FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 3
May. 10th, 2006 11:10 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 maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
"Just take it easy," Chloe murmured, urging Sam to his feet. "Slow and steady on the stairs."
Sam nodded, carefully grasping the rails and easing himself out of the wheelchair. It had been a week and he still could barely walk from his bed to the bathroom without resting. Not to put too fine a point on it, it sucked.
He wobbled abruptly, and out of the corner of his eye saw John reaching towards him as though he could help from across the room. Giving him a slight nod, Sam steadied himself, dragging his foot up the six inches to the stair.
The pain hit then, familiar and overwhelming. Fuck. Vision.
He gripped the rail tighter, gasping for breath.
John's eyes widened. "Sam?"
"M-Migrane." He fell backwards, into the chair, and clutched his head as it threatened to split in two.
The screaming ricocheted though his head, and for a second he thought it was his own voice, but then the vision snapped into place, and he could see the child, a little girl, cowering against her headboard, screaming for all she was worth as something dark advanced on her.
The vision shifted, and he saw the child's mother-her only parent, he somehow understood-running down the narrow hall and skidding to a stop, a baseball bat gripped in her hands. Then, the thing turned on her, invisible claws slicing through her skin like butter, blood spraying onto the walls. The thing liked that. Almost as much as it liked...
Sam shook his head, trying to shake the vision, not wanting to see what would happen. For once, the universe was listening. Instead, he only saw the aftermath.
Oh God. The child, the little girl... His stomach clenched, and he gagged hard. Strong hands curled around him, callused fingers stroking his hair as his father's rough voice soothed him. If his head didn't hurt so badly, it would be almost funny.
"Can I take him back to his room, then come back for my session?" John asked the physical therapist softly.
Chloe nodded. "Of course. Why don't we plan on pushing your session back to five?"
"Thanks."
Chloe pushed Sam back to their room, and John made himself useful, closing blinds and getting Sam some water to down his aspirin with. As soon as she left, Sam curled on his side, hands over his face. If he'd been facing away from John, John would've left it be, as he usually left these things be. But pissed as Sam had been at him on a fairly constant basis for the last several years, from simmering resentment to outright rage, he hadn't rolled away.
This was one of those times when John really could've used Mary. Mary had known how to be a decent parent, nursing scraped knees and hurt feelings in a way that put the boys back on their feet again. Granted, they'd been small at the time, with smaller hurts.
Hell, Dean had been better at wrangling Sam, poking and prodding and teasing until he could get a watery smile. Gone now. One more of many holes in John's life, both the ones that the hunt had taken and the ones John had carved out himself.
What the fuck was John supposed to say? 'It's all right' was a lie. 'It'll get better' was a worse one, which John had heard too many times to pass that bullshit on to someone else.
"Psychic thing?" John asked flatly.
Sam nodded, letting one hand drop away from his face, his fingers still covering one eye. "I thought-had hoped-that they'd gone away."
Well, hell. John took his hand, squeezing when he felt Sam start a little. "Want to talk about it?" he tried, awkwardly.
"Not really."
John nodded, letting Sam fall silent.
After a long few minutes, Sam sighed. "I'm not surprised."
John looked up, startled by the flat, dead sound to Sam's voice. It wasn't like he'd never heard that tone before, but the only other times had been other hunters, other Marines, men pushed too hard, too fast and too far. His heart twisted in his chest for this son it turned out he barely knew. "Why?"
"Penance."
"What?"
The sharper note in John's voice made Sam jerk. For a second, Sam didn't answer. When he did, his words were low, not pitched to carry. "For four years, I pretended to be normal. A demon could have walked up and tap danced on the bar in front of me, and I'd have looked away. As long as it wasn't one of mine-" Sam swallowed. "The only thing that got me back into it was that thing killing Jess. Now, when all I want is to get back to hunting, I can't. Penance."
John exhaled slowly, leaning back into the support of the wheelchair. "You can't think like that, Sammy."
"Why now? Why not five weeks ago, when it could have done some good? Before Dean-" Sam stopped, breathing hard. It took him a moment to add, fiercely, "Before we all got hurt."
John closed his eyes. "Listen," he began.
"No." Sam shook his head, clutching at his temple as the pain intensified. "No."
John nodded, feeling useless. Was useless. Couldn't even walk to the bathroom without help. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Another useless sentiment. It was all he had these days.
