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stillaneYes, so, I've returned to the land of the living, and am gradually catching up on all the fun things that I missed. In celebration, I bring fic in a fandom none of you are actually into, that I know of. Sorry. If you watch Supernatural, yay! If not... well, I promise to finish one of the ten or so SG:A tales currently hanging out on my hardrive soon. Really.
How to explain this one… Ever heard the teaser for an episode, or seen the trailer, and written it in your head in preparation? Then, you find out that you were totally off base, and the story you’ve got going is not the one you’ll see on screen (and given that I’m primarily a slasher, you can guess how often my preferred plots make it there).
This would be what happened when I saw the December promo for Supernatural, and more specifically the bits of Faith. Having read a few spoilers since then, I can assure you that this is not what happens therein. Not even close, actually. If you’ve seen that promo and/or the one aired after Scarecrow, none of what follows should spoil you. More author’s notes are at the end. Feedback is, as always, worshipped and adored.
Still with me? Bless you and your tenacity.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13 for language, just a bit
Spoilers: None, so long as you know the basic premise of Faith
Summary: Sometimes it’s where you least expect it. Sometimes, it’s with you all along.
Now
He wakes up feeling fine, and it scares the shit out of him.
Considering he fell asleep dying, you’d think waking up at all would be a good thing. It isn’t. Because he’s waking up to an empty hospital room, and the first thought in his head is, No.
He’s out of bed, dressed, and out of the building before anyone even knows he’s conscious. The Impala isn’t in the parking lot, and he’s not exactly equipped to call a taxi. He picks the first car he sees that looks like it’ll do more than 60 without trouble and hotwires it just the way he learned when he was 9. Some things you don’t forget.
The look on Sam’s face last night is something else that’s permanently ingrained. It was mostly loss, with just a hint of something else. At the time, Dean had been willing to chalk it up to his brother’s own brand of stubborn, but hindsight brings it clearer. Now, he’s terrified he might have been seeing the beginnings of peace there.
He hits the fairgrounds just about sunup. The tents are long gone, empty holes where their stakes had been. The grass is flat, mostly mud in the traffic lanes. Here and there a cardboard carrying case or a paper cup or a checkered napkin dots the ground. The Impala is parked neatly at the edge of the field, looking absurdly precise. In the middle of the emptiness is Sam.
He doesn’t bother parking where the designated zones had been, just drives across the field, and if he had the thoughts to spare, he’d be thinking, Fuck ‘em and drilling the turf harder. He slams to a stop and leaves the door wide open. The only sounds in the dawn are the little chime that warns him to close it and the name he’s whispering under his breath.
Sam doesn’t move when the car pulls up beside him, not when his brother sinks to his knees next to him. He stays curled on his side and looking smaller than anybody almost half a head taller than Dean has any right to. Dean’s hands shake when he reaches for him.
Sam’s jacket is damp to the touch and his hair is limp against his head. His skin is damp, too, and cool. Dean’s fingers stop of their own accord on Sam’s forehead. They don’t want to know any more. Dean grits his teeth anyway and slips them down to Sam’s neck and feels nothing.
He’s spent his whole life feeling a very few things, really: hatred for all the nasty little bastards he goes after, loyalty to his father, and love for his brother. In the end, that’s proven to be all he really needs. There’s nothing here to fight, though, no one here to follow, and Sammy…
Is moving under his hands. Just a little, and not very well, but his chin tucks slightly against the invasion of cold fingers and Dean makes a noise that he’d be glad no one heard, if he were thinking about it. He’s not. He’s stripping his jacket off and hauling Sam up against him, wrapping him in the skin-warmed leather. He’s holding on and rocking, just a little and not very well.
He only gets a minute or so to fall apart, though, and then Sam’s in the passenger seat of the stolen car with the heat blasting. Dean lets the Impala warm before transferring Sam, and they’re tearing out. He’s not entirely clear on what to do next, but he knows they need to be somewhere else. At the very least, someone will be looking for that car soon.
He doubts very much that modern medicine will be much help, but he’s willing to give it a try. Not here, though. The closest hospital should be missing a patient any time now, and they can’t afford the questions that will come, not to mention the bill. If the doctors can’t help, Dean will need the freedom to be near Sam, to try whatever he can from the less scientific end of the spectrum. Charges of fraud and car theft tended to make that more difficult. Instead, he drives hell bent for leather west and spends more time with his eyes on the passenger seat than the road.
It’s closing in on an hour later and they’re closing in on
After a long moment wherein they are very lucky the road is fairly straight, Dean yanks his gaze away. He opens his mouth, but finds nothing coming from it. He has to clear his throat and swallow hard before he gets anything out. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” The answer is short and a little drowsy.
