Supernatural Fic
May. 5th, 2009 06:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erdaTitle: Through His Blood
Author: erda
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Word Count: 736
Warning: major character death
Spoilers: up to the preview for the last 2 episodes
A/N This is kind of a tag for 4.20, but takes into account what we saw in the preview to the last two episodes.
Sam woke up as Bobby and Dean hauled him roughly across the threshold of the panic room. He remembered Dean telling him not to come back, and then chasing after him anyway as he pursued and killed Lilith, and the lightheadedness afterwards. Apparently he'd collapsed, and Bobby and Dean had brought him back here. He pulled himself shakily up to sit propped again the wall just as Dean slowly and deliberately closed the door from the inside. He studied Dean's face. Years of struggle and hope and desperation were etched there, but Dean seemed to have achieved a weary peace at last.
Dean stared back at Sam, leaning his back against the door for a moment before raising unsurprised eyes to something, someone behind him. Sam spun around to see.
Castiel was impassive, hands folded behind his back, ignoring Sam as usual, his eyes only for Dean. "You have to do it, Dean. You know you have to."
Dean came close enough to touch Sam, knelt down beside him, one knee pressed against Sam's thigh, and spread his hand, the one not holding the demon killing knife, against Sam's cheek, gently, lovingly.
"As you have pledged, Dean," Castiel said, his voice soft with empathy. "So it must be done."
Dean nodded at Castiel's words, but he didn't look away from Sam. He bent down and touched his lips to Sam's forehead, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I tried so hard to keep this from happening." His thumb stroked roughly across the stubble on Sam's chin, and his mouth slid gently down the side of Sam's face before he pulled back, staring at Sam as if trying to memorize his features, saying goodbye. Sam relaxed against him. It was done. He'd saved Dean, saved the world, and if he'd lost his soul in the process, it didn't seem to be a bad trade.
Dean raised the knife, glanced at it as if he'd forgotten how it worked for a moment, then looked back to Sam, gave a little nod, and Sam knew suddenly what he intended. "No,' he screamed, grabbing at Dean's arm, scrabbling to block the blow he should have seen coming, but he was too late. Dean brought the knife savagely down on his own arm, one, two, three deep cuts, and the blood pumped out in thick streams down his arm and into Sam's unwilling lap. "Help him," Sam demanded, grabbing desperately at Dean's arm, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood. Dean was swaying, his eyes glazed with shock and pain, and Castiel stepped forward, taking the knife as it fell from Dean's limp fingers.
Sam grabbed onto Dean before he could fall and pulled him in against his chest. There was no way Dean could survive, he'd known just where and how to cut, and he was minutes away from bleeding out, but he gave Sam a ghost of a smile and leaned into him. Sam turned his furious gaze to Castiel. "You've got to help him," he said. They were sealed into the panic room, Dean had made sure of that, and Castiel was Dean's only hope.
Castiel knelt down beside them. "Dean has made his choice, Sam," he said. "He will never choose differently."
"If you knew that, why would you let him-"
"Shh," Castiel said. He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind, lifted him slightly, but didn't try to pull him away from Sam. "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper." He lifted Dean's arm, held it out to Sam. "Drink now, Samuel. Drink the blood freely spilled for you, that you might be forgiven and healed." Sam could smell it, smell Dean in the thick red stream running down his arm. He felt Dean's gaze on him heavy with all the years of blood between them, knew Dean wanted him to drink, and he bent his head, his mouth seeking even this contact with Dean. Dean's good arm encircled him, pulled Sam forward and onto his torn arm, cupping his head tenderly as Sam drank, the blood warm and sweet in his mouth, filling him with strength and confidence, as Dean grew pale and weak.
Castiel's hand lay open on Dean's bowed head. "Son of man," he whispered reverently. "Your work here is done."
Author: erda
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Word Count: 736
Warning: major character death
Spoilers: up to the preview for the last 2 episodes
A/N This is kind of a tag for 4.20, but takes into account what we saw in the preview to the last two episodes.
Sam woke up as Bobby and Dean hauled him roughly across the threshold of the panic room. He remembered Dean telling him not to come back, and then chasing after him anyway as he pursued and killed Lilith, and the lightheadedness afterwards. Apparently he'd collapsed, and Bobby and Dean had brought him back here. He pulled himself shakily up to sit propped again the wall just as Dean slowly and deliberately closed the door from the inside. He studied Dean's face. Years of struggle and hope and desperation were etched there, but Dean seemed to have achieved a weary peace at last.
Dean stared back at Sam, leaning his back against the door for a moment before raising unsurprised eyes to something, someone behind him. Sam spun around to see.
Castiel was impassive, hands folded behind his back, ignoring Sam as usual, his eyes only for Dean. "You have to do it, Dean. You know you have to."
Dean came close enough to touch Sam, knelt down beside him, one knee pressed against Sam's thigh, and spread his hand, the one not holding the demon killing knife, against Sam's cheek, gently, lovingly.
"As you have pledged, Dean," Castiel said, his voice soft with empathy. "So it must be done."
Dean nodded at Castiel's words, but he didn't look away from Sam. He bent down and touched his lips to Sam's forehead, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I tried so hard to keep this from happening." His thumb stroked roughly across the stubble on Sam's chin, and his mouth slid gently down the side of Sam's face before he pulled back, staring at Sam as if trying to memorize his features, saying goodbye. Sam relaxed against him. It was done. He'd saved Dean, saved the world, and if he'd lost his soul in the process, it didn't seem to be a bad trade.
Dean raised the knife, glanced at it as if he'd forgotten how it worked for a moment, then looked back to Sam, gave a little nod, and Sam knew suddenly what he intended. "No,' he screamed, grabbing at Dean's arm, scrabbling to block the blow he should have seen coming, but he was too late. Dean brought the knife savagely down on his own arm, one, two, three deep cuts, and the blood pumped out in thick streams down his arm and into Sam's unwilling lap. "Help him," Sam demanded, grabbing desperately at Dean's arm, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood. Dean was swaying, his eyes glazed with shock and pain, and Castiel stepped forward, taking the knife as it fell from Dean's limp fingers.
Sam grabbed onto Dean before he could fall and pulled him in against his chest. There was no way Dean could survive, he'd known just where and how to cut, and he was minutes away from bleeding out, but he gave Sam a ghost of a smile and leaned into him. Sam turned his furious gaze to Castiel. "You've got to help him," he said. They were sealed into the panic room, Dean had made sure of that, and Castiel was Dean's only hope.
Castiel knelt down beside them. "Dean has made his choice, Sam," he said. "He will never choose differently."
"If you knew that, why would you let him-"
"Shh," Castiel said. He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind, lifted him slightly, but didn't try to pull him away from Sam. "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper." He lifted Dean's arm, held it out to Sam. "Drink now, Samuel. Drink the blood freely spilled for you, that you might be forgiven and healed." Sam could smell it, smell Dean in the thick red stream running down his arm. He felt Dean's gaze on him heavy with all the years of blood between them, knew Dean wanted him to drink, and he bent his head, his mouth seeking even this contact with Dean. Dean's good arm encircled him, pulled Sam forward and onto his torn arm, cupping his head tenderly as Sam drank, the blood warm and sweet in his mouth, filling him with strength and confidence, as Dean grew pale and weak.
Castiel's hand lay open on Dean's bowed head. "Son of man," he whispered reverently. "Your work here is done."