They sat for a long time like that, John holding his hand, Sam curled in on himself. Finally, as the afternoon sun stretched long shadows through the slits of the blinds, Sam started to speak. Each word was painfully careful, an olive branch extended. "I think it was a shadow demon, but it had a taste for children. Their fear tasted better."
John nodded slightly. "Yeah."
"It didn't want to kill her right away. Wanted the pain and the blood to spice the meat," Sam swallowed hard, like John couldn't see that he'd gagged. "It hasn't happened yet. And here I am."
"You can't win them all," John said. Hypocritical, maybe. But he could see that this would eat Sam alive. "Even when you're healthy, sometimes..."
After a moment, Sam prompted, "Sometimes?"
"Sometimes, the good guys lose, and bad shit happens to good folks," John said. "And you can't always be there to stand between them."
"I'm not used to losing," Sam said. "Dean and I. We had some setbacks, sure. But dammit, he always came-comes through."
John laid his forehead against the cool rails of Sam's bed. "Wish I had your faith."
"There's no other option," Sam said simply. Then he added, a bitter almost-laugh in his voice at some private joke John didn't get, "I won't take dead for an answer. We usually don't."
"Mm." John lifted his head, shifting to put one arm on the rail and rest his chin there. With the luxury of knowing Sam couldn't see him, he searched his son's face. There were new lines there, shadows carved under Sam's eyes that said his faith wasn't as solid as it sounded. He sighed. "You ought to sleep."
Opening one eye, Sam gave him a thoroughly exasperated look.
There was such an echo of his mother in that expression that John managed a tight, tired smile. "Look. I carved a devil's trap in the doorframe. Here and in the PT room. Even if I hadn't, there were weeks of opportunity for that thing to come in and kill us both. It didn't. That's as safe as it gets."
Which was probably right up there with handing his child a shotgun for the closet monster in John's list of insensitive parental crimes, but pulling punches now was pretty damned useless. Sam was a smart boy, and he knew things were bound to get worse before they got better. If the demon was giving them breathing room, it was only because it was about to hit them harder. John made a mental note to call in Bobby to cover their asses until they could-
Could what? Run? Hide? Sam wasn't going to accept that. John wasn't sure he could, either. Fight back? They'd gotten their asses handed to them even before John was one leg and one son down.
It was one thing to sacrifice his own life for his boys, for the sake of taking this thing down before it hurt someone else. In a perfect world, Sam would've pulled the trigger back in that cabin and taken out John and the demon at once. No trying to piece together his life afterwards. No more grief. No more pain. No more of the demon cutting through children and mothers. Only silence.
That wasn't an option anymore. For one thing, John was a fucking cripple. It'd be a long while, if ever, before he was back in hunting shape. For another, if that bastard somehow survived, if John made a mistake and got himself killed without taking it with him, then Sam would be alone. It didn't matter that Sam was a good hunter in his own right. He would be one man alone against a demon that had killed thousands.
And the demon didn't want Sammy dead. It needed him too much for that. Next to what that thing wanted, death would be a kindness. John had relived it again and again, the poison the demon had left in him twisting his dreams with flashes of his son, his Sam, turned into-
No. That wasn't going to happen. John would kill Sam himself before he let it come to that. Pulling the trigger would be the end of John, but he'd fucking well do it to keep the demon from getting its hands on Sam and breaking him.
But for now, Sam was alive. Staring at him, eyes narrowed slightly. Sammy had always had that look that said he saw right through John, even when he was just a squirming thing cuddled against Mary. It was an unnerving look long before John knew that listening in could be the least of all the things his son might do.
Reaching out, John pushed the hair out of Sam's eyes. He needed a haircut, getting that shaggy look that made him look like a gawky 13 year old to John. "Take the painkillers when I get back. I'll watch the door."
Sam gave a grudging nod, his old eyes still on John's face. He didn't twist away from John's touch, which was something, at least. They both knew that when John got back, Sam might manage a bit of dozing, but mostly they'd end up staring at the television into the early hours.
A gentle tapping came on the door. John took his hand back, wheeling carefully to avoid bouncing the chair off a wall. He could parallel park the truck with only inches of clearance and his eyes closed, but the rickety chair was beyond him. He needed to get something with an engine. John glanced at Sam as he turned towards the door, caught Sam's look, and pulled the curtain closed as he went.
