SpN: Come The Night, 25/29
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roxyTitle: Come The Night, 25/29
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 5218
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance.
It gets worse before it gets better.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen~ ninteen~twenty~twenty-one~twenty-two
twenty-three~twenty-four
icon by misscla
THE CITY OF DYS/THE END OF EVERYTHING
"So, this is the thing that caused a glitch in the system? What is it?"
When Sam steps through the doors of the Mayor's office, the model galaxy suspended from the ceiling is the first thing he sees, then the ornate cases stuffed with books, and the shelves and tables covered with gadgets that whir and click and beep. He thinks with some distant part of himself that he should be interested or curious, should be anxious to poke and sniff into everything. Maybe once upon a time he would have been but he's not now and he's certainly not interested in the mayor standing next to the cargo he came for, fidgeting and sweating in that tight, long, wool suit of repression…he can smell her hatred, her fear, and it pleases him.
He walks to the nearest iron coffin. "Is this my prize?" he asks and peers into the glass window. Sam frowns…it's not Roach. Dean…it. Sam has no idea what that thing is in the box and at first, he's angry, until he realizes—it's the glitch. He rubs the heel of his hand over the slab of glass. It's like looking at something underwater…like looking at something distantly familiar. "Hunh. Is it alive?" He notices the hand that had rubbed at and around the glass pane was a bit gritty. "Is this—ah, this is salt. Well done." He smiles at the mayor. The entire surface of the box has been sprayed with salt and the inside of it is lined with wood—yew or cedar, probably, definitely something painful for demons, deadly for some supernatural beings—he likes it. He might have to adapt this idea of theirs for his own. It could come in very handy when he needed to implement a bit of retraining on some of his stupider minions…
The mayor bows her head, acknowledging Sam's compliment. "Of course, he's very much alive, and well protected, Majesty. The drug will wear off in a few minutes."
There's an unpleasant hum he thinks is coming form the box, it crawls across his skin and worms its way into his head, making his nearly constant headache worse. Still the mayor had done her best and it was up to him to be…some version of grateful. "This is…I'm very pleased."
"Then you'll extend the free zone?"
There it is again, that arrogant streak of hers that annoys him no end—but amuses him also, fortunately for the mayor. He straightens, turns toward her; he's looming over her when he stops and glares. He can see the second his eyes shift by the look on her face. The woman sways a bit but she keeps her eyes locked firmly on his…arrogant and smart. "All right," he says finally.
It's a small thing to grant her, and he really is getting tired of trying to keep all that land under control and he's going to be busy soon anyway and this way he doesn't have to keep sending generals in and that means less infighting with subsequent loss of land and cattle—people, damn it, he meant people— "All right, I'll extend the free zone, north and south. We'll work out exactly how far when I have the time."
The mayor tsks impatiently, unbelieving, but he's feeling generous today and besides, there is that thing where he actually likes her…instead of exploding her heart, he offers, "and I'll extend the zone without raising taxes. I put my seal on it."
She's not a fool, she knows when to back down…she takes a breath and bows. "Thank you, Majesty. And if I might, one last request—" she rushes on, afraid of being interrupted—or blown to bits, maybe—"extend the time between lottery and conscription?"
Sam frowns. "No. I'm not dealing with my ignorant horde scrambling for rides and forgetting about my enemies. Possession is the carrot on the stick I beat them with."
"Then banish them to the inner rings, Majesty," she says. "Or you can erase them, permanently—"
"Shut up. You don’t know—it's not your business." The throbbing headache escalates—annoyance with her ridiculous demands makes him burn inside. He's so tempted to smash her into a million pieces, smash Chronopolis, dice every one of the fucking arrogant show-offs…deep breath, deep breath… Save it for when it counts, he thinks, and brushes away her request, her anxiety and disappointment. He drives his thumb between his eyebrows, trying to rub out that persistent ache. He says, "Okay, so…we've got this one in the box. But where's the thing you really called me for?"
The mayor points to a settee near the windows that look out on the garden. "I thought you might want to examine him more closely. I hope I didn't presume…"
Sam takes a deep, satisfied breath, the ache recedes and his fingers twitch with the desire to touch…after all these years, there it lies, perfect and whole and waiting to be Sam's again. All the madness, the searching everywhere and it's here, asleep on a settee, knees tucked up and still he barely fits on it, a blanket pulled up to his chin like a child in its bed. Sweet.
Sam circles the sleeper and looks down at it, surprised that he's experiencing some sort of emotional response. He's not sure what to call the odd feeling…victory? Possessiveness? Anger, hatred, desire…the sunlight is turning its hair bronze and gold, its lips are rosy, plump and curled into a slight bow. Dean. Dean, Dean "Dean…"
Dean takes slight, snuffly breaths, turns into the pillow tucked behind his head and sighs. He looks serene, trusting,young. Cas must somehow have thrown him whole into this time. Sam drops to his knees besides the sleeping man and strokes a tender hand through his hair, his thumb skates over Dean's cheekbone and across his full lower lip, which twitches and the pink tip of his tongue slips out and over it. Sam smiles.
Soon, those lips will be parted in a scream and be full of blood…Dean sleeps on and smiles a little in his sleep.
"Will he wake up?"
The mayor closes the open windows. "Not for another hour or two. Long enough to take him home. We can load him in the box now if you wish."
"I don't wish," Sam laughs. "It's taken too long to find it, not letting it go now." He fists his hands in Dean's shirt and pulls him up on the settee. Dean's head lolls like a ragdoll's without support, his eyes stay closed despite Sam's shaking him—he's obviously deeply unconscious. Dean doesn't react at all when Sam yanks him completely off the settee and throws him over his shoulder. A toss of his head to the troops at the door brings them near. He directs the demons that have come with him to stand near the box. They sweat and groan at their close proximity to the torture of salt and iron but do exactly as Sam directs. "Flank this box all the way to the airship. When we're ready to load, no one is to touch the cargo but yourselves."
"But—why, Majesty—"
Sam makes a gentle inquiring noise and the demon speaking drops to its knees. The humans in the room try to back away without seeming to do so. Sam lays a gentle hand on its head, as if petting a favored dog and the demon smokes in its skin. Sam goes on in a reasonable tone, "I'm not asking you to carry the box, am I? Just load it on the airship. Is that so much to ask? Well, is it?"
They scramble over themselves to assure him that, "Oh no, no, sire, not at all, never…."
