SpN: To The Waters And The Wild part 7
11/21/08 11:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:To The Waters And The Wild
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
Pairingseventually Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:2394
He took a step forward, off the road and onto a dock. An average looking, non-magical, very mundane sort of dock, wood black with age and mold. A boat was tied off at the end, an entirely ridiculous looking figure standing in it.
"You've got to be kidding," Sam muttered. The hellhounds flopped in the road, rolled in the dust and in general made themselves comfortable…watching. Grinning. Sam was now absolutely positive that they were laughing at him, at some big joke about to unfold, evil boney bastards. He flipped them off and grinned himself—some instinct told him he was safe from them--as long as he was on the dock, he knew somehow he was untouchable.
The boat was gently moving in the black water and the tall robed figure waved him impatiently aboard. It looked a lot like a cartoon version of death with a long black oar held in one hand instead of a scythe but the hand it held out to steady Sam into the boat, while pale and boney, wasn't skeletal.. It wasn't right that the creature looked like Death in an old movie he'd watched with his brother once. "Dude," Sam whispered "You sunk my battleship…."
Have you no pennies, passenger? How will you pay your fare? Will you wander the shore for a hundred years?
Sam's heart seized. Fuck!Of course…of course a fare had to be paid. Fucking hell, Esu hadn't warned him--how was he going to…?
The creature flapped its boney arms, the somewhat ragged sleeves belling and shedding dust…Kidding, kidding, bro--your passage is paid. Chill.
Chill?Sam squinted at the thing, trying to make it disappear or change because it was abundantly obvious to him that this whole thing was taking place in his mind. Supernatural figures, demigods and servants of the gods did not say chill.
Did they?
Bright green eyes searched his, glittering out of the deep black pools of their sockets. It grinned again. Paid, dude. But passage is not easy. No doubt you know the rules, don’t look left or right, don’t look down, and don’t look up. Don’t touch anything but the boat; don't talk to anyone outside of the boat. Don’t ever, ever look behind. Don’t ask any questions.
"But what am I--" Sam started and the thing rolled its eyes and sneered.
What did I say? No questions, starting-- it stopped for a dramatic pause and continued. --now.
Sam bit his lip. This was…so fucked up and crazy, it *had* to be taking place in his mind. Like an untried idiot, he'd gone in pretty much blind and too fucking trusting—had been given some bogie version of a roofie and right now the thing was probably having all kinds of awful and probably fatal fun with his body.
The boat moved, and he lurched trying to keep balance and not tumble into the gluey looking black water....
God. He was going to be found dead in a hotel room with an empty rum bottle shoved up his ass and just to make the horror complete, it'd be *his* team called in to clean the scene…Dean would be laughing his ass off--if Sammy had to go, this is how he would have wanted it…fuck that.
Dean…his chest squeezed so tight it made him gasp in pain. And a lilting voice said, Sam, over here, Sam, over here Sam … he started to look, remembered the warning and shut his eyes.
A woman's voice called out to him. Sam Sam Sammy down here, son, sweetheart. I'm here. Look in the water, sweetheart I'm here.
Save me, Sam, save me, I'm here, take my hand, come on son. Look at me, Sam. Dad….
I'm here asshole, me--right here—you found me, help me in the boat, you freak…
Voices he knew, voices called him….
Sam, you screwed up before here’s your chance to fix it, boy. Pull your dad up, I'm waiting. Are you listening to me? Oh God, why won’t you help your mother, I'm drowning. Don’t you care, don't you hear me? It's Jess, did you forget me already? Remember how you told me that you loved me? Why did you lie?
Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter but tears still fell—everyday he felt guilty for loving her. The guilt was almost as deep and as wide as the guilt he felt for losing Dean… God, Jess, I didn’t lie, I loved you, I mourned you so hard. He caught his lip in his teeth to keep from speaking aloud and the taste of warm copper flooded his mouth.
You never loved anyone, you never loved us, not enough…here's your chance to make up for it darling, lean over the boat and take my hand…unless you're just waiting for *Dean*… The voice was thick with insinuation and his blood ran cold, guilt made his stomach clench... Oh my God, she knew, she knew....
You can't love, can you, you're selfish and a liar-- the voice he knew had to be his mother's voice flayed him, cut into him like a whip, left his soul bleeding...
