SpN: Come The Night, 27/29
6/30/12 10:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night, 27/29
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:
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 ~ twenty-six
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
taliosi_x
He's screaming before his eyes open, pulling against the nails that pin him to the stainless steel table. The Doctor's hovering over him with a bright shiny, clean saw, his coat is spotless and a blinding white. There's a smile on his face, his eyes swim behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "This will be special, for both of us," he breathes and Dean stops screaming.
Sam's voice fills the air. "Take him down to nothing, then do it again."
The first, long horizontal cut sends him scrambling inside his head, his body trying to void everything—the bisecting cut stops his heart but it's okay, Sam just brings him back and the Doctor cuts him, and they do it again, and they do it again. Dean screams when he can, wide-awake through it all. Sam won’t let him escape, not into shock or insanity or death. He talks to Dean, asks him how he feels.
How he feels? He feels like he made the world's worst mistake. He feels like he's lost everything and anything worth breathing for. He feels like he deserves it, but still…he's so fucking ashamed because even after failing in the most miserable way, rendering Castiel's sacrifice useless and betraying Angel horribly, he can't stop wanting to live.
Dean screams for John, begging him to save him. He screams for Cas to come back and stop the pain, screams for Bobby, begs for Angel—Dean bargains and pleads for it to stop with everyone he's ever known, but he never once asks Sam for a fucking thing, and Sam goes from laughing and giggling at the list of names, from suggestions to his minion, to slowly quieting, and the quieter he gets, the angrier he seems to get and Dean has no idea what else he can give to Sam....
He's in the process of drowning in his own blood, his back cracked open and his ribs flung wide. The Doctor's searching inside him, pawing at his guts, slowly pulling his lungs out through his back. There's a moment when time feels like it's slipped sideways, he's coming out of a deep, dark pit and suddenly, everything is crystal clear, bright and painless, like he's free. Unfortunately, the feeling only lasts for a moment—Sam's in his face, looking like an avenging god—all thunder and lightning, eye-for-an-eye. Dean waits for it, a not-so-killing blow, but then Sam's behind him, ripping the Doctor out of his guts. Throws him, grabs one of the standing lamps. Snaps it in half and drives the jagged stalk into the Doctor's chest, pinning him to the floor. He's cursing and sawing, saws until the Doctor's in pieces. As he tries to crawl away from Sam, the Doctor pleads, "What did I do wrong, master, how did I fail?" over and over.
Sam ignores him. All his attention is on Dean, contemplating the mess of bone and blood and skin hanging in the chains, trying to breathe. Dean, at last, doesn't feel a thing. He's a blank, black slate. Sort of aware of the Doctor on the floor and of Sam at his side, staring…but there's nothing. Not even relief that there's nothing…until Sam touches him. Kisses the slash of his mouth, the cracked edge of his jaw. The muscle and tendons of his neck. Sam slides the flat of his hand into the wings the doctor made of Dean's ribs and pulls it back out, dripping red, leaving streaks on whatever skin's undamaged on Dean's body. "Heal," Sam says and laughs soft and low like he's laughing at his own private joke, but Dean does. It's quick and complete—for seconds Dean feels like he's boiling in acid but it's gone almost as soon as he feels it. And now the only pain he feels is the chain holding him up, and the strain on his shoulders…it's almost too much.
Meanwhile the doctor's been trying to crawl for cover, trailing blood and viscera behind him and not stopping, not dying. There's blood everywhere, and it's so ugly and horrible, it breaks through the shell of Dean's own nightmare world. He watches with growing horror as Sam follows after the doctor, stabbing, stabbing, shredding bits away until Dean screams, "Please, Sam. Stop—stop!"
Sam hesitates, not really angry now, more…puzzled. "Why should I? He hurt you—don’t you want revenge?"