“Yeah, sure. So, hospital.” He doesn’t dare look over, and can’t stop blinking convulsively.
“Nah. I’m really okay. Just tired.”
And that he can’t help but respond to, cutting a look that screams pull the other one at his brother. He gets that damned grin in response, a little smug now.
His jaw clenches tight, but he doesn’t say any more, and when they pass a sign for a motel a while later he takes the turn. He leaves the car running while he checks in, heat still on high. By the time he gets back, Sam’s asleep again and he has to shake him slightly to get him moving. Apparently, hauling all 6’4’’ of his brother around is made much easier by mindless terror.
He lowers Sam to the bed farthest from the door out of long habit and starts unlacing his sneakers. He doesn’t bother trying to get Sam under the covers, just checks that his clothes have dried before wrapping the blankets around him. Sam murmurs something too low to catch and curls into the warmth. For a second Dean just stands, unsure, at the side of the bed with his empty hands flexing. Then he touches Sam’s forehead, checking for the fever he’s dreading. It isn’t there, yet, and he breathes a small bit easier. Sam doesn’t stir.
Dean watches him for another minute, and then goes outside to the car. He pulls his jacket off the passenger seat and finds the lining a little damp and sits down, hard, to put his head in his hands. He whispers Jesus, and it isn’t a prayer, but it isn’t blasphemy either. It’s relief and some small bit of thanks, and maybe it’s a little holy after all.
Sam’s alive, Dean’s alive, and by all accounts at least one of them shouldn’t be. He doesn’t quite know how that happened, but he’s determined to make damn sure the situation continues. He gathers himself together, grabs their respective kits, and heads back into the room.
He sits at the obligatory table by the large window with a whetstone, working his way through their knife collection and his thoughts. It’s all of fifteen minutes before he can’t take it anymore. He sighs, picks up a single knife and the battered copy of Automotive World he’d been working his way through before this mess and crosses the room. A few healthy nudges get Sam to move into the bed’s center, and Dean settles in with his back against the headboard.
It’s hours later and Dean’s long since dozed off himself when he feels eyes on him and opens his own. The sun has changed position enough that the room is mostly in shadow now, but Sam’s eyes catch what light there is. So do his teeth, where they’re showing just slightly in that same grin. We won, he’s saying silently. You’re alive.
Dean’s hand is already on top of Sam’s head, fingers lacing in slightly unruly hair sometime while he slept. He ruffles the strands gently before pulling back, saying, you, too and damnit, Sammy and – maybe - thanks.
Eventually, they’ll discuss whatever it was Sam did to save him. Dean knows full well he’ll take it badly. So does Sam, which explains why he’s not volunteering any information. For now, though, they’re alright and it’s enough.
He waits until Sam’s breathing evens out before he puts his hand back on his brother’s head and relaxes back into sleep himself.
Then
He’d been getting weaker for the better part of a month when Sam sprung this all on him. It’s the only excuse he has for going along with it. He’ll certainly never say it was because Sam had been wearing a look of equal parts fear and desperation when he’d shown him the clippings.
A traveling faith healer in rural
They’d found the revival without much trouble, on the outskirts of town and drawing one hell of a crowd. They hadn’t done much preliminary work yet; they’d just have a quick look around to see if there was any merit to the articles. It was exactly the kind of scam Dean had been expecting, of course – right up until the healer had locked eyes with him in the crowd and summoned him forward. He’d gone, cautiously, prepared to debunk the whole thing. When he’d reached the makeshift stage, though, the healer had touched his head and whispered, Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.
The next thing he’d known he’d been in a hospital bed, Sam grinning ear to ear at his side.
Sam had been willing to take it all on faith. Not easily – no one with their background could ever just let something like this go – but he’d been reluctant to question the gift.
Dean was more suspicious by nature. It itched under his skin, the lack of understanding. He wanted to dig into it, to find the gears and screws behind the magic. A quiet voice in him insisted that nothing came without a price, miracles least of all. He spent most of a week stalling, roaming about town in the guise of getting his strength back. For Sam’s sake, though, he eventually let it pass.
They were three days out when Sam’s restlessness finally registered. Dean pulled the car over without a word and turned back toward
Another two days of digging revealed a marked lack of miraculous longevity. The “healed” believers mentioned in the original articles seemed to be experiencing some fairly drastic consequences. Death, for one. Not from their original complaints, oddly enough, but from seemingly unconnected accidents and illnesses. Former cancer patients were dying in fiery crashes instead, ex-liver transplant candidates were being killed in convenience store robberies, and one particularly memorable emphysema victim was crushed by a renegade forklift.
The only apparent commonality in each case seemed to be the timeline: every patient breathed their last a fortnight after their healing.
