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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

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in support of wildfire relief, @bulbuli83 donated $50 and requested ‘Sam showing how far he’ll go to save Dean’. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

Sam prays, every day. He keeps it secret, sort of, although it's less that he's hiding and more that he just doesn't know how to talk about it, and so he doesn't. He picked it up when they were really little, staying with Pastor Jim up in Blue Earth, and he was staying up past his bedtime and saw Jim go down to his knees on the dusty floorboards through a crack in the door, and watched, amazed, while he talked quietly to someone who wasn't there. An imaginary friend, is how Sam thought of it when he was small. When he got bigger he thought of it as… he doesn't know. It's hard to articulate.

It's harder to pray, some days. People die and worlds end. He watches a wife crouched by the broken body of her husband, gripping his ripped bloody shirt and making these awful, awful sounds into his sagging neck, and that night while he lies sleepless in bed he looks up at the ceiling, his hands locked together over his stomach, and he thinks—things he can't say. Questions that don't have an answer. Intellectually, he knows that half of this is just talking to himself—reflection, indecision. Justification. There's never an answer, and for a long time he thinks there never will be. Then, he meets an angel.

It was a bad year. He thought before that he'd been through bad. He had no idea what bad was until Dean's timer was ticking down, the days slipping away from them both like a paper blown on the wind, always just out of reach. Dean acted casual and it was a lie and Sam hated it more than he hated anything. Then, Dean wasn't lying anymore, and Sam thought, bleakly ironic, maybe he should've been happy with the fake smiling and the devil-may-care, because Dean hollow-eyed and afraid was—worse. It was worse.

He prayed then, too. Asking, in an incoherent way. He didn't often get on his knees for it, but he did those last months, in random places—by his bed like a little kid when Dean was sleeping troubled; in the bathroom under fluorescent light, the shower running to provide the excuse for privacy; on the cold ground, on the side of the road or in the woods, his hands clasped so tight they hurt, just asking, asking, saying please. Of course there was never a response. One day, when there were just weeks left on Dean's deal and Dean was waking out of panting desperate nightmares every morning and Sam could hardly eat, could barely sleep, all his focus locked onto finding some way, getting out of it somehow, he was on his knees by the car, his shoulder leaned against the cold side-panel and his lips moving in something furtive, desperate, saying I'd do anything, I swear I would, I'd give up whatever it took, if only—and then he opened his eyes, and Ruby was standing there, watching him.

There's a story he always liked. Sort of a joke, sort of not. A man's house is flooding and he prays to God for help. The waters rise, inevitably. A neighbor comes by with a rowboat, and the neighbor says, come on, there's a flood!, but the man says that no, he'll stay, because he's a faithful man and he knows that God will save him. The waters keep rising and the man has to go to the second floor of his house. A police boat comes by, and the police say, sir, sir, come out of your house, there's a flood!, but the man is faithful, and he says no, he will stay, because God loves him, and will save him. The waters rise. The man climbs up to the roof. A rescue helicopter comes, and a rope hangs down, and the flood surges dangerous all around, cracking trees and threatening foundations, and from the helicopter comes a voice that says, sir, the town is gone, you must come with us to be safe. The man sits alone, on the roof, and ignores the rope, and looks to the sky, and the helicopter leaves, and the man is content because he knows that God will save him. When the house shatters—when the man drowns, brackish water filling his lungs—he goes to heaven, and is met by God, and he says Heavenly Father, I prayed, and I believed in you, and I thought you loved me, and you didn't save me. God says, I sent a rowboat, and the police, and a damn helicopter. What else do I gotta do, you idiot?

Dean died. Sam—didn't. He tried to for a while but it didn't stick. He got very, very drunk, and he went to his knees mainly because he was struggling to stand, and he braced his hands on the ground and thought he was going to puke, his shoulders hunched against the pain of it, and he said, or thought he said, I would've done anything, I promised you, I said—I said I would save him and I couldn't save him, and that's the meat of it, in the end. That he had made Dean a promise and he'd seen how Dean tried to believe him, and then he broke it. He didn't do the only thing that mattered. He hunched there, on the ground, and it was only when Ruby came and touched his shoulder, lifted him up, that he realized that he hadn't really been praying the whole time—that he'd been begging—and Ruby said, then, her little hands hard on his wrist and on his jaw, You can't fix it, Sam. You can't. No one can. The only thing we can do now is get revenge. If you let me help you, we can kill her. You and me. He swayed on his feet but she held him up, her eyes dark and steady. He thought of water, rising. Tell me how, he said, and she did.

