one ever sees what he's writing. They think he's transcribing his father's journal, combining it with his own years and years of backed-up case files. Trying to make sense out of the chaos his father left behind.
But it's letters, one for every day he's been gone. You could read it as one, singular flowing letter since he never finishes them, never winds them down and signs his name. There's pages and pages of words for Dean, but not a single Sincerely, Sam or Yours, Sam.
I miss you so god damn much, Sam.
I don't know how to do this without you, Sam.
It's going to help Dean when he comes back, Sam thinks to himself. It'll tell him everything he needs to know and Sam won't have to re-live all the days without him. Once it's written, it's gone from him.
**
He sees her when he makes it to Ithaca, Ohio. His baby. Demon sitting on the trunk, hugging her knees, but that's not important right now. He pulls to side of the road, leaps out of the car he'd hotwired days earlier, making a beeline for her.
"Baby, did you miss me?" he says, running his fingers over the chrome.
"What died on your face?" Ruby asks, nose crinkling.
"I promise, no more demons driving you around, it's back to just you and me and-" He lifts his head to face Ruby. "Where-?"
"We should talk," she says. "We need to make a plan."
**
Sam dreams about the hands. Hands touching him, mouths hungrily lapping at his, stealing his spit and his breath. Eyes like jewels, green on black stones.
**
He stumbles in the room, tries to lose himself in the crowd like she told him to. It's easier than he thought, the house is shaking with the ruckus they're causing, the loud shouting and cackling laughter in his ears. He makes his way to the corner, but before he can start, he sees Bobby Singer standing in front of him, eyes narrowed arms crossed over his chest.
Bobby's beard has gone white.
He swallows and Bobby moves closer, brushes right past him, bumping against his shoulder. He can't spare Bobby a second glace over his shoulder, doesn't watch as Bobby walks straight out of the house, drops to his knees on the back porch, and finally let out the cry he'd been holding in; the shock and sadness and joy of it all pouring down.
He's got more important things to concentrate on and a reputation at stake, once again. Cleverest of hunters, wry and cunning and able to weasel out of any situation with his fists or his wits. Slippy, glib words, eels wriggling off his tongue.
**
Some nights are quiet, and some are loud. Sometimes they're so loud Sam can barely hear himself think. He needs Ruby back to help maintain the balance of power he's struck with his unwanted demonic legion. Sam can sense Bobby downstairs, but there's something clouding his psyche, something blocking Sam from getting a good reading.
The villagers are restless, and Sam can no longer concentrate on that night's letter. He storms out of his room, down the hall and to the top of the stairs. Hands gripping the old wood of the banister, he shouts at the crowd, the group of them pushing around a hooded man. He stumbles back, limps forward on one leg and another demon spits at his feet.
Sam's seen this before, Ruby called it 'hazing the new guy'. They're wild animals, packs of alphas and betas and anyone wanting to join up has to identify themselves as a commander or a soldier.
He's not like the others, this one. Sam can't make out his face underneath the hood, just sees the scraggly beard, the leg he limps on, his jeans torn on the side and-
The man, the demon is bleeding, black blood on the wooden floor. Sam loses it there, wants an explanation, wants peace for just one god damn night; and without Ruby or Bobby at his side he's going to have to assert himself. So he shouts, "Stop it! Stop it right now!" and stomps down the stairs.
The demons part like the sea, letting him into the center of the circle, where the hooded demon sits splayed on the ground, his jacket torn at the sleeve. Sam reaches out a hand to help him up, still can only see the bottom half of his face, but his mouth-
Sam dreamed about that mouth last night.
**
He pushes down every urge to grab Sam right there, knows he'd be ripped to shreds before he could get close enough. Instead he takes the proffered hand, squeezing close and starting the exorcism before he loses his nerve and buries himself in Sam.
Sam's eyes go wide as he takes it all in, the screams of the demons around him, shouting curses as they realize what he did, used the wineskin of ink dripping from his leg to paint the floor with the Key of Solomon as they stood within it. They move inwards, realizing the traitor in their fold, but claw only at the air as Sam holds out the span of his arms; tight expression on Sam's face all he needs to know that he's protected from them.
