Fic title: The Song of the Ravens
Author name:
Artist name:
Genre: AU, angst, hurt/comfort, horror, brother-touching
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, brotherly SamnDean, show-level Sam/Ruby
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~73800
Warnings: Swearing, sex, nudity, suicide ideation, co-dependent brothers, character whumpage, horror imagery, panic attack (one scene), emotional manipulation and abuse, psychological abuse, unreliable narrator and character death
Summary: With barely two weeks remaining for Dean to go to Hell, Sam isn't coping, and Dean is hell-bent on making it all seem like small consequence. After all this, a mysterious string of deaths, and a subsequent case in Texas was all they needed to hammer in the final nail in the coffin. Interfering with this case proves detrimental to Sam and Dean, as they're left looking for each other in ways that they never expected, against odds that they can't even begin to imagine.
Will they find each other in time, or will the circumstances of their separation become an advantage to other evil forces? [AU after episode 3.15].
Acknowledgements:
I would like to thank, in no particular order,
My artist, amberdreams, for putting up with me and this fic and for choosing this fic and making wonderful, wonderful art for it.
My beta, quickreaver, for making this readable and for not giving up on me or on this fic.
Nomercles, who is awesome, and who was great support to me, apart from helping me tag all the warnings for this fic.
My two darling wifeys, Naila/remy-areyousrs and Sanjana/SPNXBookworm, who have been there during the good times and have never left during the bad times, and who made this project so much more fun with all the late night word-count comparing and squeeing. Also, thanks to Naila for the 'heavenly hickey' and 'Lucifer's joint' and Sanj for all your help with the Destiel and the last-minute cheering! *octopus hugs*
Nadia, my sister, who is never afraid to scare me and coax me when I'm procrastinating, and who's just all-around awesome!
Wendy, at SPNJ2Big Bang because OMG YOU ARE SO AWESOME TO BE DOING THIS EVERY YEAR!
A/N: Okay! I have hand cramps right now but new fic! Hope you'll enjoy this story! Woot! Just as a side note—this fic contains Destiel and Sam/Ruby (both in the second half of the fic), but it all finally boils down to SamnDean. Mentioning it here so you won't be disappointed! Also, please play attention to the rating of this fic! Mature scenes will be present.
The fic is divided into four parts and fifteen chapters.
So anyone who's read any of my previous Destiel fics knows how I go about it. It will be there and I promise you'll be satisfied with the Destiel, but it also will not interfere with the importance that SamnDean will receive. Sam fans will like this equally. This fic is an alternate to season four. If you enjoy angst and emotions and drama and fluff and hurt/comfort and sacrifice, this fic is for you. If you like Sam manifesting powers and brotherly fallouts followed by broments, and Cas being adorable, you're in the right place. Sam/Ruby is show-level, meaning it's not going to be romantic, just smutty.
To everyone I've not PMed or replied to in a while, even if it's a review, I am extremely sorry. I have been busy, and other personal things too, so I'll DEFINITELY get back to you! Thank you!
This fic is complete and will update regularly.
BOOK ONE
~o~
One
April the seventeenth, 2008
San Antonio, Texas
Fourteen days, one hour—
"Sam, you keeping up?"
The moon is at its waxing cycle, sending silver beams through the dark, fluffy clouds that surround it, playing hide-and-seek with the stars. The cemetery is quiet—leaves rustling lightly in the cool breeze that's blowing in, but silence enveloping all else. The trees are few and far between, shading a couple of graves each, their leaves drooping and wilted, but still aplenty.
Sam stops in his thoughts and looks up ahead at his brother, who shines his flashlight at a length of yellow police tape surrounding a shallow grave. The beam from the flashlight reflects on the yellow of the tape before falling on the dark mud.
"Huh," Dean says before going down on one knee, crouching at the edge of the grave, knees of his jeans brushing against the tiny heaps of soil.
"Dean—" Sam rushes to his side to join him and crouches beside his brother.
Dean rewards him with an exasperated look. "You wanna do the poking, while I stand guard?"
Sam blinks at him and glances at the glowing dial on his watch. Fourteen days...
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Are you with me, man?"
Hesitantly, Sam nods and looks at his watch again, but Dean stops him. "You got somewhere you have to be?"