He'd already broken one promise. It didn't seem that much worse to break another. He drank her blood and he cleared his mind of anything but one goal. Lilith had to die, and the world would be better for her dying. It seemed—not fair, nothing was fair, but it seemed—right. She'd taken something from him. The most important thing. He'd take something from her. When he prayed, for the rest of that year, he prayed not for mercy or for clarity or for wisdom, but for focus. He had one thing he needed to do. He just needed to be able to do it.

Ruby had told him that no one could fix it, and she was right. Dean comes back and Sam can hardly believe it. He holds Dean in his arms and Dean grips his hair, his shoulder, vivid and breathing and real. Dean's alive and he's here, with Sam, and that should resettle the world. It should make things—okay, again. It doesn't. Dean says he doesn't remember hell but his eyes are still haunted, as raw and fearful as he was in the months that led up to his dying. Dean says things are okay, that he wants to make it work, but he's harsher, his voice wrecked and low, the way he watches Sam strange and mistrustful. They meet—and Sam can hardly bear it—an angel, and Sam's whole body feels strange, resonant. Proof, if he ever needed it, when faith had always been enough. The angel looks at him and is an answer—God's warrior, solid on the earth—and he says to Sam that he is an abomination, and he says to Sam that what he's doing, his work, the only thing that had made sense out of Sam's life for the broken time when Dean was gone—he says that it's wrong, and he has to stop, and that the angels will take care of it.

Of course, they won't. Sam knows that. Angels are miracles, God's intervening hand, but Sam has to do this himself. That's been clear for a long time, now.

He prays still but it's to something distant. He doesn't know if it's God, anymore. He sits on his bed, watching Dean sleeping (troubled, frowning), and he folds his hands between his knees and thinks, what can he do? How can he make it right, make it better?

There's a fight. An alley, a hard fast scrum. They're looking for one of these stupid seals, at the behest of the angels, but apparently the angels can't be trusted to watch their backs. In the alley they're all normal-looking guys except for how their eyes go black, when Sam comes around the corner and finds them with Dean, and Dean's bleeding. Dean's bleeding, from his nose and his lips, a cut on his temple like someone bashed his head into the wall, and even if Sam's had the impulse to do the same a few times in his life, other people aren't allowed to hurt him. What has it all been for, if not for that?

"Sam," Dean says, warning—warning, like there's not a demon's hand around his throat.

One of them squares up. Four, in the alley, two on Dean, one watching, one making like he thinks he's going to take Sam down. Last night Sam prayed and Ruby came, telling him that they were close to Lilith, that they were going to make it right, and she nicked her wrist and he drank deep and it's still there, crackling under his skin, filling his bones with light. He holds out a hand and the demon going for a haymaker stops in his tracks, flinches. There's a rustle. Leaves blowing, underfoot.

Sam concentrates but it turns out that it's not all that hard to concentrate, anymore. He's focused. He has clarity of purpose, and all the belief he needs, because it's easy to believe when the proof's right there in front of you. The demons surge at him and he stops them all, two hands out and his eyes half-lidded, the light in him roiling up, yoked to his needs. The one holding Dean lets go and Dean sags, his legs unsteady after that head wound, but Sam doesn't have time for him right this second—it's more important to make sure that the one who was touching Dean dies, and—he dies. The smoke in him gutters out, his spark crackling and then snuffed, like a fire without oxygen. The others go—more slowly, all three at once, and Sam breathes and feels them ebb, their soured souls trapped inside their mouths, the pain flaring and the light in Sam white-hot, bright, scorching them away until the bodies drop, empty, broken in the scattered leaves and trash of the alleyway. None of them stand up. The meatsuits must have been destroyed, too. Sam breathes out, rolling one shoulder, and feels—righteous. It'll be like that, he thinks. It'll be this way, when he finally kills Lilith.

