Fic: Of Bastard Saints (1/?)
May. 7th, 2006 12:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character death and maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
It was never good to see that smile, Sam thought. It was worse, he realized, when you weren't sure where the hell you were. As his brain started to work, the thoughts pulling free from the mire, memories started to flood back, and he realized what might be worst of all. When it was John Winchester giving you that half-pitying smile. "Dean?"
John shook his head, eyes falling. For a moment, Sam thought he saw a sheen in them, but that had to be a trick of the light. "No."
Sam was silent, trying to remember how to breathe around the pain. "No," he repeated. Then he shook his head, hard, like he could shed this. "It's someone else. It's not him."
"Sam," John gritted. "I know. But he was already hurt before the truck-"
Deep inside his head, Sam heard himself screaming. That was the only thing that kept his voice level now. "It's. Not. Dean. It's never- he always gets back up."
"They did their best, but he was too- they lost him." John took a breath, forcing down the sob that threatened. Sam needed him now. He had to be strong. Just a little longer. "He wanted to be cremated-"
"No. Not yet."
An edge slid into John's voice. "Sam, he was pretty specific."
"I said no!" Sam thundered. Outside the room, he heard a nurse's footsteps falter, then hurry away. "Goddammit, I never got to say good bye to mom, I never got to say good bye to Jess, I'll be damned if I let this family rob me of the chance to say goodbye to someone else I loved," he snarled. His breath faltered in his throat as he realized the slip, that split second absence of faith that let him stack Dean with the rest of the dead. No. Faith. If this was just some stupid nightmare, some vision or test, then he had to hold steady and not blink. "That I love."
John raised his head. For one moment, there was that old, dangerous light in his eyes. "This family?" he asked, almost mildly. "This family robbed you? That demon robbed us. It took Mary, Jess and now Dean-"
Sam felt his fingers twist in the sheets, his grip tightening until it hurt. He pushed himself upright, the hurt searing down him and taking his breath away. John's hand jerked, like he wanted to steady Sam. Wobbling on his arms, Sam bit off, "That's all this is to you? Just one more reason for your fucking crazy crusade?"
John didn't flinch. "You know that's not it. Lay back down."
"But hey, why should I be surprised? That's all it ever was with you. You knew he was hurt in that goddamned cabin and you didn't even- not even a word to-" Sam faltered to a stop, both at the awful look on his father's face and at the silence where Dean's voice should've been. No one to buffer him. Nobody to referee. Just he and Dad left to tear each other apart. Because this wasn't a demon Dean could dodge, or a threat he could laugh off. There was no battle in the white coffin of the hospital room, nothing they could fight. He swallowed, sliding onto his back again, and stared at the ceiling as he tried not to blink. "Did they, um. Did they say if he-?"
"He went in his sleep," John murmured. His hand settled on Sam's, careful of the IV as he squeezed gently. "He'd be pissed."
Sam almost choked on a laugh. Outside, he could hear a nurse pacing past their door, waiting for a good time to interrupt before one of them went for the other's throat. All Sam's energy had drained suddenly, leaving him barely enough to turn and look at John again. He knew this ritual, trying to scrape together enough to smile and play at being alive. Funny; for a few months there, he'd almost bought into that himself. "Are you okay?"
Stupid question. Still, John nodded, leaning back into his wheelchair. "I'm? managing."
Wait. Wheelchair? Hospital lawyers, or-? Sam tensed. "Dad. That truck hit on your side."
John's fingers tightened fractionally on the grips of his wheelchair. Then he braced himself on the rails of the bed, pushing himself back just a little, and tugged the blanket on his lap aside. His expression didn't give an inch.
Sam looked at the empty pajama leg, neatly tucked up and pinned. The abrupt end where his father's leg should have been. He blinked, struggling to make that image make sense. This was his father. The man who taught him how to drive stick and who could probably have outrun him right up until that truck hit. And now-
Sam put a hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing. After a minute, he managed a strangled, "Okay."