"Yes—no. No, please. Just—stop playing with him, please. Fix him, whatever—"
The Doctor's agonized moaning grows, he slobbers apologies into the stone, begs Sam to let him show how much better he can do, he promises Dean's pain will be transcendent if only Sam will let him heal, a few days at most, he begs, a few days to regrow limbs and guts and—
Sam kicks at the Doctor, roars, "Shut UP"—and vaporizes him. "I can't fucking hear myself THINK."
The only sound is the creak of cooling stone and Dean's shattered breathing…until Sam speaks. "You tricked me into killing my most useful servant. You're really going to have to pay for that." Sam bears down on Dean, all the pain in the world visible in his eyes.
"But-but…you stopped him. You did that, not me, I thought, for-for me…?" Dean stammering in his effort to get the words out as fast as he can, deflect Sam's anger and maybe get him talking…he doesn't get it, why this fury? If Sam killed the Doctor because he was hurting Dean than this makes no sense, Sam has to explain what’s going on—and then Sam's all over him and the why doesn't matter anymore.
~o0o~
For days afterward, Dean makes himself a ghost in the apartment. Sam comes in and out, wanders the rooms but never really acknowledges Dean, never looks directly at him...there are some days he comes in bloody from head to toe, his eyes so yellow they look like open flames. He hisses and mutters to himself and if Dean's unlucky, Sam notices him. Other days he slips in quietly, clean and pressed and dressed like Dean's dreams of a Sam that will never exist again. He looks around the room as if he's never seen it before and if he has to speak to Dean, he does while looking at some point over Dean's shoulder. He'll ask Dean if he needs more food, or water, nods at whatever answer Dean gives and leaves again. When it's a quiet day, Sam's eyes shift constantly, from yellow to black to red to hazel and Dean's strung tight as a wire, trying to figure out what's coming next. It's a giant fucking relief when Sam leaves on those days; right up until the door closes behind him.
He knows he should be grateful that Sam's making himself scarce but he's not and not only because part of him worries that Sam's taking the time to devise a suitable punishment for Dean. He's sure Sam hasn't forgiven Dean for making him lose his temper and his precious torturer. It's this…forever being stuck in the rooms alone. Dean hates it, almost as much as he hates that he can't take being alone. It unnerves him that he'd rather have Sam near than be alone…scares him when he thinks of the one sure-fire way to keep him close.
Dean's disgusted with himself, hates himself even more that the idea isn't as repulsive as he wants it to be.
~o0o~
Desperation drives Dean to do something stupid. In retrospect, Dean thinks he really should have known better but hey, reckless and impulsive is practically his middle name….
When Sam comes into the room, it's dark. Dean's not sure if it's dark because it's night or dark because of Sam. Dean's perched uncomfortably on one of the steel and leather things that Sam calls furniture, squatting on the edge. Sam's dressed in a grey linen suit, his face is blank and when he looks at Dean there's nothing in his hazel eyes. Perfect, Dean thinks.
"Sam, take me upstairs. I can't…can you please take me upstairs to the outside? I can't breathe down here. Just, for a little bit, just enough to. I don’t know, stretch. See if there's a real world out there…" Dean slams his mouth shut, wishes he could take that last bit back, but Sam just stops, his mouth works before speaking. He looks nonplussed. "I, okay, maybe. I've got a lot of clean-up to do first," he says and his eyes flash gold. "The Duke and I have." He stops and scoops his hair out of his eyes, sighs heavily and Dean clenches inside. It's so oddly Sam, the gesture….
He comes off the couch and stops in front of Sam. "Turn around," he says, and gently urges Sam around, hoping Sam will just go with it.
