god says nothing back [spn][one-shot]
Title: God Says Nothing Back
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Word Count: 2600
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In his dreams, he's running.
Notes: Tag to 5x14 My Bloody Valentine. Title from The Wallflowers. Fic contains a lyric from Hey Jude belonging to The Beatles.
i’m calling out from the deep ends of my bones
time says nothing back but i told you so.
the wallflowers
-
This is a eulogy.
-
Dean goes upstairs.
The house is dark. A windowpane rattles in its frame as he passes.
Bobby’s in the library, behind his desk. Elbow up on the wood, head resting in his hand. He looks up when Dean walks in, his boots clomping against the floorboards.
Bobby’s eyes say, What’re you doing up here, boy?
Dean swallows. The bottle hanging from his fingers makes itself known, suddenly; it’s heaver. He rolls the stem between his fingers, looks for something to say.
There’s a glass full of something amber sitting near Bobby.
Sam’s pleas have turned to wordless sobs downstairs.
The wind pushes particularly hard against the walls and Dean is this fucking close to losing it right here, ready to just fall to his knees and give up, because what the fuck does it matter anymore? Famine’s voice in his ears and Sam’s cries in his chest and - and - and - can’t he? Can’t he just be done? Can’t it just end? Can’t it? What would happen if he put his gun in his mouth, right now? What would happen if he pulled the trigger?
“Kid?” says Bobby, voice gruff and gentle.
Dean takes a breath. Looks at the ceiling, then back down. Not at Bobby, but slightly to the left, into the glowing yellow of the lamp on his desk. It’s the only light in the room.
“Want me to-?” Dean gestures towards the row of switches on the wall.
Bobby shakes his head. “Nah. Come sit down.”
Dean shuffles a little, but doesn’t move to sit.
“He locked himself in,” says Dean. And then, as if it needs clarification: “Sam, I mean.”
There’s a moment of silence. “Yeah, well. No one wants to be seen like that.”
Dean can’t see Bobby’s expression. He’s still not looking at his face.
He purses his lips at the words. Shrugs. “Guess not.”
There’s a scream from downstairs; Dean’s name, long and drawn out. It goes up Dean’s spine like a current and he remembers why he’s here.
“I’m gonna - I’m gonna get some air, okay?” he says. Sidles towards the kitchen.
“Sure,” says Bobby. “Sure.” He looks down at the book on his desk, turns a page.
And Dean’s gone.
-
“Please. I can’t - I need some help. Please.”
He stands there and waits, like something’s actually going to happen.
-
He doesn’t know how long it is before he heads back inside.
Bobby’s gone to sleep at his desk. Dean roots around in the hall closet and finds a musty old blanket, drapes it over his shoulders.
He’s forgotten his whiskey outside, but he doesn’t bother to go back and get it, because if he leaves again now, he might not be able to come back inside. Not until it’s over.
Castiel is standing where Dean left him.
“How long’s he been quiet?” Dean asks. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Rough. Torn.
Castiel’s eyes graze over Dean face; it’s like being x-rayed.
“He’s not quiet,” Cas says.
Dean moves closer to the door, and then he hears.
“Oh, please,” Sam’s saying, almost whispering. “Please, God, please. Make it stop, make it stop, I’ll do anything, please, please, please.”
Dean steps away from the door. Heat bubbles in his stomach, rises. He looks at Cas.
“You ever - you ever find-” He pauses, takes a breath. “You ever find your God - he’s got a fuckload of crap to answer for.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes, can’t keep staring into Castiel’s ice-like gaze.
It’s one thing to not listen to Dean. Dean can’t - he can’t say he’s ever had faith. Can’t say he has it even now, because really, isn’t faith about believing when you’re not sure it’s there? But not listening to Sam - Sam, who’s believed in Him for - Dean doesn’t even know how long, that’s just-
“It’s not Sam,” Cas starts again, but Dean holds up a hand.
