SpN: Come The Night, 26/29
6/16/12 01:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night, 26/29
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 5221
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 ~ twenty-five
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kat_lair
2
Laughter fades as Dean opens his eyes slowly…woozy because the room is reeling, swooping like a theme-park ride. He sucks in a breath, licks dry lips—the entire inside of his mouth is like cotton, like he'd passed out with his mouth hanging open. Nice. He doesn't feel hung-over, though...Dean's stuck between confused and annoyed until memory starts trickling back.
"The fuck.." He's on his back in an empty room, wearing a pair of stiff Wranglers and a bright white cotton t-shirt just like the tees they used to buy three-in-a-pack at Wal-Mart lifetimes ago. It's twisted around his torso, uncomfortable enough that it distracts him from the important question for a moment—where the hell did this shit even come from?
He shakes his head and brings himself to sitting. "Angel…?" He's looking around the room as he climbs to his feet, but he's alone, no one and nothing in the place, not a stick of furniture, bare windows, no Angel—nobody. The tiles under his feet are chilly, which is when he realizes he's barefoot, too. Okay, so he's alone, then where is Angel, and how did he end up in this gear and where are his boots and where's Angel?
He blinks and Sam's in front of him, appearing from out of nowhere and suddenly in his face.
"Hello, brother. I've missed you."
And here it comes, like a monstrous nightmare/ flashback. Memory bears down on him like a runaway 18 wheeler—where he is and what happened to Angel and why he's alone in an empty room with Sam, who's scaring him shitless—and why. "What the fuck—what did you—Sam?" It's hard to believe this is his brother, this cold, implacable force, staring him down with multi-colored eyes that shift black and gold and green.
Sam says nothing, just tilts his head and pins Dean with that icy stare, like he's inspecting Dean for flaws. "Look at you, you little pathetic—you cost me a lot, you know. I wasted precious time and resources looking for you. But don’t worry about it, you'll have eons to repent." He turns away and walks to the door, pulls it open and snaps, "Bring him to my suite."
He's gone, just like that.
Demons swarm Dean, grabbing at him, lifting him right off his feet and he deserves a fucking medal for not screaming. He searches the room for Angel even though he knows Angel's gone but he can't stop himself and the sorrow that sweeps him is crippling.
They shove him out through the door and down the long, paneled hall. The bronze sconces punctuating the walls barely throw enough light—weird shadows dance and leap across the walls and ceiling, the jagged shapes make Dean's eyes blur and water. He can’t see and that scares him, cold sweat blooms across his shoulders, running in chill rivulets down his spine. Horrified that he's about to cry, he forces it down. There's not a shred of hope left to him, he's pretty sure what's coming next with Sam isn't going to be let's break out the beers and catch up time. He's not an idiot…but now, more than ever, Sam's going to need him and Dean's got to figure out some way to get through to him…if not, than he's got to figure out…some other way.
The demons, for all they're pawing him, fingers and talons and tentacles for fuck'ssake, in uncomfortable places, they're not hurting him. They just pull him along, talking shit that's meant to scare him but they're amateurs after what Dean's been through—shit, he could give them lessons at this point.
Finally, they slow down, and come to a stop in front of an outsized door. The demons pull back until only Dean and one of the slightly more human looking of the horde are standing close to the door. It knocks and one of its mouths speaks.
"Our King...your…the…um. Brother is here…?"
The thing's discomfort would be kind of funny if Dean wasn't scared shitless himself. He's got a quiver going in his knees, so gentle that at first he doesn't notice, sort of wonders what the strange feeling is. The quiver spreads, works its way higher, getting stronger. His gut tightens and a band around his chest pulls taut…someone behind him shoves and he stumbles, ending up with his cheek pressed flat against the door. The wood is smooth and cold and faintly, possibly, a little slimy.
"Ngh—" he can't move and the quivering's escalated into full blown shakes. The door opens slowly and he stumbles forward a few steps before catching himself.
"Stop wasting my time and get in here." Sam's voice is deep, knife-edged, and impossible to disobey. Dean edges in carefully, his bare toes gripping the tiles, eyes darting here and there and his breath coming in sharp, short gasps that barely expand his lungs. Sam is standing in the middle of the room, smile creasing his face and a hand held out to him. Behind Sam is a bed miles wide and piled with a cloud of bright, white pillows.
Dean bends like he's been folded and vomits.
His ears are ringing and his insides burn with the force of it and over the noise of blood pounding in his ears and the pathetic retching he can't control, he hears Sam's voice again, now thunderous with anger.
"Shit—Damn it, Dean!" it sounds so much like Sam finding towels piled in a wet ball on the bathroom floor that it startles him into a laugh—hurts like being stabbed. Dean looks up and into Sam's yellow eyes and he remembers.
Only this time, it's everything that ever was, the story of Winchester—every single little thing, from that sunny morning they lost it all in a gas-station parking lot, right up to Angel disappearing forever into Sam.
Everything about Sam and what he did—what he'd done. Something shows mercy and Dean drops like he's dead, down and out for the count.
~o0o~
When he opens his eyes, he drools out a few weak curses. Too tired and too beaten for more. "I'm getting fuckin' sick an' tired of this," he mutters. His damn wrists hurt. There's a dull ache circling them, pain alternating between dull and sharp gnawing at his shoulders and down his chest. It's hard to breathe and he thinks at first that it’s some kind of asthma attack until his head clears some and he realizes he's got arms above his head and he's hanging from a hook above him. He's not in Sam's apartment, he's in a different place, a place he recalls with crystal clarity between one panicked breath and the next. It's a long and narrow room, freezing cold. Arching metal struts hold up a distant ceiling and weeping brick walls frame a single, huge window. The dozens of mullions cast shadows in a grid pattern across the stone floor, up the far wall. The air reeks of old blood and the faint tang of rotten meat. At his knees there's a metal table dotted with dark stains. Every cell of him recognizes where he is.
A man wearing a long white coat with a high, stiff collar drifts into his range of sight. The cuffs of his white coat are spattered with blood. The light from the single arched lamp curving over Dean's head makes the thick lenses of the man—a doctor—into flat, blank disks.
