fic: That what you fear the most could meet you halfway (Supernatural/Sandman; Dean, Sam, Death)
This ate my brain yesterday and this morning. My usual betas are all on vacation, so it hasn't been looked over, so if you spot something really egregious, let me know.
That what you fear the most could meet you halfway
Supernatural/Sandman; Dean, Sam, Death; gen; spoilers through AHBL2; 2,230 words
"There are rules. Following them when others don't gives us the advantage in certain situations."
[eta] Now with spectacular art by ileliberte. [/eta]
~*~
That what you fear the most could meet you halfway
"I'm glad it's you," he says. "I mean, if it had to happen, I'm glad it's you."
She smiles and reaches out a hand, but before he can take it, Dean wakes up gasping.
Before the dream fades altogether, he has a vague recollection of dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin, but mostly he remembers the sound of wings, and the feeling that he's finally safe.
*
"This would be a lot easier if you remembered me," she says. They're leaning against the car, watching the sun come up. He offers her a sip of his coffee but she doesn't take it. "Caffeine makes me jittery," she says, and they both laugh, knowing it's impossible, that she's never been jittery a day in her... existence.
"I never remember my dreams," he answers. It's true and it's not. He's made a conscious effort to forget the worst of his nightmares, and it's not like he hasn't actually seen them come true now, so they don't hold any power over him anymore. The rare happy dreams fade like morning mist burned off by the sun.
"Yeah, we need to work on that."
"One insomniac in the family is enough."
"You only need to remember these dreams. The rest are--well." She grins. "Not really my business."
He feels himself blushing, and when he wakes up, that sense of embarrassment lingers for a while, though the dream itself disperses like salt tossed over his shoulder.
*
Dean's read through the stack of newspapers they've collected and circled everything that looks like a possibility, and he's getting antsy, because Sam is still chatting with the librarian, trying to get her to let them look at some of the reference books she keeps locked up. He hums "Over the Hills and Far Away" and doodles aimlessly on the Op-Ed page of the Oklahoma Daily, trying to decide whether he wants burgers or Mexican for dinner.
Sam comes back when he's got the rough outline of a face--a mop of curly dark hair, two dark eyes fringed with lashes, eyeliner making a little curlicue under her right eye, cupid's bow lips quirked in a small smile.
"Anyone I know?" Sam asks absently.
"I don't think so." Dean frowns down at the picture, trying to figure out why she looks so familiar.
Sam glances over Dean's shoulder, and stops, struck. "Huh."
Dean looks up at him. "You know who it is?"
"N-no." Sam frowns. "I--maybe? She looks familiar. The thing under her eye." His forehead creases in thought.
"Something from Dad's journal, maybe?"
Sam settles across from him, adds to their pile of books. "Maybe."
"Huh."
But when Dean looks, he doesn't find anything that matches.
*
"You're getting closer," she says, sitting cross-legged on the hood of the car and leaning on her elbows, one hand toying with the chain of the heavy silver ankh that hangs between her breasts. He stares at it, the dull sheen mesmerizing in the sunlight. "Hopefully you get there while there's still time."
"Why can't you just tell me what I need to know? Why do we have to go through all this bullshit?"
"There are rules," she says, and though she still sounds friendly, there's a sharp edge to her words that sends a shiver down his spine. "Following them when others don't gives us the advantage in certain situations."
"Rituals, you mean."
"Exactly. You understand that this isn't like baking a cake--you can't just skip sifting the flour, or substitute margarine for butter, and hope it all turns out okay. Mistakes are costly, and you don't have much left to lose."
"Sam."
Dean wakes himself up calling Sam's name, and Sam scrambles out of bed to plant himself next to Dean.
"Dean, what is it? What's wrong?"
But Dean only remembers the edge of her words, the glint of sunlight off silver, and the feeling that time is running out.