John tugged the blanket back into place. "If you need a bucket, say it. God knows I did."
Shaking his head, Sam closed his eyes. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis, into chaos. Men like his father didn't survive active duty or years of demon-hunting to lose a leg in something as bizarrely banal as a car accident. Men like his brother didn't die before they reached 30. Sam was supposed to be the one who went first, if one of them had to die.
In other words, this sucked out loud.
The thought almost made him smile. Dean had never been able to explain how that was worse than plain old sucking. It faltered almost as quickly. God, Dean?
The door opened, and somehow, he still almost expected to see hazel eyes and a quicksilver smile. Somehow, he thought he always would. Instead, the nurse gave him a solicitous smile. "How's my best patient?" she asked sweetly.
He thought about pointing out the irony that the unconscious guy was her best patient. "I'm?here."
"Of course," her smile dropped away, eyes looking anywhere but his. "Poor little lamb. I'm so sorry about your brother."
Poor little lamb. Poor Sam. Hadn't he heard this before? All the people who looked at him with pity, like he would fall to pieces. He'd never told Dean that leaving Stanford was almost a relief.
Dean hadn't pitied him. Hadn't babied him. Dean had looked him in the eyes and told him that it sucked, and helped him to do something about it.
He'd be damned if he'd fall to pieces now.
The nurse looked at him expectantly, and he shook his head. "Sorry, what?" . Dean was counting on him.
"Is there anything you need?" she asked gently.
Sam nodded, eyes hardening. "Yeah. When do I start PT?" And if it was the last thing he did, he'd kill the son of a bitch who took his brother from him.
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character death and maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
It was never good to see that smile, Sam thought. It was worse, he realized, when you weren't sure where the hell you were. As his brain started to work, the thoughts pulling free from the mire, memories started to flood back, and he realized what might be worst of all. When it was John Winchester giving you that half-pitying smile. "Dean?"
John shook his head, eyes falling. For a moment, Sam thought he saw a sheen in them, but that had to be a trick of the light. "No."
Sam was silent, trying to remember how to breathe around the pain. "No," he repeated. Then he shook his head, hard, like he could shed this. "It's someone else. It's not him."
"Sam," John gritted. "I know. But he was already hurt before the truck-"
Deep inside his head, Sam heard himself screaming. That was the only thing that kept his voice level now. "It's. Not. Dean. It's never- he always gets back up."
"They did their best, but he was too- they lost him." John took a breath, forcing down the sob that threatened. Sam needed him now. He had to be strong. Just a little longer. "He wanted to be cremated-"
"No. Not yet."
An edge slid into John's voice. "Sam, he was pretty specific."
"I said no!" Sam thundered. Outside the room, he heard a nurse's footsteps falter, then hurry away. "Goddammit, I never got to say good bye to mom, I never got to say good bye to Jess, I'll be damned if I let this family rob me of the chance to say goodbye to someone else I loved," he snarled. His breath faltered in his throat as he realized the slip, that split second absence of faith that let him stack Dean with the rest of the dead. No. Faith. If this was just some stupid nightmare, some vision or test, then he had to hold steady and not blink. "That I love."
John raised his head. For one moment, there was that old, dangerous light in his eyes. "This family?" he asked, almost mildly. "This family robbed you? That demon robbed us. It took Mary, Jess and now Dean-"
Sam felt his fingers twist in the sheets, his grip tightening until it hurt. He pushed himself upright, the hurt searing down him and taking his breath away. John's hand jerked, like he wanted to steady Sam. Wobbling on his arms, Sam bit off, "That's all this is to you? Just one more reason for your fucking crazy crusade?"
John didn't flinch. "You know that's not it. Lay back down."
