![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfTitle: long trip alone, over sand and stone
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun. Title and lyrics excerpted from “Long Trip Alone” by the adorable Dierks Bentley.
Warnings: Spoilers for everything. Character torture and death. AU. Unapologetic run-on sentences. Rampant overuse of and. Possible out-of-characterness.
Pairings: mentions of John/Mary. Wincest could be implied, for those sick puppies who enjoy that sort of thing.
Rating: Rish, I guess.
Wordcount: 2942
Point of view: third
Notes: I like Mary. And Dean. And Sam, come to think of it.
More notes: This started out as a drabbleish Dean character-study. And mutated. Then grew.
Dedication:
smilla02 for awesomeness andiamstealthyonefor coolness and sadelyrate for sweetness and tigris_lilsisfor listening to my rambles.
So maybe you could walk with me a while
Maybe I could rest beneath your smile
Maybe I could feel right beside you 'til I'm home
'Cause it's a long trip alone
-
He’s waiting, alone, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for that blow he can’t avoid, waiting for the claw that’s too fast, waiting for the ground to finally win when they tangle.
He’s waiting, alone.
-
He remembers, aching, bleeding, when he wasn’t. When he had a mommy and a daddy and a baby brother Sammy. He remembers hugs and kisses and chocolate chip cookies homemade, hot from the oven. He remembers helping Mommy cook and making a mess and Mommy laughing as he helped clean up. He remembers chasing Daddy around the house, playing hide-and-seek. He remembers holding Sammy, gently, securely, like Mommy taught him. He remembers Sammy’s baby smile and Sammy’s baby laugh and the way Sammy looked at him, with baby blue eyes that soon turned emerald.
He remembers November and fire and Mommy’s scream, Sammy’s cry.
He’s waiting, now, waiting alone for what began that night to finally end, finally be over, finally let him go.
He’s waiting, aching, bleeding, alone.
-
Mommy died for Sammy and Daddy died with Mommy.
Dad died for him, to bring him back from death, and an ache in his soul grows steadily by the hour.
What’s dead should stay dead, but he’s walking and talking and hurting and fighting, doing the only thing he knows how to do, and it hurts, it hurts so much, a steady throb in his chest that no amount of painkiller can get rid of, because the hurt isn’t physical.
What’s dead should stay dead, and Sam(my) watches like a hawk, trying to keep him from proving that true.
And he’s waiting, alone, because Sam can’t know.
Sam won’t let him go.
-
Mommy died in November and Daddy died with Mommy.
Dean died that night, too. Now he can never become what he would have been. Sam, though, his potential was still there. He didn’t really lose anything that night, nothing he’d remember having. He had no memory of Mommy or Daddy, of chocolate chip cookies hot from the oven, of hide- and-seek throughout the entire house. He couldn’t remember, so for the longest time he didn’t regret.
But then he saw families at the park, heard the kids at school, and hated what he didn’t have.
Dean, though… Dean ached and bled for what he couldn’t give his brother. Dean tried his best, but could never give enough.
-
And he’s waiting, alone. Dad is dead, and Mom, and Death comes for him again, Death he’d spoken to but not fully escaped. He can hear Sam yelling his name on the other side of the forest, can imagine the gun clenched tight in Sam’s grip.
Hello, Dean, Death says, and he’s waiting for that blow he can’t dodge.
“Tessa,” he replies, giving Death a nod, and then he hears the snarling from behind him.
Dean, Death says again and the wendigo shrieks. Dean flinches and turns, searching for the monster with his eyes, but the darkness is complete and there is no moon.
He hears Sam scream his name, but there is no pain—only anger and fear. Sam(my) isn’t hurt, only pissed and scared.
The wendigo snarls and Dean feels claws rip across his back. His mouth opens but no sound comes out. He spins around, raising the flare gun, but it’s batted from his grip. The wendigo chatters and flicks its claws at his face, leaving scores on his cheek. He sucks in a breath and falls to his knees, Tessa falling with him.
Let go, Dean, Tessa whispers.
“Will Sammy be alright?” Dean gasps, hands scrambling for the gun.
He can hear the wendigo moving around him, still chattering to itself.
I’m not here for him, Tessa answers. I’ve just come for you.