The mayor's standing at the remaining box, the lid raised. "Majesty, are you sure you wouldn't rather….?"
Sam turns to the mayor, "No. This one is as crafty as a roach—too inclined to slip away. I'm taking it myself." He slaps Dean's ass and everyone in the room jumps. Sam smiles. "As always, a pleasure. We'll contact you at the end of the month—I'll send a voxregis to take my place at this season's petition. We'll be lenient in all cases." He steps around her and peers at the box holding the glitch again. "I can hardly believe this boring bundle of sticks and hair is the thing that nearly threw a wrench in the system. What makes it special?"
"We have no idea, Majesty. It's…probably just a boy. An ex-slave. A criminal, run-away—a runaway from Dys, or so he claimed."
"Well if that is the case, we have it back, then. Horses are always welcome."
"He claimed to be trained, in all things, but beyond that he's intelligent. And there is that odd thing about him. He might not know he's a fallen…we might be able to bring it out of him, discover what he is. It seems…" she lowers her voice and her eyes, the model of respectful fear, but goes on, "…such a waste." To treat him like a toy went unspoken.
Trained. Intelligent. Sam ignores her. It's completely unimportant if the boy is bright as a rock or if he's trained or not. He doesn't need brains to spill his guts, and sex—sex is mostly boring. Coupled with the fact that the mutt was a mediocre looking thing, he doesn't give a shit if the boy had been trained to folkdance and whip up a soufflé while sucking dick. If there really was anything special about this thing, he had the means to dig it out. He was going to enjoy discovering the facts.
~o0o~
The steam car the mayor provided takes them directly to the airship pad. His private ship waits there, the bloody roses—Sam's symbol—emblazoned on its side. It's a huge thing that, ungainly as it seems, still manages to give the impression it's straining to leap into the air. The howl of engines and propellers whirring up to speed assaults the air but Dean sleeps on, not once moving. Sam jogs up the ramp and sweeps into the ship, not pausing to check if his cargo was being loaded properly—he has no doubt it will. He's led to the upper level, towards the back of the ship, where guest cabins have been combined to create a suite.
All the way, Sam stalks along with his mind in overdrive—the pleasure he feels in the dead weight of Dean on his shoulder combines with the pleasure of the scenarios he considers, he relishes the satin slide of Dean's skin against his while planning retribution against the Duke, breathes in the cinnamon-smoke-leather scent of Dean while planning how to further consolidate his power with a few judicious assassinations...there's much less frantic rat-like scrabbling in his head with Dean back where he belongs. It's pleasant, this. His mind's more closely focused and the headache has finally, finally eased. He dreams of the games they'll play, imagines Dean's screams, the pleasant heat of his blood.
Sam lays Dean out in his suite himself, pulls the disgusting rags Dean's wrapped himself in away with his own hands, vanishing them into ash with a snap of his fingers. When he's finished cleaning him, Dean's stretched out on the bed, thin, long and beautiful in a rough sort of way. His skin's gone dark with the sun, which means his freckles are a darker copper now, spattered thickly everywhere. While Sam prefers Dean's skin pale enough to trace his veins, likes him thin enough to count every knob on his spine and feel the ribs straining against his skin, he has to admit, there's something to be said for this wild, feral Dean. This wild thing tossed across the brocade covers of the bed made Sam want to break open Dean's bones and suck out the marrow—he had a feeling Dean would fight him all the way now and for a bit, it would be entertaining. After all, it wouldn't be much of a feat to turn Dean back into his Roach when Sam tired of the game.
He walks around the bed, enjoying the peace that having Dean with him again brings. All those years, crazy, howling years without him. He'd never once believed that Castiel didn't know what happened to Dean…turns out he was telling the truth. That one explosive push had sent him right out of time, really out of time. Castiel thought he'd won, the freak. But Sam had always been patient when it counted, and he'd waited, until they'd caught up with Dean again. Sam had spent way too much time hurting without his Sacrifice. He needed what only Dean could give…breaking Dean over and over brought Sam a bit of peace. Kept the hungry ghosts at bay.
Sam pulls a chair from the desk to sit at the bedside. He strokes Dean's cheek, draws sigils of possession and holding across his bare chest, traces the muscle in Dean's arms and the length of his legs, draws wards and locks along the faint trail of hair pointing downwards on his belly…just for fun of course, none of it means anything without blood or spit or semen. He strokes Dean's slack lips and vows that this time…this time he'd be careful. The wards and locks he'll put on Dean now will be impossible to break. They'll drive him insane but that's not an issue. With Castiel in nearly one piece, he can use the angel's grace to make the binding permanent and irreversible. But not before using him to find out just what the hell that was in the box.
Sam adjusts the cabin's lamps to a soft glow and pulls the chair up to the desk near the bed. A marquetry box takes up most of the desk area, he lifts the lid and the box emits a soft chime and the inside of the lid shivers with color before the intertwined, bleeding roses appear on the screen. A moment later 'Tippi Hedren' greets him.
"Our King. As of the sixteenth hour, here are the latest updates: Requesting that you remain on the sidelines, the Yellow King plans retaliation against the Duke, for a skirmish initiated by him, affecting a portion of the Eastern Province. Survivors are estimated at 1,084,022.604. The probability of a famine has been decreased by 19 percent. The probability of plague has risen, but as that constitutes a non-supernatural event, no troops have been assigned, pending your orders. The Princess in Steel has retreated to the interior. The Dog has retreated to the ice caps. At this point—"
Sam lets her voice drone on and on, he fiddles with the dials and keys and toggles on the machine and slips into a waking dream. He remembers, and wonders idly if these might be real memories…they were when The Doctor took them from Dean. He dozes, mind filled with a memory of two little boys fishing in a stream dancing with fractured bits of sunlight….
~o0o~
'Angels watch over you, Dean, whether you want it or not. Full of grace, Dean, full of grace….'
Dean whirls about—confused, and honestly, a little frightened. He's in a long, white hallway filled with light and at the end of it, Castiel is walking towards him, his arms open and a sweet smile on his face.
'It's all coming together now Dean, can you feel it?' He says, his arms spread wide, 'The end of pain, Dean, the end of pain.' Castiel frowns then and sighs. 'You'll loose him before it's over, of course, but it will be okay, Dean. You'll get him back, and it will be well with you. This mistake I made, Angel and Sam will fix all of it.'
