Title: Red X
Date: 2/19/08
Genre: Drama/Tragedy
Category: TV Shows: Supernatural
Rating: K
Pairings: None
Timeline: Post-Season 2. Spoilers for those who have yet to see the end of Season 2. Ye be warned.
Summary
If we weren't blessed with a season three…
Disclaimer
I do not own Supernatural. Supernatural is © Eric Kripke and the CW; whom we thank for not ending it just yet.
There's a red X on his calendar.
An X because circling it felt wrong. Like he was expecting it, looking forward to it; when in reality there were no words to describe how badly he dreaded that date. He actually had to buy a red pen, there were none at the hotel. The days counting down were marked off with check-marks, to distinguish the date, in any color but red.
Every time Sam looked up and saw a page full of more and more rows of check-marks the block of ice in his stomach would expand some more. He'd quickly turn back to his work, the sound of the clock ticking away drowning out his stray thoughts. Even when there was no ticking clock.
The room Bobby was loaning him was even more cluttered then it had been. Over time, as Sam had gone through more and more books, papers, etcetera, that had lead to dead ends they'd taken to occupying the back wall. They were the proverbial demons chasing him down on his path through the dark. They kept growing in numbers, reminding Sam more and more of all the failed leads. How every one was just another way he couldn't save Dean.
Dean was euphoric. Once he'd given up on pulling Sam away, he'd disappear for hours at a time. Once he'd been gone for a whole day. Bobby had brought it up, interrupting Sam for the first time in twelve hours. Sam had broken away long enough to track the older Winchester down and follow his drunken ass back, shouting and scolding the moment they got in the car together.
It was the first time Sam had remembered there were other things out there. Other things willing to take Dean away sooner.
"Relax, Sam. I've got months left."
However large the number seemed to Dean, it felt equally as small to Sam. It was back to the books; but only after ripping a promise from Dean. That the other would not disappear for days, would not leave for a hunt on his own. Promises weren't always sacred, but Sam was too frantic to get back and desperate enough to take it.
Bobby had no TV. Nothing to occupy a young man who's accepted his time is running out. Dean would come back from the movies, the bar, the store, or from driving and often with something for his brother. He'd stop in, leave it on the edge of the table, and try to draw Sam into a conversation.
"I figure after we go see the Grand Canyon we can really stop and see the country's largest ball of yarn. For once tell the truth to people. How's that sound, Sammy?"
It was Dean's Road Trip. He had a map with dots and everything. The trip ends in Lawrence. For Dean's first gravesite visit that year, and his last.
Bobby barely talks to him. It seems the veteran hunter senses the other's urgency, or he's just a silent bystander to the eventual train wreck. He just comes into the room with food on occasion; usually to drop off books. Ellen calls or stops by, and Sam has to try not to sound ungrateful when he tells her that he's already seen and heard what she has to offer. He comes by Jo sitting with Dean on the porch one day, beers hanging from their hands. Dean convinces him to spare a few moments to say hello.
When she meets his eyes it's there. The pity. By now it doesn't even touch him. There's resignation too. Jo's tough, and more realistic than her mother would give her credit for. She looks at Dean and Sam knows, Sam sees, that there could have been something there between them. Dean probably knows it too. Only Jo's too smart to let herself love a dead man.
For Sam it was far too late.
Then one day Sam tries to stack too many books in the corner of the room, the room that has now shrunk in size, and they fall. Like dominoes they topple one after the other, spilling over the floor. Like the demons spilling from the Devil's Gate in Wyoming. Sam starts shaking. The calendar's rows are full of check marks again. Tomorrow's the first of another month. What's remained of the mountain slumps, and Sam stares. His vision blurs as he sinks to the floor, knocking the chair over with a crash. Footsteps rush through the hall and Dean is kneeling besides him. In the doorway Bobby gapes.
"What the hell?"
"It's okay Sammy," Dean hushes. "It's going to be okay."
Dean tries to sooth Sam like he did when they were kids. Like he did for nights after Jessica's death, and after any nightmare throughout Sam's lifetime. It's now Sam realizes how hollow and meaningless those words are. Just a spell that's lost it's magic. He can't stop, the tears keep coming.
