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spn_springfling2015-03-16 10:57 pm
springflingmod.livejournal.com) wrote in spn_springfling2015-03-16 10:57 pm
I will follow you into the dark by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blackrabbit42 for <user site
Title: I Will Follow You Into the Dark
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Any warnings: Major character deaths, suicide
++++++++
Sam grips the phone, silently willing Dean to answer, damnit. Dean should have been back from the hardware store over an hour ago, and Sam is starting to get frantic. Dean’s “hello” does nothing to assuage his nerves. Something is wrong. At age sixty two, Dean has lost none of his confident swagger, but the way he answers the phone now is hesitant, and there’s something else in there. Guilt? Shame? Not Dean.
“Dean, what’s going on? Where have you been?”
Dean doesn’t answer for a moment, then says, “I can’t find the Impala.”
“What? Dean, where are you?” The Impala is in the garage, taking her well-deserved rest under an immaculate canvas drop cloth. They have plans to take her out for a drive this Sunday, show off her antique plates.
“I’m at the hardware store, and I can’t find the car.”
“Oh, the car. I thought you said the Impala.” It still doesn’t explain anything, Sam thinks.
“I did say the Impala. I’ve been looking around this damn parking lot forever, and she’s just not here. I’ll kill the son of a bitch who—“
“Dean, you drove the Toyota to the store. The Impala is in the garage where it belongs. Are you alright?”
There’s no response for a moment. In his mind, Sam can almost see Dean, tilting his glasses down his nose so he can look over them to scan the parking lot. “Yeah, I see it,” Dean says at last. “Be home in five.”
++++++++
Sam finds an article on reducing flight risk for Alzheimer patients in nursing homes. It says that painting a black circle on the floor in front of doorways keeps the patients from exiting, that they perceive it to be an actual hole.
He stays up late one night and paints one in front of the kitchen door. He will not keep Dean locked in. He covers it with a braided rug, hopes that he never has to use it, because he knows exactly what that hole would look like to Dean.
++++++++
When Sam gets home from the market, Moxie is whining, her tail tucked between her legs. She runs between Sam and her dog door on the back porch, her high-pitched distress signal sending cold shivers skittering over the back of Sam’s neck. He drops the groceries and runs up to the kitchen door. There’s some glass scattered on the side lawn, below the breakfast window.
“Dean!” he calls out as he reaches the door, his throat worked up and tight. There’s no answer. The pane glass rattles in the frame as Sam tears the door open, and the screws pull slightly through the old wood.
The broken window in the kitchen is stained with blood, not so much, but it’s there. He stands perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen, willing his heart to slow, eyes taking in everything. A few smatters of blood on the floor, a small smear on the handle of the freezer.
He hears Moxie in the back hallway, scratching frantically on wood. He follows the sound. He’s pretty sure Dean is all right, and tearing around the house in a panic might set him off, get him upset, so Sam forces himself to walk slowly towards the back hall. Sure enough, Moxie is at their bedroom door, the whites of her eyes showing as she works at it with her paws, trying to dig under the crack in the door.
Sam tries to keep the tremor out of his voice as he bends down to reassure Moxie. “Good girl,” he says, scratching her ears. “That’s a good girl, everything’s ok.”
He stands and taps gently at the door. “Dean?”
When there’s no answer, he tries the latch, and it clicks open, the door swinging inward on its own creaky hinges. Dean is standing in front of his dresser and he whips around, shoving his injured hand behind his back like a guilty child.
“There was a monster in here with me,” Dean says. “I couldn’t get out.” He looks at the open door behind Sam in bewilderment. “Where were you, Sam?”
++++++++
At first, Dean fucks like he’s got something to prove. He holds Sam down or pushes him up against the wall they way they did when they were twenty. Wears Sam out, then demands more, and Sam knows he’s saying, I’m still young. I’m still what I used to be. Other nights, he gets on his knees and takes care of Sam, pretending the day isn’t going to come when Sam needs to take care of him.
But lately, those times come fewer and farther in between. Sam finds Dean in bed, already asleep before Sam has brushed his teeth. That’s okay. Sam climbs in and curls around him, trying to hold him together the best he can.
++++++++
There’s not much to remember their early years by, there had been no room in their lives to be lugging around souvenirs or more than a few precious photographs. But during their years in the bunker, there’d been time and space to catalogue, to chronicle. To hold on to some of the good things.
Sam hauls these mementos out one rainy afternoon, quizzing Dean, watching his face to tell which things he remembers, which he just pretends to remember.
"Who’s this?" Dean asks, holding up a picture of Charlie. “She’s smokin’ hot.”
