Brilliant Light of Morning
folder
Supernatural › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
11
Views:
6,337
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Supernatural › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
11
Views:
6,337
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Supernatural, nor any of the characters herein. I make no money from this.
When The Levee Breaks
A/N: Sorry this one took so long. I didn’t lose interest after the pr0n, I promise!! I just really wanted to do justice to this episode, which is one of the most heart wrenching I’ve ever seen, so it’s been rewritten several times. I finally said “Fuck it!” and decided to post it, because if I screwed with it anymore, it would NEVER get done. So here it is, belatedly, but hopefully worth it *fingers crossed*. Loves, Jane
4-21: When The Levee Breaks
Sam was not Sam. No, he was Sam, but he was a different Sam. He was... was he the Sam who offered cereal prizes to his green-eyed hero? Or the Sam who bullied bullies, or the Sam who tried on his father's boots and tromped around until aforementioned green-eyed hero dissolved into tearful laughter? Was he the Sam who sometimes hated his mother for leaving, for creating his father, for not caring enough? Or was he the Sam who broke, the Sam who loved and hated and envied and despised and worshipped and sneered at the green-eyed boy who he tried to be, who he was always better than, who he could never measure up to?
"Never, never." The words were gruff, and though Sam was not stupid, no matter which Sam he was, he couldn't help but cringe at the sound of his dead father's voice. "Never be him, Sammy-boy. Dean is the best there ever was; he's strong and smart and better. And it took the horrors of Hell to break him, but you, m'boy... you were still here. You were still here, and you broke, you broke so hard, and into so many pieces, and you'll never be him. He doesn't trust you Sam, he's got that angel of his all set to replace you, and what did you get? A whore of a demon, who whispered promises of salvation and gave you blood and pain. And Dean? Dean tortured souls in Hell and is given an angel, a bonafide servant a’ God, while you wallow in thick red and sulfur.”
Sam covered his face and cried, heaving sobs that tore at his lungs, not because of what his dream-father was saying, but because despite all of it, he still wanted the demon blood.
And he knew that he may have lost his green-eyed hero. And what hurt the worst was that the blood was telling him he didn‘t care.
*************
Dean’s skin crawled and writhed and burned, because Sam was in pain, and every instinct in him cried out for him to stop it, to kill whatever was hurting his brother, because this was Sam, and Sam was everything.
Except that he wasn’t anymore. He used to be; before Dad died, before they caught Azazel’s trail. Sam was the beginning and the end, alpha and omega, and Dean worshipped at the altar of Samuel Winchester, because that was his brother, that was his boy, that was Sammy-mother-fucking-Winchester, make way because he’s gonna be somebody, he’s gonna be a big-shot lawyer, be a husband and a father, and everything Dean was too weak to be.
But then came Bobby. Bobby, and Ellen, and Jo, and Ash, and Dean’s altar grew bigger, and he desperately tried not to let it, because the more people you love, the more you get hurt, his mother taught him that, pinned to the ceiling in her ripped and bloody nightgown. He wasn’t even sure if his father knew, knew that he’d seen her like that, had seen what Azazel did to her.
And then came Castiel. Castiel, who had laid siege to Hell, had watched Dean torture the souls of innocents, and who had raised him up, restored his flesh and looked on him with grace and faith, things he didn’t deserve.
And who had left him.
Like everyone.
Except Sam.
Dean loved Sam so much it felt wrong; how was it possible to love anymore more than the world, more than life, more than air and food and being? Twenty-six years ago, he’d been handed a child, cold and empty and waiting to be shown everything, and he’d failed. He hadn’t taught Sam how to live; he’d taught him how to kill and how to die. And it occurred to Dean then that he’d never once, not once in all the twenty-six years since Mary Winchester writhed and bled and burned on her infant son’s ceiling, not once had he uttered the words, “I love you.” Not even to Sam.