"No it's not," he sobs. "I can't find anything, Dean. I can't find anything at all."
They pack that night. Dean practically does it for Sam, who sits on his mostly unused bed and tries to compose himself. Early the next morning they're on the road. Bobby says goodbye, and for not for the first time since that day months ago allows a brief chick-flick moment as he hugs the older hunter.
"I'm growing sentimental in my old age. Bite me."
Then they're on the road. Sam has been all over the country at his age; but he's never seen so much of it in such a short amount of time. They visit Death Valley. Niagara Falls. The Rocky Mountains. In Yellowstone, Dean times Old Faithful. They visit the Alamo. Washington DC. The Mississippi. Roswell, New Mexico. Area 51; or at least as much as legally possible. Lastly, of course, the Grand Canyon.
Dean insists on staying for the sunset. They sit on the Impala's hood, watching the sky change colors. Sam tries to keep his knee from bouncing, thinking about checking his messages back at the hotel. Dean had torn him away from that room but he could not stop Sam's search all together.
"I expect you to take care of her, of course," Dean says out of the blue. Sam doesn't have to ask. He feels the Impala's cool finish under his palm. "Dad gave her to me, and you can give her to one of your little geeky munchkins I know you'll have one day."
Sam tries to find the humor, tries to soak up the contentment Dean's been radiating for the past hour. He does manage to pull his hand out of his pocket and stop fingering his PDA. His focus becomes riveted on his older brother. This man who had raised him since he was four years old, as much, if not more than their father ever had. He wishes he hadn't spent so much time fearing what the demon wanted him to become; and spent more time making himself stronger. He'd been telekinetic when Dean had needed him. Why hadn't he ever tried to practice that? John would've killed Jake. Sam's pretty certain Dean would have too. He had anyway, in the end. Just not when it counted.
What did killing a few strangers matter? If it meant keeping the last person you cared about in this world.
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean is trying to reassure him again.
"It's not, and I'm not five anymore," Sam wants to tell him. Instead he looks away, choked. The pink and blue sky blurs before he closes them. Sniffing, Sam composes himself. He shrugs off Dean's hand when he feels it on his shoulder.
Dean turns his eyes to the horizon once more. His face twists with that wistful smirk Sam's been noticing lately. "You've got your whole life ahead of you, Sammy. Whatever you want to do with it now."
John's death was sudden. Like a sucker punch, it'd rocked them off kilter. They'd regained equilibrium. They were Winchesters. They weren't given a lot of time to go through the denial and bargaining stages. Dean's managed to skip right to acceptance. Either that or he passed the other four when Sam wasn't looking. Sam's gotten past the denial for now, but he keeps starting over at stage two after a few days or weeks of stage four. Sam doesn't want to reach stage five. Ever. It's his turn again to be the belligerent one again.
"For someone who keeps saying they're not a five anymore you keep acting like it," Dean snaps during one of his lapses in patience. "My hands are tied, Sammy. I know you want to but if you keep going at it like this it'll have been for nothing! Don't do that to me, Sammy.
The dead should stay dead, Sam wants to respond. Only that could be taken two ways.
"You could open the door," Ellen offers the last time they see her. "Like John. After they," she hesitates to choose her words. "After they come for him, you could just let him out. You have the Colt still. I'll help you."
That's not the kind of help Sam's looking for. It's not good enough.
The last week they spend in a rather expensive hotel, courtesy of Aframian. They visit the old house. Jenny offers the guest room but both turn it down at the same time. Neither Winchester is still able to negotiate the quaint suburban home and the nightmare of their memories just yet. They visit Missouri. She's crying before they can even let out a word. They visit Mary's grave on the last day. Dean kneels in front of it and rests a hand over where Sam left John's dog tags. The grass has grown over.
"Salt and burn me, Sammy," Dean tells him gruffly.
By now Sam's resolve has dried his tears. He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets, harsh eyes on the gravestone. Dean stands, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"I don't care what you do with the ashes, but make sure I don't come back." Sam hears it echo in his tone. I don't want to come back to a world like this. I don't want to become what we hunt. "Not that there's much chance," Dean observed, voice soft.
