ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-01-10 07:36 am
ratherastory) wrote2011-01-10 07:36 am
Entry tags:
Some Mad Bugger's Wall
Title: Some Mad Bugger’s Wall
Prompt/Summary: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_las. Sam starts receiving mysterious packages wherever he goes.
Characters: Sam, Dean, minor OCs
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 998
Disclaimer: I own neither Sam, Dean, nor Pink Floyd, though if I did I think this fic might have turned out veeeery differently.
Warnings: swearing, vague spoilers up to 6.11
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Written for thespn_las challenge, so that means no beta, no nothing, although I did revise this to within an inch of its life. Amusingly enough, the votes canceled each other out during this last challenge.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: It's the kind of fic that might have worked better as a longer story, or maybe much shorter, I don't know. I kind of like it.
“Hey, Mister, is Sam going to come back and play?”
Dean looks down at the kid, all of four years old, sporting the same mushroom-shaped haircut that all four-year-old boys seem to have, a mustard stain on his Oshkosh overalls. He’s holding up the beginnings of what looks like a truck made of Lego.
“Yeah, kid. Look, I don’t think so. We’re pretty much done here.” Dean doesn’t even know why they stopped, except that he found the receipt for the place in Sam’s pocket.
The kid sulks. “He promised he’d help me finish my truck when he was done with his project!”
Dean shrugs, looks over to where Sam is staring at the child as though they’ve maybe all lost their minds. “Sorry. Maybe another time, okay?” he heads over to Sam. “What’s that about?”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says softly, twisting his hands together.
~*~
The parcel is wrapped in plain butcher’s paper and tied with string. Sam pulls on the dirty white strand, snips it neatly with his pocket knife.
There’s a picture inside, neatly framed in wood. He holds it in his lap, runs his fingers over it, as though he might be able to feel the edges of the black and white engraving, but it’s a photocopy. Two angels clash above a battlefield, light bursting forth from their swords. Below them, a man lies broken and dying, one hand reaching for the sky.
Blood oozes from the picture, pooling in his lap. He blinks, and the blood is gone. Never there. There’s a note, tucked into the frame.
You slip out of your depth and out of your mind… as you claw the thin ice.
“Hey, Dean, did anyone know we were coming here?”
Dean looks up from where he’s been researching on the laptop. “No, I haven’t spoken to anyone we know since we left Bobby’s. Why?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
~*~
He keeps the contents of the first parcel at the bottom of his duffel, wrapped in a plastic bag left over from a shopping trip to the thrift store. It’s a brick, with a note taped to it with Scotch tape.
Daddy, what else did you leave for me?
It was waiting for him at the reception desk, the bored motel clerk handing it over without so much as a second glance. It’s addressed to the false name he gave, and the clerk just shrugs when he asks who left it, can’t supply any useful information about it other than that it came in the mail that morning.
The brick is brand new and rust-red. It leaves smears behind on his fingers that he can’t seem to wash out, no matter how hard he scrubs at his hands in the bathroom sink with bars of cheap soap.
~*~
“I think someone’s trying to tell me something,” he tells Dean, staring at the battered book that he’s just unwrapped.
“What? Why? What is that?”
He flips through the pages. “It’s the story of Lucifer’s fall…”
“What, like Milton?”
“No. This is… well, it’s obscure. And really accurate,” Sam flips through a few more pages. “It’s got a whole lot of the details down, from what I’ve been able to gather, from the last time Michael and Lucifer went at it. Descriptions of heaven, hell… the Axis Mundi, the whole bit.”
“So what makes you think somebody’s sending a message?”
“Why else would a book about angels turn up at our motel, addressed to me?” The book feels warm in Sam’s hands, heavier than it should. He caresses its spine, tells himself he’s imagining that there’s a hint of sulphur in the air.
“Yeah, well, they should learn to just leave you the fuck alone. You’ve paid your dues. We both have. With interest, and then some. What the hell do they want?”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
~*~
There’s a box made of Lego waiting for them at Bobby’s when they go back, wrapped in the same brown paper. A note flutters onto the ground.
When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone.
Sam has always been the type to ease every individual piece of tape off his presents rather than tear the wrapping paper, but this time he demolishes the Lego box in record time. Inside, there’s a spongy toy, shaped like a human brain, and someone has carved a neat hole in it, and rolled up another note inside.
Hello, is there anybody in there?
Dean swears under his breath when they put all the notes together, and Sam looks up, startled. “What? What is it?”
Dean shakes his head, but Sam insists, and finally he looks down at his feet, his expression miserable.
“It’s Pink Floyd.”
~*~
A vast wall looms above him, bricks layered thick and high. Sam looks at the note crumpled in his palm, ink stains on his fingers. In retrospect, it seems obvious. He can hear someone calling his name from the other side of the wall. Is there anybody in there? He laughs to himself. Dean told him to leave it alone. Isn’t this where we came in?
There’s ink on Sam’s fingers, but it hardly matters now. Someone’s calling his name, and the voice is familiar and just out of reach. Just on the other side of the wall. He reaches out, scratches at a piece of the mortar he can see beginning to crumble. He pries at the bricks until his nails are cracked and his hands are bleeding. All the while he can hear Dean pleading with him to please, please leave it alone, and he can’t, he can’t because the answers are right there. He keeps scratching even as light so bright he can’t bear to look at it bleeds through the cracks.