They moved forward and the fog laying over the black water rose, brought with it a stink of sulfur and rot that made him gag. The smell was thick enough to be a presence, weighed on him as heavily as the demands and awful pleas for help. Sam tried to ignore the moaning, the hopeless screams, the heavy slap of wet flesh against the sides of the boat. He told himself he heard only the creak of wood, the splash of the oar through water. He concentrated on keeping his balance, and muttered Latin under his breath, did sums and the capitals of the states, falling into the rituals of his boyhood and leaning on them. Dean would never want him to hurt, his mother loved him, his father…he'd loved him he was sure of that as he was certain of Jess' love as he was of Dean's it was as strong and pure and none of these would want to hurt him….
The boat dipped suddenly and he stumbled--nearly fell. His hands were balled into fists and shoved under his arms and it took a second for him to be able to relax them, to drop his arms. The boat dipped again and slowed. He carefully opened his eyes and the same fucking dock was in front of him. The fuck, we went in a circle—fucker-- He was furious at being tricked—he was about to turn and confront the boatman—and remembered not to look behind him.
You may disembark…that means get out. Remember. The path is no different than the water.
Sam quelled his desire to flip the boatman off and just nodded. "Okay. Keep to the path and don’t move and look for…" and it occurred to him he had no idea what he was looking for. What signs, what direction…he was about to ask 'for what?', until he remembered, no questions, no questions at all.
The boat bobbed as he got off and stood on the dock. The Boatman said with a smirk in its voice, straight on until morning, eh sport?
Bastard. Smirking know it all smart ass bastard. Sam swept his hair back out of his eyes. The heat was gone. It was a little cold now and the sound of his breathing seemed to echo in the damp grey air. It was okay…he was grateful for the damp. He shivered and started walking, and the road turned into a gray forest.
Dead twigs and fallen leaves snapped and whispered under his feet. Cold damp mist clung to him like spider webs…he felt someone walking next to him. A soft loving voice whispered You’re so handsome son, how tall you've grown. Do you miss me at all, let me take your hand, just for a second, I promise, just for a second…. Sam blinked and in the trees, in the underbrush in front of him, white flowers became pale faces, calling to him, screaming in silent agony, smiling, leering…Sammy touch me Sam take my hand kiss me Sam…
Sam jammed his hands under his arms, trained his eyes straight ahead and kept walking. Dean Dean Dean Dean….
Dean Dean Dean…he was almost out of the forest, and he exhaled a long grateful breath. Finally. He was on a clear path now and the world was silent again, but this silence was like the silence right before dawn. The path he was on angled upwards and he walked on, jaw clamped tight, working...by the time he finally allowed himself to stop, the muscles in his legs were cramped and burning.
He was at the top of the rise and down below, at the end of the path, standing out from the gray landscape like a wound, was a brightly painted cottage.
A neat hedge taller than his head lined the lower portion of the road, but the closer he got to the cottage, the looser, shaggier, and wilder it became, until brittle black branches crossed the path and ripped at his clothes, his skin, it grew thorns and tore at him, interlocked branches and held him, spoke to him, cursed him—
"*Fuck!* Oh my God, fuck this so much—" He started swinging his fists, smashing his way through the branches, they snapped and stabbed and—and *bit* him, he was sure he was being bitten—
When he got Dean out of here, he was going to *kick* his ass, swear to God…
He was out of the murderous hedge, panting and bleeding, weaving drunkenly into a clearing in front of something that looked like…like the witch's cottage out of Hansel and Gretel, sort of. He brushed at the bloody tatters his clothing had become and shook his head hard. Okay—he'd definitely been given demon roofies--that lying trickster motherfucker. But if whoever was in that hut could get him back Dean, he'd do—fuck. He'd do anything.
The door opened and a wrinkled, wrinkled face appeared in the crack.
"Come here."
Sam shook his head again, mouth open. "What? Come here?" What the fuck...come here. He shrugged. So far not a damn thing's gone down anything like he expected. Why let this wrinkled…crone or whatever throw him?
He stepped into velvety darkness thick with the scent of ginger and nutmeg and a peppery kind of smell. It was oddly comforting and if he hadn't been about to explode right out of his skin with exhaustion and frustration, he might have enjoyed it. He took a deep breath and a step forward--and realized suddenly he was whole and clean—the sting of dozens of cuts and scratches and punctures disappeared, his clothes were whole, like he'd never torn his way through the hedges….
"I'm—I'm here. I don’t know why I'm here and that was *not* a question it was a statement of fact."
The small wrinkled, wrinkled being shrugged and it was like watching a Shar-Pei pup wiggle and incredibly, there was nothing in the least bit cute about it. "It's allowed to question now. You are at a stop. Station. A point of not moving." It peered up into his face with an expression that said I've made all clear to you. Sam bit his lip, worried at it and wondered if he dared even move at this point. He had no idea what was going on.
