New fic - SPN - 'The Song of the Treadmill' 1 of...5? or 6...
Hello, hello!
:)
Firstly, fire_fic is over! So soon there will be fic for that. Everyone should hop over and check out the final total - it's *amazing*. And take a look at fire_fiction for all the wonderful stuff that's been written for it.
And now, for the fic. Just something i've had in my head since the end of season two. I promise it is *not* an angst-filled fic'o'dooooooooom, despite how it begins. Trusssst meeeeee.
:)
darkhavens is my lovely beta, and sweptawaybayou is my extra-perky cheerleader. *smooches* The title and poem snippet are from The Song of the Treadmill by Oliver Wendell Holmes.
The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?
It doesn't end with a bang, or a whimper. It doesn't end in ice or fire or with some rough beast, eternally slouching toward an impossible Bethlehem. It ends as it began, with a bargain - a deal. Life for life, soul for soul - Sam for Dean forever, Amen.
Sam can't flip those switches - can't find the end to unravel the skein. But he can trade Hell for Heaven, and he can make sure that someone - two someones - are waiting there for Dean.
I can't leave you, Sam. I'm the big brother - I'm supposed to take care of you.
It's my turn. It's my turn, Dean. It'll be okay. Angels watching over us, remember?
I remember, Dean says. All that they've done and seen is in his eyes - every emotion he's ever let through shining there for Sam to see. Burning away the tiredness that has settled on Dean's shoulders in the last handful of months, leaving nothing but warmth and brightness and...happiness. Dean strides away into light and shadow - to the arms and hands and smiles that welcomed him into life. It breaks Sam's heart and mends it, all at once.
And then Sam's alone and the angel is there, smiling a sideways, crooked smile. Tatterdemalion in blue and black, mud on the sides of road-broken boots.
So. You ready? the angel says, and Sam sighs and sniffs. Wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand and takes a deep, deep breath.
Yeah, sure. Let's go.
The crossroads fades behind them, and the world seems smaller, now. Colder, without Dean right there; shield-mate and strong right arm. Not quite as wonderful, and Sam doesn't mind saying goodbye.
There's a balance, the angel had said. Long ago, when Sam first made the bargain - first pressed a nicked and bleeding thumb to a scrap of snow-white lamb skin. There's always a balance, and sometimes it shifts out of true, but most often it's in the middle. You...must make sure it stays there.
How? I'm just - I'm just human. I'm not...special.
The angel had laughed then - laughed silently, but Sam had felt it in his head like the ringing of a silver bell.
Oh, Samuel. You'll learn. And Sam did.
He learned that they made a difference, a vital - impossible - difference. Somehow, worlds and universes and the souls of billions rested on one, fragile thing: that the Winchesters fought. That was all that mattered.
And Sam was there every time. To provide the crucial words - to nudge the needed book out of the shadows. To stop a bullet with his own body, or hold pressure on a wound until someone - Dad, Dean, this world's version of himself - could get there. Could hear last words, give last promises. Gain some small measure of strength, so that the living could go on. Sometimes they saw him - most often, they didn't. Only the dying ones knew for sure, and they only had eyes for the ones they left behind - for the light up ahead, that folded them into something Sam couldn't know.
A thousand thousand Deans - a hundred thousand Sams. Dads and Moms and even baby brothers - older sisters, sometimes. Countless quests and fights and sorrows and Sam only lived that moment of crisis - that endless step-catch-step when it all could have gone wrong.
He made it right, and then he moved on.
This is how you fix it here, Samuel. This is how you make this place - this world - safe. Dean can't be in Hell, so you must get him to Heaven. And in return, you must make sure all the others...are safe. You must make sure all the others fight, or inspire men to fight. You Winchesters...you're a lynch-pin like no other, and this is how you pay for your brother's soul.
Dean was safe, and that was all that mattered. Safe and with his family. Most of his family. And if Sam got lonely, sometimes - if he sometimes felt everything that he was unhitching and unhinging and fraying far and wide, well... There was always another moment - another place. Another brother or father or self who needed him, just for a moment. Just for a day.