"I—" The reply turns into ash in Sam's mouth, and he takes a deep breath. "Let's look around and see if we find sulphur, or—"
"Sam—" Dean almost looks like he knows why Sam's staring at his watch.
Sam swallows. "Don't."
"Okay." Dean lets it go. "You wanna stand guard, though? I don't want the fugly getting us."
Sam nods, gets up, and glances at his watch again.
Fourteen days, one hour, twenty-two minutes and thirty-three seconds to go.
Until Sam's twenty-fifth birthday. And Dean's Hell.
0
It is quiet inside the car. Dean drums his fingers mildly on the leather of the steering wheel while he manoeuvres the Impala over the cool blacktop. Sam watches his brother from the other side of the car, elbow resting on the edge of the open window as the wind blows away curls of hair from his temples and his face.
Thirteen days, twenty-three hours—
"So." Dean interrupts Sam's thought process. "You think it's just a person doing all that?"
The case they're looking at here is about three weird, mysterious deaths around the town, all of them people who visited the cemetery to pay respects to their loved ones. At first, they never returned home, and searches were conducted around the place, the police unearthed all the missing peoples' bodies, mutilated and taken apart, and in shallow graves of their own.
Sam purses his lips. People can be worse than monsters, but something tingles in his gut when it comes to this case. He shakes his head. "Don't think it's a person."
"Well, there was no sulphur," Dean says.
"Could be a million other things," Sam mutters.
"What do you suggest?"
"I don't know, Dean." Sam doesn't mean to snap at his brother but it comes out that way. He turns away, trying to swallow down the anger, hurt and hopelessness that are hitting him all at once. He really doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to do this. He's wasting his time on some stupid case when he could be browsing through websites on his laptop, looking for a way to get Dean out of the deal, but…
Thirteen days—
"We'll do some searching in the morning," Dean says again, breaking Sam's countdown.
Sam hates it when Dean does that. It's almost as if Dean knows. He just shrugs, though. "Okay."
They reach the motel in relative silence five minutes later, and Dean unlocks the door to their room as Sam shoots in, ready to retrieve his laptop and make up for lost time. There's a coffee maker in the kitchenette and Sam is happy for that, because it will help him stay up.
He feels Dean's eyes following him as he digs sweats and an old tee from his bag before beginning to unbutton his long-sleeved shirt. After a moment of observation, Dean mimics Sam and they change in continued silence. Sam goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and feels Dean following him with his gaze again, and wishes Dean wouldn't do that.
While he brushes his teeth, he listens to Dean putter about in the room. Dean has never been a silent roommate—always clattering about here and there, opening this drawer and that, fixing his guns, humming, whistling, singing, teasing Sam—
Sam stops and stares at his reflection with his brush in his mouth, frothy blooms of toothpaste sitting at the corners of his lips. A little more than thirteen days are left for Dean to—for Dean to…
Sam's gut turns sour and he can't bear to hold the brush anymore. He drops his hand as his stomach clenches, and he braces himself on the borders of the sink as a sudden burst of nausea sends him doubling over and spitting up toothpaste and bile and his anxiety and his hopelessness in great heaves.
Dean's dying. Dean's dying. Dean's going to Hell.
Thirteen days—
Sam retches again, fruitlessly, and the action sends tearing pain through his gut, making him retch again, hideously, violently, again and again—
His heart is going too fast and he's shaking.
Dean is dying.
He hears a voice from behind him. "Sam!"
Sam clasps a palm over his eyes and retches again, feeling the wetness of tears slip between his fingers as he hears his brother enter the cramped bathroom. There are hands on his shoulders and Dean's all over him. "Sammy," he says, voice panicked. "What? What is it? Talk to me."
But Sam doesn't reply. He just wants Dean to leave like he's going to anyway, because, because...
"Are you hurt?" Dean questions him frantically. "Please tell me, man. Let me help."
Sam shakes his head, his breath hitching, because Dean can't help. He so can't help. And this time, Dean seems to get it.
"Come on, just relax," he says, placing a hand on Sam's back. "Relax, Sam, it's gonna be okay."
No, it's not. Sam gags again, a sob ripping out of him as he bends over to hide his face from his brother. Dean pats his back again, runs a hand through Sam's hair. "Hey, hey. Stop." Dean pauses. "Please." The last word shakes his voice like a breeze rippling the sails on a boat, and the calloused hands on Sam are gentler.
