Opening Up, SPN Gen fic, 1/1, PG-13
Jun. 8th, 2007 10:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ht_murrayTitle: Opening Up
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
tru_faith_lost aka H.T. Marie
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and drunkenness
Characters/Pairings: Mostly Drunk!Sam and Drunk!Bobby, though the Demon, Dean, and Daddy Winchester put in cameo appearances. Sorry fellow Deanophiles, the boy needed a nap.
Words: 4100
Summary: Dean crashes after AHBL2, and Bobby and Sam have a drunken conversation about a missing scene from that epi. Sam's feeling a little guilty about something he did...
Warnings: Just language and abuse of Tequila. Spoilers for AHBL2 if you haven't seen it.
Disclaimer: No money being made, though I ain't saying I'd turn it down...
A/N: This started out as a serious missing scene with a theory/speculation in it. However, my Sam voice was so cynical for some reason, I figured the only way he'd ever sound like that is if he was wasted. So, the whole story morphed into this "Tall Tales"-version-slash-coda to AHBL2 with a hint The Princess Bride thrown in for good measure. I used regular English instead of drunkspeak, just because some people have trouble reading the drunkspeak, but you can insert slurring as you please.
Opening Up
Sam slouched at the corner of Bobby's kitchen counter where it butted up against the refrigerator, a fluorescent light flickering over his head. One elbow rested on the counter, its hand propping up Sam's shaggy head. His mouth hung half-open like his eyelids, and if he hadn't just spent a day or so dead, Bobby knew he'd be crashed out in the guest room like Dean. Instead, he was facing kitchen canisters full of the makings of an anti-spook arsenal.
Bobby pulled up the barstool he used as his kitchen chair, (because there really was no point in a single man eating at the table when he could save himself a trip by balancing a bowl over the sink) and sprawled at the other end. If they hadn't been facing a wall, they could maybe have convinced themselves that Kirstie Alley was behind the bar serving up the drinks. Singer cleared his throat and slid a sweating bottle of Budweiser down to Sam. It thunked into his elbow and burped onto the formica, but Sam didn't reach for it.
"Thanks," Sam mumbled, his face slack and smushed up against his hand, "but I already got the good stuff." Bobby noticed the slur in his speech, but he'd spent so much of his life interpreting drunkspeak that it sounded like plain English in his head.
Sam slid his elbow off the edge of the counter, not bothering to lift his head off it first, and nearly toppled off his own stool when his whole upper body followed his arm over the edge. Only Bobby's quick-reflexes kept Sam from smacking his head on the corner by catching a shoulder and pushing him back upright.
As Sam sat back up, head wobbling on his neck slightly, he almost spilled the half-empty bottle of Jose' Cuervo he had harbored against the jar of goofer dust.
"Was wondering where that went," Bobby chuckled dryly as he reached for the tequila and took a few hits off the bottle himself. He sat back, taking in the full effect of sullen, drunken Winchester. Come to think of it, he didn't really know many other adjectives for Winchester. Those boys were just like their Daddy, and they were going to end up just as dead if they kept on like this.
Something was eating at Sam. Granted, there was enough going on in the kid's life to eat an elephant as an appetizer, but Bobby didn't figure it should keep munching until Dean woke up. The way that big brother of Sam's had staggered up the front steps and passed out at the foot of the bed in his guest room with all his clothes still on, Bobby figured Dean wouldn't be any use to anyone for a good few days. That was far too long to leave Sam festering, even if all Winchesters were just giant open sores and probably more proficient at oozing than an infected spider bite.
Bobby couldn't tell from Sam's complete lack of, well, everything, just which major malfunction was on the kid's mind at the moment, but he'd always been good at Clue. Figured he could suggest Miss Scarlet in the Library with the candlestick and at least eliminate a few options.
"You know a year is a long time, Sam. I'm sure we'll find a way to save Dean by then."
"I know," Sam shrugged. "Worse comes to worst, I still got the Colt. I'll just open that gate back up and march in after his ass."
Bobby sat back, stroking at his beard. Definitely not the response he'd been anticipating. So, maybe no Miss Scarlet, then...
"Be kinda like a great big family reunion..." Sam fumbled across the counter to retrieve the bottle of liquor and raised it to the ceiling in a drunken toast. "Yo ho, the gang's all here...Maybe they'll let me be M.C. Seein' as how I just might be running the place someday."
"Sam..."
"No, Bobby, I'm serious. Y'know I got Demon blood in me," Sam slurred, nodding his head like a kitten watching a yo-yo and pulling at his shirtfront like he expected to find a scarlet letter sewn on it. "'ts gonna make me a monster someday, like Jake, like Ava. B-bad, bad Sam!" He scolded himself, mock-slapping his own slack cheeks.
"Sam, you're not a monster. I seen plenty of those in my day, and you ain't one. A stubborn, pain-in-the-ass maybe, but I been accused of being worse things," Bobby retorted weakly, taking a swig off his beer. "Which reminds me..." He leaned close enough to feel Sam's alcohol-heavy breath in the hair above his lip. "Christo."
Sam stared blankly back at Bobby then crinkled his face in disgust. "Dude, your breath."
"That's not the point, jackass," Bobby grumbled straightening his cap roughly. "The point is demon blood or no demon blood, you're human Sam, and the Yellow-Eyed bastard is dead. You're calling the shots. Demons don't have domain over humans. They can't make you do anything."
"You don't know," Sam spat, suddenly angry. "You didn't see."
