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stephanometraTitle: if i pay thee not in gold
Pairing: Sam gen
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sam's a hunter, not a killer. Hell's going to have to learn that sooner or later.
Warnings: None
Notes: Coda for 302 that came out of fucking nowhere and gave me a writing attack. Has nothing to do with the Mercedes Lackey book of the same name; I just always liked the title. 650 words.
***
Names march down the page, crossed-out words for crossed-out lives, and Sam groans.
It's always about you, she said, and he hates how right she was, how he could feel the truth in the words even as he shook his head, no. Demons lie, except when they don't.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to relieve the tension pounding in his brain. Not a vision -- no, never that, never again, just stress and exhaustion and the familiar bone-deep terror of what he might become, what he maybe already is.
But he doesn't have time to be scared, not with the days trickling away on the Dean Winchester farewell tour. Christ, what he wouldn't give for it to be a year ago. Evil clowns are infinitely preferable to watching his brother digging his own grave.
Ding, dong, the demon's dead.
She hadn't known that the visions stopped when the demon died. Had she? But they'd always shown him things about the other kids, before, always flashes of futures for the children like him, and according to her, he was the sole survivor.
Sam thinks of the sweet-faced baby girl in Salvation, of her pretty, dark-haired mother. Were there more? Would the dreams start again in two decades, when Rosie's generation grew up? Were there more like Rosie, and would they all be looking at long lists of casualties wondering what the hell was going on?
And of course the only person who could have made any sense of it is dead. Good fucking riddance.
He just wishes he knew what was going on, and why demons were just so fucking fascinated with him. Because that would be a nice thing to know, wouldn't it?
He looks down at his hands, thinks how normal they look, how you'd never know that he was carrying demon blood. How you'd never know that he's already seen his brother die, much cleaner and quicker than the eleven months and change that stretch in front of them, hellfire the only destination.
Fuck.
What the hell can Sam do to save Dean, when he couldn't even save himself? When for all his talk of working together, of refusing to give in to the destiny the demon had written for them, he still shot Jake in the end, anyway?
Ava's voice comes back to him, clear and mocking. I can't believe I started out just having dreams.
Is that what the blond girl -- and Jesus, doesn't he know better than to trust demons riding around in cute blondes -- meant? Is that the source of her supposed benevolence, of her desire to help?
Sam's a hunter, not a killer. Hell's going to have to learn that sooner or later.
And yet.
Ain't gonna find the answer in no book.
And the worst part of it is that he's pretty sure that he could handle going a little bit darkside if it kept Dean breathing.
(If Dean's allowed to be selfish, then so is Sam.)
***
He dreams that night that the world is on fire.
Flames lick at his heels, cold like hellfire isn't, but all he can see is gold, curls falling down a graceful back.
Jess, he screams, but when she turns it's her, liquid black swimming in her eyes, that blade of hers flashing fire a hair's breadth from his chest.
Sam clutches at his heart, feeling the blood thrumming under his skin, tainted and hot, and his hand comes away clutching a diamond.
Who are you? she asks, but he doesn't have the voice to answer, and he starts awake on a silent scream.
Her voice still rings in his ears as he stares at the ceiling.
***
*worries that her first episode coda SUCKS A LOT*
Pairing: Sam gen
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sam's a hunter, not a killer. Hell's going to have to learn that sooner or later.
Warnings: None
Notes: Coda for 302 that came out of fucking nowhere and gave me a writing attack. Has nothing to do with the Mercedes Lackey book of the same name; I just always liked the title. 650 words.
Names march down the page, crossed-out words for crossed-out lives, and Sam groans.
It's always about you, she said, and he hates how right she was, how he could feel the truth in the words even as he shook his head, no. Demons lie, except when they don't.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to relieve the tension pounding in his brain. Not a vision -- no, never that, never again, just stress and exhaustion and the familiar bone-deep terror of what he might become, what he maybe already is.
But he doesn't have time to be scared, not with the days trickling away on the Dean Winchester farewell tour. Christ, what he wouldn't give for it to be a year ago. Evil clowns are infinitely preferable to watching his brother digging his own grave.
Ding, dong, the demon's dead.
She hadn't known that the visions stopped when the demon died. Had she? But they'd always shown him things about the other kids, before, always flashes of futures for the children like him, and according to her, he was the sole survivor.
Sam thinks of the sweet-faced baby girl in Salvation, of her pretty, dark-haired mother. Were there more? Would the dreams start again in two decades, when Rosie's generation grew up? Were there more like Rosie, and would they all be looking at long lists of casualties wondering what the hell was going on?
And of course the only person who could have made any sense of it is dead. Good fucking riddance.
He just wishes he knew what was going on, and why demons were just so fucking fascinated with him. Because that would be a nice thing to know, wouldn't it?
He looks down at his hands, thinks how normal they look, how you'd never know that he was carrying demon blood. How you'd never know that he's already seen his brother die, much cleaner and quicker than the eleven months and change that stretch in front of them, hellfire the only destination.
Fuck.
What the hell can Sam do to save Dean, when he couldn't even save himself? When for all his talk of working together, of refusing to give in to the destiny the demon had written for them, he still shot Jake in the end, anyway?
Ava's voice comes back to him, clear and mocking. I can't believe I started out just having dreams.
Is that what the blond girl -- and Jesus, doesn't he know better than to trust demons riding around in cute blondes -- meant? Is that the source of her supposed benevolence, of her desire to help?
Sam's a hunter, not a killer. Hell's going to have to learn that sooner or later.
And yet.
Ain't gonna find the answer in no book.
And the worst part of it is that he's pretty sure that he could handle going a little bit darkside if it kept Dean breathing.
(If Dean's allowed to be selfish, then so is Sam.)
He dreams that night that the world is on fire.
Flames lick at his heels, cold like hellfire isn't, but all he can see is gold, curls falling down a graceful back.
Jess, he screams, but when she turns it's her, liquid black swimming in her eyes, that blade of hers flashing fire a hair's breadth from his chest.
Sam clutches at his heart, feeling the blood thrumming under his skin, tainted and hot, and his hand comes away clutching a diamond.
Who are you? she asks, but he doesn't have the voice to answer, and he starts awake on a silent scream.
Her voice still rings in his ears as he stares at the ceiling.