Dean's still crouched by the wall of the bar. Sam steps over the bodies, crouches too. Dean flinches back a few inches but Sam shushes him, touches his jaw. "It's okay," he says, "it's over," and Dean sucks in air and looks at him with big worried eyes, but it is okay. Sam made it okay.

He runs his hands over Dean's shoulders and then gets his forearms, helps him up to his feet. No broken bones, that Sam can tell, and he gently presses Dean back against the bricks and tilts his face toward the neon light. In the blinking blue-red-white the blood looks bad, but it's been worse, and Sam applies a crumpled bandana from his pocket to the spot by Dean's temple where it's still seeping. Dean's eyes are closed, his face turned a little away. Sam touches his throat and feels his heartbeat, racing. They haven't been this close in weeks—Sam's heart is racing a little, too.

"I know you don't like them," Sam says, quietly. "My powers, I mean. But—if there's a way to save you, I'm gonna take it. If there's a way to fix things, to make it better—take out Lilith, stop all these seals from falling—then I'm gonna do it. I can do it, Dean."

Dean shifts against the wall but Sam holds him in place. Dean goes still. "The angels don't like it, Sam," he says. His voice sounds wrecked, like he's been yelling. Was he yelling, during the fight? Sam can't remember. "They say it's—wrong."

"Well, they're wrong," Sam says, and Dean opens his eyes, and Sam smiles at him, and shrugs. "I mean, how can it be wrong? Look," he says, and Dean looks, at the alleyway with the bodies filling it. His eyes are hooded a little but when the neon sign flashes white, Sam can see the green. He takes the bandana away and cups his hands around Dean's jaw, instead, turning his head back, and Dean's eyes are still lowered, fixed on Sam's chest, his breathing heavy. That's okay. Everything's okay.

"No one's going to touch you, again," Sam says. He's broken two promises, already. This third one, he can keep. "I swear. I'm gonna keep you safe, okay? And there's nothing any of the angels or any of the demons can do about it."

"You swear?" Dean says.

Sam frames Dean's face with his hands, the light still churning inside him. He leans in, and Dean's head tips back against the brick wall, and he looks Sam in the eyes finally, and his lips part, a breath heaving in. Sam could answer, but he thinks this is answer enough—he bends his head and kisses Dean, carefully, like they haven't in—god, months and months and months, with things so strange between them. He moves his mouth very softly, aware of how Dean's bleeding with that cut inside his lip, and Dean shudders under his hands, grips Sam's jacket, but then—slowly, tentatively, he kisses back. His tongue tastes like dark iron, like copper's tang. Sam pulls him in, closer, and Dean makes a small deep sound and presses close, just like Sam wanted, and Sam thinks, giddy, that all his faith was worth it. All those prayers, all those works. He did what he had to, and in reward he has—this. Dean, safe and his. Above them, it starts to rain.

#fffr #bulbuli83 #wincest #dark!sam #powers!sam #my writing #--sort of dubcon but sort of not #idk

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

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@silver9mm (tag-bud <3) tagged me yonks ago to do this little question thing and I am having a Day so I’m going to do it and think of happier things--

𝕎𝕙𝕠 𝕕𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕡 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕖?

Hm. I think of all my acquaintance it’s probably @nigeltde-fic. I don’t know very many other people who back up their worried thoughts and money-gifting with actual action.

𝕊𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 (𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕠𝕕) 𝕓𝕪 𝕒𝕔𝕔𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕒𝕤 𝕒 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕?

not me. My best friend once tore off the metal tab part of a soda can and dropped it in her soda and then, shocker, when she kept drinking the soda she swallowed the tab. Cue much coughing and puking. This is embarrassing, but it’s more embarrassing because she was seventeen.

𝕂𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕦𝕘𝕤? 𝕆𝕣 𝕋𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞?

I kill them. :< I’m a coward about bugs and they scare me and no. Only inside my house, though; I figure if the bug is outside, that’s their house, and so if they want to kill me that’s fair dues.