"Didn't see what? See you unload a clip into that son-of-a-bitch that stabbed you in the back? Believe me, he had it coming,and I'd have plugged him myself if you hadn't beat him to it. That doesn't make you a monster..."
"No, not that. Later," Sam asserted, eyebrows raising as though that would enable Bobby to read his mind and get some point that was nonetheless lost. When Bobby didn't produce a giant light bulb and shout, "Eureka!" Sam huffed, and ran a giant hand through his hair, grimacing at the greasy texture. "Laaaattteeerr," he exaggerated. "While you and Ellen were closing the gate. You didn't see."
Bobby hooked the toe of his foot under a kitchen chair and dragged it over. He plopped his boot on top and sprawled back against the counter. "Well, then enlighten me, young Jedi. What is so profound that happened between that gate opening and that demon ending up dead?"
"You don't wanna know."
Bobby pulled of his cap and hung it over the faucet, plopped his other foot up on the chair, and took a long swallow off his beer. "Son, I'm an old man. My mid-life crisis came and went about the time you hit puberty. I don't have as much time as I used to. So, rest assured that I would not have asked if I did not want to know. Now quit wasting my time and cough up whatever is gunking up that head of yours before you smothercate. I don't think your brother would appreciate it much if he sold his soul for your ass only to wake up and find you've melted into a huge puddle of angst snot. Lemme help you out. The last thing I remember, you were helping us shut the Gate. Then, you got yourself all turned around..."
Sam was apparently not too drunk to make the pissy face. "I know how it happened," he snapped.
"Then tell it. And didn't your daddy tell you your face would get stuck that way."
"Not when we were speaking," Sam pouted. "Anyway, as I was saying, I turned around and there was the Demon and Dean..."
#
"Dean!"
The scream tore from Sam's throat like a jack would tear out of a box if the jack happened to be Pennywise the freakin' Clown.
Even with all Hell breaking loose at his back, Sam couldn't help but cringe a little at his complete lack of creative voice. He didn't think there was a single hunt he'd ever been on in which he hadn't found himself screaming for his brother. By now, he should really have thought of something more catchy, maybe something from Shakespeare. Romeo, Romeo came to mind, though judging from the number of lewd glances they got whenever they arrived in a new town, Oedipus might be more fitting. Or maybe Puck...Dean, the fairy. He'd love that.
"Sam, you did not think about Shakespeare while the gate to Hell was open."
"Well, no, but I've had half a bottle of tequila and a couple hours to embellish. Now shut up. It's my story. Let me tell it my way.
"Carry on."
Sam shook his head. Maybe his cynical, tired of being Mr. Nice Guy, innner voice picked a hell of a time to express itself. But seriously, this was a cowboy cemetery in a deserted corner of Wyoming--friggin' why-oh-why-waste-my-time-in Wyomin'; the minions of Hell were staking their claim on Earth, and still Dean found a way to get himself tossed into a solid vertical surface. Apparently,Sam dying (judging from Jake's reaction, he was fairly positive that's exactly what happened) and then killing a man (dude, overkill much?) did not change anything in Winchesterdom.
Still, it just might end the world if Sam didn't stop chatting with his inner asshole and do something.
"Damn straight."
"My story, OLD man."
Decision time, Sammy: Door Number One and the demonic army spewing from from the Hell Gate, or Door Number Two, big brother in a scrape with the one freakin' demon with which you have a personal, twenty-three year vendetta.
His feet decided for him. At least, he would never admit to blindly running across a cemetery, stumbling headlong into a confrontation with a demon, arms flailing like Phoebe Buffay through Central Park and no real plan of what to do when he got there. He knew racing to Dean's rescue would only get him in a pickle, but what choice did he have? That was his big brother. Someone had to save his ass, and the ranks were getting kind of shallow.
Besides, after Jake's big reveal, Dean had some 'splainin' to do, Lucy, and Sam was tired of second-hand B.S.
"I think you boys spent too much time in motel rooms watching late night television."
"Only when Dad forgot to lock out the porn.
"I bet."
"Anyway..."
The tiny bit of hope he had to at least distract the Demon long enough for Dean to get out of harm's way deflated when a disturbingly familiar pressure butted against Sam's chest, and his feet defied gravity in a way he was pretty sure had nothing to do with him drinking demon blood.
A second later, the jagged bark of the scraggly mesquite tree sprouted splinters from the force of his body slamming into the weathered wood. If the pressure had not been so tight across his chest, Sam would have screamed with the agony of pointed fibers thrusting through the barely scarred over wound on across his spine. As it was, his jaw jutted toward the sky as though he could wrench himself out of the invisible grasp by going up and over. His throat convulsed with involuntary spasms that propagated throughout his body.
"You wait right there, champ. I'm proud of ya," the Demon taunted. And how fucked up was it that the evil son of a bitch who'd doomed him to a life he hated was quicker to dispense praise than the one who actually made his meat suit?
"Your daddy was plenty proud of you, Sam."
Silence.
Still, it really wasn't the time for grudges. Sam huffed like the big bad wolf at little piggy number three's house, rage and fear boiling in his blood. It should have dissipated at least a little when he took out Jake, but it hadn't. It was worse now. He'd never felt this seething burn for such a long duration. Even the night he left for Stanford, the anger had turned to determination and fear the second the door slammed shut behind him.
Something wasn't right. Sam wasn't right. Even then, staring at Dean covered in blood and helpless, Sam wasn't sure whether he cared more about saving Dean or just about saving Dean as a means of thwarting the Demon who kept doing this to him. His priorities seemed to have shifted, which only lent more support in his mind to the probability that he'd been dead. What's dead should stay dead. Dean wasn't the only one who knew that.
