Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.
Warnings: One swear and... I guess you could say there's idealization of death.
Can't Dean see that Sam is perfect for this?
Sam is blood; a man grown into himself and he's become this legacy.
He's been fed it, changed and a product of burbling rage all because of it. He's watched it fall from his father's body and learned about monster by knowing how to make them bleed. He's tried to stop the rush of it when killer's claws swipe at him and Dean. He's willingly sliced down the length of demon arms and their victims all the same. He knows the rituals to make bloody power. It's dyed his vision for so long he's sees in tints of red.
Now he's bathed in the blood of hellhound, he's uttered the words of Latin charm (and the words fit so well against his tongue, because Latin is almost like having a home in its familiarity), and his arms glow with holy blood as the Trials begin.
He chokes on legacy. Rough air pummels his lungs and throat and then he's coughing blood into his hand.
Maybe he should be more alarmed, but it feels inevitable.
From the moment he said the words and started the Trials, he's felt a ticking in every line and every second. Because he can feel his body down to the smallest cell and he's more in tune with his future than he has been his whole life, he knows this is the start of one thing. It will be a slow, decaying process.
This is right. Even if it hurts.
He's made the choice. Dean wants him to take it back and Sam almost laughs. He's dying, it's too late to take it back.
Dean doesn't know it like Sam does though.
Dean can't feel ancient spell flow within him, spiking pain with each passing of his heart. Dean can't feel the division of body and mind, the breaking down and the surpassing of limits. Dean doesn't know and he's got hope, so Sam lets it be for now.
It's almost as if he's bleeding through his throat. The blood won't stop and it's beginning to fill the sinks of the bunker. Sam imagines that's how Dean found out how not okay he is. Only so much blood can be coughed up before it becomes obvious.
Dean looks sadder now and Sam thinks this is why they keep secrets.
Sam has been waiting. He's been rotting from within and comforting his brother. Really, that's just been the interim for the big number two.
Sam wants this. He's going to face God's tribulations until he can't. Maybe this is what Sam has to offer. Because this is a big deal. This is world saving and surpassing of prophecies and red mark lifting.
Sam might be able to be the man who closed Hell's Gates. Not the boy who Lucifer wore or the hunter who looks ten years too old or the little brother of a true hero.
Dean may be losing hope, but Sam's found his.
Hell is dark and surprisingly easy to navigate. Crowley must be redecorating.
Time spans long and Sam passes wrecked being after wrecked being, but he does find Bobby. Even if Bobby's a vicious son of a bitch and paranoid even in death, Sam is going to be able to bring Bobby to heaven.
And Sam thinks to himself, this is why we fight. This is what I want to give my life too.
And then there is hellish and heavenly strife, face off and a rush of intertwining history. But still, Sam completes the trial and his blood sparks within him again.
All his life, he's prided himself on practicality.
It's a little hard to focus though, when your body is tearing itself down. He's losing his mind. He's losing every bit of himself to this.
Because he can't think. Because he can't shoot and aim. Because all he can do is push himself to the brink and watch the red glow of God's magic slither inside him, all the while knowing this is fair.
Practicality was important, but now he dwindles away to earn redemption.
And he's seen that face his whole life. Freckles and green eyes and so many lines of worry. Even when they were kids, Dean seemed so old. Like a grown up, like someone you could throw anything at and he'd know what to do.
Which is totally ridiculous, because Dean is only four years older than him and half of the time he makes the worst decision possible in any given circumstance. But still, Sam can't help but think it, if only for a second.
Then he focuses on the fact that it is that face that stands above him, big brother and fear for Sam wrapped into one man, and the question now is, what happened?
Sam remembers the days of blood crawling up through his throat. He remembers the days of being so lost in the mechanics of blinking, slowly close your eyes and do not let your lids droop, that it was as if nothing else existed.
Now he's dripping, water running down his diseased skin. Like living in a lake, breathing in ice, but he's boiling underneath.
He must have a fever.
It's internal redecorating, tearing down all the old wallpaper, but the Trials are the new homeowners.
The final trial is on the way and Sam's going to be evicted soon.
Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...
hanc animam redintegra...
lustra!
lustra!
For a moment, he has to push air out through his nose and in through his mouth, because it's not so automatic anymore. But then he remembers he's dying anyways and he's only got one job now. So he focuses on that instead; he doesn't need to last much longer.
Sam is tired. He's so tired and he can tell this is it for him.
Not in the melodramatic sense or in the sense that he can be saved 'just in the nick of time,' but in the honest to god, unbending, natural order of death.
Because Sam has died before and there's got to be some sort of limit. He's a living, breathing patchwork of scars and he's breaking down- literally. It's almost as if he can feel his cells disintegrate, slowly wilting his internal organs and he almost thinks he will [one day, soon, today, right now] sink into himself and never get back up.
He almost feels his fighting spirit kick up at the thought, but it's more of an instinctual reaction to the heartbreak he knows Dean will wear.
His time is now. Maybe his time should have been in the fire, or any of the hunts as kids, or every time a monster strangled him, or when he was stabbed in the back, or when Lucifer rose, or when he fell into the Cage. But now is good too.
He's going to do this.
Arms, strained with God's magic juice, and a brain rattling with feverish will are the only things Sam has going for him and he'll use them as far as he can.
Again and again, needle swallows up his veins and pumps human into the King of Hell.
Everything is so heavy. His life is flowing, temporal order swirling beneath his eyes. He can smell the burning of skin and the deep imprint of spewed guts. He can smell gasoline and oil, leather too. He's too weak to even see it, but he knows this is it all the same.
Sam almost smiles, because if he had energy for anything, it would be to smile.
Just one more drop of blood. Then he'll be done.