"You are here to bring out a wish. Need. Your heart's desire. That's what people come here for. You have faith enough and you may get what you want. Doubt for an instant and it's lost. Forever. Do you understand what forever means?"
Sam huffed. "Yes. I do know what it means—and you know what, I won't doubt. Because I know what I'm here for.
"It's a rare man who knows his heart so well." She held out a wrinkled hand and her pale green eyes flashed. Let us seal this, Samuel and you can be on your way.
Sam reached out his own hand, slowly. He asked, "What about my…my heart's desire?" He felt his cheeks flush. "Where—shit!"
She'd yanked his hand close to her mouth and ripped a chunk of flesh from the mound of his thumb. He jerked his hand back with a yell--blood spattered hot over his shirt. He cursed and cursed and stumbled back from her. "What the fuck—"
"Recompense. Price. Payment for your heart's desire. There is your desire." She pointed to the floor, red smile gleaming in the wrinkles. A long bundle lay there, a rug rolled over a body. Sam dropped to lift a corner of the rug, but she stopped him. "Ah-ah-ah. Not. Unless you want to stay. You must have to…believe."
Sam groaned to himself and lifted the heavy bundle, his torn hand smearing blood all over the rough exterior of the rug as he staggered to his feet…the smoke from the fireplace rolled out grey and thick as fog and the smell of ginger grew.
"Go on home boy. Take your gift and go home." The door opened and Sam staggered toward the light leaking in, the weight of his burden making every step he took felt like he was walking through molten lead. Step after step burned through him, the limp weight grew and grew. Sweat rolled down his forehead, neck, breath rasped and burned in his throat. The door loomed in front of him but seemed no closer. He bit his lips and stubbornly kept walking. Dean. Right. He had Dean and nothing else mattered. Dean in his arms and that was all that counted, he was bringing him home and it didn't matter that Dean didn’t move because he was alive and he had him—Sam knew it, in his blood, in his heart, in his breath, he knew Dean lived—the door was in front of him and he stepped through….
The hotel room felt chilly compared to what was behind him, and the air seemed sweet and he gasped in great cooling breaths. His head was swimming as he stepped farther into the room and laid his burden down on the floor. He lifted the rug away, knowing that he was going to see his brother, finally after three years, Dean was back, he had him back—
It came as a complete shock and a gross disappointment that what was in the rug was a lumpy nearly shapeless figure made of filth and blood and rags….
part 8
TBC
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
Pairingseventually Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:2394
He took a step forward, off the road and onto a dock. An average looking, non-magical, very mundane sort of dock, wood black with age and mold. A boat was tied off at the end, an entirely ridiculous looking figure standing in it.
"You've got to be kidding," Sam muttered. The hellhounds flopped in the road, rolled in the dust and in general made themselves comfortable…watching. Grinning. Sam was now absolutely positive that they were laughing at him, at some big joke about to unfold, evil boney bastards. He flipped them off and grinned himself—some instinct told him he was safe from them--as long as he was on the dock, he knew somehow he was untouchable.
The boat was gently moving in the black water and the tall robed figure waved him impatiently aboard. It looked a lot like a cartoon version of death with a long black oar held in one hand instead of a scythe but the hand it held out to steady Sam into the boat, while pale and boney, wasn't skeletal.. It wasn't right that the creature looked like Death in an old movie he'd watched with his brother once. "Dude," Sam whispered "You sunk my battleship…."
Have you no pennies, passenger? How will you pay your fare? Will you wander the shore for a hundred years?
Sam's heart seized. Fuck!Of course…of course a fare had to be paid. Fucking hell, Esu hadn't warned him--how was he going to…?
The creature flapped its boney arms, the somewhat ragged sleeves belling and shedding dust…Kidding, kidding, bro--your passage is paid. Chill.
Chill?Sam squinted at the thing, trying to make it disappear or change because it was abundantly obvious to him that this whole thing was taking place in his mind. Supernatural figures, demigods and servants of the gods did not say chill.
Did they?
Bright green eyes searched his, glittering out of the deep black pools of their sockets. It grinned again. Paid, dude. But passage is not easy. No doubt you know the rules, don’t look left or right, don’t look down, and don’t look up. Don’t touch anything but the boat; don't talk to anyone outside of the boat. Don’t ever, ever look behind. Don’t ask any questions.
"But what am I--" Sam started and the thing rolled its eyes and sneered.
What did I say? No questions, starting-- it stopped for a dramatic pause and continued. --now.
Sam bit his lip. This was…so fucked up and crazy, it *had* to be taking place in his mind. Like an untried idiot, he'd gone in pretty much blind and too fucking trusting—had been given some bogie version of a roofie and right now the thing was probably having all kinds of awful and probably fatal fun with his body.