Dean’s fingers find cold metal and pause. He closes his eyes, focusing on the wendigo’s noise, shutting out everything else. The wendigo rips open skin on his chest and stomach, and he raises the gun, eyes still shut.
Sam’s voice is nearer and Dean pulls the trigger. The wendigo roars and screams, and Dean’s waiting, alone with Death and a monster, and fire burns too close, but Dean’s freezing, and he collapses back, staring up at the endless sky, trying to pick out the stars.
Come with me, Death whispers, trailing her fingers across his lips. Rest, Dean. I know how tired you are.
Sam shrieks his name, but Dean can’t move, can hardly breathe, can only watch the stars fade.
Come with me, Death whispers again and Sam’s voice drops away.
-
Mommy and Daddy are dancing in the kitchen, twirling and laughing, and Dean watches from the doorway.
Mommy catches sight of him and pulls away from Daddy, smiling. “Dean,” she says, kneeling in front of him, “you’re goin’ to be a big brother.”
Dean blinks up at her before whooping and throws his arms around her neck.
Daddy rushes over and picks him up, spinning him around; Dean’s laughter fills the room.
Mommy watches, exuberant, and Dean knows the future is a bright place.
-
Come with me, Death asks, and Dean’s too tired to fight.
The stars twinkle and shimmer, and Dean’s waiting alone. He’s weary and frightened and too cold to care anymore.
Tessa stands over him, smiling down, and she says, “Come with me, Dean,” offering a hand.
“Okay,” he rasps and his eyelids flutter closed.
-
For a brief moment, the pain recedes and he sees Mommy again, Mommy with her golden hair cascading down her back and her lips curved in a gentle smile and the hazel eyes he inherited glistening with hope.
“Dean,” she says softly, reaching with one hand. “Dean, go back.”
“Momma,” he replies, voice worn and weary, “I’m just too tired anymore.”
She touches his shoulder, wraps her arms around him. “Dean,” she murmurs, curling into him, resting her head on his chest. “So much has happened and you can’t let go.” She pulls back, tilts her head to meet his eyes. “Are you willing to leave Sam?”
His arms tighten and he flinches away, can’t keep her gaze. “No,” he answers. “But, how…”
Her smile is sad and broken. “So much has happened to keep you alive, Dean. You can’t just give up.” She raises her head, softly kisses his cheek.
“Death can’t be defeated, Momma,” he says and lowers his chin to rest on the top of her head.
“Yes,” she responds. “Yes, it can.”
He can smell fire for an instant, smell smoke wafting on the still air. He tries to pull away but she holds on. “You were never waiting alone, Dean. I’ve been with you since you were conceived. For nine months you grew in me and then I delivered you to the world. For nearly a quarter of a century, ever since I told you about Sammy, you’ve been his.” Keeping one arm around him, she raises her other hand to touch his cheek. “He’s begging you to come back. And if you don’t…” Her smile drops away and her eyes shine. “I didn’t just die for Sammy, love. I knew what I did that night, and I chose to continue on. Marshall Hall didn’t know his life was to be traded for yours, but if he had… if everything was made clear to him like it was to me, he would have chosen you to live.” Tears spill out of her eyes, down her face. “And John…” She lowers her head and leans into him.
“Momma,” he breathes and hears Sam’s voice.
“Go back, Dean. Death wants you but cannot take you, not yet.” She raises both hands to cradle his face, pulls his head down to rest their foreheads together. “I won’t let her take you.”
“Okay,” he answers and smiles her own broken smile.
-
The sky is dark, far away. The stars shimmer and he feels a tremor in his body. He hears Sam’s voice, a low murmur, but can’t make out the words—only the tone. Angry, terrified, despairing—Dean hates that Sam sounds that way, so he tries to speak, tries to reassure his little brother everything will be fine.
“… Sammy…”
“Dean,” Sam sobs, “C’mon, please stay…”
And Dean realizes that Sam was waiting alone, waiting for Dean to live or die, unable to do anything but plead and pray. So Dean forces open his eyes, blinks and whimpers, hears Sam sob in relief. “Dean,” he says, leaning over his brother, touching Dean softly. “Dean, thank god.”