*
While Sam is trying to explain to the waitress that he wants his gravy on the side or something--Dean's tuned him and his ridiculous food issues out--Dean grabs the cup that holds the crayons for little kids. He pulls out the black and gray crayons and starts drawing on the placemat. The black one is already worn to roundness, but the gray one is still pointy--it's not a favorite with kids apparently--and Dean uses it to color in the ankh he's drawn, since no silver crayon is available.
The waitress departs and Sam mutters something about knowing his order is going to get screwed up, and then he says, "Man, if I'd known all I needed to keep you quiet were some crayons, I'd have bought you the sixty-four pack last time we were in Wal-Mart. It has its own sharpener, you know."
"Shut up," Dean answers absently. Crayons melt in the car and the wax is a bitch to scrape off the upholstery, though secretly, he finds the smell comforting. He turns the placemat around so Sam can see what he's drawn right side up. "Where have we seen this recently?"
"An ankh?" Sam's mouth twists in concentration. "We could have seen it anywhere, Dean. They're all over the place."
The memory is tantalizingly within reach, but Dean can't catch hold of it.
"Be right back. Don't eat my fries." He knows the injunction is meaningless--if he's not quick, by the time he gets back, half his fries will be gone, and Sam will act like they were never there to begin with. At least nowadays he doesn't do it with salt on his chin and ketchup on his shirt branding him a liar.
Dean grabs their father's journal out of the glove compartment, though he's pretty sure now that the answer he needs isn't in there. A scrap of newspaper flutters out as he's walking, and when he squats down to retrieve it, he sees the face he drew the other day, dark eyes and full lips, smiling up at him.
"Son of a bitch."
*
When he gets back to the booth, she's sitting in his seat, eating his fries. Sam sits across from her, looking freaked.
He takes a deep breath, forces himself to slide into the booth next to her. "Tessa."
She finishes the fry she's eating and smiles. "Hi, Dean."
*
"So you're a reaper," Sam says, still looking freaked. "Dean's got four months left on his deal. He's not going with you."
"The Reaper, actually," she says, drinking what's left of Dean's Coke, making the ice cubes rattle in the bottom of the glass. "You gonna eat those mashed potatoes?" Sam silently shoves his dish across the table, and Dean bites back a laugh. "They're all manifestations of me." She takes a mouthful of mashed potatoes and wrinkles her nose. "From a box." She pushes the plate back towards Sam with a sigh of disappointment. "You don't remember me, but you were just as stubborn about going with me as your brother was. It's enough to give a girl a complex."
Sam opens and closes his mouth, and Dean does laugh this time, because it's not often someone leaves Sam speechless.
"But I was going to--" Dean starts, and then stops. Sam doesn't need to know that. "So after all the cryptic dreams, why show up now? It's obviously not for the mashed potatoes."
She laughs, and it makes Dean feel warm and content. "I like you," she says. "You're cute."
Sam mutters, "Oh God," and covers his face with his hand.
Dean grins. "You hear that, Sammy? Death thinks I'm cute."
Sam groans.
Tessa taps the drawing of the ankh. "I told you, there are rituals that have to be completed." She picks up the picture of herself. "Not a bad likeness. Close enough for government work, anyway."
"You mean--" Sam says, interested now that there are rituals involved.
"My sigil, and my portrait," she says. "Dean's been calling me since, well. For a while now. But the rituals must be observed." She leans back against the corner of the booth, draws one leg up, clasps her hands around it. She's wearing a kickass pair of Docs. Dean thinks he might be a little in love. She grins at him again, as if she knows. "There are forces at work that will use any deviation from the accepted protocols to cause trouble. And with Hell in a state of flux these days..."
"You can help us?" Sam says, leaning forward now.
She nods firmly. "I can. Unlike my siblings, I normally don't play favorites--everyone comes to me in the end anyway, so there's really no need--but you guys freed me when I was bound, and you killed the son of a bitch who possessed me. I appreciate that more than I can possibly say." Her long white fingers slide over the smooth surface of the silver ankh around her neck, and she takes another sip of Dean's now mostly-water drink. "And, like I said, you're cute."
