We Don't Always Exist (1/1)
Title: We Don't Always Exist
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean-overtones, Sam/OFC
Disclaimers: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Death fic for most of the fic.
Spoilers: Incredibly vague ones for 4.01.
Summary: Dean doesn't tell Sam about his deal and endures a different kind of hell.
Word count: 750
Author's Notes: An idea that wouldn't leave me alone. Written in the same sort of style as We Are Trains. Hope you like. :)
If Dean’s life ever taught him anything, it was that nothing is absolute, we don’t always exist.
And in the world of hours, Dean and Sam lived their lives by the second.
-
If there was one thing Dean ever learned, it was that life doesn’t teach you anything.
People do.
-
Dean’s year is up.
-
Sam cries when he comes back to find Dean’s once-strong body torn to shreds; blood and guts everywhere, unrecognisable. The stench is awful, who ever knew for all the times Sam told Dean he smelled of grease and soap, he actually smelled like sickly sweet spoiling meat?
Sam throws up.
And he sobs. Full, body-wracking, choking sobs and screams.
His screams are the worst, bellowing and shrill and so desperate and painful.
Dean is sorry.
-
I hate you.
If you’re listening, I hate you.
-
Dean stares at his burning once-body.
-
It took months and months and months for Sam to stop thinking of Dean as The Bastard. He still sobs and wakes every night; his heart racing, his mind wailing, Dean dying.
Dead, dead, dead.
Dean watches and can’t help for all he wants to. Sam needs to heal.
Because Dean was nothing, if just a fading memory.
-
“Fuck this shit.”
-
Sam had always wondered why Dean had insisted on buying that camera those last few months. He took pictures all the time, just of them together and apart. Laughing, hurting, fighting, loving. Sam looks through them all once twice thrice for hours and hours and days.
His favourite seems to be one where Dean is in the passenger seat; all too-long hair, sweaty skin and bruises under his eyes - unattractive. He puts it in his wallet, a real wallet with a real ID.
Sam Smith.
Sam whispers a hoarse “thank you.”
As real as possible.
-
Dean ignores the Ouija board.
-
His five senses dictate him; cheap perfume, messy limbs, choking hurt, smooth skin, sighs. Dean watches with sad eyes and jealousy in his stomach. He can’t exactly feel what Sam feels, he gets glimpses, but he can’t feel it right.
He can hear Sam’s thoughts on and off, though. And he hears; she’ll do.
And he hears; I’m sorry, Dean.
And he hears; where are you, Dean?
And he hears; I love you, Dean.
-
She’s everything Dean wasn’t.
She’s dark to Dean’s pale, brown to his green, pudgy to his taut, quiet to his loud, serious to his joking, beautiful to his un-beautiful, meek to his slutty.
She has a too-big nose and too-small lips.
Sam believes he could possibly he guesses maybe love her, but Dean is unsure.
-
Sam’s picket fence isn't white, it’s dark blue.
-
“I couldn’t keep doing it without you.”
-
“I wish you were here, Dean. I want you back. I want you back so fucking much.”
Dean can’t go back and he can’t leave.
-
They name their child Dean.
Sam says it’s just a name he’s always liked (but it’s actually just a man he’s always loved).
Years and years later Dean’s now muted spirit shines through that child. Dean.
-
He can go to the Impala.
It doesn’t run anymore.
Years and years and years later the Impala sits dead in the shed out back. Sam’s shed. You don’t ever go in Sam’s shed. Inside, in the Impala - in Dean’s car - are bloodstains and spilt beer, photographs under the seat, a bobbing toy Dean had bought in Chicago because he’d accidentally broken it.
You break it, you buy it.
The Impala is broken.
-
By the time Dean thinks he’s crazy Sam has stopped crying at night. Dean decides that just maybe he could contact Sam.
-
“I still think about you. Every fucking day.”
-
Sam nearly kills himself when Dean tries to reveal himself.
Dean doesn’t try it again, just sobs because no one can see.
-
“Sammy, I lov - I miss you.” He always caught himself just in time (except once).
-
Sam looks at his photograph for the third time that week. It’s fading. Sam’s wondering when he should get it digitally restored. Dean can’t resist touching his old face and thinks about what he looks like now.
Air, probably.
Because he wasn’t sure if he was really here.
Trapped by Sam’s devotion.
-
Decades.
It’s been excruciating decades and a blue-eyed stranger who knows Dean’s name speaks a shrill language he can’t understand.