Castiel comes closer and closer, his arms wrap around Dean, and his mouth is on Dean's, not a kiss, just…close. 'I promise that,' he says and then he's slipping inside, his arms sink into Dean and Dean's whole body fills with warmth, Castiel is in him, part of him and then, he's gone, leaving Dean feeling hollow and sad and cold…
'I promise,' he hears and wakes up
Dean wakes up with no clue where he is, no clue what's happening—nothing. Tall, wide windows all along one wall light the room he's in, through them he sees a beautiful, sun-lit view of a city spreading right to the horizon. Dean blinks, tilts his head and blinks again—"What the fuck?"
The view is a fake—it's like a giant photo pasted onto the glass…who would do that, and why? He turns slowly, his eyes slide along a long black table that dominates the room. A few pieces of furniture are scattered in the open space, all chrome and leather, with short-napped fur rugs flung here and there. It's all black and white. It's cold and pretentious.
Dean looks behind himself and there's a big, dark chair, almost a throne, against the opposite wall. Suddenly his guts twist and he's about a breath away from throwing up, he's on his hands and knees and shaking to bits and he doesn't know why—the place isn’t scary, it's bland, boring. It's douche-bag central.
"Okay, okay, relax...you're just…freaking for no reason…" Talking to himself doesn't relax him a damn bit—he jumps a fucking foot at a low, whimpering noise from behind one of the couches. Dean grabs a thing, a vase or something, from an end table and creeps toward the couch. If it's a monster, Dean's shit out of luck. The stupid piece of whatever it is in his hand isn't much protection against anything....
"Dean—"
"Fuck!" Dean throws the vase down and practically jumps over the couch. He's looking down at Angel, who's crammed himself small as possible behind the couch. He looks terrified—he looks ready to die of fright. He's the color of cheese and stinks of sweat and vomit. "I was awake I was awake I was awake I was awake…" he keeps mumbling the words, quivering and mumbling like a little lost kid.
Dean drops down, reaches out and pulls Angel into him. Angel seems not to see anything or realize that Dean is touching him. He's lost in some nightmare and Dean stroking his hair and rubbing warmth back into Angel's waxy skin doesn't register at all.
Dean's trying hard to maintain. It's overwhelming, all of this. One minute he's being fucked around with in the mayor's office, and the next he's in some other room with a freaked out Angel, wondering what the hell he's talking about when it clicks—the box. Angel was crammed in one of those boxes, and whatever else had happened it's been longer than a minute—from the way Angel was going on, much longer. Dean figures he knows what's making Angel into a mess—he'd seen Sam freak out just the same way after being trapped inside a cedar chest during a hunt. Great time to find out you're a little claustrophobic…fuck. Dean wishes he knew what the fuck was going on. Where the hell was Sam? Had he come or not?
There's nothing Dean can do right at this minute so he does what little he can. Rocks Angel, tells him over and over it's okay, they're alive and fine and together and nothing can hurt them and sure hopes like hell he's not lying.
It takes a bit, but Angel finally uncurls from the frantic ball he'd been. Dean can feel his racing heart settle slowly; his breaths even out until they're gentle puffs against Dean's neck. Finally, he speaks. "Where…where are we, De?"
"Don't know—but I'm figuring we can count on it being someplace fucked up, with our luck. It's—it's kind of familiar though." Dean blinks, and a whole new scene is overlaid on the one he's looking at, demons of all sorts, shapes, laughing, reaching for him…he turns to look at the long black table and Sam's at the head of it, winking at him and smiling….
"Dean!" Angel has his face cupped between his palms, and Dean's skin is hot where Angel touches him, freezing cold and clammy everywhere Angel doesn't. "Dean, you back with me?"
"Dean."
Dean and Angel both jerk—look towards the door. Sam. Sam is coming towards him, smiling. The same slick, grimace meant to be a smile that he wore in Dean's vision, nightmare…flashback? God, Dean shudders, he hopes to fuck that it wasn't a damn flashback. He feels—fear, mostly fear, a little anticipation because it's Sam.
But mostly fear because there's no way that—thing—is really his brother.
"Dean, Dean, Dean. It's good to have you back—what are you doing?" Sam's tone slides from overly-sweet to a growl. His eyes slide from hazel to mustard and Dean realizes he's been crowding in front of Angel from the moment Sam walked in the room.
"You never did know what was good for you," Sam mutters and snaps his fingers. There's a flurry of noise and movement behind Sam, and then someone staggers into the room, arms wind-milling to keep from falling. They're only partially successful; they drop to their knees in front of Sam.
Dean flinches. "No fuckin' way—" It's not possible, no way, it can't be. But the person turns their face up, and long black hair parts to reveal blue eyes wide in shock. "Cas…Castiel?"
It is Castiel, swaying on his knees and looking confused as hell, looking damn good for a being Dean thought had died that day in the gas station parking lot. He'd been sure that Cas went up in a ball of flame, that he'd been exploded when Lucifer went down…but no, that was wrong, Castiel had still been alive then, it was just him and Cas and Sammy had disappeared....
Dean's hands fly up to his face—he's hiding behind his hands like a four year old, shaking…No. he hadn't disappeared. Sam had come back, just…wrong.
Cas manages to stand, wavering to his feet. Blood drips, slow, thick, drop after drop from his nose, but he's smiling. "Dean? Dean, it is you…I'm sorry, my friend. I tried, I really did. I made such a terrible mistake, and I'd hoped that—oh."
All along the room, multiple clicks sound, coming from dozens of black boxes springing open, a single blue eye peering out of each one. They look like the blue eyes staring at him now, Cas' eyes. A low murmuring fills the room, eerie in how close it sounds to speech. Sam was glaring at Castiel, hands fisted on his hips and his mouth a furious flat line. Dean's about to ask him what the flying fuck was going on when Angel yelps, yanks on his arm and points. A screen behind Sam plays the scene before him. "Oh fuck…"Dean whispers. It's Angel, front and center on the screen, a stunned expression on his face, a hand on Dean's arm and the other pointing towards them. Dean wonders if everyone is seeing this…for a hot second, he wishes he could paste a 'kick me' sign on Sam's broad back…Angel cuts his eyes towards him and his glare is nearly as scary as Sam's.
Through all this, Cas seems frozen, just—staring at Angel, wonder in his eyes, the blood dripping faster now. "You did it, Dean, you rescued Sam. Sam—" Castiel holds his hand out to Angel and Sam knocks it down.
"You recognize that thing. What is it? One of your angels?"