*
It isn't much of a ritual. Sam looks disappointed at the lack of Latin and incense, but Dean's grateful for the simplicity. He's not sure the other diners at Bessie's Roadside Grill would be happy witnesses to anything involving chanting or bloodletting.
Tessa dips her fingers into the holy water Sam pours into the saucer from which Dean's coffee cup has been removed, and traces an ankh on Dean's forehead with a cool, steady hand. He blinks away a drop of water that catches on his lashes when he bows his head. Then she stands, reaches across the table, and does the same to Sam.
"That's it?" Sam asks as Tessa sits back down.
"Yeah." She nods once, satisfied. "It's not very flashy, but then, it doesn't need to be." She leans her elbows on the table, chin in one hand. "You belong to me now," she says, and though her posture is still friendly, Dean hears the power in her voice, the same edge that sent shivers down his spine in his dreams.
*
When the day comes, Dean has her picture and her sigil in his pocket, but he doesn't need to call. She arrives on the heavy beat of invisible wings, and the hellhounds disperse, whimpering.
The demon arrives, the pretty girl face it's wearing twisted in anger, and the two women, almost mirror images, face each other in the center of the crossroads. Dean stands behind Tessa, and to the right, gun drawn and pointed, the words of the rituale Romanum heavy on his tongue. Sam mirrors him on Tessa's left, and under other circumstances, Dean would find it hilarious that they're acting as Death's bodyguards with weapons that are useless against their enemy.
"You can't take what wasn't his to bargain with," Tessa says, crossing her arms over her chest. "These two have been marked from the beginning."
"By your brothers, not by you," the demon snarls.
"It's all in the family," Tessa says. "What's theirs is mine in the end, as all things are. You know this to be true."
"I wasn't the one who bound you, or possessed you," the demon answers, voice rising, edged with fear. "You're taking your grudge out on me, and withholding what's rightfully mine."
Tessa raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to take it up with the lords of Hell?"
The demon huffs in annoyance, and then the woman it's possessing goes to her knees, mouth open in a silent scream as a cloud of oily black smoke is expelled from her body. She passes out, and Sam drops to his knees beside her, checking for a pulse.
"What just happened?" Dean asks, lowering his gun.
Tessa shrugs. "The politics of Hell are a messy business. It's best not to get involved."
"What did you mean when you said we were marked from the beginning?" Sam asks.
"Sometimes, my siblings require new incarnations. It doesn't happen very often, but we like to make sure appropriate candidates are available." She smiles and puts a hand on Sam's arm. "I don't think you need to worry about that, though I see why Dream would choose you."
"And me?" Dean asks, holstering his gun and scrubbing a hand across his mouth, a little shaky now that the whole thing appears to be over.
She looks sad for a moment. "Destruction left us a long time ago. He's out in the world somewhere, but I'm sure he'd appreciate your contributions to his realm."
"Destruction, huh? That's pretty cool." Dean grins, and Sam snorts and shakes his head.
"I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but I know you're incapable of that, so just avoid making any more deals with demons, okay?" Dean's never had an older sister, never wanted one, but suddenly he can imagine what it must feel like. "And know that I'll always come when you need me."
"Thank you," Dean says, and he means it.
She shrugs again, leans in, and gives Dean a kiss on the cheek, her lips warm and dry against his skin. "You've got a job to do," she says, "and you do it." And then with the soft sound of wings, she's gone.
Sam lifts the still-unconscious girl into his arms and says, "What now?"
"You heard the lady," Dean answers, still smiling. "We've got work to do."
end
*
Notes: I'm probably playing fast and loose with the mythos of Sandman (it's been a while since I read the whole thing), but I was just really struck by the notion of Sam as Dream and Dean as Destruction (though, of course, Dean would never leave the way Destruction did).