They scream and black clouds fill the room but they all fall. One by one, gossamer marionette strings snipped in twain.
When he's done, he turns to watch Sam shuffle away, towards the staircase, body slumped over-exhausted. He's there at his side, helping him up, letting Sam lean his weight on him as they climb the stairs together, away from the bodies strewn about the floor. Some coughing blood, last gasps of life before the internal injuries overwhelm them.
Sam still won't face him, just looks at the ground where they step-shuffle feet and long legs against wooden floor. Weary bodies, older and starting to ache in both their joints.
Sam pulls away from him at the top of the staircase, turns to him with sadness and fear in his eyes, swallows back and steels himself as best he can.
"Who are you?" he whispers.
Dean Winchester pulls the hood back and smiles.
**
Sam falls against Dean, crashes hard; and Dean has to take a few steps back to regain his footing, bring his arms around Sam's body. Sam feels the life in him as he holds him close, the breath at his neck, listening for Dean's pulse, Dean's heartbeat. Everything reaffirming to Sam that he's here, he's come back. Sam pushes Dean into the wall, presses his body close and buries his face in the familiar crook of Dean's neck. He might be somewhere between crying and laughing, because his body trembles, shakes, and Dean is solid and warm and smaller than he'd remembered. The beard tickles his cheek and Dean runs fingers through the mess of his own hair.
"I want to show you," Sam gasps, pulling back and looking at him, resting both hands on the sides of Dean's face. "I want to show you something."
Dean nods, and lets Sam lead him into the bedroom, shutting the door tight behind him, locking it, charms and deadbolts in place. He doesn't pull out the letters, there will be time for that later, nor does he take out Dean's amulet, his ring.
Dean looks around the room, eyes darting over the walls, the ceiling. "This was..."
"I didn't know when I picked it," Sam said. "I just, I liked this one the best out of all of them, it felt like-well just look and see for yourself," Sam says, pushing a bookcase away from the wall. There, a large piece of paint chipped away, and Dean's name scribbled on the wall. The N is backwards.
"I wrote that," Dean says, smiling.
"This was your room, before." Sam swallows. "I think that's why I wanted it."
Dean nods, reaching out a hand to touch Sam's shoulder.
"What did she say, when you were little? Tell me," Sam whispers.
"Angels were watching over me," Dean says, beatific smile. Eyes right on Sam. Black sclera, black as his pupils, surrounded by a ring of green iris, the only color standing out against the obsidian void.
Sam kisses him, mouth moving hungrily against his lips. Tongue and skin and the taste of him, the feel of Dean's weight in his arms again. Sam grips his shoulders tight, and Dean fists, pulls at Sam's hair, his clothes. They pull apart, and fall onto the bed, writhing and pressing their bodies close. It's too hot all of a sudden, and Sam feels his clothing being shucked, maybe he's pulling it off on his own, maybe it's clever Dean with quick and nimble fingers but his chest is bare in moments and Dean is lying against it.
It's too much wanting and needing and Sam's legendary patience dissolves in a flash of come and sweat.
**
They stay up all night, telling stories.
"And then I rode down the river Styx."
"How'd you know it was the river Styx? There's more than one river out of hell, you know."
"Ugh, are you going to give me a lore-speech?"
"I'm just saying."
"It was the river Styx, Sam."
"Was it because someone was singing 'domo arigato mis-ter robot-o'?"
"... I'm not talking to you anymore."
"Dean!"
"What?"
"Was Kilroy there?"
"That's it, I'm leaving you."
"I'd like to see you try and leave this bed."
"Oh yeah?"
"You're home now."
**
"You know, I think I can see in the dark now," Dean says from the bathroom.
"Yeah?" Sam asks, walking in and standing behind him. Looking at their reflections in the mirror over the sink. "You're shaving?"
"Yep, say your goodbyes," Dean says, holding up the silver razor. Sam grabs his face, rubbing the coarse, wet hair there. Kisses him hard, teeth pulling at his lower lip.
"I never did."