“Just - stop. That, in there?” - he points at the iron door - “That is Sam. That’s Sam, who was pushed into doing the one thing he’s been fighting against all fucking year. That’s Sam, who’s fucking scared out of his mind, calling to your father and asking for some fucking help.”
“Dean-”
“No,” says Dean, shaking his head. “This is supposed to be God we’re talking about. Not some dude manning a helpline who’s all words and no action. He’s supposed to be all-knowing, all-powerful, He’s supposed to be doing something, not fucking hiding wherever He is. He should be able to snap His fingers and make this all okay! Sam’s just a kid, he’s just human! He can’t - can’t fix everything. He can’t do this on his own, not when every other shmuck is pulling his strings. He’s just one person.”
“I know,” says Castiel, and he knows too much, Dean can see it in his eyes. He turns away and scrubs a hand over his mouth.
“What’re we doing, Cas, huh?” he asks. Sam’s wailing in the panic room. “Why are we even trying?”
“Because we have to,” Castiel says quietly.
“That’s not good enough anymore.”
-
In his dreams, he’s running up the steps of a stadium.
No matter how far or fast he goes he can never see the top. He doesn’t even know what’s supposed to be up there.
He wakes up to aching legs and feels like he’s still moving.
-
Bobby makes coffee in the morning. Castiel stands by and watches but doesn’t drink anything, doesn’t eat either.
Dean wraps his hands around the warm mug. Bobby’s poking around in the fridge, muttering something about bacon.
“There’s no bacon in there,” Castiel says solemnly, from his position in the doorway to the library.
Bobby’s shoulders stiffen. He’s probably ten seconds away from rolling over to Cas, asking him to bend down and then ripping his head off.
“There are no eggs, either,” Castiel says. There’s a moment’s pause and then, “You have peanut butter. Dean likes peanut butter.”
Bobby mutters something that sounds like, “Well fucking good for Dean then,” and rolls backwards, heading towards a cupboard. He grabs peanut butter off the shelf, and a bag of bread.
“That bread’s expired,” Castiel says.
Bobby’s face is stony.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas. Just sit down okay?”
Castiel does and Dean’s ears go back to straining to hear any sound from downstairs, any sign that Sam’s awake and back in the throes of his nightmares.
-
Dean spends the rest of the morning going through Bobby’s books.
There’s a Bible sitting on the desk; it keeps catching Dean’s eye.
-
Dean gets Castiel to open the panic room when Sam doesn’t come to the door to get his food.
Castiel’s fingers come up, tracing a circle in the air, and Dean can hear the lock twisting inside.
Sam’s sitting in a corner, staring at his shaking hands. He doesn’t look up when Dean kneels next to him, or when he sets down the cup of water and the bowl of soup.
“Sam,” Dean says softly.
Nothing.
“Brought you soup.” Sam shudders. Dean watches a muscle in his jaw twitch, teeth clenched tightly together.
“Water too,” he says. He lifts the cup, puts it slowly to Sam’s lips. Sam turns his face away.
“Okay,” whispers Dean and sets the cup back down on the cold cement.
He raises a hand, sets it on Sam’s sweat-soaked, icy arm. His brother flinches away, leans to the right, like he wants to be as far from Dean as possible, but can’t bring himself to stand up and walk away.
“You should eat, Sammy,” says Dean. “It’s - it’s good. I - I mean… it’s um… tomato-rice soup.” He stirs the steaming soup with the spoon. The sound of metal on ceramic echoes around the room.
“Mom used to make it,” he mutters. “I thought maybe. I dunno.”
He looks at Sam. Sam’s still staring at a point on the floor. Sweat trickles down his temple. His hair’s pasted to his forehead, his skin a disgusting sickly gray. His hands are balled into fists, pressed close to his chest, like his legs.
Castiel’s standing guard at the door, back to them, and Dean takes a small breath.
“Take a sad song and make it better,” he breathes.
His voice cracks in the middle. He feels stupid. Heat rushes over him and he looks at his hands, resting on bent knees.
Sam sobs twice, through lips pressed together so tightly they’re turning white.
