[AO3 Crosspost] Your own legend

[terresdebrume]

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Supernatural
SERIES: -
RATING: General Audiences
WORDCOUNT: 3 316
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
GENRE: Character Study
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: Your crib burns when you’re six months old and your life is forever shaped around this memory you don’t possess.
You fight it and you try to escape it but you can never quite run away from your own ill-begotten fame and your own reputation…
But in due time, you get to decide what kind of legend you want to be.
DEDICATION(S): For fel-as-in-tumbld.

You’re six months old and your crib is burning.

You cry and cry and cry, and the world doesn’t care, the world doesn’t hear you, doesn’t listen for you, doesn’t do shit for you. You’re six months old and you’ve just lost any chance to ever be normal, to ever feel safe in your life.

You are six months old and your brother is four, and he tells you it’s going to be okay but you’re too young to realize he’s trying to reassure himself as much as you.

You keep crying.

{ooo}

You’re five years old and your Dad is never here.

It never really bothered you until now: you had your brother with you and it was enough -it had to be enough. You are five years old and your brother is nine and a half, and he looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with you and your questions. He tells you to stop, that you don’t want to know but you push and push again until his patience thins and his hand flies as he yells.

You’re five years old, and somehow the similarity you just glimpsed between your brother and father frightens you more than the monsters that are apparently real.

{ooo}

You’re nine and you’re afraid of the dark.

Fear is an old acquaintance by this point. Fear of being discovered, of people discovering your Dad is never there, that he drinks, that he hits your brother, that he’s putting his life on the line every other day of the week. Fear that the one solid thing in your brother’s life is going to disapear, fear that he’s going to come back one day and not leave anymore.

You’re nine and you’ve always been afraid of people and for people, and now you’re afraid of the monsters coming to get you. You want a hug and reassurance, you want to feel protected, you want to feel like you can rely on someone stronger than you are… what you get is a .45 gun, too big in your hand, just like the shotgun in your brother’s white-knuckled grip.

You’re nine, and for the first time you’re afraid you’ll burn on a ceiling.

{ooo}

You’re almost nineteen and you’ve found a way out.

You’re going to college. You’re going to get an education, and a job. You’re going to have food every day, you’re going to have a roof over your head and clothes that fit. You’re never going to worry about monsters coming in at night again. You’re never going to wonder if the person you live with is sacrificing themselves for you, never going to wonder if they’re thinking about decking you, never going to wonder if the cold will kill you again. You’re going to be safe.

You’re going to be safe.

You’re going to live, and ask that beautiful girl out, and you’re going to date her and be nervous about inoffensive things for once.

You’re almost nineteen, and you’re not going to think about what you left behind, because you don’t want the fear to follow you.

{ooo}

You’re twenty, and sometimes you have nightmares about your brother dying and only finding out about it when his ghost comes back to haunt you.

{ooo}

You’re almost twenty-two and your brother breaks in your appartment.

He’s safe and sound and his name falls from your lips before you can catch it, keeps everything else at bay for a moment because you can’t decide if you’re happy or frightened to see him there… it doesn’t take long to decide it’s both.

You’re almost twenty-two, and your brother drags you back into a life you thought you’d left for good. He takes you back to the unknown, the fear and the loud noise of gunshots in your ears, to the smell of old leather and car oil, to the rough sound of EMV on recorded phone calls.

You’re almost twenty-two, and the fear tightens its hold on your skin, but you brother is with you again and it’s enough to make you smile.

{ooo}

You’re almost twenty-two and your bed is burning.

You scream and scream and scream but the world doesn’t hear, the world doesn’t listen, because the world doesn’t care. You’re almost twenty-two and you wonder how you could have been so naive as to think you’d ever truly be safe, wonder how it escaped your notice that no matter how fast you run away from the life, it will aways snap back to bite you in the ass when you least expect it.

You’re almost twenty-two, and you decide just because you live your life in fear doesn’t mean everybody has to do the same.

You close the trunk of the first home you ever knew and tell your brother you’ve got work to do.

{ooo}

You’re twenty five and your brother dies once, twice, a thousand times in front of you.

It doesn’t get any less painful and it doesn’t get any easier to get over, but your heart is hardening all the same, your gut stops churning, and you focus on your hatred for a trickster instead. You look for him everywhere, you get by every day thinking of the ways you’ll find to make him pay for his actions. Sleep and food become functional, hobbies and friends become bothers.

You’re twenty five and revenge is the only thing on your mind.

{ooo}

You’re twenty five and Dean is alive, and you’re not sure how you manage not to cry because it gives you a little more time to figure out how to get him out of the deal without dying.

(You’re not afraid to die, but he would just bring you back again.)

{ooo}

You’re twenty six and your brother is in hell.

Bobby has moved on, as he should, and your Dad is long dead anyway, but you can’t move on because you know it all goes back to you. The Devil’s gate were open and it was because of you, because a demon wanted you.

You’re twenty six and for what may be the very first time in your life, you’re in control, you’re in charge, and you need to save your brother from a fate that should have been yours. Every minute of every hour of every day, Dean burns and bleed and screams while you live.