"You were thinking with your gut Sam. A helluva lot of real living happens in there. It's easy to confuse matters. Doesn't make you wrong."
"Doesn't make me right either."
Uncomfortable silence again.
"So..."
"Keep going."
Of course, at the rate they were going, the entire human race was gonna get the chance to stay dead, starting with one Dean Winchester.
Dean's chest heaved, his back board-straight against the tombstone he was propped against, and Sam knew he was in he same predicament as himself. Talk about friggin' deja vu all over again. Sam wondered if that friggin' Colt had the ability to distort time and trap anyone around it in the same life or death scenario over and over again like a demonic version of Groundhog Day.
How many times were they going to have to play this out until they got it right? Not that it looked like they'd be getting another chance.
It just wasn't fair! This wasn't supposed to be Dean's fight, but Dean always made it his anyway, always got the short end of the stick(usually through a hand or a leg or some other necessary body part) and acted like he didn't have a choice in the matter.
"He doesn't have a choice. Not in his mind, Sam."
"I know."
"'Ts something you and I had probably ought to work on."
"No kidding."
So, yeah, on the one hand there was Dean with all the good intentions in the world, all the right reasons, and nothing to show for it but was still alive and kicking beyond all rational explanation. On the other, there was sweet little Ava, all apple-faced and gigglesquee innocent, the friggin' epitome of everyone and everything they were trying to save by doing what they do. She survived for months in a fight to the death battle with hardly a scratch until Jake took her out. And what was the life-saving decision? To save her own ass! Like, "Make it so, Number One," and it was so. The bitch.
On the other hand...
"That's three hands."
"Better than three legs..."
"Point taken. I'll be shutting up now."
So, on the other...er...some other limb that's not a third leg, there was Sam who'd pretty much tried both ways already and still found himself nailed to a fucking tree. He wondered if that was some religious symbolism but didn't dwell. He'd tried to save his own ass by leaving, then got sucked right back in. Spent the next couple years trying to save it by hunting down the bastard Demon who put him in that spot, with the added bonus of helping a lot of innocents and doing the right thing thrown in for good measure. Then, when he took the ultimate high ground, sacrificing fight for right and turned the other cheek, what had it gotten him? Stabbed in the fucking back!
Excuse him then, if he wasn't thinking very rationally at the moment. There didn't really seem to be any rhyme or reason. What friggin' choice was there? Good!Sam turned the other cheek and got his ass killed. Bad!Sam filled Jake full of holes and didn't really feel any better. Both of 'em still got pinned to a tree with front row seats to the death and dismemberment of one Dean Winchester.
"There's more to it than that, Sam. Don't you think you're oversimplifying it just a tad?"
"Dude, I was pinned to a tree, did you want me to consider the book of Revelations and ponder the meaning of life while I was at it? Anyway, as I was saying..."
Sam was mightily confused and worriedsickangryafraid. The Demon had the gun leveled at his brother, and it was pretty obvious he wasn't bluffing this time. Bastard even backed up a few steps for dramatic effect, and well, maybe to keep blood from splattering on his spiffy Land's End ensemble.
Sam, half-insane with helplessness at that point, thought how ironic it was that his brother was going to be killed by the bullet that could kill anything, since really, just about everything else had tried and failed. Would be a riot if that's why old Yellow Eyes kept the damned thing in the first place...hmm...but that was a different story.
A shadow whizzed by Sam's head, one of hundreds spewing from the gate. This one stopped though, seeming to take interest in what was going on in the cemetery rather than getting the hell out of Dodge. It flickered for a second, then materialized.
Dad! It was Dad, or at least it looked like him, and he looked pretty damned good for someone who'd spent the last year in Hell. Maybe it was the fact that he was on a different spiritual plane or whatever, but he grabbed hold of the Demon and, lo and behold, ripped the bastard right out of Its human body. The whole meat suit just crumpled to the ground like old laundry, the gun still in its hand.
"So that's how Dean got the gun back."
"Hello? Were you listening at all? The Demon backed away from Dean with the gun in Its hand. Had to be at least five six yards away. Definitely out of arm's reach. And anyway, we were still both pinned to our spots."
"So how did he kill the Demon?"
"Well, if you'd stop interrupting, I was just getting to that part."
"Fine, but you're rambling. If you ever tell this story again, you might want to cut to the chase. Some folks have short attention spans."
"If I wanted an editor, I'd submit to New World Weekly. What part of 'my story' didn't you understand?"
"You're a pissy drunk, Sam."
"Then hide the tequila better next time."
"I thought behind the rice cakes was perfect. Those things haven't moved in about ten years."
"Tasted fine."
"Uh, Sam?"
"Yyyyeaaaah, so..."
Sam struggled against the tree, but it was useless. The Demon's psychic energy wasn't dissipated at all when It was ripped from Its body. If anything, it was stronger. One glance at Dean proved that he was in the same predicament.
And didn't that beat all hell? The Demon was distracted. The one thing that could kill It was right there for the taking, and there was no way to reach it.
Dad wasn't much of a match for old Yellow-Eyes in hand to hand combat, and soon the corpse's mouth was yawning open as the Demon poured back in. Sam couldn't help but think how the 'opening' theme kept coming back to plague him. Baby!Sam with his mouth open in search of mother's milk and getting a mouth full of Demon blood. Emo!Sam, unstable enough to render himself open for demonic possession. Ava and Jake both testifying to the power they could tap into once they opened themselves up...