Not a> doctor. The Doctor—the butcher. The one who'd told Dean he was envious of his skill and that of his teacher's, the one who'd been so proud and so eager to show Dean his own skills and had taken him lovingly to bits piece by screaming piece….
Hot liquid streams down Dean's leg, splashes against the tile floor.
"Tsk. N o matter, We'll have someone clean that," the Doctor says. He moves another table to Dean's side and starts sorting through the implements on the trays there. "I didn't think to see you again. What a pleasant surprise." Black rubber ghosts over Dean's face as the doctor strokes a gloved hand over his cheek. "A most pleasant surprise." Dean jerks in the chains, knows he can't get away but his body still tries to escape. Pulling on the chain makes him whimper, makes his eyes run.
"Stop that. You don't need to touch him except where I direct." Sam scowls and the Doctor manages to cringe without actually moving. Sam says, "I think…yes. We'll start with his skin."
The Doctor murmurs happily and rummages on the tray, brings up a thin, sharp saw. "We'll begin with your arms, and work our way in, hmm?"
Dean starts screaming. No point in pretending to be brave.
~o0o~
Sam picks him up and carries him back to the room when the Doctor finishes. He drops Dean on the white bed and the cotton stains immediately with red. He says, "This is never going to end, not until I get tired of it, you understand? You were stupid enough to come back to me, stupidity like that deserves some suffering, don’t you think?"
Dean lies on the bed and tries not to move or think but he can’t stop the flood of tears down his cheeks. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, he wasn't supposed to have killed Angel, Sam wasn't supposed to be a monster.
He spends days and days spread out on the bed, or sometimes huddled on the floor or crouched against the kitchenette's counter when Sam's not there. These are long days that melt and run together so that he's not sure anymore what is real and what isn't. He can't use pain as a marker, he hurts all the time. Sam talks to him non-stop, but it's the same old shit, the same litany of his failings, his losses, what a fuck-up, what a loser, what a worthless piece of meat.
He hears it and all he can think is 'so fucking what.' Sam…Dean's never done anything right when it comes to Sam, so nothing this monster says can break him. Can’t break the broken.
~o0o~
Something's off and it wakes Dean up. He comes to in the white bed, it takes him a few seconds to realize that he's alone and that's what woke him. He pushes up to the head board, pulls his knees up and just—sits. He smiles a little. It feels good to be alone.
He gazes at the bare, sea green walls. Remembers the prints that had hung on them, the prints it turned out only he could see, messages of encouragement from Castiel. There are no prints on the wall now, and Cas is gone, maybe for good. Since Sam's not there, Dean slides off the bed and pads across the tiles to the kitchenette sort of tacked onto one side of the suite. He wonders if Sam eats…despite the tiny kitchen, there's never really anything to eat in the place. Today, though, there's a carton of orange juice in the min-fridge and a loaf of bread. Nothing else and he doesn’t know when Sam's coming back, so…he rips open the package and crams a few slices of bread in his mouth.
He wanders around the suite, chewing, drinking OJ out of the carton. Something's wrong—or wronger than usual. He thinks, wonders, if maybe the entire escape had only taken place in his head? Like maybe Angel had been the Sammy that he'd missed so much he made him up in his dream. Maybe something extra-crunchy weird happened when Cas went nova that time, some kind of whole-body/brain hallucination…except lately there's these moments in which Sam looks at him like he's puzzled…and Sam's never done that before. Sam never really looked at him at all unless he wanted to break another piece off.
There are other odd things now…like, he's hungry. He knows that's weird. Not all his memories of being caged here in the basement with Sam are clear, but he can't remember ever being hungry. He remembers…wanting Sam, needing him so bad, and doing things out of that need that turns his stomach now. He remembers not caring then. Of being so afraid of Sam he'd do anything to keep him from getting pissed off.
He snorts and drops the empty juice carton on the floor, kicks it in the general area of the kitchenette. Wasn't like Sam wouldn’t find something to make him bleed for, might as well make some part of it worth the pain.
So—he gets hungry now, and thirsty. But Sam can still gut him and after, Dean wakes up healed. So…it's real, and it’s not real. Dean shakes his head. This building feels real, but the elevator doors open up on Hell. And Hell is a place but it’s not the kind of real that places like Kansas or New York or—or—Vegas are. Okay, maybe not Vegas.
Dean perches on the edge of one of the couches and stares out the windows. They look out to red sand and fire and in the distance, a lone tree growing right up into the bloody sky. The tree is familiar, but it takes a while before he realizes it's familiar because it's like the tree that Cas had been hung in, in those invisible-to-Sam prints.
"Hunh." He crams the last bit of bread into his mouth and brushes crumbs off his lap onto the floor.
~o0o~
Sam fucks him, and it hurts so bad it has to be Sam's idea of a joke. Dean tries not to scream, bites into the pillow and grinds his teeth down into the fabric, his jaw working back and forth as he shouts harsh screams into the cotton.
Sam pulls out, and Dean feels like his insides are coming out with. Sam drops his hand on Dean's back. Pins him in place and grunts, comes on Dean's back. It's hot and thick, and Dean's not the slightest bit aroused by it. He can remember how it used to be once upon a time, how Sam would do it and he'd grouch and complain and kind of love that Sam had to mark him like that, wanted him so much he had to claim him…this Sam has claimed and marked him plenty. It's okay, he's just waiting until his mind gives up permanently, chases itself so far down a hole not even Sam can dredge it back up again.
"Get up," Sam says, and slaps Dean's ass. It's so sudden and painful that Dean can’t keep the shout in. Sam rolls to his side watches Dean gingerly roll upright and edge back against the headboard. He watches Sam from the corner of his eye.
"Tell me about the thing—you called it Angel."
"I called him Angel. You should know everything about him." Dean tries but he can't keep his tone soft and Sam jerks back, his eyes flat and yellow like a cobra's. He clamps a hand down on Dean's shoulder and it pops out of joint.
