A/N; just a little ditty I've been working on for while now. My muse was Mazzy Star and her song 'Into dust.' please review and tell me what you think.
warning- death fic, stanford era.
Diamonds
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'it always amazes me how easy it is. No flashing lights, no fanfares. Just one moment your alive and then your gone.' Margret, M.A.S.H
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It's late when Sam gets off work. There was a function on-some kind of wedding party-that didn't finish until midnight. His arms ache with the wait of dishes and drinks he's no longer carrying.
It's a short walk back to his apartment, on the fringes of the university grounds. The place is perfect really. A little small, but well located and cheap. None of his classes are more than five minutes away.
Sam's not paying attention, caught up in the image of Jess curled up in their bed, dosing drowserly in an adermant refusal to sleep until he gets home.
Too caught up, in the memoy of yet another fruitless phone call. In the decision that has him both terrified and elated and which can't be finalised until he speaks to his brother.
The man grabs him from behind, his grip firm on Sam's arms. He's tall, taller than Sam, no matter what Dean says about his height being uncanny. He starts to struggle until he feels the barrel of a gun pressed against his hip. Sam freezes.
"Money."
The voice is low, gruff, coarse. The breath on his neck is hot, siding down his collar uncomfortably. Sam trembles a little at the sensation.
"B-back pocket." He's whispers, understanding on some level that quietness is important here. Let the man have what wants, don't cause a scene and he may yet get out of this.
He's aware that's not the Winchester way, but Sam's spent the last year of his life actively rejecting that. For all he cares the thief can have his wallet, anything else, and disappear into the night with nary a struggle.
He feels a hand reach down, a slight pause then a shuffle the man slips the thing away into his person.
The gun slips.
And then…then.
Sam must have miss read the situation, he thinks the man is moving off and he relaxes slightly, pulls away a little.
But suddenly the guy isn't moving, never was, but he's felt Sam pull and panics.
There's a muffled bang and the man runs.
Sam's hand rushes to his side. There's liquid on his fingers warn and dark and spreading quickly. His cloths soaking through. Dripping.
He can't feel it, can't comprehend what's just happened.
And then Sam begins to fall, pavement rushing up to meet him. Sam begins to fall and doesn't stop.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
Two Boys on a swing set in Michigan, their father across the street buying enough bullets to load eight shot guns.
The older of the boys is daring- he spreads his legs further, rocks his body more hurriedly. Catches the wind a grin; races it to the sky.
Beside him the younger is slower, more cautious. His movement is streamlined, but calculated; and twist here, a stretch there. Mind trailing over the actions.
He watches the joy, plain his brother's face, and hesitates.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
"Hey" Sam greets her softly "What are you doing up?"
Jess straightens, her head having been lolled sideways on her shoulder. "Mmm? She hums tiredly. "Just waiting for you to get home."
Sam shakes his head, "You know you don't have to do that, right?" He asks softly.
Jess blinks up at him owlishly. "Want to." She mutters. "Make sure you're back safe. Anyway, can't see less your here."
Sam laughs. "Looks like you were doing a pretty good job of it."
He leans down, scooping her up in one movement. "Silly." He teases her.
Jess shifts a bit. "'not." she argues. "And I can get there myself."
Sam laughs again, doesn't put her down. "Sure you can." He placecates. "But it's easier this way. Now come on sleepy head. Let's get you to bed."
Jess snuggles his shoulder. "'k."
Sam carries her off down the hallway. Shutting off the light behind them.
XxXxXxXxXx
When Sam first gets to Palo Alto, he almost turns tail and runs away again.
All the way here he's been stewing, replaying the words his father screamed at him the night of his dispatcher. Making himself angrier and angrier.
It's been like a siring full of adrenaline straight into the blood; spurring him on, blocking out all other thought.
And now…he's crashing. Doesn't know what he's doing here. No friends. No contacts. No place to go. Barely enough money to buy a decent meal in his pocket.
Now he wonders what the hell he was thinking; chasing this normalcy, that isn't his. That was never his. Wants nothing more than a black truck and a shinny muscle car and the shattered remains of a family he walked out on two States ago .
He doesn't know where his family is, what their doing. It's been made clear that going to collage is walking out that door.
So if he's waked out the door, then John Winchester has slammed it shut. The finality of those parting words he's repeating across his brain, taking on a new meaning, setting down on Sam like a lead sinker.
He can't go back, because there's nowhere to go back to, and that hurts more than Sam can possibly say.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
Concrete; a physical barrier beneath him. Stable and solid and cold against the parts of his skin that are exposed to the night air.
He's landed, lying here. His decent has ceased.