Stop the truck! Ava and Jake? Ava, Jake, and Sam? All of them were chosen by the Demon. All of them had the power. The only difference for Sam? Well, he'd chosen not to 'open' himself up to it. As far as he knew, it was still there just waiting for the taking, and if Ava was right, the learning curve was something like the square root of zero. Wait...there is no square root of zero...anyway, the square root of something really small which is, therefore, even smaller.
But Sam didn't want the power. He'd never asked for it. Spent every minute since it surfaced denying it and wishing to Hell it would go away. In his mind, it made him a freak, a monster, one of the things they hunted. What other choice did he have, though? There was the possibility that this was what the Demon was waiting for, why It was making such a big show of torturing Dean. After all, hadn't He taunted him the same way in that cabin right before their run in with the semi?
Sure, it was possible that Sam could always move the gun, that the Demon was just looking for a way to make him 'open' to the possibility. But, if he moved the gun and killed the Demon, would that change things?
It didn't really matter, because Demon ploy or not, it was the only choice Sam had. He was Sam Winchester, son of Mary and John, brother of Dean. This bastard killed his mother, his lover, his father, and...wait that was The Princess Bride.
"So does that make you Wesley or Buttercup."
"Go to Hell."
"Nah, I looked through the window, didn't look like a very nice place to visit...Drunks should never tell stories, Sam."
"Especially not to other drunks."
"'M not drunk. I'm in..in..inebriated."
"Do you want to hear the end or not?"
"Fine..."
Sam had to save Dean. His brother would never admit it, but he was the innocent in all this that needed saving most of all, and if Sam left him die to protect his own virtue, he was just a selfish bastard, after all.
The second he made the decision, everything changed, and nothing changed. A door in his head opened, but it was a door to a place that had always been there, locked behind stubborn Winchester determination and what passed for faith. Power raced through him like arousal through a virgin on her Honeymoon bed.
"Good Lord, Sam. You ARE Buttercup. I haven't heard more purple prose since I was a teenager leafing through Harlequins looking for the sex scenes."
"Dude, that's what porn is for."
"Hey, have you ever actually read a Harlequin? Besides, we were out in the sticks, and Daddy was too busy for porn. Had to make do with Mama's stash."
"Uh, TMI."
"Yeah, probably. So, you moved the gun, eh? With your spidey senses?"
"Oh, just getting to that, but basically, yeah. I didn't just move the gun. I fucking TK'd that bitch right into Dean's hand. And well, you know the rest of the story. One dead Yellow-Eyed bastard. The End. Well, either that, or one of those escaping demons zoomed by really fast, and the gun got caught in its wake, which pushed it closer to Dean." Sam chuckled weakly and laid a giant hand on the bottle of tequila, stroking it like an old dog. "Or maybe this is all just a drunken hallucination."
Bobby let his feet slide off the chair and onto the floor with a thunk and plunk (apparently, one boot had something stuck to the sole, which would explain the foul odor they'd both been silently blaming on each other throughout this little conversation) and leaned forward to look Sam directly in his hooded eyes.
"You can tell yourself whatever you've got to in order to get through this, Sam, but I think you DID move that gun, because I remember enough Physics to know that the gun would have had to have the mass of a ping pong ball to be moved any distance by a passing spirit. The same way I always knew my Mama was full of crap when she said I'd get sucked under a train if I stood too close to the tracks."
Sam's eyes rolled drunkenly in their sockets, focusing on the bottle of Jose' like it was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. "But if I did...what does that make me, Bobby?"
Stupid Winchesters and their friggin' buckets o' angst. Was enough to make an old codger grow a heart.
"Sam, it just makes you the man who chose the lesser of two evils. It was a crappy decision to have to make, but life is full of those decisions. Besides, have you tried to move anything since then? Because, you know, those specific powers might have come from the actual Demon himself. They could have died right along with It."
Sam slid off his stool like a Slinky off a stack of books and pushed himself off the counter until he was mostly standing and only partly swaying. "Y'know, Bobby, you're right. Life's a bitch, and then you die. I think I'm going to bed now."
"Sam you didn't answer my question."
"Didn't I? My bad, I'm a forgetful drunk. G'night Bobby."
"Sam, you know saving Dean was the only choice you could have made, regardless of how you did it. And if there's one thing I know about the two of you, it's that however you come out the other side of this, you're going to do it together. You get all girly and goody-goody, then Dean's gonna embarrass the hell outta you 'til you grow some balls. You turn into an ass, and he's gonna kick it. That's what big brothers are for. So, you save Dean's ass, and he'll save yours. You Winchesters do fine in the gray areas."
Sam stood silently swaying for a few seconds more, then turned away."
"Sam...?" But Bobby didn't force the issue as Sam made his way to the back of the house by sliding down the walls and chair rails when he wasn't knocking books off the shelves and the lamp off the living room table. In this case, he was pretty sure no answer was answer enough.
He shrugged and slid off his own stool. Yeah, Life was a bitch, all right, but she sure kept things interesting. Anyway, tomorrow was another day, and they'd figure this bitch out together.
The End
Final A/N: So, yeah, this started out as an explanation for how Dean got the gun, because I watched that scene several times, and it didn't look like Dean moved at all, so unless the gun fell into his hand, I don't see how he got it. Also, it looked to me like they were both pinned, and Sam came down from the tree AFTER Dean shot the Demon, so Daddy ripping it out of its body didn't affect the pinning, IMHO. Anyway,not a huge fan of Superpowers!Sam, and I think Kripke said he's not either, but I figure, at that point, if they were ever gonna be there, that was it. AND, I wrote this entire fic without using MS Word. *squees for spelling 'the' with the 'e' at the end where it belongs*
Author:
tru_faith_lost aka H.T. MarieRating: PG-13 for swearing and drunkenness
Characters/Pairings: Mostly Drunk!Sam and Drunk!Bobby, though the Demon, Dean, and Daddy Winchester put in cameo appearances. Sorry fellow Deanophiles, the boy needed a nap.