"You watch your tongue before I take it out permanently this time," he hisses and just like that, the rage recedes and the snarl melts into a sneer. "And what do you mean I should know everything about him? You think I absorbed him, like a shifter? He wasn't real, stupid. Whatever memories he had weren't real. It was some fucked up angel shit," Sam says. His eyes fade from yellow to hazel—Dean hates it a little when they do. "So entertain me with whatever crap he fed you." Sam smiles, chin resting on his hand and he's staring at Dean like he's about to tell him some campfire tale.
Dean blinks back at Sam, speechless. What could he tell him? Angel was real, I loved him? I know now I loved him because he was you? He was supposed to tell this shell of his brother how Angel's fucking little face was just like Sam's at eighteen, how his arms were sharp and thin like knives but felt good wrapped around him, felt like home…?
Sam suddenly rears back and his eyes flash black and mustard and he slams his fist down on Dean's chest, hard enough to crack bone. The pain of his shoulder and the pain in his chest make Dean want to vomit. "You were in love with that—that thing! Unfaithful bitch!"
He slaps Dean and it's like being clocked with a cinderblock. Blood bursts out between Dean's clenched teeth. Sam roars on, grabs Dean by the hair, fisting the short length tight, he drags Dean off the bed, his knees crack when they hit the floor. Sam stalks away from the bed and Dean tries to keep up, running bent over, shouting in pain when he trips and Sam keeps dragging him anyway. He throws Dean across the room and he staggers into the useless kitchen. Dean drops and cowers against the fridge, arms raised over his head and his whole body frozen in fear.
Sam's staring down at him, sides heaving, spit on his chin, "You fucked him—you loved him. You wanted to stay with him. You said you were looking for me but you—" Sam gasps, eyes huge and wounded. Dean thinks this monster shouldn’t even be able to produce an expression like that
"You were going to kill me if you couldn't—" Sam's lips pull back in a snarl, his eyes flash blood red. Red stains his cheeks, and his hands come up, fingers curled like claws. "You'll remember who you belong to when I'm finished."
Some memory beaten deep into Dean's muscles drives him to scoot across the floor. He drops his head over Sam's feet and begs for mercy, licks across their tops and up Sam's calves, he works his tongue up the length of his legs, slicking the skin, wetting the hair. He nuzzles into Sam's crotch, mumbling 'please, please' over his soft dick, mouthing at it, hoping Sam gets hard and wishing he was as mindless as he'd been when this was a way of life.
~o0o~
The Doctor's sends Dean back and Sam rages at what a sloppy job he's done. Dean's inclined to agree—strips of skin dangle from his calves and he's desperate enough to beg Sam in whatever way he has to, to get Sam to heal him. Instead Sam drapes him over one of his ugly couches and takes a whip to him.
Dean's crying and screaming in minutes. He can't move because Sam holds him down with his freak demonic mind powers. He goes silent long before Sam stops—with nothing but the pain and the taste of thick blood to hold onto, no amount of diving for the bottom of his mind works. One thought chases itself around and around his brain when he can think at all.
If Sam was angry with the Doctor's work, why was he taking it out on Dean?
~o0o~
Something is happening in Sam's world that Dean has no idea of. Outside of the endless no-time in Sam's apartment, things have been happening. Dean wonders what it is that's happening in the outside world that's shaking up the Legion—he wonders if there's still a world outside this room.
Sometimes, Sam stares at him in an odd way, and when that happens Dean's always surprised that there is in fact even more fear that he can dredge up. Because that look usually presages a visit to the lab, or worse, a session here with Sam. He fights the pain on those occasions. he fights his illusions that the apartment is more or less safe…but he's with Sam so what is safe?
3
"Our King—" Tippi Hedren and some of Sam's minions sweep into the suite almost as if they own it. Dean cringes, milk dripping off the spoon full of cereal he's got clutched in his hand and frozen on its way to his mouth. He's not sure if he should get out or stay where he is. He glances towards Sam for clues but Sam is watching Tippi with a mildly amused tilt to his eyebrows. Tippi's glaring at Dean like he's garbage—until Sam clears his throat and she pales, bobs her head. "Our King," she repeats, "There has been escalation in the North."
Sam comes to attention. "I thought that Amon was on that. What the fuck is going on?"
"Part of that faction was destroyed early this morning. At the four hundredth hour, The Yellow King was overtaken by The Dog. At that time also the Duke moved on the Princess In Steel. There's nothing left of that faction, Majesty."
"Fucking—you're coming to tell me this now? You should have come the moment it happened. Fucking incompetent sack of shit—"
She turns into a torch, screaming all the while, "We just found out now, we just found out—" her screams go on and on, and Dean's frozen at the table, gulping and gulping, praying so hard he's whimpering that he won't vomit into his Lucky Charms and attract Sam's attention. Sam reduces another few officers to ash before his rage finally cools enough to think. He's stalking around the room, hands deep in his hair and muttering, "Okay, okay—this is good, this works. The Duke is the only problem, the other one is fucking nuts and easy to distract…" he jerks when he sees Dean at the table, hunched over a bowl of soggy cereal. "Oh right, you. You—you stay in here, don’t leave this room for anything. They'll be gunning for us for a while, thinking they can get past me. "
Sam's still distracted and Dean slides off his chair and tries to squirm past him into the bedroom area but Sam's attention snaps to him and he grabs Dean by the shirt. "You will not leave this room. No one will come for you, understand? I will send no one, you will not answer any summons until you see my face again—you hear?"
Dean shakes in his brother's grip and nods, yes, yes and yes, no one will come for him, he won’t leave, he won't--
Dean stays in the bed, spends an entire day there waiting but Sam doesn't come. There's no food, and nothing to drink and by the second day, Dean's uncomfortable. He knows he probably won’t die—probably can't die, but the hollow ache in his middle starts to fill him up. He's never been able to stand the feeling.
The third day, he wanders around the apartment, trailing his hands over the walls and wishing the prints were still there. He drifts over to the windows and realizes that they're doors, and they open to the outside. He gently turns a handle, waiting for—pain, punishment—but nothing happens. The handles turn easily, the doors open soundlessly and Dean steps through. Just like that, he's out of the room, and standing under the bloody sky. A sick feeling roils his gut; he hangs his head and hates himself, briefly but violently, for never having tried to escape. It was that fucking easy but all he'd done is lay there and let his brother fuck and torture him and act like he was grateful for it…Dean takes a deep breath and walks out and heads for the tree in the desert.
