Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Til' Death Do Us Part ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

Til' Death Do Us Part

 

Thanks to Starliteyes for sharing her wonderful beta skills with me.

 

Chapter Two

Sam sat on the edge of the claw foot tub, shivering and naked except for a pair of blue, cotton boxers. He curved his spine outward, pressing his arms against his chest, trying to trap as much heat into his chilled body as possible. He made no move towards the blankets or numerous heat packs piled in the corner of the room, though his highly developed survival instincts were screaming at him to do so. Instead he stared blankly at his silent cell phone that was loosely cradled in his hands.

A cold breeze wafted into the bathroom, carrying the scent of nicotine, and he looked towards the wedged-open window. Ellen was perched on the sill, one leg curled up as she hung her hand outside with her lit cigarette. White paint chips scattered onto the puke-green, tiled floor, where her foot had scraped them off the wooden window pane. She wasn't looking at the half-naked, wet man who crowded most of the small room, but out into the snow-covered nightscape.

They were holed up in a dilapidated farmhouse in the northernmost point in Minnesota, not far from the bar where Jo worked. After the roadhouse burned, Ellen had come to live with her estranged daughter, death and loss providing the bridge they needed to mend their fractured relationship.

It was late spring, but this far north there was still snow on the ground. It was old though; mostly muddy ice that cut your hands if you tried to scoop it up, but the night air still had the sharp chill of winter. Another breeze blew in from the window and Sam shivered.

Ellen glanced at him, her lips tightening as she took in the bluish cast to his skin and the dark rings under his eyes. She took another long drag from her cigarette, before flicking it out of the window and into the snow.

“Another dip?” she asked, standing up from the sill. The cracked floor creaked beneath her weight, and the scattering of dust could be heard in the silent room.

Sam stared up at her, his eyes dark with worry and despair. His emotions were so heavy that Ellen couldn't stand the weight of them and she looked away to the corner, mentally cataloging the supplies stacked there.

Sam shifted, glancing over his shoulder. The old-fashioned tub was filled half way with water, ice cubes floating on the surface. He swished his hand through the water, checking its temperature, before shrugging his shoulders. He stood up, setting his phone on the edge of the sink, and leaned down to pick up another bag of ice. He ripped it open, emptying it into the tub. Icy water splashed over the rim as the level rose a bit more.

For the last hour, Sam had intermittently immersed himself into the tub, first just his limbs, and then his core, slowly but surely dropping his body temperature so he wouldn't go directly into shock. Between dunks, he sat quietly, bare feet on the tile, wet and shivering. It had been the longest, most dreadful hour of his life. He was sure that if he asked, Ellen would agree.

The phone chirped and rattled across the counter. Both Sam and Ellen froze, staring at it like it was heralding the end of the world. Cautiously, Sam reached out his trembling hand, barely able to grasp the small rectangle. His brow furrowed with concentration as he urged his numb fingers to press the buttons needed to check his text messages. There was only a one word message from Dean on the screen.

“Now,” Sam muttered, placing the phone reverently onto the counter, far enough away from the tub that it wouldn't accidently get splashed with water. He thought he heard a small sound of protest from Ellen, but when he turned to look, her face was impassive.

She cut her eyes away from him, and began to roll up the long sleeves to her red and black checkered shirt. Sam dropped his gaze, and silently stepped into the freezing tub of water. The first time he had gotten in, the air had been sucked right out of his lungs it had been so cold, but he had long since started to lose feeling in his feet and hands. Now the shock of the water wasn't nearly as intense, but he could still feel the cold seep into his bones, freezing the blood in his veins.

He braced his hands on the edges and squatted down, a long hiss of air escaping between his teeth as the water crept up his body. His knees locked in protest and he could feel his genitals curl inside the cavern of his body in a desperate retreat from the icy cold. He clenched his eyes shut, and kept his lips clamped together as he lowered the rest of his body into the water, until he was reclining in the tub.

Ellen came up behind him, and his shoulders automatically tightened. She made no move to touch him, but it felt like she was towering over him.

“You're too tall. You're gonna hafta prop your feet up.”

Sam nodded in acknowledgment, but he made no effort to lift his feet out of the water and onto the lip of the tub. He could feel Ellen shift her weight behind him, and he knew that she was taking this just as hard as he was.

“Any last words?” she asked softly.

Sam shook his head, his blue lips still tightly clamped together. He and Dean had said everything there was to say the prior night. Both of them knew that there was a good chance that they both would be burning on a pyre by daybreak. Bobby and Ellen had their instructions if they didn't survive. Their bodies would be burned together until there was nothing left but scorch marks on the ground, then the ashes were to be raked over and a tree planted on top. They wanted nothing to remain of the Winchesters, no way possible for them to come back.