Sam lay still, listening as Chloe asked after him and the rasp of his father's voice as he answered, waiting until he heard the wheelchair's squeaking faded into the rest of the background noise on the ward. Despite the Devil's Trap, he knew he wouldn't relax until he saw his father come back into the room. Faith was one thing, but sight was belief.
He wouldn't believe that Dean was dead. Not until he saw the body, tucked away in the morgue of another hospital. (There was a story there, something about a seven car pileup that came in just before they did and a full trauma ward and another hospital having a better trauma unit than neurology and a lot of other things that added up to mean: "you can't see the body until we decide you're good to travel.")
But at the same time, there was that nagging sense that something was wrong. It ate at Sam, whispering in the quiet hours that there should've been some sign. If Dean was alive, he'd be battling his way in with a fire axe if he had to. Even if he couldn't reach them that way, he'd have worked out a message to let Sam know that he was okay.
Maybe he was out there hunting, covering for Sam and John until-
Yeah. And maybe Jess wasn't dead, either. Maybe she was living in Iowa, pig-farming under an assumed name.
It hurt to roll away from the door, his muscles trembling as he moved, but Sam managed. He curled up on that side, closing his eyes against the room's dim light. His head was pounding, increasing in tempo until he could hear his pulse in his ears. His face felt hot, feverish. His throat hurt.
No. Damn it, he wasn't doing this. He was going to fucking well hold it together. He was going to use it, bury it, anything but this self-pitying bullshit. He was alive, and Dean wouldn't have wanted- wouldn't want-
Sam put his knuckles against his mouth, barely in time to muffle the noise that wanted to escape. He fumbled for his pillow, pressing it against his burning face, setting his jaw until it hurt.
No. He wasn't going to grieve. Grieving meant he'd given up. Grieving was throwing that last shovel of dirt on Dean without checking to see if he'd be buried alive. Somebody had to believe. Somebody had to keep the faith, and be looking out for that sign when it came. Dad had already swallowed this, just one more death, and it was killing him. Sam had to be the one to keep his feet.
Hadn't let Dean die before. He wasn't doing it now. They'd gone through too much shit together. Dean needed to be there for Dad. He needed to be there when they buried the bastard that killed their mother. Dean needed to be there when Sam finally graduated, slouching in the back of the courtroom with that shit-eating grin when Sam had his first closing statement to deal with. Dean needed to be there when Sam had kids, to buy them beer and to teach them bad habits.
Except Sam was swallowing too hard, again and again, fighting with the choking pain that wanted to double him over. And Dean wasn't here. He wasn't a phone call away. He wasn't-
Dean wasn't coming back.
Sam fisted his fingers in the pillowcase until it hurt. He felt the wetness on his face, but the sobs choked off in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, tensed and silent, and waited for it to roll past. It didn't leave him empty.
There was rage. An anger so deep and pure it was almost stillness. There was strength in it, a solid ground to stand on. The pain was bearable. He could make it if he just didn't...
They had one more bullet. One more shot.
Sam opened his eyes. The cup on the edge of his nightstand was built heavy, solid for those patients with hand tremors. He'd held that cup, felt the smooth plastic against his fingers and the weight of it in his hands. He knew its dimensions. Start easy. Start small.
Go on, psychic boy.
He stared at the cup. It didn't move, didn't move, didn't move. Frustration bled into the anger, spark to gasoline. Sam tightened his grip on the sheets again, willing it to move. He'd done this on accident, so he could do it on purpose. It would move. It would move. It would-
The pain in his head seared suddenly brighter, like something giving way. Sam felt his breath hitch, his concentration faltering. There was wetness on his upper lip, and when he tasted it, it was coppery. Blood.
But the cup had rocked in place.
Sam breathed out, sinking into the bed. He felt wrung-out, exhaustion seeping into his limbs. Grim, bitter triumph made him smile.
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 maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
"Just take it easy," Chloe murmured, urging Sam to his feet. "Slow and steady on the stairs."
Sam nodded, carefully grasping the rails and easing himself out of the wheelchair. It had been a week and he still could barely walk from his bed to the bathroom without resting. Not to put too fine a point on it, it sucked.
He wobbled abruptly, and out of the corner of his eye saw John reaching towards him as though he could help from across the room. Giving him a slight nod, Sam steadied himself, dragging his foot up the six inches to the stair.
The pain hit then, familiar and overwhelming. Fuck. Vision.