The red sand puffs up under his footfall, gritty and hot against the naked soles of his feet. A light breeze sends the dust floating up around his ankles before it settles again. It’s quiet, Dean had expected to hear the screams of the damned but it's quieter than an afternoon in a library.
The farther he walks, the less his stomach growls for food, the less thirst pricks him…he's hot but not unbearably so and probably has something to do with being a creature of Hell. He walks and walks and meets no one. The crows follow him though, settling behind him whenever he stops, flying on when he begins walking again. He passes a fence made of black rods and knobs…it slowly dawns that they’re burnt bones woven into a fence. He passes what look like street lights once or twice, tall thin, twisted poles. They give him the creeps. Little empty black boxes hang from the top, lids open and nothing inside…he remembers, the frightening little eyes, the same blue as Castiel's.
The ground changes, less dust now, more like loamy soil tinted the rust red of the dust. The ground's warped and roots as thick around as his arms roam over the ground, they snake in and out of the moist soil. He clambers over the thickest set of roots and stops, looks up.
The tree looks just like the tree Cas had hung from, like in the last print, the clearest one, in which Cas sat happily on a branch of the tree, his coat flying out from him, his tie flung wild by a breeze. "Ah, Cas," he mutters. "You really…fucked up spectacularly, you dumb son of a bitch."
Dean climbs the tree, high as he can go safely, and sits on a branch big as a couch and—just sits, thinking. He thinks of Cas and what he did but more than that, what he'd meant to do, what he'd tried to do. He thinks of Angel, and how he hadn’t known…and how he maybe had. Yeah, some part of him had always kinda known. He thinks of Sammy, too, and how much he misses him. He wonders if it will ever be different. He's got eternities to find out. Or maybe someday Sam will get tired of it all, and give him a final death. It could happen, Dean thinks and smirks. There's an apple on the tree and he plucks it, considers it, rolling it this away and that in his hand. He tries to take a bite but it's too withered and bitter. Dean sighs and looks towards the basement. "Yeah, that's not too subtle," he murmurs and tosses the apple from hand to hand.
There's a dust cloud coming from the direction that he'd walked, it becomes the wake a car throws up as it races away from the basement. In a minute or two, a '71 Buick Regal stops close as possible to the tree and a demon climbs out, riding the meat of a twenty-some kid, all big eyes and curly hair.
"Master says come back—now."
Dean peers down at the demon, suspiciously. Sam wouldn’t send some guy in a car after him—he'd send a harpy to pierce him on its claws and rip him out of the tree and drop him in the basement courtyard. "He also said no one would come for me. What're you after?"
Big eyes roll and the demon huffs impatiently. "He said you'd say that. I'm supposed to tell you to get your worthless, fucking, stupid piece of shit ass in the car right the fuck now."
"Well, hell—sounds like Sam all right." Dean climbs back down the tree, a little hampered by the stupid, withered apple in his hand, and when his feet touch the ground, the demon slaps him like he's been waiting to do it for a lifetime. Dean's bottom lip splits in two and he flies backward, slamming into the ground. "Fuck—" he gets back to his feet and his head rolls, he's dazed and a little pissed off. "Did Sam tell you to do that, too?"
The demon just grins.
"If you kill me—" Dean starts and the fucker interrupts.
"Doesn’t matter, He'll just bring you back."
Dean's not weaving like a drunk now, and he wipes his mouth, spits out the blood. "But think how pissed off he'll be that you had the nerve to kill his pet."
The demon frowns and for the first time, looks a little nervous. "Shut up. Get in the car."
Dean shrugs and smirks a bit. Climbs in the car and wipes blood on the upholstery. "He'll either be pissed off you made me bleed or that I bled on the car. Sure, he'll beat me, but you think he won’t do to you fifty times worse than what he does to me? And you know what he does to me." Dean thinks idly that he should be ashamed or frightened or feel any damn thing but he doesn't. He'll feel plenty of negative things when they're back in the basement.
Sam's livid. He rips him through the doorway, snarling like a German Shepherd, and throws him across the room. Dean slams into the bed, drops down on it with a grunt. He's pretty sure something broke inside…Sam rips his pants and tee shirt away, leaving long burning streaks across his chest, his thighs. Dean closes his eyes and tries frantically to shove himself down into that place where he feels less. The dried-out apple he'd plucked rolled off the side of the bed and under it unnoticed.
Dean's still as a rabbit on the bed, waits for pain but nothing happens. He opens his eyes slowly, like a kid afraid to look and make the bad thing real.
Sam's just—staring at him, perplexed, angry. He reaches out for Dean, and Dean's too beat up to flinch, or even close his eyes. All he can do is wait...
"I don’t…I was…" Sam starts, hesitates, and tries again. "I was…afraid…I came back and you weren’t here. It made me…something." Sam looks confused and disgusted. "Worried. I was worried. What the fuck, I should have locked you in a room with some foot soldiers to keep you in place. I should have caged you before I left. Why didn’t I? What’s wrong with me?" Sam stares down at Dean, and there's something different about his brother. Dean reaches out slowly, carefully, afraid to touch and find out it's all a dream.
"Sam?" he asks, so soft he's not even sure Sam can hear him. But Sam leansinto the touch of Dean's hand and meets Dean's eyes. Sam's eyes are different, not the cold, hazel-tinted marbles Dean had gotten used to. Sam's gaze is intense; his eyes that hazel-green they went when he was thinking…his mouth loosens from a straight slash of anger to that Cupid's bow that had always made Dean want to kiss until it was pink and swollen and warm. Sam stares into Dean's eyes like he's searching for something and then Dean goes and makes the worst mistake he's ever made in his life. "Sa—Angel?"
Sam looks impossibly taller, wider, the room smells like burning paper and Dean breaks out in a cold sweat even though his skin tells him he's been dropped into the sun. Sam rears back from the bed, his eyes flash from hazel to red—blood in his eyes and blood in his mouth and teeth, all Dean can see are teeth. He makes a fist and squeezes and Dean arches off the bed, can't even scream—Sam's just popped his heart like a balloon.