**
They don't leave Lawrence this time. The Impala is gone, Ruby's taken it; either as a token for her years of loyalty and service to the Winchesters, or just to piss Dean off one last time for every 'demon whore' remark he'd made.
Still makes them, when he thinks about it. Curses at her, the thought of her demon claws around the wheel of his baby, and Sam soothes him with hands and mouths stealing away his breath and his anger.
Bobby leaves as well, goes back to the salvage yard where he lives out the rest of his days until a heart attack takes him at the age of eighty-one.
Sam and Dean stay in the house. The demons stop coming, they know Sam's made his choice and he'll obliterate them if they get too close.
Other hunters still fight and demons still claw their way to the surface. It's back to the stalemate that was in place before Azazel and Lilith tried to stake a claim. Humans will stand up and fight; winning some battles, losing others.
**
And in the middle of the journey of their lives, Dean has returned to him.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,940
Spoilers: Season 3, including the finale.
Thanks: gray_light for the beta! regala_electra is responsible for Dean's beard.
Summary: Sam remains as loyal as the ocean runs deep.
Notes: Largely inspired by Homer's epic poem, The Odyssey. Margaret Atwood's response to it, The Penelopiad. As well as the song Que Vuelvas.
Ithaca
yo quiero que vuelvas
que te están reclamando
mis labios que hace tiempo no besas
yo quiero que regreses
si sabías que eras para mi
y siempre quisiste estar aquí
aún no entiendo cómo, cuándo, dónde,
ni por qué te perdí, yo no sé vivir así
And when he leaves the world behind, his journey begins.
**
The house is full of them, whatever you want to call them; the uninvited guests; the party crashers; the hopeful sycophants. Some nights are quieter than others, nights like these when Sam can take a moment to hear himself think. He looks down on them from the top of the wooden stairs, leaning on the banister.
Other nights they've been loud, angry and excited. They cavort, they eat, drink, and fuck the hours away; and they do so with a smile on their faces. They push the limits of pleasure and pain their human sheaths will yield them. They're like sharks, all primal instinct and rush and need and desire and don't stop moving, never stop moving, stay alive long enough to eat and kill again, nothing matters except the next day and the next meal on my plate-
Sam leans back; he didn't realize that he was skimming the surface of one of them. Touching a mind like a hand lazily ghosting fingertips over water, lifting droplets and letting them fall again. It's like water, Sam thinks, you can beat it back as much as you like but it'll go around your defenses.
It will seep in your pores if you get too close.
The house sags and creaks with age, with the weight of everything it's holding right now. At the very height of their hedonistic revelry the house seems to tremble and quake, the structure almost folding in on itself.
They've been patient with Sam, and they remain patient-but it doesn't mean they're happy about it. Doesn't mean they don't pick fights amongst themselves and threaten to string up and hang every life Sam has ever saved if he doesn't make a decision soon. The tension grows more and more with each passing day, a wound that Sam refuses to cauterize. Abscess that bleeds into the wood and bones of the house-poisoning him slowly, infecting his dreams.
Sam's tried to run from them; this is the twentieth house they've been to in as many years. They follow him, they always follow him ever since the war ended and Lilith fell.
He's tried destroying them, tried trapping them and exorcizing them away, but they always seem to replace themselves within a matter of weeks. Seeping into his life through the cracks.
Like water, again.
**
And when he tastes salt in his mouth, instead of blood; turns his head into the cool touch of the sand, feels the water lapping at his toes. That's when he knows it's over
He's come back.
**
Bobby wants them gone as much as Sam does, if not more. But Bobby is a con-man when it comes down to it, not a tactician like Ruby. He'd rather weasel around them, trick them into collapsing in on themselves rather then charge ahead with some confounded plan cooked up by the demon witch at Sam's left hand.
"Choose one, Sam," he says. "Choose a second-in-command like they want you to, a liaison. Hand-pick an army, make them believe you're doing it. Pick the best and the strongest and the most powerful demons there, and then lead them to their own destruction. We take out the weaker ones on our own."
Sam thinks of Bobby's cleverness and smiles, but shakes his head no.
"We're still waiting."
"He's not coming back, Sam!"
