Sam Winchester (unusinatrum) wrote in hideyokidz, @ 2012-01-07 00:40:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | [scene], nuttysam (papillon), raguel |
Who? NuttySam and Raguel
What? NuttySam finally snaps.
Where? A roof!
When? Night, sometime.
Rating? Highish. This will not be happy funtimes.
It’s dark. It’s always dark, even when it isn’t, always dimmer than it should be, or at least that’s how Sam sees things. Things used to be brighter, sometimes. Morning was bright. The sun at noon, at early evening, cast sharp shadows in the wake of the brilliance and warmth. It only became dark once the sun set, back then. Now, though, even in the light it was dark, and even in the dark he saw spots, little suns, little stars in the air around him, stars in the ceiling and the walls and behind his closed eyes, bright points of light that just made everything else darker.
He had a feeling, sometimes, like things were tilting out of control. He’d always known it was inevitable - he was broken, not stupid - but he’d always thought someday would never really get here. It would never really happen because it would never be time - he would die before then, he’d always thought, imagined it so many times, everything just stopping, no more of this frantic, manic energy or complete listlessness he couldn’t shake, no more of this pain or rage or...
...but it didn’t work that way, he was realizing now, because nothing felt right, skin bones muscles cells dancing on the edge of something, something dangerous. It was much like the way his thoughts crept closer to the chaos he knew was there waiting, the edges of madness twisting together to form a net, and this time he didn’t think he would get free.
He’d tried. He had, he had really tried to stay good and stay clean and live here in these strange apartments with alternate versions of himself all around and alternate Deans and Jos (the Jo who he’d left sleeping in their apartment, both the dogs on top of her, and Dusty had looked at him like she wanted to follow but she didn’t dare; he knew they were starting to be afraid of him, and he thought they were probably smarter than the people who kept trying to get close) and an angel he didn’t deserve who had thought he deserved mercy and offered to take his guilt from him, he’d tried to do this for all of them and for the memory of his own Dean, because (no matter how much Sam had tried to hate him for it, no matter how much he’d tried to pretend he didn’t care) that was what Dean would have wanted.
He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t, and he can’t, and he doesn’t know what he can do except this, standing on a roof, staring at the sky, and there’s something sharp and bright clutched tight in his hands, and he set it down, shaking, and there’s this sick dry gritty burn in his veins and he knows he’s going to hate himself for this but he doesn’t know what else to do, everything is coming undone, fabric unwinding at both ends until there’s nothing but strings, and those strings aren’t strings because they’re the ropes, the net that keeps him tangled here. His freedom is his net is his freedom; it’s complicated and so simple all at the same time.
He can get out of here, he’s sure he can. There’s a way, it’s been there, right in front of him all this time and he hadn’t wanted to see it because if he saw it, if he saw what was there and what he had to do, it would hurt like it hurts now, so he’d ignored it, put on smiles and gone on walks and talked about the rain and he’d lied to himself and thought this could be okay. He’d hoped that maybe...
It didn’t matter what he’d hoped for, though, did it? It never did. He’d hoped for a normal life once before. He’d hoped he could save his brother, hoped he could bring him back. Now hoping for... for this - whatever this was - to work when she was who she was, when he was what he was... it was foolish, and he couldn’t afford to let it fall down around him like it would, he knew it would.
He had to tear it down, himself, or die trying.
Sam wasn’t entirely sure which he wanted more. It didn’t matter, they were the only two options he had; one would be just as good as the other.
He’d imagined this too many times already. For weeks, it had come creeping in the corners whenever he saw her. Her eyes were steady when they caught his, locked as if she saw nothing wrong - while his caught on her neck, her wrists, the smooth pale skin where he could see the faint lines of her veins, the subtle flutter of a pulse that she didn’t even need to have. He would imagine reaching out to touch her - lightly, fingertips on her skin, cautious and reverent, because she was something pure and something that should destroy him for daring to touch it, for daring to ruin that purity with the touch of an abomination.
Here his imagination had balked, unsure. Would she recoil, disgusted? Would she tense up, feeling the stain of his tarnished soul but choosing not to turn him away? Would she lean in, ignoring what he was entirely, let him pull her to him and kiss her? He preferred the last option, even though it would be more painful, in the end. It would make things easier when he turned on her; it would be so much easier to cut her throat and take her blood, stain himself in it until he knew there would be no going back, so much easier if she didn’t ever suspect it, so much easier if he could say good-bye.
From there, he would take on the rest of the angels, one by one. He would have to, they’d all be coming for him. He didn’t know if he could take them all on at once, but individually... he’d be stronger, so strong, after her blood, he knew he would be. And he would be calmer than he’d ever been. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt anymore - he knew angels didn’t feel the same way he did, their emotions weren’t quite so intense, and he thought with enough of their blood - her blood - maybe he wouldn’t feel anything, anymore.
Maybe if he had enough of it, it would kill him, find it’s way to the stain in his soul and tear him apart, burn him away from the inside.
He didn’t have to shout at the heavens to call her to him, he didn’t have to do more than whisper her name, he knew, and his eyes were burning, tracing the tracks of the stars and the not-stars, blurring the real ones and illuminating the false ones brighter as tears blurred reality for a second. “Raguel?”
In the end, everything he believed in had to die.