Words: 4100
Summary: Dean crashes after AHBL2, and Bobby and Sam have a drunken conversation about a missing scene from that epi. Sam's feeling a little guilty about something he did...
Warnings: Just language and abuse of Tequila. Spoilers for AHBL2 if you haven't seen it.
Disclaimer: No money being made, though I ain't saying I'd turn it down...
A/N: This started out as a serious missing scene with a theory/speculation in it. However, my Sam voice was so cynical for some reason, I figured the only way he'd ever sound like that is if he was wasted. So, the whole story morphed into this "Tall Tales"-version-slash-coda to AHBL2 with a hint The Princess Bride thrown in for good measure. I used regular English instead of drunkspeak, just because some people have trouble reading the drunkspeak, but you can insert slurring as you please.
Opening Up
Sam slouched at the corner of Bobby's kitchen counter where it butted up against the refrigerator, a fluorescent light flickering over his head. One elbow rested on the counter, its hand propping up Sam's shaggy head. His mouth hung half-open like his eyelids, and if he hadn't just spent a day or so dead, Bobby knew he'd be crashed out in the guest room like Dean. Instead, he was facing kitchen canisters full of the makings of an anti-spook arsenal.
Bobby pulled up the barstool he used as his kitchen chair, (because there really was no point in a single man eating at the table when he could save himself a trip by balancing a bowl over the sink) and sprawled at the other end. If they hadn't been facing a wall, they could maybe have convinced themselves that Kirstie Alley was behind the bar serving up the drinks. Singer cleared his throat and slid a sweating bottle of Budweiser down to Sam. It thunked into his elbow and burped onto the formica, but Sam didn't reach for it.
"Thanks," Sam mumbled, his face slack and smushed up against his hand, "but I already got the good stuff." Bobby noticed the slur in his speech, but he'd spent so much of his life interpreting drunkspeak that it sounded like plain English in his head.
Sam slid his elbow off the edge of the counter, not bothering to lift his head off it first, and nearly toppled off his own stool when his whole upper body followed his arm over the edge. Only Bobby's quick-reflexes kept Sam from smacking his head on the corner by catching a shoulder and pushing him back upright.
As Sam sat back up, head wobbling on his neck slightly, he almost spilled the half-empty bottle of Jose' Cuervo he had harbored against the jar of goofer dust.
"Was wondering where that went," Bobby chuckled dryly as he reached for the tequila and took a few hits off the bottle himself. He sat back, taking in the full effect of sullen, drunken Winchester. Come to think of it, he didn't really know many other adjectives for Winchester. Those boys were just like their Daddy, and they were going to end up just as dead if they kept on like this.
Something was eating at Sam. Granted, there was enough going on in the kid's life to eat an elephant as an appetizer, but Bobby didn't figure it should keep munching until Dean woke up. The way that big brother of Sam's had staggered up the front steps and passed out at the foot of the bed in his guest room with all his clothes still on, Bobby figured Dean wouldn't be any use to anyone for a good few days. That was far too long to leave Sam festering, even if all Winchesters were just giant open sores and probably more proficient at oozing than an infected spider bite.
Bobby couldn't tell from Sam's complete lack of, well, everything, just which major malfunction was on the kid's mind at the moment, but he'd always been good at Clue. Figured he could suggest Miss Scarlet in the Library with the candlestick and at least eliminate a few options.
"You know a year is a long time, Sam. I'm sure we'll find a way to save Dean by then."
"I know," Sam shrugged. "Worse comes to worst, I still got the Colt. I'll just open that gate back up and march in after his ass."
Bobby sat back, stroking at his beard. Definitely not the response he'd been anticipating. So, maybe no Miss Scarlet, then...
"Be kinda like a great big family reunion..." Sam fumbled across the counter to retrieve the bottle of liquor and raised it to the ceiling in a drunken toast. "Yo ho, the gang's all here...Maybe they'll let me be M.C. Seein' as how I just might be running the place someday."
"Sam..."
"No, Bobby, I'm serious. Y'know I got Demon blood in me," Sam slurred, nodding his head like a kitten watching a yo-yo and pulling at his shirtfront like he expected to find a scarlet letter sewn on it. "'ts gonna make me a monster someday, like Jake, like Ava. B-bad, bad Sam!" He scolded himself, mock-slapping his own slack cheeks.
"Sam, you're not a monster. I seen plenty of those in my day, and you ain't one. A stubborn, pain-in-the-ass maybe, but I been accused of being worse things," Bobby retorted weakly, taking a swig off his beer. "Which reminds me..." He leaned close enough to feel Sam's alcohol-heavy breath in the hair above his lip. "Christo."
Sam stared blankly back at Bobby then crinkled his face in disgust. "Dude, your breath."
"That's not the point, jackass," Bobby grumbled straightening his cap roughly. "The point is demon blood or no demon blood, you're human Sam, and the Yellow-Eyed bastard is dead. You're calling the shots. Demons don't have domain over humans. They can't make you do anything."
"You don't know," Sam spat, suddenly angry. "You didn't see."
"Didn't see what? See you unload a clip into that son-of-a-bitch that stabbed you in the back? Believe me, he had it coming,and I'd have plugged him myself if you hadn't beat him to it. That doesn't make you a monster..."