Cold… and warmth. Sticky on sluggish fingers, scrabbling across his gaping side. Reaching for a phone that's crushed under him.
Sam can't move. He's no more able to reach the phone than he is to rise. To cross the two remaining blocks between his work and apartment.
He tries anyway. He's not ready yet.
He….Opens. Like a flower.
The world focuses into a dizzying, painful clarity and then spirals off, away, down. Like the earth has split around him. A giant, strange tunnel.
Sam falls…
XxXxXxXxXxXxX
Sam hates his calculus class, it's dank and stuffy and the professor drones on in stiff, dry voice.
He wishes he'd chosen history instead.
The first day she sits next to him, Sam doesn't even attempt to take notes; too busy sneaking subtle glances in her direction.
Blond hair, caught in sunlight, cascading down the curve of her back. A pen, trapped between small white teeth and damp pink lips. Eyes, half-lidded and a soft sigh.
Sam's certain of two things; she's an angel and she's just as bored as he is.
Twenty minutes in she catches him looking and gives up a small sheepish smile. "I can't believe I gave up history for this." She mutters to him "you'd think someone had removed his ability to feel, the way he speaks."
Sam licks his lips, nervous "Na," he replies softly. "'s quite normal for zombies to be clinical. Loss of emotion is common in the revival process, see?"
The words spill out his mouth, without his permission, and he's horror struck; because he neither believes their professor is actually a zombie, nor would he have confided the knowledge to her even if he did. Whoever she is, this girl is not like him, the screwed up child of a hunter, and now she'll think he's bonkers and sit somewhere else next class.
He cringes, waits for the look of alarm and the shift away from him.
But instead she laughs, bright and loud. Bringing a hand up to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the noise and dropping her head a little.
"I…" she says still giggling slightly "I'm Jessica."
He blinks, surprised. "Sam" he whispers back reflexively "I'm…Sam."
XxXxXxXxXxXxX
When Sam Winchester is six he'd asks Dean what dying is like.
His brother looks at him, somewhat startled, then his face settles into an uncomfortable look.
"Why you wanna know that that Sammy?" He asks, curious.
Sam shrugs his shoulders. "Just 'cause."
Dean screws up his face and scuffles his feet.
"Well you know the movie Alice in Wonderland, where she falls down the rabbit hole?
Sam nods. They'd watched last week at father Jim's, on the one small T.V in his dusty living room. The two of them newly roused from sleep by dawn and settled with lucky charms and the film.
"Well drying, it's like that. Only bigger." Dean finally assesses.
" 'k."
XxXxXxXxXxX
Guns on the kitchen table, knives along the bench. This is all so new for Sam, he's only known about hunting three months now.
The feeling has been like the pieces of a jigsaw sliding together, the how and the whys and the whos finally making sense.
Now that he knows, his father isn't hiding anything anymore. Every new motel room he brings out the weaponry, for cleaning, repair, sharpening and the like. Sam's been told by a disapproving looking Dean that he's not to touch any of them. That they're father shouldn't even have them out around him.
But Sam watches John as he works on them, sometimes into the early hours. Fingers moving slowly with a cloth or a stone or a brush.
He sees the care, in the smooth strokes, sees how it might translate; the of ruffling Dean's hair, whispering them back into sleep.
He sees more in his father's hands on those weapons, than John will ever say.
But he understands now too, the differences between the eyes of his brother and father, so incomprehensible before.
Dean's gaze is one of sorrow and worry and age. A gaze Sam feels both smothered and cocooned by.
His father's eyes are different, distant. Full and fury and fire. Sam realises that John's not really seeing him at all.
Dean looks at Sam and thinks of the future, of the dangers yet to come. John looks at Sam and remembers only the things already lost.
XxXxXxXxXxXxX
Sam's not awake anymore, not really. Awareness is fleeing like so many diamonds.
Is this what it feels like to die? Sam's been close before, a couple of times. Felt the world trickling away in little shining pieces.
And then later, the white, deafening, of a hospital room. Dean, all worry lines and clenched muscles at his bedside.
Sam doubts there will be such memories this time, he feels too much finality.
The Diamonds are bright though, like stars. They catch the light, irregular;
The caress of lips….
Gun powder between tired fingers……
The end of a calculation for a math class two years ago……
He trembles under them, radiant and consuming, and one by one they fall away.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
"What on earth is that?" She's laughing at him and Sam looks in confusion at the tins on the floor.
"It's yellow…you said you wanted yellow for the bathroom." He offers hesitantly.
Sam's never completely sure with Jessica, the whole process is too new to him. He stumbles over himself. Movies are his only real frame of reference for this, and he's pretty sure that you shouldn't believe Hollywood on these matters.