"Missouri said-"
"She said what you wanted to hear," Bobby says, voice softening, hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam worries the pad of his thumb between his teeth. "She said what she wished she'd seen, you know she hadn't had a proper vision since the war blinded her."
"You heard him, we're waiting." Ruby stands in the doorway, bag of supplies slung over her shoulder. "We're waiting until Sam's ready."
"He's coming back," Sam repeats quietly into his hands.
Bobby folds his arms, facing Ruby. She scowls at him, "You gonna make a remark about the witches sticking together, old man?" she asks with a defiant flash in her eyes.
Give me a reason to gut you, throw your entrails to the wolves down there, Sam hears echoing in the crackle of air around them.
"I ain't saying nothing about you or Miss Moseley, just that any plan is better than none at all. And the villagers are more than restless."
Sam shuffles quietly out of the room while Ruby and Bobby continue to bicker.
**
He sits on the white-sand beach, collecting himself, catching his breath, remembering and rerunning the gamut of his emotions as they return to him. Every sad feeling he'd ever felt, every happy one, every angry, everything that frightens and delights him. Every mouth he'd kissed, every name he'd come screaming, every time he couldn't do it, all the nights he could. Every lust and passion, every taste of food or alcohol on his tongue. Every moment his mother held him, every day his father didn't. Every night-
There are tears he's aware of brushing away, and laughter he can't stop. Manic and wonderful laughter of anguish and panic and elation at being returned to himself, of the salt-air in his lungs and the pinch of a tiny fish at his feet. He kicks up the black Mediterranean waters and looks at the pale of his naked skin, almost like the sand. He touches his head where his hair burnt away long ago; wonders if it will grow back like the rest of his body seems to have been restored from the pieces and scraps it was in. He wonders if it's been long enough for it to start coming in gray at the edges, like his father.
He looks to the sea, the sun against the horizon, and knows the journey has not finished. But this?
Purgatory feels like Paradise.
**
Sam prays for dreamless sleep.
He gets endless weeks of nightmares. Hands and fingers weaving in and out, pulling at him, tearing his clothes away, his skin and muscle-flesh and hair. Obsidian eyes gleaming at him, hungry like animals, feral and brute and frustrated. Tempers boiling over and voices screaming as the hands deliver the killing blows.
Unworthy false king, they call him. A crown he'd happily renounce if it didn't also require they bleed his royal blood dry.
**
He finds his words again when the sun turns his skin olive and freckled, lightens the soft pelt of hair on his head. He finds his glib tongue and his tricks, but no one speaks enough English in the city for him to use them.
Except her.
White-armed goddess, they call her. Spoiled heiress, he thinks. Easy mark.
Her coral-lipped smile, "I've never seen eyes quite like yours."
She clings to him with red-tipped nails, feline and mewling. She sings to him under her breath, brings him food he fills himself with, despite the sleep-inducing effects they bring on. She lets him in and wishes him to stay.
In the morning he's gone, along with her yacht, The Calypso.
**
"Pick me as your second-in-command, and we'll bring this world to its knees," she says, running a dainty finger under his chin. Her wheat-colored hair makes him look twice, but he slaps her hand away nonetheless, returning to his typing. The laptop sitting in his lap, and the demon-girl leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear.
"Pick me, and I'll help you tear hell apart for him. I'll bring him to you."
"He will come back," Sam says, echoing Missouri Moseley's words years earlier. When she went into the trance, white-eyes rolling back into her head and words flowing out of her mouth, pouring and stuttering but always echoing in his mind, the last thing she said. He will come back. Dean will come back to you.
The demon laughs. "I can make him come back, I can make you come-" she winks, letting her sentence drop.
"I'm not-"
"I'll be your consort. I'll be your wife. Your best friend."
"Ruby," Sam says. And that's the last thing the demon hears as the knife goes into her side, smooth like butter.
**
He sees the lighthouse, peering eye into the sea. Focusing in on his ship. He hears the coast guard sound the alarms, the voice on the loudspeaker telling him to turn away.