Not even to Sam, dear God, what was wrong with him, what had broken inside Dean so deeply that he couldn’t say three little words? Even to the person of whom they were most true, the only person in the world he felt really deserved them. Jesus, Dean was fucked. He was fucked in the head, fucked in the heart, and everything about him was wrong.
But he couldn't give in. Because even as he listened to Sam cry out in pain, scream and babble to people who weren't there, as much as it tore him up inside, he knew he was doing the right thing. Because his Sammy, his Sammy, would never want to be a monster. Never.
Small consolation when those cries rang in Dean's ears.
*************
Castiel could hear Dean calling him, felt Dean's pain like a knife in his own gut, but he hesitated. Being around Dean was dangerous. Even now, with his voice sliding over Castiel's skin from miles away, he felt his resolve wavering, felt desire well up in him. Dean was pure temptation, lust and sin and strength in a package of sinewy and freckles and bright green eyes, and Castiel wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.
And then, quite suddenly, he couldn't anymore. And he found himself twenty feet from an angry, helpless, lost Dean Winchester, and it took every ounce of self-control in him to refrain from going to the boy, wrapping his arms and wings around him, sinking to their knees, and falling into oblivion. "It's about time," came Dean's voice, rough from abuse. "I've screaming myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours."
As if Castiel didn't know, as if he didn't feel every single second of Dean's pain as his own. "What do you want?" It hurt to speak, hurt to move, hurt to breathe. For the first time, Castiel was experiencing hate. He hated Zachariah, for putting him in this position, for assigning him to Dean in the first place. He hated Anna for the few moments of earthly bliss she'd shared with Dean, while Castiel was granted only a dream. He hated Sam for betraying Dean's trust so utterly. He even hated Dean a little, for being so... Dean. And he hated himself, hated his weakness, his grace.
But most of all, and most painful of all, he hated God.
His Father was perched somewhere, watching a righteous man writhe in heartbreak and terror, the righteous man who... who will carry His most fearsome weapon. And He was doing nothing. Nothing.
Castiel had never felt his Father's absence so palpably as he did then.
And he wondered if it was like being human.
"Dean, I can't." he heard himself saying, meaningfully, urgently. Because he wanted Dean to believe, wanted Dean to know that he had no choice, that he lo- cared for Dean, and that all of this was out of Castiel's control. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if Dean still thought him beautiful.
Because all Castiel could feel was hate.
4-21: When The Levee Breaks
Sam was not Sam. No, he was Sam, but he was a different Sam. He was... was he the Sam who offered cereal prizes to his green-eyed hero? Or the Sam who bullied bullies, or the Sam who tried on his father's boots and tromped around until aforementioned green-eyed hero dissolved into tearful laughter? Was he the Sam who sometimes hated his mother for leaving, for creating his father, for not caring enough? Or was he the Sam who broke, the Sam who loved and hated and envied and despised and worshipped and sneered at the green-eyed boy who he tried to be, who he was always better than, who he could never measure up to?
"Never, never." The words were gruff, and though Sam was not stupid, no matter which Sam he was, he couldn't help but cringe at the sound of his dead father's voice. "Never be him, Sammy-boy. Dean is the best there ever was; he's strong and smart and better. And it took the horrors of Hell to break him, but you, m'boy... you were still here. You were still here, and you broke, you broke so hard, and into so many pieces, and you'll never be him. He doesn't trust you Sam, he's got that angel of his all set to replace you, and what did you get? A whore of a demon, who whispered promises of salvation and gave you blood and pain. And Dean? Dean tortured souls in Hell and is given an angel, a bonafide servant a’ God, while you wallow in thick red and sulfur.”
Sam covered his face and cried, heaving sobs that tore at his lungs, not because of what his dream-father was saying, but because despite all of it, he still wanted the demon blood.
And he knew that he may have lost his green-eyed hero. And what hurt the worst was that the blood was telling him he didn‘t care.
*************
Dean’s skin crawled and writhed and burned, because Sam was in pain, and every instinct in him cried out for him to stop it, to kill whatever was hurting his brother, because this was Sam, and Sam was everything.
