madebyme_x: (Sam and Dean (h/c))
[personal profile] madebyme_x

Title: A Good Day (to Die)
Summary:
Sam's having a good day. Future fic.
Rating: PG13

Genre/Spoilers: Sam and Dean Gen. None.
Warnings: Terminal illness sadfic and deathfic.
Word Count: 1200
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the 2017 [livejournal.com profile] ohsam and [livejournal.com profile] spn_littlebro Celebrating Sam; A Birthday Fanworks Event for the prompt terminal illness. A huge thank you to my awesome beta [livejournal.com profile] harrigan. I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Also Happy Birthday, Sam Winchester! ♥


A Good Day (to Die)

When Sam opens his eyes, he's struck by one thing almost immediately; he feels good. Like really good, and that feels wrong on so many levels.

Sam's used to waking up to bone-deep sickness, and the feeling that he's slowly being stripped of who he used to be. He needs Dean's help with pretty much everything; walking, dressing, and bathing, and while this was all kinds of mortifying and uncomfortable, they've both gotten used to it over the last year or so. That's what family's for, or so Dean says.

Then there are the days where he can't get out of bed at all, and Dean will spend the entire day camped in Sam's room bitching about the documentaries that Sam enjoys on Netflix, or reading out loud because Sam can't focus on the text any more without throwing up.

But right now he's lying in bed, watching the shadows from the ceiling fan dance around the walls of his room in the bunker, and he feels different. He feels...lighter. The feeling of heaviness, sort of like he's dragging around the extra weight of the cancer in his body, is gone. Which sounds kinda crazy, but that's the closest way he can explain it.

He looks over at the clock by his bedside table; 6:46am, which is late for him, he usually wakes around 4am, no matter how tired he is.

He sits up in bed, pushing away the cotton sheets that are tucked neatly around his limbs like he hasn't moved a muscle since he fell asleep. But there's no breathlessness, no sense of too-little air in his weary lungs.

He stands on unsteady legs, his muscle mass long since wasted away, and steps into his slippers, shoulders automatically hunched, waiting for the pain that never comes. He tests his body, straightening his back little by little. But there's nothing. No aches or pains in his joints and muscles, no dizziness or nausea, and no unidentified new ailment to add to the list of his broken body.

He can't remember the last time he felt this good; today's a good day.

He's shuffling in his slippers as he opens his bedroom door, still not trusting his skeletal body to feel this good, and then heads down the corridor towards the kitchen.

Usually, the moment Dean hears Sam's door open, he'll drag himself out of bed and cook up a massive breakfast that Sam just can't eat, no matter how much he wants to, while talking endlessly about nothing; just so that Sam can't bring up the conversation that Dean's been avoiding for too long.

But today Dean's sitting at the kitchen table, hands hugging a mug of what smells like strong black coffee. He looks up at Sam, eyes smudged with purple exhaustion, his face pale and unshaven.

“Morning, Sam.” He's grinning now, eyes damp but oh-so-bright in the harshly lit room. “Do you, er, can I get you anything?”

Sam opens his mouth, about to list off half a dozen things he thinks he could eat today; hash browns, pancakes, bacon, the whole nine yards. But he stops himself. “Y'know, I think I'm fine this morning.”

“And you feel OK?” Dean asks, concern flashing across his face, and if Sam didn't know any better, he'd think Dean's hands were shaking as he lifts his mug and takes a sip.

“I feel great, actually. The best I've felt for a long time.”

Dean swallows thickly, and then stands and turns his back to Sam. “That's great.” He drains the coffee down the sink, and then turns back around, his gaze flicking around Sam's body, looking for a problem or maybe a sign that Sam's full of shit.

But he's not lying. Not today anyway.

“Let's do something. Y'know, just you and me.” Dean's wringing his hands nervously, before forcing them to his sides. “We'll take Baby, and just drive. Hit the open road like we used to. Wherever you wanna go; just say the word.”

“Dean, I'm-”

“I mean you're feeling good, right? So let's celebrate! Live it up for a change.” There's a sharp edge to Dean's tone, and then he's grinning again, but it looks wrong on his face, all forced and unnatural.

Dean steps closer, raises his hand like he's gong to clap Sam on the shoulder or something. But then he stops himself, and drags it down his face instead, the scratch of skin on coarse beard so loud in the silent room that Sam winces.

Dean's eyes fix on Sam, and he looks terrible; bone-weary, and too skinny, like something's eating him alive too. Sam's been worrying about Dean since he first got his diagnosis; about how he's dealing with this, about what he's going to do when Sam's gone. He's lost count of the number of times Dean's told him to shut up, or walked away whenever he tries to talk about it.

There's so much Sam wants to say to his brother. So damn much.

“Can we just go? Get out of here?” Dean pulls his keys out of his jeans pocket, and it's clear that he wants them to leave right this second. “Please, Sammy.”

Suddenly, there's a sinking sensation in Sam's stomach, and a sheet of ice spreads throughout his body, freezing his organs solid; one by one.

There's something desperate about Dean's words, and it awakens a memory from deep inside, something that he couldn't quite reach before. It's calling out to him now, so crystal clear; the smell of stale sweat in his bedroom, the spinning ceiling fan throwing thick shadows on Dean's face, the robotic sound of a ticking clock in the background, and Dean's hand squeezing his own so tightly his baby-bird bones creak under his crepe-paper skin. And then there's the sluggish feel of the poison in his black-red blood getting thicker and thicker, and the sweet and irresistible call of a painless sleep so deep and true that Sam can't refuse it any longer, despite his brother's pleas. It's time.

“Please, Sammy.”

He's looking at his brother now, really looking, and Sam sees so much; each sleepless night and salt-filled tear, a hollowed-out shell of a man who has nothing else in the world but his brother. It comes to Sam all at once, an epiphany in the pitch-black dark, because Dean's right, it's time to get in the car and drive; it's time to just leave all of this behind, and never return. It's time.

“Sure, Dean. Let's go for a drive, just you and me.”

They walk towards the garage where the Impala will be parked, all shiny and perfect, like new, and Sam doesn't look back at his bedroom, at the wide-open door, or the shadows of the still-spinning ceiling fan and the clinical tick of his clock, because he knows exactly what he'd find in there.

But it doesn't matter, not any more, he finally feels good, he feels free, and he knows exactly where he belongs now, and that's where he's going to stay; right next to his brother, side by side, forever.


The End

                                                                                                   
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