The lighthouse, leviathan standing in his way, but guiding him as he grabs his bag and dives into the cold Atlantic, swimming closer and closer to the shore.
They pull him out before he can wash up on the shore, demanding identification, licenses; they speak of trespassing, immigration, and deportation.
He laughs, "God damn, it's good to hear something in English."
**
Ruby's outside, talking to Bobby. Sam watches them from the window. They're not arguing, the body language is all wrong for that. She hands over the knife, and Sam nods to himself. She's taking off, leaving them protection until she returns.
Ruby has been going solo more and more, she is Sam's unofficial second-in-command. But Sam refuses to command any longer, not since the war ended. Not since Missouri gave him his first glimpse of hope in years. She's a free agent, and she always has been. He's given her every opportunity to leave, threatened to kill her, threatened to reach into her psyche and pull out every wicked deed she'd done, make her re-live it.
She told him he didn't have the will to, or he'd have done it already.
So instead he gave her the keys to the Impala, and a single task.
Find him.
**
"Who are you?" they ask him in the lighthouse.
"I'm no one, really," he replies.
"Where did you come from?" they press.
He rubs his face, scratchy beard started to grow in around the Florida coast. He's kept it since.
"Hell."
"Tell us the truth!" A hand cracks across his face. It's the first blow he's taken to his new skin, blood rushing to his brain, adrenaline surges through him. The light overhead finally catches just right, and the men see his eyes.
"What… are you?" one stammers, the others covering their mouths and rubbing their own eyes.
"It's been too long," he murmurs, cracking his knuckles.
**
"The thing I don't get," Rufus says, hunching up his shoulders. "Is why he'll trust second-hand information from the eyes of a blind woman, rather then his own. Everyone knows Sam Winchester's the strongest psychic on the planet, been stronger than Missouri Moseley ever since the war started." Rufus taps the table, checking his hand.
Bobby says nothing, just flips a green chip into the ante.
"She gave him fool's hope, and it's better than nothing at all," Ellen says, raising Bobby another thirty.
Rufus raises an eyebrow. "He can't possibly still deny his own-?"
"He ignores his visions, if he's still having them. Near as I can figure, the only ones he'd ever paid attention to were the ones that helped him save lives, the ones that helped end the war." Ellen takes a drink of her beer.
"He hasn't had any visions of Dean since they day they put him in the ground," Bobby says, laying his cards down. "Trip Jacks."
Sam listens, miles away from where they're holding the card-game. He's still in the house surrounded by the demons, typing away at his laptop.
Writing the letters he can never finish.
**
Off of Nantucket Sound he hears them, and follows them down to their lair, caves carved out of craggy rock. He doesn't fall under their spell, like so many others before, and they spit in his eye. They taunt him, pulling his thoughts out of his head, telling him he'll never reach the end of his journey, never reach home.
"You'll never make it there alive. We'll stop you," the black-eyed creatures say in near-unison. Their screeching voices melding into one terrible wail. He ignores it, ignores all three of them, covering his ears tight.
"Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino," he begins, and the demons bellow loudly in chorus with one another. Hypersonic shrieking. Trickles of blood run down his fingers but he shouts his way through the exorcism.
The three demons scream until black smoke fills the air and they sway and fall to the ground like feathers in the wind. Little broken bird bones, all in a heap of blood and disfigurement.
**
No one ever sees what he's writing. They think he's transcribing his father's journal, combining it with his own years and years of backed-up case files. Trying to make sense out of the chaos his father left behind.
But it's letters, one for every day he's been gone. You could read it as one, singular flowing letter since he never finishes them, never winds them down and signs his name. There's pages and pages of words for Dean, but not a single Sincerely, Sam or Yours, Sam.
I miss you so god damn much, Sam.
I don't know how to do this without you, Sam.
It's going to help Dean when he comes back, Sam thinks to himself. It'll tell him everything he needs to know and Sam won't have to re-live all the days without him. Once it's written, it's gone from him.
**
He sees her when he makes it to Ithaca, Ohio. His baby. Demon sitting on the trunk, hugging her knees, but that's not important right now. He pulls to side of the road, leaps out of the car he'd hotwired days earlier, making a beeline for her.