Except that he wasn’t anymore. He used to be; before Dad died, before they caught Azazel’s trail. Sam was the beginning and the end, alpha and omega, and Dean worshipped at the altar of Samuel Winchester, because that was his brother, that was his boy, that was Sammy-mother-fucking-Winchester, make way because he’s gonna be somebody, he’s gonna be a big-shot lawyer, be a husband and a father, and everything Dean was too weak to be.
But then came Bobby. Bobby, and Ellen, and Jo, and Ash, and Dean’s altar grew bigger, and he desperately tried not to let it, because the more people you love, the more you get hurt, his mother taught him that, pinned to the ceiling in her ripped and bloody nightgown. He wasn’t even sure if his father knew, knew that he’d seen her like that, had seen what Azazel did to her.
And then came Castiel. Castiel, who had laid siege to Hell, had watched Dean torture the souls of innocents, and who had raised him up, restored his flesh and looked on him with grace and faith, things he didn’t deserve.
And who had left him.
Like everyone.
Except Sam.
Dean loved Sam so much it felt wrong; how was it possible to love anymore more than the world, more than life, more than air and food and being? Twenty-six years ago, he’d been handed a child, cold and empty and waiting to be shown everything, and he’d failed. He hadn’t taught Sam how to live; he’d taught him how to kill and how to die. And it occurred to Dean then that he’d never once, not once in all the twenty-six years since Mary Winchester writhed and bled and burned on her infant son’s ceiling, not once had he uttered the words, “I love you.” Not even to Sam.
Not even to Sam, dear God, what was wrong with him, what had broken inside Dean so deeply that he couldn’t say three little words? Even to the person of whom they were most true, the only person in the world he felt really deserved them. Jesus, Dean was fucked. He was fucked in the head, fucked in the heart, and everything about him was wrong.
But he couldn't give in. Because even as he listened to Sam cry out in pain, scream and babble to people who weren't there, as much as it tore him up inside, he knew he was doing the right thing. Because his Sammy, his Sammy, would never want to be a monster. Never.
Small consolation when those cries rang in Dean's ears.
*************
Castiel could hear Dean calling him, felt Dean's pain like a knife in his own gut, but he hesitated. Being around Dean was dangerous. Even now, with his voice sliding over Castiel's skin from miles away, he felt his resolve wavering, felt desire well up in him. Dean was pure temptation, lust and sin and strength in a package of sinewy and freckles and bright green eyes, and Castiel wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.
And then, quite suddenly, he couldn't anymore. And he found himself twenty feet from an angry, helpless, lost Dean Winchester, and it took every ounce of self-control in him to refrain from going to the boy, wrapping his arms and wings around him, sinking to their knees, and falling into oblivion. "It's about time," came Dean's voice, rough from abuse. "I've screaming myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours."
As if Castiel didn't know, as if he didn't feel every single second of Dean's pain as his own. "What do you want?" It hurt to speak, hurt to move, hurt to breathe. For the first time, Castiel was experiencing hate. He hated Zachariah, for putting him in this position, for assigning him to Dean in the first place. He hated Anna for the few moments of earthly bliss she'd shared with Dean, while Castiel was granted only a dream. He hated Sam for betraying Dean's trust so utterly. He even hated Dean a little, for being so... Dean. And he hated himself, hated his weakness, his grace.
But most of all, and most painful of all, he hated God.
His Father was perched somewhere, watching a righteous man writhe in heartbreak and terror, the righteous man who... who will carry His most fearsome weapon. And He was doing nothing. Nothing.
Castiel had never felt his Father's absence so palpably as he did then.
And he wondered if it was like being human.
"Dean, I can't." he heard himself saying, meaningfully, urgently. Because he wanted Dean to believe, wanted Dean to know that he had no choice, that he lo- cared for Dean, and that all of this was out of Castiel's control. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if Dean still thought him beautiful.
Because all Castiel could feel was hate.