27
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 5221
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 ~ twenty-five
icon by
kat_lairLaughter fades as Dean opens his eyes slowly…woozy because the room is reeling, swooping like a theme-park ride. He sucks in a breath, licks dry lips—the entire inside of his mouth is like cotton, like he'd passed out with his mouth hanging open. Nice. He doesn't feel hung-over, though...Dean's stuck between confused and annoyed until memory starts trickling back.
"The fuck.." He's on his back in an empty room, wearing a pair of stiff Wranglers and a bright white cotton t-shirt just like the tees they used to buy three-in-a-pack at Wal-Mart lifetimes ago. It's twisted around his torso, uncomfortable enough that it distracts him from the important question for a moment—where the hell did this shit even come from?
He shakes his head and brings himself to sitting. "Angel…?" He's looking around the room as he climbs to his feet, but he's alone, no one and nothing in the place, not a stick of furniture, bare windows, no Angel—nobody. The tiles under his feet are chilly, which is when he realizes he's barefoot, too. Okay, so he's alone, then where is Angel, and how did he end up in this gear and where are his boots and where's Angel?
He blinks and Sam's in front of him, appearing from out of nowhere and suddenly in his face.
"Hello, brother. I've missed you."
And here it comes, like a monstrous nightmare/ flashback. Memory bears down on him like a runaway 18 wheeler—where he is and what happened to Angel and why he's alone in an empty room with Sam, who's scaring him shitless—and why. "What the fuck—what did you—Sam?" It's hard to believe this is his brother, this cold, implacable force, staring him down with multi-colored eyes that shift black and gold and green.
Sam says nothing, just tilts his head and pins Dean with that icy stare, like he's inspecting Dean for flaws. "Look at you, you little pathetic—you cost me a lot, you know. I wasted precious time and resources looking for you. But don’t worry about it, you'll have eons to repent." He turns away and walks to the door, pulls it open and snaps, "Bring him to my suite."
He's gone, just like that.
Demons swarm Dean, grabbing at him, lifting him right off his feet and he deserves a fucking medal for not screaming. He searches the room for Angel even though he knows Angel's gone but he can't stop himself and the sorrow that sweeps him is crippling.
They shove him out through the door and down the long, paneled hall. The bronze sconces punctuating the walls barely throw enough light—weird shadows dance and leap across the walls and ceiling, the jagged shapes make Dean's eyes blur and water. He can’t see and that scares him, cold sweat blooms across his shoulders, running in chill rivulets down his spine. Horrified that he's about to cry, he forces it down. There's not a shred of hope left to him, he's pretty sure what's coming next with Sam isn't going to be let's break out the beers and catch up time. He's not an idiot…but now, more than ever, Sam's going to need him and Dean's got to figure out some way to get through to him…if not, than he's got to figure out…some other way.
The demons, for all they're pawing him, fingers and talons and tentacles for fuck'ssake, in uncomfortable places, they're not hurting him. They just pull him along, talking shit that's meant to scare him but they're amateurs after what Dean's been through—shit, he could give them lessons at this point.
Finally, they slow down, and come to a stop in front of an outsized door. The demons pull back until only Dean and one of the slightly more human looking of the horde are standing close to the door. It knocks and one of its mouths speaks.
"Our King...your…the…um. Brother is here…?"
The thing's discomfort would be kind of funny if Dean wasn't scared shitless himself. He's got a quiver going in his knees, so gentle that at first he doesn't notice, sort of wonders what the strange feeling is. The quiver spreads, works its way higher, getting stronger. His gut tightens and a band around his chest pulls taut…someone behind him shoves and he stumbles, ending up with his cheek pressed flat against the door. The wood is smooth and cold and faintly, possibly, a little slimy.
"Ngh—" he can't move and the quivering's escalated into full blown shakes. The door opens slowly and he stumbles forward a few steps before catching himself.
"Stop wasting my time and get in here." Sam's voice is deep, knife-edged, and impossible to disobey. Dean edges in carefully, his bare toes gripping the tiles, eyes darting here and there and his breath coming in sharp, short gasps that barely expand his lungs. Sam is standing in the middle of the room, smile creasing his face and a hand held out to him. Behind Sam is a bed miles wide and piled with a cloud of bright, white pillows.
Dean bends like he's been folded and vomits.
His ears are ringing and his insides burn with the force of it and over the noise of blood pounding in his ears and the pathetic retching he can't control, he hears Sam's voice again, now thunderous with anger.
"Shit—Damn it, Dean!" it sounds so much like Sam finding towels piled in a wet ball on the bathroom floor that it startles him into a laugh—hurts like being stabbed. Dean looks up and into Sam's yellow eyes and he remembers.
Only this time, it's everything that ever was, the story of Winchester—every single little thing, from that sunny morning they lost it all in a gas-station parking lot, right up to Angel disappearing forever into Sam.
Everything about Sam and what he did—what he'd done. Something shows mercy and Dean drops like he's dead, down and out for the count.
When he opens his eyes, he drools out a few weak curses. Too tired and too beaten for more. "I'm getting fuckin' sick an' tired of this," he mutters. His damn wrists hurt. There's a dull ache circling them, pain alternating between dull and sharp gnawing at his shoulders and down his chest. It's hard to breathe and he thinks at first that it’s some kind of asthma attack until his head clears some and he realizes he's got arms above his head and he's hanging from a hook above him. He's not in Sam's apartment, he's in a different place, a place he recalls with crystal clarity between one panicked breath and the next. It's a long and narrow room, freezing cold. Arching metal struts hold up a distant ceiling and weeping brick walls frame a single, huge window. The dozens of mullions cast shadows in a grid pattern across the stone floor, up the far wall. The air reeks of old blood and the faint tang of rotten meat. At his knees there's a metal table dotted with dark stains. Every cell of him recognizes where he is.
A man wearing a long white coat with a high, stiff collar drifts into his range of sight. The cuffs of his white coat are spattered with blood. The light from the single arched lamp curving over Dean's head makes the thick lenses of the man—a doctor—into flat, blank disks.
