an ineffable plan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ineffabilities) wrote2012-09-15 05:36 pm
ineffabilities) wrote2012-09-15 05:36 pm
FIC: a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle
Post-Mayfield AU for Sam! All you need to know: he forgot Mayfield. Only, those memories are buried deep, deep down inside of him, and occasionally he dreams about them. (And then they got bricked up behind the Great Wall of Sam and come flooding right back with the Hell memories and the soulless memories after Cas brings it down.)
Title: a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle
Summary: There's a lot more that Sam doesn't remember than anyone thinks.
Rating: Um, PG-13? And spoilers up until S6, and assumptions.
Sometimes Sam dreams.
These aren't the dreams that usually plague him. They don't have Jess burning above him, for starters. They don't have Dean, ripped apart by hellhounds. They don't have Cold Oak, the pain of a knife sinking into his back, the yellow eyes that have plagued him since birth.
What they do have, though, are houses. Perfect little suburban houses, right out of the fifties. They have people with empty smiles and eyes, mechanically repeating greeting after greeting at him as he passes them by. They have the brief pain of a knife through his heart, the feel of chalk in his hands, normality crossed with bloodshed.
But they also have people in them, that he's sure he's never met before. There's a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and an uncanny ability to fix things. There's a woman, with a dragonskin coat (and really, how weird is that?) and an eyepatch, a smirk and magic at her fingertips. There's the smell of pie, people whose eyes are clear and alert, a journal of his own with notes that don't make sense, even to Sam.
They're okay, sometimes. The pleasant ones are like lifelines in the sea of nightmares, and the less pleasant ones...well, he's used to those by now.
But they slip through his fingers like sand, and when he wakes up, he can't remember them.
--
"Hey, Sam," Dean says, and Sam looks up from his scrambled eggs.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"Not that I want you to get any taller than you already are, but how come you're not drinking your milk?"
Sam glances at the glass of milk, sitting untouched. This diner's got a habit of serving milk with every meal, which, honestly, is fine by him. Calcium is good for the bones, and all that.
He shrugs, says, "I figure my bones have all the calcium they need."
It's a lie. Truth is, even he doesn't know why it feels like his skin crawls when he glances at a glass of, of all things, milk. Even more puzzling, it only started up after Cold Oak, though there wasn't any of the stuff there. Still, how's he going to explain it to his brother without sounding ridiculous?
So he just goes with the calcium excuse. It's as good a reason as any.
--
Dean dies, ripped apart by hellhounds, and in the end, he couldn't save him, couldn't do a damn thing as his brother was torn apart and dragged to hell.
He barely sleeps anymore. He can't, not when he always dreams of Dean's lifeless body, not when he dreams of Lilith (that bitch), the hellhounds pouncing on Dean.
But when he does sleep, when he does get past those nightmares, he dreams of the suburbs, and people he's sure he's never seen before.
--
Dean comes back. His eyes are as green as ever, and he feels the same when Sam pulls him in for a hug. He's almost sure it's a dream as he takes the amulet off, but then Dean accepts it and smiles.
And that's when he knows this isn't a dream.
(It's not a dream a year or so later, when Dean lets the necklace fall into the trash bin. And it's not a dream, either, that Sam fishes it out and stuffs it into his pocket and takes it with him wherever he goes, because no matter what, it's still Dean's, and he'll give it back. Someday.)
--
Sam breaks the final seal, and all he can think of is how strangely familiar the scenario is, even though it's much less crowded.
Then he wonders where that thought came from, just as light floods the room, and he and Dean run out of there, barely holding on to their lives.
--
Strangely enough, he remembers in hell. Somewhere, perhaps, in between the screams and the knives and the clowns and the agonizing pain and Lucifer's laughter, he remembers Mayfield.
So Lucifer takes the form of his friends, tortures him with normality, suffocating and choking until he wants to claw the mechanical words out of his throat, pours fire and ice down his throat (and of course, it looks like freaking milk). What would they think of you now? he taunts, and Sam thinks he knows.
