SPN fic: Lowest Frequency
A/N: A SPN Spring Fling fic for de-nugis. Warnings for possession.
Sam brushes off the Men of Letters map and looks down at the field of play.
Anywhere. They could be anywhere. Sam thinks of Cas on the run, somewhere, anywhere, another vulnerable speck on some gigantic cosmic table.
Castiel will be fine, Sam hears himself think, then quells a sudden flash of guilt for this inexplicable lack of worry.
You fear for your friend. Sam scrubs his eyes. You need not. He is much more resourceful than we are.
Cas is pretty tough. Still…
He is, Sam.
Great, now I’m talking to myself. “Losing my fucking mind.” Again.
Do not worry.
And Sam’s mind fills with uncanny peace.
Not about that.
Sam slides his hand toward his pocketknife and shoots out of his chair. “Where are you?”
I am not there.
Sam backs up to the bookcase. It won’t let him put his back against the wall.
In here.
The library turns golden green, then sepia, then pale yellow. Sam’s neck cracks a little as he nods at something; is that a yes? Dean asks, as if Sam could say anything else, and then dissolves into blue before Sam can ask to what.
Sam shakes his head and turns around, but he’s forgotten what book he needed. He runs his hand through his hair and regrets thinking he’d been ready to get out of bed, just a couple short weeks after several long months lurking in the bushes around death’s porch.
He stands up straighter, flexes his fingers and curls them into fists, as if to prove himself wrong. See? You’re getting better already.
It’s a relief, if a weird one. Good weird. Let it go.
Sam tries to pull his mind out of the patchwork of worries that seem to be distracting him - demons, angels, hostile and incompetent hunters, global warming, monsters indigenous to this dimension - and pick one.
Angels are the only game that’s changed. It should be easier to focus.
You should not bother yourself with the Host.
The sunset burns all too bright and all too blue, and Sam feels a sensation too familiar to recognize. Someone else, weeds springing wild from every fold of his brain.
He rubs his palm, out of habit if nothing else.
I am not my brother, the interloper says, and this much is true, Sam can tell (he thinks). This influence is hesitant and imprecise; it lacks Lucifer’s deceptive gentleness and laser-focused brutality.
Who are you, then?
The clock ticks twice.
You can call me Ezekiel.
That’s not what I asked, Sam thinks in a part of his mind Ezekiel hasn’t appeared in, yet.
Sam adds a half a dozen tabs to the map on the table, but fails to fill the silence in the bunker.
“Angel tracking,” he says out loud. How did I not think of this before?
You did, he hears and jumps.
“Dean?” he calls.
No.
Sam reaches for his pocketknife and finds an empty pocket. Crap, how’d I lose it?
You didn’t. It’s at the other end of the table.
Sam reaches for the knife and resolutely does not thank his subconscious.
Sam finishes cleaning his knife and puts it away.
It was a good idea. But I’m afraid I can’t let you do it.
”What was?”
Sam rubs his eyes and reaches for the ghost of an idea.
Sam brushes off the Men of Letters map and looks down at the field of play.
Anywhere. They could be anywhere. Sam thinks of Cas on the run, somewhere, anywhere, another vulnerable speck on some gigantic cosmic table.
Castiel will be fine, Sam hears himself think, then quells a sudden flash of guilt for this inexplicable lack of worry.
You fear for your friend. Sam scrubs his eyes. You need not. He is much more resourceful than we are.
Cas is pretty tough. Still…
He is, Sam.
Great, now I’m talking to myself. “Losing my fucking mind.” Again.
Do not worry.
And Sam’s mind fills with uncanny peace.
Not about that.
Sam slides his hand toward his pocketknife and shoots out of his chair. “Where are you?”
I am not there.
Sam backs up to the bookcase. It won’t let him put his back against the wall.
In here.
The library turns golden green, then sepia, then pale yellow. Sam’s neck cracks a little as he nods at something; is that a yes? Dean asks, as if Sam could say anything else, and then dissolves into blue before Sam can ask to what.
Sam shakes his head and turns around, but he’s forgotten what book he needed. He runs his hand through his hair and regrets thinking he’d been ready to get out of bed, just a couple short weeks after several long months lurking in the bushes around death’s porch.
He stands up straighter, flexes his fingers and curls them into fists, as if to prove himself wrong. See? You’re getting better already.
It’s a relief, if a weird one. Good weird. Let it go.
Sam tries to pull his mind out of the patchwork of worries that seem to be distracting him - demons, angels, hostile and incompetent hunters, global warming, monsters indigenous to this dimension - and pick one.
Angels are the only game that’s changed. It should be easier to focus.
You should not bother yourself with the Host.
The sunset burns all too bright and all too blue, and Sam feels a sensation too familiar to recognize. Someone else, weeds springing wild from every fold of his brain.
He rubs his palm, out of habit if nothing else.
I am not my brother, the interloper says, and this much is true, Sam can tell (he thinks). This influence is hesitant and imprecise; it lacks Lucifer’s deceptive gentleness and laser-focused brutality.
Who are you, then?
The clock ticks twice.
You can call me Ezekiel.
That’s not what I asked, Sam thinks in a part of his mind Ezekiel hasn’t appeared in, yet.
Sam adds a half a dozen tabs to the map on the table, but fails to fill the silence in the bunker.
“Angel tracking,” he says out loud. How did I not think of this before?
You did, he hears and jumps.
“Dean?” he calls.
No.
Sam reaches for his pocketknife and finds an empty pocket. Crap, how’d I lose it?
You didn’t. It’s at the other end of the table.
Sam reaches for the knife and resolutely does not thank his subconscious.
Sam finishes cleaning his knife and puts it away.
It was a good idea. But I’m afraid I can’t let you do it.
”What was?”
Sam rubs his eyes and reaches for the ghost of an idea.