FIC: Weapon of Choice: Chapter 14 B
Oct. 24th, 2006 04:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xantissaWeapon of Choice
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: xantissa
Summary: A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Warnings: incest, slash, demon possession, violence.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters belong to WB. I do it just for fun, no profit being made from my writing.
Spoilers: Mild for Asylum, Nightmare tiny ones for probably most of the first season.
Thanks for beta to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lifesscar
Sarah opened her eyes to the soft darkness cut with stripes of warm sunlight. She was laying in the middle of a huge, sinfully soft bed. The first thing she saw was the white ceiling with a single cracked line running through the middle. She felt the heavy, muzzy feeling that usually came after too much sleep.
The thin stripes of sunlight falling over the bed left trails of warmth on the silk covers. She moved her head, pressing her cheek into the cool silk of the pillow, relishing the luxurious sensation and the sleep that didn’t really release it’s hold on her.
Her head ached insistently when she moved, so she closed her eyes again. Grateful for the darkness and the care. Smelling the dark, heavy scent so unfamiliar to her. Smelling him on those pillows.
She had no idea where she was but it didn’t matter. Not at all.
She turned on her side and slowly opened her eyes. And smiled gently. He was all the things she would want him to be. So strong, so beautiful it made her heart ache. In a good way.
So perfect.
He was sitting in a lonely armchair, his knees just inches from the bed. He was dressed in black from head to toe. Black slacks and black turtleneck. His hair was shaggy and dark, falling over his forehead. He was tall, taller than she expected. His shoulders stretched the turtleneck nicely, letting a hint of his physical power seep through. But it was nothing compared to the waves of power she could feel coming from him. Like sea, endless and wild, the strength, the sheer power of him enveloped her in its terrifyingly gentle waves.
The dress style made him look older, much older and sharper than a 23 year old man should be. She wondered how much of Sam Winchester there was, and how much of the Weapon. Did they merge or was one of them dominating?
She watched the black lines on his pale face, watched the sharp angle of his jaw as he tilted his head to study her in return. She held no fear, even though he was so much more than any of her Soul Weapons ever were. John thought that the powers Sam exhibited came due to the Weapon. She would have to tell him, that no. Most of them were Sam’s. Were the gifts he was born with.
She also sensed his distress, sensed the restless way his energy kept shifting and fluttering, changing into something she’d never seen before.
He had no more idea what he was than she.
She moved her hand out from under the covers and stretched it out toward him in a silent invitation.
The Weapons had will and were conscious. But they weren’t human. Designed for them, they craved things they weren’t capable of.
Emotions.
Feelings.
They needed comfort yet couldn’t gain it themselves. It needed to be given. Provided.
She watched him, with a sense of awe and pride she never knew before. Watched as he uncurled his big figure from the chair, silently as the shadows surrounding him, and crawled on the bed, under the warmed covers. Watched the way his muscles shifted under the black cloth, watched his eyes as still as ever, fixed on her in total silence.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate when his big hands reached for her and pulled her closer, deeper into his powerful frame. She was so fragile in his hands, so breakable. Her body such a measly obstacle for him, but in that moment it was him, her perfect creation, her child, that seemed fragile.
As his arms encircled her, as one of his hands rested on the back of her head pushing her face into the crook of his neck, she felt strong, powerful and alive in a way she couldn’t remember in a long time.
Pride and awe, and something else. Something more complicated and warmer surged through her as she allowed herself to be completely enveloped in his body.
“Thank you.” She whispered into his cool skin. “Thank you for not letting me kill them.”
Because she could. So easily. So effortlessly.
Sarah closed her eyes against the uneasy memory of the night before.
Green. Brown. Blue spilling over the white sheets.
She would not remember. But she could not forget either. Forever suspended in limbo, endlessly at the edge of those two things, she had no more choice than Samuel Winchester when under the influence of the curse.
Her hand curled in the soft, expensive fabric of his shirt.
But at least Dean would be able to bond with Sam. If and when he accepted what it would entail.
His hand was almost gentle on her head, fingers skimming over her hair slowly.
Mother.
It was more of a feeling in her mind than an actual word, but she smiled nonetheless. It moved something deep inside her, something that no one but her Weapons ever touched.
As the sleep claimed her again, she wondered who was John and who his wife had been, for his two sons to be touched by powers so much older than time.
* * *
John was still angry as he parked his truck in front of his motel. Not at Sarah, not any more. After he calmed down he understood that he was, indeed, getting in her way. And she was right. If he met Sam they would most probably end up fighting. So after nursing a single beer for hours and calming down sufficiently, John decided to go to Sarah and apologize for his behavior.
But she wasn’t home.
Nor then, neither eight hours later.
After the fruitless wait, worried and angry at himself and the lack of control he showed, John decided to go back to his motel, take a shower, change and get back to the hospital to Dean.