“Try to eat, okay?” Dean says when his voice comes back. He moves to touch Sam again, but thinks better of it and just stands up instead. Walks out.
They lock the door from the outside this time.
-
This is a eulogy.
-
Dad’s sitting at the top of the stairs this time. Same stadium.
He’s just a shadow in the distance, but Dean knows it’s him. He runs harder, faster.
Dad would expect him to get there, Dad would expect him to be just as good as he was.
Once, he thinks he’s almost there. And then the shadow stands up.
Turns around.
Vanishes.
Just like that.
Dean doesn’t stop running, but he wants to.
-
Day three.
Sam seizes three times in six hours and Dean’s sure this is it - Sam’s heart’s gonna stop any minute now, and it’ll be all over.
He won’t wake up again. He’ll never get past this, this thing he never wanted.
Sam’s heart doesn’t give out though. A small part of Dean thinks - thinks something disgusting.
Thinks, Just give up, for fuck’s sake. Just give up.
Because it would be easier, you know? Easier to do it himself, if someone was leading the way. Dean might not follow Sam everywhere, but he’d follow him - there.
It registers, what he’s just thought.
He leans over and vomits, right there next to Sam’s bed, fingers on Sam’s beating pulse.
-
They cuff Sam to the bed and set up a couple of IVs because Sam can’t keep anything down, not even water.
Really, he just stopped trying - to eat that is - and Dean thought maybe he was trying to starve himself to death. But when they tried to force him to drink some water - please, Sammy, just a little, don’t do this to me - he’d thrown it all up right away.
Sam struggles like a wild animal. “Let me out,” he cries, hoarsely. “Let me out, I’ll be good, just let me out, Dean, Dean, Dean.”
Castiel holds Sam against the mattress with his palm and Dean makes sure the cuffs are secure.
“I wanna go home,” Sam whimpers, as they leave.
Dean feels cold. He wants to ask Sam where home is.
He doesn’t turn around.
-
There are skeletons sitting in the stadium.
“Think about your life,” they say.
They grin as he runs and pants.
“It’ll be okay at the end,” they say.
They grin and grin and grin.
-
Sam starts screaming for them to kill him mid-day four.
Dean shouts at Castiel, things like, can’t you fucking do anything, can’t you make it stop, can’t you make it easier?!
Bobby says, “Dean,” in the middle and Dean shuts up instantly. Falls to the couch and covers his face and tries to keep his head exploding with his hands.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers and Dean feels wetness against his palms.
Sam’s voice gives out about five hours later, just as the sun’s setting.
-
Dean’s been pacing for an hour when Bobby tells him to go take a shower.
Dean would argue, but it seems like an okay idea. He hasn’t changed since they arrived.
He undresses in front of the mirror. Stares for a moment at the scar on his shoulder.
He survived forty years in Hell - and almost thirty years on earth before that - and this, this, is going to be the straw that breaks his back?
Pipes clank and shriek when Dean turns the shower tap on. He waits for the water to warm up and then steps into the spray. Goosebumps spread like wildfire over his skin.
See, surviving is one thing. If that was all he had to do - well, Dean has no problem surviving. Pretty much the opposite actually.
Surviving isn’t the point though, winning is and Dean’s never won. Not once, not on earth and not in Hell.
He snapped so fast it was like he was made of nothing.
They all seem to have forgotten, just how quickly he got off that rack. Just how high he jumped when Alastair snapped his fingers.
They all seem to think he’s someone he’s not.
He can say no. He can say no until he’s blue in the face and he can make sure Sam says no too. He can do all that, but save the world?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
He turns the hot water all the way up. It’s still not warm enough.
-
He’s running barefoot. His feet are bloody mess. He thinks he feels a bone scraping against the cement of one of the steps.
He keeps on running.
But he can’t remember anymore - is he running towards something - or away?
“Does it end?” he screams at the skeletons. “Does it ever end?”
“No. No, it never does.”
It’s like the sound of ice cracking. “You lied,” he whispers. He still runs.
“Of course,” they whisper back. They grin. They laugh. “Of course.”