Dean had wanted Bobby to burn the Impala too. There was so much of their blood soaked into the upholstery that if they were to haunt something then it would be that old car. Dean wouldn't admit it, but a tear or two slid down his face when he told Bobby what to do. The thought of his beautiful baby being reduced to burning rubble was almost as upsetting to him as the thought of his little brother with a bullet in his head.

Sam had been standing behind him when Dean made the request, his body bowed with misery. Over his brother's shoulder he met Bobby's sad eyes and quietly shook his head. Dean never saw the nearly imperceptible tilt of the older man's chin, but Sam did. He wouldn't burn the Impala. He would keep her as pristine as Dean did; a monument to the greatest hunters he had ever met. He might regret it in the future, but it wasn't as though he didn't know how to put spirits to rest if that were to be the case.

A tremor traveled through Sam's entire body that was half from the freezing temperature and half from regret. He tried to think how they had come to be at such an impasse; where the struggle to simply live meant killing who they were. Death had been a constant companion since he was six months-old. There hadn't been a time when he hadn't known that he could die at any moment, or that his father or brother could be killed. He had struggled with that knowledge his entire life, rebelling against it until the only recourse that he had left to him was to run as far away as possible, straight into the waiting arms of `normal.'

He had thought college was the answer, but it had been nothing more than a bandage on a seeping wound. A bandage made crusty with the dried blood and sweat of his past so that when it was finally torn off, a part of him went with it. Its removal was so painful that he still screamed with the agony of it in his dreams.

After Stanford, Death had moved back into its rightful place as his shadow, following him wherever he went, but no longer was it in the form of a werewolf's claw or the angry backlash of a spirit. Now Death was the bullet in his .45 as he aimed it at his temple. It was a desperate pact with a devil for just a little more time. It was the freezing cold bath in an old farmhouse in the middle of a pitiless night. Their most fatal enemy now was themselves.

Sam began to slide beneath the water, his breath freezing in his lungs. His first instinct was to inhale, to store as much oxygen as he could in his lungs before going under, but he fought against the urge. As the water closed over his face, he exhaled, pressing all the air that he could from his body. His eyes closed of their own accord, and he could hear the muffled tinkling of ice as the water sluiced around him.

Fingers wrapped themselves around his shoulders, no pressure, just their presence. Sam opened his eyes and above him, through water and ice, he could see the shadowy figure of Ellen as she leaned over. His lungs began to burn and the edges of his vision flickered white. Instinctually, his body started to convulse as his muscles locked up from the lack of oxygenated blood. His veins ran sluggishly, and he could feel a cold press of weight around his heart.

The fingers on his shoulders tightened, and weight bore down on him, keeping him immersed in the water. His rational mind tried to stay in control, but his animal brain panicked. He wanted to grab the delicate wrists attached to the hands that held him down and break them, wrench them away until he was free.

He lifted his hands out of the cold water, and tried to wrap them around Ellen's forearms, but his frozen fingers wouldn't respond. His weakened body, from repeated exposure to the cold, couldn't find the energy necessary to fight for survival. He opened his mouth to scream, but only water flooded in, drowning his throat and lungs.

His eyes widened, and he flailed wildly, unable to coordinate his limbs. His vision began to darken, and his numb fingers slipped against wet skin. All the sudden, every ounce of strength left him, and his arms flopped lifelessly back into the water. Above him, he could still see Ellen's form, but it was blurring away into shadows. The burning in his lungs lessened, and for a fraction of a second he thought he saw Dean's face swim before his eyes, but then he saw nothing but darkness.

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The darkness was infinite. He wanted to look around but he couldn't seem to move his body. A steady dripping sounded in the distance. Repetitive, endless, eternal. The sound echoed around him until he could feel it slide down his spine to gather at the small of his back.

The edges of the darkness blurred with light that suddenly flared. Sam clenched his eyes closed, raising his arm defensively across his face. A few minutes passed and he blinked, dropping his arm to look around.

He was back in the cold bathroom, but he didn't feel half-frozen anymore. The window was still open, and his feet were still bare, but he couldn't feel the air on his skin or the tile beneath his toes.

He turned towards the bath, his entire body becoming paralyzed at what he saw. Ellen was still standing over him, pushing his head beneath the water. His long, naked legs were dangling over the edge of the tub, and he could see his toes curling reflexively. Her checkered shirt was soaked to the skin, and a dark stain was spreading on her blue jeans where the water from his struggles had splashed her.