Title from "Crazy Mary" by Victoria Williams (as covered by Pearl Jam)
*
7/6/07
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
That what you fear the most could meet you halfway
Supernatural/Sandman; Dean, Sam, Death; gen; spoilers through AHBL2; 2,230 words
"There are rules. Following them when others don't gives us the advantage in certain situations."
[eta] Now with spectacular art by ileliberte. [/eta]
~*~
That what you fear the most could meet you halfway
"I'm glad it's you," he says. "I mean, if it had to happen, I'm glad it's you."
She smiles and reaches out a hand, but before he can take it, Dean wakes up gasping.
Before the dream fades altogether, he has a vague recollection of dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin, but mostly he remembers the sound of wings, and the feeling that he's finally safe.
*
"This would be a lot easier if you remembered me," she says. They're leaning against the car, watching the sun come up. He offers her a sip of his coffee but she doesn't take it. "Caffeine makes me jittery," she says, and they both laugh, knowing it's impossible, that she's never been jittery a day in her... existence.
"I never remember my dreams," he answers. It's true and it's not. He's made a conscious effort to forget the worst of his nightmares, and it's not like he hasn't actually seen them come true now, so they don't hold any power over him anymore. The rare happy dreams fade like morning mist burned off by the sun.
"Yeah, we need to work on that."
"One insomniac in the family is enough."
"You only need to remember these dreams. The rest are--well." She grins. "Not really my business."
He feels himself blushing, and when he wakes up, that sense of embarrassment lingers for a while, though the dream itself disperses like salt tossed over his shoulder.
*
Dean's read through the stack of newspapers they've collected and circled everything that looks like a possibility, and he's getting antsy, because Sam is still chatting with the librarian, trying to get her to let them look at some of the reference books she keeps locked up. He hums "Over the Hills and Far Away" and doodles aimlessly on the Op-Ed page of the Oklahoma Daily, trying to decide whether he wants burgers or Mexican for dinner.
Sam comes back when he's got the rough outline of a face--a mop of curly dark hair, two dark eyes fringed with lashes, eyeliner making a little curlicue under her right eye, cupid's bow lips quirked in a small smile.
"Anyone I know?" Sam asks absently.
"I don't think so." Dean frowns down at the picture, trying to figure out why she looks so familiar.
Sam glances over Dean's shoulder, and stops, struck. "Huh."
Dean looks up at him. "You know who it is?"
"N-no." Sam frowns. "I--maybe? She looks familiar. The thing under her eye." His forehead creases in thought.
"Something from Dad's journal, maybe?"
Sam settles across from him, adds to their pile of books. "Maybe."
"Huh."
But when Dean looks, he doesn't find anything that matches.
*
"You're getting closer," she says, sitting cross-legged on the hood of the car and leaning on her elbows, one hand toying with the chain of the heavy silver ankh that hangs between her breasts. He stares at it, the dull sheen mesmerizing in the sunlight. "Hopefully you get there while there's still time."
"Why can't you just tell me what I need to know? Why do we have to go through all this bullshit?"
"There are rules," she says, and though she still sounds friendly, there's a sharp edge to her words that sends a shiver down his spine. "Following them when others don't gives us the advantage in certain situations."
"Rituals, you mean."
"Exactly. You understand that this isn't like baking a cake--you can't just skip sifting the flour, or substitute margarine for butter, and hope it all turns out okay. Mistakes are costly, and you don't have much left to lose."
"Sam."
Dean wakes himself up calling Sam's name, and Sam scrambles out of bed to plant himself next to Dean.
"Dean, what is it? What's wrong?"
But Dean only remembers the edge of her words, the glint of sunlight off silver, and the feeling that time is running out.