"No, not that. Later," Sam asserted, eyebrows raising as though that would enable Bobby to read his mind and get some point that was nonetheless lost. When Bobby didn't produce a giant light bulb and shout, "Eureka!" Sam huffed, and ran a giant hand through his hair, grimacing at the greasy texture. "Laaaattteeerr," he exaggerated. "While you and Ellen were closing the gate. You didn't see."
Bobby hooked the toe of his foot under a kitchen chair and dragged it over. He plopped his boot on top and sprawled back against the counter. "Well, then enlighten me, young Jedi. What is so profound that happened between that gate opening and that demon ending up dead?"
"You don't wanna know."
Bobby pulled of his cap and hung it over the faucet, plopped his other foot up on the chair, and took a long swallow off his beer. "Son, I'm an old man. My mid-life crisis came and went about the time you hit puberty. I don't have as much time as I used to. So, rest assured that I would not have asked if I did not want to know. Now quit wasting my time and cough up whatever is gunking up that head of yours before you smothercate. I don't think your brother would appreciate it much if he sold his soul for your ass only to wake up and find you've melted into a huge puddle of angst snot. Lemme help you out. The last thing I remember, you were helping us shut the Gate. Then, you got yourself all turned around..."
Sam was apparently not too drunk to make the pissy face. "I know how it happened," he snapped.
"Then tell it. And didn't your daddy tell you your face would get stuck that way."
"Not when we were speaking," Sam pouted. "Anyway, as I was saying, I turned around and there was the Demon and Dean..."
#
"Dean!"
The scream tore from Sam's throat like a jack would tear out of a box if the jack happened to be Pennywise the freakin' Clown.
Even with all Hell breaking loose at his back, Sam couldn't help but cringe a little at his complete lack of creative voice. He didn't think there was a single hunt he'd ever been on in which he hadn't found himself screaming for his brother. By now, he should really have thought of something more catchy, maybe something from Shakespeare. Romeo, Romeo came to mind, though judging from the number of lewd glances they got whenever they arrived in a new town, Oedipus might be more fitting. Or maybe Puck...Dean, the fairy. He'd love that.
"Sam, you did not think about Shakespeare while the gate to Hell was open."
"Well, no, but I've had half a bottle of tequila and a couple hours to embellish. Now shut up. It's my story. Let me tell it my way.
"Carry on."
Sam shook his head. Maybe his cynical, tired of being Mr. Nice Guy, innner voice picked a hell of a time to express itself. But seriously, this was a cowboy cemetery in a deserted corner of Wyoming--friggin' why-oh-why-waste-my-time-in Wyomin'; the minions of Hell were staking their claim on Earth, and still Dean found a way to get himself tossed into a solid vertical surface. Apparently,Sam dying (judging from Jake's reaction, he was fairly positive that's exactly what happened) and then killing a man (dude, overkill much?) did not change anything in Winchesterdom.
Still, it just might end the world if Sam didn't stop chatting with his inner asshole and do something.
"Damn straight."
"My story, OLD man."
Decision time, Sammy: Door Number One and the demonic army spewing from from the Hell Gate, or Door Number Two, big brother in a scrape with the one freakin' demon with which you have a personal, twenty-three year vendetta.
His feet decided for him. At least, he would never admit to blindly running across a cemetery, stumbling headlong into a confrontation with a demon, arms flailing like Phoebe Buffay through Central Park and no real plan of what to do when he got there. He knew racing to Dean's rescue would only get him in a pickle, but what choice did he have? That was his big brother. Someone had to save his ass, and the ranks were getting kind of shallow.
Besides, after Jake's big reveal, Dean had some 'splainin' to do, Lucy, and Sam was tired of second-hand B.S.
"I think you boys spent too much time in motel rooms watching late night television."
"Only when Dad forgot to lock out the porn.
"I bet."
"Anyway..."
The tiny bit of hope he had to at least distract the Demon long enough for Dean to get out of harm's way deflated when a disturbingly familiar pressure butted against Sam's chest, and his feet defied gravity in a way he was pretty sure had nothing to do with him drinking demon blood.
A second later, the jagged bark of the scraggly mesquite tree sprouted splinters from the force of his body slamming into the weathered wood. If the pressure had not been so tight across his chest, Sam would have screamed with the agony of pointed fibers thrusting through the barely scarred over wound on across his spine. As it was, his jaw jutted toward the sky as though he could wrench himself out of the invisible grasp by going up and over. His throat convulsed with involuntary spasms that propagated throughout his body.
"You wait right there, champ. I'm proud of ya," the Demon taunted. And how fucked up was it that the evil son of a bitch who'd doomed him to a life he hated was quicker to dispense praise than the one who actually made his meat suit?
"Your daddy was plenty proud of you, Sam."
Silence.
Still, it really wasn't the time for grudges. Sam huffed like the big bad wolf at little piggy number three's house, rage and fear boiling in his blood. It should have dissipated at least a little when he took out Jake, but it hadn't. It was worse now. He'd never felt this seething burn for such a long duration. Even the night he left for Stanford, the anger had turned to determination and fear the second the door slammed shut behind him.
Something wasn't right. Sam wasn't right. Even then, staring at Dean covered in blood and helpless, Sam wasn't sure whether he cared more about saving Dean or just about saving Dean as a means of thwarting the Demon who kept doing this to him. His priorities seemed to have shifted, which only lent more support in his mind to the probability that he'd been dead. What's dead should stay dead. Dean wasn't the only one who knew that.