The water starts running and Dean's out of the bathroom for a moment. Sam feels a chill tumble down his spine, but Dean doesn't keep him waiting for long; his warm presence is by Sam's side in a heartbeat.
"You're gonna be okay," Dean says, and Sam feels a glass of water being pushed into his hand. He rinses and sips.
Dean cups his neck. "You're stressed. Time to sleep. Come on."
Sam's face is stiff with dried tears and his eyes and throat are scratchy and Dean's tugging him to the bedroom by his forearm, muttering comforting nonsense until Sam's laid out on a lumpy mattress that sighs under his weight. The light switches off and a blanket falls over Sam, but he struggles. He can't sleep. He doesn't want to sleep. He has work to do. There's no time.
There's no time.
Thirteen—
Fingers card through Sam's hair, inviting sleep to take him to its realm. Sam's about to count again when Dean speaks. "Hey, Sam?" Sam turns to his brother, who seems to be glaring at him through the darkness. "Stop that."
Dean continues his ministrations until at last, Sam unwillingly falls asleep.
0
Thirteen days, eleven hours, fifty-three minutes, fifteen seconds.
Sam's been counting down each minute since Dean made the deal.
It's not a healthy habit—and he knows it isn't, but he can't help himself. Dean hates it and he doesn't say it out loud, but Sam knows that he does.
Sam, however, counts. Because he has to. He has to remember exactly how much time he has in hand to save his brother. But he's starting to think now, that maybe he can't.
Each time Sam watches the hands of the clock crawl by in their twice-daily, redundant circles, he feels a little part of him die.
Sometimes, he finds himself hoping that maybe all these little parts will just form a big part, and kill him off altogether.
He looks at his watch and observes more seconds tick by, his heart beating against his chest at twice the speed. Dean is still going to Hell. Sam needs to do something about it.
It's bright and clear outside, and a warm breeze ripples the shabby curtains as it blows in through the open windows. Sam runs a hand through his hair and opens a new tab on his browser. Dean's in the bathroom, singing his way through a shower, which means Sam can quit researching their current case and continue looking for a way to negate Dean's deal.
Thirteen days, eleven hours, fifty minutes, three seconds.
Time is speeding at an irrational pace.
0
It's half-past noon by the time Dean's finished showering. He let Sam sleep in and asked him how he was feeling today once he was up, big-brother mode on high-alert and ready to be utilised in tending to Sam's every need.
Sam knows that Dean is worried. This is not the first time that the whole ordeal has gotten to him, and he knows it's not the last, either. Dean knows that too, and Sam can see and feel his brother's guilt at that.
Presently, Sam glances at the computer screen with its unsatisfactory results for his plans for Dean, and then back at his brother who emerges from the bathroom with a towel draped around his waist, and goes on to unearth a pair of jeans from his duffel.
Dean looks up at Sam midway through retrieving a t-shirt. "You up to eating?"
No, but if Sam doesn't eat, Dean will only feel worse about it. Swallowing, Sam brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. "Kinda?" he lies.
Dean nods as he dons the jeans, zippers them up, and reaches for his shirt. "What did you get?"
"Huh?"
"The case," Dean clarifies. "You find anything?"
Sam licks his lips. "It could be a spirit."
"Would they even be that patient?" Dean asks him. "I mean, to kill and cut and bury? Kinda slow and overtly gory for a spirit, don't you think?"
"I don't know, I—" Sam struggles to change tabs as Dean begins to walk over to the table, but thanks to all the porn-browsing Dean's always doing, the screen freezes on Sam's current page about demon deals. And that's exactly what his brother sees when he bends over and looks at the screen from behind Sam's shoulder.
For a moment, nobody moves or speaks. Dean uncurls himself slowly and moves back a step as he clears his throat. "I'll get us some lunch. You uh… you look for stuff about this case once the laptop unfreezes, okay?"
Sam doesn't look at him when he nods, a tightness already rising in his chest. How could Dean do this? How could Dean have been so selfish about it all?
"You with me?" Dean asks him, and Sam hears the jingle of keys.
Sam nods again and clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll just try and get it running again."
"Cool."