“You’re not her type,” Sam says, taking the photo gently from Dean’s fingers and returning it to the shoebox.
“I’m everyone’s type,” Dean says, and snatches the photo back out. He’s not smiling as he studies Charlie’s features. He’s sad. He’s tired. “Unless...” he hesitates. “Unless she was our sister?”
“Almost,” Sam says.
Dean pushes the box of photos away and looks out the window, his jaw tight.
If it was just this, Sam could live with it. A few rough years, getting lonelier as the days steal away more and more of his brother. But Sam knows this isn’t where their story ends, and he’s scared. If heaven is made of your best memories, what happens when you don’t have any?
++++++++
Getting their affairs in order goes better than Sam anticipated, because he had never expected they’d have anything left at the end. He always assumed that the hunter’s life would grind them into dust, until they had nothing, until they were nothing.
He sells the house, and transfers the money to a few different accounts, young hunters that he and Dean have helped out here and there in their later years.
The hardest part is saying goodbye to Moxie. He strokes her silky ears and presses his face into the scruff of her neck. The Benson kids will take good care of her. “So sorry to see you two go,” Mrs. Benson says after Sam passes her the folder with Moxie’s vet records.
“It’s just time,” Sam says.
++++++++
There’s no hurry. Sam drives leisurely across the country, trying to gather together as many good memories as he can. The Grand Canyon, one last time, crappy motels, diners where Dean can still charm the waitresses without it being awkward and creepy.
Sam soaks in Dean, every one of his smiles. Memorizes every little thing that makes Dean happy. Watches Dean doze in the passenger seat as they drive across Nevada, sun shining through the window and turning every one of his grey hairs into gold again. Maybe Sam can remember enough for both of them.
They drive through North Dakota, but they avoid the place that used to be Singer’s Salvage Yard. They do however, hit Stull Cemetery and Lawrence. They park out front and watch a couple of kids running around on the front lawn; a boy and a girl.
“Look at that,” Dean says. “You could almost forget what happened here.”
++++++++
In Fort Wayne, Sam arranges a minor hunt, calls some younger hunters to discretely be ready to back-up, just in case. He comes this close to flagging them in before Dean sinks Ruby’s knife into the demon’s ribcage and ends it. There’s a light in Dean’s eyes that Sam hasn’t seen for a long time, and he doesn’t regret a thing.
“Dude,” one of the young hunters says to Sam later in the bar. “That was cutting it close. You guys need to be more careful at your a—.” He snaps his jaw shut before he says it, and looks down at the bar. He had momentarily forgotten who he was talking to.
Sam slides the knife over. “You be careful at your age,” he says. “You’ve got a long road and a lot of work ahead of you. If you’re lucky.”
He and Dean walk out of the bar, leaving the young hunter looking at the knife with a stunned sort of reverence.
They check into the nearest motel and fuck like they used to. Back then they never knew if there would be a next time. Now, Sam’s pretty sure there won’t be.
++++++++
“This place is awesome,” Dean says, ducking his head into long unused rooms. “We used to live here, right?” He touches everything, doesn’t hesitate to open drawers and poke around. It brings Sam back decades, to the day they first found the bunker, how Dean had been just like this then too. Unabashed in his admiration, excited and curious.
“Yes, Dean,” Sam says. He locks the entrance behind him. Leaves the key on the table. If another generation of Men of Letters ever resurfaces, they’ll find the bunker if it is meant to be. Sam feels a little bad about what they’ll find, but he figures anyone who finds a way into the bunker will be someone who’s seen death before. Much better than the local sheriff back home, or god forbid, the Bensons.
He stands behind Dean, hands around his waist, head ducked down to nuzzle into his neck. Dean’s hair is velvety against his cheek.
“Tell me what you remember, Dean.” He tries not to cry when it’s much, much less than he had suspected.
++++++++
Sam’s had a gun in his mouth before. Knows the oily, metal taste by heart. Has researched the best way to do it. He’s been a little selfish; he kept the Colt, for this one last job. He’ll see to it that this will be final. Like hell is he going to wake up in a world without Dean.
He’d held out a small hope that Dean would be up for one last go at it with him, but as soon as Sam slides under the sheets next to him, Dean says, “I’m so tired, Sam.”
“Ok, Dean.” And then, his throat so tight he can barely choke out the words, “Love you, Dean.”
“Love you too, Sammy.”
So Sam turns out the light, and waits. Listens to Dean’s breathing in the dark, and waits. Wraps himself around Dean’s curled back, threads their fingers together over Dean’s heart, and waits.