Not a> doctor. The Doctor—the butcher. The one who'd told Dean he was envious of his skill and that of his teacher's, the one who'd been so proud and so eager to show Dean his own skills and had taken him lovingly to bits piece by screaming piece….
Hot liquid streams down Dean's leg, splashes against the tile floor.
"Tsk. N o matter, We'll have someone clean that," the Doctor says. He moves another table to Dean's side and starts sorting through the implements on the trays there. "I didn't think to see you again. What a pleasant surprise." Black rubber ghosts over Dean's face as the doctor strokes a gloved hand over his cheek. "A most pleasant surprise." Dean jerks in the chains, knows he can't get away but his body still tries to escape. Pulling on the chain makes him whimper, makes his eyes run.
"Stop that. You don't need to touch him except where I direct." Sam scowls and the Doctor manages to cringe without actually moving. Sam says, "I think…yes. We'll start with his skin."
The Doctor murmurs happily and rummages on the tray, brings up a thin, sharp saw. "We'll begin with your arms, and work our way in, hmm?"
Dean starts screaming. No point in pretending to be brave.
Sam picks him up and carries him back to the room when the Doctor finishes. He drops Dean on the white bed and the cotton stains immediately with red. He says, "This is never going to end, not until I get tired of it, you understand? You were stupid enough to come back to me, stupidity like that deserves some suffering, don’t you think?"
Dean lies on the bed and tries not to move or think but he can’t stop the flood of tears down his cheeks. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, he wasn't supposed to have killed Angel, Sam wasn't supposed to be a monster.
He spends days and days spread out on the bed, or sometimes huddled on the floor or crouched against the kitchenette's counter when Sam's not there. These are long days that melt and run together so that he's not sure anymore what is real and what isn't. He can't use pain as a marker, he hurts all the time. Sam talks to him non-stop, but it's the same old shit, the same litany of his failings, his losses, what a fuck-up, what a loser, what a worthless piece of meat.
He hears it and all he can think is 'so fucking what.' Sam…Dean's never done anything right when it comes to Sam, so nothing this monster says can break him. Can’t break the broken.
Something's off and it wakes Dean up. He comes to in the white bed, it takes him a few seconds to realize that he's alone and that's what woke him. He pushes up to the head board, pulls his knees up and just—sits. He smiles a little. It feels good to be alone.
He gazes at the bare, sea green walls. Remembers the prints that had hung on them, the prints it turned out only he could see, messages of encouragement from Castiel. There are no prints on the wall now, and Cas is gone, maybe for good. Since Sam's not there, Dean slides off the bed and pads across the tiles to the kitchenette sort of tacked onto one side of the suite. He wonders if Sam eats…despite the tiny kitchen, there's never really anything to eat in the place. Today, though, there's a carton of orange juice in the min-fridge and a loaf of bread. Nothing else and he doesn’t know when Sam's coming back, so…he rips open the package and crams a few slices of bread in his mouth.
He wanders around the suite, chewing, drinking OJ out of the carton. Something's wrong—or wronger than usual. He thinks, wonders, if maybe the entire escape had only taken place in his head? Like maybe Angel had been the Sammy that he'd missed so much he made him up in his dream. Maybe something extra-crunchy weird happened when Cas went nova that time, some kind of whole-body/brain hallucination…except lately there's these moments in which Sam looks at him like he's puzzled…and Sam's never done that before. Sam never really looked at him at all unless he wanted to break another piece off.
There are other odd things now…like, he's hungry. He knows that's weird. Not all his memories of being caged here in the basement with Sam are clear, but he can't remember ever being hungry. He remembers…wanting Sam, needing him so bad, and doing things out of that need that turns his stomach now. He remembers not caring then. Of being so afraid of Sam he'd do anything to keep him from getting pissed off.
He snorts and drops the empty juice carton on the floor, kicks it in the general area of the kitchenette. Wasn't like Sam wouldn’t find something to make him bleed for, might as well make some part of it worth the pain.
So—he gets hungry now, and thirsty. But Sam can still gut him and after, Dean wakes up healed. So…it's real, and it’s not real. Dean shakes his head. This building feels real, but the elevator doors open up on Hell. And Hell is a place but it’s not the kind of real that places like Kansas or New York or—or—Vegas are. Okay, maybe not Vegas.
Dean perches on the edge of one of the couches and stares out the windows. They look out to red sand and fire and in the distance, a lone tree growing right up into the bloody sky. The tree is familiar, but it takes a while before he realizes it's familiar because it's like the tree that Cas had been hung in, in those invisible-to-Sam prints.
"Hunh." He crams the last bit of bread into his mouth and brushes crumbs off his lap onto the floor.
Sam fucks him, and it hurts so bad it has to be Sam's idea of a joke. Dean tries not to scream, bites into the pillow and grinds his teeth down into the fabric, his jaw working back and forth as he shouts harsh screams into the cotton.
Sam pulls out, and Dean feels like his insides are coming out with. Sam drops his hand on Dean's back. Pins him in place and grunts, comes on Dean's back. It's hot and thick, and Dean's not the slightest bit aroused by it. He can remember how it used to be once upon a time, how Sam would do it and he'd grouch and complain and kind of love that Sam had to mark him like that, wanted him so much he had to claim him…this Sam has claimed and marked him plenty. It's okay, he's just waiting until his mind gives up permanently, chases itself so far down a hole not even Sam can dredge it back up again.
"Get up," Sam says, and slaps Dean's ass. It's so sudden and painful that Dean can’t keep the shout in. Sam rolls to his side watches Dean gingerly roll upright and edge back against the headboard. He watches Sam from the corner of his eye.
"Tell me about the thing—you called it Angel."
"I called him Angel. You should know everything about him." Dean tries but he can't keep his tone soft and Sam jerks back, his eyes flat and yellow like a cobra's. He clamps a hand down on Dean's shoulder and it pops out of joint.