There's a pause, a moment of silence, and Sam wishes Dean would just leave, because the lump in his throat is getting bigger and bigger,
Thirteen days, eleven hours, twenty-six minutes, twelve—
"Sammy?"
"Please leave." Sam's voice is hoarse and tight.
Thirteen days, eleven hours, twenty-five minutes, fifty-eight seconds.
"Sam."
He hears footsteps, and there's a comforting presence behind him.
Thirteen days—
"Sam, look here, man."
Sam swallows, and his eyes are hot, but he shakes his head. Behind him, he feels Dean hesitate, and there's a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
No, he's not. And that's what infuriates Sam the most. Dean has no right to be this way—absolutely no right. He can't be the one doing all this and then act like he cares. Because he doesn't care. He can't, he can't—
Sam's thoughts trail away when Dean's hand squeezes his shoulder, once, and then another time. His hand falls away. "Do you want to come along to the diner?" he asks Sam. "Get some fresh air? You've been on that thing since—"
"No, you go ahead," Sam replies blandly, pressing on the power button of his laptop to get it to forcefully shut down so it can reboot.
"Come on," Dean says, tugging at Sam. "Come with me, Sammy. You were sick last night. You've been researching since you woke up. You'll feel better if you just step out."
Sam shakes his head, and drags a sleeve across his eyes, before pushing back his chair to get up. He turns to Dean, who backs away, and then follows Sam as he makes his way to the kitchenette.
"What do you want, Dean?" Sam asks him, rounding on his brother to face him for once and for all. "What do you want me to do?"
Dean looks at him, a little crestfallen, plenty worried with his forehead wrinkling and lips pursing as he shrugs. "Be okay?"
Sam just shakes his head and snorts. "Sure." He opens the mini-fridge and pulls a bottle of Budweiser out of the six-pack they'd brought along. Dean automatically accepts it from Sam's hand and undoes the cap with his ring before taking a gulp and giving it back to Sam.
There's another moment of silence, and Sam just looks at his brother while he drinks. The beer is good, and the chill mixed with the warmth as it goes down is very pleasant. "You should leave," he tells Dean.
"I just wanna—"
"I'm good." Sam refuses to talk about it further, but Dean's hand is on his arm again. Sam looks at him and shrugs it away. "No need to get touchy-feely, Dean. It's not like you anyway. Go on. I'll be here."
"Okay," Dean replies, apparently having given up. He grabs his coat and walks over to the door, the Impala's keys jingling in his hand. "Get the info ready while I'm gone," he says, and then he's out of the motel room.
He never does come back. Not really.
0
Human beings, through their books and movies and dramatisations, have always depicted life in a sense that it's not. They talk of it like it's epic and eventful; like everyone has a definite set of happy days after the sad ones, complete with their own personal heroes or heroines to save the day, the finales of their stories tied up in a shiny bow with either a fairy-tale happy ending, or an outright Shakespearean tragedy, with the perfect last words and exits.
What no one writes about are the people who never find their heroes, or even if they do find them, end up losing them before they can draw their strength from them. They don't talk about the people who never find their answers. They don't mention the ones who survive without happiness, living day-to-day, putting one foot in front of the other, hoping again and again but never finding hope. They don't write about the imperfect final words—the ones that are said without expectation of them being the last words.
Sam wonders what he would have said to Dean, had he known what was coming. He wonders if he should have recorded the exact manner and tone in which Dean said those words. Because, those were, technically, Dean's final words to him. Because, in a lot of ways that matter, though not in every way, this is the last that Sam and Dean will see of each other.
They will meet again, in a way that's not sufficient for two people who've spent their lives together; or for brothers, who live and die and spin their worlds, their hearts and their souls, around each other. They will meet, but nothing about it will be nearly enough. Although, when they do see each other again, they won't care about any of this. Every moment will be eternal, every smile meaningful, and every jab amusing and annoying all at once. They will be what everyone knows them as—Sam n' Dean, Dean n' Sam—hunters, who can bring the world down; brothers, who never learned to let go of each other.
Sam won't forget Dean's last words to him. He might forget a lot of things about how they were said, and Dean's expression while he spoke them, but Sam will never forget the actual words. And, every day, he will live under the hope that Dean hasn't forgotten either.