“Sammy…” he tries, the word barely there. “… so cold…” He attempts sitting up, rolling over, filling his lungs with fresh air, but nothing hears his command, nothing answers his plea.
Sam sniffs, brushes his hand across Dean’s forehead. “How bad are you hurt?” he asks and Dean hears the tears in his voice.
“Bad,” Dean whispers.
Sam looks into his eyes for a moment and Dean can’t hide the truth.
I’m dyin’, Sam, and you can’t stop it.
What’s dead should stay dead.
Dean can’t move, can’t stop him, so Sam puts one arm under Dean’s shoulder and the other under Dean’s knees, and picks his big brother up.
There’s a few hours till sunrise and no moon, and Sam finds a way out of the forest because there is no other option. He keeps up a steady stream of comments, says whatever comes to mind, tries to get Dean responding, but Dean just gasps and breathes. Sam stumbles a couple of times and Dean, barely clinging to consciousness, whimpers.
Sam feels the blood, sticky and cooling and slick, and knows Dean needs care right now, but there is no signal and he doesn’t have the tools.
Finally he reaches the edge and sees the Impala and sprints to her, carefully putting Dean in the back, shoving away all thoughts of the last time Dean rode there.
They don’t need you. Not like you need them.
“Dean,” Sam calls and his eyelids flutter.
“Sammy?” His voice is threadbare, weak, and it hurts Sam to hear him.
“Hold on, okay, Dean?” Sam begs. “Please, Dean.”
Dean doesn’t respond.
-
Looking back later, Sam doesn’t remember the drive to the hospital. He doesn’t remember carrying Dean into the ER and screaming for help. Doesn’t remember the names they used or how he hit his knees after Dean was wheeled away, how he begged God for anything, how he promised Satan anything if Dean woke up healthy and whole and alive. Doesn’t remember pacing the waiting room for hours in a shirt drenched with his brother’s blood. Doesn’t remember all the curses and bargains, how he swore to God and the Devil and everyone in-between that if Dean died, that was it. Game over.
He’s pulled Dean from Death’s grasp more than once, but stalking around the waiting room, he hates how something feels so final this time.
-
Hold on, Dean, he hears, the whisper echoing around him, in him, through him. Hold on, baby.
He can’t answer, can just lie there, watching the nurses and doctors scurry around, doing their best to save him.
Don’t worry, love, Momma says, and he feels a hand ghost across his forehead. You’ll be fine. Lips brush his cheek and she continues, Sammy won’t let you go.
Dean’s waiting, stuck in his dying body, alone in a crowded room, Momma’s soul beside him and Sammy down the hall. The people trying to save him flicker in and out, and Momma’s voice fades.
Then Tessa is standing next to him.
Dean, she says, just rest. Let me take care of you.
-
Sam doesn’t remember, later, when the doctor talked to him, what the doctor said.
Without a reason, Dad once told them, no ghost will linger. Find the reason, find whatever the spirit is clinging to, and they can be set free.
Sam doesn’t remember collapsing or screaming, doesn’t remember threading his fingers through Dean’s short hair, doesn’t remember gripping Dean’s hand, limp and cooling, doesn’t remember squeezing his eyes tight and begging, pleading, cajoling, demanding Dean fall back into his body and wake up. Sam doesn’t remember slipping into sleep or slumping down over Dean’s bed, doesn’t remember sobbing or how it felt to realize he was the last man standing. He doesn’t remember signing the papers or listening to the doctor, but he does remember stealing Dean’s body from the hospital morgue. He does remember laying Dean gently on the backseat, does remember driving for hours, looking for the perfect place.
He does remember pulling off the road and laughing hysterically. Perfect place. Perfect place. Ain’t no such thing, not anymore.
He does remember the laughter turning to tears.
But the overwhelming memory, even years down the road, is when Sam looks in the rearview and sees Dean looking back.
-
“Dean,” she says, disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” he answers, unable to look into her eyes. “I tried.”
She pulls his head down, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I thought you stronger. I thought you would hold on even after there was nothing to hold on to. Sam’s shrieking for you to go back—can’t you hear him?”