Jess is patient with him, seems to think it's sweet and cute and is generally amused when he screws it up. Sam is forever grateful for this leniency.
"Butter yellow." Jess giggle, shaking her head. "Not sunshine yellow, honestly Sam."
He's perplexed, not actually grasping the difference between the two, just aware that this is another thing he's possibly ruined.
He bits his lip. "'m sorry," Sam mutters. "I'll get the right stuff tomorrow."
Jess stops laughing, reaching over to cuddle up to his arm "No don't." she amends. "It's pretty. We'll have the brightness bathroom in the building."
She smiles, "And it's stupid when you think about it; butter's actually really strong, not that weird creamy colour. It's an easy mistake."
"Really?" He asks,
"Yes" Jess replies almost completely straight faced, but he can see the amusement still dancing in the crevasse of her pupils.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
John drives and Dean sleeps, or Dean drives and John sleeps. Sam, intermittent and licenseless, shares both states with each of them.
Its summer, schools been out a month and their travelling through the heat of the western states; skin slick and burning on the leather seats and the asphalt cracking and sticky.
John's spent the last four weeks perfecting Sam's aim; knives, guns and arrows. Sam's improved vastly, but the tension between them is still heavy and thick.
Sam's fourteen, a riot of hormones and rebellion and displeasure. John's an ex-marine who's seen too much and lived to much and who's far too tired.
There are words, shared often and loudly, words which are rarely true or meaningful. The heat's getting to both of them, stirring and poking already fragile tempers.
John storms off and Sam storms off, and John drinks and Sam cries- hot, bitter tears and Dean is tight lipped, caught between them.
Sam doesn't know how to make it better. Isn't willing perhaps, to give up what it might take. He doesn't think John can either.
And he's afraid, no he's terrified, that it's going to be this, finally, this and not the demon or a ghost or a werewolf or whatever, that rips them all apart.
And then…Dean gives. Starts playing Metallica softly when he's sleeping and their driving. Leaves Sam most of the Lucky charm; takes over the nightly weapon cleaning rote.
The weather cools and they head north. Sam picks up the research for hunts and John settles for the beginning of school with little complaint.
Dean says nothing, turns up the music with a small smile.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
"This is Winchester, I'm away right now, so please leave a message."
Sam lays his head against the wall and sighs. He shouldn't surprised really. Dean's never answered, not in all the months since he left.
"Hey Dean. It's Sam."
He's stuck at work, it's nearly midnight and his arm aches from service- stupid wedding. It's made him remember and angst over this. He doesn't want to call his brother again, not when he's made it so clear where they stand. Not when he's refused to talk to him in over year.
He doesn't want to call again, but he knows he has to, knows he can't do something this big unless he talks to Dean first.
"Listen I…really need to talk to you. I know…I get that you're still pissed with me, but I…Look this is just really important okay? Just, just call me back…please."
He hangs up feeling drained. He's not sure if his brother will call, but he doesn't think he will, is angry and sad and just...over it.
He's fairly sure Dean won't call him back no matter how many messages he leaves; not until Sam says those words he's so loathed to say over the phone. Those words that will get Dean and possible even John speeding to California.
'I've been dating this girl, Jessica. We've been together a year now and it's serious. I'm going to ask her to marry me.'
Sam's not ready to break this over the cell just yet. He slips the phone away and heads back inside.
There will be time to tell Dean later.
XxXxXxXxXxXxX
The tunnel grows dark, Sam doesn't fight it.
He's been fighting too long. Fighting evil and monsters. Fighting his father and Dean. Fighting to go to Stanford, and to stay at Stanford.
Fighting and raging and wanting and needing.
And Sam thinks it's time to stop. He will go with grace now.
With a soft acceptance lightly draped in sorrow; with fondness and the things he's grateful for, not the things he regrets.
And Sam thinks….Sam thinks that….
Jess, Sam thinks of Jess, lying in wait for him at home, hair sleep rumpled and eyes lidded. Jess laughing over zombies and calculus and the paint he bought for the apartment walls…
And John, far away on his lonely his crusade. Obsessed and saying words Sam's sure he never meant. John the distant, yet loving father, with his guns and his knives and his eyes full of fire….
And Dean, most of all Sam thinks of Dean. Dean asleep in some unknown motel room, face smoothed over and expression gentle. Hands wrapped over sheets in nothing but the lightest grip.
Dean and Lucky Charms; Metallica and the Impala. A swing set in Michigan and an explanation for death.
Like the rabbit hole, only bigger.
Yes, Sam decides, that's about right.
-Fin-