As he entered his room, he knew someone was there. Nothing was disturbed or destroyed, the salt line and sigils untouched, but in the middle of his bed laid a black duffer bag. Not his own.
It just rested there, suspicious in its very existence and seemed to dare John to look inside.
Reaching for the gun, more out of habit than actual necessity, John approached the bag, dreading what he might find inside.
He pulled the zipper open and spread the edges carefully. Then he took a step back, certainly not expecting what he found inside the bad.
There were stacks after stacks of money inside. All neatly bound, crispy and clean as if not really used much yet. Still in a state of shock, John overturned the duffle, letting the money spill out on the bed. He had no idea how much there might be or even if the money was real.
But he had a feeling, he knew who gave him those. John stood over the money, thinking about the way they were gathered, the horror they were connected to. But above all, John Winchester was a practical man.
Slowly he sat down on the bed and started counting.
* * *
The second time Sarah woke up, she felt better. The fuzziness left her. She still felt tired, out of sorts but it was nothing she couldn’t shake. She also sensed she wasn’t alone in the bed. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and slimed. Beside her, stretched on her back was T. The almost white paws were sticking up every which way. She smiled and petted the ridiculously soft fur. The long, white whiskers twitched and with a very distinct, and very disgusted ‘mmphf’ the cat turned on its side and went back to sleep.
Figures. Nothing can come between a cat and its sleep. Not even the hapless owner.
With a sigh Sarah got up. She felt torn. On the one hand, she wanted to get to know Samuel, the Weapon she created so long ago. On the other side she knew she had to ask him for a great sacrifice.
She tried to put the clothes she slept in into some king of order but it was no use. She looked like she was being mauled by something big and enthusiastic.
Still not exactly at the top of her game, her limbs lazy from sleep and eyes too dry, Sarah found the kitchen.
And him.
Samuel Winchester, her Soul Weapon, looked even more impressive and still now than he had before.
He was shirtless, the black jeans riding low on his hips revealing the whole expanse of pale, beautifully muscled back. She watched in purely female fascination the flex of his muscles under the smooth skin, the bunch of his biceps and the long fingered, elegant hands as he poured the water into an already waiting cup. Tea. She could smell it.
She doubted it was for him. In their full fighting capability, the one Samuel seemed to be trapped permanently in, the Wielder often forgot about such basic needs as food or sleep. In short periods of time it was good, it kept their focus on the fight. In the longer span of time, it would probably have grave repercussions to the body.
His hair was wet, the water heavy strands clinging to his long neck. She could see the single drop of water crawl slowly down through the sensual groove of his vertebra.
She turned her eyes away from the pure beauty she saw in him, the fascination she held for his sheer physicality. The kitchen was a large room, all stainless steel and real, polished wood. Very high end. And very empty. Bare. As if it was used for the first time now.
There was a huge fridge on her left side. Stainless steel, double door. She pulled it open, not really surprised to feel it move as quietly and as lightly as a feather.
It was empty. Completely, starkly, empty.
She looked around, at the spotless counters and empty cupboards. The man, although lived here, never used it.
In the middle of the kitchen was a huge table, mahogany if she wasn’t mistaken. The wood beautifully and simply crafted into something elegant and useful.
On the gleaming surface laid a single deli bag. She reached inside and found two sandwiches, a small salad and even a few candy bars.
“You should eat something.” The words came in the same low, sensual, thick as molasses voice he used before. It was strange. Hearing such simple words coming in this kind of voice.
He turned away from the stove, a white, ridiculously small mug in his large hand and put the tea on the table in front of her.
She sat down on one of the comfortable chairs.
“Why did you bring my cat here?” She asked quietly, looking at the food he was carefully putting in front of her.
He looked up at her, his black eyes almost one with the wet hair, the colors merging and falling into each other. She saw so much in his eyes. So black, so dark, a reflection of what she was before.
“Your sleep... it was uneasy.” One of his long arms reached out, the fingers strong yet so gentle, skimmed over her brow, barely touching. She never once felt the need to flinch. She trusted him more than she trusted anybody in her life.
A simple question. An answer that spoke so much more than any words could. She stared at the food, the candy and tea, none of which he had on hand. Her cat he had to go out and take from her apartment.
She looked up at him standing, shirtless, the pectoral muscles beautifully defined, a six pack of his stomach, the body so much bigger than hers and understood, felt something inside her tighten with wonder. The Soul Weapons were created for fight, for death, as a way to even the playing field. For all their purpose, the Weapons loved with innocence and devotion that just broke her heart, every time.
Trying to swallow the sudden emotion, Sarah pushed half the food towards him.
“Eat with me.”
He just stood there, dark and still and Sarah wondered if anyone but her saw the pain he was in.
“I’m not hungry.”
She unwrapped one of the sandwiches.
