Supernatural Fic: Save Me Tender
Nov. 7th, 2008 05:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erdaTitle: Save Me Tender
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keefaq
Word count: 1089
Rating:G
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: Transformative work
Spoilers: Lazurus Rising, maybe a tiny bit for Yellow Fever and Wishful Thinking
Summary: Dean remembers hell. We see why Lilith likes to torment him by taking the body of a little girl.
A/N: You know that idea where Dean's hell is not being able to save Sam? This isn't that hell.
He remembers everything.
All he wants is to rest for a moment, a moment outside the pain, to slide into dreamless sleep, but Emily’s, no Lilith’s –she looks like Emily, but he knows it’s Lilith- mocking laughter keeps him awake. She bends down over him, whispering, “No one sleeps in hell, Dean.”
It starts again. He chooses not to save her again. He goes after Sam. Again and again. He never learns.
He remembers:
Dean hadn’t had any interest in hunting. He’d just turned ten, and what he most wanted in the world was a bike. Two bikes really, so he wouldn’t have to carry Sam on the back the way he had with that bike they’d stolen last summer and hidden down in the woods, until someone had found it and maliciously tossed it out into the middle of the creek, bending the handlebars so far that when Dean tried to fish it out they broke right off. Sammy, wallowing in disappointment, said it was just punishment for stealing, but Dean didn’t get mad.
Dean always worried about Dad, but this time he couldn’t put it out of his mind. Dad was heading out and into danger without taking time to recover from the injuries he’d gotten in the last hunt. Sometimes lately he got the terrifying feeling that Dad didn’t care about staying alive, that he forgot all about his kids and how much they still needed him.
He hadn’t intended to follow, but Dad set out on foot, so he knew it wasn’t far, and Sammy was fast asleep. Of the two of them, Dad was in the greater danger, alone, weakened by injury and looking for trouble, so Dean went after him, followed him out into the cool autumn evening and down the quiet streets to the kind of old house Dad was always finding, and right through the door after the lock gave it up to his father’s sure hands.
He remembers:
His father went immediately to the stairs but Dean caught a flash of movement from the next room and headed back toward it instinctively. There was a man there, no, a black-eyed demon, holding onto a little girl about Sammy’s age, his hand over her mouth, his own mouth open and nuzzling the top of the little girl’s head in a way that Dean knew was wrong. The demon grinned at him and he lifted the revolver his father had left in the room. He knew enough to know it wouldn’t kill the demon, figured it ought to slow the monster down, but before he could shoot he heard Sammy, Sammy who was supposed to be safe in bed back at the hotel, and he turned and raced back the way he had come.
There was a side room made up as a study and as Dean rushed toward the sound of Sammy screaming he could hear his father coming cautiously back down the stairs, and he wondered why he wasn’t hurrying. He ran through the study and into the dining room behind it.
Sammy was alone on the floor, writhing in some kind of magical agony, and Dean ran to him, yelling for Dad. He could hear his father suddenly stop moving. “Dad, help!” he shouted, but still his father didn’t respond. He ran back out into the main room and grabbed his father’s arm. “It’s Sammy, he’s hurt,” he said, and then, finally, his father reacted, following him back through the study into the dining room, which was completely, horrifyingly empty.
He remembers:
His father took in the empty room at a glance and headed at a dead run for the kitchen without a word, Dean right behind him, but they were too late. The little girl -Emily, he would later learn- was dead, her neck broken, mouth open in a silent scream, frozen eyes wide and empty. Dad skidded to a stop in front of her body and lifted her into his arms in a hug, which was a dumb thing to do.
Dean grabbed onto Dad’s sleeve. “Sammy,” he said, angry that his father seemed to have forgotten.
His father looked up at him, his face hard. “It wasn’t real, Dean. The demon tricked you. Sam wasn’t ever here. It wasn’t real, do you understand? Sam’s still back at the motel, where you ought to be. Now go.” Dean knew Dad had to be angry, he’d disobeyed orders and the little girl was dead, but Dad’s voice didn’t have that hard crack it usually had when he didn’t do right. He just sounded sad and tired.
Dean couldn’t quite still the rapid beating of his heart until he got back, alone –Dad had stayed behind- and he could see Sam for himself, sprawled out loose, sleeping unaware, still safe.
He’d known Dad must be furious at him for messing up the hunt, but Dad never said a word to him about it, shook his head silently when Dean tried to apologize, because, yeah, what good was an apology going to do? Dad started including him in the hunts after that, and Dean had often wondered how long Dad would have kept him out of the fight if he hadn’t followed him that night.
When he opens his eyes the demon staring down at him is the worst one of all. Lilith, dressed in Emily’s appearance or the other little girls featured in his waking nightmares here, he can stand, but this demon, he fears, will break him. “It wasn’t real, Dean, it wasn’t real,” the demon says in his beautifully modulated voice. He strokes Dean’s face, then his arm. His touch is cooling; it’s the only relief from the burn of hell he ever feels, and it’s this, this compassion, that makes him weep and beg for mercy. “No more,” he begs as his eyes drift closed and the nightmare starts again. Sometimes it plays out just as it really happened with Emily, other times it’s different, different places or people. Sometimes entire towns die, but he always saves Sammy.
When it stops and he opens his eyes it is either the beautiful demon in the trench coat stroking his face and murmuring comforting, excusing words, or Lilith taunting him in a pretty little girl form. Both of the demons are beautiful, but he prefers Lilith.
He remembers:
his eyes closing, one final time, feeling the warm, flawlessly intimate hand on his arm, remembers sliding into a deep restful sleep at last, thinking, no one sleeps in hell.
