If he were I, he would do what I did - SN fic - PG13

[tigriswolf]

Title: If he were I, he would do what I did

Fandom: “Supernatural”

Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sylvia Plath.

Warnings: future!fic

Pairings: none

Rating: PG13

Wordcount: 2550

Point of view: third

Notes: for the spncw_fairytalechallenge, to Orpheus and Eurydice prompt. Very little of the original myth remains.

More notes: thanks to smilla02for giving this a looksie!

 

               

                Sam left the Gate open behind him as he descended into Hell. He held Ruby’s demon-killing knife clenched in his right fist and a small vial of his own blood in his left. Hidden on his person were three blessed guns and half a dozen consecrated knives. 

                He didn’t expect to succeed and he doubted very much he’d survive. But he had to at least attempt; after everything Dean had done, Sam had to try.

 

                Dean didn’t fight the hounds, didn’t try to run. By the time Sam got there, Dean was long-dead and half-eaten. Sam cleaned him as best he could and burned him, poured a dozen pounds of salt on him.

                Sam didn’t forgive himself for failing. Being too late. He barely breathed in the weeks after, rarely ate, never slept or bathed.

                It was even worse than those months after Broward County, because Sam couldn’t hunt down and kill Hell.

               

                The first screaming shade Sam came across didn’t speak English. So Sam stabbed it and kept on. The next five only howled gibberish. After that, he quit counting.

                By the time he found the Palace, his clothes were burned off, his skin peeling, muscles sliced, covered in blood and ash. He’d used all the consecrated knives and blessed guns; even Ruby’s knife had been wrenched from his grasp and tossed into a pit of fire.

                Before approaching the Palace, Sam held the small vial to his lips and drained it down. Almost instantly, his flesh healed, his muscle reknit, his bones were covered again.

                Sam tossed the vial away; the sound of glass shattering was covered by fire’s screams.

 

                Sam couldn’t hunt down Hell, couldn’t kill it, couldn’t bargain with it. Hell was not an entity—but its lord was. Hell’s lord—Satan, Lucifer, the devil—whoever, whatever, Sam could speak to him. 

                He didn’t go to Bobby for help. Bobby would try to stop him, try to convince him that Dean wanted him to move on.

                Sam knew that. Knew Dean would tell him to let go, live his life. And Dean would mean it.

                But Sam didn’t care. Dean had sold himself to get Sam back, and Sam would do anything he could to return the favor.

                Anything at all.

 

                No demons or shadows or shades came near him as he strode down the hill to Hell’s Palace. Naked as the day he was born, Sam felt heat on his skin but no pain. He had no weapons left but his wit, determination, and love.

                The doors blew open before him and Sam stalked in.

 

                There were no rituals for what he intended to do, so Sam made it up as he went along. He had the Colt, he knew where the gateway was, he had the demon-killing knife—his plan was quite simple: walk into Hell and look until he found Dean, then convince whoever was in charge to let them go.

                It wouldn’t be easy, not at all. He’d probably be torn apart. He had six knives and three guns blessed by a holy man of every major religion, against the hordes of Hell. He drank a gallon of holy water, then bathed in it, against Hell’s own army. He figured he didn’t stand a chance.

                One medicine man of the Great Plains, the last of his tribe, told Sam that his blood could heal.

                When you have nothing left, he said, voice old and worn as the wind, drink your own life, and you will be strong again.

                Sam didn’t know what that meant but he filled a small glass container with his own blood, just in case.

               

                He strode into a room the size of the Superdome. It was empty except for a large obsidian throne. Sam looked around; after Hell’s heat, the room was pleasantly cool.

                “Welcome, Samuel Winchester,” a resounding, sexless voice said. “I am… impressed.”

                A being stepped in front of him, naked and pale as fluffy white cloud, neither male nor female. 

                “You’re Lucifer?” he asked in disbelief.

                 The being laughed, loudly and long. “Oh, no,” it chortled, hands clasped before it. “There is no Lucifer, hasn’t been in millennia. I am simply the Gatekeeper.” It smiled, teeth a jarring shade of red in such a pale face. “You stand in the Gate, Samuel. No one has ever made it so far.” It cocked its head, white hair shimmering. “Of course, before you, no one has ever broken into Hell.”

                Sam grinned mirthlessly. “That’s me—always the trendsetter.”

                The being squared its stance. “To pass through the Gate, you must prove worthy. Hell’s favorite souls are kept there—the worst, nastiest folk to ever die…” It paused, clear eyes looking through him. “But, also, the best are kept there, the saints and martyrs who sacrificed themselves for other souls. Your brother is there, Samuel. He screams so prettily, writhing beneath the greatest of demons, torn open and tasted, again and again and again… until he has no voice left, and still he screams.”       