“I know. But you have to. I know you are strong. Powerful. But you still are human, essentially. You inhabit a human body. Although you probably changed it already, the needs stay the same. If you neglect them, you will hurt Sam Winchester, the man you are now one with.”
She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. After a moment, he sat down across her and reached for the sandwich she left for him.
They ate in silence, splitting the food he brought. There was too much of it any way.
She chewed and swallowed, watching his slow, careful movements when he ate, mostly because she asked him to.
* * *
John put the duffle into his car and climbed into the truck. Two million. A massive amount of cash that would serve him good for a long, long time. New weapons, new storage places, new phones. The ability to live on cash rather than credit cards for a while. Reducing the risk of being caught significantly.
But it all gave him a bad feeling, a sense of dread deep in his gut. Because it all bore marks of a goodbye.
Besides he still couldn’t contact Sarah. She seemed like the kind of woman that knew how to take care of herself but still, she was missing for twelve hours now. He kept trying her phone. Both the home one and the cell but one went to voicemail and the other was obviously turned off.
The heavy feeling in his stomach, the bitterness in his throat he knew. It was guilt. Living and growing, threatening to suffocate him with each passing hour.
He sat in the truck, one hand clenched on the steering wheel, the other holding the phone.
“The number…” He cursed at the message and disconnected. Her cell was turned off, still. Or destroyed.
Refusing to think of what it might entail, he pressed the number one speed dial on his phone.
“Dad?” Came the raspy and confused voice after only one ring.
Dean.
“Yeah. Listen, are you still in the hospital?” He could hear that Dean wanted to say something different, ask questions but years of obedience came back and he answered Johns question.
“Yes. Just waiting for the doc to bring the paperwork.” He took a deep breath. “What happened? How did I get into the hospital? Where is Sam? Did I... did I manage to break the spell?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll be there in twenty, then we will talk. For now, you have to do something for me.” It was an order.
Whatever riposte he had, Dean swallowed it.
“Yes sir. What do I need to do?”
“Search the room.”
“What?” There was honest bafflement in his voice. “You want me to search my hospital room? What for?”
“A black duffel bag or anything that doesn’t belong to the hospital.” John ordered, not wanting to say too much over the phone.
“Sure, Dad.” There was a shallow breath as if Dean wanted to say something, but then he just disconnected.
John let the phone fall to his lap and with a curse he started the truck up. He peeled out of the parking lot, forcing an old Ford to break sharply. He didn’t once look back.
Whatever was going to happen with Sam, it was probably happening now. And he had to make sure Dean was safe. And where he could keep an eye on him.
* * *
She watched his tall form, his back to her. His shoulder had that tense quality to them that spoke of things better left unsaid. He had a black shirt on, unbuttoned and stood so still by the window. Watching the movement of people and cars.
Sarah wished she was psychic. Wished she could read his mind, know his thoughts. It was a wonder, how she managed to create something... so male, so unwilling to share the pain and fear.
She finally asked the Weapon to go to sleep. He didn’t say a word since then, only stared though that window as if he could find all the answers there.
“I don’t want to go back there.” The words, after so much silence, startled her and she felt herself jump a little.
“I’m sorry.” She said gently. Sorry for asking you for such a thing, sorry for wanting to help John so much, sorry she couldn’t just fix it all.
“It’s so cold there. Quiet. Empty.” He finally turned towards her. His eyes black, without whites or any other color, the black lines cutting though his pale cheeks like fresh wounds.
He was beautiful.
His chest, perfectly chiseled moved in time with his slow breaths, the sharply defined muscles flexing gently under the smooth skin.
“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, filled with guilt and desire to just turn away and leave. She was never an exceptionally good or bad person. Ordinary really. But she hated hurting him like that, hated that what she asked for would cause him pain. Hurt him.
In that moment he was hers, just hers.
Sarah closed her eyes feeling her throat tighten and her eyes burn. Shit. She hated that she was always so easy to cry. She even sniffed a bit watching movies. She felt like a total wimp.
Suddenly, he was just in front of her. She could smell the unique way he smelled, fresh, sharp. Masculine. His cool hands touched her face, tilting it up.
“Yes.” He murmured in that low, dark like molasses voice. “Yes.” He repeated and she could feel his gentle breath against her closed eyelids.
His thumbs skimmed over her damp cheeks, smearing the tears he found there.
Sarah reached up, wrapping her hands around his wrists. She didn’t try to stop him, to push him away. The tears fell harder. The guilt almost strangling her.
“I’m sorry. So sorry.” She kept repeating even as his lips, dry and infinitely gentle, touched her cheeks, gathering the warm saltiness there. “So sorry.”
* * *
Los Angeles, a city of fast moving cars and baking sun. Dean used to like it. Now? He wished he never set foot in the city.
He heard his father’s footsteps in the corridor, long before the man appeared in his room. His heavy boots beat the familiar rhythm, strong and sure, on the tiled floor.