He gripped the rail tighter, gasping for breath.
John's eyes widened. "Sam?"
"M-Migrane." He fell backwards, into the chair, and clutched his head as it threatened to split in two.
The screaming ricocheted though his head, and for a second he thought it was his own voice, but then the vision snapped into place, and he could see the child, a little girl, cowering against her headboard, screaming for all she was worth as something dark advanced on her.
The vision shifted, and he saw the child's mother-her only parent, he somehow understood-running down the narrow hall and skidding to a stop, a baseball bat gripped in her hands. Then, the thing turned on her, invisible claws slicing through her skin like butter, blood spraying onto the walls. The thing liked that. Almost as much as it liked...
Sam shook his head, trying to shake the vision, not wanting to see what would happen. For once, the universe was listening. Instead, he only saw the aftermath.
Oh God. The child, the little girl... His stomach clenched, and he gagged hard. Strong hands curled around him, callused fingers stroking his hair as his father's rough voice soothed him. If his head didn't hurt so badly, it would be almost funny.
"Can I take him back to his room, then come back for my session?" John asked the physical therapist softly.
Chloe nodded. "Of course. Why don't we plan on pushing your session back to five?"
"Thanks."
Chloe pushed Sam back to their room, and John made himself useful, closing blinds and getting Sam some water to down his aspirin with. As soon as she left, Sam curled on his side, hands over his face. If he'd been facing away from John, John would've left it be, as he usually left these things be. But pissed as Sam had been at him on a fairly constant basis for the last several years, from simmering resentment to outright rage, he hadn't rolled away.
This was one of those times when John really could've used Mary. Mary had known how to be a decent parent, nursing scraped knees and hurt feelings in a way that put the boys back on their feet again. Granted, they'd been small at the time, with smaller hurts.
Hell, Dean had been better at wrangling Sam, poking and prodding and teasing until he could get a watery smile. Gone now. One more of many holes in John's life, both the ones that the hunt had taken and the ones John had carved out himself.
What the fuck was John supposed to say? 'It's all right' was a lie. 'It'll get better' was a worse one, which John had heard too many times to pass that bullshit on to someone else.
"Psychic thing?" John asked flatly.
Sam nodded, letting one hand drop away from his face, his fingers still covering one eye. "I thought-had hoped-that they'd gone away."
Well, hell. John took his hand, squeezing when he felt Sam start a little. "Want to talk about it?" he tried, awkwardly.
"Not really."
John nodded, letting Sam fall silent.
After a long few minutes, Sam sighed. "I'm not surprised."
John looked up, startled by the flat, dead sound to Sam's voice. It wasn't like he'd never heard that tone before, but the only other times had been other hunters, other Marines, men pushed too hard, too fast and too far. His heart twisted in his chest for this son it turned out he barely knew. "Why?"
"Penance."
"What?"
The sharper note in John's voice made Sam jerk. For a second, Sam didn't answer. When he did, his words were low, not pitched to carry. "For four years, I pretended to be normal. A demon could have walked up and tap danced on the bar in front of me, and I'd have looked away. As long as it wasn't one of mine-" Sam swallowed. "The only thing that got me back into it was that thing killing Jess. Now, when all I want is to get back to hunting, I can't. Penance."
John exhaled slowly, leaning back into the support of the wheelchair. "You can't think like that, Sammy."
"Why now? Why not five weeks ago, when it could have done some good? Before Dean-" Sam stopped, breathing hard. It took him a moment to add, fiercely, "Before we all got hurt."
John closed his eyes. "Listen," he began.
"No." Sam shook his head, clutching at his temple as the pain intensified. "No."
John nodded, feeling useless. Was useless. Couldn't even walk to the bathroom without help. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Another useless sentiment. It was all he had these days.
They sat for a long time like that, John holding his hand, Sam curled in on himself. Finally, as the afternoon sun stretched long shadows through the slits of the blinds, Sam started to speak. Each word was painfully careful, an olive branch extended. "I think it was a shadow demon, but it had a taste for children. Their fear tasted better."
John nodded slightly. "Yeah."
"It didn't want to kill her right away. Wanted the pain and the blood to spice the meat," Sam swallowed hard, like John couldn't see that he'd gagged. "It hasn't happened yet. And here I am."
"You can't win them all," John said. Hypocritical, maybe. But he could see that this would eat Sam alive. "Even when you're healthy, sometimes..."