He runs.
-
“It’s over,” says Castiel, when Dean trudges into the kitchen on the fifth day. “It’s done.”
Outside, the sun is vomiting light.
-
“I wanted it,” Sam moans. “I wanted it, I wanted it, I wanted it.”
“I know,” Dean whispers. He fills the spoon with ice again. Sets some on Sam’s tongue.
Sam can barely open his eyes. He can’t stand, can’t sit on his own. He’s covered in his own sweat and vomit and filth. His voice is shredded.
“I wanted it,” he says. “I wanted it. I’m gonna want it again, I am, I wanted it.”
“It’s not your fault,” Dean says.
“It is, though, it is.”
“Sammy.”
“I can’t do this Dean, I can’t. I’m not strong enough, I’m going to-” He swallows, once, twice. Dean tips more ice into his mouth. “I’m gonna say yes.” It comes out as a whisper, a hiss, too terrible to utter out loud.
“I almost did,” he adds. There’s loathing in his voice, but it’s not angry loathing, it’s not hate, its despair.
Dean doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say, I almost did too. Doesn’t say, What if we just do it? Doesn’t say, Don’t we deserve to rest?
“Sammy. You stood right in front of Famine, right in front of all those demons - and said no.”
Sam’s shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth on the makeshift pillow.
“You said no and I’m so fucking proud of you, kiddo. It means something, okay? You did so good.”
“I can’t do this again,” Sam cries quietly.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Dean doesn’t say anything again. There’s really nothing left. So he sets the empty cup down on the floor and says, “Want to go upstairs? Better bed? Get out of the place?”
Sam takes a breath, then another and nods. His eyes open to slits. Dean pulls one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder; Sam’s thumb hooks into his collar and he makes a fist.
Dean slips an arm under Sam’s knees and behind his back.
He carries his brother upstairs.
Castiel closes the panic room door behind them.
-
This is a eulogy.
-
Judas saith unto him, not Iscariot, Lord, how is it that thou wilt manifest thyself unto us, and not unto the world? - John 14:22
-
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Word Count: 2600
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In his dreams, he's running.
Notes: Tag to 5x14 My Bloody Valentine. Title from The Wallflowers. Fic contains a lyric from Hey Jude belonging to The Beatles.
i’m calling out from the deep ends of my bones
time says nothing back but i told you so.
the wallflowers
-
This is a eulogy.
-
Dean goes upstairs.
The house is dark. A windowpane rattles in its frame as he passes.
Bobby’s in the library, behind his desk. Elbow up on the wood, head resting in his hand. He looks up when Dean walks in, his boots clomping against the floorboards.
Bobby’s eyes say, What’re you doing up here, boy?
Dean swallows. The bottle hanging from his fingers makes itself known, suddenly; it’s heaver. He rolls the stem between his fingers, looks for something to say.
There’s a glass full of something amber sitting near Bobby.
Sam’s pleas have turned to wordless sobs downstairs.
The wind pushes particularly hard against the walls and Dean is this fucking close to losing it right here, ready to just fall to his knees and give up, because what the fuck does it matter anymore? Famine’s voice in his ears and Sam’s cries in his chest and - and - and - can’t he? Can’t he just be done? Can’t it just end? Can’t it? What would happen if he put his gun in his mouth, right now? What would happen if he pulled the trigger?
“Kid?” says Bobby, voice gruff and gentle.
Dean takes a breath. Looks at the ceiling, then back down. Not at Bobby, but slightly to the left, into the glowing yellow of the lamp on his desk. It’s the only light in the room.
“Want me to-?” Dean gestures towards the row of switches on the wall.
Bobby shakes his head. “Nah. Come sit down.”
Dean shuffles a little, but doesn’t move to sit.
“He locked himself in,” says Dean. And then, as if it needs clarification: “Sam, I mean.”
There’s a moment of silence. “Yeah, well. No one wants to be seen like that.”
Dean can’t see Bobby’s expression. He’s still not looking at his face.
He purses his lips at the words. Shrugs. “Guess not.”