You try everything you can to get him back. You threaten and you research and bargain, you drive back and forth accross the country and investigate every possible place and lead you can find, you would literally tilt the earth off its axis in order to get him back but nothing seems to work.

You’re twenty six and you you’re trying not to give up on your brother but it’s so faint, it’s so desperate… and then, when you are on the verge of breaking down, Ruby appears. And yes, she’s a demon and yes, you know you shouldn’t be doing this, that Dean would disapprove, but did Dean care about your aprobation when he sold his soul to Hell?

It didn’t matter to him then, and it doesn’t matter to you now, and you do what Ruby tells you because you’re smart, and you know she’s trying to manipulate you, but you think you can manipulate her back, you think you can get what you want out of her and get away -mostly- unharmed.

You’re twenty six and you’ve lost a brother, and there’s nothing more important than bringing him back, not even knowing whether or not he’ll hate you for it.

{ooo}

You’re twenty seven and you hate yourself for thinking maybe it was better not to have your brother around than to know he hates you.

You think about apologizing, about stopping everything right there and then and begging for his forgiveness, but then what good would it do? Dean has an Angel of the Lord with him now, one that called you an Abomination. He’s right. He’s wrong. It’s not the means that count, it’s the end, and yourend is that you’ll save people, that you’re going to help them.

You’re twenty-seven and you’ll show your brother you can be better than the demon you’ve been taking your power from.

{ooo}

You’re twenty eight and she got you right where she wanted you.

You’re twenty eight, and now you have the Apocalypse to add to the weight you already bear on your shoulders. The death of a mother, of a girlfriend, of a father, of a brother, in that order. Ash, Hellen, Jo, the bodies pile up and they’re on you, they’re all on you, even those who died before you were old enough to know what death was.

You’re twenty eight and you’re afraid again, afraid you’ll lose your brother too, though to hate or death, you’re not sure. You’re afraid you’re going to end up alone because if this is what you have become when you had reasons to stay on the good path, then what could you be if you ended up alone?

You try not to remember six months of mindless revenge driving you completely, but it’s hard to put off your mind.

You’re twenty eight, and the Apocalypse is on because you wanted to save your brother, and you think maybe it wouldn’t have happened if there was nobody to save in the first place. And maybe you try not to think about it when you finally figure out a plan to get all this to stop, but there’s still a part of you that thinks the punishment is well deserved, a part of you almost yearning for the fires of Hell so you can, at last, consider yourself punished and wipe the slates clean.

You’re twenty eight and you love your brother enough to reign Lucifer himself in.

{ooo}

(Your body is twenty nine, and it’s running around doing things you’d never do if you were in your right mind, but you don’t know that, don’t even care about it.

In the cage, there’s nothing but pain, and the distant memory of a brother you wanted to protect.)

{ooo}

You’re thirty and there’s an entire year missing from your memory.

You guess it’s nothing you really want to remember, and your brother sounds adamant that you don’t scratch the Wall holding it all back, so you don’t. You’ve learned the consequences of going against his advice the hard way, after all, and you’re not about to make the same mistake again. you’re too smart for it now. You hope.

You try not to contradict him anymore, to stay safe -it’s safer when you follow his lead.

{ooo}

You’re a thousand years old and Lucifer is singing Stairways to Heaven in your head.

You’re tired and you’re sick but your brother is your brother again and it feels too good to pass. The Angel is gone and it makes you sad, that you never had a chance to become his friend before things started to go south. You never truly talked to him and you think maybe it’s a missed opportunity, maybe you could have seen things more clearly if you had.

You look for him, because he’s your brother’s friend but also because he’s not so different from you. You know what it is like to get drunk on power, to bite off more than you can chew and be too proud to spit it out afterward. You know what it’s like to choke on it but still try to swallow the whole thing down until others have to come to your rescue and they don’t fully trust you again, because they know, now, that you’d stuff yourself to death rather than show you’ve been weak and wrong.

You’re a thousands years old, and although Castiel is technically your brother’s friend more than yours, you think there are some things about the Angel you understand better than your brother could ever hope to. So you look for him, and you hope you’ll find him in time.

Bobby dies and you focus on Castiel’s rescue even more, you cling to his salvation as determinedly as you ignored yours the first time around… maybe he doesn’t see you as a friend, maybe he doesn’t see you at all, but he is your friend and you want to help, you need to help, you need to prove you can still do good things.

{ooo}

Your brother has been ripped from you again, and you may be a thousand years old but it’s still just as painful as it was the first time around.

You take his car and you don’t add an ipod jack because you’re supposed to take care of the Impala, not douche her up. You drive. You drive, and drive, and drive. You want to look for spells, for witches, for demons, but you know what lies down that road. You know where it leads, you’ve been there before, and you don’t think you can do it all again. You know you can’t.

Only, you have no idea where else to look so you drive, until you hit a dog.

