ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-03-31 05:48 pm
ratherastory) wrote2011-03-31 05:48 pm
Entry tags:
The Gate Is Straight, Deep and Wide
Title: The Gate Is Straight, Deep and Wide
Summary: Part of the Fusion 'verse. Sam walks out of hell and finds his way home. From a prompt at the First Time comment-fic meme by the lovely and talented![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
de_nugis: The first time Sam gets that Dean does unreservedly trust him again, coupled with the first time Dean gets that Sam really does want nothing more than he wants to be with Dean.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,199
Disclaimer: Playing in Sera’s sandbox again.
Warnings: Not-very-graphic descriptions of hell. Angst.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Dearde_nugis, this is not exactly what you prompted, and I am sorry. But there is cuddling, so it’s not all bad.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is a prequel to Fusion. You don’t actually have to know anything about the ‘verse in order to understand it, for once.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Unbeta’d comment-fic.
He loses Adam on one of the levels –he can’t tell which one.
There was an opening, a dark spot that appeared somewhere off to the side while he listened to Lucifer argue with his brother. The spot grew larger, pushing the light aside, and Sam felt something pull at him, tugging as though there was a cord attached to his heart, urging him along. The screaming stopped, as though the voices were holding their breath for a moment, waiting. For the first time in… he didn’t want to think how long... he thought of Dean. The first few years it had been a mantra: Dean isn’t here, Dean isn’t here, Dean isn’t here. Comfort and despair all rolled into the same thought. Dean wasn’t there, but maybe now Sam could go to him.
Sam swallowed a mouthful of blood and bile and fear. Lucifer’s attention was elsewhere, the light receding to almost bearable levels. He pulled what was left of himself together and crawled –he thinks he crawled, but movement doesn’t mean the same thing here– until he reached the place where Adam was huddled, staring, terrified out of his wits.
“Come with me,” he offered, and Adam followed him.
Hell is made up of levels, they find out. There are dead trees, black and twisted and gnarled, and rivers that reek of sulphur and ooze blood onto their filthy banks. They walk and climb and descend and clamber and crawl and scrabble to get out, and none of it makes any sense to them. There is no light here, but the screams are just as loud, louder sometimes. Behind them Sam can hear the archangels’shrieks of rage at their desertion which only spurs him forward, dragging his brother behind him as fast as he can. Adam keeps lagging behind, digs in his heels when Sam tries to urge him on. He doesn’t feel the same pull, Sam can tell, always going in the same direction. Adam wants to go a different way, is frightened of the teeth and claws and the eyes, baleful and staring out at them through the shadows. Things tear and pull at them –Sam’s arms are bleeding, blood running in rivulets over the ragged skin and dripping from his fingertips onto the ground, leaving a trail of droplets behind as he walks– but he managed to keep the worst away from his brother. He’s beginning to understand how Dean felt, just a little bit.
Then he turns around and Adam is gone, replaced by swirling mist. Sam wanders in circles, calling his name, but there’s no answer and the screams start up again, increasingly loud. There’s another sharp, insistent tug, so hard that it hurts, as though something is trying to rip his heart out of his chest. The further he tries to go, the worse it gets, until he’s forced to walk back in the right direction or fall to his knees.
“I’m sorry…” he murmurs.
He keeps walking, crawls when he can’t walk anymore. Lucifer’s cries echo through all the levels, but Sam keeps going doggedly, ignoring the thousands of teeth and claws tearing at his flesh, trying to keep him in place or, worse, drag him back under. He ducks his head, pulls himself forward, fingers digging into the ground, heedless of lost fingernails and lacerated hands. He doesn’t even notice when the shadows recede, when things stop clawing at him, when the screams cease to sound from the outside.
“Hey, buddy, you all right?”
He starts violently, crab-walks backward away from the sudden and unwelcome hand on his shoulder, and the voice doesn’t insist. There are other voices after that, figures that come and go and blur in and out of focus. He can’t make sense of it, only knows that he has to find Dean, that if he just goes far enough, he’ll find him. So he keeps walking, though he has no idea where he’s going, only that it’s cold and wet and so bright that sometimes he has to keep his eyes closed, his arm over his face to shield himself. After a while he remembers that the painful sensation he’s feeling is hunger. It’s easy enough to fix, if only he could remember how. He wanders in circles, this world more confusing and frightening than the last because he’s forgotten almost all of the rules and it all looks the same. In hell, all the levels look different. He spends a lot of time sleeping, curled up in the smallest spaces he can find, wedged behind metal boxes that smell of decomposing food. Sometimes the food on top isn’t rotten at all.