But when he can breathe, when fire and ice isn't consuming him, when he isn't screaming till his throat is raw (and sometimes even then), he holds the necklace close, thinks of the good days--in Mayfield and topside. Those, Lucifer can't take from him, and the thought makes him hold on for decades.
--
Sam, without a soul, doesn't remember. He doesn't particularly care.
--
The Wall comes up, and Sam, with a soul, doesn't remember anymore. He cares, because there's something missing, something he can brush but never quite hold, not if he wants to stay sane.
Then the Wall comes down.
--
Sam drives into a suburban town. It's wrecked, ruined, flickering. Not real, yet somehow achingly familiar. There are blank-faced people walking backwards, empty cheerfulness in their every greeting.
Then, as he pulls up near one particularly damaged house, he hears a shot. He swerves, and it hits the backseat instead, and he's glad this is all in his head, because God help him if he has to explain a bullet in the upholstery to a pissed-off Dean.
He stops the car, then comes out with his hands up.
Across the lawn, on the front porch, is him. Or, well, a younger version of him, anyway, holding a sawed-off shotgun with a steely look on his face.
Then he lowers it, stares at him.
"Hey, Sam," the younger Sam greets him. "Figured you'd be here."
--
All things considered, at least the kitchen's survived. And when he's done explaining, the other Sam furrows his brow as he thinks, a habit he recognizes from his younger days.
"You sure about this?" the younger Sam asks him. "'Cause there aren't going to be any take-backs. Once you've got my memories, there's no way you can put them back in, and let me tell you, they're not pretty."
"Dean's out there," he simply says. "I can't leave him alone."
He sees his younger self's mouth quirk upwards in a tired smile. "I guess we can't," he says, and pushes the gun towards him. "I won't fight you. But I should warn you--the next one's a lot worse than I am."
Sam takes up the gun, then aims it at his younger double, who closes his eyes.
It's one bullet, and he receives several months' worth of memories, of suburban life and torture he'd previously thought he wouldn't experience the likes of again, of people with empty smiles and others with pained eyes. And he knows, when he collapses to the floor, that the next piece of him will be worse.
But he'll be damned (again) if he leaves his brother alone in the real world.
So Sam walks out of the house, past the flickering drones, and gets into the car, and tries not to think about how his friends would think of what he's done, what he's become in the four years since he woke up in 749 Partridge Drive.
--
Fin
Title: a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle
Summary: There's a lot more that Sam doesn't remember than anyone thinks.
Rating: Um, PG-13? And spoilers up until S6, and assumptions.
Sometimes Sam dreams.
These aren't the dreams that usually plague him. They don't have Jess burning above him, for starters. They don't have Dean, ripped apart by hellhounds. They don't have Cold Oak, the pain of a knife sinking into his back, the yellow eyes that have plagued him since birth.
What they do have, though, are houses. Perfect little suburban houses, right out of the fifties. They have people with empty smiles and eyes, mechanically repeating greeting after greeting at him as he passes them by. They have the brief pain of a knife through his heart, the feel of chalk in his hands, normality crossed with bloodshed.
But they also have people in them, that he's sure he's never met before. There's a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and an uncanny ability to fix things. There's a woman, with a dragonskin coat (and really, how weird is that?) and an eyepatch, a smirk and magic at her fingertips. There's the smell of pie, people whose eyes are clear and alert, a journal of his own with notes that don't make sense, even to Sam.
They're okay, sometimes. The pleasant ones are like lifelines in the sea of nightmares, and the less pleasant ones...well, he's used to those by now.
But they slip through his fingers like sand, and when he wakes up, he can't remember them.
--
"Hey, Sam," Dean says, and Sam looks up from his scrambled eggs.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"Not that I want you to get any taller than you already are, but how come you're not drinking your milk?"
Sam glances at the glass of milk, sitting untouched. This diner's got a habit of serving milk with every meal, which, honestly, is fine by him. Calcium is good for the bones, and all that.
He shrugs, says, "I figure my bones have all the calcium they need."
It's a lie. Truth is, even he doesn't know why it feels like his skin crawls when he glances at a glass of, of all things, milk. Even more puzzling, it only started up after Cold Oak, though there wasn't any of the stuff there. Still, how's he going to explain it to his brother without sounding ridiculous?