Dean leaned back in the bed, sitting causing him much more pain that he was willing to admit. When he looked at himself in the mirror he was rather green around the gills and the doc kept snarking at him for leaving the hospital so early. His ribs were taped extra tight, his left wrist swollen and throbbing, the bandage stark against his skin. It didn’t take him long to realize that the hospital staff had to cut off the bracelet.
A week ago he would be thrilled, being free from that damned lust spell. Now? Now he felt lost and scared. During those few brief days that bracelet became a kind of reassurance, a lifeline. It was the only thing that guaranteed Sam coming back.
Now he didn’t know if he had managed to break the spell, but the fact that he was rather alive suggested he did. Yet there was no Sam around and Dad sounded… strange on the phone.
And he had a strange feeling that he forgot something, that there was something he should remember...
“Dean? How do you feel, son?” His Dad sounded gruff, tired. At first Dean stiffened, fearing disappointment from his father. After all he screwed up royally. It took him a moment to realize that it was fear that made him sound so gruff. Fear and worry.
He smiled, a little fake, and tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling dizzy from the pain.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
His father’s whiskers twitched which meant he gritted his teeth together.
“I see.” The sarcasm was almost a living entity. “Did you do what I asked you to?”
“Yes sir.” Dean snapped, hurting and angry and, above all, scared and ashamed of his failure. “I found a bag. It’s under the bed.” He flushed scarlet. He never felt good showing any kind of weakness around his family, and admitting to his Dad that he couldn’t lift a fucking bag or bend down to open it was beyond humiliating.
John opened his mouth, but snapped it closed, probably realizing why Dean didn’t touch the bag.
John only nodded his head and then crouched to reach for the familiar looking black duffle. He pulled it out, unzipped and set beside his son.
“Sam was here, yesterday night. He left this. He also left one like this in my motel room.” John announced dryly.
“How can you be sure Sam brought this?”
John smiled a small, twisted smirk and pushed the bag towards Dean.
“Look inside.”
Curious, Dean did as his Dad told him to. And felt his jaw drop.
“Wha... how... wh…” It wasn’t often Dean found himself so totally out of words but this time he only kept staring at the stacks of bills neatly stuffed in the bag. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. I agree. Yesterday, when I was at Sarah’s place I got a phone call. From your cell phone. But when I answered it, there was only silence. I tried to call back but no one answered. So I came back to the motel, hoping to find you there.”
“And you did.”
John swallowed loudly, obviously rattled at the memory.
“I thought you were dead at first. Jesus Dean, I thought I lost you.”
Still too stunned to react properly, Dean only patted his father’s arm weakly, his eyes glued to the money.
“We called 911, got you to the hospital. Sarah was there the whole time with me. After a while she said that Sam was here, too. She could sense him somehow. We had a fight and she threw me out. She said I shouldn’t see Sam right now.”
Dean snorted.
“You would have pissed each other in less than three seconds. She was right. It would have been a bloodshed.”
John cringed, but didn’t deny.
“Sarah stayed here...” He trailed off unhappily and Dean caught the hesitation.
“What happened?”
John turned his eyes away, staring through the window at the sunny sky.
“She is missing, Dean. I haven’t heard from her in over twelve hours. She’s not home, she’s not answering her cell.”
Dean looked at his father and got a vague flashback of a blond woman with a little weight on her. Pretty face. More than something to breathe with and most amazing looking hair he saw in a long time.
“You are afraid she’s dead.” Whispered Dean.
John flinched.
“If she is, her blood is on my hands.” He said quietly.
* * *
Once again Sarah found herself lying on the huge bed. In front of her, facing her, was Samuel Winchester. His eyes still black like night and black lines on his face. But his eyes were different now, the blackness loosing its power becoming bleak and dull with each pass of her hand through his silky, still a little damp, hair.
He was already falling asleep.
“Don’t tell him.” His voice was soft now, raspy, on the verge of sleep.
Sarah didn’t need to ask who he had in mind. She had a flash of those incredible blue, green, brown eyes. A shudder ran though her, a terrible feeling.
“He doesn’t need to know.” He added again. His voice slow, thick with sleep. Already drifting away.
She stroked his too long hair, the strands warm and silky under her fingers.
“I won’t.” It was a futile promise, she knew. Sooner or later Dean would learn the truth. She wondered just what he would do with it?
She watched the beautiful onyx eyes dim a little more. There was one more question she needed to ask.
“How much of Samuel Winchester is there?”
His eyes opened a little, long, dark lashes casting tiny shadows on his pale cheeks. He looked almost vulnerable. She shifted a little closer to him, his long body relaxed, sinking into the soft covers.
As his lids lowered for the final time a quiet, almost gentle whisper left his lips.
“Too much.”
TBC.
