The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [22/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Part VII.)
Word Count: 505 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
PART VII. Good Bye.
The sun never really rises, but the sky relents just a little in its gloom. Sam’s been cradling the gray, limp body for hours now, staring thoughtlessly out the dust-streaked window. Dean is cold, unnaturally cold, and Sam’s hands hurt from holding him. A little while ago, he wouldn’t have been able to feel the dead skin under his fingertips. He wants to go back to when he was dying.
It was easy to believe that the Apocalypse had already come and gone, and that they were the only two beings left, alone in a dying house at the end of times. It felt just like that. It wasn’t true, but Sam almost wished it was.
Finally, Sam begins to move. His legs are sore from being folded underneath him. His arms are stiff from holding Dean so tight. He wipes a hand over his tight face, and get to work. He pulls the knife out of Dean. He straightens his limbs. He folds his arms over his chest, and when he’s done, he kisses Dean’s forehead, and the tears come again.
He thinks about the vial of Anenexus in Dean’s shirt pocket. If Dean knew Sam was contemplating doing own community theatre version of Romeo and Juliet, he’d have Sam’s ass. But Dean was gone. There was nothing left of him but lifeless flesh and bones. Sam reached into the pocket, but wasn’t terribly surprised to find it empty. Did Cas take it? Was it on the blade Dean’d killed himself with? Did it matter?
No, Sam decided, as he left the house. Nothing mattered at all.
--
It was wet weather, but the house burned nice anyway. Sam watched it for a while, an unexpected riot of warm colors in a cold and muted world.
After that, Sam turned and walked away. He walked with no intentions or destination. Dean had been right, Sam had decided. Sam had the boundaries of his conscience had been stretched and warped. He was caught between extremes, wandering back and forth and finally feeling paralyzed. He didn’t know where to go from here.
When Dean had sent him off on his first date, he’d winked at Sammy and said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” It was a stupid joke and had come with a suggestive eyebrow waggle but Sam had taken it to heart. When Dean had been dragged to Hell, Sam had felt like a compass that lost North. Now, what was there left to do, but wander?
--
Sam had come to a flat, open field, and finding a spot to lie down had seemed like the thing to do. There was a chilly wind bringing the smell of a coming storm clawing over the grass. It brought other things too-Sam noted there was a scent of sulfur drifting over the morning fog, and coming from a distance, he thought he heard the flutter of wings. Sam stared up into the impartial gray sky, closed his eyes, and waited.
-
Word Count: 505 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
PART VII. Good Bye.
The sun never really rises, but the sky relents just a little in its gloom. Sam’s been cradling the gray, limp body for hours now, staring thoughtlessly out the dust-streaked window. Dean is cold, unnaturally cold, and Sam’s hands hurt from holding him. A little while ago, he wouldn’t have been able to feel the dead skin under his fingertips. He wants to go back to when he was dying.
It was easy to believe that the Apocalypse had already come and gone, and that they were the only two beings left, alone in a dying house at the end of times. It felt just like that. It wasn’t true, but Sam almost wished it was.
Finally, Sam begins to move. His legs are sore from being folded underneath him. His arms are stiff from holding Dean so tight. He wipes a hand over his tight face, and get to work. He pulls the knife out of Dean. He straightens his limbs. He folds his arms over his chest, and when he’s done, he kisses Dean’s forehead, and the tears come again.
He thinks about the vial of Anenexus in Dean’s shirt pocket. If Dean knew Sam was contemplating doing own community theatre version of Romeo and Juliet, he’d have Sam’s ass. But Dean was gone. There was nothing left of him but lifeless flesh and bones. Sam reached into the pocket, but wasn’t terribly surprised to find it empty. Did Cas take it? Was it on the blade Dean’d killed himself with? Did it matter?
No, Sam decided, as he left the house. Nothing mattered at all.
--
It was wet weather, but the house burned nice anyway. Sam watched it for a while, an unexpected riot of warm colors in a cold and muted world.
After that, Sam turned and walked away. He walked with no intentions or destination. Dean had been right, Sam had decided. Sam had the boundaries of his conscience had been stretched and warped. He was caught between extremes, wandering back and forth and finally feeling paralyzed. He didn’t know where to go from here.
When Dean had sent him off on his first date, he’d winked at Sammy and said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” It was a stupid joke and had come with a suggestive eyebrow waggle but Sam had taken it to heart. When Dean had been dragged to Hell, Sam had felt like a compass that lost North. Now, what was there left to do, but wander?
--
Sam had come to a flat, open field, and finding a spot to lie down had seemed like the thing to do. There was a chilly wind bringing the smell of a coming storm clawing over the grass. It brought other things too-Sam noted there was a scent of sulfur drifting over the morning fog, and coming from a distance, he thought he heard the flutter of wings. Sam stared up into the impartial gray sky, closed his eyes, and waited.
-