With three days left on his own countdown, Dean began to worry in earnest. Sam kept shooting him ever more frantic looks which Dean did his best to ignore. In the meantime, they kept to their usual research routine.
With two days left, they hit on a plausible explanation. Sam, searching whatever arcane sources he consulted on his laptop, looked up suddenly. “Hang on.”
Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, geekboy?”
Sam flicked a look his way and the ghost of a smile, then went serious. He wore what Dean privately called his lawyer face. “It’s like they’re on borrowed time, right?”
Dean noticed the distancing but let it pass. “Yeah, so?”
“So, how is he managing to do that? Where’s he getting the power?”
Dean thought it over. “It’s like he’s got death on a leash.”
Sam’s expression cleared suddenly. “Like Sisyphus.”
It was too easy, but Dean opened his mouth anyway. Sam cut him off impatiently. “No, not syphilis. Sisyphus. The ancient Greeks had this story –“
“About a guy who catches death and keeps him prisoner.” He looked appropriately smug, and Sam scowled, recognizing the trap.
“Something like that, yeah. No one died until death was released. But is that even possible? And why the time limit?”
Dean shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe… wait.” He grabbed for their father’s journal. “Dad’s got something in here about guardian spirits. Psycho-somethings. They’re supposed to take souls to… wherever.”
He found the page and pointed to the notes there. Sam bit his lip. “So, he’s got one of these guardians, and he’s using it to what, hold off the inevitable? That still doesn’t explain the two weeks thing.”
“Long enough for the checks to clear.” Sometimes, being a suspicious son of a bitch was useful.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. He rolls into town, does a few healings, passes the collection plate, and hits the road before the shit hits the fan.” His kept his face grim but sure. “Gotta hand it to him. It’s one hell of a scam.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was quiet, his eyes turned to the window of their small room. Dean realized he’d finally thought it all through.
“Hey.” He kept his voice equally soft.
Sam didn’t look at him, and blinked rapidly. “No. Just… don’t.”
Dean sighed, and stood up. “Okay. Let’s go see the wizard.”
The healer, Timothy Hardy, was exactly where they’d left him. The tent in which he held court was empty now, but otherwise the scene was unchanged. When they approached him, he greeted them pleasantly. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
If Dean weren’t an accomplished conman himself, he might have missed the faint nervousness in the man’s eyes. “I think maybe you can. I was here a little while ago. You healed me?” He put a slight twist on healed, just to see the asshole squirm.
Hardy paled a bit, but kept the plastic smile on his face. “Yes, of course. I trust you’re feeling well?”
Dean smiled nastily. “Right as rain. After all, I’ve still got a day and a half left, right?”
The smile disappeared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sam was keeping silent, burning holes in Hardy with his eyes. That was alright, though. Dean had it covered. “Oh, I think you do. So, how about you tell me where you’re keeping the guardian?”
Hardy drew himself upright. “I believe you should be going now.”
The movement was barely there, but he caught it. Hardy’s eyes jumped to the left, where a pile of crates sat partially covered by a tarp. Dean glanced at Sam to see he’d noticed, too, and let the triumph show. “Now, why would I do that when this is so much more interesting?”
Hardy gave no warning, just dove for the crates. Dean was ready, though, and tackled him. He had the bastard pinned and in an armlock with little effort. Sam ran past them both and Dean could hear him tearing through the pile. He knew when Sam found the guardian by the sudden increase in Hardy’s struggles.
“We have a winner.” Sam held up a small wicker cage. From inside, a handful of mottled bird watched them with unnatural calm.
Dean looked down at the conman going apopleptic beneath him. “Now, was that so hard?” In one fluid move he rolled the man and knocked him unconscious.
He looked up to find Sam staring at the bird, still caged. “Sam.”
He got no response. “Sam, we need to let it go.”
“Maybe we could –“
“No.” He kept his voice gentle.
“But if we just –“
“No.” This time more forceful, but still soft.
Sam’s jaw locked, but he nodded slowly. He reached carefully for the latch on the cage door, and opened it. The bird cocked its head and stared at him for a moment. Finally, it hopped to the entrance and launched itself out. It flew directly to Hardy, landing by his head for a quick assessment, then took to the air again and left via the tent flap.
“Somehow, I’m thinking he’s really screwed.”
Dean watched the bird go, then looked up to find Sam watching him with something like dread on his face.
“I’m still doing okay.” And, to his surprise, he was. He’d basically been expecting to keel over on the spot. Sam had apparently been expecting the same.
“So, what now?” he asked warily.
Dean shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
With nothing more productive to do, they snuck out the back of the tent and to the Impala. Sam brought the cage with him, and Dean pretended not to notice.
He woke in their hotel room at precisely
Sam snapped awake in the other bed and had him loaded into the car, stopping only to pull Dean's shirt and jacket on him. They made good time to the hospital, and the next few hours were a blur of tests and questions. Dean knew what they’d find, and tuned the whole process out. He had more important things to do.
