OhSam Triple Play 2016!
It's November 2, an auspicious (if ominous) day for our darling Sam, so to herald his introduction to The Red Stuff, let's revisit an annual tradition. Welcome to the OhSam Triple Play 2016! This year, we're offering a focus on a reoccurring theme in Sam's life: blood"Blood" could be interpreted in many ways. Family don't end with blood. The demon
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Sam can’t breathe anymore.
Somewhere to his left, Dean is shouting.
Sam, you better stay fucking alive.
There is fire inside of him, licking at his innards and every bit as painful as his memory of Hellfire. He wonders if it pours out of him, if they can all see it, if they can all hear what he hears or see what he sees.
What he hears: the sea, Rowena chanting, Dean shouting, whispers. The whispers are the loudest of all, words in every language, every little slice of knowledge and every divine secret, all crashing around him.
You’re a man of letters. Take my wisdom. Wise men fall to ruin faster: do you know why, Sam?
Because the stupid rightly fear consequences, thinks Sam.
What he sees: it, ancient, thing whose name he does not know, no face and ink-stained hands and shackles on its arms all made of interlocked letters. Pages flutter all around him and he picks one up, and his heart beats faster, and he wants to read ( ... )
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Rowena feels the words flaying her skin, ancient names dredging blood up her throat. Her blood runs sluggish into a ceramic pot and stalls around other instruments of magic: talismans, mirror, salvaged Grace, hair.
Sam Winchester’s hair.
His chair slides forward in the circle, and his brother and Fergus shout, scrabbling for the ropes. His head falls back, and there’s fresh blood seeping through the cloth across his eyes. That angel of stars had done a number on him.
Rowena feels the sea at her back. Wetness licks her dress, and her hair sticks uncomfortably to her hot neck. She powers through more horrible words, the magic in her a flickering thread, and when she looks up, trying to push air into her lungs, she sees him.
Sam.
Well-Sam out of the chair, that is, the chair magicked to keep him in place. Only he isn’t really out of it, not-Sam and not his actual body. He flickers, faint, glows soft like the moonlace plants that she picks for her spells.
Witch, he spits at her. What is this?
Rowena purses her lips. The words are ( ... )
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“Did we stop, Dean?”
“Quick break,” says Dean, shakily. “Yeah? Here, drink.”
Sam drains half the bottle, and then drops it on the ground.
Dean stands, whips out a clean cloth. “For the-the blood,” he mutters. He’s holding that thing like a blindfold.
“I don’t-I don’t want-”
Dean’s arm goes around his shoulder. His hand comes to rest on the top of Sam’s head, and Sam presses his face into Dean’s shirt, the warmth of him a momentary comfort against this cold.
Dean holds him like that, a minute, says, “You only have to say the word.”
“I have to get through this.”
“I know,” Dean sighs, and places the cloth softly around his eyes.
Sam’s world goes dark.
Everything is a mess.
The sea drenches them. There’s lightning and thunder, and Dean’s trying to see through a headache that’s been dogging him since Sam first came up with this plan.
“What if his chair gets blown out of the circle?” Crowley shouts over the rain.
Because that’s what’s concerning him about all this. The fucking sturdiness of the fucking chair.
“That’s not ( ... )
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1.RITUAL
“They’re going to offer you things,” says Sam, watching the sea crash against the rocks. They’re far out somewhere on an empty beach, nothing but a narrow piece of land caught between water and shale cliffs. “The angels. They’re probably gonna show you things, try to talk you into letting them out. That’s what Lucifer does-”
“And you’re sure about this?” Dean asks, for the one-hundredth time. “There might be other ways, there’s probably-”
“Look. He’s tried several vessels, and he’s burned through them all.”
“That doesn’t actually mean he’s gonna come after you, Sam.”
“I can’t take the chance,” Sam says. “Okay? I have to make it impossible for him. Make myself uninhabitable by any other thing. If that means one blood-spell of cycling through five different angels, I can do that, Dean. This is Lucifer. He’s always going to find a way, and I can’t do nothing and just let him come at me. Not again.”
“Isn’t there a warding, some sigils we can use-”
“I can’t-I don’t trust that, Dean,” says Sam. “The anti-possession tattoo, hell, ( ... )
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How is that I get all the best gifts? Damn is this fantastic, from the POV's and the chronology to the voices (Crowley!); the language, the landscape, the magic--but mostly, the power. The power of all the angels, and the blood spell, and the Book--it comes right off the words. Holy --
You know by now that weird is my jam, right? <3!
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Now I have to go back and read it, in reverse. Also, I looove that art. Been watching Pete develop it for a while now. So creative and weird and other-worldly!
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Thank you for sharing this fic with us all! take care :)
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