Years from now, Sam will curse himself for forgetting the exact sound of Dean's voice—the roughness to it when Dean is casually talking, and the smooth, placating tenor when Dean is being gentle, and Dean's laugh, and his crappy singing… and just… Dean.
Years from now, Sam will curse himself for letting Dean go.
0
Sam reckons he should have realised something was wrong when he called Dean to ask for extra pickles and couldn't reach his brother. A recorded voice tells him that Dean's number doesn't exist, and Sam puts the phone down, wondering what new network error this is, before returning to look for ways to get Dean out of his deal. He knows Dean will expect some research on the case too, but fuck it—Sam isn't going to bother anymore.
He hits a few promising searches, the blue and white lights on the laptop display piercing his eyes and digging a crater in his already sore brain, and Sam suddenly feels tired as hell. Absently wondering what's taking Dean so long, he climbs into bed and pulls the thin blanket over himself, knowing Dean will wake him up when he's back anyway. Until then, just a little bit of rest…
"Sam Winchester."
Sam's eyes open with a start, his hand reaching under the pillow for his gun.
"That won't help you."
The voice is hoarse, androgynous, accompanied by a putrid, rotting smell that clouds Sam's nostrils, causing him to cough. The room is bright from the afternoon sun and almost every corner is illuminated, but Sam can't see anyone there.
He coughs again, gags, sitting up to look for the owner as he stares at the planes of the walls and the tacky wallpaper, trying to make out the scarce shadows, but finding no one. He raises his gun. Goosebumps are rising all over him. There is something very, very wrong around here, and—
That's when Sam sees it. A pair of eyes—yellowing, sunken, and… decomposed. The decaying odour hits his nostrils again and is gone the next moment. The eyes are gone too.
And just like that, Sam knows that whatever was here, in this room, has left. Has it really, though? He doesn't quite believe his instinct for once, and reaches for his gun, cocking it and holding it with his finger on the trigger. "Dean?"
There's no answer.
Sam gets up from the bed, socked feet padding on the stained carpet, gun still at the ready. "Dean, you here?"
Sammy.
"Dean?"
Sam.
The putrid smell is back. "Dean, where are you?" Sam whispers, and the lone bathroom light flickers.
Sammy.
The eyes are back, hollow and yellowing, and that's when Sam notices the color of the irises.
Green.
"DEAN!"
Sam sits up on his bed, sweat pouring down his face in rivers.
This was a dream?
Fuck, this was all a fucking dream.
Sam feels like he's choking. His heart thumps against his chest, his parasympathetic responses still not getting the memo that it was all just a nightmare. His hands shake, and he tries to catch his breath. But Sam's lungs are closed up and he can't breathe.
He pulls in air, his chest heaving. It was a nightmare.
Two breaths. It was a nightmare.
Inhale. It was a nightmare. Exhale. It was a nightmare. Repeat.
Where is Dean, though?
"Dean?" Sam calls out shakily, once he's regained his bearings. He looks around, realising that the other bed and the bathroom are both unoccupied. Evidently, Dean isn't back yet.
Frowning, Sam takes a few more breaths, waiting for the choking sensation to pass before getting out of bed. And that's when he casts a glance at the clock, and freezes.
Dean had left at about quarter-to-one to get food from the diner.
It is now half-past four.
Sam overslept, and Dean hasn't been back in almost four hours.
0
Dean doesn't come back and Sam gets the same message every time he calls Dean—that the number doesn't exist. And that's not possible. Even if Dean's phone got stolen and he's actually still all right, and just out of contact, it's not possible for his number to not exist. For one, because it existed just hours ago, and secondly because if the SIM card had been taken out and blocked, the message would say that the phone is switched off. Phone numbers are recycled. Sam is aware of that. As and when a number is out of use and is not reclaimed by the user, it's appointed to someone else, and it doesn't really go out of rotation. That is why blocking is encouraged when the SIM gets lost in the first place. So your name is clear of that number—for legal purposes, like not getting wrongly caught in a crime.
So what's going on here? Did Dean just… leave?
Sam's heart misses a beat. Dean wouldn't do that, would he? He wouldn't just leave and do something stupid? And—Sam stops in his thoughts as he looks around, wondering how he didn't notice this earlier.
Dean's things are missing; and it's not only his daily stuff. Sam peers out of the window and the Impala is gone too.
A/N: Yay or nay? Reviews? :D