"You watch your tongue before I take it out permanently this time," he hisses and just like that, the rage recedes and the snarl melts into a sneer. "And what do you mean I should know everything about him? You think I absorbed him, like a shifter? He wasn't real, stupid. Whatever memories he had weren't real. It was some fucked up angel shit," Sam says. His eyes fade from yellow to hazel—Dean hates it a little when they do. "So entertain me with whatever crap he fed you." Sam smiles, chin resting on his hand and he's staring at Dean like he's about to tell him some campfire tale.
Dean blinks back at Sam, speechless. What could he tell him? Angel was real, I loved him? I know now I loved him because he was you? He was supposed to tell this shell of his brother how Angel's fucking little face was just like Sam's at eighteen, how his arms were sharp and thin like knives but felt good wrapped around him, felt like home…?
Sam suddenly rears back and his eyes flash black and mustard and he slams his fist down on Dean's chest, hard enough to crack bone. The pain of his shoulder and the pain in his chest make Dean want to vomit. "You were in love with that—that thing! Unfaithful bitch!"
He slaps Dean and it's like being clocked with a cinderblock. Blood bursts out between Dean's clenched teeth. Sam roars on, grabs Dean by the hair, fisting the short length tight, he drags Dean off the bed, his knees crack when they hit the floor. Sam stalks away from the bed and Dean tries to keep up, running bent over, shouting in pain when he trips and Sam keeps dragging him anyway. He throws Dean across the room and he staggers into the useless kitchen. Dean drops and cowers against the fridge, arms raised over his head and his whole body frozen in fear.
Sam's staring down at him, sides heaving, spit on his chin, "You fucked him—you loved him. You wanted to stay with him. You said you were looking for me but you—" Sam gasps, eyes huge and wounded. Dean thinks this monster shouldn’t even be able to produce an expression like that
"You were going to kill me if you couldn't—" Sam's lips pull back in a snarl, his eyes flash blood red. Red stains his cheeks, and his hands come up, fingers curled like claws. "You'll remember who you belong to when I'm finished."
Some memory beaten deep into Dean's muscles drives him to scoot across the floor. He drops his head over Sam's feet and begs for mercy, licks across their tops and up Sam's calves, he works his tongue up the length of his legs, slicking the skin, wetting the hair. He nuzzles into Sam's crotch, mumbling 'please, please' over his soft dick, mouthing at it, hoping Sam gets hard and wishing he was as mindless as he'd been when this was a way of life.
The Doctor's sends Dean back and Sam rages at what a sloppy job he's done. Dean's inclined to agree—strips of skin dangle from his calves and he's desperate enough to beg Sam in whatever way he has to, to get Sam to heal him. Instead Sam drapes him over one of his ugly couches and takes a whip to him.
Dean's crying and screaming in minutes. He can't move because Sam holds him down with his freak demonic mind powers. He goes silent long before Sam stops—with nothing but the pain and the taste of thick blood to hold onto, no amount of diving for the bottom of his mind works. One thought chases itself around and around his brain when he can think at all.
If Sam was angry with the Doctor's work, why was he taking it out on Dean?
Something is happening in Sam's world that Dean has no idea of. Outside of the endless no-time in Sam's apartment, things have been happening. Dean wonders what it is that's happening in the outside world that's shaking up the Legion—he wonders if there's still a world outside this room.
Sometimes, Sam stares at him in an odd way, and when that happens Dean's always surprised that there is in fact even more fear that he can dredge up. Because that look usually presages a visit to the lab, or worse, a session here with Sam. He fights the pain on those occasions. he fights his illusions that the apartment is more or less safe…but he's with Sam so what is safe?
"Our King—" Tippi Hedren and some of Sam's minions sweep into the suite almost as if they own it. Dean cringes, milk dripping off the spoon full of cereal he's got clutched in his hand and frozen on its way to his mouth. He's not sure if he should get out or stay where he is. He glances towards Sam for clues but Sam is watching Tippi with a mildly amused tilt to his eyebrows. Tippi's glaring at Dean like he's garbage—until Sam clears his throat and she pales, bobs her head. "Our King," she repeats, "There has been escalation in the North."
Sam comes to attention. "I thought that Amon was on that. What the fuck is going on?"
"Part of that faction was destroyed early this morning. At the four hundredth hour, The Yellow King was overtaken by The Dog. At that time also the Duke moved on the Princess In Steel. There's nothing left of that faction, Majesty."
"Fucking—you're coming to tell me this now? You should have come the moment it happened. Fucking incompetent sack of shit—"
She turns into a torch, screaming all the while, "We just found out now, we just found out—" her screams go on and on, and Dean's frozen at the table, gulping and gulping, praying so hard he's whimpering that he won't vomit into his Lucky Charms and attract Sam's attention. Sam reduces another few officers to ash before his rage finally cools enough to think. He's stalking around the room, hands deep in his hair and muttering, "Okay, okay—this is good, this works. The Duke is the only problem, the other one is fucking nuts and easy to distract…" he jerks when he sees Dean at the table, hunched over a bowl of soggy cereal. "Oh right, you. You—you stay in here, don’t leave this room for anything. They'll be gunning for us for a while, thinking they can get past me. "
Sam's still distracted and Dean slides off his chair and tries to squirm past him into the bedroom area but Sam's attention snaps to him and he grabs Dean by the shirt. "You will not leave this room. No one will come for you, understand? I will send no one, you will not answer any summons until you see my face again—you hear?"
Dean shakes in his brother's grip and nods, yes, yes and yes, no one will come for him, he won’t leave, he won't--
Dean stays in the bed, spends an entire day there waiting but Sam doesn't come. There's no food, and nothing to drink and by the second day, Dean's uncomfortable. He knows he probably won’t die—probably can't die, but the hollow ache in his middle starts to fill him up. He's never been able to stand the feeling.
The third day, he wanders around the apartment, trailing his hands over the walls and wishing the prints were still there. He drifts over to the windows and realizes that they're doors, and they open to the outside. He gently turns a handle, waiting for—pain, punishment—but nothing happens. The handles turn easily, the doors open soundlessly and Dean steps through. Just like that, he's out of the room, and standing under the bloody sky. A sick feeling roils his gut; he hangs his head and hates himself, briefly but violently, for never having tried to escape. It was that fucking easy but all he'd done is lay there and let his brother fuck and torture him and act like he was grateful for it…Dean takes a deep breath and walks out and heads for the tree in the desert.