There’s a scream from downstairs; Dean’s name, long and drawn out. It goes up Dean’s spine like a current and he remembers why he’s here.
“I’m gonna - I’m gonna get some air, okay?” he says. Sidles towards the kitchen.
“Sure,” says Bobby. “Sure.” He looks down at the book on his desk, turns a page.
And Dean’s gone.
-
“Please. I can’t - I need some help. Please.”
He stands there and waits, like something’s actually going to happen.
-
He doesn’t know how long it is before he heads back inside.
Bobby’s gone to sleep at his desk. Dean roots around in the hall closet and finds a musty old blanket, drapes it over his shoulders.
He’s forgotten his whiskey outside, but he doesn’t bother to go back and get it, because if he leaves again now, he might not be able to come back inside. Not until it’s over.
Castiel is standing where Dean left him.
“How long’s he been quiet?” Dean asks. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Rough. Torn.
Castiel’s eyes graze over Dean face; it’s like being x-rayed.
“He’s not quiet,” Cas says.
Dean moves closer to the door, and then he hears.
“Oh, please,” Sam’s saying, almost whispering. “Please, God, please. Make it stop, make it stop, I’ll do anything, please, please, please.”
Dean steps away from the door. Heat bubbles in his stomach, rises. He looks at Cas.
“You ever - you ever find-” He pauses, takes a breath. “You ever find your God - he’s got a fuckload of crap to answer for.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes, can’t keep staring into Castiel’s ice-like gaze.
It’s one thing to not listen to Dean. Dean can’t - he can’t say he’s ever had faith. Can’t say he has it even now, because really, isn’t faith about believing when you’re not sure it’s there? But not listening to Sam - Sam, who’s believed in Him for - Dean doesn’t even know how long, that’s just-
“It’s not Sam,” Cas starts again, but Dean holds up a hand.
“Just - stop. That, in there?” - he points at the iron door - “That is Sam. That’s Sam, who was pushed into doing the one thing he’s been fighting against all fucking year. That’s Sam, who’s fucking scared out of his mind, calling to your father and asking for some fucking help.”
“Dean-”
“No,” says Dean, shaking his head. “This is supposed to be God we’re talking about. Not some dude manning a helpline who’s all words and no action. He’s supposed to be all-knowing, all-powerful, He’s supposed to be doing something, not fucking hiding wherever He is. He should be able to snap His fingers and make this all okay! Sam’s just a kid, he’s just human! He can’t - can’t fix everything. He can’t do this on his own, not when every other shmuck is pulling his strings. He’s just one person.”
“I know,” says Castiel, and he knows too much, Dean can see it in his eyes. He turns away and scrubs a hand over his mouth.
“What’re we doing, Cas, huh?” he asks. Sam’s wailing in the panic room. “Why are we even trying?”
“Because we have to,” Castiel says quietly.
“That’s not good enough anymore.”
-
In his dreams, he’s running up the steps of a stadium.
No matter how far or fast he goes he can never see the top. He doesn’t even know what’s supposed to be up there.
He wakes up to aching legs and feels like he’s still moving.
-
Bobby makes coffee in the morning. Castiel stands by and watches but doesn’t drink anything, doesn’t eat either.
Dean wraps his hands around the warm mug. Bobby’s poking around in the fridge, muttering something about bacon.
“There’s no bacon in there,” Castiel says solemnly, from his position in the doorway to the library.
Bobby’s shoulders stiffen. He’s probably ten seconds away from rolling over to Cas, asking him to bend down and then ripping his head off.
“There are no eggs, either,” Castiel says. There’s a moment’s pause and then, “You have peanut butter. Dean likes peanut butter.”
Bobby mutters something that sounds like, “Well fucking good for Dean then,” and rolls backwards, heading towards a cupboard. He grabs peanut butter off the shelf, and a bag of bread.
“That bread’s expired,” Castiel says.
Bobby’s face is stony.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas. Just sit down okay?”
