and let the dark come upon you

[ultraviolet9a]

 >> and let the dark come upon you

 

TITLE: and let the dark come upon you

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for everything

GENRE: gen

CHARACTERS: Dean-centric.

SUMMARY: Dean is waiting.

RATING: PG

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh. 
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own the sandbox, nor the sand. The shovel, however, is mine.

NOTE: for winchesters132. I chose the moods hyper (surprise, surprise) and sick. This one is for hyper.

NOTE2: beta by lovely girlfan1979

 

 

 

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

 

~T.S.Eliot.

“East Coker” (from Four Quartets)

 

 

 

 

Dean thought he’d take the waiting calm.

 

“Sammy. Don’t be here.”

 

“Dean…”

 

“Sammy. No. Don’t be here. I don’t want you here.”

 

And it’s his time, so Dean has his way, even with someone so stubborn as Sam, because Dean won’t budge. He’s had his own heart broken, he’s always the one left behind (smell of burning and mommy gone, watching Sam’s back as he stepped into the Greyhound without hesitation or backward glance, Cassie and the door slamming shut, dad on the pyre), and he’ll be damned before he lets Sam witness it. The leaving. Ever.

 

It’s nice and quiet. Easy wind moving the rye, and Dean thought he’d be cool and stoic, because, well, he is cool and can be stoic, and hell, it was his choice, wasn’t it? He chose it. And still doesn’t regret it, and the belief in this one choice is already crystallized in him like a small tight pearl.

 

So theoretically he should be still.

 

But he’s fidgeting.

 

He clasps his hands to keep them from keeping a beat on his thighs, and when those are still, and the soles of his boots firmly on ground and not flapping up and down, when he thinks he’s managed the calm wait of the hunter instilled by his life with dad, he realizes that he’s rocking back and forth. There are small humming sounds from his mouth, Dean’s version of a Metallica mix thrumming against his vocal cords, and it stuns him, stuns him and robs him of the calm he wished he possessed in him, of the calm he’s had all along cuz all of this has been his choice.

 

He can’t. Jesus freaking Christ, he hasn’t felt this hyper since that time he inhaled pixie dust and the world felt like what Woodstock must have been like, an explosion of colours and energy and good music. Oh yeah. Suddenly he feels nostalgic for an era he’s never lived in, an era that belonged to his dad and cradled his mother, and he wonders (can’t help wondering really, his mind fidgeting in tandem with his body) what would have happened if the demon had picked another little boy in a crib, a nursery room far away from Lawrence, Kansas.

 

And God, he can’t stand still. His mind is whirring, his whole life a set of photographs, tied on a string and flying past him, and Dean can’t. Can’t be calm. Can’t be still, as if all his life, all his potential for life is pent up, squeezed into these last hours minutes seconds and he doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to die, he’s not an idiot, but he wants life for Sam more than he wants it for himself, and he’ll have it, he’ll have as much of it as he can, Sam promised and Dean can deal with the lack of peace, he’ll have to deal because it’s Sammy, it’s always about blood and love and Sammy.

 

Sunset comes, and he’s a chord vibrating on the tense fingers of time, and the stars seem to fizz and sparkle above him as vibrant as ever, and Dean thinks the world never looked more alive, more beautiful than when he’s dying and he can, he can do this, he can, he can be calm, and he can’t pray to Sam’s God, but he can pray to his father and mother and hope they’ll listen to their weary son and love him even from afar, and he can, he can do it, even as tears ran down his face.

 

Sunset goes. And then Sam is there and tears are streaking his face, and in that one moment Dean knows Sam has found a way.

 

Stillness washes over him. Dean closes his eyes.

 

He lives.

 

-The End.

 

 

SIDENOTE: Title taken from same poem as the small quote in the beginning of this fic, only from an earlier line:

 

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you

Which shall be the darkness of God.

 

Dude. I can’t help it. I’ve written a paper on this poem. I can not not love it. It’s impossible.

 

 

Comments

[vanillafluffy.livejournal.com]

he’s a chord vibrating on the tense fingers of time

I love this! Very Dean.

[ultraviolet9a.livejournal.com]

Yei!!! Thank you!