After a moment, Sam prompted, "Sometimes?"
"Sometimes, the good guys lose, and bad shit happens to good folks," John said. "And you can't always be there to stand between them."
"I'm not used to losing," Sam said. "Dean and I. We had some setbacks, sure. But dammit, he always came-comes through."
John laid his forehead against the cool rails of Sam's bed. "Wish I had your faith."
"There's no other option," Sam said simply. Then he added, a bitter almost-laugh in his voice at some private joke John didn't get, "I won't take dead for an answer. We usually don't."
"Mm." John lifted his head, shifting to put one arm on the rail and rest his chin there. With the luxury of knowing Sam couldn't see him, he searched his son's face. There were new lines there, shadows carved under Sam's eyes that said his faith wasn't as solid as it sounded. He sighed. "You ought to sleep."
Opening one eye, Sam gave him a thoroughly exasperated look.
There was such an echo of his mother in that expression that John managed a tight, tired smile. "Look. I carved a devil's trap in the doorframe. Here and in the PT room. Even if I hadn't, there were weeks of opportunity for that thing to come in and kill us both. It didn't. That's as safe as it gets."
Which was probably right up there with handing his child a shotgun for the closet monster in John's list of insensitive parental crimes, but pulling punches now was pretty damned useless. Sam was a smart boy, and he knew things were bound to get worse before they got better. If the demon was giving them breathing room, it was only because it was about to hit them harder. John made a mental note to call in Bobby to cover their asses until they could-
Could what? Run? Hide? Sam wasn't going to accept that. John wasn't sure he could, either. Fight back? They'd gotten their asses handed to them even before John was one leg and one son down.
It was one thing to sacrifice his own life for his boys, for the sake of taking this thing down before it hurt someone else. In a perfect world, Sam would've pulled the trigger back in that cabin and taken out John and the demon at once. No trying to piece together his life afterwards. No more grief. No more pain. No more of the demon cutting through children and mothers. Only silence.
That wasn't an option anymore. For one thing, John was a fucking cripple. It'd be a long while, if ever, before he was back in hunting shape. For another, if that bastard somehow survived, if John made a mistake and got himself killed without taking it with him, then Sam would be alone. It didn't matter that Sam was a good hunter in his own right. He would be one man alone against a demon that had killed thousands.
And the demon didn't want Sammy dead. It needed him too much for that. Next to what that thing wanted, death would be a kindness. John had relived it again and again, the poison the demon had left in him twisting his dreams with flashes of his son, his Sam, turned into-
No. That wasn't going to happen. John would kill Sam himself before he let it come to that. Pulling the trigger would be the end of John, but he'd fucking well do it to keep the demon from getting its hands on Sam and breaking him.
But for now, Sam was alive. Staring at him, eyes narrowed slightly. Sammy had always had that look that said he saw right through John, even when he was just a squirming thing cuddled against Mary. It was an unnerving look long before John knew that listening in could be the least of all the things his son might do.
Reaching out, John pushed the hair out of Sam's eyes. He needed a haircut, getting that shaggy look that made him look like a gawky 13 year old to John. "Take the painkillers when I get back. I'll watch the door."
Sam gave a grudging nod, his old eyes still on John's face. He didn't twist away from John's touch, which was something, at least. They both knew that when John got back, Sam might manage a bit of dozing, but mostly they'd end up staring at the television into the early hours.
A gentle tapping came on the door. John took his hand back, wheeling carefully to avoid bouncing the chair off a wall. He could parallel park the truck with only inches of clearance and his eyes closed, but the rickety chair was beyond him. He needed to get something with an engine. John glanced at Sam as he turned towards the door, caught Sam's look, and pulled the curtain closed as he went.
Sam lay still, listening as Chloe asked after him and the rasp of his father's voice as he answered, waiting until he heard the wheelchair's squeaking faded into the rest of the background noise on the ward. Despite the Devil's Trap, he knew he wouldn't relax until he saw his father come back into the room. Faith was one thing, but sight was belief.
He wouldn't believe that Dean was dead. Not until he saw the body, tucked away in the morgue of another hospital. (There was a story there, something about a seven car pileup that came in just before they did and a full trauma ward and another hospital having a better trauma unit than neurology and a lot of other things that added up to mean: "you can't see the body until we decide you're good to travel.")