Her lips were compressed into a thin line and Sam could see something haunted flicker over her rigid face. She began to relax her grip on his shoulders, but then his leg kicked out and her face hardened even more. She bore her weight down on him, keeping him submerged until there wasn't a single tremor in his body.

“Fascinating, isn't' it?”

Sam whipped around to face a petite woman with short dark hair who stood in the doorway. Her eyes were sympathetic and he could see that the corners of her rosy mouth were pulled down into a pout of sadness.

Something profound shimmered through his chest, and he felt his throat tightened with indecipherable emotion. A shiver of recognition traveled up his spine, and he stepped back from her.

“Who are you?” he demanded and he flinched when his voiced bounced off the walls. He glanced back at Ellen, but she showed no signs of hearing him.

“You can call me, Tessa.” The woman disappeared from the portal, and Sam was driven to follow her. He walked away from his body, only glancing back once before walking out the door.

Immediately, he knew that he wasn't in the farmhouse anymore. In fact, he wasn't in Minnesota either. They were walking along the flatlands of a high desert. A full, fat moon rode high in the clear night sky, casting the tall two-armed cacti into dark relief. He half expected to hear a lone coyote howl in the distance, but maybe that would be too much. Sam glanced around him, seeing chunks of red rock and scrub brush lining a well-used animal trail. He thought briefly that he should put some shoes on, but the rough ground didn't seem to be hurting his bare feet at all.

Ahead of him he could see the curve of the woman's back as she walked away, and he hurried along the path, his much longer legs catching up to her easily. He peered down at her, the shiver of recognition growing stronger.

“Do I know you?”

“We've met.”

All at once, memories that were absent while he was alive slammed into him. Recollections of the last time he died. The feeling of weightlessness as he hovered above his body, the grief he felt at seeing his brother cradle his still-warm corpse, the anger as he watched Jake run away. She had been present for it all, hovering beside him, whispering in his ear.

“You're the Reaper,” Sam breathed, and Tessa tilted her head towards him, amused.

“I wouldn't say that I'm The Reaper. I'm just your Reaper.”

Sam's brow furrowed as he stayed in step with her as they walked across the desert. His natural curiosity got the better of him, his resolution to stay near his body forgotten, along with the reasons why. In the back of his brain, the wisp of a memory scrabbled for recognition, but every time he tried to bring it to light it slipped away into the darkness.

“You're my Reaper? Do you guys, like, get assignments? Or something?”

Tessa threw back her head and laughed, her kind eyes dancing with mischief.

“Something like that, but usually we take a liking to a certain family and will cater to them.”

A ghost of a thought crossed Sam's mind, and his lips screwed up into a moue of consternation.

“Were you the Reaper that Dean was hunting when he was in a coma?”

Something dangerous flashed in Tessa's eyes and she no longer looked harmless and kind. His memories of his last death were becoming clearer, and he seemed to remember this line of questioning from the previous time. His questions and her flash of anger that followed after.

“You were always the quick one, Sam.” She smiled at him, hiding her upset behind straight, white teeth. She flashed him a knowing look, and he was sure that he had pestered her plenty with a myriad of questions the last time.

“I've been reaping Winchesters since before you were known as Winchesters.”

The rough ground gave way to smooth stone and Sam glanced down at his feet. White marble gleamed in the moonlight, and he could see a fine layer of red dust at the edges where it met the desert floor. He looked around, realizing that they were now standing on a stone pad in the middle of the desert. He had no idea how they could have approached it without him noticing it. Twisted white columns lined the pad, thrusting up into the sky, announcing their presence dramatically. He would have to be blind not to see them.

He glanced behind him, trying to remember where they had come from, but the memory was elusive. It seemed that he was supposed to be doing something, but Tessa's presence beside him was soothing and alluring, like a siren's call in the wind. She led and he followed.

“Did you reap my father?”

Tessa's brow furrowed, and the dangerous intensity in her eyes returned. Sam could see anger etched over her face, and he swallowed compulsively.

She wiped the fury from her face, her expression becoming impassive as she shrugged in response.

The columns opened up into a ring, and he forgot his question as shadowy figures appeared. A large loom dominated the makeshift room, and he could see that three women crowded around it. Something hard and heavy clunked in Sam's chest, and he skid to a halt to stare.

The first thing he saw was Jess's beautiful profile. She wasn't looking at him, and her long blonde hair was obscuring some of her face, but he would recognize her anywhere. She had been the love of his life, the other half of himself. She had been all the best parts of normal during his life at Stanford. She had been the embodiment of everything that he had been striving for when he was running from who he was and trying to remake himself into something he wasn't.