When Dean’s breathing finally steadies, and his body is still, Sam closes his eyes, and thinks of fireworks.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Any warnings: Major character deaths, suicide
++++++++
Sam grips the phone, silently willing Dean to answer, damnit. Dean should have been back from the hardware store over an hour ago, and Sam is starting to get frantic. Dean’s “hello” does nothing to assuage his nerves. Something is wrong. At age sixty two, Dean has lost none of his confident swagger, but the way he answers the phone now is hesitant, and there’s something else in there. Guilt? Shame? Not Dean.
“Dean, what’s going on? Where have you been?”
Dean doesn’t answer for a moment, then says, “I can’t find the Impala.”
“What? Dean, where are you?” The Impala is in the garage, taking her well-deserved rest under an immaculate canvas drop cloth. They have plans to take her out for a drive this Sunday, show off her antique plates.
“I’m at the hardware store, and I can’t find the car.”
“Oh, the car. I thought you said the Impala.” It still doesn’t explain anything, Sam thinks.
“I did say the Impala. I’ve been looking around this damn parking lot forever, and she’s just not here. I’ll kill the son of a bitch who—“
“Dean, you drove the Toyota to the store. The Impala is in the garage where it belongs. Are you alright?”
There’s no response for a moment. In his mind, Sam can almost see Dean, tilting his glasses down his nose so he can look over them to scan the parking lot. “Yeah, I see it,” Dean says at last. “Be home in five.”
++++++++
Sam finds an article on reducing flight risk for Alzheimer patients in nursing homes. It says that painting a black circle on the floor in front of doorways keeps the patients from exiting, that they perceive it to be an actual hole.
He stays up late one night and paints one in front of the kitchen door. He will not keep Dean locked in. He covers it with a braided rug, hopes that he never has to use it, because he knows exactly what that hole would look like to Dean.
++++++++
When Sam gets home from the market, Moxie is whining, her tail tucked between her legs. She runs between Sam and her dog door on the back porch, her high-pitched distress signal sending cold shivers skittering over the back of Sam’s neck. He drops the groceries and runs up to the kitchen door. There’s some glass scattered on the side lawn, below the breakfast window.
“Dean!” he calls out as he reaches the door, his throat worked up and tight. There’s no answer. The pane glass rattles in the frame as Sam tears the door open, and the screws pull slightly through the old wood.
The broken window in the kitchen is stained with blood, not so much, but it’s there. He stands perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen, willing his heart to slow, eyes taking in everything. A few smatters of blood on the floor, a small smear on the handle of the freezer.
He hears Moxie in the back hallway, scratching frantically on wood. He follows the sound. He’s pretty sure Dean is all right, and tearing around the house in a panic might set him off, get him upset, so Sam forces himself to walk slowly towards the back hall. Sure enough, Moxie is at their bedroom door, the whites of her eyes showing as she works at it with her paws, trying to dig under the crack in the door.
Sam tries to keep the tremor out of his voice as he bends down to reassure Moxie. “Good girl,” he says, scratching her ears. “That’s a good girl, everything’s ok.”
He stands and taps gently at the door. “Dean?”
When there’s no answer, he tries the latch, and it clicks open, the door swinging inward on its own creaky hinges. Dean is standing in front of his dresser and he whips around, shoving his injured hand behind his back like a guilty child.
“There was a monster in here with me,” Dean says. “I couldn’t get out.” He looks at the open door behind Sam in bewilderment. “Where were you, Sam?”
++++++++
At first, Dean fucks like he’s got something to prove. He holds Sam down or pushes him up against the wall they way they did when they were twenty. Wears Sam out, then demands more, and Sam knows he’s saying, I’m still young. I’m still what I used to be. Other nights, he gets on his knees and takes care of Sam, pretending the day isn’t going to come when Sam needs to take care of him.
But lately, those times come fewer and farther in between. Sam finds Dean in bed, already asleep before Sam has brushed his teeth. That’s okay. Sam climbs in and curls around him, trying to hold him together the best he can.
++++++++
There’s not much to remember their early years by, there had been no room in their lives to be lugging around souvenirs or more than a few precious photographs. But during their years in the bunker, there’d been time and space to catalogue, to chronicle. To hold on to some of the good things.
Sam hauls these mementos out one rainy afternoon, quizzing Dean, watching his face to tell which things he remembers, which he just pretends to remember.
"Who’s this?" Dean asks, holding up a picture of Charlie. “She’s smokin’ hot.”
“You’re not her type,” Sam says, taking the photo gently from Dean’s fingers and returning it to the shoebox.