*
While Sam is trying to explain to the waitress that he wants his gravy on the side or something--Dean's tuned him and his ridiculous food issues out--Dean grabs the cup that holds the crayons for little kids. He pulls out the black and gray crayons and starts drawing on the placemat. The black one is already worn to roundness, but the gray one is still pointy--it's not a favorite with kids apparently--and Dean uses it to color in the ankh he's drawn, since no silver crayon is available.
The waitress departs and Sam mutters something about knowing his order is going to get screwed up, and then he says, "Man, if I'd known all I needed to keep you quiet were some crayons, I'd have bought you the sixty-four pack last time we were in Wal-Mart. It has its own sharpener, you know."
"Shut up," Dean answers absently. Crayons melt in the car and the wax is a bitch to scrape off the upholstery, though secretly, he finds the smell comforting. He turns the placemat around so Sam can see what he's drawn right side up. "Where have we seen this recently?"
"An ankh?" Sam's mouth twists in concentration. "We could have seen it anywhere, Dean. They're all over the place."
The memory is tantalizingly within reach, but Dean can't catch hold of it.
"Be right back. Don't eat my fries." He knows the injunction is meaningless--if he's not quick, by the time he gets back, half his fries will be gone, and Sam will act like they were never there to begin with. At least nowadays he doesn't do it with salt on his chin and ketchup on his shirt branding him a liar.
Dean grabs their father's journal out of the glove compartment, though he's pretty sure now that the answer he needs isn't in there. A scrap of newspaper flutters out as he's walking, and when he squats down to retrieve it, he sees the face he drew the other day, dark eyes and full lips, smiling up at him.
"Son of a bitch."
*
When he gets back to the booth, she's sitting in his seat, eating his fries. Sam sits across from her, looking freaked.
He takes a deep breath, forces himself to slide into the booth next to her. "Tessa."
She finishes the fry she's eating and smiles. "Hi, Dean."
*
"So you're a reaper," Sam says, still looking freaked. "Dean's got four months left on his deal. He's not going with you."
"The Reaper, actually," she says, drinking what's left of Dean's Coke, making the ice cubes rattle in the bottom of the glass. "You gonna eat those mashed potatoes?" Sam silently shoves his dish across the table, and Dean bites back a laugh. "They're all manifestations of me." She takes a mouthful of mashed potatoes and wrinkles her nose. "From a box." She pushes the plate back towards Sam with a sigh of disappointment. "You don't remember me, but you were just as stubborn about going with me as your brother was. It's enough to give a girl a complex."
Sam opens and closes his mouth, and Dean does laugh this time, because it's not often someone leaves Sam speechless.
"But I was going to--" Dean starts, and then stops. Sam doesn't need to know that. "So after all the cryptic dreams, why show up now? It's obviously not for the mashed potatoes."
She laughs, and it makes Dean feel warm and content. "I like you," she says. "You're cute."
Sam mutters, "Oh God," and covers his face with his hand.
Dean grins. "You hear that, Sammy? Death thinks I'm cute."
Sam groans.
Tessa taps the drawing of the ankh. "I told you, there are rituals that have to be completed." She picks up the picture of herself. "Not a bad likeness. Close enough for government work, anyway."
"You mean--" Sam says, interested now that there are rituals involved.
"My sigil, and my portrait," she says. "Dean's been calling me since, well. For a while now. But the rituals must be observed." She leans back against the corner of the booth, draws one leg up, clasps her hands around it. She's wearing a kickass pair of Docs. Dean thinks he might be a little in love. She grins at him again, as if she knows. "There are forces at work that will use any deviation from the accepted protocols to cause trouble. And with Hell in a state of flux these days..."
"You can help us?" Sam says, leaning forward now.
She nods firmly. "I can. Unlike my siblings, I normally don't play favorites--everyone comes to me in the end anyway, so there's really no need--but you guys freed me when I was bound, and you killed the son of a bitch who possessed me. I appreciate that more than I can possibly say." Her long white fingers slide over the smooth surface of the silver ankh around her neck, and she takes another sip of Dean's now mostly-water drink. "And, like I said, you're cute."