Amelia -for some reason, you remember her name very clearly even after years have gone by- she’s not pretty. She’s just as much of an ugly mess as you, except she doesn’t try to cover it up, and you know, maybe that’s just what you need. The last time you found something in a pretty package while your brother was dead didn’t end up so well.

You could have gone on a revengeful killing spree, but against what? Leviathans aren’t the kind of monsters you can hunt alone, and alone is all you are now, even after you’ve come and Amelia sleeps against your shoulder… perhaps especially then.

You think, sometimes, about the possibility of getting out of there. Leaving this room, this house, this town. Getting rid of the pretense that you’re like them and you’re healing when the truth is you’re so empty inside you can’t feel anything anymore.

You’ve learned your lesson about caring for people: all of them die.

At least with Amelia, you won’t have that problem… caring out of habit, after all, is not really caring anymore, right?

{ooo}

You’re thirty-three You’re a thousand years old and Dean is back, and he has a vampire with him.

You remember there was a time when you’d have looked at it cautiously, but benevolently… maybe you would even have encouraged it. You’re not about mindless killing: you’ve given free pass before, after all. But this thing with the Vampire, this whole friendship-despite-the-risks thing… it all reeks of Ruby all over again, and you remember all too well where that road leads.

You know it, and you’re fairly certain your brother knows it too, but he’s just as proud as you were, and what right do you have to comment on this? It’s not like he is going to start the Apocalypse… you keep silent. Mostly. You’re just being careful, and you keep an eye on the vampire.

You kind of stop thinking of the vampire when the trials start out.

They’re exhausting and they remind you of the cage. Not because of the pain, or at least not just that, it’s more… it sort of feels like having Lucifer in your head again. It’s burning white behind your eyelids at night, and it’s bright red against the white porcelain of the bathroom, and it’s too much and too bright but you’re going to do it anyway. It’s like stripping Lucifer of all the ugly sores his vessel used to wear and leaving only what he was supposed to be -a force for protection, for guidance, for love.

It’s like having Lucifer in your head again, Lucifer after a lot of therapy, and you think, after all, it’s not so bad, not even when it wakes you up at night with a pained scream on your lips. It’s hardly the first time you felt pain.

{ooo}

You don’t know how old you are anymore.

Your papers -the ones you forge and the ones you were given as a child- say you’re thirty five. They say you were born in Kansas (in Iowa, in Idaho, in New York, in Los Angeles, in California, in New Mexico, in Texas) in 1983.

Your bones say you’re eighty, at least. They creak and ache and whine when you move, they give you sore and bruises and sleepless nights, old dogs gnawing at you until nothing is left of you but an empty and battered shell.

You soul says you’re a thousand and then some, tired and tired and tired and tired, the word ringing in your heart over and over because there’s nothing that describes it half as well but it’s not intense enough, it’s not omnipotent enough, and it needs to be a littany before it can approach the truth of what you feel.

You face says you’re fifty, nearing on sixty.

It says you’re old, and you’ve seen things younger people can’t imagine, and if you look at the hollow of your cheeks, the feverish look in your eyes, you realize it speaks of things no other living man has ever seen and you think, maybe your new face fits you after all.

You look like a grandfather and so does your brother, and you start thinking it’s ironic, in a way, that the only chance you ever had to become a father burned on the ceiling of  flat near Stanford, died thinking you were a normal kid and you’d be an awesome lawyer someday. You were children.

You were children.

It happened lifetimes ago.

It happened ten years ago.

{ooo}

You’re thirty-eight.

You’re a thousand years old.

You are ageless.

You keep driving when you brother needs the sleep, and you keep shooting when things go bump in the dark. You go to bars and you get into fights, and a few of the old-school hunters buy you beers and ask if you’re related to the Winchester brothers.

You say yes, and then no. You say they retired and went wild near the Grand Canyon, and you say they died, killed by a Wendigo, a Witch, a Poltergeist. You say they were heroes and you’ll miss them, and then you say they were bastards who deserved what thet got.

Dean looks at you strangely, at first.

He asks why you’d lie and why you’d spread stories. He asks if there’s anything that should worry him in there, and you just shrug, tell him you don’t know, until he doesn’t ask anymore.

On the day someone tells you of the gruesome death of those bastards Winchesters and it escalates into a full-on fight about whether or not you really did start the Apocalypse, your smile is satisfied, and Dean’s is ferocious.

He doesn’t turn to you as he asks:

“Nobody knows our name, right?” You nod. “So there’s no danger in throwing a few punches.” You shake your head again. There’s no danger at all, except that of looking like two old fools getting in a fight they should avoid.

Dean’s smirk turns sharper, yearning for blood, and yours grows more indulgent in response. You don’t recall seeing him this carefree before, not truly. Not sincerely. Now he’s throwing punches left and right, uncaring who’s there to get them and, well, you can’t really say you blame him for it… it does feel good to release some steam, after all.

And as for any scruples you could have had… scruples are for younger people than you, anyway.

{ooo}

You’re a couple of months older when Charlie tells you about a pair of elderly Hunters who came in the game late but are putting the Winchesters to shame, or close enough as to make no matter.

You feel particularly satisfied.