"You were thinking with your gut Sam. A helluva lot of real living happens in there. It's easy to confuse matters. Doesn't make you wrong."
"Doesn't make me right either."
Uncomfortable silence again.
"So..."
"Keep going."
Of course, at the rate they were going, the entire human race was gonna get the chance to stay dead, starting with one Dean Winchester.
Dean's chest heaved, his back board-straight against the tombstone he was propped against, and Sam knew he was in he same predicament as himself. Talk about friggin' deja vu all over again. Sam wondered if that friggin' Colt had the ability to distort time and trap anyone around it in the same life or death scenario over and over again like a demonic version of Groundhog Day.
How many times were they going to have to play this out until they got it right? Not that it looked like they'd be getting another chance.
It just wasn't fair! This wasn't supposed to be Dean's fight, but Dean always made it his anyway, always got the short end of the stick(usually through a hand or a leg or some other necessary body part) and acted like he didn't have a choice in the matter.
"He doesn't have a choice. Not in his mind, Sam."
"I know."
"'Ts something you and I had probably ought to work on."
"No kidding."
So, yeah, on the one hand there was Dean with all the good intentions in the world, all the right reasons, and nothing to show for it but was still alive and kicking beyond all rational explanation. On the other, there was sweet little Ava, all apple-faced and gigglesquee innocent, the friggin' epitome of everyone and everything they were trying to save by doing what they do. She survived for months in a fight to the death battle with hardly a scratch until Jake took her out. And what was the life-saving decision? To save her own ass! Like, "Make it so, Number One," and it was so. The bitch.
On the other hand...
"That's three hands."
"Better than three legs..."
"Point taken. I'll be shutting up now."
So, on the other...er...some other limb that's not a third leg, there was Sam who'd pretty much tried both ways already and still found himself nailed to a fucking tree. He wondered if that was some religious symbolism but didn't dwell. He'd tried to save his own ass by leaving, then got sucked right back in. Spent the next couple years trying to save it by hunting down the bastard Demon who put him in that spot, with the added bonus of helping a lot of innocents and doing the right thing thrown in for good measure. Then, when he took the ultimate high ground, sacrificing fight for right and turned the other cheek, what had it gotten him? Stabbed in the fucking back!
Excuse him then, if he wasn't thinking very rationally at the moment. There didn't really seem to be any rhyme or reason. What friggin' choice was there? Good!Sam turned the other cheek and got his ass killed. Bad!Sam filled Jake full of holes and didn't really feel any better. Both of 'em still got pinned to a tree with front row seats to the death and dismemberment of one Dean Winchester.
"There's more to it than that, Sam. Don't you think you're oversimplifying it just a tad?"
"Dude, I was pinned to a tree, did you want me to consider the book of Revelations and ponder the meaning of life while I was at it? Anyway, as I was saying..."
Sam was mightily confused and worriedsickangryafraid. The Demon had the gun leveled at his brother, and it was pretty obvious he wasn't bluffing this time. Bastard even backed up a few steps for dramatic effect, and well, maybe to keep blood from splattering on his spiffy Land's End ensemble.
Sam, half-insane with helplessness at that point, thought how ironic it was that his brother was going to be killed by the bullet that could kill anything, since really, just about everything else had tried and failed. Would be a riot if that's why old Yellow Eyes kept the damned thing in the first place...hmm...but that was a different story.
A shadow whizzed by Sam's head, one of hundreds spewing from the gate. This one stopped though, seeming to take interest in what was going on in the cemetery rather than getting the hell out of Dodge. It flickered for a second, then materialized.
Dad! It was Dad, or at least it looked like him, and he looked pretty damned good for someone who'd spent the last year in Hell. Maybe it was the fact that he was on a different spiritual plane or whatever, but he grabbed hold of the Demon and, lo and behold, ripped the bastard right out of Its human body. The whole meat suit just crumpled to the ground like old laundry, the gun still in its hand.
"So that's how Dean got the gun back."
"Hello? Were you listening at all? The Demon backed away from Dean with the gun in Its hand. Had to be at least five six yards away. Definitely out of arm's reach. And anyway, we were still both pinned to our spots."
"So how did he kill the Demon?"
"Well, if you'd stop interrupting, I was just getting to that part."
"Fine, but you're rambling. If you ever tell this story again, you might want to cut to the chase. Some folks have short attention spans."
"If I wanted an editor, I'd submit to New World Weekly. What part of 'my story' didn't you understand?"
"You're a pissy drunk, Sam."
"Then hide the tequila better next time."
"I thought behind the rice cakes was perfect. Those things haven't moved in about ten years."
"Tasted fine."
"Uh, Sam?"
"Yyyyeaaaah, so..."
Sam struggled against the tree, but it was useless. The Demon's psychic energy wasn't dissipated at all when It was ripped from Its body. If anything, it was stronger. One glance at Dean proved that he was in the same predicament.
And didn't that beat all hell? The Demon was distracted. The one thing that could kill It was right there for the taking, and there was no way to reach it.
Dad wasn't much of a match for old Yellow-Eyes in hand to hand combat, and soon the corpse's mouth was yawning open as the Demon poured back in. Sam couldn't help but think how the 'opening' theme kept coming back to plague him. Baby!Sam with his mouth open in search of mother's milk and getting a mouth full of Demon blood. Emo!Sam, unstable enough to render himself open for demonic possession. Ava and Jake both testifying to the power they could tap into once they opened themselves up...