"Baby, did you miss me?" he says, running his fingers over the chrome.
"What died on your face?" Ruby asks, nose crinkling.
"I promise, no more demons driving you around, it's back to just you and me and-" He lifts his head to face Ruby. "Where-?"
"We should talk," she says. "We need to make a plan."
**
Sam dreams about the hands. Hands touching him, mouths hungrily lapping at his, stealing his spit and his breath. Eyes like jewels, green on black stones.
**
He stumbles in the room, tries to lose himself in the crowd like she told him to. It's easier than he thought, the house is shaking with the ruckus they're causing, the loud shouting and cackling laughter in his ears. He makes his way to the corner, but before he can start, he sees Bobby Singer standing in front of him, eyes narrowed arms crossed over his chest.
Bobby's beard has gone white.
He swallows and Bobby moves closer, brushes right past him, bumping against his shoulder. He can't spare Bobby a second glace over his shoulder, doesn't watch as Bobby walks straight out of the house, drops to his knees on the back porch, and finally let out the cry he'd been holding in; the shock and sadness and joy of it all pouring down.
He's got more important things to concentrate on and a reputation at stake, once again. Cleverest of hunters, wry and cunning and able to weasel out of any situation with his fists or his wits. Slippy, glib words, eels wriggling off his tongue.
**
Some nights are quiet, and some are loud. Sometimes they're so loud Sam can barely hear himself think. He needs Ruby back to help maintain the balance of power he's struck with his unwanted demonic legion. Sam can sense Bobby downstairs, but there's something clouding his psyche, something blocking Sam from getting a good reading.
The villagers are restless, and Sam can no longer concentrate on that night's letter. He storms out of his room, down the hall and to the top of the stairs. Hands gripping the old wood of the banister, he shouts at the crowd, the group of them pushing around a hooded man. He stumbles back, limps forward on one leg and another demon spits at his feet.
Sam's seen this before, Ruby called it 'hazing the new guy'. They're wild animals, packs of alphas and betas and anyone wanting to join up has to identify themselves as a commander or a soldier.
He's not like the others, this one. Sam can't make out his face underneath the hood, just sees the scraggly beard, the leg he limps on, his jeans torn on the side and-
The man, the demon is bleeding, black blood on the wooden floor. Sam loses it there, wants an explanation, wants peace for just one god damn night; and without Ruby or Bobby at his side he's going to have to assert himself. So he shouts, "Stop it! Stop it right now!" and stomps down the stairs.
The demons part like the sea, letting him into the center of the circle, where the hooded demon sits splayed on the ground, his jacket torn at the sleeve. Sam reaches out a hand to help him up, still can only see the bottom half of his face, but his mouth-
Sam dreamed about that mouth last night.
**
He pushes down every urge to grab Sam right there, knows he'd be ripped to shreds before he could get close enough. Instead he takes the proffered hand, squeezing close and starting the exorcism before he loses his nerve and buries himself in Sam.
Sam's eyes go wide as he takes it all in, the screams of the demons around him, shouting curses as they realize what he did, used the wineskin of ink dripping from his leg to paint the floor with the Key of Solomon as they stood within it. They move inwards, realizing the traitor in their fold, but claw only at the air as Sam holds out the span of his arms; tight expression on Sam's face all he needs to know that he's protected from them.
They scream and black clouds fill the room but they all fall. One by one, gossamer marionette strings snipped in twain.
When he's done, he turns to watch Sam shuffle away, towards the staircase, body slumped over-exhausted. He's there at his side, helping him up, letting Sam lean his weight on him as they climb the stairs together, away from the bodies strewn about the floor. Some coughing blood, last gasps of life before the internal injuries overwhelm them.
Sam still won't face him, just looks at the ground where they step-shuffle feet and long legs against wooden floor. Weary bodies, older and starting to ache in both their joints.
Sam pulls away from him at the top of the staircase, turns to him with sadness and fear in his eyes, swallows back and steels himself as best he can.
"Who are you?" he whispers.
Dean Winchester pulls the hood back and smiles.