It was enough, because it had to be.
Sam lost count of the years, because after a while it simply didn't matter anymore. And time runs differently for angels and those who keep their company. The road they traveled was forever one of pale moonlight and dust, and it never changed - never came to an end. Only curved softly, on and on, under the high, arching branches of cottonwood and birch. The angel always one step ahead, one step to the left. So much like Dean, but so utterly not.
And then suddenly...something was different. Something was changed, and Sam stopped and waited, trying to puzzle it out. Feeling something surging through him, light and clean and cold, like spring water welling up from the ground.
The angel stopped, as well - turned and reached out and touched Sam's shoulder, gripping lightly. It was like being touched by electricity and flame - like a brush of icy feathers and hot needles and Sam shied away. The angel had never touched him before.
And then everything whirled away, familiar rush of burning shadow, a hiss like a thousand serpents and Sam's heart beating too fast - too loud. Cracking boom of summer-storm thunder, loud enough to shake your bones and Sam's head came up from where it was pillowed on his arms with a snap, cramp of stiff muscles all down his back.
"Stop -"
"Hey, now, boy - you all right?" someone said, and Sam blinked. Blinked again, looking around him in confusion. His eyes adjusting to a smoke-muffled dimness, to old, dark wood and buzzing neon.
*Where...? The Roadhouse. God, haven't see this place since...* "Hey, Ellen, sorry," Sam said, his heart already beating fast. Waiting for the moment to come - the crisis to descend.
Ellen cocked her head, dark eyes assessing him in that way she had. Small smile quirking her lips a little, her hands flat and spread wide on the bar. "I guess you're the friend of a friend, if you know me, but I don't let anybody sleep it off on my bar."
"Huh? Ellen -" Sam stopped himself. Closed his mouth and nodded, sliding down off the stool he was on. His legs were halfway asleep, tingling and clumsy. "Sure. Sorry about that. Long trip. I'll just...uh -"
Ellen's expression softened a little, and her smile was wider this time. "Now, son, it's all right. I just don't let anybody but Ash take a snooze hereabouts. You can sit a spell, if you like. Gotta buy something, though."
"Uh - sure. Sure, gimme a beer." Sam watched her nod and walk over to the coolers - studied what he could see in the warped mirror over the bar. Groups of hunters, two or three or four strong, hunched around tables. Solitary men, and women as well, drinking or eating. Absorbed in conversation or a book or stained journals. Autumn or winter outside, because everyone was in heavy shirts - jackets still on or draped over chair-backs, hats and gloves spilling out of pockets. Everything seemed...frayed. Worn out and old. The bar was clean but cracked - rough. The bottles Sam could see were fewer than usual - some almost empty, neck and shoulders dimmed with a flouring of dust. The jukebox was dark.
"Here you go," Ellen said, putting a bottle down in front of Sam with a little crack and Sam nodded - reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crushed bills. Bills he'd looked at and crumpled and smoothed out countless times. He'd never had to spend them, before this. Never had the chance. He counted out five ones onto the splintery wood and looked up in surprise when Ellen snatched the bottle back with a little snort of amusement.
"Something wrong?" Sam asked, and Ellen's gaze went narrow and a little mean.
"If you think you can buy a beer from me with play money, you're either high or stupid. Or crazy, and I don't tolerate the first two or need the third. So get out."
"Hey, Ellen -"
"Boy, I don't know you from Adam, so you better just get yourself gone. Right now." From her stance, Sam could tell Ellen had a gun under the bar - had her hand right on it, and Sam lifted his own hands, palms out. Took a step back, his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Okay, hey, okay, I'm sorry, I... I guess I just -"
"You're just gonna get the fuck out of here," Ellen snapped, and Sam nodded. Backed up a few more steps and then turned, making his way toward the door. Surreptitious looks followed him, but no one said a word.