Sam hovered in the background, silent and unnaturally still. To anyone else he might have seemed closed off, removed. To Dean, he radiated pain.
When they were finally left in peace, Dean fought for words. “I’m sorry.”
Sam bowed his head and gripped the bed railing, white knuckled. “Me, too.”
There really wasn’t much else to say, outside of the obvious. Dean didn’t have the air for words, and he’d never had much luck with them anyway. He reached for his brother’s hand instead. Sam returned the grip fiercely, and didn’t look up. Dean looked away to let him wipe his eyes, and thought, Goddamnit.
He thought, It’s not your fault.
He thought, Dad, please take care of him.
And then he stopped thinking.
Twelve hours later, it comes as one hell of a shock that he’s still alive.
Now
The next time he comes awake, it’s to the memory of phantom lips on his forehead and a whispered goodbye. He remembers, now, and it pisses him off. He looks for Sam to make that clear, and finds the rest of the bed empty.
The shower’s running, however, and he’s a patient guy. He waits.
Sam comes out ten minutes later, fully dressed, and freezes when he sees Dean sitting in the room’s single chair. He searches Dean’s face for a moment and sighs. “Now, huh.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” His eyes are flickering about the room, and Dean knows he’s going to take this very badly. “Well, you know those old stories we came across in the research, about the Reaper and challenges?”
Dean waits him out.
“Yeah. It looks a lot easier in the movies.”
Dean knows he's gone white-faced. “Chess?”
“No. Never did learn to play that one well. Poker, though…”
He already knows, but he asks anyway. “What did you offer?”
Sam just looks sheepish, and Dean wants to shake him until his teeth rattle. “And he went for it? Two for the price of one?”
Sam shrugs and still won’t meet his eyes. Dean sighs heavily and scrubs his hands across his face. “Christ. You must have been damned lucky.”
When all he gets is silence, he freezes. “Saaam..”
“Umm, yeah… You know how I’ve been getting better with the telepathy for a while now?”
It takes a minute, but Dean gets it. “You cheated at cards with death?” He’s aware he’s sounding a little hysterical, but doesn’t care enough to stop. “Are you fucking out of your mind?”
Sam’s looking at him with the unique blend of pout and glare he’d mastered at thirteen. “What was he gonna do, kill me?”
Dean’s hitting the incandescent mark. “Yeah, moron. It’s kind of in his job description, you know.”
“Come on, Dean. You know that’s not how it works. And I think maybe he thought he owed us one.”
And yes, maybe it’s more complicated than Dean’s making it out to be, but he’ll be damned if he’ll just roll over and take this one. “What the hell were you thinking?”
And there he makes his mistake, because Sam is suddenly looking at him full on and the petulance is gone. His jaw is set, and he looks every inch of his twenty-three years and then some. “I was thinking I wasn’t going to stand by and watch you die. I was thinking you’d do the same for me. I was thinking you might just be all I’ve got left, and I’m not willing to let you go.” His eyes are dark and serious.
Dean really doesn’t have an answer to that. It suddenly occurs to him that he really never does win arguments with Sam, and that maybe he should remember that fact more often. His brother would have made one hell of a lawyer.
Finally, Sam quirks a half-grin at him and lets him off the hook. “That, and I really don’t want to inherit your music collection.”
Dean pulls himself together and responds accordingly. “Punk.”
“Jerk.”
“Seriously, dude, you always use that one. You need to get some variety.”
“Says the guy who hasn’t gotten new tunes since the eighties.”
And they’re back on an even keel. The discussion isn’t over, not by a long shot. Dean’s still adjusting to a world in which he has to protect Sam from protecting him, but he can do that quietly.
He’s got time.
Author’s notes:
1) For no apparent reason, this story is set in
2) The latin phrase the healer uses is part of the Hail Mary and translates to “Now and at the hour of our death.”
3) The concept of guardian spirits for the dead is actually pretty universal. In this instance, the bird is a whippoorwill. Both they and sparrows are traditionally associated with the role. For more info, check out Wikipedia or google ‘psychopomp’.
4) Death’s affinity for games has a rich history in pop culture. The movie "The Seventh Seal" deals with this most famously, but even Terry Pratchett and Woody Allen have gotten in on the fun. I couldn’t resist.
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Date: 2006-01-13 04:20 pm (UTC)Dean’s hand is already on top of Sam’s head, fingers lacing in slightly unruly hair sometime while he slept. He ruffles the strands gently before pulling back, saying, you, too and damnit, Sammy and – maybe - thanks.
Beautiful. Going in my mems.
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Date: 2006-01-14 12:13 am (UTC)