Take Me With You, Supernatural, R
Jan. 10th, 2008 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaFandom: Supernatural (Very Dark Wincest Verse)
Title: Take Me With You
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Sam (sorta), brief mention of John and Mary
Rating: R (for previous violence and theme)
Word Count: 900
Summary: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ruby_jelly, a year after Dreaming in Stereo, Part 6, Take 1.
A/Ns & Warnings: Over here I did that time stamp meme.ruby_jelly asked for this. WarningsThis explores the character death of the original story. I cried writing it, and I think that's a warning in and of itself.
The Impala whined as he turned it into the graveyard, like she wasn’t ready yet. Not that he could blame her. He wasn’t ready yet either.
It’s time Dean.
“Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”
There was a chuckle that twinkled through him, then it was gone and in its absence Dean couldn’t quite breathe.
A year.
It had been a year before that he’d been here last. He and Sam had brought all that was left of John Winchester to lay with their mother.
Now, it was Sam’s turn.
Dean didn’t look at the urn strapped into the passenger side of the front seat as he stopped the car. His jaw tightened. “I can’t, Sam.”
Yes, you can.
He’d spent a good chunk of the first half of the year drunk, talking to Sam in the mirror, imagining he could see him, feel him. Dreamed about holding him, kissing him.
He stared out the window at the marker that now had both his parents’ names on it. After everything it seemed so small. John Winchester had been larger than life and now he was reduced to a line etched in stone.
Pain shot through his left hand and he breathed through it. His hands wore the marks of the ordeal that had taken them both from him, thick burn scars covered both hands.
Dean opened the glove box and pulled out a worn t-shirt. It had been Sam’s. There was a small blood stain on the right sleeve, from some scrape in a bar fight that Dean had caused and Sam had helped him finish. He’d found it shoved under the front seat of the impala a few months back. It was threadbare and sweat-stained.
He balled it up and held it to his face, inhaling the unmistakable scent of Sam and stale beer.
Dean.
Dean shook his head. “No, Sammy. I don’t want to say goodbye.”
It was morbid, the way he drove around with the ashes. Every night he carried them into whatever motel he ended up in. Some nights he fell asleep with it in his arms.
Not goodbye.
Dean felt the tears coming, stinging at eyes already red and sore. Sam wanted him to go on, to live…to take everything Sam had given him and move forward. But Dean couldn’t. Not without Sam.
He opened the door of the car and unbuckled the passenger seat belt. The urn was light. Somehow Sam shouldn’t be that light. The sun was bright. His boots crunched on the gravel of the road. He could smell the flowers that dotted the graves all around the one that said “Winchester”.
They were there. He could feel them. Dean closed his eyes, and he could see them. John and Mary. Side by side. They smiled softly.
“I brought Sam.” He held the urn, but felt Sam behind him…felt Sam move through him. John’s arms pulled Sam in, Mary’s circled around him.
There was a wave of emotion, love…not just from Sam, but from all three…and it only made Dean feel more miserable, more alone.
Sam turned, his hand brushing over Dean’s face. Love you.
The tears slipped over his cheeks and he shook his head. His stomach wrenched inside him and he sank to his knees in the grass. “Sammy.”
You’ll be okay.
With shaking hands, Dean placed the urn on the grass in front of the headstone. He couldn’t take his hands off it though, trying to breathe. He lowered his head until his forehead was against the cool of the stone. “Sammy. I can’t do it alone.”
Hands brushed his hair, his back. His mother. His father. His…Sam. “Take me with you,” he whispered in agony.
You don’t mean that.
“I do.” Dean’s hands left the urn, went to the small of his back. The gun was heavy, gleaming in the sunlight.
Dean.
“Sammy. It hurts so much.”
I know.
“No you fucking don’t.” Dean lifted the gun, cocked it, put it under his chin. “You can’t feel anything anymore. You left me.”
It was quiet. Dean’s stomach clenched. He reached for the feeling of Sam…afraid he’d really gone.
I’m still here Dean. He was sad. Hurt.
The hand that held the gun fell into his lap. “Sam. Please, don’t go.”
It’s time.
Dean opened his eyes. The air shimmered. “Take me with you.”
Not yet.
Not yet. Dean nodded slowly. “Soon.”
Maybe.
Dean licked at the tears that wet his lips, got the vague impression of lips on his. Very slowly, he tucked the gun back into his jeans and stood, brushing at the grass on his knees.
“I should throw some salt in that pot of yours.” He pulled his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and put them on. He got the impression of a soft smile.
Next time.
“Right, like I’m coming back to visit.” Dean headed for the car, forcing his lungs to keep breathing, trying not to vomit, swallowing down the agony. The car felt even emptier than it had all year. It took him almost ten minutes to start it and another five to put it in gear. He couldn’t see even a hint of them anymore.
As the sun made its first moves toward the horizon, Dean hit the gas, pulling out of the cemetery and leaving a spray of gravel and dust behind him to keep Sam company.
