and hell followed with him
Title: and hell followed with him
Author: kellifer_fic
Recipient: freneticfloetry
Rating: PG13
Author's Notes: 1,561 words.
Prompt: Sam transplanted to an alternate universe, where he was never born, all other Winchesters are alive and well, and the other PsyKids have taken over the world, supernatural civil war-style.
---
Wake up.
Sam isn’t sure what hit him, but it felt like a two-by-four. Last thing he remembers he and Dean were making their way through a warehouse. Dean had been singing the Flintstones theme song at the top of his voice and Sam had just started saying, “Dean, I swear if you don’t shut up I’m going to-”
Sam never got to finish the threat because the floor fell out from under them.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice sounds ragged to his own ears and dust rises up when he moves. He tries to cough some of it out and only manages to inhale more. “Dean!” he croaks again because they both fell together so Dean must be close by.
There’s no response which means Dean is either unconscious, fell further or… Sam closes his eyes tight for a second and breathes deep, unmindful of the settling dust.
“Dean!”
*
He makes it out of the warehouse and just stops. The ground surrounding is flattened and black, nothing to see for miles but an ancient pick-up and a woman standing at the tailgate who has frozen at his appearance. She brings a shotgun up to bear on him and kind if tilts her head when she does it.
Through the haze and years, Sam recognizes her.
“Mom?”
*
“You do realize that sounds crazy, right?
Mary Winchester has a hard, clipped way of speaking like she doesn’t want to waste the words. He has to think of her that way, Mary Winchester , or he’ll just break down and cry. He only knew her voice and her touch when he was too young to remember and he doesn’t want to cling to something that maybe isn’t real.
“Believe me, I know,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s pretty sure Mary hasn’t put him down yet only because she thinks he’s soft in the head. She’d tensed up when he asked about Dean and their father because it wasn’t everyday you met a stranger in the middle of nowhere who knew your family.
Sam had put up with a thorough dousing of holy water before she’d even let him in the truck.
“I’d like to believe you, lord knows I would,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m just having trouble with it, is all.”
*
From a distance, Dean is broader, meaner looking. Kind of shackled junkyard dog who puts his head down and damn near growls when Sam slides out of the other side of Mary’s truck.
“Be civil,” Mary snaps, cuffing him in the back of the head and just like that, he’s Dean. He’s got tattoos and a scar that pulls his mouth up to one side but he kind of ducks his head and rolls his eyes with the admonishment and it makes Sam ache.
“Can’t keep picking up strays, mom,” he says instead, eyeing Sam. “Especially ones that look like they’ll eat us out of house and home.”
“Be nice to this one,” Mary scolds again.
*
The property Mary takes him to is sprawling, a cobbled together community with razor wire circling the perimeter. It kind of crops up out of nowhere, a lone survivor of the devastation, salt and copper baked into the walls to keep the nasties out.
Sam knows that if he could see the buildings from above, the configuration would be a pentagram.
Protect us from evil.
“Where’d you come from anyway?” Dean asks, walking despite the dozen or so kids hanging off him, trying to take him down. They keep a wary distance from Sam but are edging ever closer because curiosity is larger than fear, even in this place.
“Somewhere else,” Sam says, not wanting to sound so cryptic but not really sure how to describe it better.
“You going back there?” Dean asks.
“Dunno,” Sam says with a small shrug, staring up into a sky that’s bruised red. “Hope so.”
*
Prayers before bedtime and salt in a circle. The adults gather at a long wooden building in the center and lay out maps and plans. Their supplies are running low and they need to find a city that hasn’t been picked clean.
“It’s getting harder to stay under,” Bobby says, sounding and looking so much like he did in Sam’s own version of reality that Sam keeps wanting to grip the man by the arms and shake him till he gets called boy or maybe stupid ass.
“Yeah well, we just need one of those bastards tracking us back here and we’re done,” John says, hands warming by the firelight and of all of them, he’s the most suspicious of Sam.
At least some things remain the same.
There’s a little girl in the doorway, white dress and dirty feet. When Sam looks at her closely she disappears, snuffs out like a candle.
“Did you see…?” he starts to say but his voice dies when he realizes that all weapons are trained on him.
Dean’s right by his side, hand gripping his bicep and gun pressed up behind Sam’s ear. “Thought we wouldn’t know?” he hisses, disgust in his tone.
Sam doesn’t have time to protest before Dean rears back and brings the gun down on his temple.
*
Wake up.
Sam’s eyes open and there’s pain and brightness. He blinks till he gets used to the latter, there is nothing he can do about the former. The little girl is hunkered down by his feet, small hand gripping the toe of his boot.
“Where’d you come from?” she asks.
“Somewhere else,” Sam says and Dean leans into his line of sight, frowning.
“I don’t know who you’re trying to talk to but don’t bother. We got wards to stop you broadcasting,” he says, tapping at his temple, but he’s also looking puzzled. He gets that same look on his face when he’s down to the last few clues in a crossword and is trying to resist the urge to ask Sam for help.
“I don’t know who you think I am but I’m not here to hurt you,” Sam says.