People shouldn’t trust him. He let the Devil loose in the world, after all. He tries to stay away from them as much as possible, but it’s hard now that he doesn’t know where he’s going anymore. The pulling sensation is gone, the certainty that led him before long since vanished. He tries asking for directions, can sense how frightened people are, and eventually he gives up trying to talk to them. Sometimes the feeling of being pulled gets stronger, and one day (or it might be night, the light is too bright no matter what time of day it is, washing everything out) it’s so strong that he gets up from where he’s been sitting and lets it lead him out into the street. He loses it again, or rather can’t distinguish where it’s coming from, starts turning on himself, trying to figure out which direction to go in. He should know this, he thinks, should remember.
“Sam?”
He turns again, makes out a silhouette in the light. It sounds like Dean, but Dean can’t be here. He bites his lip, rubs at his hand with his thumb. “I’m not sure which way I’m supposed to go,” he tells the guy who’s not Dean. “I don’t remember.” Maybe he’ll know, Sam thinks. It’s worth asking.
The guy reaches out, puts a hand on his wrist, and for the first time Sam doesn’t feel like he needs to tear himself away. “Okay. How ‘bout you come with me, Sammy, and I’ll show you?”
It’s all he can do not to sag with relief. He nods. “Okay.”
It’s a thousand times easier now that he has someone to follow. He has to remind himself that it’s not Dean, no matter how much he wants it to be, no matter how much it looks and sounds like him. The guy’s gait is uneven –Sam can feel the hitch in his step as they walk, as though he’s limping. If it were Dean, Sam would figure it’s because he’s blown out his knee again, but it’s not Dean. It can’t be him, he repeats, as if saying it enough will let him believe it.
It’s warmer where they go, and dry. The guy nudges him into a tiny room that’s cold and bright and gleaming and smells of stale water. Sam almost tries to break free until he remembers that this is what bathrooms are supposed to be like. He lets not-Dean gently strip what’s left of his clothes away and scrub at him with a washcloth, peeling away layers of grime and dirt and dried blood, talking softly to him the whole time, even though Sam can’t make out the words. He lets himself be pulled to his feet, manoeuvred onto a musty bed that creaks under their combined weight. Fingers comb through his hair, and he leans into the touch, eyes closing.
“Where’ve you been, Sammy?”
It’s not Dean. “I was walking,” he tells not-Dean. “I fell, and I was gone forever. There was light and there was a door, and I had to go look for Dean.”
“Sam…”
“He has a life now, you know,” Sam smiles. “He promised. Even if he doesn’t trust me, I know he’ll keep his promise.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” He leans a little bit more, lets himself pretend for a minute. “I can’t find him, but it’s okay. He’s not meant to be here. I just… I need to look for him. I shouldn’t even go, I’m bad for him, but I can’t… I don’t know how to be without him.”
“Jesus, Sammy.”
He blinks, tries to focus, because it sounds so much like Dean, and he can’t let himself think it for more than a minute, because every time it feels like his heart is ripping itself apart when it turns out not to be true. “It’s the wrong level, you can’t be here. You’re not really him, but it’s okay,” he lies. “Dean shouldn’t be here.”
“Sam, it’s me.”
“No,” he shakes his head, surprised when his throat starts to close up in spite of himself. He hasn’t cried in over a hundred years. Lucifer used to take out his eyes first, to prevent him from weeping. “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s why I did it, it was for him. I can’t… Dean can’t be here, it would be for nothing, and it was for him. I shouldn’t even be looking, but it’s always been him, you know?”
“Sam,” hands clasp his face, force him to turn his head until he’s staring right into a pair of bright hazel eyes, almost green in this light. “Sam come on, snap out of it, please. It’s me, Sam.”
Sam swallows the lump in his throat that suddenly threatens to choke him as Dean’s features come into sharp focus. “No…”
Dean shakes him once, hard. “Sammy, please.”
He only half-succeeds in stifling the sob that wells up in his chest, lifts a hand to run it over Dean’s face, marvelling at the feel of stubble under his fingertips. “You’re going to disappear. He does it all the time, because he knows it’s the only thing I want –the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I can’t… I can’t do it anymore.”
Dean moves closer to him. “You don’t have to. There aren’t any levels here, Sammy, I promise. You’re out, you don’t have to worry about them anymore, you hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”
He tries to pull Sam closer, stops with a wince and rubs at his knee impatiently, and for a moment Sam feels as though he’s falling again. “What happened to your knee?”