Stop the truck! Ava and Jake? Ava, Jake, and Sam? All of them were chosen by the Demon. All of them had the power. The only difference for Sam? Well, he'd chosen not to 'open' himself up to it. As far as he knew, it was still there just waiting for the taking, and if Ava was right, the learning curve was something like the square root of zero. Wait...there is no square root of zero...anyway, the square root of something really small which is, therefore, even smaller.
But Sam didn't want the power. He'd never asked for it. Spent every minute since it surfaced denying it and wishing to Hell it would go away. In his mind, it made him a freak, a monster, one of the things they hunted. What other choice did he have, though? There was the possibility that this was what the Demon was waiting for, why It was making such a big show of torturing Dean. After all, hadn't He taunted him the same way in that cabin right before their run in with the semi?
Sure, it was possible that Sam could always move the gun, that the Demon was just looking for a way to make him 'open' to the possibility. But, if he moved the gun and killed the Demon, would that change things?
It didn't really matter, because Demon ploy or not, it was the only choice Sam had. He was Sam Winchester, son of Mary and John, brother of Dean. This bastard killed his mother, his lover, his father, and...wait that was The Princess Bride.
"So does that make you Wesley or Buttercup."
"Go to Hell."
"Nah, I looked through the window, didn't look like a very nice place to visit...Drunks should never tell stories, Sam."
"Especially not to other drunks."
"'M not drunk. I'm in..in..inebriated."
"Do you want to hear the end or not?"
"Fine..."
Sam had to save Dean. His brother would never admit it, but he was the innocent in all this that needed saving most of all, and if Sam left him die to protect his own virtue, he was just a selfish bastard, after all.
The second he made the decision, everything changed, and nothing changed. A door in his head opened, but it was a door to a place that had always been there, locked behind stubborn Winchester determination and what passed for faith. Power raced through him like arousal through a virgin on her Honeymoon bed.
"Good Lord, Sam. You ARE Buttercup. I haven't heard more purple prose since I was a teenager leafing through Harlequins looking for the sex scenes."
"Dude, that's what porn is for."
"Hey, have you ever actually read a Harlequin? Besides, we were out in the sticks, and Daddy was too busy for porn. Had to make do with Mama's stash."
"Uh, TMI."
"Yeah, probably. So, you moved the gun, eh? With your spidey senses?"
"Oh, just getting to that, but basically, yeah. I didn't just move the gun. I fucking TK'd that bitch right into Dean's hand. And well, you know the rest of the story. One dead Yellow-Eyed bastard. The End. Well, either that, or one of those escaping demons zoomed by really fast, and the gun got caught in its wake, which pushed it closer to Dean." Sam chuckled weakly and laid a giant hand on the bottle of tequila, stroking it like an old dog. "Or maybe this is all just a drunken hallucination."
Bobby let his feet slide off the chair and onto the floor with a thunk and plunk (apparently, one boot had something stuck to the sole, which would explain the foul odor they'd both been silently blaming on each other throughout this little conversation) and leaned forward to look Sam directly in his hooded eyes.
"You can tell yourself whatever you've got to in order to get through this, Sam, but I think you DID move that gun, because I remember enough Physics to know that the gun would have had to have the mass of a ping pong ball to be moved any distance by a passing spirit. The same way I always knew my Mama was full of crap when she said I'd get sucked under a train if I stood too close to the tracks."
Sam's eyes rolled drunkenly in their sockets, focusing on the bottle of Jose' like it was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. "But if I did...what does that make me, Bobby?"
Stupid Winchesters and their friggin' buckets o' angst. Was enough to make an old codger grow a heart.
"Sam, it just makes you the man who chose the lesser of two evils. It was a crappy decision to have to make, but life is full of those decisions. Besides, have you tried to move anything since then? Because, you know, those specific powers might have come from the actual Demon himself. They could have died right along with It."
Sam slid off his stool like a Slinky off a stack of books and pushed himself off the counter until he was mostly standing and only partly swaying. "Y'know, Bobby, you're right. Life's a bitch, and then you die. I think I'm going to bed now."
"Sam you didn't answer my question."
"Didn't I? My bad, I'm a forgetful drunk. G'night Bobby."
"Sam, you know saving Dean was the only choice you could have made, regardless of how you did it. And if there's one thing I know about the two of you, it's that however you come out the other side of this, you're going to do it together. You get all girly and goody-goody, then Dean's gonna embarrass the hell outta you 'til you grow some balls. You turn into an ass, and he's gonna kick it. That's what big brothers are for. So, you save Dean's ass, and he'll save yours. You Winchesters do fine in the gray areas."
Sam stood silently swaying for a few seconds more, then turned away."
"Sam...?" But Bobby didn't force the issue as Sam made his way to the back of the house by sliding down the walls and chair rails when he wasn't knocking books off the shelves and the lamp off the living room table. In this case, he was pretty sure no answer was answer enough.
He shrugged and slid off his own stool. Yeah, Life was a bitch, all right, but she sure kept things interesting. Anyway, tomorrow was another day, and they'd figure this bitch out together.
The End
Final A/N: So, yeah, this started out as an explanation for how Dean got the gun, because I watched that scene several times, and it didn't look like Dean moved at all, so unless the gun fell into his hand, I don't see how he got it. Also, it looked to me like they were both pinned, and Sam came down from the tree AFTER Dean shot the Demon, so Daddy ripping it out of its body didn't affect the pinning, IMHO. Anyway,not a huge fan of Superpowers!Sam, and I think Kripke said he's not either, but I figure, at that point, if they were ever gonna be there, that was it. AND, I wrote this entire fic without using MS Word. *squees for spelling 'the' with the 'e' at the end where it belongs*