Angel shakes his head, backing away from Cas, from Sam, trying to pull Dean with him. "Christe, oh fuckin' Nomdei, c'mon, c'mon—we've got to get—Christe," he gasps, ignoring the flinching, snarling figures around them. "Do you know what he is? He's an angel,Dean, an angel, not like Gavreel, he's topped up and…an Angel."
Sam closes his hand over Cas' shoulder and squeezes. Dean can hear bone popping and Cas' tiny hiss of pain "So, is it an angel or not?"
Cas shakes his head, gasps, "Not an angel, a soul."
"Oh for—" Sam shakes Castiel. "Don’t be stupid, souls don’t walk around in meat suits—well they do, and then we call them human. This thing is. There's something different about it, other than human. Some new species of angel or demon."
Cas manages to pull loose from Sam and darts towards Angel. "This is what you've been waiting for; you may not have known it but this—"
Dean pushes in front of Angel again. "I swear to God, you touch him and I'll kill you."
"Dean, you don't understand—Sam has to touch your—your friend."
Angel practically crawls up Dean's back trying to keep Castiel away; he's shaking, worse than before, like he's going to fly into a million pieces. "Dean, you said you weren't going to let him kill me, you swore!"
'No one's killing anyone, damn it, you hear me, no one's going to die—"
"SHUT UP."
Everything stops. The floor shimmies under their feet like it's made of water, the walls creak, the windows bow and stretch and snap back into their frames with a high-pitched whine. Sam lifts his hand, curls it into a fist and Dean flies to a wall, sticks there like he's velcroed—stuck and trapped like the YED had trapped his family a million years ago, only this yellow-eyed freak is his Sam, his Sammy….
Sam's furious, his power leaking out all over. Dean feels his blood swelling in his veins, beginning to burn as Sam's anger takes the room apart, bit by bit. The furniture jolts across the tiles, the tiles rock and come loose…the windows fly open and shut again and the curtains become a snowstorm of shredded fabric. Dean blinks quickly, trying to clear the blood out of his eyes—he sees in bits and pieces, stop-motion shots—Castiel darting towards Angel, scooping him up. Dean hears Cas shout, "It's meant to be, you'll understand, it was never supposed to be like this, this is all wrong—"
Cas barrels into a startled Sam and Sam staggers, his arms come up and around Angel and Dean knows that for Sam to touch Angel is the worst, the most horrible thing that could happen in a lifetime full of terrible things. For a split second he hates Sam, for that split second he hates Castiel even more. Dean screams, helpless to do anything else. Angel never looks his way before he and Sam and Cas collide.
"No, no, no—"
Dean freezes. Everything freezes. The air stops moving, Dean's lungs stop, his heart stutters. Sam and Angel are wrapped around each other like lovers, statue-still, Cas falls to the ground in slow motion and his wings come out, a flare of black feathers sliding out and out, over the floor, up the walls. His expression twists into something Dean can't read…not pain, not relief, or victory…unknown.
Huge sapphire-blue eyes turn his way and Cas says something Dean can't hear, it looks like sorry—it could be anything, but when Cas' hands come up to cover his face, Dean slams his eyes shut. Behind closed lids, Dean knows that Castiel's true form fills the room, a light so bright Dean feels his skin tighten, hairs crisp and the smell of burning fills his nose—there's a flash of feeling, a breeze across his cheek, the ghostly press of phantom lips.
~o0o~
At last the light dims. Dean opens his eyes to a room empty of everything but himself and Sam. The windows are gone, the room scoured of every unclean thing, all reduced to ash swirling in the light breeze coming through the vanished windows. It's silent. Dean touches his ears and his fingers come away wet…he can't hear. Before he can even think about that he's staggered with the realization that Cas is gone, Angel is gone. Loss slams into him—Angel's gone, disappeared like he'd never been. Dean blinks in shock—Angel was Sam, all this time, Angel was Sam. He'd fallen in love and felt guilty and disloyal and torn but Angel had been familiar. He'd been annoying and—and good. He'd been a really good person. Because he's Sam—was Sam—he'd been the best part of Sam. Dean shakes his head. Sure. It was obvious, now. Of course Angel was Sam. This was…so fucked up it could only be true. Castiel was right—he'd fucked up beyond royally. Dean wished Castiel was back, so he could kill him. But at least before he'd whatever—died, returned, became one with the universe—he'd fixed it.
He hadn't really lost Angel, Dean told himself, he'd gotten Sam back, the way he should be…and thinking of Sam brought him back to the here and now, now was where Sam was on his knees, clawing at the floor, and Dean's hearing snaps back in tune to Sam's screams. He's screaming in a way Dean's only heard in hell. Blood drips from his mouth and eyes in a steady stream. Sam's dying—his brother's whole again but—Sam stops screaming and the silence is deafening.
Dean scrambles across the floor towards his brother. He's shocked that Sam's actually breathing, nice and steady, so that's a plus. Instinct trained into them as kids has Dean checking Sam out, making sure that nothing's broken or sliced or missing…it's all good. Except for the blood that slows but won’t stop. Dean's hands skate through the coating of it on Sam's cheeks, his thumb's on Sam's throat, pressing lightly into Sam's clock-work steady pulse. He lifts Sam head, and gulps. Sam's eyes are full of blood. He wipes it away and finally, Sam's eyes flutter open. They're murky at first but clear quickly. He blinks rapidly, licks blood coated lips. "Fuck…" he mutters, eyes rolling, darting here and there. Dean keeps stroking him, petting him, fuck the Winchester Rules for Dealing. If he didn't feel like he'd just lost a major piece of his heart, he'd be cheering. And that thought he wrestles mercilessly into a box in his brain. He'd deal with…all that…later.
Sam finally seems to slide into the here and now; he shakes himself slightly and meets Dean's eyes. "Oh fuck, Dean…Dean, is that you? What…what happened? Where am I?" He hesitates; when he speaks his voice comes rough like he's swallowed gravel "Are…you okay?"
Just like Sam to worry about Dean when his own shit's going to hell. Dean laughs a little and pulls back, pats Sam's chest. If his hand lingers a bit, it's okay. He's allowed. "You're…you're okay now, Sam. Just—here, let me help you up."
He's got Sam's elbow in his hand, steadying him. The wind picks up a bit and the ash is swept out the windows. Sam drops his head to Dean's shoulder, his lips soft and whispering over his cheek…"Oh, Dean," Sam says, "Oh, Dean."