Castiel does and Dean’s ears go back to straining to hear any sound from downstairs, any sign that Sam’s awake and back in the throes of his nightmares.
-
Dean spends the rest of the morning going through Bobby’s books.
There’s a Bible sitting on the desk; it keeps catching Dean’s eye.
-
Dean gets Castiel to open the panic room when Sam doesn’t come to the door to get his food.
Castiel’s fingers come up, tracing a circle in the air, and Dean can hear the lock twisting inside.
Sam’s sitting in a corner, staring at his shaking hands. He doesn’t look up when Dean kneels next to him, or when he sets down the cup of water and the bowl of soup.
“Sam,” Dean says softly.
Nothing.
“Brought you soup.” Sam shudders. Dean watches a muscle in his jaw twitch, teeth clenched tightly together.
“Water too,” he says. He lifts the cup, puts it slowly to Sam’s lips. Sam turns his face away.
“Okay,” whispers Dean and sets the cup back down on the cold cement.
He raises a hand, sets it on Sam’s sweat-soaked, icy arm. His brother flinches away, leans to the right, like he wants to be as far from Dean as possible, but can’t bring himself to stand up and walk away.
“You should eat, Sammy,” says Dean. “It’s - it’s good. I - I mean… it’s um… tomato-rice soup.” He stirs the steaming soup with the spoon. The sound of metal on ceramic echoes around the room.
“Mom used to make it,” he mutters. “I thought maybe. I dunno.”
He looks at Sam. Sam’s still staring at a point on the floor. Sweat trickles down his temple. His hair’s pasted to his forehead, his skin a disgusting sickly gray. His hands are balled into fists, pressed close to his chest, like his legs.
Castiel’s standing guard at the door, back to them, and Dean takes a small breath.
“Take a sad song and make it better,” he breathes.
His voice cracks in the middle. He feels stupid. Heat rushes over him and he looks at his hands, resting on bent knees.
Sam sobs twice, through lips pressed together so tightly they’re turning white.
“Try to eat, okay?” Dean says when his voice comes back. He moves to touch Sam again, but thinks better of it and just stands up instead. Walks out.
They lock the door from the outside this time.
-
This is a eulogy.
-
Dad’s sitting at the top of the stairs this time. Same stadium.
He’s just a shadow in the distance, but Dean knows it’s him. He runs harder, faster.
Dad would expect him to get there, Dad would expect him to be just as good as he was.
Once, he thinks he’s almost there. And then the shadow stands up.
Turns around.
Vanishes.
Just like that.
Dean doesn’t stop running, but he wants to.
-
Day three.
Sam seizes three times in six hours and Dean’s sure this is it - Sam’s heart’s gonna stop any minute now, and it’ll be all over.
He won’t wake up again. He’ll never get past this, this thing he never wanted.
Sam’s heart doesn’t give out though. A small part of Dean thinks - thinks something disgusting.
Thinks, Just give up, for fuck’s sake. Just give up.
Because it would be easier, you know? Easier to do it himself, if someone was leading the way. Dean might not follow Sam everywhere, but he’d follow him - there.
It registers, what he’s just thought.
He leans over and vomits, right there next to Sam’s bed, fingers on Sam’s beating pulse.
-
They cuff Sam to the bed and set up a couple of IVs because Sam can’t keep anything down, not even water.
Really, he just stopped trying - to eat that is - and Dean thought maybe he was trying to starve himself to death. But when they tried to force him to drink some water - please, Sammy, just a little, don’t do this to me - he’d thrown it all up right away.
Sam struggles like a wild animal. “Let me out,” he cries, hoarsely. “Let me out, I’ll be good, just let me out, Dean, Dean, Dean.”
Castiel holds Sam against the mattress with his palm and Dean makes sure the cuffs are secure.
“I wanna go home,” Sam whimpers, as they leave.
Dean feels cold. He wants to ask Sam where home is.
He doesn’t turn around.
-
There are skeletons sitting in the stadium.
“Think about your life,” they say.
They grin as he runs and pants.
“It’ll be okay at the end,” they say.