A/N: yes, I know this chapter was devoted mostly to Sarah and Sam but it was the only chance she got to talk to something she created. Sue me but I just wanted to add something personal. Make the Weapon something more than just a force. Something living.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: xantissa
Summary: A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Warnings: incest, slash, demon possession, violence.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters belong to WB. I do it just for fun, no profit being made from my writing.
Spoilers: Mild for Asylum, Nightmare tiny ones for probably most of the first season.
Thanks for beta to
lifesscarSarah opened her eyes to the soft darkness cut with stripes of warm sunlight. She was laying in the middle of a huge, sinfully soft bed. The first thing she saw was the white ceiling with a single cracked line running through the middle. She felt the heavy, muzzy feeling that usually came after too much sleep.
The thin stripes of sunlight falling over the bed left trails of warmth on the silk covers. She moved her head, pressing her cheek into the cool silk of the pillow, relishing the luxurious sensation and the sleep that didn’t really release it’s hold on her.
Her head ached insistently when she moved, so she closed her eyes again. Grateful for the darkness and the care. Smelling the dark, heavy scent so unfamiliar to her. Smelling him on those pillows.
She had no idea where she was but it didn’t matter. Not at all.
She turned on her side and slowly opened her eyes. And smiled gently. He was all the things she would want him to be. So strong, so beautiful it made her heart ache. In a good way.
So perfect.
He was sitting in a lonely armchair, his knees just inches from the bed. He was dressed in black from head to toe. Black slacks and black turtleneck. His hair was shaggy and dark, falling over his forehead. He was tall, taller than she expected. His shoulders stretched the turtleneck nicely, letting a hint of his physical power seep through. But it was nothing compared to the waves of power she could feel coming from him. Like sea, endless and wild, the strength, the sheer power of him enveloped her in its terrifyingly gentle waves.
The dress style made him look older, much older and sharper than a 23 year old man should be. She wondered how much of Sam Winchester there was, and how much of the Weapon. Did they merge or was one of them dominating?
She watched the black lines on his pale face, watched the sharp angle of his jaw as he tilted his head to study her in return. She held no fear, even though he was so much more than any of her Soul Weapons ever were. John thought that the powers Sam exhibited came due to the Weapon. She would have to tell him, that no. Most of them were Sam’s. Were the gifts he was born with.
She also sensed his distress, sensed the restless way his energy kept shifting and fluttering, changing into something she’d never seen before.
He had no more idea what he was than she.
She moved her hand out from under the covers and stretched it out toward him in a silent invitation.
The Weapons had will and were conscious. But they weren’t human. Designed for them, they craved things they weren’t capable of.
Emotions.
Feelings.
They needed comfort yet couldn’t gain it themselves. It needed to be given. Provided.
She watched him, with a sense of awe and pride she never knew before. Watched as he uncurled his big figure from the chair, silently as the shadows surrounding him, and crawled on the bed, under the warmed covers. Watched the way his muscles shifted under the black cloth, watched his eyes as still as ever, fixed on her in total silence.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate when his big hands reached for her and pulled her closer, deeper into his powerful frame. She was so fragile in his hands, so breakable. Her body such a measly obstacle for him, but in that moment it was him, her perfect creation, her child, that seemed fragile.
As his arms encircled her, as one of his hands rested on the back of her head pushing her face into the crook of his neck, she felt strong, powerful and alive in a way she couldn’t remember in a long time.
Pride and awe, and something else. Something more complicated and warmer surged through her as she allowed herself to be completely enveloped in his body.
“Thank you.” She whispered into his cool skin. “Thank you for not letting me kill them.”
Because she could. So easily. So effortlessly.
Sarah closed her eyes against the uneasy memory of the night before.
Green. Brown. Blue spilling over the white sheets.
She would not remember. But she could not forget either. Forever suspended in limbo, endlessly at the edge of those two things, she had no more choice than Samuel Winchester when under the influence of the curse.
Her hand curled in the soft, expensive fabric of his shirt.
But at least Dean would be able to bond with Sam. If and when he accepted what it would entail.
His hand was almost gentle on her head, fingers skimming over her hair slowly.
Mother.
It was more of a feeling in her mind than an actual word, but she smiled nonetheless. It moved something deep inside her, something that no one but her Weapons ever touched.
As the sleep claimed her again, she wondered who was John and who his wife had been, for his two sons to be touched by powers so much older than time.
* * *
John was still angry as he parked his truck in front of his motel. Not at Sarah, not any more. After he calmed down he understood that he was, indeed, getting in her way. And she was right. If he met Sam they would most probably end up fighting. So after nursing a single beer for hours and calming down sufficiently, John decided to go to Sarah and apologize for his behavior.
But she wasn’t home.
Nor then, neither eight hours later.
After the fruitless wait, worried and angry at himself and the lack of control he showed, John decided to go back to his motel, take a shower, change and get back to the hospital to Dean.
As he entered his room, he knew someone was there. Nothing was disturbed or destroyed, the salt line and sigils untouched, but in the middle of his bed laid a black duffer bag. Not his own.