But at the same time, there was that nagging sense that something was wrong. It ate at Sam, whispering in the quiet hours that there should've been some sign. If Dean was alive, he'd be battling his way in with a fire axe if he had to. Even if he couldn't reach them that way, he'd have worked out a message to let Sam know that he was okay.
Maybe he was out there hunting, covering for Sam and John until-
Yeah. And maybe Jess wasn't dead, either. Maybe she was living in Iowa, pig-farming under an assumed name.
It hurt to roll away from the door, his muscles trembling as he moved, but Sam managed. He curled up on that side, closing his eyes against the room's dim light. His head was pounding, increasing in tempo until he could hear his pulse in his ears. His face felt hot, feverish. His throat hurt.
No. Damn it, he wasn't doing this. He was going to fucking well hold it together. He was going to use it, bury it, anything but this self-pitying bullshit. He was alive, and Dean wouldn't have wanted- wouldn't want-
Sam put his knuckles against his mouth, barely in time to muffle the noise that wanted to escape. He fumbled for his pillow, pressing it against his burning face, setting his jaw until it hurt.
No. He wasn't going to grieve. Grieving meant he'd given up. Grieving was throwing that last shovel of dirt on Dean without checking to see if he'd be buried alive. Somebody had to believe. Somebody had to keep the faith, and be looking out for that sign when it came. Dad had already swallowed this, just one more death, and it was killing him. Sam had to be the one to keep his feet.
Hadn't let Dean die before. He wasn't doing it now. They'd gone through too much shit together. Dean needed to be there for Dad. He needed to be there when they buried the bastard that killed their mother. Dean needed to be there when Sam finally graduated, slouching in the back of the courtroom with that shit-eating grin when Sam had his first closing statement to deal with. Dean needed to be there when Sam had kids, to buy them beer and to teach them bad habits.
Except Sam was swallowing too hard, again and again, fighting with the choking pain that wanted to double him over. And Dean wasn't here. He wasn't a phone call away. He wasn't-
Dean wasn't coming back.
Sam fisted his fingers in the pillowcase until it hurt. He felt the wetness on his face, but the sobs choked off in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, tensed and silent, and waited for it to roll past. It didn't leave him empty.
There was rage. An anger so deep and pure it was almost stillness. There was strength in it, a solid ground to stand on. The pain was bearable. He could make it if he just didn't...
They had one more bullet. One more shot.
Sam opened his eyes. The cup on the edge of his nightstand was built heavy, solid for those patients with hand tremors. He'd held that cup, felt the smooth plastic against his fingers and the weight of it in his hands. He knew its dimensions. Start easy. Start small.
Go on, psychic boy.
He stared at the cup. It didn't move, didn't move, didn't move. Frustration bled into the anger, spark to gasoline. Sam tightened his grip on the sheets again, willing it to move. He'd done this on accident, so he could do it on purpose. It would move. It would move. It would-
The pain in his head seared suddenly brighter, like something giving way. Sam felt his breath hitch, his concentration faltering. There was wetness on his upper lip, and when he tasted it, it was coppery. Blood.
But the cup had rocked in place.
Sam breathed out, sinking into the bed. He felt wrung-out, exhaustion seeping into his limbs. Grim, bitter triumph made him smile.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-10 03:21 pm (UTC)I have decided that I need a new LJ icon. "The family that slays together...looks really hot all beaten up."
:-D
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 11:00 am (UTC)I know! I give the show mad props for that cliffhanger, because I really didn't see it coming.
I have decided that I need a new LJ icon. "The family that slays together...looks really hot all beaten up."
*snerk* That ought to be the new tagline. "Supernatural: we bleed pretty!"
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 11:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 11:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 11:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 06:25 pm (UTC)I think we wanted to see what would happen if Dean, who always has needed his family, is cut off from them. Who would he become on his own? And on the flip side, for all of John's talk, what would happen if the hunt cost him one of his sons? What would Sam be without Dean?
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 07:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 11:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:05 pm (UTC)More, please. Because this is fabulous.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:45 pm (UTC)*snuggle* I'm glad you're enjoying it. I can't say we didn't look at each other and go, "Oh,
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 03:53 pm (UTC)Bwahahaha! Dude, I'm the girl who saw the semi crash into the Impala and went, "Oh, AWESOME. Well played, Kripke, they're all dead BEST ENDING EVER." I'm possibly not right in the head.
Also, all the Daddy love? Got so much more intense after reading this story. *gold stars*