So he just goes with the calcium excuse. It's as good a reason as any.
--
Dean dies, ripped apart by hellhounds, and in the end, he couldn't save him, couldn't do a damn thing as his brother was torn apart and dragged to hell.
He barely sleeps anymore. He can't, not when he always dreams of Dean's lifeless body, not when he dreams of Lilith (that bitch), the hellhounds pouncing on Dean.
But when he does sleep, when he does get past those nightmares, he dreams of the suburbs, and people he's sure he's never seen before.
--
Dean comes back. His eyes are as green as ever, and he feels the same when Sam pulls him in for a hug. He's almost sure it's a dream as he takes the amulet off, but then Dean accepts it and smiles.
And that's when he knows this isn't a dream.
(It's not a dream a year or so later, when Dean lets the necklace fall into the trash bin. And it's not a dream, either, that Sam fishes it out and stuffs it into his pocket and takes it with him wherever he goes, because no matter what, it's still Dean's, and he'll give it back. Someday.)
--
Sam breaks the final seal, and all he can think of is how strangely familiar the scenario is, even though it's much less crowded.
Then he wonders where that thought came from, just as light floods the room, and he and Dean run out of there, barely holding on to their lives.
--
Strangely enough, he remembers in hell. Somewhere, perhaps, in between the screams and the knives and the clowns and the agonizing pain and Lucifer's laughter, he remembers Mayfield.
So Lucifer takes the form of his friends, tortures him with normality, suffocating and choking until he wants to claw the mechanical words out of his throat, pours fire and ice down his throat (and of course, it looks like freaking milk). What would they think of you now? he taunts, and Sam thinks he knows.
But when he can breathe, when fire and ice isn't consuming him, when he isn't screaming till his throat is raw (and sometimes even then), he holds the necklace close, thinks of the good days--in Mayfield and topside. Those, Lucifer can't take from him, and the thought makes him hold on for decades.
--
Sam, without a soul, doesn't remember. He doesn't particularly care.
--
The Wall comes up, and Sam, with a soul, doesn't remember anymore. He cares, because there's something missing, something he can brush but never quite hold, not if he wants to stay sane.
Then the Wall comes down.
--
Sam drives into a suburban town. It's wrecked, ruined, flickering. Not real, yet somehow achingly familiar. There are blank-faced people walking backwards, empty cheerfulness in their every greeting.
Then, as he pulls up near one particularly damaged house, he hears a shot. He swerves, and it hits the backseat instead, and he's glad this is all in his head, because God help him if he has to explain a bullet in the upholstery to a pissed-off Dean.
He stops the car, then comes out with his hands up.
Across the lawn, on the front porch, is him. Or, well, a younger version of him, anyway, holding a sawed-off shotgun with a steely look on his face.
Then he lowers it, stares at him.
"Hey, Sam," the younger Sam greets him. "Figured you'd be here."
--
All things considered, at least the kitchen's survived. And when he's done explaining, the other Sam furrows his brow as he thinks, a habit he recognizes from his younger days.
"You sure about this?" the younger Sam asks him. "'Cause there aren't going to be any take-backs. Once you've got my memories, there's no way you can put them back in, and let me tell you, they're not pretty."
"Dean's out there," he simply says. "I can't leave him alone."
He sees his younger self's mouth quirk upwards in a tired smile. "I guess we can't," he says, and pushes the gun towards him. "I won't fight you. But I should warn you--the next one's a lot worse than I am."
Sam takes up the gun, then aims it at his younger double, who closes his eyes.
It's one bullet, and he receives several months' worth of memories, of suburban life and torture he'd previously thought he wouldn't experience the likes of again, of people with empty smiles and others with pained eyes. And he knows, when he collapses to the floor, that the next piece of him will be worse.
But he'll be damned (again) if he leaves his brother alone in the real world.
So Sam walks out of the house, past the flickering drones, and gets into the car, and tries not to think about how his friends would think of what he's done, what he's become in the four years since he woke up in 749 Partridge Drive.
--
Fin