Dean sighs, sags down. “I’m just so tired, Momma…”
“I know, Dean,” she replies. “I know. But, no matter what Death thinks, it’s not your time. You’ve fought too long, too hard, and you will get your chance to rest.”
Dean finishes her thought. “But not yet.”
“I know you’re aching, baby,” she whispers, kissing his brow. “But it’s just gettin’ started.”
He sighs again. “How long?”
She smiles, sadly, brokenly. “Until it’s done. And not a moment before.”
-
Sam slams on the brakes and the Impala spins around. “Dean?”
“Hiya, Sammy,” Dean says and sinks back onto the seats. “God, I’m cold.”
“Dean?” Sam repeats and turns around, unable to take his eyes off is brother.
Dean’s eyelids flicker open. “I’m here, Sammy. I’m not goin’ anywhere, promise. ‘m jus’ tired.”
Sam pulls off the road and gets out the car, slowly steps to the back door, opens it even slower. Dean’s still there, limply sitting up, shallowly breathing. Sam crawls in next to him, touches his face, his neck, his chest.
The wendigo’s marks are still there. Not bleeding, not healed. On his cheek, across his chest and stomach, down his back.
Sam’s eyes tear and he pull Dean to him, lightly wraps his arms around his brother.
“Sammy,” Dean mutters, shifting in attempts to get comfortable. “m’fine, honest.”
Sam sniffs and just kisses Dean’s hair. “I know,” he whispers.
He doesn’t understand and knows he probably never will, but somehow he’s been given Dean back.
Sam shuts his eyes and clutches Dean closer, falls asleep to Dean breathing.
Dean, breathing. Sam has good dreams that night.
-
Dean wakes up slowly, quietly. Through the window, he watches the sun peek over the horizon.
He’d been dead and he knows it. Three times over. But he can’t stay dead, not when Sammy’s waiting for him alone. So he watches the sun paint the sky and waits for Sam to wake up.
He won’t be given any more chances, of that he’s sure. Momma has nothing left and Death’ll be back. But somehow he’s got to find a way.
Light hits the Impala and Dean soaks it up, shifts out of Sam’s grip. Sam stirs, opens his eyes, yawns.
“Dean,” he says, tightening his grip; Dean stills.
“m’here, Sam,” he answers. “Everythin’s fine.”
Sam turns his head, reaches out to trace the scores across his cheek. “Does it hurt?” he whispers, gaze shooting to Dean’s and back.
“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”
Sam sucks in a breath. “You were dead.” His voice is soft, broken, infinitely young.
“I know,” Dean responds gently. “But I’m back. I’m fine.”
Sam nods slowly and opens the door, slips out. Dean follows and stands next to him. The highway is just out of sight; Dean can hear the cars rushing by. He stands patiently, allows Sam to examine him, make sure he’s healthy and whole, beyond the slashes. Alive. “I’m fine,” Dean says again, softly, surely.
Sam looks down, away. Dean shakes his head and reaches out, pulls Sam to him. He just wraps his arms around his yeti of a little brother, fists his hands in Sam’s shirt. After half a heartbeat, Sam mirrors the motion, burying his face in Dean’s neck, body wracked with sobs.
“You were dead,” is what Dean hears. “And I couldn’t save you.”
“I got ya, Sammy,” Dean says, just holding on.
-
You don’t know what you’ve done, Tessa says, annoyed. Not angry, not yet. Perplexed.
Don’t I? Mary flippantly replies. To you, they are mortals, Winchester’s they may be. She flicks Tessa a glance. But I, dear Reaper, I know their souls. I conceived them, I carried them, I bore them—none can ever know them as I do.
Tessa shoots her a look. Save the preaching, Spirit.
Mary laughs. You can’t understand, Reaper. None of you can.
He died, Tessa declares. You have played with the natural order.
Shrugging, Mary responds, Perhaps. But my son is not for you—or any Reaper—to claim. Her smile is slow and beautiful. I assure you, Reaper, you could not have taken him, no matter how you tried.
With a glare, Tessa looks back towards Mary’s sons. You’re wrong, Spirit. I will claim him.
Mary’s laughter rings out and both mortals look over. A shiver shoots down the spine Tessa doesn’t have.
Mary smiles.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-02 05:32 pm (UTC)