“Dunno. Did something to it a couple months back at my job. Hey, Sam…” Dean’s face softens and he reaches up to brush at Sam’s cheek with his thumb, trying to wipe away tears that Sam hadn’t even noticed. “It’s okay.”
That’s all it takes. He buries himself in Dean’s arms, can barely make himself understood through the tears, trying to apologize and explain at the same time and still make sure Dean is real, really and truly real and not about to melt away under his touch. The Dean of Lucifer’s devising never had to compensate for a bad knee. This Dean, though, is solid and real, the denim of his jeans rough against Sam’s skin, smelling a little of sweat and whisky and the Impala. And Dean just holds onto him as tightly as he can, so hard that it feels like he might break all of Sam’s ribs except that Sam would be happy to have all his ribs broken if it means Dean is going to take him back.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, clinging to Dean’s shirt as though it might somehow spare him from getting pushed away again. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me, please take me back, please. Please, I’ll do anything you want, just please…”
Dean shushes him, cups the back of his head with one hand. Sam can feel him shaking, breathing ragged. “It’s okay, Sam, I’m here. I’m not leaving you, remember? I’m not leaving. God… I can’t believe it,” he brings his hand around, smooths it over Sam’s face, and Sam can see him smiling even though his face is streaked with tears. “I can’t believe you came back… that you looked for me.”
“I lost Adam. He was there and then he wasn’t and I had to keep walking. But I found you. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I don’t want to go back. I keep falling.”
Dean keeps petting Sam’s head, rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Sammy. We’ll just… we’ll figure it out. I promise we’ll figure it out.”
He doesn’t say anything after that, too exhausted to do anything except sit pressed up against Dean’s chest, listening to his breathing. He screwed everything up, but Dean’s still here, still wants him in spite of it all. By all rights Dean should be throwing him back out into the light, not holding him as though Sam isn’t dangerous, isn’t wrong, as though Sam can still be trusted.
He’s falling, clutches at Dean to stop himself from spiralling backward into the void opening up under his feet. “I don’t care,” he manages. “I don’t care, just so long as you don’t make me go.”
Dean draws him in even more tightly, his voice quiet in Sam’s ear. “Are you kidding me? I just got you back, Sammy. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”
Summary: Part of the Fusion 'verse. Sam walks out of hell and finds his way home. From a prompt at the First Time comment-fic meme by the lovely and talented
de_nugis: The first time Sam gets that Dean does unreservedly trust him again, coupled with the first time Dean gets that Sam really does want nothing more than he wants to be with Dean.Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,199
Disclaimer: Playing in Sera’s sandbox again.
Warnings: Not-very-graphic descriptions of hell. Angst.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Dear
de_nugis, this is not exactly what you prompted, and I am sorry. But there is cuddling, so it’s not all bad.Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is a prequel to Fusion. You don’t actually have to know anything about the ‘verse in order to understand it, for once.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Unbeta’d comment-fic.
He loses Adam on one of the levels –he can’t tell which one.
There was an opening, a dark spot that appeared somewhere off to the side while he listened to Lucifer argue with his brother. The spot grew larger, pushing the light aside, and Sam felt something pull at him, tugging as though there was a cord attached to his heart, urging him along. The screaming stopped, as though the voices were holding their breath for a moment, waiting. For the first time in… he didn’t want to think how long... he thought of Dean. The first few years it had been a mantra: Dean isn’t here, Dean isn’t here, Dean isn’t here. Comfort and despair all rolled into the same thought. Dean wasn’t there, but maybe now Sam could go to him.
Sam swallowed a mouthful of blood and bile and fear. Lucifer’s attention was elsewhere, the light receding to almost bearable levels. He pulled what was left of himself together and crawled –he thinks he crawled, but movement doesn’t mean the same thing here– until he reached the place where Adam was huddled, staring, terrified out of his wits.
“Come with me,” he offered, and Adam followed him.