He pulls away from Dean and grins, wide, so wide. There they are, the dimples Dean kept seeing whenever Angel smiled. "Oh come on now. Did you really think something sparkly was going to happen? You've always been so fucking easy, Dean."
26
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 5218
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance.
It gets worse before it gets better.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen~ ninteen~twenty~twenty-one~twenty-two
twenty-three~twenty-four
icon by misscla
When Sam steps through the doors of the Mayor's office, the model galaxy suspended from the ceiling is the first thing he sees, then the ornate cases stuffed with books, and the shelves and tables covered with gadgets that whir and click and beep. He thinks with some distant part of himself that he should be interested or curious, should be anxious to poke and sniff into everything. Maybe once upon a time he would have been but he's not now and he's certainly not interested in the mayor standing next to the cargo he came for, fidgeting and sweating in that tight, long, wool suit of repression…he can smell her hatred, her fear, and it pleases him.
He walks to the nearest iron coffin. "Is this my prize?" he asks and peers into the glass window. Sam frowns…it's not Roach. Dean…it. Sam has no idea what that thing is in the box and at first, he's angry, until he realizes—it's the glitch. He rubs the heel of his hand over the slab of glass. It's like looking at something underwater…like looking at something distantly familiar. "Hunh. Is it alive?" He notices the hand that had rubbed at and around the glass pane was a bit gritty. "Is this—ah, this is salt. Well done." He smiles at the mayor. The entire surface of the box has been sprayed with salt and the inside of it is lined with wood—yew or cedar, probably, definitely something painful for demons, deadly for some supernatural beings—he likes it. He might have to adapt this idea of theirs for his own. It could come in very handy when he needed to implement a bit of retraining on some of his stupider minions…
The mayor bows her head, acknowledging Sam's compliment. "Of course, he's very much alive, and well protected, Majesty. The drug will wear off in a few minutes."
There's an unpleasant hum he thinks is coming form the box, it crawls across his skin and worms its way into his head, making his nearly constant headache worse. Still the mayor had done her best and it was up to him to be…some version of grateful. "This is…I'm very pleased."
"Then you'll extend the free zone?"
There it is again, that arrogant streak of hers that annoys him no end—but amuses him also, fortunately for the mayor. He straightens, turns toward her; he's looming over her when he stops and glares. He can see the second his eyes shift by the look on her face. The woman sways a bit but she keeps her eyes locked firmly on his…arrogant and smart. "All right," he says finally.
It's a small thing to grant her, and he really is getting tired of trying to keep all that land under control and he's going to be busy soon anyway and this way he doesn't have to keep sending generals in and that means less infighting with subsequent loss of land and cattle—people, damn it, he meant people— "All right, I'll extend the free zone, north and south. We'll work out exactly how far when I have the time."
The mayor tsks impatiently, unbelieving, but he's feeling generous today and besides, there is that thing where he actually likes her…instead of exploding her heart, he offers, "and I'll extend the zone without raising taxes. I put my seal on it."
She's not a fool, she knows when to back down…she takes a breath and bows. "Thank you, Majesty. And if I might, one last request—" she rushes on, afraid of being interrupted—or blown to bits, maybe—"extend the time between lottery and conscription?"
Sam frowns. "No. I'm not dealing with my ignorant horde scrambling for rides and forgetting about my enemies. Possession is the carrot on the stick I beat them with."
"Then banish them to the inner rings, Majesty," she says. "Or you can erase them, permanently—"
"Shut up. You don’t know—it's not your business." The throbbing headache escalates—annoyance with her ridiculous demands makes him burn inside. He's so tempted to smash her into a million pieces, smash Chronopolis, dice every one of the fucking arrogant show-offs…deep breath, deep breath… Save it for when it counts, he thinks, and brushes away her request, her anxiety and disappointment. He drives his thumb between his eyebrows, trying to rub out that persistent ache. He says, "Okay, so…we've got this one in the box. But where's the thing you really called me for?"
The mayor points to a settee near the windows that look out on the garden. "I thought you might want to examine him more closely. I hope I didn't presume…"
Sam takes a deep, satisfied breath, the ache recedes and his fingers twitch with the desire to touch…after all these years, there it lies, perfect and whole and waiting to be Sam's again. All the madness, the searching everywhere and it's here, asleep on a settee, knees tucked up and still he barely fits on it, a blanket pulled up to his chin like a child in its bed. Sweet.
Sam circles the sleeper and looks down at it, surprised that he's experiencing some sort of emotional response. He's not sure what to call the odd feeling…victory? Possessiveness? Anger, hatred, desire…the sunlight is turning its hair bronze and gold, its lips are rosy, plump and curled into a slight bow. Dean. Dean, Dean "Dean…"
Dean takes slight, snuffly breaths, turns into the pillow tucked behind his head and sighs. He looks serene, trusting,young. Cas must somehow have thrown him whole into this time. Sam drops to his knees besides the sleeping man and strokes a tender hand through his hair, his thumb skates over Dean's cheekbone and across his full lower lip, which twitches and the pink tip of his tongue slips out and over it. Sam smiles.
Soon, those lips will be parted in a scream and be full of blood…Dean sleeps on and smiles a little in his sleep.
"Will he wake up?"
The mayor closes the open windows. "Not for another hour or two. Long enough to take him home. We can load him in the box now if you wish."
"I don't wish," Sam laughs. "It's taken too long to find it, not letting it go now." He fists his hands in Dean's shirt and pulls him up on the settee. Dean's head lolls like a ragdoll's without support, his eyes stay closed despite Sam's shaking him—he's obviously deeply unconscious. Dean doesn't react at all when Sam yanks him completely off the settee and throws him over his shoulder. A toss of his head to the troops at the door brings them near. He directs the demons that have come with him to stand near the box. They sweat and groan at their close proximity to the torture of salt and iron but do exactly as Sam directs. "Flank this box all the way to the airship. When we're ready to load, no one is to touch the cargo but yourselves."
"But—why, Majesty—"
Sam makes a gentle inquiring noise and the demon speaking drops to its knees. The humans in the room try to back away without seeming to do so. Sam lays a gentle hand on its head, as if petting a favored dog and the demon smokes in its skin. Sam goes on in a reasonable tone, "I'm not asking you to carry the box, am I? Just load it on the airship. Is that so much to ask? Well, is it?"
They scramble over themselves to assure him that, "Oh no, no, sire, not at all, never…."
The mayor's standing at the remaining box, the lid raised. "Majesty, are you sure you wouldn't rather….?"
