denugis said: Insomniac Sam is watching cricket; Hallucifer tries to explain the rules to him, using analogies from hell. /sorry, I am too tired for the fight-starting option
YAAAAAAAAS bc cricket is actually forged from W G Grace’s nosehairs and HELLFIRE
(set after 8.21)
It’s three o’ clock on Sam’s watch and he isn’t sure if it’s AM or PM—living in a subterranean hideout and sleeping away most of the day means his biological clock is totally out of whack. In fact, he isn’t even sure he possesses one anymore; he probably coughed it out with the fucking mouthfuls of blood he’s been producing lately (you’re a fucking robot coming apart, sam, and you can’t hide it anymore). But anyway—he doesn’t see Dean anywhere, so he assumes it’s 3 AM so he doesn’t feel nearly as bad about parking his ass in front of the television instead of at the library.
(for fuck’s sake sam, this is home, not a boarding school, right?)
Well, Sam wishes it were a boarding school—like Hogwarts, or something, where he could just eat a bar of that fucking magical chocolate and gain back the ability to actually walk straight.
Right, so—the television in the bunker is magically enhanced like every piece of technology in there, and receives a fuckload of channels that Sam’s never heard of, and some of which he thinks are from other dimensions (he once spent a whole day in a fever haze watching the 36th season of Flying High, and then two weeks trying to convince Dean that, yes, there existed shows with seventy year old grannies seducing rock stars in airplane bathrooms, and, no, Dean, he’s not talking about Lipstick Jungle).
He ends up on a sports channel airing cricket, which he doesn’t know or give a rat’s ass about—so, naturally, he continues to watch it in some weak attempt at spite.
—yes, and he’s pretty sure it all makes sense in the language of illness: my hands are sticky with my blood and my head’s spinning with organ-cooking fever, so fuck off.
(ah. when have you ever known me to just quietly disappear, sam? Especially when you need me the most?)
There’s a guy in white endlessly running in and throwing a red ball at another guy dressed in white holding a bat while more guys in white stand around. Then there’s the guy dressed in white with the funky hat who does nothing at all except cross his hands behind his back and look keenly. The batsman seems content with letting the balls go through to the keeper over and over again until Sam’s about ready to pull out his hair if he isn’t afraid that it’ll come out all too easily (and wouldn’t that complete the terminal illness bingo, eh, sammy?)
(test cricket is an art, sammy. like torture, really—chip slowly and steadily away at your subject’s concentration, until—.)
The batsman gives an impatient hoick at one of the balls, which sneaks under his bat and crashes into the stumps and sends them flying—
Sam watches the stumps uprooting in glorious slow-motion, fighting nausea and hearing distant laughter.
(sounds like your bones breaking, sam. such a lovely noise they made!)
The next batsman comes in, and actually manages to connect bat to ball. The little red thing goes racing to the ropes bordering the field, while the other players run futilely after it, falling to the ground, skidding. The man with the hat performs what looks like a dance move, gracefully waving one arm from one side to another while the sunbathing spectators rouse briefly in a lethargic smattering of applause. Sam wonders if the whole thing is an exercise in interpretative dance, like subliminal advertising for a brand of laundry detergent to keep all those goddamn uniforms pristine and white. Or something.
(you remember your rewards, don’t you, sam? all the times you thought you’d escaped, that you’d found something, dreamt the last century and a half)
The batsman hops down the pitch for the next one, and hits the ball high into the air. This time, it falls into the hands of one of the rest of the men on the field. They converge in delirious celebration while the batsman walks away; the applause is slightly less lethargic, and somebody makes a half-hearted attempt at waving a flag.
(only to have me stick my hand in your chest moments later. you were so suggestible, sam.)
“So what you’re saying is,” Sam says slowly, “is that fast bowlers are the actual devil.”
Sam snorts and turns off the television. Dean walks in, pulling on his jacket. “Shake a leg, Sam—we gotta get moving.”
Sam levers his creaking body off the sofa and staggers out of the room. Black spots like cricket balls float in his vision and the world tilts. Seriously, where is that fucking magic candybar? “It’s too early, Dean,” he says, as he continues to weave.
“… it’s friggin’ four in the afternoon, Sam.”
Sam’s only response is a “of course it is,” and the slam of his bedroom door.