*What the hell, where's Dean, where's Dad, what do I do?* Sam pushed fast through the door, feeling almost panicked - not paying attention and his shoulder slammed solidly into someone. "Hell, I'm ss..." Sam said, and then choked on the rest of the sentence, staring.
Staring into green eyes that stared right back, brows drawn down in a frown and lips - *scar, he has a scar, oh, thank God -* thin and tight with annoyance.
"Watch where the fuck you're going," Dean said, and Sam gaped at him for a long moment before he snatched desperately at the retreating back.
"Dean, hey, wait, I -"
Dean - it had to be Dean, couldn't not be Dean - jerked his shoulder out of Sam's grasp, twisting around in the doorway and dropping his chin a little in that pose that had meant, for fifteen years or more, that he was about to throw a punch. "Get the fuck off me."
"But...Dean -"
Sam couldn't help it - his hand went out again, reaching, and Dean's slapped it away, solid backhand with rough, bony knuckles. "I don't know you. So fuck off." Dean turned away, shouldering past the door and Sam felt a wave of suffocating fear roll over him.
This was wrong - all wrong. The few times he'd actually talked to his family, they'd always thought he was that world's Sam, last minute savior. A miracle walking, just there in the middle of some dire situation that only he could avert. But there was no situation - nothing was happening at all and that...that had to mean something. It had to.
Unthinking, Sam barreled right back through the doorway, three steps behind Dean. Reached again and touched the scarred shoulder of Dean's leather coat. Dean turned, snake-fast, only this time he had a gun in his hand, the barrel inches from Sam's face faster than Sam could blink.
"I don't think you fucking heard me," Dean said. In that low, nearly pleasant voice he used when he was seconds away from killing something. The voice that had always sent a chill up Sam's spine, and this time was no different. Except that the gun - and the heart-stopping intent - was all directed at Sam.
"God damnit, Winchester -" Ellen was striding out from behind the bar and someone - Ash - was sliding around the corner and they were both armed. Both looking highly pissed off. Around them, every hunter had gone silent, watching the scene and Sam felt a cold sweat break out across his belly, sudden and sickly.
"I'm takin' care of this," Dean snapped, and Sam held his hands wide, palms out.
"Listen, I'm sorry, I - I just really need to talk to Dean."
"You know this guy, Ellen? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't."
Ellen stopped a few feet back from the both of them, a pump shotgun held crosswise in her hands. "No, I don't. He seems to know us, though."
"Does he, now?" Dean took a step closer, his expression so cold that Sam wanted to cringe away. "You better tell me who you are and what the fuck you want and make it good, buddy. Or you're gonna be sorry."
*Fuck, fuck, fuck... Don't panic. Jesus, this is...how can he not know me? Have to try -* "Okay, just - listen. My name's Sam. Sam Winchester. I'm... Dean, I'm your brother."
Dean's face went white, the scar that cut diagonally across both lips standing out starkly against his skin. The hand holding the gun started to shake and his fist squeezed down tight, not quite stilling the tremor. "Fuck. You. My brother died when he was six years old. Now get the hell away from me." Abruptly, the gun went down and Dean turned on his heel and walked to the bar. Stood there, while Ash and Ellen both advanced, weapons held ready.
"You heard the man. Get out," Ellen said, and Ash cocked the Colt pistol in his hand, his eyes hard and dark under the dirty-blonde bangs.
"But -"
"Now, son. Unless you like bein' shot at," Ash said. Sam stared at them for a moment but there was - nothing. Not a hint of recognition - not a drop of tolerance. He nodded finally, letting his hands fall. Turning and walking out, the back of his neck prickling and the low hum of excited conversation starting all around him. He went out onto the porch and got about five steps across the gravel lot before his knees gave out and he went down.