Sam turns to the mayor, "No. This one is as crafty as a roach—too inclined to slip away. I'm taking it myself." He slaps Dean's ass and everyone in the room jumps. Sam smiles. "As always, a pleasure. We'll contact you at the end of the month—I'll send a voxregis to take my place at this season's petition. We'll be lenient in all cases." He steps around her and peers at the box holding the glitch again. "I can hardly believe this boring bundle of sticks and hair is the thing that nearly threw a wrench in the system. What makes it special?"
"We have no idea, Majesty. It's…probably just a boy. An ex-slave. A criminal, run-away—a runaway from Dys, or so he claimed."
"Well if that is the case, we have it back, then. Horses are always welcome."
"He claimed to be trained, in all things, but beyond that he's intelligent. And there is that odd thing about him. He might not know he's a fallen…we might be able to bring it out of him, discover what he is. It seems…" she lowers her voice and her eyes, the model of respectful fear, but goes on, "…such a waste." To treat him like a toy went unspoken.
Trained. Intelligent. Sam ignores her. It's completely unimportant if the boy is bright as a rock or if he's trained or not. He doesn't need brains to spill his guts, and sex—sex is mostly boring. Coupled with the fact that the mutt was a mediocre looking thing, he doesn't give a shit if the boy had been trained to folkdance and whip up a soufflé while sucking dick. If there really was anything special about this thing, he had the means to dig it out. He was going to enjoy discovering the facts.
The steam car the mayor provided takes them directly to the airship pad. His private ship waits there, the bloody roses—Sam's symbol—emblazoned on its side. It's a huge thing that, ungainly as it seems, still manages to give the impression it's straining to leap into the air. The howl of engines and propellers whirring up to speed assaults the air but Dean sleeps on, not once moving. Sam jogs up the ramp and sweeps into the ship, not pausing to check if his cargo was being loaded properly—he has no doubt it will. He's led to the upper level, towards the back of the ship, where guest cabins have been combined to create a suite.
All the way, Sam stalks along with his mind in overdrive—the pleasure he feels in the dead weight of Dean on his shoulder combines with the pleasure of the scenarios he considers, he relishes the satin slide of Dean's skin against his while planning retribution against the Duke, breathes in the cinnamon-smoke-leather scent of Dean while planning how to further consolidate his power with a few judicious assassinations...there's much less frantic rat-like scrabbling in his head with Dean back where he belongs. It's pleasant, this. His mind's more closely focused and the headache has finally, finally eased. He dreams of the games they'll play, imagines Dean's screams, the pleasant heat of his blood.
Sam lays Dean out in his suite himself, pulls the disgusting rags Dean's wrapped himself in away with his own hands, vanishing them into ash with a snap of his fingers. When he's finished cleaning him, Dean's stretched out on the bed, thin, long and beautiful in a rough sort of way. His skin's gone dark with the sun, which means his freckles are a darker copper now, spattered thickly everywhere. While Sam prefers Dean's skin pale enough to trace his veins, likes him thin enough to count every knob on his spine and feel the ribs straining against his skin, he has to admit, there's something to be said for this wild, feral Dean. This wild thing tossed across the brocade covers of the bed made Sam want to break open Dean's bones and suck out the marrow—he had a feeling Dean would fight him all the way now and for a bit, it would be entertaining. After all, it wouldn't be much of a feat to turn Dean back into his Roach when Sam tired of the game.
He walks around the bed, enjoying the peace that having Dean with him again brings. All those years, crazy, howling years without him. He'd never once believed that Castiel didn't know what happened to Dean…turns out he was telling the truth. That one explosive push had sent him right out of time, really out of time. Castiel thought he'd won, the freak. But Sam had always been patient when it counted, and he'd waited, until they'd caught up with Dean again. Sam had spent way too much time hurting without his Sacrifice. He needed what only Dean could give…breaking Dean over and over brought Sam a bit of peace. Kept the hungry ghosts at bay.
Sam pulls a chair from the desk to sit at the bedside. He strokes Dean's cheek, draws sigils of possession and holding across his bare chest, traces the muscle in Dean's arms and the length of his legs, draws wards and locks along the faint trail of hair pointing downwards on his belly…just for fun of course, none of it means anything without blood or spit or semen. He strokes Dean's slack lips and vows that this time…this time he'd be careful. The wards and locks he'll put on Dean now will be impossible to break. They'll drive him insane but that's not an issue. With Castiel in nearly one piece, he can use the angel's grace to make the binding permanent and irreversible. But not before using him to find out just what the hell that was in the box.
Sam adjusts the cabin's lamps to a soft glow and pulls the chair up to the desk near the bed. A marquetry box takes up most of the desk area, he lifts the lid and the box emits a soft chime and the inside of the lid shivers with color before the intertwined, bleeding roses appear on the screen. A moment later 'Tippi Hedren' greets him.
"Our King. As of the sixteenth hour, here are the latest updates: Requesting that you remain on the sidelines, the Yellow King plans retaliation against the Duke, for a skirmish initiated by him, affecting a portion of the Eastern Province. Survivors are estimated at 1,084,022.604. The probability of a famine has been decreased by 19 percent. The probability of plague has risen, but as that constitutes a non-supernatural event, no troops have been assigned, pending your orders. The Princess in Steel has retreated to the interior. The Dog has retreated to the ice caps. At this point—"
Sam lets her voice drone on and on, he fiddles with the dials and keys and toggles on the machine and slips into a waking dream. He remembers, and wonders idly if these might be real memories…they were when The Doctor took them from Dean. He dozes, mind filled with a memory of two little boys fishing in a stream dancing with fractured bits of sunlight….
'Angels watch over you, Dean, whether you want it or not. Full of grace, Dean, full of grace….'
Dean whirls about—confused, and honestly, a little frightened. He's in a long, white hallway filled with light and at the end of it, Castiel is walking towards him, his arms open and a sweet smile on his face.
'It's all coming together now Dean, can you feel it?' He says, his arms spread wide, 'The end of pain, Dean, the end of pain.' Castiel frowns then and sighs. 'You'll loose him before it's over, of course, but it will be okay, Dean. You'll get him back, and it will be well with you. This mistake I made, Angel and Sam will fix all of it.'
