ultraviolet9a | Now amongst the alien gods

>> Now amongst the alien gods

TITLE: Now amongst the alien gods

AUTHOR:

ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for 3.11 (just a hint) but mostly for the end of season 2.

GENRE: Gen

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester

SUMMARY: I… can’t tell you. But it’s Sam. And it’s all about Dean. Like always. (and heh. Aren’t you curious about that curved knife Sam cradles in the old promo pics?)

RATING: PG13

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except the word weaving and the twist in the fic.

NOTE: The first page was written long before 3.11, but 3.11 is what made me say hey. Let’s just finish the damn piece, so I merely wrote two more words to add the 3.11 thing in it. So there.

NOTE2: for

buffyaddict13 cuz she gives me ripped out hearts ~~like Angelus~~.

NOTE3: beta by shiny

csweird

Descending

.:::.

He takes all of his clothes off. He knows there is nothing he can take with him.

And he’s no fool. He’s got a cold practical mind hardened at crossroads and darkness and knives on his back. Guns. And Tricksters. Lines that run through his face, and now his hair is pushed back from his eyes (he was beautiful once, beautiful like a statue, and the beauty is still there, except now the first thing you see is the cold and unbent).

Dean would have gotten a shock. Sam’s his father’s son. He too is willing to spend a lifetime following one.single.cause. He won’t rush into it; he’s too smart for that and he can harness impatience and grief.

He prepares.

.:::.

Now

.:::.

It takes him ten years to figure out a way. Ten years of finding Bela and not finding the Colt (and then there is no more Bela); ten years of finding and learning the way. Ten years of fucking Jo in consolation (more hers than his), ten years of not forgetting, not settling in comfortable beds, not tasting what he’s eating, because he mustn’t enjoy life, not this way, not when he’s not done yet.

Ten years of letting it all fall piece by piece in place. Letting most of him fall piece by piece to Lethe, stripped down layer by layer. What he can’t use he can’t need, so away with it.

Like easy laughter. Like the soft warm core Jess always said she felt with him. It’s not about that anymore. And Jess has been long gone. Almost everyone is long gone, at least everyone that matters to him, so that layer has to go too.

Like the dream of a life his brother wanted for him. Little pieces of Sam sliding down like water, down an invisible drain. He doesn’t care. He has forgotten how to. His mind works in hard angles and edges now, in stark contrasts of black and white, and he’s learning to ignore Bobby looking at him, worried.

“You sure about this?” Bobby asks, but the answer is a given. Has been a given for the last ten years, ten years of Sam getting what he needs in order to get what he wants.

“You sure about this?” Bobby asks again. Sam’s jaw flicks momentarily. Bobby nods. His hand is trembling as it reaches Sam’s skin, but when there is contact it’s as steady as Dean’s gun hand.

.:::.

Now amongst

.:::.

It takes two years till Bobby can trust his own hands, two years of him asking Sam to change his mind.

“I want you to do it,” Sam says. “You’re the only one I trust.” And that’s all there is to it.

.:::.

Now

.:::.

It hurts like hell and it has to be done the old way. Sam sits back, and Bobby starts. Time feels infinite. Time feels finite. When Bobby wipes on Sam’s chest the cloth comes away with blood. He continues, moves down the abdomen. When it’s done, pigment and skin and blood are one and the same.

“You need to heal,” Bobby says.

“Not where I’m going,” Sam replies. “We started this now, Bobby. No turning back.”

“You started it the day he left, Sam,” Bobby replies, then nods. “No turning back.”

Then he hugs him and the hug is light and careful so as not to touch the front of Sam’s torso.

It should have hurt. Part of Sam knows that, but his pain is irrelevant and doesn’t matter. Not where he wants to go.

.:::.

Now amongst the alien gods

.:::.

Cornmeal, pollen, charcoal, sand pour from his fingers onto the ground, the movement spitting out ravens and horses, knots and patterns. Stars overhead and the fire roaring beside him, Bobby watching, keeping guard and all Sam can think of is the powder-like substances forming the shapes mirrored on his chest and stomach.

Only one thing missing.

The knife is cold as he places it on the ground, consecrated between the horse and the raven. The blade is huge and curved and catches the light of the fire. It’s not a sacred knife (not like Ruby’s, and he remembers the feeling of killing her with her own dagger as the war raged). Dean got it for him on his sixteenth birthday with a hug and a grin that said “neat, huh, Sammy?” and love he never let go. So it’s not sacred.

