|the sasquatch. (waywardhunter) wrote in laterally,|
@ 2010-02-04 16:11:00
|Entry tags:||!  quadrivia, * complete,  sam winchester|
WHO ⇔ sam winchester.
WHAT ⇔ arrival.
WHEN ⇔ february 04, 3010, 8 p.m.
WHERE ⇔ the city.
RATING | STATUS ⇔ pg-13. | complete.
A restless night of sleep contributed to the sluggishness with which Sam Winchester woke, but it was the sight surrounding him that could be squarely blamed for his initial open confusion, a confusion that was quickly followed by annoyance and wariness. He was expecting the crappy hotel bed, the nondescript hotel room and, most importantly, the presence of his brother, but what was there was a hard as hell park bench, a snow-covered park and no Dean anywhere. Instinct called for shock, but experience just called for caution, as waking up to something unfamiliar or outright impossible had happened in recent memory, thanks to dreams being the only way Lucifer could reach him.
The bench was too small for his large frame, but the soft thump that accompanied Sam moving into an upright position gave him the first real clue to all of this. In the bright light of the park streetlamps, the silver parts of the journal now on the ground gleamed, and after a few minutes of silent debate with himself, the journal was set, open, on the bench beside him. It had an old look to it, but it was the bookplate inside and a few handwritten sentences inside that kept Sam's interest.
"The answers you no doubt seek lay within these pages," he read, annoyance deepening as he continued. "As ink flows freely, so too will understanding."
The cryptic notation did little to ease his mind, but in all honesty, Sam didn't think anyone in their right mind would think that writing in a journal would give them answers, unless it was a therapist, and if this dream was going to be a rehash of the mental hospital, Sam wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
Truthfully, though it would be a petty victory to avoid playing along with Lucifer's newest dream game, Sam wanted it just the same. He was sick of feeling like no matter how hard he fought against "destiny", something would step in his path to try and push him closer to that end game and he couldn't do anything about it.
Jaw set stubbornly due to a mind firmly made up, he settled in on the bench with his arms crossed, the picture of non-compliance with Lucifer's latest game.
"Screw it," Sam muttered, glaring one final time at the journal before picking it up. An hour of passive resistance to playing along had only resulted in his outer extremities feeling like they were frozen straight through to the bone. He wasn't certain he would be able to write, but he was sick of trying to force himself awake or dream himself someplace warmer with no results.
Could dreams go on forever? Was it possible he could live out a days or weeks or even longer in this snowy park of the mind? As much as he wanted to stick it to Lucifer in this small way, Sam really didn't want to find out if that was possible. The idea that he probably wouldn't be able to die in a dream without Lucifer losing his vessel to a real death wasn't certain enough, or honestly, all that appealing as a stance.
And so, with a bit of childish spite, Sam settled in to give the fallen angel something to see in his 'frigging journal'.