Castiel comes closer and closer, his arms wrap around Dean, and his mouth is on Dean's, not a kiss, just…close. 'I promise that,' he says and then he's slipping inside, his arms sink into Dean and Dean's whole body fills with warmth, Castiel is in him, part of him and then, he's gone, leaving Dean feeling hollow and sad and cold…
'I promise,' he hears and wakes up
Dean wakes up with no clue where he is, no clue what's happening—nothing. Tall, wide windows all along one wall light the room he's in, through them he sees a beautiful, sun-lit view of a city spreading right to the horizon. Dean blinks, tilts his head and blinks again—"What the fuck?"
The view is a fake—it's like a giant photo pasted onto the glass…who would do that, and why? He turns slowly, his eyes slide along a long black table that dominates the room. A few pieces of furniture are scattered in the open space, all chrome and leather, with short-napped fur rugs flung here and there. It's all black and white. It's cold and pretentious.
Dean looks behind himself and there's a big, dark chair, almost a throne, against the opposite wall. Suddenly his guts twist and he's about a breath away from throwing up, he's on his hands and knees and shaking to bits and he doesn't know why—the place isn’t scary, it's bland, boring. It's douche-bag central.
"Okay, okay, relax...you're just…freaking for no reason…" Talking to himself doesn't relax him a damn bit—he jumps a fucking foot at a low, whimpering noise from behind one of the couches. Dean grabs a thing, a vase or something, from an end table and creeps toward the couch. If it's a monster, Dean's shit out of luck. The stupid piece of whatever it is in his hand isn't much protection against anything....
"Dean—"
"Fuck!" Dean throws the vase down and practically jumps over the couch. He's looking down at Angel, who's crammed himself small as possible behind the couch. He looks terrified—he looks ready to die of fright. He's the color of cheese and stinks of sweat and vomit. "I was awake I was awake I was awake I was awake…" he keeps mumbling the words, quivering and mumbling like a little lost kid.
Dean drops down, reaches out and pulls Angel into him. Angel seems not to see anything or realize that Dean is touching him. He's lost in some nightmare and Dean stroking his hair and rubbing warmth back into Angel's waxy skin doesn't register at all.
Dean's trying hard to maintain. It's overwhelming, all of this. One minute he's being fucked around with in the mayor's office, and the next he's in some other room with a freaked out Angel, wondering what the hell he's talking about when it clicks—the box. Angel was crammed in one of those boxes, and whatever else had happened it's been longer than a minute—from the way Angel was going on, much longer. Dean figures he knows what's making Angel into a mess—he'd seen Sam freak out just the same way after being trapped inside a cedar chest during a hunt. Great time to find out you're a little claustrophobic…fuck. Dean wishes he knew what the fuck was going on. Where the hell was Sam? Had he come or not?
There's nothing Dean can do right at this minute so he does what little he can. Rocks Angel, tells him over and over it's okay, they're alive and fine and together and nothing can hurt them and sure hopes like hell he's not lying.
It takes a bit, but Angel finally uncurls from the frantic ball he'd been. Dean can feel his racing heart settle slowly; his breaths even out until they're gentle puffs against Dean's neck. Finally, he speaks. "Where…where are we, De?"
"Don't know—but I'm figuring we can count on it being someplace fucked up, with our luck. It's—it's kind of familiar though." Dean blinks, and a whole new scene is overlaid on the one he's looking at, demons of all sorts, shapes, laughing, reaching for him…he turns to look at the long black table and Sam's at the head of it, winking at him and smiling….
"Dean!" Angel has his face cupped between his palms, and Dean's skin is hot where Angel touches him, freezing cold and clammy everywhere Angel doesn't. "Dean, you back with me?"
"Dean."
Dean and Angel both jerk—look towards the door. Sam. Sam is coming towards him, smiling. The same slick, grimace meant to be a smile that he wore in Dean's vision, nightmare…flashback? God, Dean shudders, he hopes to fuck that it wasn't a damn flashback. He feels—fear, mostly fear, a little anticipation because it's Sam.
But mostly fear because there's no way that—thing—is really his brother.
"Dean, Dean, Dean. It's good to have you back—what are you doing?" Sam's tone slides from overly-sweet to a growl. His eyes slide from hazel to mustard and Dean realizes he's been crowding in front of Angel from the moment Sam walked in the room.
"You never did know what was good for you," Sam mutters and snaps his fingers. There's a flurry of noise and movement behind Sam, and then someone staggers into the room, arms wind-milling to keep from falling. They're only partially successful; they drop to their knees in front of Sam.
Dean flinches. "No fuckin' way—" It's not possible, no way, it can't be. But the person turns their face up, and long black hair parts to reveal blue eyes wide in shock. "Cas…Castiel?"
It is Castiel, swaying on his knees and looking confused as hell, looking damn good for a being Dean thought had died that day in the gas station parking lot. He'd been sure that Cas went up in a ball of flame, that he'd been exploded when Lucifer went down…but no, that was wrong, Castiel had still been alive then, it was just him and Cas and Sammy had disappeared....
Dean's hands fly up to his face—he's hiding behind his hands like a four year old, shaking…No. he hadn't disappeared. Sam had come back, just…wrong.
Cas manages to stand, wavering to his feet. Blood drips, slow, thick, drop after drop from his nose, but he's smiling. "Dean? Dean, it is you…I'm sorry, my friend. I tried, I really did. I made such a terrible mistake, and I'd hoped that—oh."
All along the room, multiple clicks sound, coming from dozens of black boxes springing open, a single blue eye peering out of each one. They look like the blue eyes staring at him now, Cas' eyes. A low murmuring fills the room, eerie in how close it sounds to speech. Sam was glaring at Castiel, hands fisted on his hips and his mouth a furious flat line. Dean's about to ask him what the flying fuck was going on when Angel yelps, yanks on his arm and points. A screen behind Sam plays the scene before him. "Oh fuck…"Dean whispers. It's Angel, front and center on the screen, a stunned expression on his face, a hand on Dean's arm and the other pointing towards them. Dean wonders if everyone is seeing this…for a hot second, he wishes he could paste a 'kick me' sign on Sam's broad back…Angel cuts his eyes towards him and his glare is nearly as scary as Sam's.
Through all this, Cas seems frozen, just—staring at Angel, wonder in his eyes, the blood dripping faster now. "You did it, Dean, you rescued Sam. Sam—" Castiel holds his hand out to Angel and Sam knocks it down.
"You recognize that thing. What is it? One of your angels?"
Angel shakes his head, backing away from Cas, from Sam, trying to pull Dean with him. "Christe, oh fuckin' Nomdei, c'mon, c'mon—we've got to get—Christe," he gasps, ignoring the flinching, snarling figures around them. "Do you know what he is? He's an angel,Dean, an angel, not like Gavreel, he's topped up and…an Angel."