-
He wakes with a gasp.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean-overtones, Sam/OFC
Disclaimers: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Death fic for most of the fic.
Spoilers: Incredibly vague ones for 4.01.
Summary: Dean doesn't tell Sam about his deal and endures a different kind of hell.
Word count: 750
Author's Notes: An idea that wouldn't leave me alone. Written in the same sort of style as We Are Trains. Hope you like. :)
If Dean’s life ever taught him anything, it was that nothing is absolute, we don’t always exist.
And in the world of hours, Dean and Sam lived their lives by the second.
-
If there was one thing Dean ever learned, it was that life doesn’t teach you anything.
People do.
-
Dean’s year is up.
-
Sam cries when he comes back to find Dean’s once-strong body torn to shreds; blood and guts everywhere, unrecognisable. The stench is awful, who ever knew for all the times Sam told Dean he smelled of grease and soap, he actually smelled like sickly sweet spoiling meat?
Sam throws up.
And he sobs. Full, body-wracking, choking sobs and screams.
His screams are the worst, bellowing and shrill and so desperate and painful.
Dean is sorry.
-
I hate you.
If you’re listening, I hate you.
-
Dean stares at his burning once-body.
-
It took months and months and months for Sam to stop thinking of Dean as The Bastard. He still sobs and wakes every night; his heart racing, his mind wailing, Dean dying.
Dead, dead, dead.
Dean watches and can’t help for all he wants to. Sam needs to heal.
Because Dean was nothing, if just a fading memory.
-
“Fuck this shit.”
-
Sam had always wondered why Dean had insisted on buying that camera those last few months. He took pictures all the time, just of them together and apart. Laughing, hurting, fighting, loving. Sam looks through them all once twice thrice for hours and hours and days.
His favourite seems to be one where Dean is in the passenger seat; all too-long hair, sweaty skin and bruises under his eyes - unattractive. He puts it in his wallet, a real wallet with a real ID.
Sam Smith.
Sam whispers a hoarse “thank you.”
As real as possible.
-
Dean ignores the Ouija board.
-
His five senses dictate him; cheap perfume, messy limbs, choking hurt, smooth skin, sighs. Dean watches with sad eyes and jealousy in his stomach. He can’t exactly feel what Sam feels, he gets glimpses, but he can’t feel it right.
He can hear Sam’s thoughts on and off, though. And he hears; she’ll do.
And he hears; I’m sorry, Dean.
And he hears; where are you, Dean?
And he hears; I love you, Dean.
-
She’s everything Dean wasn’t.
She’s dark to Dean’s pale, brown to his green, pudgy to his taut, quiet to his loud, serious to his joking, beautiful to his un-beautiful, meek to his slutty.
She has a too-big nose and too-small lips.
Sam believes he could possibly he guesses maybe love her, but Dean is unsure.
-
Sam’s picket fence isn't white, it’s dark blue.
-
“I couldn’t keep doing it without you.”
-
“I wish you were here, Dean. I want you back. I want you back so fucking much.”
Dean can’t go back and he can’t leave.
-
They name their child Dean.
Sam says it’s just a name he’s always liked (but it’s actually just a man he’s always loved).
Years and years later Dean’s now muted spirit shines through that child. Dean.
-
He can go to the Impala.
It doesn’t run anymore.
Years and years and years later the Impala sits dead in the shed out back. Sam’s shed. You don’t ever go in Sam’s shed. Inside, in the Impala - in Dean’s car - are bloodstains and spilt beer, photographs under the seat, a bobbing toy Dean had bought in Chicago because he’d accidentally broken it.
You break it, you buy it.
The Impala is broken.
-
By the time Dean thinks he’s crazy Sam has stopped crying at night. Dean decides that just maybe he could contact Sam.
-
“I still think about you. Every fucking day.”
-
Sam nearly kills himself when Dean tries to reveal himself.
Dean doesn’t try it again, just sobs because no one can see.
-
“Sammy, I lov - I miss you.” He always caught himself just in time (except once).
-
Sam looks at his photograph for the third time that week. It’s fading. Sam’s wondering when he should get it digitally restored. Dean can’t resist touching his old face and thinks about what he looks like now.
Air, probably.
Because he wasn’t sure if he was really here.
Trapped by Sam’s devotion.
-
Decades.
It’s been excruciating decades and a blue-eyed stranger who knows Dean’s name speaks a shrill language he can’t understand.
-
He wakes with a gasp.