                Sam shuddered, closing his eyes. “What must I do?” he asked.

                The Gatekeeper stepped close, pressing its body against his. “Pass a test, Samuel. All you have to do is open a door.”

                It smiled, rising on its toes to kiss his lips. It tasted like blood, and Sam kissed back.

 

                Sam hadn’t been to the crypt since he killed Jake, since Dean killed Azazel, since Dad vanished in a flash of light, since the Gate opened and a leaderless army streamed out.

                It was exactly as he remembered, and the Gate opened easily.

 

                The Gatekeeper stepped from him, licking its lips. “You taste like power,” it said. “Like life.” It cocked its head again. “No one has ever attempted this, Samuel Winchester. Souls try clawing out all the time—no one ever claws their way in.” It paused, seeming to weigh words. “I do not care about the politics of Hell, the endless war between demons, angels, and humans. I am the Gatekeeper. I merely keep the Gate.”

                Sam waited.

                It nodded and continued. “I wish you luck. If any can succeed, it is you.”

                “Thank you,” he responded.

                The Gatekeeper vanished and Sam kept on.

                After the throne room was a dark hallway. He saw no doors. The hallway connected to another large room, with another throne, this one the color of bone. He approached cautiously, but no one appeared; he slowly reached out, touched it—shuddering, he pulled back, disgusted. It was bone.

                “Beautiful, yes?” a sibilant male voice asked, a dark man dressed in a three-piece suit stepping before him. “It could be yours, Son of Hell.”

                Sam straightened to his full height, taller by a head. “I don’t want it,” he replied coldly. “I only want Dean.”

                The man smirked, teeth glinting. “Pass the test, Son of Hell. Open the door. Convince him to follow you—and he is yours.”

                Fire leaped in his black eyes and he vanished. Sam glanced around, senses straining, but he was alone again.

                From far away came the sound of something roaring. He paused for just a moment before taking off in that direction.

                Sam ran through a dozen rooms, down a dozen corridors, and there were no doors. Countless empty doorways, but not a single door for him to open.   Finally he stopped—the roaring was on the other side of a red wall, and he could find no way in. He had come too far to be stopped—anger suffused him, and he threw himself at the wall, slamming his fists against it, screaming and kicking and cursing.

                The wall didn’t budge, but the roaring tapered off. He sank down, resting his forehead against the warm stone, and a few tears trailed along his cheeks.

                He couldn’t give up. He was in the Palace of Hell, and he’d been told what he had to do: find the door, open it, and convince Dean to follow him out.

                He had to get up, continue the search. Find the door.

                Sam stared at the wall. Find a door… or make one. Pressing his palms against the red stone, he stood. Sam hadn’t used any of Azazel’s curse since it failed to save Dean. But he had nothing left to lose. He was already in Hell, already alone. It couldn’t really get any worse.

                Sam focused on the wall, remembering back to how he felt when he saw Max kill Dean. There was no Azazel here to block the power now, and it flowed through him, coiled and burning.

                He punched the wall with his mind and it buckled but held. He hit it again and again, and finally it collapsed inward, leaving the way clear. He stepped through.

                It was the first throne room, with the dark throne. A woman sat on it, with pale hair and tanned skin, wearing a pant suit.

                “Lilith,” he guessed, moving forward.

                “Sam,” she replied. “Welcome.” She smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant at all. “You found a way in, passing the test.” She held out a hand. “You may ask of me a single boon.”

                “Give me back Dean,” Sam promptly said.

                She settled her hands on her lap. “I like your brother, Sam. He is a fun creature.” She canted her head, studying him. “I will allow you to speak with him. He must choose to follow you—or not.”

                Sam nodded.

                “Take that corridor to its end,” she told him, white eyes glowing, pointing to the left-hand hallway. “There your brother waits for you. If he agrees, I will cede all claim on him.”

                Swiftly he walked across the room and down the indicated corridor. He didn’t take any of the branching pathways. Finally he came to a room with no other way out. In the corner stood a naked man, back to him.

                “Dean?” he called softly, pausing at the entrance. The broad back was unmarked and the stance unfamiliar, but as the man turned, he saw that it was Dean.

                Dean’s face stayed blank, no recognition changing his expression at all. He had no scars except the ones he’d died with. He looked at Sam with dead hazel eyes.

                “Dean?” Sam said again. “It’s me, Sam. I’m here to get you out.” Dean stayed silent, unmoving, so he added. “It’s Sammy.”

                He stepped forward, hands where Dean could clearly see them. “I’m sorry it’s been so long, but I’m here now.” Sam wanted to cry because there was no hint Dean knew him at all.

                Dean’s gaze flicked to his left hand, his right, then to Sam’s eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to speak—then closed it again.