**
Sam falls against Dean, crashes hard; and Dean has to take a few steps back to regain his footing, bring his arms around Sam's body. Sam feels the life in him as he holds him close, the breath at his neck, listening for Dean's pulse, Dean's heartbeat. Everything reaffirming to Sam that he's here, he's come back. Sam pushes Dean into the wall, presses his body close and buries his face in the familiar crook of Dean's neck. He might be somewhere between crying and laughing, because his body trembles, shakes, and Dean is solid and warm and smaller than he'd remembered. The beard tickles his cheek and Dean runs fingers through the mess of his own hair.
"I want to show you," Sam gasps, pulling back and looking at him, resting both hands on the sides of Dean's face. "I want to show you something."
Dean nods, and lets Sam lead him into the bedroom, shutting the door tight behind him, locking it, charms and deadbolts in place. He doesn't pull out the letters, there will be time for that later, nor does he take out Dean's amulet, his ring.
Dean looks around the room, eyes darting over the walls, the ceiling. "This was..."
"I didn't know when I picked it," Sam said. "I just, I liked this one the best out of all of them, it felt like-well just look and see for yourself," Sam says, pushing a bookcase away from the wall. There, a large piece of paint chipped away, and Dean's name scribbled on the wall. The N is backwards.
"I wrote that," Dean says, smiling.
"This was your room, before." Sam swallows. "I think that's why I wanted it."
Dean nods, reaching out a hand to touch Sam's shoulder.
"What did she say, when you were little? Tell me," Sam whispers.
"Angels were watching over me," Dean says, beatific smile. Eyes right on Sam. Black sclera, black as his pupils, surrounded by a ring of green iris, the only color standing out against the obsidian void.
Sam kisses him, mouth moving hungrily against his lips. Tongue and skin and the taste of him, the feel of Dean's weight in his arms again. Sam grips his shoulders tight, and Dean fists, pulls at Sam's hair, his clothes. They pull apart, and fall onto the bed, writhing and pressing their bodies close. It's too hot all of a sudden, and Sam feels his clothing being shucked, maybe he's pulling it off on his own, maybe it's clever Dean with quick and nimble fingers but his chest is bare in moments and Dean is lying against it.
It's too much wanting and needing and Sam's legendary patience dissolves in a flash of come and sweat.
**
They stay up all night, telling stories.
"And then I rode down the river Styx."
"How'd you know it was the river Styx? There's more than one river out of hell, you know."
"Ugh, are you going to give me a lore-speech?"
"I'm just saying."
"It was the river Styx, Sam."
"Was it because someone was singing 'domo arigato mis-ter robot-o'?"
"... I'm not talking to you anymore."
"Dean!"
"What?"
"Was Kilroy there?"
"That's it, I'm leaving you."
"I'd like to see you try and leave this bed."
"Oh yeah?"
"You're home now."
**
"You know, I think I can see in the dark now," Dean says from the bathroom.
"Yeah?" Sam asks, walking in and standing behind him. Looking at their reflections in the mirror over the sink. "You're shaving?"
"Yep, say your goodbyes," Dean says, holding up the silver razor. Sam grabs his face, rubbing the coarse, wet hair there. Kisses him hard, teeth pulling at his lower lip.
"I never did."
**
They don't leave Lawrence this time. The Impala is gone, Ruby's taken it; either as a token for her years of loyalty and service to the Winchesters, or just to piss Dean off one last time for every 'demon whore' remark he'd made.
Still makes them, when he thinks about it. Curses at her, the thought of her demon claws around the wheel of his baby, and Sam soothes him with hands and mouths stealing away his breath and his anger.
Bobby leaves as well, goes back to the salvage yard where he lives out the rest of his days until a heart attack takes him at the age of eighty-one.
Sam and Dean stay in the house. The demons stop coming, they know Sam's made his choice and he'll obliterate them if they get too close.
Other hunters still fight and demons still claw their way to the surface. It's back to the stalemate that was in place before Azazel and Lilith tried to stake a claim. Humans will stand up and fight; winning some battles, losing others.
**
And in the middle of the journey of their lives, Dean has returned to him.