Author:
keefaqWord count: 1089
Rating:G
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: Transformative work
Spoilers: Lazurus Rising, maybe a tiny bit for Yellow Fever and Wishful Thinking
Summary: Dean remembers hell. We see why Lilith likes to torment him by taking the body of a little girl.
A/N: You know that idea where Dean's hell is not being able to save Sam? This isn't that hell.
He remembers everything.
All he wants is to rest for a moment, a moment outside the pain, to slide into dreamless sleep, but Emily’s, no Lilith’s –she looks like Emily, but he knows it’s Lilith- mocking laughter keeps him awake. She bends down over him, whispering, “No one sleeps in hell, Dean.”
It starts again. He chooses not to save her again. He goes after Sam. Again and again. He never learns.
He remembers:
Dean hadn’t had any interest in hunting. He’d just turned ten, and what he most wanted in the world was a bike. Two bikes really, so he wouldn’t have to carry Sam on the back the way he had with that bike they’d stolen last summer and hidden down in the woods, until someone had found it and maliciously tossed it out into the middle of the creek, bending the handlebars so far that when Dean tried to fish it out they broke right off. Sammy, wallowing in disappointment, said it was just punishment for stealing, but Dean didn’t get mad.
Dean always worried about Dad, but this time he couldn’t put it out of his mind. Dad was heading out and into danger without taking time to recover from the injuries he’d gotten in the last hunt. Sometimes lately he got the terrifying feeling that Dad didn’t care about staying alive, that he forgot all about his kids and how much they still needed him.
He hadn’t intended to follow, but Dad set out on foot, so he knew it wasn’t far, and Sammy was fast asleep. Of the two of them, Dad was in the greater danger, alone, weakened by injury and looking for trouble, so Dean went after him, followed him out into the cool autumn evening and down the quiet streets to the kind of old house Dad was always finding, and right through the door after the lock gave it up to his father’s sure hands.
He remembers:
His father went immediately to the stairs but Dean caught a flash of movement from the next room and headed back toward it instinctively. There was a man there, no, a black-eyed demon, holding onto a little girl about Sammy’s age, his hand over her mouth, his own mouth open and nuzzling the top of the little girl’s head in a way that Dean knew was wrong. The demon grinned at him and he lifted the revolver his father had left in the room. He knew enough to know it wouldn’t kill the demon, figured it ought to slow the monster down, but before he could shoot he heard Sammy, Sammy who was supposed to be safe in bed back at the hotel, and he turned and raced back the way he had come.
There was a side room made up as a study and as Dean rushed toward the sound of Sammy screaming he could hear his father coming cautiously back down the stairs, and he wondered why he wasn’t hurrying. He ran through the study and into the dining room behind it.
Sammy was alone on the floor, writhing in some kind of magical agony, and Dean ran to him, yelling for Dad. He could hear his father suddenly stop moving. “Dad, help!” he shouted, but still his father didn’t respond. He ran back out into the main room and grabbed his father’s arm. “It’s Sammy, he’s hurt,” he said, and then, finally, his father reacted, following him back through the study into the dining room, which was completely, horrifyingly empty.
He remembers:
His father took in the empty room at a glance and headed at a dead run for the kitchen without a word, Dean right behind him, but they were too late. The little girl -Emily, he would later learn- was dead, her neck broken, mouth open in a silent scream, frozen eyes wide and empty. Dad skidded to a stop in front of her body and lifted her into his arms in a hug, which was a dumb thing to do.
Dean grabbed onto Dad’s sleeve. “Sammy,” he said, angry that his father seemed to have forgotten.
His father looked up at him, his face hard. “It wasn’t real, Dean. The demon tricked you. Sam wasn’t ever here. It wasn’t real, do you understand? Sam’s still back at the motel, where you ought to be. Now go.” Dean knew Dad had to be angry, he’d disobeyed orders and the little girl was dead, but Dad’s voice didn’t have that hard crack it usually had when he didn’t do right. He just sounded sad and tired.
Dean couldn’t quite still the rapid beating of his heart until he got back, alone –Dad had stayed behind- and he could see Sam for himself, sprawled out loose, sleeping unaware, still safe.
He’d known Dad must be furious at him for messing up the hunt, but Dad never said a word to him about it, shook his head silently when Dean tried to apologize, because, yeah, what good was an apology going to do? Dad started including him in the hunts after that, and Dean had often wondered how long Dad would have kept him out of the fight if he hadn’t followed him that night.
When he opens his eyes the demon staring down at him is the worst one of all. Lilith, dressed in Emily’s appearance or the other little girls featured in his waking nightmares here, he can stand, but this demon, he fears, will break him. “It wasn’t real, Dean, it wasn’t real,” the demon says in his beautifully modulated voice. He strokes Dean’s face, then his arm. His touch is cooling; it’s the only relief from the burn of hell he ever feels, and it’s this, this compassion, that makes him weep and beg for mercy. “No more,” he begs as his eyes drift closed and the nightmare starts again. Sometimes it plays out just as it really happened with Emily, other times it’s different, different places or people. Sometimes entire towns die, but he always saves Sammy.
When it stops and he opens his eyes it is either the beautiful demon in the trench coat stroking his face and murmuring comforting, excusing words, or Lilith taunting him in a pretty little girl form. Both of the demons are beautiful, but he prefers Lilith.
He remembers:
his eyes closing, one final time, feeling the warm, flawlessly intimate hand on his arm, remembers sliding into a deep restful sleep at last, thinking, no one sleeps in hell.