“I’m everyone’s type,” Dean says, and snatches the photo back out. He’s not smiling as he studies Charlie’s features. He’s sad. He’s tired. “Unless...” he hesitates. “Unless she was our sister?”
“Almost,” Sam says.
Dean pushes the box of photos away and looks out the window, his jaw tight.
If it was just this, Sam could live with it. A few rough years, getting lonelier as the days steal away more and more of his brother. But Sam knows this isn’t where their story ends, and he’s scared. If heaven is made of your best memories, what happens when you don’t have any?
++++++++
Getting their affairs in order goes better than Sam anticipated, because he had never expected they’d have anything left at the end. He always assumed that the hunter’s life would grind them into dust, until they had nothing, until they were nothing.
He sells the house, and transfers the money to a few different accounts, young hunters that he and Dean have helped out here and there in their later years.
The hardest part is saying goodbye to Moxie. He strokes her silky ears and presses his face into the scruff of her neck. The Benson kids will take good care of her. “So sorry to see you two go,” Mrs. Benson says after Sam passes her the folder with Moxie’s vet records.
“It’s just time,” Sam says.
++++++++
There’s no hurry. Sam drives leisurely across the country, trying to gather together as many good memories as he can. The Grand Canyon, one last time, crappy motels, diners where Dean can still charm the waitresses without it being awkward and creepy.
Sam soaks in Dean, every one of his smiles. Memorizes every little thing that makes Dean happy. Watches Dean doze in the passenger seat as they drive across Nevada, sun shining through the window and turning every one of his grey hairs into gold again. Maybe Sam can remember enough for both of them.
They drive through North Dakota, but they avoid the place that used to be Singer’s Salvage Yard. They do however, hit Stull Cemetery and Lawrence. They park out front and watch a couple of kids running around on the front lawn; a boy and a girl.
“Look at that,” Dean says. “You could almost forget what happened here.”
++++++++
In Fort Wayne, Sam arranges a minor hunt, calls some younger hunters to discretely be ready to back-up, just in case. He comes this close to flagging them in before Dean sinks Ruby’s knife into the demon’s ribcage and ends it. There’s a light in Dean’s eyes that Sam hasn’t seen for a long time, and he doesn’t regret a thing.
“Dude,” one of the young hunters says to Sam later in the bar. “That was cutting it close. You guys need to be more careful at your a—.” He snaps his jaw shut before he says it, and looks down at the bar. He had momentarily forgotten who he was talking to.
Sam slides the knife over. “You be careful at your age,” he says. “You’ve got a long road and a lot of work ahead of you. If you’re lucky.”
He and Dean walk out of the bar, leaving the young hunter looking at the knife with a stunned sort of reverence.
They check into the nearest motel and fuck like they used to. Back then they never knew if there would be a next time. Now, Sam’s pretty sure there won’t be.
++++++++
“This place is awesome,” Dean says, ducking his head into long unused rooms. “We used to live here, right?” He touches everything, doesn’t hesitate to open drawers and poke around. It brings Sam back decades, to the day they first found the bunker, how Dean had been just like this then too. Unabashed in his admiration, excited and curious.
“Yes, Dean,” Sam says. He locks the entrance behind him. Leaves the key on the table. If another generation of Men of Letters ever resurfaces, they’ll find the bunker if it is meant to be. Sam feels a little bad about what they’ll find, but he figures anyone who finds a way into the bunker will be someone who’s seen death before. Much better than the local sheriff back home, or god forbid, the Bensons.
He stands behind Dean, hands around his waist, head ducked down to nuzzle into his neck. Dean’s hair is velvety against his cheek.
“Tell me what you remember, Dean.” He tries not to cry when it’s much, much less than he had suspected.
++++++++
Sam’s had a gun in his mouth before. Knows the oily, metal taste by heart. Has researched the best way to do it. He’s been a little selfish; he kept the Colt, for this one last job. He’ll see to it that this will be final. Like hell is he going to wake up in a world without Dean.
He’d held out a small hope that Dean would be up for one last go at it with him, but as soon as Sam slides under the sheets next to him, Dean says, “I’m so tired, Sam.”
“Ok, Dean.” And then, his throat so tight he can barely choke out the words, “Love you, Dean.”
“Love you too, Sammy.”
So Sam turns out the light, and waits. Listens to Dean’s breathing in the dark, and waits. Wraps himself around Dean’s curled back, threads their fingers together over Dean’s heart, and waits.
When Dean’s breathing finally steadies, and his body is still, Sam closes his eyes, and thinks of fireworks.
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