It just rested there, suspicious in its very existence and seemed to dare John to look inside.
Reaching for the gun, more out of habit than actual necessity, John approached the bag, dreading what he might find inside.
He pulled the zipper open and spread the edges carefully. Then he took a step back, certainly not expecting what he found inside the bad.
There were stacks after stacks of money inside. All neatly bound, crispy and clean as if not really used much yet. Still in a state of shock, John overturned the duffle, letting the money spill out on the bed. He had no idea how much there might be or even if the money was real.
But he had a feeling, he knew who gave him those. John stood over the money, thinking about the way they were gathered, the horror they were connected to. But above all, John Winchester was a practical man.
Slowly he sat down on the bed and started counting.
* * *
The second time Sarah woke up, she felt better. The fuzziness left her. She still felt tired, out of sorts but it was nothing she couldn’t shake. She also sensed she wasn’t alone in the bed. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and slimed. Beside her, stretched on her back was T. The almost white paws were sticking up every which way. She smiled and petted the ridiculously soft fur. The long, white whiskers twitched and with a very distinct, and very disgusted ‘mmphf’ the cat turned on its side and went back to sleep.
Figures. Nothing can come between a cat and its sleep. Not even the hapless owner.
With a sigh Sarah got up. She felt torn. On the one hand, she wanted to get to know Samuel, the Weapon she created so long ago. On the other side she knew she had to ask him for a great sacrifice.
She tried to put the clothes she slept in into some king of order but it was no use. She looked like she was being mauled by something big and enthusiastic.
Still not exactly at the top of her game, her limbs lazy from sleep and eyes too dry, Sarah found the kitchen.
And him.
Samuel Winchester, her Soul Weapon, looked even more impressive and still now than he had before.
He was shirtless, the black jeans riding low on his hips revealing the whole expanse of pale, beautifully muscled back. She watched in purely female fascination the flex of his muscles under the smooth skin, the bunch of his biceps and the long fingered, elegant hands as he poured the water into an already waiting cup. Tea. She could smell it.
She doubted it was for him. In their full fighting capability, the one Samuel seemed to be trapped permanently in, the Wielder often forgot about such basic needs as food or sleep. In short periods of time it was good, it kept their focus on the fight. In the longer span of time, it would probably have grave repercussions to the body.
His hair was wet, the water heavy strands clinging to his long neck. She could see the single drop of water crawl slowly down through the sensual groove of his vertebra.
She turned her eyes away from the pure beauty she saw in him, the fascination she held for his sheer physicality. The kitchen was a large room, all stainless steel and real, polished wood. Very high end. And very empty. Bare. As if it was used for the first time now.
There was a huge fridge on her left side. Stainless steel, double door. She pulled it open, not really surprised to feel it move as quietly and as lightly as a feather.
It was empty. Completely, starkly, empty.
She looked around, at the spotless counters and empty cupboards. The man, although lived here, never used it.
In the middle of the kitchen was a huge table, mahogany if she wasn’t mistaken. The wood beautifully and simply crafted into something elegant and useful.
On the gleaming surface laid a single deli bag. She reached inside and found two sandwiches, a small salad and even a few candy bars.
“You should eat something.” The words came in the same low, sensual, thick as molasses voice he used before. It was strange. Hearing such simple words coming in this kind of voice.
He turned away from the stove, a white, ridiculously small mug in his large hand and put the tea on the table in front of her.
She sat down on one of the comfortable chairs.
“Why did you bring my cat here?” She asked quietly, looking at the food he was carefully putting in front of her.
He looked up at her, his black eyes almost one with the wet hair, the colors merging and falling into each other. She saw so much in his eyes. So black, so dark, a reflection of what she was before.
“Your sleep... it was uneasy.” One of his long arms reached out, the fingers strong yet so gentle, skimmed over her brow, barely touching. She never once felt the need to flinch. She trusted him more than she trusted anybody in her life.
A simple question. An answer that spoke so much more than any words could. She stared at the food, the candy and tea, none of which he had on hand. Her cat he had to go out and take from her apartment.
She looked up at him standing, shirtless, the pectoral muscles beautifully defined, a six pack of his stomach, the body so much bigger than hers and understood, felt something inside her tighten with wonder. The Soul Weapons were created for fight, for death, as a way to even the playing field. For all their purpose, the Weapons loved with innocence and devotion that just broke her heart, every time.
Trying to swallow the sudden emotion, Sarah pushed half the food towards him.
“Eat with me.”
He just stood there, dark and still and Sarah wondered if anyone but her saw the pain he was in.
“I’m not hungry.”
She unwrapped one of the sandwiches.
“I know. But you have to. I know you are strong. Powerful. But you still are human, essentially. You inhabit a human body. Although you probably changed it already, the needs stay the same. If you neglect them, you will hurt Sam Winchester, the man you are now one with.”