The boat moved, and he lurched trying to keep balance and not tumble into the gluey looking black water....
God. He was going to be found dead in a hotel room with an empty rum bottle shoved up his ass and just to make the horror complete, it'd be *his* team called in to clean the scene…Dean would be laughing his ass off--if Sammy had to go, this is how he would have wanted it…fuck that.
Dean…his chest squeezed so tight it made him gasp in pain. And a lilting voice said, Sam, over here, Sam, over here Sam … he started to look, remembered the warning and shut his eyes.
A woman's voice called out to him. Sam Sam Sammy down here, son, sweetheart. I'm here. Look in the water, sweetheart I'm here.
Save me, Sam, save me, I'm here, take my hand, come on son. Look at me, Sam. Dad….
I'm here asshole, me--right here—you found me, help me in the boat, you freak…
Voices he knew, voices called him….
Sam, you screwed up before here’s your chance to fix it, boy. Pull your dad up, I'm waiting. Are you listening to me? Oh God, why won’t you help your mother, I'm drowning. Don’t you care, don't you hear me? It's Jess, did you forget me already? Remember how you told me that you loved me? Why did you lie?
Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter but tears still fell—everyday he felt guilty for loving her. The guilt was almost as deep and as wide as the guilt he felt for losing Dean… God, Jess, I didn’t lie, I loved you, I mourned you so hard. He caught his lip in his teeth to keep from speaking aloud and the taste of warm copper flooded his mouth.
You never loved anyone, you never loved us, not enough…here's your chance to make up for it darling, lean over the boat and take my hand…unless you're just waiting for *Dean*… The voice was thick with insinuation and his blood ran cold, guilt made his stomach clench... Oh my God, she knew, she knew....
You can't love, can you, you're selfish and a liar-- the voice he knew had to be his mother's voice flayed him, cut into him like a whip, left his soul bleeding...
They moved forward and the fog laying over the black water rose, brought with it a stink of sulfur and rot that made him gag. The smell was thick enough to be a presence, weighed on him as heavily as the demands and awful pleas for help. Sam tried to ignore the moaning, the hopeless screams, the heavy slap of wet flesh against the sides of the boat. He told himself he heard only the creak of wood, the splash of the oar through water. He concentrated on keeping his balance, and muttered Latin under his breath, did sums and the capitals of the states, falling into the rituals of his boyhood and leaning on them. Dean would never want him to hurt, his mother loved him, his father…he'd loved him he was sure of that as he was certain of Jess' love as he was of Dean's it was as strong and pure and none of these would want to hurt him….
The boat dipped suddenly and he stumbled--nearly fell. His hands were balled into fists and shoved under his arms and it took a second for him to be able to relax them, to drop his arms. The boat dipped again and slowed. He carefully opened his eyes and the same fucking dock was in front of him. The fuck, we went in a circle—fucker-- He was furious at being tricked—he was about to turn and confront the boatman—and remembered not to look behind him.
You may disembark…that means get out. Remember. The path is no different than the water.
Sam quelled his desire to flip the boatman off and just nodded. "Okay. Keep to the path and don’t move and look for…" and it occurred to him he had no idea what he was looking for. What signs, what direction…he was about to ask 'for what?', until he remembered, no questions, no questions at all.
The boat bobbed as he got off and stood on the dock. The Boatman said with a smirk in its voice, straight on until morning, eh sport?
Bastard. Smirking know it all smart ass bastard. Sam swept his hair back out of his eyes. The heat was gone. It was a little cold now and the sound of his breathing seemed to echo in the damp grey air. It was okay…he was grateful for the damp. He shivered and started walking, and the road turned into a gray forest.
Dead twigs and fallen leaves snapped and whispered under his feet. Cold damp mist clung to him like spider webs…he felt someone walking next to him. A soft loving voice whispered You’re so handsome son, how tall you've grown. Do you miss me at all, let me take your hand, just for a second, I promise, just for a second…. Sam blinked and in the trees, in the underbrush in front of him, white flowers became pale faces, calling to him, screaming in silent agony, smiling, leering…Sammy touch me Sam take my hand kiss me Sam…
Sam jammed his hands under his arms, trained his eyes straight ahead and kept walking. Dean Dean Dean Dean….
Dean Dean Dean…he was almost out of the forest, and he exhaled a long grateful breath. Finally. He was on a clear path now and the world was silent again, but this silence was like the silence right before dawn. The path he was on angled upwards and he walked on, jaw clamped tight, working...by the time he finally allowed himself to stop, the muscles in his legs were cramped and burning.