"But hey, why should I be surprised? That's all it ever was with you. You knew he was hurt in that goddamned cabin and you didn't even- not even a word to-" Sam faltered to a stop, both at the awful look on his father's face and at the silence where Dean's voice should've been. No one to buffer him. Nobody to referee. Just he and Dad left to tear each other apart. Because this wasn't a demon Dean could dodge, or a threat he could laugh off. There was no battle in the white coffin of the hospital room, nothing they could fight. He swallowed, sliding onto his back again, and stared at the ceiling as he tried not to blink. "Did they, um. Did they say if he-?"
"He went in his sleep," John murmured. His hand settled on Sam's, careful of the IV as he squeezed gently. "He'd be pissed."
Sam almost choked on a laugh. Outside, he could hear a nurse pacing past their door, waiting for a good time to interrupt before one of them went for the other's throat. All Sam's energy had drained suddenly, leaving him barely enough to turn and look at John again. He knew this ritual, trying to scrape together enough to smile and play at being alive. Funny; for a few months there, he'd almost bought into that himself. "Are you okay?"
Stupid question. Still, John nodded, leaning back into his wheelchair. "I'm? managing."
Wait. Wheelchair? Hospital lawyers, or-? Sam tensed. "Dad. That truck hit on your side."
John's fingers tightened fractionally on the grips of his wheelchair. Then he braced himself on the rails of the bed, pushing himself back just a little, and tugged the blanket on his lap aside. His expression didn't give an inch.
Sam looked at the empty pajama leg, neatly tucked up and pinned. The abrupt end where his father's leg should have been. He blinked, struggling to make that image make sense. This was his father. The man who taught him how to drive stick and who could probably have outrun him right up until that truck hit. And now-
Sam put a hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing. After a minute, he managed a strangled, "Okay."
John tugged the blanket back into place. "If you need a bucket, say it. God knows I did."
Shaking his head, Sam closed his eyes. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis, into chaos. Men like his father didn't survive active duty or years of demon-hunting to lose a leg in something as bizarrely banal as a car accident. Men like his brother didn't die before they reached 30. Sam was supposed to be the one who went first, if one of them had to die.
In other words, this sucked out loud.
The thought almost made him smile. Dean had never been able to explain how that was worse than plain old sucking. It faltered almost as quickly. God, Dean?
The door opened, and somehow, he still almost expected to see hazel eyes and a quicksilver smile. Somehow, he thought he always would. Instead, the nurse gave him a solicitous smile. "How's my best patient?" she asked sweetly.
He thought about pointing out the irony that the unconscious guy was her best patient. "I'm?here."
"Of course," her smile dropped away, eyes looking anywhere but his. "Poor little lamb. I'm so sorry about your brother."
Poor little lamb. Poor Sam. Hadn't he heard this before? All the people who looked at him with pity, like he would fall to pieces. He'd never told Dean that leaving Stanford was almost a relief.
Dean hadn't pitied him. Hadn't babied him. Dean had looked him in the eyes and told him that it sucked, and helped him to do something about it.
He'd be damned if he'd fall to pieces now.
The nurse looked at him expectantly, and he shook his head. "Sorry, what?" . Dean was counting on him.
"Is there anything you need?" she asked gently.
Sam nodded, eyes hardening. "Yeah. When do I start PT?" And if it was the last thing he did, he'd kill the son of a bitch who took his brother from him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 12:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 04:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 05:05 pm (UTC)this is an awesome start, I can't wait to read the rest of it...
(and I've only seen one episode of SPN lol)
no subject
Date: 2006-06-12 09:08 pm (UTC)Very well written.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-30 06:14 pm (UTC)as a .sig quote? *grovel* with appropriate credit, o'course.
This is the first SPN fic I've read (and I've read plenty) that I desperately want to see on the big screen. Spend the hundred million. Ghod, it'd be worth it.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-23 06:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-29 08:10 pm (UTC)This was recced here (http://community.livejournal.com/crack_impala/169393.html) at
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Date: 2009-11-01 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-28 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-19 06:17 pm (UTC)Интересно читать
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