The red sand puffs up under his footfall, gritty and hot against the naked soles of his feet. A light breeze sends the dust floating up around his ankles before it settles again. It’s quiet, Dean had expected to hear the screams of the damned but it's quieter than an afternoon in a library.
The farther he walks, the less his stomach growls for food, the less thirst pricks him…he's hot but not unbearably so and probably has something to do with being a creature of Hell. He walks and walks and meets no one. The crows follow him though, settling behind him whenever he stops, flying on when he begins walking again. He passes a fence made of black rods and knobs…it slowly dawns that they’re burnt bones woven into a fence. He passes what look like street lights once or twice, tall thin, twisted poles. They give him the creeps. Little empty black boxes hang from the top, lids open and nothing inside…he remembers, the frightening little eyes, the same blue as Castiel's.
The ground changes, less dust now, more like loamy soil tinted the rust red of the dust. The ground's warped and roots as thick around as his arms roam over the ground, they snake in and out of the moist soil. He clambers over the thickest set of roots and stops, looks up.
The tree looks just like the tree Cas had hung from, like in the last print, the clearest one, in which Cas sat happily on a branch of the tree, his coat flying out from him, his tie flung wild by a breeze. "Ah, Cas," he mutters. "You really…fucked up spectacularly, you dumb son of a bitch."
Dean climbs the tree, high as he can go safely, and sits on a branch big as a couch and—just sits, thinking. He thinks of Cas and what he did but more than that, what he'd meant to do, what he'd tried to do. He thinks of Angel, and how he hadn’t known…and how he maybe had. Yeah, some part of him had always kinda known. He thinks of Sammy, too, and how much he misses him. He wonders if it will ever be different. He's got eternities to find out. Or maybe someday Sam will get tired of it all, and give him a final death. It could happen, Dean thinks and smirks. There's an apple on the tree and he plucks it, considers it, rolling it this away and that in his hand. He tries to take a bite but it's too withered and bitter. Dean sighs and looks towards the basement. "Yeah, that's not too subtle," he murmurs and tosses the apple from hand to hand.
There's a dust cloud coming from the direction that he'd walked, it becomes the wake a car throws up as it races away from the basement. In a minute or two, a '71 Buick Regal stops close as possible to the tree and a demon climbs out, riding the meat of a twenty-some kid, all big eyes and curly hair.
"Master says come back—now."
Dean peers down at the demon, suspiciously. Sam wouldn’t send some guy in a car after him—he'd send a harpy to pierce him on its claws and rip him out of the tree and drop him in the basement courtyard. "He also said no one would come for me. What're you after?"
Big eyes roll and the demon huffs impatiently. "He said you'd say that. I'm supposed to tell you to get your worthless, fucking, stupid piece of shit ass in the car right the fuck now."
"Well, hell—sounds like Sam all right." Dean climbs back down the tree, a little hampered by the stupid, withered apple in his hand, and when his feet touch the ground, the demon slaps him like he's been waiting to do it for a lifetime. Dean's bottom lip splits in two and he flies backward, slamming into the ground. "Fuck—" he gets back to his feet and his head rolls, he's dazed and a little pissed off. "Did Sam tell you to do that, too?"
The demon just grins.
"If you kill me—" Dean starts and the fucker interrupts.
"Doesn’t matter, He'll just bring you back."
Dean's not weaving like a drunk now, and he wipes his mouth, spits out the blood. "But think how pissed off he'll be that you had the nerve to kill his pet."
The demon frowns and for the first time, looks a little nervous. "Shut up. Get in the car."
Dean shrugs and smirks a bit. Climbs in the car and wipes blood on the upholstery. "He'll either be pissed off you made me bleed or that I bled on the car. Sure, he'll beat me, but you think he won’t do to you fifty times worse than what he does to me? And you know what he does to me." Dean thinks idly that he should be ashamed or frightened or feel any damn thing but he doesn't. He'll feel plenty of negative things when they're back in the basement.
Sam's livid. He rips him through the doorway, snarling like a German Shepherd, and throws him across the room. Dean slams into the bed, drops down on it with a grunt. He's pretty sure something broke inside…Sam rips his pants and tee shirt away, leaving long burning streaks across his chest, his thighs. Dean closes his eyes and tries frantically to shove himself down into that place where he feels less. The dried-out apple he'd plucked rolled off the side of the bed and under it unnoticed.
Dean's still as a rabbit on the bed, waits for pain but nothing happens. He opens his eyes slowly, like a kid afraid to look and make the bad thing real.
Sam's just—staring at him, perplexed, angry. He reaches out for Dean, and Dean's too beat up to flinch, or even close his eyes. All he can do is wait...
"I don’t…I was…" Sam starts, hesitates, and tries again. "I was…afraid…I came back and you weren’t here. It made me…something." Sam looks confused and disgusted. "Worried. I was worried. What the fuck, I should have locked you in a room with some foot soldiers to keep you in place. I should have caged you before I left. Why didn’t I? What’s wrong with me?" Sam stares down at Dean, and there's something different about his brother. Dean reaches out slowly, carefully, afraid to touch and find out it's all a dream.
"Sam?" he asks, so soft he's not even sure Sam can hear him. But Sam leansinto the touch of Dean's hand and meets Dean's eyes. Sam's eyes are different, not the cold, hazel-tinted marbles Dean had gotten used to. Sam's gaze is intense; his eyes that hazel-green they went when he was thinking…his mouth loosens from a straight slash of anger to that Cupid's bow that had always made Dean want to kiss until it was pink and swollen and warm. Sam stares into Dean's eyes like he's searching for something and then Dean goes and makes the worst mistake he's ever made in his life. "Sa—Angel?"
Sam looks impossibly taller, wider, the room smells like burning paper and Dean breaks out in a cold sweat even though his skin tells him he's been dropped into the sun. Sam rears back from the bed, his eyes flash from hazel to red—blood in his eyes and blood in his mouth and teeth, all Dean can see are teeth. He makes a fist and squeezes and Dean arches off the bed, can't even scream—Sam's just popped his heart like a balloon.
27
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