The light behind the wall is filled with screaming.
~*~
Prompt/Summary: Written for
spn_las. Sam starts receiving mysterious packages wherever he goes.Characters: Sam, Dean, minor OCs
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 998
Disclaimer: I own neither Sam, Dean, nor Pink Floyd, though if I did I think this fic might have turned out veeeery differently.
Warnings: swearing, vague spoilers up to 6.11
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Written for the
spn_las challenge, so that means no beta, no nothing, although I did revise this to within an inch of its life. Amusingly enough, the votes canceled each other out during this last challenge.Neurotic Author's Note #2: It's the kind of fic that might have worked better as a longer story, or maybe much shorter, I don't know. I kind of like it.
“Hey, Mister, is Sam going to come back and play?”
Dean looks down at the kid, all of four years old, sporting the same mushroom-shaped haircut that all four-year-old boys seem to have, a mustard stain on his Oshkosh overalls. He’s holding up the beginnings of what looks like a truck made of Lego.
“Yeah, kid. Look, I don’t think so. We’re pretty much done here.” Dean doesn’t even know why they stopped, except that he found the receipt for the place in Sam’s pocket.
The kid sulks. “He promised he’d help me finish my truck when he was done with his project!”
Dean shrugs, looks over to where Sam is staring at the child as though they’ve maybe all lost their minds. “Sorry. Maybe another time, okay?” he heads over to Sam. “What’s that about?”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says softly, twisting his hands together.
~*~
The parcel is wrapped in plain butcher’s paper and tied with string. Sam pulls on the dirty white strand, snips it neatly with his pocket knife.
There’s a picture inside, neatly framed in wood. He holds it in his lap, runs his fingers over it, as though he might be able to feel the edges of the black and white engraving, but it’s a photocopy. Two angels clash above a battlefield, light bursting forth from their swords. Below them, a man lies broken and dying, one hand reaching for the sky.
Blood oozes from the picture, pooling in his lap. He blinks, and the blood is gone. Never there. There’s a note, tucked into the frame.
You slip out of your depth and out of your mind… as you claw the thin ice.
“Hey, Dean, did anyone know we were coming here?”
Dean looks up from where he’s been researching on the laptop. “No, I haven’t spoken to anyone we know since we left Bobby’s. Why?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
~*~
He keeps the contents of the first parcel at the bottom of his duffel, wrapped in a plastic bag left over from a shopping trip to the thrift store. It’s a brick, with a note taped to it with Scotch tape.
Daddy, what else did you leave for me?
It was waiting for him at the reception desk, the bored motel clerk handing it over without so much as a second glance. It’s addressed to the false name he gave, and the clerk just shrugs when he asks who left it, can’t supply any useful information about it other than that it came in the mail that morning.
The brick is brand new and rust-red. It leaves smears behind on his fingers that he can’t seem to wash out, no matter how hard he scrubs at his hands in the bathroom sink with bars of cheap soap.
~*~
“I think someone’s trying to tell me something,” he tells Dean, staring at the battered book that he’s just unwrapped.
“What? Why? What is that?”
He flips through the pages. “It’s the story of Lucifer’s fall…”
“What, like Milton?”
“No. This is… well, it’s obscure. And really accurate,” Sam flips through a few more pages. “It’s got a whole lot of the details down, from what I’ve been able to gather, from the last time Michael and Lucifer went at it. Descriptions of heaven, hell… the Axis Mundi, the whole bit.”
“So what makes you think somebody’s sending a message?”
“Why else would a book about angels turn up at our motel, addressed to me?” The book feels warm in Sam’s hands, heavier than it should. He caresses its spine, tells himself he’s imagining that there’s a hint of sulphur in the air.
“Yeah, well, they should learn to just leave you the fuck alone. You’ve paid your dues. We both have. With interest, and then some. What the hell do they want?”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
~*~
There’s a box made of Lego waiting for them at Bobby’s when they go back, wrapped in the same brown paper. A note flutters onto the ground.
When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone.
Sam has always been the type to ease every individual piece of tape off his presents rather than tear the wrapping paper, but this time he demolishes the Lego box in record time. Inside, there’s a spongy toy, shaped like a human brain, and someone has carved a neat hole in it, and rolled up another note inside.
Hello, is there anybody in there?
Dean swears under his breath when they put all the notes together, and Sam looks up, startled. “What? What is it?”
Dean shakes his head, but Sam insists, and finally he looks down at his feet, his expression miserable.
“It’s Pink Floyd.”
~*~
A vast wall looms above him, bricks layered thick and high. Sam looks at the note crumpled in his palm, ink stains on his fingers. In retrospect, it seems obvious. He can hear someone calling his name from the other side of the wall. Is there anybody in there? He laughs to himself. Dean told him to leave it alone. Isn’t this where we came in?
There’s ink on Sam’s fingers, but it hardly matters now. Someone’s calling his name, and the voice is familiar and just out of reach. Just on the other side of the wall. He reaches out, scratches at a piece of the mortar he can see beginning to crumble. He pries at the bricks until his nails are cracked and his hands are bleeding. All the while he can hear Dean pleading with him to please, please leave it alone, and he can’t, he can’t because the answers are right there. He keeps scratching even as light so bright he can’t bear to look at it bleeds through the cracks.
The light behind the wall is filled with screaming.
~*~