                Sam’s hope plummeted. After everything, he would fail, because this man wasn’t Dean. He was too late; his preparations had taken too long.

                His shoulders slumped, his head drooped. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Dean, I am so so sorry.” Sam let himself sink to the cold floor. Compared to the rest of Hell, this room was freezing. Kneeling on it, looking up at his brother, Sam shivered. A year on Earth, Dean’d been gone… how did that translate in Hell?

                Tears poured down; his chest heaved. Dean’s expression didn’t change.

                “They all knew,” Sam said through the sobbing. “They knew I was too late, and they sent me on anyway.”

                His tears splashed on the floor and Dean slowly knelt. With Sam slumped down, they were eye-to-eye. Dean reached out his hand to lightly touch Sam’s cheek, rub at the tears.

                Sam didn’t move. Dean wiped away the water, looking intently at Sam’s face. “I know you,” he said quietly. “From before…”

                His skin was warm, spreading heat and hope through Sam’s body.

                “Yes,” Sam answered. “You’re my brother.”

                “Brother,” Dean repeated, looking up through his lashes.

                Sam wanted to embrace him, to feel his heartbeat, but he wasn’t sure how Dean would react, if it’d be too much too soon.

                “You’re from Above… here for me?” Dean’s face was too closed, no emotion. His thumb kept rubbing circles on Sam’s skin.

                “Yes, Dean,” he said. “I’m here to get you out. To bring you home.”

                “Why?” For a moment, something dark peered out of Dean’s eyes, something hard.

                “Because it’s my fault you’re here. You traded yourself for me.” To Sam’s ears, his voice sounded shredded.

                “So you’re here to lighten your guilt?”

                “No!” Sam jerked back in horror, shaking his head. “You’re too good to be in Hell! You deserve so much better than this.”

                Dean just looked at him for a moment, stretched out his hand again, fingers gently alighting on Sam’s skin. “They said no one was ever coming.” He moved forwards slightly, other hand reaching up to thread in the hair at the back of Sam’s head. “They said I was alone forever.” His eyes shifted black for one second.

                “No, Dean!” Sam denied vehemently, refusing to recoil back from his brother. He gripped Dean’s shoulders hard enough to bruise and shook him. “I’m here! It just took me so long, and I had to come up with the ritual and create the spell. I’d’ve been here every moment if I could, and I’m sorry. I’m so damned sorry.”

                Dean just stared at him, face blank, eyes a lifeless hazel.

                Sam let him go, sinking down onto his haunches. He looked up at Dean, all hope gone. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

                “How did you get here?” Dean asked, sinking backwards and crossing his legs.

                Sam told him. About inventing the ritual, leaving open the Gate, destroying countless demons, speaking with Hell’s three guardians, creating a door—“Lilith said if I convinced you to follow me, she’d let you leave.” Sam shook his head. “But you don’t remember me, you don’t know me. I failed you, took too long.”

                Dean watched him regain composure. “How long has it been?”

                “A year. It’s been a year since you came down here.” Sam rubbed his eyes.

                “I’m tired.” Sam looked up, met Dean’s black gaze. After a moment, his eyes returned to hazel. “I can’t rest down here.” Dean deliberated then said, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

                Sam licked his lips. This wasn’t his brother. Might never be his brother again. “You’ll follow me out?”

                Dean nodded. Sam rose to his feet and held out a hand; Dean gripped him and Sam pulled him up.

                This man might never be his brother again, but he’d have a chance outside of Hell. “Dean,” he whispered. “What’s my name?”

                Dean cocked his head, face blank again. Sam sharply missed his smile, his smirk, his sneer. “Brother,” Dean responded. “Sam.”

                Sam had never wanted to be called Sammy so much as right then.

                He dropped Dean’s hand and straightened, utilizing every ounce of his size. “Let’s go,” he said.

 

                The Gate was still open; Dean looked up at the sky as Sam closed it and pulled out the Colt.

                Dawn. Early summer, felt like—he’d been Below for half a year.

                The Impala was where he’d left her, covered in dust and dirt. Sam walked towards her, calling over his shoulder, “Dean.”

                He paused when he saw the expression on Dean’s face: pure, childlike wonder, bathed in sunlight, staring at the sky. Sam smiled.

                Maybe Dean wasn’t completely lost.

 

 

Comments

[huntress69.livejournal.com]

Yeah, I had a smile at:“Of course, before you, no one has ever broken into Hell.”

Sam grinned mirthlessly. “That’s me—always the trendsetter.”

Then wanted to bawl:Sam had never wanted to be called Sammy so much as right then.

And Dean will never be lost with Sam beside him; he will always find his way....

[tigriswolf]

Thank you for reading!