Knelt there under a cloud-choked sky, a winter wind threading cold fingers through his hair - freezing the tears he tried to blink away. *Angel, what did you do? Is this...is it over? Is this hell? What am I supposed to do? What...am I supposed to do?*
Part two
:)
Firstly, fire_fic is over! So soon there will be fic for that. Everyone should hop over and check out the final total - it's *amazing*. And take a look at fire_fiction for all the wonderful stuff that's been written for it.
And now, for the fic. Just something i've had in my head since the end of season two. I promise it is *not* an angst-filled fic'o'dooooooooom, despite how it begins. Trusssst meeeeee.
:)
darkhavens is my lovely beta, and sweptawaybayou is my extra-perky cheerleader. *smooches* The title and poem snippet are from The Song of the Treadmill by Oliver Wendell Holmes.
The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?
It doesn't end with a bang, or a whimper. It doesn't end in ice or fire or with some rough beast, eternally slouching toward an impossible Bethlehem. It ends as it began, with a bargain - a deal. Life for life, soul for soul - Sam for Dean forever, Amen.
Sam can't flip those switches - can't find the end to unravel the skein. But he can trade Hell for Heaven, and he can make sure that someone - two someones - are waiting there for Dean.
I can't leave you, Sam. I'm the big brother - I'm supposed to take care of you.
It's my turn. It's my turn, Dean. It'll be okay. Angels watching over us, remember?
I remember, Dean says. All that they've done and seen is in his eyes - every emotion he's ever let through shining there for Sam to see. Burning away the tiredness that has settled on Dean's shoulders in the last handful of months, leaving nothing but warmth and brightness and...happiness. Dean strides away into light and shadow - to the arms and hands and smiles that welcomed him into life. It breaks Sam's heart and mends it, all at once.
And then Sam's alone and the angel is there, smiling a sideways, crooked smile. Tatterdemalion in blue and black, mud on the sides of road-broken boots.
So. You ready? the angel says, and Sam sighs and sniffs. Wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand and takes a deep, deep breath.
Yeah, sure. Let's go.
The crossroads fades behind them, and the world seems smaller, now. Colder, without Dean right there; shield-mate and strong right arm. Not quite as wonderful, and Sam doesn't mind saying goodbye.
There's a balance, the angel had said. Long ago, when Sam first made the bargain - first pressed a nicked and bleeding thumb to a scrap of snow-white lamb skin. There's always a balance, and sometimes it shifts out of true, but most often it's in the middle. You...must make sure it stays there.
How? I'm just - I'm just human. I'm not...special.
The angel had laughed then - laughed silently, but Sam had felt it in his head like the ringing of a silver bell.
Oh, Samuel. You'll learn. And Sam did.
He learned that they made a difference, a vital - impossible - difference. Somehow, worlds and universes and the souls of billions rested on one, fragile thing: that the Winchesters fought. That was all that mattered.
And Sam was there every time. To provide the crucial words - to nudge the needed book out of the shadows. To stop a bullet with his own body, or hold pressure on a wound until someone - Dad, Dean, this world's version of himself - could get there. Could hear last words, give last promises. Gain some small measure of strength, so that the living could go on. Sometimes they saw him - most often, they didn't. Only the dying ones knew for sure, and they only had eyes for the ones they left behind - for the light up ahead, that folded them into something Sam couldn't know.
A thousand thousand Deans - a hundred thousand Sams. Dads and Moms and even baby brothers - older sisters, sometimes. Countless quests and fights and sorrows and Sam only lived that moment of crisis - that endless step-catch-step when it all could have gone wrong.
He made it right, and then he moved on.
This is how you fix it here, Samuel. This is how you make this place - this world - safe. Dean can't be in Hell, so you must get him to Heaven. And in return, you must make sure all the others...are safe. You must make sure all the others fight, or inspire men to fight. You Winchesters...you're a lynch-pin like no other, and this is how you pay for your brother's soul.
Dean was safe, and that was all that mattered. Safe and with his family. Most of his family. And if Sam got lonely, sometimes - if he sometimes felt everything that he was unhitching and unhinging and fraying far and wide, well... There was always another moment - another place. Another brother or father or self who needed him, just for a moment. Just for a day.