𝔸𝕟𝕪 𝕒𝕕𝕧𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕒 𝕗𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕠𝕣 𝔻𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕕 𝕋𝕣𝕦𝕞𝕡?

copying silver here--I try to stay far away from both. One thing that might help both, though, is: maybe try to pretend sometimes like you care about anyone that’s not yourself. Even if it doesn’t actually work, maybe you can fake it ‘til you make it.

𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕣𝕪…

traveling alone.

𝕀 𝕨𝕚𝕤𝕙 𝕞𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕣…

wouldn’t frizz out into a dandelion if I touch it more than twice.

𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕘𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕦𝕡 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕡𝕙𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝔼𝕄𝔸𝕀𝕃? 𝕋𝔼𝕏𝕋? 𝕠𝕣 ℂ𝔸𝕄𝔼ℝ𝔸? (𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕠𝕟𝕖!)

camera, for sure.

ℂ𝕠𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕜?

on the Ezra Klein Show, learned about how the Congressional Budget Office was formed from its founder, Alice Rivlin, who’s a totally fascinating person--her thoughts about how economics has become too quantitative were really interesting.

𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟’𝕥 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗…

the jingly proximity alarm from my Ring, because I get nervous and worried now every time it goes off.

𝕎𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟 𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕣𝕒 𝕕𝕒𝕪’𝕤 𝕡𝕒𝕪 𝕝𝕦𝕞𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕡𝕒𝕪𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕔𝕜 𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕜 𝕠𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟 𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕣𝕒 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕜?

extra day off each week, hundred percent. especially since there’s absolutely no reason I couldn’t get paid the same.

𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕒𝕪 ℕ𝕆 𝕥𝕠…

raisins.

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠, 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕥?

talk to my mom on the phone an average of two hours a day

𝕃𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕧𝕖𝕘𝕖𝕥𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖?

raw tomato

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕞 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕣𝕖𝕕?

my underwear. it’s very very close.

𝔽𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖 𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕣 𝕗𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖?

the twelve dancing princesses

𝕋𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕤 𝕖𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕠𝕣 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕥𝕠.

I dreamed that a strange combination of fictional characters and family members (dead or otherwise) were an almost tabletop-style party, and we were trying to solve a case where there was a serial killer of some kind who was leaving clues. In the part of the dream I remember, I left the family-party with the van in the dark street by the lake because there was one last clue I wanted to check--back at the 70s style restaurant, all foggy glass and amber light. A clue, folded in a napkin in the lobby--a creep up the back stairs, to the apartment above--entering, and getting immediately grabbed by the thing inside, which was like a man but not--an automaton or a golem, smooth-skinned and strong and blank-minded--and it started raping me but that wasn’t important, because I knew that this was the real clue--and so I maneuvered us over to the bath, and drowned it there slowly--and out of the dead man’s mouth swarmed a tentacley inhuman thing which I knew then was trying to infiltrate me (hence the rape) and kill the party, and so I killed it with an iron poker by stabbing it as it writhed on the wet floor, and felt relief. Then I woke up.

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕦𝕤𝕦𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕕𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕚𝕕𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 (𝕡𝕣𝕖-𝕢𝕦𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖)?

I used to be asleep at midnight. Now I’m often rereading old discord conversations. idk, I find it weirdly soothing.

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔��𝕟 𝕕𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕖 𝕡𝕖𝕠𝕡𝕝𝕖?

it’s only a surprise if they would expect something from me. I don’t know--I can be extremely charming at a party.

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕛𝕠𝕓 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕒 𝕗𝕚𝕝𝕞 𝕤𝕖𝕥?

script supervisor

ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕖𝕠𝕡𝕝𝕖?

nitpicking; loyalty above sense; thinking their memory is infallible

𝔹𝕆ℕ𝕌𝕊: 𝕊𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕡𝕒𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕡𝕙𝕠𝕟𝕖.

my phone background is boring; here’s my current desktop wallpaper:

random questions for some slightly random people--

@moonlightdistractions; @marrieddorks; @bulbuli83; @zoycitem; @unhawkeye; @angeredcrow; @fictionallemons

#ask meme #just kinda fished through my followers list #if you feel like having a slumber party now's the time

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