*
It isn't much of a ritual. Sam looks disappointed at the lack of Latin and incense, but Dean's grateful for the simplicity. He's not sure the other diners at Bessie's Roadside Grill would be happy witnesses to anything involving chanting or bloodletting.
Tessa dips her fingers into the holy water Sam pours into the saucer from which Dean's coffee cup has been removed, and traces an ankh on Dean's forehead with a cool, steady hand. He blinks away a drop of water that catches on his lashes when he bows his head. Then she stands, reaches across the table, and does the same to Sam.
"That's it?" Sam asks as Tessa sits back down.
"Yeah." She nods once, satisfied. "It's not very flashy, but then, it doesn't need to be." She leans her elbows on the table, chin in one hand. "You belong to me now," she says, and though her posture is still friendly, Dean hears the power in her voice, the same edge that sent shivers down his spine in his dreams.
*
When the day comes, Dean has her picture and her sigil in his pocket, but he doesn't need to call. She arrives on the heavy beat of invisible wings, and the hellhounds disperse, whimpering.
The demon arrives, the pretty girl face it's wearing twisted in anger, and the two women, almost mirror images, face each other in the center of the crossroads. Dean stands behind Tessa, and to the right, gun drawn and pointed, the words of the rituale Romanum heavy on his tongue. Sam mirrors him on Tessa's left, and under other circumstances, Dean would find it hilarious that they're acting as Death's bodyguards with weapons that are useless against their enemy.
"You can't take what wasn't his to bargain with," Tessa says, crossing her arms over her chest. "These two have been marked from the beginning."
"By your brothers, not by you," the demon snarls.
"It's all in the family," Tessa says. "What's theirs is mine in the end, as all things are. You know this to be true."
"I wasn't the one who bound you, or possessed you," the demon answers, voice rising, edged with fear. "You're taking your grudge out on me, and withholding what's rightfully mine."
Tessa raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to take it up with the lords of Hell?"
The demon huffs in annoyance, and then the woman it's possessing goes to her knees, mouth open in a silent scream as a cloud of oily black smoke is expelled from her body. She passes out, and Sam drops to his knees beside her, checking for a pulse.
"What just happened?" Dean asks, lowering his gun.
Tessa shrugs. "The politics of Hell are a messy business. It's best not to get involved."
"What did you mean when you said we were marked from the beginning?" Sam asks.
"Sometimes, my siblings require new incarnations. It doesn't happen very often, but we like to make sure appropriate candidates are available." She smiles and puts a hand on Sam's arm. "I don't think you need to worry about that, though I see why Dream would choose you."
"And me?" Dean asks, holstering his gun and scrubbing a hand across his mouth, a little shaky now that the whole thing appears to be over.
She looks sad for a moment. "Destruction left us a long time ago. He's out in the world somewhere, but I'm sure he'd appreciate your contributions to his realm."
"Destruction, huh? That's pretty cool." Dean grins, and Sam snorts and shakes his head.
"I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but I know you're incapable of that, so just avoid making any more deals with demons, okay?" Dean's never had an older sister, never wanted one, but suddenly he can imagine what it must feel like. "And know that I'll always come when you need me."
"Thank you," Dean says, and he means it.
She shrugs again, leans in, and gives Dean a kiss on the cheek, her lips warm and dry against his skin. "You've got a job to do," she says, "and you do it." And then with the soft sound of wings, she's gone.
Sam lifts the still-unconscious girl into his arms and says, "What now?"
"You heard the lady," Dean answers, still smiling. "We've got work to do."
end
*
Notes: I'm probably playing fast and loose with the mythos of Sandman (it's been a while since I read the whole thing), but I was just really struck by the notion of Sam as Dream and Dean as Destruction (though, of course, Dean would never leave the way Destruction did).
Title from "Crazy Mary" by Victoria Williams (as covered by Pearl Jam)
*
7/6/07
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~