Title: Take Me With You
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Sam (sorta), brief mention of John and Mary
Rating: R (for previous violence and theme)
Word Count: 900
Summary: For
ruby_jelly, a year after Dreaming in Stereo, Part 6, Take 1.A/Ns & Warnings: Over here I did that time stamp meme.
ruby_jelly asked for this. WarningsThis explores the character death of the original story. I cried writing it, and I think that's a warning in and of itself.The Impala whined as he turned it into the graveyard, like she wasn’t ready yet. Not that he could blame her. He wasn’t ready yet either.
It’s time Dean.
“Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”
There was a chuckle that twinkled through him, then it was gone and in its absence Dean couldn’t quite breathe.
A year.
It had been a year before that he’d been here last. He and Sam had brought all that was left of John Winchester to lay with their mother.
Now, it was Sam’s turn.
Dean didn’t look at the urn strapped into the passenger side of the front seat as he stopped the car. His jaw tightened. “I can’t, Sam.”
Yes, you can.
He’d spent a good chunk of the first half of the year drunk, talking to Sam in the mirror, imagining he could see him, feel him. Dreamed about holding him, kissing him.
He stared out the window at the marker that now had both his parents’ names on it. After everything it seemed so small. John Winchester had been larger than life and now he was reduced to a line etched in stone.
Pain shot through his left hand and he breathed through it. His hands wore the marks of the ordeal that had taken them both from him, thick burn scars covered both hands.
Dean opened the glove box and pulled out a worn t-shirt. It had been Sam’s. There was a small blood stain on the right sleeve, from some scrape in a bar fight that Dean had caused and Sam had helped him finish. He’d found it shoved under the front seat of the impala a few months back. It was threadbare and sweat-stained.
He balled it up and held it to his face, inhaling the unmistakable scent of Sam and stale beer.
Dean.
Dean shook his head. “No, Sammy. I don’t want to say goodbye.”
It was morbid, the way he drove around with the ashes. Every night he carried them into whatever motel he ended up in. Some nights he fell asleep with it in his arms.
Not goodbye.
Dean felt the tears coming, stinging at eyes already red and sore. Sam wanted him to go on, to live…to take everything Sam had given him and move forward. But Dean couldn’t. Not without Sam.
He opened the door of the car and unbuckled the passenger seat belt. The urn was light. Somehow Sam shouldn’t be that light. The sun was bright. His boots crunched on the gravel of the road. He could smell the flowers that dotted the graves all around the one that said “Winchester”.
They were there. He could feel them. Dean closed his eyes, and he could see them. John and Mary. Side by side. They smiled softly.
“I brought Sam.” He held the urn, but felt Sam behind him…felt Sam move through him. John’s arms pulled Sam in, Mary’s circled around him.
There was a wave of emotion, love…not just from Sam, but from all three…and it only made Dean feel more miserable, more alone.
Sam turned, his hand brushing over Dean’s face. Love you.
The tears slipped over his cheeks and he shook his head. His stomach wrenched inside him and he sank to his knees in the grass. “Sammy.”
You’ll be okay.
With shaking hands, Dean placed the urn on the grass in front of the headstone. He couldn’t take his hands off it though, trying to breathe. He lowered his head until his forehead was against the cool of the stone. “Sammy. I can’t do it alone.”
Hands brushed his hair, his back. His mother. His father. His…Sam. “Take me with you,” he whispered in agony.
You don’t mean that.
“I do.” Dean’s hands left the urn, went to the small of his back. The gun was heavy, gleaming in the sunlight.
Dean.
“Sammy. It hurts so much.”
I know.
“No you fucking don’t.” Dean lifted the gun, cocked it, put it under his chin. “You can’t feel anything anymore. You left me.”
It was quiet. Dean’s stomach clenched. He reached for the feeling of Sam…afraid he’d really gone.
I’m still here Dean. He was sad. Hurt.
The hand that held the gun fell into his lap. “Sam. Please, don’t go.”
It’s time.
Dean opened his eyes. The air shimmered. “Take me with you.”
Not yet.
Not yet. Dean nodded slowly. “Soon.”
Maybe.
Dean licked at the tears that wet his lips, got the vague impression of lips on his. Very slowly, he tucked the gun back into his jeans and stood, brushing at the grass on his knees.
“I should throw some salt in that pot of yours.” He pulled his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and put them on. He got the impression of a soft smile.
Next time.
“Right, like I’m coming back to visit.” Dean headed for the car, forcing his lungs to keep breathing, trying not to vomit, swallowing down the agony. The car felt even emptier than it had all year. It took him almost ten minutes to start it and another five to put it in gear. He couldn’t see even a hint of them anymore.
As the sun made its first moves toward the horizon, Dean hit the gas, pulling out of the cemetery and leaving a spray of gravel and dust behind him to keep Sam company.