Hell is made up of levels, they find out. There are dead trees, black and twisted and gnarled, and rivers that reek of sulphur and ooze blood onto their filthy banks. They walk and climb and descend and clamber and crawl and scrabble to get out, and none of it makes any sense to them. There is no light here, but the screams are just as loud, louder sometimes. Behind them Sam can hear the archangels’shrieks of rage at their desertion which only spurs him forward, dragging his brother behind him as fast as he can. Adam keeps lagging behind, digs in his heels when Sam tries to urge him on. He doesn’t feel the same pull, Sam can tell, always going in the same direction. Adam wants to go a different way, is frightened of the teeth and claws and the eyes, baleful and staring out at them through the shadows. Things tear and pull at them –Sam’s arms are bleeding, blood running in rivulets over the ragged skin and dripping from his fingertips onto the ground, leaving a trail of droplets behind as he walks– but he managed to keep the worst away from his brother. He’s beginning to understand how Dean felt, just a little bit.
Then he turns around and Adam is gone, replaced by swirling mist. Sam wanders in circles, calling his name, but there’s no answer and the screams start up again, increasingly loud. There’s another sharp, insistent tug, so hard that it hurts, as though something is trying to rip his heart out of his chest. The further he tries to go, the worse it gets, until he’s forced to walk back in the right direction or fall to his knees.
“I’m sorry…” he murmurs.
He keeps walking, crawls when he can’t walk anymore. Lucifer’s cries echo through all the levels, but Sam keeps going doggedly, ignoring the thousands of teeth and claws tearing at his flesh, trying to keep him in place or, worse, drag him back under. He ducks his head, pulls himself forward, fingers digging into the ground, heedless of lost fingernails and lacerated hands. He doesn’t even notice when the shadows recede, when things stop clawing at him, when the screams cease to sound from the outside.
“Hey, buddy, you all right?”
He starts violently, crab-walks backward away from the sudden and unwelcome hand on his shoulder, and the voice doesn’t insist. There are other voices after that, figures that come and go and blur in and out of focus. He can’t make sense of it, only knows that he has to find Dean, that if he just goes far enough, he’ll find him. So he keeps walking, though he has no idea where he’s going, only that it’s cold and wet and so bright that sometimes he has to keep his eyes closed, his arm over his face to shield himself. After a while he remembers that the painful sensation he’s feeling is hunger. It’s easy enough to fix, if only he could remember how. He wanders in circles, this world more confusing and frightening than the last because he’s forgotten almost all of the rules and it all looks the same. In hell, all the levels look different. He spends a lot of time sleeping, curled up in the smallest spaces he can find, wedged behind metal boxes that smell of decomposing food. Sometimes the food on top isn’t rotten at all.
People shouldn’t trust him. He let the Devil loose in the world, after all. He tries to stay away from them as much as possible, but it’s hard now that he doesn’t know where he’s going anymore. The pulling sensation is gone, the certainty that led him before long since vanished. He tries asking for directions, can sense how frightened people are, and eventually he gives up trying to talk to them. Sometimes the feeling of being pulled gets stronger, and one day (or it might be night, the light is too bright no matter what time of day it is, washing everything out) it’s so strong that he gets up from where he’s been sitting and lets it lead him out into the street. He loses it again, or rather can’t distinguish where it’s coming from, starts turning on himself, trying to figure out which direction to go in. He should know this, he thinks, should remember.
“Sam?”
He turns again, makes out a silhouette in the light. It sounds like Dean, but Dean can’t be here. He bites his lip, rubs at his hand with his thumb. “I’m not sure which way I’m supposed to go,” he tells the guy who’s not Dean. “I don’t remember.” Maybe he’ll know, Sam thinks. It’s worth asking.
The guy reaches out, puts a hand on his wrist, and for the first time Sam doesn’t feel like he needs to tear himself away. “Okay. How ‘bout you come with me, Sammy, and I’ll show you?”
It’s all he can do not to sag with relief. He nods. “Okay.”
It’s a thousand times easier now that he has someone to follow. He has to remind himself that it’s not Dean, no matter how much he wants it to be, no matter how much it looks and sounds like him. The guy’s gait is uneven –Sam can feel the hitch in his step as they walk, as though he’s limping. If it were Dean, Sam would figure it’s because he’s blown out his knee again, but it’s not Dean. It can’t be him, he repeats, as if saying it enough will let him believe it.
It’s warmer where they go, and dry. The guy nudges him into a tiny room that’s cold and bright and gleaming and smells of stale water. Sam almost tries to break free until he remembers that this is what bathrooms are supposed to be like. He lets not-Dean gently strip what’s left of his clothes away and scrub at him with a washcloth, peeling away layers of grime and dirt and dried blood, talking softly to him the whole time, even though Sam can’t make out the words. He lets himself be pulled to his feet, manoeuvred onto a musty bed that creaks under their combined weight. Fingers comb through his hair, and he leans into the touch, eyes closing.