Sam closes his hand over Cas' shoulder and squeezes. Dean can hear bone popping and Cas' tiny hiss of pain "So, is it an angel or not?"
Cas shakes his head, gasps, "Not an angel, a soul."
"Oh for—" Sam shakes Castiel. "Don’t be stupid, souls don’t walk around in meat suits—well they do, and then we call them human. This thing is. There's something different about it, other than human. Some new species of angel or demon."
Cas manages to pull loose from Sam and darts towards Angel. "This is what you've been waiting for; you may not have known it but this—"
Dean pushes in front of Angel again. "I swear to God, you touch him and I'll kill you."
"Dean, you don't understand—Sam has to touch your—your friend."
Angel practically crawls up Dean's back trying to keep Castiel away; he's shaking, worse than before, like he's going to fly into a million pieces. "Dean, you said you weren't going to let him kill me, you swore!"
'No one's killing anyone, damn it, you hear me, no one's going to die—"
"SHUT UP."
Everything stops. The floor shimmies under their feet like it's made of water, the walls creak, the windows bow and stretch and snap back into their frames with a high-pitched whine. Sam lifts his hand, curls it into a fist and Dean flies to a wall, sticks there like he's velcroed—stuck and trapped like the YED had trapped his family a million years ago, only this yellow-eyed freak is his Sam, his Sammy….
Sam's furious, his power leaking out all over. Dean feels his blood swelling in his veins, beginning to burn as Sam's anger takes the room apart, bit by bit. The furniture jolts across the tiles, the tiles rock and come loose…the windows fly open and shut again and the curtains become a snowstorm of shredded fabric. Dean blinks quickly, trying to clear the blood out of his eyes—he sees in bits and pieces, stop-motion shots—Castiel darting towards Angel, scooping him up. Dean hears Cas shout, "It's meant to be, you'll understand, it was never supposed to be like this, this is all wrong—"
Cas barrels into a startled Sam and Sam staggers, his arms come up and around Angel and Dean knows that for Sam to touch Angel is the worst, the most horrible thing that could happen in a lifetime full of terrible things. For a split second he hates Sam, for that split second he hates Castiel even more. Dean screams, helpless to do anything else. Angel never looks his way before he and Sam and Cas collide.
"No, no, no—"
Dean freezes. Everything freezes. The air stops moving, Dean's lungs stop, his heart stutters. Sam and Angel are wrapped around each other like lovers, statue-still, Cas falls to the ground in slow motion and his wings come out, a flare of black feathers sliding out and out, over the floor, up the walls. His expression twists into something Dean can't read…not pain, not relief, or victory…unknown.
Huge sapphire-blue eyes turn his way and Cas says something Dean can't hear, it looks like sorry—it could be anything, but when Cas' hands come up to cover his face, Dean slams his eyes shut. Behind closed lids, Dean knows that Castiel's true form fills the room, a light so bright Dean feels his skin tighten, hairs crisp and the smell of burning fills his nose—there's a flash of feeling, a breeze across his cheek, the ghostly press of phantom lips.
At last the light dims. Dean opens his eyes to a room empty of everything but himself and Sam. The windows are gone, the room scoured of every unclean thing, all reduced to ash swirling in the light breeze coming through the vanished windows. It's silent. Dean touches his ears and his fingers come away wet…he can't hear. Before he can even think about that he's staggered with the realization that Cas is gone, Angel is gone. Loss slams into him—Angel's gone, disappeared like he'd never been. Dean blinks in shock—Angel was Sam, all this time, Angel was Sam. He'd fallen in love and felt guilty and disloyal and torn but Angel had been familiar. He'd been annoying and—and good. He'd been a really good person. Because he's Sam—was Sam—he'd been the best part of Sam. Dean shakes his head. Sure. It was obvious, now. Of course Angel was Sam. This was…so fucked up it could only be true. Castiel was right—he'd fucked up beyond royally. Dean wished Castiel was back, so he could kill him. But at least before he'd whatever—died, returned, became one with the universe—he'd fixed it.
He hadn't really lost Angel, Dean told himself, he'd gotten Sam back, the way he should be…and thinking of Sam brought him back to the here and now, now was where Sam was on his knees, clawing at the floor, and Dean's hearing snaps back in tune to Sam's screams. He's screaming in a way Dean's only heard in hell. Blood drips from his mouth and eyes in a steady stream. Sam's dying—his brother's whole again but—Sam stops screaming and the silence is deafening.
Dean scrambles across the floor towards his brother. He's shocked that Sam's actually breathing, nice and steady, so that's a plus. Instinct trained into them as kids has Dean checking Sam out, making sure that nothing's broken or sliced or missing…it's all good. Except for the blood that slows but won’t stop. Dean's hands skate through the coating of it on Sam's cheeks, his thumb's on Sam's throat, pressing lightly into Sam's clock-work steady pulse. He lifts Sam head, and gulps. Sam's eyes are full of blood. He wipes it away and finally, Sam's eyes flutter open. They're murky at first but clear quickly. He blinks rapidly, licks blood coated lips. "Fuck…" he mutters, eyes rolling, darting here and there. Dean keeps stroking him, petting him, fuck the Winchester Rules for Dealing. If he didn't feel like he'd just lost a major piece of his heart, he'd be cheering. And that thought he wrestles mercilessly into a box in his brain. He'd deal with…all that…later.
Sam finally seems to slide into the here and now; he shakes himself slightly and meets Dean's eyes. "Oh fuck, Dean…Dean, is that you? What…what happened? Where am I?" He hesitates; when he speaks his voice comes rough like he's swallowed gravel "Are…you okay?"
Just like Sam to worry about Dean when his own shit's going to hell. Dean laughs a little and pulls back, pats Sam's chest. If his hand lingers a bit, it's okay. He's allowed. "You're…you're okay now, Sam. Just—here, let me help you up."
He's got Sam's elbow in his hand, steadying him. The wind picks up a bit and the ash is swept out the windows. Sam drops his head to Dean's shoulder, his lips soft and whispering over his cheek…"Oh, Dean," Sam says, "Oh, Dean."
He pulls away from Dean and grins, wide, so wide. There they are, the dimples Dean kept seeing whenever Angel smiled. "Oh come on now. Did you really think something sparkly was going to happen? You've always been so fucking easy, Dean."
26
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