Sam wonders what hell holds in store for his brother.
They get back to their room and for a long moment just sit on their own beds, facing each other. Both looking at the space between them. One searching for anymore words, the other too resigned to hear them. The calendar on the nightstand is full of checks that stop abruptly a space before a bright red X.
Dean has set everything down to the last detail. Before dawn he'll go out to the parking lot and drive back to the cemetery. There he'll blast Metallica, walk far enough away so the Impala doesn't get scratched, and wait for his maker. He expects, has expressed his expectations, that Sam remain behind in the hotel.
Neither sleep.
The alarm goes off. Dean silences it and stands.
"Time to roll."
For whatever reason, Dean has picked out a very specific outfit for this occasion. The same way someone committing suicide might finish up some last details before going. First, though, a shower.
"I'll be doing a lot of sweating I guess. Probably be my last acquaintance with water, after all."
Sam sits on the bed and listens to the shower running. Listens to the door click shut. Waits. Counts to thirty. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…. Standing, Sam drags the desk chair over to the bathroom door and inserts it under the doorknob. Moving to his bag he pulls out a bag of that voodoo dust, carefully applying it in front of the door and around the chair. They may be in the luxury suite, but it's not that nice a hotel. They're on the second floor and the bathroom's single window is too small for a full grown person. The windowsill is already layered in a coat of the dirt anyway.
Sam adds the dust to the windows and the door of the room. He's just finishing up with the extra barrier of salt when the shower turns off. There's a long pause, long enough for Sam to refocus and finish the job. He's returned to his bag by the time the doorknob rattles. Again he pauses.
A rattle.
"Sammy?"
More rattling, the door trembles a bit this time. Sam turns back to his bags, pulls out a shotgun.
"Sammy!"
Dean pounds on the door. Sam loads the shells calmly.
"Sam! Open this door!"
Sam pulls the other chair from the table near the window, positioning it in front of the bathroom door. Crouching down he arranges his arsenal carefully before taking a seat. Dean pounds away.
"Sam! Damn it, Sam!"
"I won't let them take you, Dean," Sam shouts over his shoulder.
There's a pause. Then a harsh, loud bang. Dean's kick has failed to make the door yield. The chair jerks but is supported by the carpeting. Still, Dean tries again. After the second he shouts once more.
"Sammy! Don't do this!"
"What happened to the rules, Dean? What's dead should stay dead! So those don't apply to me?"
"It's not the same, Sam! You don't get it! It's not the same!"
A growl silences them both. Sam's eyes focus on the door. Against the hall light shadows move under the edge of the door. Sam lifts the shotgun, aiming.
"You can't save me, Sam!"
There's scratching at the door. Sam tries to calm his beating heart. This isn't rational, he knows. He isn't going to help anybody.
"Quit being a child!"
The door bursts open. He can't see anything but he can smell it. Sulfur. Scratch marks appear on the line of dirt, rapidly peeling it away. They tear through the salt faster.
"Sammy!"
Sam aims.
"You can't have him."
Word Count: 2,330 Author's Notes I wrote this before the premier of season 3, so naturally everything is wonderfully wrong.
I don't actually know where Dean would want to visit, or how long it would take to accomplish. I also don't know if Mary's grave is anywhere close to Lawrence, Kansas. I have a plate of salt and tweezers so everyone can take my assumptions with a grain.
The stages referred to are the stages of grief according to the Kubler-Ross model, if you're unfamiliar. They are as follows: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and the last stage being acceptance. Not that the Winchesters are very good at step five, of course.
Jo seems to have disappeared in the series. Can't say I'll miss her too much; she wasn't given much time. Maybe next season. I hope I portrayed the characters well enough. Half way through I was worried I was making Sam a bit too weepy. I know I kind of copped out on Dean. I think he's far too patient in this; far too accepting. I let it go because it's been one of the rare times where I've ever been able to really focus on Sam.
I'd appreciate hearing your comments. This is my first posted fan fiction on any sight. Thoughts? Opinions on how I portrayed the characters? Please leave them in a review. I'm also a bit of a technophobe and still getting used to using this site; so if anything looks weird please tell me.