He was at the top of the rise and down below, at the end of the path, standing out from the gray landscape like a wound, was a brightly painted cottage.
A neat hedge taller than his head lined the lower portion of the road, but the closer he got to the cottage, the looser, shaggier, and wilder it became, until brittle black branches crossed the path and ripped at his clothes, his skin, it grew thorns and tore at him, interlocked branches and held him, spoke to him, cursed him—
"*Fuck!* Oh my God, fuck this so much—" He started swinging his fists, smashing his way through the branches, they snapped and stabbed and—and *bit* him, he was sure he was being bitten—
When he got Dean out of here, he was going to *kick* his ass, swear to God…
He was out of the murderous hedge, panting and bleeding, weaving drunkenly into a clearing in front of something that looked like…like the witch's cottage out of Hansel and Gretel, sort of. He brushed at the bloody tatters his clothing had become and shook his head hard. Okay—he'd definitely been given demon roofies--that lying trickster motherfucker. But if whoever was in that hut could get him back Dean, he'd do—fuck. He'd do anything.
The door opened and a wrinkled, wrinkled face appeared in the crack.
"Come here."
Sam shook his head again, mouth open. "What? Come here?" What the fuck...come here. He shrugged. So far not a damn thing's gone down anything like he expected. Why let this wrinkled…crone or whatever throw him?
He stepped into velvety darkness thick with the scent of ginger and nutmeg and a peppery kind of smell. It was oddly comforting and if he hadn't been about to explode right out of his skin with exhaustion and frustration, he might have enjoyed it. He took a deep breath and a step forward--and realized suddenly he was whole and clean—the sting of dozens of cuts and scratches and punctures disappeared, his clothes were whole, like he'd never torn his way through the hedges….
"I'm—I'm here. I don’t know why I'm here and that was *not* a question it was a statement of fact."
The small wrinkled, wrinkled being shrugged and it was like watching a Shar-Pei pup wiggle and incredibly, there was nothing in the least bit cute about it. "It's allowed to question now. You are at a stop. Station. A point of not moving." It peered up into his face with an expression that said I've made all clear to you. Sam bit his lip, worried at it and wondered if he dared even move at this point. He had no idea what was going on.
"You are here to bring out a wish. Need. Your heart's desire. That's what people come here for. You have faith enough and you may get what you want. Doubt for an instant and it's lost. Forever. Do you understand what forever means?"
Sam huffed. "Yes. I do know what it means—and you know what, I won't doubt. Because I know what I'm here for.
"It's a rare man who knows his heart so well." She held out a wrinkled hand and her pale green eyes flashed. Let us seal this, Samuel and you can be on your way.
Sam reached out his own hand, slowly. He asked, "What about my…my heart's desire?" He felt his cheeks flush. "Where—shit!"
She'd yanked his hand close to her mouth and ripped a chunk of flesh from the mound of his thumb. He jerked his hand back with a yell--blood spattered hot over his shirt. He cursed and cursed and stumbled back from her. "What the fuck—"
"Recompense. Price. Payment for your heart's desire. There is your desire." She pointed to the floor, red smile gleaming in the wrinkles. A long bundle lay there, a rug rolled over a body. Sam dropped to lift a corner of the rug, but she stopped him. "Ah-ah-ah. Not. Unless you want to stay. You must have to…believe."
Sam groaned to himself and lifted the heavy bundle, his torn hand smearing blood all over the rough exterior of the rug as he staggered to his feet…the smoke from the fireplace rolled out grey and thick as fog and the smell of ginger grew.
"Go on home boy. Take your gift and go home." The door opened and Sam staggered toward the light leaking in, the weight of his burden making every step he took felt like he was walking through molten lead. Step after step burned through him, the limp weight grew and grew. Sweat rolled down his forehead, neck, breath rasped and burned in his throat. The door loomed in front of him but seemed no closer. He bit his lips and stubbornly kept walking. Dean. Right. He had Dean and nothing else mattered. Dean in his arms and that was all that counted, he was bringing him home and it didn't matter that Dean didn’t move because he was alive and he had him—Sam knew it, in his blood, in his heart, in his breath, he knew Dean lived—the door was in front of him and he stepped through….
The hotel room felt chilly compared to what was behind him, and the air seemed sweet and he gasped in great cooling breaths. His head was swimming as he stepped farther into the room and laid his burden down on the floor. He lifted the rug away, knowing that he was going to see his brother, finally after three years, Dean was back, he had him back—
It came as a complete shock and a gross disappointment that what was in the rug was a lumpy nearly shapeless figure made of filth and blood and rags….
part 8
TBC