He stepped towards her, but Tessa wrapped her fingers around his forearm, pulling him to a stop. He tried to tug away, but her grip was stronger than any mere mortal's. He glared down at her, a snarl of anger twisting his lips, but she just shook her head at him slowly. Something about her subdued manner, made him pause, and he felt fear skitter, spider-soft, across his nape.

He glanced back at Jess, noticing for the first time what she was doing. In her hands was a long strand of crimson thread. She ran her fingers along the length almost reverently, and Sam shifted his weight, uncomfortably aware of her caress. More thread was fed to her, and the movement drew Sam's gaze to the side.

His mother, he knew it was his mother, because he used to spend hours staring at her photo, was spinning thread from her distaff onto the spindle. He felt his stomach clench, and his thighs quivered a little from shock. He watched as she expertly spun the thread, smiling at Jess like a mother would a daughter.

“Something is missing. The repair is flawed.”

Sam whipped his head to the third woman, instantly recognizing the voice that spoke. Its softness still haunted him in his dreams. Madison sat on the edge, a large pile of thread beside her. In one hand she held a pair of chipped, bladed scissors and in the other she held the thread. She was staring intently at it draped across her outstretched palm.

The other two women paused and peered at the thread she held. All three women frowned at the knot where it had obviously been cut then tied back together.

“Another repair may not hold.” Jess sounded worried, and Sam felt himself silently echoing her sentiment.

“I made him strong. It will hold,” his mother vowed with conviction, and Sam felt some of the tension in his stomach resolve.

Jess frowned down at the length of thread that she held protectively in her hands.

“But I worry. I can only guide him, not guard him.” She stroked the thread, and Sam felt something shimmer along the length of his body.

A flutter of disgust passed over Madison's face as she glanced over at Jess. Mary watched the interaction between the two younger women with the resignation of a mother who cannot help her children.

“It matters not.” Madison's voice cracked with distraught emotion, and Sam was suddenly struck with the urge to cry. “Everything dies.”

With that pronouncement, she took the thread that Jess had measured and snipped it clean through with her shears. Pain exploded through every crevice of Sam's body, and he dropped to his knees, gripping his chest. He cried out with agony of it, but the three women never looked his way. Only Tessa acknowledged his cries.

She leaned down, placing a small hand on his rounded shoulder. “It's time to go now, Sam,” she said softly.

He could feel the draw of her call, the pulling of his soul to follow her. He wanted to stand up and go where she led. The urge, the absolute need to take what she offered reverberated inside of him. In the reflection of her eyes, he could see peace and tranquility. Finally he could have what he had been searching for his entire life---quiet simplicity.

He rocked to his feet, his eyes drifting shut when her hand curled inside of his. She drew him forward and he took a step, only to grind to a halt when the niggling memory in the back of his mind came crashing to the forefront. With perfect clarity he could see the look on Dean's face when Sam told him that he would rather die than live without him. He recalled the lethal sobriety of the pact that they had made that if one didn't make it back alive then the other would quickly follow. The ramifications of Dean surviving this night, only to find Sam dead, shook him. Dean would put a bullet in his brain before the sun rose this morning. It was an all-or-nothing deal, until death do they part.

“No.” Sam yanked his hand away. Tessa looked at him, her eyes still sympathetic.

“Sam. It is time for you to go,” she cajoled, but he ignored her. He turned around, stalking back the way they came, but after a few steps he was met with a brick wall.

“There is no going back.”

Sam whipped around, his face a mask of fury and desperation. He had to get back to Dean. He had to keep his end of the bargain.

“No! I refuse to believe that. I made a promise and I'm going to keep it. Dean is waiting for me, and I will not disappoint him.”

With every word, Sam advanced on the Reaper, backing her up with the force of his emotions. He couldn't fail Dean, not when he could protect him. Not now, not when it was so imperative that he succeed.

Tessa's rosy mouth pulled down into a miserable frown, and the sympathy in her eyes intensified.

“Dean is already dead.”

Everything in Sam that was vibrating with fury and need shattered into small shards of razor glass that slashed him up on the inside. His trembling body stilled until he was as rock hard as the marble column next to him. He stared down at the much smaller woman, his mouth compressed into a hard line.

“No. I don't believe you,” he spat out from between thinned lips.

“It's true.” She reached for him, but he pulled away.

“Prove it.”