“Where’ve you been, Sammy?”
It’s not Dean. “I was walking,” he tells not-Dean. “I fell, and I was gone forever. There was light and there was a door, and I had to go look for Dean.”
“Sam…”
“He has a life now, you know,” Sam smiles. “He promised. Even if he doesn’t trust me, I know he’ll keep his promise.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” He leans a little bit more, lets himself pretend for a minute. “I can’t find him, but it’s okay. He’s not meant to be here. I just… I need to look for him. I shouldn’t even go, I’m bad for him, but I can’t… I don’t know how to be without him.”
“Jesus, Sammy.”
He blinks, tries to focus, because it sounds so much like Dean, and he can’t let himself think it for more than a minute, because every time it feels like his heart is ripping itself apart when it turns out not to be true. “It’s the wrong level, you can’t be here. You’re not really him, but it’s okay,” he lies. “Dean shouldn’t be here.”
“Sam, it’s me.”
“No,” he shakes his head, surprised when his throat starts to close up in spite of himself. He hasn’t cried in over a hundred years. Lucifer used to take out his eyes first, to prevent him from weeping. “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s why I did it, it was for him. I can’t… Dean can’t be here, it would be for nothing, and it was for him. I shouldn’t even be looking, but it’s always been him, you know?”
“Sam,” hands clasp his face, force him to turn his head until he’s staring right into a pair of bright hazel eyes, almost green in this light. “Sam come on, snap out of it, please. It’s me, Sam.”
Sam swallows the lump in his throat that suddenly threatens to choke him as Dean’s features come into sharp focus. “No…”
Dean shakes him once, hard. “Sammy, please.”
He only half-succeeds in stifling the sob that wells up in his chest, lifts a hand to run it over Dean’s face, marvelling at the feel of stubble under his fingertips. “You’re going to disappear. He does it all the time, because he knows it’s the only thing I want –the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I can’t… I can’t do it anymore.”
Dean moves closer to him. “You don’t have to. There aren’t any levels here, Sammy, I promise. You’re out, you don’t have to worry about them anymore, you hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”
He tries to pull Sam closer, stops with a wince and rubs at his knee impatiently, and for a moment Sam feels as though he’s falling again. “What happened to your knee?”
“Dunno. Did something to it a couple months back at my job. Hey, Sam…” Dean’s face softens and he reaches up to brush at Sam’s cheek with his thumb, trying to wipe away tears that Sam hadn’t even noticed. “It’s okay.”
That’s all it takes. He buries himself in Dean’s arms, can barely make himself understood through the tears, trying to apologize and explain at the same time and still make sure Dean is real, really and truly real and not about to melt away under his touch. The Dean of Lucifer’s devising never had to compensate for a bad knee. This Dean, though, is solid and real, the denim of his jeans rough against Sam’s skin, smelling a little of sweat and whisky and the Impala. And Dean just holds onto him as tightly as he can, so hard that it feels like he might break all of Sam’s ribs except that Sam would be happy to have all his ribs broken if it means Dean is going to take him back.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, clinging to Dean’s shirt as though it might somehow spare him from getting pushed away again. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me, please take me back, please. Please, I’ll do anything you want, just please…”
Dean shushes him, cups the back of his head with one hand. Sam can feel him shaking, breathing ragged. “It’s okay, Sam, I’m here. I’m not leaving you, remember? I’m not leaving. God… I can’t believe it,” he brings his hand around, smooths it over Sam’s face, and Sam can see him smiling even though his face is streaked with tears. “I can’t believe you came back… that you looked for me.”
“I lost Adam. He was there and then he wasn’t and I had to keep walking. But I found you. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I don’t want to go back. I keep falling.”
Dean keeps petting Sam’s head, rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Sammy. We’ll just… we’ll figure it out. I promise we’ll figure it out.”
He doesn’t say anything after that, too exhausted to do anything except sit pressed up against Dean’s chest, listening to his breathing. He screwed everything up, but Dean’s still here, still wants him in spite of it all. By all rights Dean should be throwing him back out into the light, not holding him as though Sam isn’t dangerous, isn’t wrong, as though Sam can still be trusted.
He’s falling, clutches at Dean to stop himself from spiralling backward into the void opening up under his feet. “I don’t care,” he manages. “I don’t care, just so long as you don’t make me go.”
Dean draws him in even more tightly, his voice quiet in Sam’s ear. “Are you kidding me? I just got you back, Sammy. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”
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