It was enough, because it had to be.
Sam lost count of the years, because after a while it simply didn't matter anymore. And time runs differently for angels and those who keep their company. The road they traveled was forever one of pale moonlight and dust, and it never changed - never came to an end. Only curved softly, on and on, under the high, arching branches of cottonwood and birch. The angel always one step ahead, one step to the left. So much like Dean, but so utterly not.
And then suddenly...something was different. Something was changed, and Sam stopped and waited, trying to puzzle it out. Feeling something surging through him, light and clean and cold, like spring water welling up from the ground.
The angel stopped, as well - turned and reached out and touched Sam's shoulder, gripping lightly. It was like being touched by electricity and flame - like a brush of icy feathers and hot needles and Sam shied away. The angel had never touched him before.
And then everything whirled away, familiar rush of burning shadow, a hiss like a thousand serpents and Sam's heart beating too fast - too loud. Cracking boom of summer-storm thunder, loud enough to shake your bones and Sam's head came up from where it was pillowed on his arms with a snap, cramp of stiff muscles all down his back.
"Stop -"
"Hey, now, boy - you all right?" someone said, and Sam blinked. Blinked again, looking around him in confusion. His eyes adjusting to a smoke-muffled dimness, to old, dark wood and buzzing neon.
*Where...? The Roadhouse. God, haven't see this place since...* "Hey, Ellen, sorry," Sam said, his heart already beating fast. Waiting for the moment to come - the crisis to descend.
Ellen cocked her head, dark eyes assessing him in that way she had. Small smile quirking her lips a little, her hands flat and spread wide on the bar. "I guess you're the friend of a friend, if you know me, but I don't let anybody sleep it off on my bar."
"Huh? Ellen -" Sam stopped himself. Closed his mouth and nodded, sliding down off the stool he was on. His legs were halfway asleep, tingling and clumsy. "Sure. Sorry about that. Long trip. I'll just...uh -"
Ellen's expression softened a little, and her smile was wider this time. "Now, son, it's all right. I just don't let anybody but Ash take a snooze hereabouts. You can sit a spell, if you like. Gotta buy something, though."
"Uh - sure. Sure, gimme a beer." Sam watched her nod and walk over to the coolers - studied what he could see in the warped mirror over the bar. Groups of hunters, two or three or four strong, hunched around tables. Solitary men, and women as well, drinking or eating. Absorbed in conversation or a book or stained journals. Autumn or winter outside, because everyone was in heavy shirts - jackets still on or draped over chair-backs, hats and gloves spilling out of pockets. Everything seemed...frayed. Worn out and old. The bar was clean but cracked - rough. The bottles Sam could see were fewer than usual - some almost empty, neck and shoulders dimmed with a flouring of dust. The jukebox was dark.
"Here you go," Ellen said, putting a bottle down in front of Sam with a little crack and Sam nodded - reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crushed bills. Bills he'd looked at and crumpled and smoothed out countless times. He'd never had to spend them, before this. Never had the chance. He counted out five ones onto the splintery wood and looked up in surprise when Ellen snatched the bottle back with a little snort of amusement.
"Something wrong?" Sam asked, and Ellen's gaze went narrow and a little mean.
"If you think you can buy a beer from me with play money, you're either high or stupid. Or crazy, and I don't tolerate the first two or need the third. So get out."
"Hey, Ellen -"
"Boy, I don't know you from Adam, so you better just get yourself gone. Right now." From her stance, Sam could tell Ellen had a gun under the bar - had her hand right on it, and Sam lifted his own hands, palms out. Took a step back, his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Okay, hey, okay, I'm sorry, I... I guess I just -"
"You're just gonna get the fuck out of here," Ellen snapped, and Sam nodded. Backed up a few more steps and then turned, making his way toward the door. Surreptitious looks followed him, but no one said a word.