She lowered her dark gaze, eyeing the marbled floor at their feet. After a moment, she shrugged fatalistically, her eyes meeting his.

“Fine.”

The room around them swirled sickeningly, and white marbled columns gave way to weathered gravestones. It took a moment for Sam to gain his bearings, but when he did he swayed against a tombstone, catching it before his knees buckled, tears already crowding his eyes.

Dean lay prone before the devil's gate, the crossroads demon standing over him chortling victoriously. Dean's skin was waxy, and Sam could see blood coating half his face. Everything that made Sam who he was crumbled inside of him, eroding the very foundation that he stood upon. There was only one truth in Sam's world. Dean would always be there for him. Dean would always destroy the monster in the closet. But how could he if he was dead? How was it that the one time that Dean had needed him, Sam had failed. It didn't seem possible, but maybe love alone just wasn't strong enough to conquer demons.

Sam stared hard, willing Dean to breathe with every ounce of his battered soul, but his brother's chest remained deathly still.

“It's time to go, Sam.”

Tessa was standing beside him. She reached out, looping an abnormally strong hand around his arm to pull him away. He let her, his eyes still locked on the still body of his brother.

“No,” he breathed, unable to believe what his eyes were showing him.

“Yes,” Tessa replied forcefully.

Sam's eyes hardened into chips of stone at her tone, and his face became shuttered. With a burst of strength he shook her off, his fists clenching at his sides. He would not give up on his brother, because Dean would never give up on him.

“No, you lie. You use tricks, deceit and illusion to get your way. Anything to collect your soul. But I refuse to go. You hear me? Dean's alive!”

Sam felt something pulse in his chest, and the dark landscape gave way to a brightly lit room. He saw a flash of white light, and then he was standing beside Tessa in the graveyard. He wavered on his feet, and he felt the ground sway. Pain spiked though his heart, and he brought his hands up to clutch his chest, only to stare aghast as they flickered before his eyes.

The light flashed again, and the room reappeared. He glanced around, spying the empty tub in the farmhouse, water standing in puddles around the curved feet. He twisted to the side; his mouth gaping in horror as he saw his wet, naked body sprawled out on the floor.

Ellen had wrestled him out of the tub and onto a blanket. She had piled hot towels and warm compresses onto his torso, tilting his head back a little so the blood could return to his brain. She had been careful to leave his limbs uncovered to avoid after-drop, a fatal complication when cold blood from the limbs is forced back into the core.

She placed a face mask around his mouth and nose, infusing warm, humidified oxygen back into his cold lungs. Her fingers fumbled while placing electrodes onto his chest so she could shock him with the portable defibrillator Dean had stolen out of an ambulance. She twisted the dial and his limp body shuddered then fell still. Sam shivered with the realization that it wasn't working.

“See, Sam. It's time.”

Tessa tried to wrap her fingers around his bicep again, but he shook her off. He knelt beside his body, face to face with Ellen. Tentatively, he reached out to touch his chest, his fingers passing right through his body.

“C'mon, Sam. Dean is going to kick my ass if you die on me,” Ellen muttered, checking his pulse one more time. She dropped her head in defeat when she felt nothing.

“Don't give up on me, Ellen,” Sam begged, reaching out to brush his fingers along her face. She trembled and turned away, digging through a bag at her feet.

With determination she drew out a large syringe from the duffel, popping off the protective lid. The adrenaline was already loaded and all she had to do was inject him. Sam swallowed as Ellen lifted the needle above her head, ignoring the tremor that he saw go through her arm. She paused for a moment, taking a wet, choked breath before plunging the syringe downward into his chest. It pierced through his thick muscles, straight into his heart. She depressed the injector with her thumb, pulling the syringe out when it was empty and tossed it behind her.

For a second there was nothing, and then Sam felt the strangest pull. It was gut deep and ice cold. It yanked him from existence, dragging him from the white room and into darkness. Pain exploded through his entire frame, and it felt like his lungs were both on fire and being crushed simultaneously. His body convulsed, muscles locking with spasms. Soft, sure hands rolled him over onto his side, pulling the mask from his face. Something cold and wet rolled up his throat and spewed out of his mouth and onto the floor. Suddenly he could breathe again, but when he inhaled it seemed like ragged shards of ice cutting his lungs.

Coldness engulfed him, wracking him with tremors. Heated blankets were wrapped around him and he cherished their meager warmth. From somewhere above him, he could hear a woman's voice repeating the same mantra.

“Thank God,” she whispered into his ear, her warm breath soothing him.

As Sam faded out, his last thought before the darkness took him was that Dean should be there with him.