It’s the most sacred knife of all.

On the ground, glinting. On his abdomen, etched and curving and following every move he makes.

Sam lies down. Feels the sky heavy above him and the ground steady beneath him and the wind silent of prayers and the fire crackling the same old song.

In his mind he’s already started chanting, till his body is merely part of the world and the skin an irrelevant barrier and he’s soaring high like an eagle, a barely visible ribbon of silver trailing behind him, anchoring him like a kite.

He can see the fire from above, the cemetery around him, Bobby’s shape catching shadows in the flame. He can see himself, pure and unrestricted, but then he’s soaring even higher into the night, part of the darkness.

There’s freedom here, unexpected serenity, and forgetting could be easy, Sam knows: there are always traps in the journeys, Sirens and Scyllas, but he won’t forget. Because travelling high with the silver line catching him, is Sam’s knife.

“Show me Hell,” the part that is Sam whispers to the wind, and then he plunges downward, till he’s afraid he’ll fall into that other Sam, laying there with closed eyes and tattoos covering his skin. The knife, the real knife seems to shimmer and Bobby’s head swerves around as if he can feel him, that other Sam, and there is still freedom, freedom in being a part of the world, and serenity, and Sam could have it all.

He’s a Winchester. He holds his purpose. He never asked for serenity. All he wants is Dean.

The Devil’s Gate is wrapped in shadows.

Like the wind through trees, Sam enters.

.:::.

Now amongst the alien gods with weapons of magic am I

.:::.

Sam doesn’t want to remember. The trials. The carnage. The fire. The sulphur.

Sam wants for Dean to remember he’s Dean, and he does. He grows brighter and stronger when Sam frees him, waves of worry and pain and love radiating around him like waves hotter than any fire, as Sam’s knife carves and slashes and kills anything in their way; this is the most sacred weapon of all.

It takes a long while to find a way back, because the silver line doesn’t show clearly through the fire and the sulphur, but bit by bit, like Theseus, they find their way, and though the Gate is meant to keep everything in, the Horse and the Raven slip Dean and Sam through and he hacks and slashes and kills anything else that walked outside with them.

Darkness seems lighter, less silent, and the feeling of freedom and world and lack of pain spreads around them like a high tide, drowning them, turning into a vortex that pushes them again soaring into the sky and this, this is freedom, this is happiness, this is joy, and after ten years Sam feels alive again.

The silver line connecting Sam’s soul to his body is shining brighter than ever as he holds on to Dean’s, and Dean says oh Sam and what have you done and get back and I love you and Sam Sam Sam.

And Sam knows this is how it would have ended either way. All deals are off.

In the oncoming dawn he is happy. And suddenly the feeling of peace and belonging seem spiked with grief, and Sam realizes that it’s Bobby’s grief that is moving through continents and he knows that Bobby has always, always known what the plan was even if Sam never told him, and his love for Bobby only grows stronger.

This is how it would end either way, and Sam won’t change it. He’s had ten years without having them, cuz life without Dean isn’t life he can live. This… this is what he wants.

Holding on to his brother, Sam takes the knife and cuts the silver line. It fades and shimmers like stardust before it disappears bleeding into the colours of the new day, and they are soaring and soaring, till he can’t see the dawn, can’t see Bobby, nor the fire, nor himself, just the world, the soaring, the belonging, his brother, peace.

.:::.

Ascension.

-The End.

Now amongst the alien gods

with weapons of magic am I

-Navajo protection song-

SIDENOTE: Have I ever told you that I had the coolest classes ever in my pre grad degree? And that I had also taken a class on Native American Indian Literature one semester?

So anyway, the above part of the protection song? Had haunted me since I ever came across it (while looking for other texts. Sheesh.) Must be over seven years now and it still makes something clench in my chest.

So I sort of… I mixed up elements of Navajo rituals with astral projection (I remember reading in wikipedia how the “astral body” seems to be linked to the physical plane with a silver ribbon like thing) and tattoos and quite a dose of my own fancy, to be honest (like how objects that hold a meaning for you actually tie you to the person that gave them to you. I know, I know, stupid, but, I’m hopelessly emotional that way) because… well… I don’t know why, really, except that, since I already had the first half of the fic written, I might as well finish it. Right?

Plot donkey stable vs. ultraviolet: 0-1. HAH.