*What the hell, where's Dean, where's Dad, what do I do?* Sam pushed fast through the door, feeling almost panicked - not paying attention and his shoulder slammed solidly into someone. "Hell, I'm ss..." Sam said, and then choked on the rest of the sentence, staring.
Staring into green eyes that stared right back, brows drawn down in a frown and lips - *scar, he has a scar, oh, thank God -* thin and tight with annoyance.
"Watch where the fuck you're going," Dean said, and Sam gaped at him for a long moment before he snatched desperately at the retreating back.
"Dean, hey, wait, I -"
Dean - it had to be Dean, couldn't not be Dean - jerked his shoulder out of Sam's grasp, twisting around in the doorway and dropping his chin a little in that pose that had meant, for fifteen years or more, that he was about to throw a punch. "Get the fuck off me."
"But...Dean -"
Sam couldn't help it - his hand went out again, reaching, and Dean's slapped it away, solid backhand with rough, bony knuckles. "I don't know you. So fuck off." Dean turned away, shouldering past the door and Sam felt a wave of suffocating fear roll over him.
This was wrong - all wrong. The few times he'd actually talked to his family, they'd always thought he was that world's Sam, last minute savior. A miracle walking, just there in the middle of some dire situation that only he could avert. But there was no situation - nothing was happening at all and that...that had to mean something. It had to.
Unthinking, Sam barreled right back through the doorway, three steps behind Dean. Reached again and touched the scarred shoulder of Dean's leather coat. Dean turned, snake-fast, only this time he had a gun in his hand, the barrel inches from Sam's face faster than Sam could blink.
"I don't think you fucking heard me," Dean said. In that low, nearly pleasant voice he used when he was seconds away from killing something. The voice that had always sent a chill up Sam's spine, and this time was no different. Except that the gun - and the heart-stopping intent - was all directed at Sam.
"God damnit, Winchester -" Ellen was striding out from behind the bar and someone - Ash - was sliding around the corner and they were both armed. Both looking highly pissed off. Around them, every hunter had gone silent, watching the scene and Sam felt a cold sweat break out across his belly, sudden and sickly.
"I'm takin' care of this," Dean snapped, and Sam held his hands wide, palms out.
"Listen, I'm sorry, I - I just really need to talk to Dean."
"You know this guy, Ellen? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't."
Ellen stopped a few feet back from the both of them, a pump shotgun held crosswise in her hands. "No, I don't. He seems to know us, though."
"Does he, now?" Dean took a step closer, his expression so cold that Sam wanted to cringe away. "You better tell me who you are and what the fuck you want and make it good, buddy. Or you're gonna be sorry."
*Fuck, fuck, fuck... Don't panic. Jesus, this is...how can he not know me? Have to try -* "Okay, just - listen. My name's Sam. Sam Winchester. I'm... Dean, I'm your brother."
Dean's face went white, the scar that cut diagonally across both lips standing out starkly against his skin. The hand holding the gun started to shake and his fist squeezed down tight, not quite stilling the tremor. "Fuck. You. My brother died when he was six years old. Now get the hell away from me." Abruptly, the gun went down and Dean turned on his heel and walked to the bar. Stood there, while Ash and Ellen both advanced, weapons held ready.
"You heard the man. Get out," Ellen said, and Ash cocked the Colt pistol in his hand, his eyes hard and dark under the dirty-blonde bangs.
"But -"
"Now, son. Unless you like bein' shot at," Ash said. Sam stared at them for a moment but there was - nothing. Not a hint of recognition - not a drop of tolerance. He nodded finally, letting his hands fall. Turning and walking out, the back of his neck prickling and the low hum of excited conversation starting all around him. He went out onto the porch and got about five steps across the gravel lot before his knees gave out and he went down.
Knelt there under a cloud-choked sky, a winter wind threading cold fingers through his hair - freezing the tears he tried to blink away. *Angel, what did you do? Is this...is it over? Is this hell? What am I supposed to do? What...am I supposed to do?*
Part two