“They’re trying to contact you. Thought they could sneak a wolf into the henhouse.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Sure you do,” Dean says, wrapping a fist on Sam’s forehead lightly. “You’re one of the Orphans,” he adds, and Sam can hear the capitol ‘O’ in his voice. “You try stuff like this every now and again.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sam says again.
“You’re a likeable fucker, I’ll give you that,” Dean says with a dry-sounding laugh. “Got my mother to bring you right on back here. She’s kicking herself for it.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sam hates that it sounds so hollow, exactly what poison would promise before it cut off your air, but will keep on saying while he’s dragged out past the circle of buildings and staked to the ground in the sun, baked earth at his back.
There’s a little boy standing next to the little girl.
They’re holding hands.
*
“I know you’re there.”
A shadow falls across his face and Sam blinks. The sun’s gone down and the t-shirt he’s wearing is no protection against the chill. He’s trying not to shiver but it’s hard to clamp down on.
“Where’d you come from?” It’s the little boy this time, leaning over his knees. He has no shadow.
“You should know,” Sam says with a rough little laugh. “You brought me here.”
The little boy stretches and grows and it’s Andy standing above him, Eva a little behind and to the side. “We’re scattered, like leaves on the wind,” he says, a line denting the space between his brows. “We were promised you’d come. You never did.”
“This isn’t my place,” Sam says. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I told him you’d say that,” Eva says and then she’s reaching for him. The last thing Sam hears is lights out.
*
Wake up.
Something cool and wet is touching his lips and Sam licks at them compulsively. He blinks open his eyes; can almost imagine hearing the dry skin creak and Dean’s there, still with his scarred grin.
“You’re not one of them, are you?” but it’s not really a question as he touches the wet washcloth back to Sam’s mouth, gradually letting the water drizzle so that Sam doesn’t gulp, doesn’t get too much. “They tried to kill you.”
“Seems to be the thing to do,” Sam returns and sees Dean wince.
“They come at us from all sides, in all forms.”
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I’m hoping you’ll listen this time.”
*
“My mother died,” Sam says, watching Mary bounce a little dark haired boy on her knee. He’s sitting with Dean, drinking something that he imagines is a closer cousin to battery acid than the whiskey Dean is trying to tell him it is.
“Everybody’s mother died,” Dean remarks almost absently.
“Yours didn’t,” Sam points out and watches Dean still, drink halfway to his lips.
“That’s true.”
“I like this place,” Sam says and this earns a snort from Dean.
“We left you out in the sun too long.”
“Maybe,” Sam agrees with a small smile and sits back on his elbows.
Author: kellifer_fic
Recipient: freneticfloetry
Rating: PG13
Author's Notes: 1,561 words.
Prompt: Sam transplanted to an alternate universe, where he was never born, all other Winchesters are alive and well, and the other PsyKids have taken over the world, supernatural civil war-style.
---
Wake up.
Sam isn’t sure what hit him, but it felt like a two-by-four. Last thing he remembers he and Dean were making their way through a warehouse. Dean had been singing the Flintstones theme song at the top of his voice and Sam had just started saying, “Dean, I swear if you don’t shut up I’m going to-”
Sam never got to finish the threat because the floor fell out from under them.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice sounds ragged to his own ears and dust rises up when he moves. He tries to cough some of it out and only manages to inhale more. “Dean!” he croaks again because they both fell together so Dean must be close by.
There’s no response which means Dean is either unconscious, fell further or… Sam closes his eyes tight for a second and breathes deep, unmindful of the settling dust.
“Dean!”
*
He makes it out of the warehouse and just stops. The ground surrounding is flattened and black, nothing to see for miles but an ancient pick-up and a woman standing at the tailgate who has frozen at his appearance. She brings a shotgun up to bear on him and kind if tilts her head when she does it.
Through the haze and years, Sam recognizes her.
“Mom?”
*
“You do realize that sounds crazy, right?
Mary Winchester has a hard, clipped way of speaking like she doesn’t want to waste the words. He has to think of her that way, Mary Winchester , or he’ll just break down and cry. He only knew her voice and her touch when he was too young to remember and he doesn’t want to cling to something that maybe isn’t real.
“Believe me, I know,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s pretty sure Mary hasn’t put him down yet only because she thinks he’s soft in the head. She’d tensed up when he asked about Dean and their father because it wasn’t everyday you met a stranger in the middle of nowhere who knew your family.
Sam had put up with a thorough dousing of holy water before she’d even let him in the truck.
“I’d like to believe you, lord knows I would,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m just having trouble with it, is all.”
*
From a distance, Dean is broader, meaner looking. Kind of shackled junkyard dog who puts his head down and damn near growls when Sam slides out of the other side of Mary’s truck.
“Be civil,” Mary snaps, cuffing him in the back of the head and just like that, he’s Dean. He’s got tattoos and a scar that pulls his mouth up to one side but he kind of ducks his head and rolls his eyes with the admonishment and it makes Sam ache.
“Can’t keep picking up strays, mom,” he says instead, eyeing Sam. “Especially ones that look like they’ll eat us out of house and home.”