She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. After a moment, he sat down across her and reached for the sandwich she left for him.
They ate in silence, splitting the food he brought. There was too much of it any way.
She chewed and swallowed, watching his slow, careful movements when he ate, mostly because she asked him to.
* * *
John put the duffle into his car and climbed into the truck. Two million. A massive amount of cash that would serve him good for a long, long time. New weapons, new storage places, new phones. The ability to live on cash rather than credit cards for a while. Reducing the risk of being caught significantly.
But it all gave him a bad feeling, a sense of dread deep in his gut. Because it all bore marks of a goodbye.
Besides he still couldn’t contact Sarah. She seemed like the kind of woman that knew how to take care of herself but still, she was missing for twelve hours now. He kept trying her phone. Both the home one and the cell but one went to voicemail and the other was obviously turned off.
The heavy feeling in his stomach, the bitterness in his throat he knew. It was guilt. Living and growing, threatening to suffocate him with each passing hour.
He sat in the truck, one hand clenched on the steering wheel, the other holding the phone.
“The number…” He cursed at the message and disconnected. Her cell was turned off, still. Or destroyed.
Refusing to think of what it might entail, he pressed the number one speed dial on his phone.
“Dad?” Came the raspy and confused voice after only one ring.
Dean.
“Yeah. Listen, are you still in the hospital?” He could hear that Dean wanted to say something different, ask questions but years of obedience came back and he answered Johns question.
“Yes. Just waiting for the doc to bring the paperwork.” He took a deep breath. “What happened? How did I get into the hospital? Where is Sam? Did I... did I manage to break the spell?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll be there in twenty, then we will talk. For now, you have to do something for me.” It was an order.
Whatever riposte he had, Dean swallowed it.
“Yes sir. What do I need to do?”
“Search the room.”
“What?” There was honest bafflement in his voice. “You want me to search my hospital room? What for?”
“A black duffel bag or anything that doesn’t belong to the hospital.” John ordered, not wanting to say too much over the phone.
“Sure, Dad.” There was a shallow breath as if Dean wanted to say something, but then he just disconnected.
John let the phone fall to his lap and with a curse he started the truck up. He peeled out of the parking lot, forcing an old Ford to break sharply. He didn’t once look back.
Whatever was going to happen with Sam, it was probably happening now. And he had to make sure Dean was safe. And where he could keep an eye on him.
* * *
She watched his tall form, his back to her. His shoulder had that tense quality to them that spoke of things better left unsaid. He had a black shirt on, unbuttoned and stood so still by the window. Watching the movement of people and cars.
Sarah wished she was psychic. Wished she could read his mind, know his thoughts. It was a wonder, how she managed to create something... so male, so unwilling to share the pain and fear.
She finally asked the Weapon to go to sleep. He didn’t say a word since then, only stared though that window as if he could find all the answers there.
“I don’t want to go back there.” The words, after so much silence, startled her and she felt herself jump a little.
“I’m sorry.” She said gently. Sorry for asking you for such a thing, sorry for wanting to help John so much, sorry she couldn’t just fix it all.
“It’s so cold there. Quiet. Empty.” He finally turned towards her. His eyes black, without whites or any other color, the black lines cutting though his pale cheeks like fresh wounds.
He was beautiful.
His chest, perfectly chiseled moved in time with his slow breaths, the sharply defined muscles flexing gently under the smooth skin.
“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, filled with guilt and desire to just turn away and leave. She was never an exceptionally good or bad person. Ordinary really. But she hated hurting him like that, hated that what she asked for would cause him pain. Hurt him.
In that moment he was hers, just hers.
Sarah closed her eyes feeling her throat tighten and her eyes burn. Shit. She hated that she was always so easy to cry. She even sniffed a bit watching movies. She felt like a total wimp.
Suddenly, he was just in front of her. She could smell the unique way he smelled, fresh, sharp. Masculine. His cool hands touched her face, tilting it up.
“Yes.” He murmured in that low, dark like molasses voice. “Yes.” He repeated and she could feel his gentle breath against her closed eyelids.
His thumbs skimmed over her damp cheeks, smearing the tears he found there.
Sarah reached up, wrapping her hands around his wrists. She didn’t try to stop him, to push him away. The tears fell harder. The guilt almost strangling her.
“I’m sorry. So sorry.” She kept repeating even as his lips, dry and infinitely gentle, touched her cheeks, gathering the warm saltiness there. “So sorry.”
* * *
Los Angeles, a city of fast moving cars and baking sun. Dean used to like it. Now? He wished he never set foot in the city.
He heard his father’s footsteps in the corridor, long before the man appeared in his room. His heavy boots beat the familiar rhythm, strong and sure, on the tiled floor.