They grin and grin and grin.
-
Sam starts screaming for them to kill him mid-day four.
Dean shouts at Castiel, things like, can’t you fucking do anything, can’t you make it stop, can’t you make it easier?!
Bobby says, “Dean,” in the middle and Dean shuts up instantly. Falls to the couch and covers his face and tries to keep his head exploding with his hands.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers and Dean feels wetness against his palms.
Sam’s voice gives out about five hours later, just as the sun’s setting.
-
Dean’s been pacing for an hour when Bobby tells him to go take a shower.
Dean would argue, but it seems like an okay idea. He hasn’t changed since they arrived.
He undresses in front of the mirror. Stares for a moment at the scar on his shoulder.
He survived forty years in Hell - and almost thirty years on earth before that - and this, this, is going to be the straw that breaks his back?
Pipes clank and shriek when Dean turns the shower tap on. He waits for the water to warm up and then steps into the spray. Goosebumps spread like wildfire over his skin.
See, surviving is one thing. If that was all he had to do - well, Dean has no problem surviving. Pretty much the opposite actually.
Surviving isn’t the point though, winning is and Dean’s never won. Not once, not on earth and not in Hell.
He snapped so fast it was like he was made of nothing.
They all seem to have forgotten, just how quickly he got off that rack. Just how high he jumped when Alastair snapped his fingers.
They all seem to think he’s someone he’s not.
He can say no. He can say no until he’s blue in the face and he can make sure Sam says no too. He can do all that, but save the world?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
He turns the hot water all the way up. It’s still not warm enough.
-
He’s running barefoot. His feet are bloody mess. He thinks he feels a bone scraping against the cement of one of the steps.
He keeps on running.
But he can’t remember anymore - is he running towards something - or away?
“Does it end?” he screams at the skeletons. “Does it ever end?”
“No. No, it never does.”
It’s like the sound of ice cracking. “You lied,” he whispers. He still runs.
“Of course,” they whisper back. They grin. They laugh. “Of course.”
He runs.
-
“It’s over,” says Castiel, when Dean trudges into the kitchen on the fifth day. “It’s done.”
Outside, the sun is vomiting light.
-
“I wanted it,” Sam moans. “I wanted it, I wanted it, I wanted it.”
“I know,” Dean whispers. He fills the spoon with ice again. Sets some on Sam’s tongue.
Sam can barely open his eyes. He can’t stand, can’t sit on his own. He’s covered in his own sweat and vomit and filth. His voice is shredded.
“I wanted it,” he says. “I wanted it. I’m gonna want it again, I am, I wanted it.”
“It’s not your fault,” Dean says.
“It is, though, it is.”
“Sammy.”
“I can’t do this Dean, I can’t. I’m not strong enough, I’m going to-” He swallows, once, twice. Dean tips more ice into his mouth. “I’m gonna say yes.” It comes out as a whisper, a hiss, too terrible to utter out loud.
“I almost did,” he adds. There’s loathing in his voice, but it’s not angry loathing, it’s not hate, its despair.
Dean doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say, I almost did too. Doesn’t say, What if we just do it? Doesn’t say, Don’t we deserve to rest?
“Sammy. You stood right in front of Famine, right in front of all those demons - and said no.”
Sam’s shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth on the makeshift pillow.
“You said no and I’m so fucking proud of you, kiddo. It means something, okay? You did so good.”
“I can’t do this again,” Sam cries quietly.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Dean doesn’t say anything again. There’s really nothing left. So he sets the empty cup down on the floor and says, “Want to go upstairs? Better bed? Get out of the place?”
Sam takes a breath, then another and nods. His eyes open to slits. Dean pulls one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder; Sam’s thumb hooks into his collar and he makes a fist.
Dean slips an arm under Sam’s knees and behind his back.
He carries his brother upstairs.
Castiel closes the panic room door behind them.
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This is a eulogy.
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Judas saith unto him, not Iscariot, Lord, how is it that thou wilt manifest thyself unto us, and not unto the world? - John 14:22
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