“Be nice to this one,” Mary scolds again.
*
The property Mary takes him to is sprawling, a cobbled together community with razor wire circling the perimeter. It kind of crops up out of nowhere, a lone survivor of the devastation, salt and copper baked into the walls to keep the nasties out.
Sam knows that if he could see the buildings from above, the configuration would be a pentagram.
Protect us from evil.
“Where’d you come from anyway?” Dean asks, walking despite the dozen or so kids hanging off him, trying to take him down. They keep a wary distance from Sam but are edging ever closer because curiosity is larger than fear, even in this place.
“Somewhere else,” Sam says, not wanting to sound so cryptic but not really sure how to describe it better.
“You going back there?” Dean asks.
“Dunno,” Sam says with a small shrug, staring up into a sky that’s bruised red. “Hope so.”
*
Prayers before bedtime and salt in a circle. The adults gather at a long wooden building in the center and lay out maps and plans. Their supplies are running low and they need to find a city that hasn’t been picked clean.
“It’s getting harder to stay under,” Bobby says, sounding and looking so much like he did in Sam’s own version of reality that Sam keeps wanting to grip the man by the arms and shake him till he gets called boy or maybe stupid ass.
“Yeah well, we just need one of those bastards tracking us back here and we’re done,” John says, hands warming by the firelight and of all of them, he’s the most suspicious of Sam.
At least some things remain the same.
There’s a little girl in the doorway, white dress and dirty feet. When Sam looks at her closely she disappears, snuffs out like a candle.
“Did you see…?” he starts to say but his voice dies when he realizes that all weapons are trained on him.
Dean’s right by his side, hand gripping his bicep and gun pressed up behind Sam’s ear. “Thought we wouldn’t know?” he hisses, disgust in his tone.
Sam doesn’t have time to protest before Dean rears back and brings the gun down on his temple.
*
Wake up.
Sam’s eyes open and there’s pain and brightness. He blinks till he gets used to the latter, there is nothing he can do about the former. The little girl is hunkered down by his feet, small hand gripping the toe of his boot.
“Where’d you come from?” she asks.
“Somewhere else,” Sam says and Dean leans into his line of sight, frowning.
“I don’t know who you’re trying to talk to but don’t bother. We got wards to stop you broadcasting,” he says, tapping at his temple, but he’s also looking puzzled. He gets that same look on his face when he’s down to the last few clues in a crossword and is trying to resist the urge to ask Sam for help.
“I don’t know who you think I am but I’m not here to hurt you,” Sam says.
“They’re trying to contact you. Thought they could sneak a wolf into the henhouse.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Sure you do,” Dean says, wrapping a fist on Sam’s forehead lightly. “You’re one of the Orphans,” he adds, and Sam can hear the capitol ‘O’ in his voice. “You try stuff like this every now and again.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sam says again.
“You’re a likeable fucker, I’ll give you that,” Dean says with a dry-sounding laugh. “Got my mother to bring you right on back here. She’s kicking herself for it.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sam hates that it sounds so hollow, exactly what poison would promise before it cut off your air, but will keep on saying while he’s dragged out past the circle of buildings and staked to the ground in the sun, baked earth at his back.
There’s a little boy standing next to the little girl.
They’re holding hands.
*
“I know you’re there.”
A shadow falls across his face and Sam blinks. The sun’s gone down and the t-shirt he’s wearing is no protection against the chill. He’s trying not to shiver but it’s hard to clamp down on.
“Where’d you come from?” It’s the little boy this time, leaning over his knees. He has no shadow.
“You should know,” Sam says with a rough little laugh. “You brought me here.”
The little boy stretches and grows and it’s Andy standing above him, Eva a little behind and to the side. “We’re scattered, like leaves on the wind,” he says, a line denting the space between his brows. “We were promised you’d come. You never did.”
“This isn’t my place,” Sam says. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I told him you’d say that,” Eva says and then she’s reaching for him. The last thing Sam hears is lights out.
*
Wake up.
Something cool and wet is touching his lips and Sam licks at them compulsively. He blinks open his eyes; can almost imagine hearing the dry skin creak and Dean’s there, still with his scarred grin.
“You’re not one of them, are you?” but it’s not really a question as he touches the wet washcloth back to Sam’s mouth, gradually letting the water drizzle so that Sam doesn’t gulp, doesn’t get too much. “They tried to kill you.”
“Seems to be the thing to do,” Sam returns and sees Dean wince.
“They come at us from all sides, in all forms.”
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I’m hoping you’ll listen this time.”
*
“My mother died,” Sam says, watching Mary bounce a little dark haired boy on her knee. He’s sitting with Dean, drinking something that he imagines is a closer cousin to battery acid than the whiskey Dean is trying to tell him it is.
“Everybody’s mother died,” Dean remarks almost absently.
“Yours didn’t,” Sam points out and watches Dean still, drink halfway to his lips.
“That’s true.”
“I like this place,” Sam says and this earns a snort from Dean.
“We left you out in the sun too long.”
“Maybe,” Sam agrees with a small smile and sits back on his elbows.