Dean leaned back in the bed, sitting causing him much more pain that he was willing to admit. When he looked at himself in the mirror he was rather green around the gills and the doc kept snarking at him for leaving the hospital so early. His ribs were taped extra tight, his left wrist swollen and throbbing, the bandage stark against his skin. It didn’t take him long to realize that the hospital staff had to cut off the bracelet.
A week ago he would be thrilled, being free from that damned lust spell. Now? Now he felt lost and scared. During those few brief days that bracelet became a kind of reassurance, a lifeline. It was the only thing that guaranteed Sam coming back.
Now he didn’t know if he had managed to break the spell, but the fact that he was rather alive suggested he did. Yet there was no Sam around and Dad sounded… strange on the phone.
And he had a strange feeling that he forgot something, that there was something he should remember...
“Dean? How do you feel, son?” His Dad sounded gruff, tired. At first Dean stiffened, fearing disappointment from his father. After all he screwed up royally. It took him a moment to realize that it was fear that made him sound so gruff. Fear and worry.
He smiled, a little fake, and tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling dizzy from the pain.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
His father’s whiskers twitched which meant he gritted his teeth together.
“I see.” The sarcasm was almost a living entity. “Did you do what I asked you to?”
“Yes sir.” Dean snapped, hurting and angry and, above all, scared and ashamed of his failure. “I found a bag. It’s under the bed.” He flushed scarlet. He never felt good showing any kind of weakness around his family, and admitting to his Dad that he couldn’t lift a fucking bag or bend down to open it was beyond humiliating.
John opened his mouth, but snapped it closed, probably realizing why Dean didn’t touch the bag.
John only nodded his head and then crouched to reach for the familiar looking black duffle. He pulled it out, unzipped and set beside his son.
“Sam was here, yesterday night. He left this. He also left one like this in my motel room.” John announced dryly.
“How can you be sure Sam brought this?”
John smiled a small, twisted smirk and pushed the bag towards Dean.
“Look inside.”
Curious, Dean did as his Dad told him to. And felt his jaw drop.
“Wha... how... wh…” It wasn’t often Dean found himself so totally out of words but this time he only kept staring at the stacks of bills neatly stuffed in the bag. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. I agree. Yesterday, when I was at Sarah’s place I got a phone call. From your cell phone. But when I answered it, there was only silence. I tried to call back but no one answered. So I came back to the motel, hoping to find you there.”
“And you did.”
John swallowed loudly, obviously rattled at the memory.
“I thought you were dead at first. Jesus Dean, I thought I lost you.”
Still too stunned to react properly, Dean only patted his father’s arm weakly, his eyes glued to the money.
“We called 911, got you to the hospital. Sarah was there the whole time with me. After a while she said that Sam was here, too. She could sense him somehow. We had a fight and she threw me out. She said I shouldn’t see Sam right now.”
Dean snorted.
“You would have pissed each other in less than three seconds. She was right. It would have been a bloodshed.”
John cringed, but didn’t deny.
“Sarah stayed here...” He trailed off unhappily and Dean caught the hesitation.
“What happened?”
John turned his eyes away, staring through the window at the sunny sky.
“She is missing, Dean. I haven’t heard from her in over twelve hours. She’s not home, she’s not answering her cell.”
Dean looked at his father and got a vague flashback of a blond woman with a little weight on her. Pretty face. More than something to breathe with and most amazing looking hair he saw in a long time.
“You are afraid she’s dead.” Whispered Dean.
John flinched.
“If she is, her blood is on my hands.” He said quietly.
* * *
Once again Sarah found herself lying on the huge bed. In front of her, facing her, was Samuel Winchester. His eyes still black like night and black lines on his face. But his eyes were different now, the blackness loosing its power becoming bleak and dull with each pass of her hand through his silky, still a little damp, hair.
He was already falling asleep.
“Don’t tell him.” His voice was soft now, raspy, on the verge of sleep.
Sarah didn’t need to ask who he had in mind. She had a flash of those incredible blue, green, brown eyes. A shudder ran though her, a terrible feeling.
“He doesn’t need to know.” He added again. His voice slow, thick with sleep. Already drifting away.
She stroked his too long hair, the strands warm and silky under her fingers.
“I won’t.” It was a futile promise, she knew. Sooner or later Dean would learn the truth. She wondered just what he would do with it?
She watched the beautiful onyx eyes dim a little more. There was one more question she needed to ask.
“How much of Samuel Winchester is there?”
His eyes opened a little, long, dark lashes casting tiny shadows on his pale cheeks. He looked almost vulnerable. She shifted a little closer to him, his long body relaxed, sinking into the soft covers.
As his lids lowered for the final time a quiet, almost gentle whisper left his lips.
“Too much.”
TBC.
A/N: yes, I know this chapter was devoted mostly to Sarah and Sam but it was the only chance she got to talk to something she created. Sue me but I just wanted to add something personal. Make the Weapon something more than just a force. Something living.