Wonder of wonders, he does, even lets Dean slide his suit jacket off. Dean works the muscles at the base of Sam's neck, familiar with Sam's aches and pains because they did this hundreds of times for each other, after a hunt, in down-time…Dean works on across Sam's shoulders and down and eventually Sam groans, his body loosens a bit. "Better?" Dean asks and Sam nods. Dean stops kneading, switches to stroking. He bites his lip, this is…his hands work their way down Sam's side, slide around to his belly, ease their way lower. His heart's beating harder, but he's started this, he needs to just… Dean slides his hand into the loose band of the pants. Sam's already hard and he palms Sam's dick and works him, slow, just enough and on the edge of teasing, like Sam used to like. Sam's moaning, "Dean, yeah, good…"
Tears spring into Dean's eyes. Sam fills his head, Sam in a motel room bathroom, rocking back against Dean, Sam grinning at him as he crawls his way up a ratty queen bed in some other non-descript, mildew scented joint…"Sam," he says, and Sam in his arms stiffens.
"What are you doing?" he snaps, and jerks out of Dean's grip. "What are you trying to do?"
"Nothing Sam, nothing, just…wanted to make you feel good."
Sam stares at him, his eyes flat, gold and blank again. "Good? Good?" he repeats and slams Dean against the wall. When Dean hits the floor, Sam crouches over him, has his eyes on him like he's some unknown, disgusting thing—smashes his fist into Dean's mouth. The shock, the unexpected pain, floods Dean's eyes with tears. Flashes of light explode behind closed eyelids, and his mouth fills with blood from his lip. He's bitten through it and…he wiggles his tongue in his mouth. Yeah. Just as he thought, Sam's knocked some teeth loose. Blood drools over his chin and he spits bits of tooth on the floor. "You fuckin' bastard," he mumbles.
Sam rears back, shakes blood off his hand and asks Dean in all fucking seriousness, "Why'd you make me do that?"
Dean would laugh if he could—shit, at this moment, if he had a loaded gun, he'd have no problem firing on Sam—but since his face feels like someone's let off a stick of dynamite in the center of it, laughing is something beyond him right now. He gargles some reply and Sam steps on Dean's hand, pinning him to the floor. "You were nothing once, a roach, my roach. I turned you inside out until all you knew was my name--why shouldn't I do that now? Oh right," he snarls. "Can't. You made me kill my favored servant."
Dean spits again. "Fuck you, so do it yourself, you prick—you don’t need him. Break me, erase me. I don’t fuckin' care."
"You should," Sam shouts. "You have to care!"
"What?" Dean blinks, his head's swimming and the pain is turning him stupid. "Why? S'there a reason? Wha' the fuck for…" he's drifting, swimming in a warm cloud like a shot of really good drugs, he's most of the way out when he thinks he hears, because I need you to. Sounds like Cas, he thinks, I miss Cas, miss Sammy….
~o0o~
When he wakes again, he's fine. He's not too surprised about that, a little disappointed he's awake. Alive. He shrugs.
So, he's alive and alone, and…he gingerly cracks his jaw, flexes. And in one piece again. That means it's time to start the day. He showers and dresses in one of the many identical outfits Sam makes appear on the bed each morning. "You're a damn near omnipotent being—you can't make more than t-shirts and jeans? A fuckin' pack of underwear would be nice," he grumbles to himself. "Paira goddamn socks, how hard can that be?"
After dressing and bitching, there's hopefully breakfast. Sam sucks at that too. Turns out there's a box of Pop-Tarts in one of the kitchen cabinets, along with a can of condensed milk and a vacuum pack bag of coffee. He just stares at it. Shakes his head. "Fuckin' great." There's no coffee maker in the kitchenette. He grabs one of the Pop-Tarts and looks in the fridge. Jesus," he says. "What the serious fuck…" There's a bottle of tomato juice and a couple of eggs. It's like being in a really crappy-ass fairy tale, a Grimm style tale. Lots of blood and low-rent magic. Shaking his head again he wanders over to look at the French doors. He doesn't twist the handles—the doors have been sealed. It made him laugh the first time he tried to open them, after his little trip. Still makes him smile….
He's just settled on a couch, wondering if he can stomach the kind of things that the screen in the apartment will show him, picking sticky crumbs from his hands when the door opens and one of Sam's pinstriped clad thumb breakers saunters in. "Majesty wants ya—now."
Dean squints. This one is real meat—nothing's riding him. Dean's surprised. And thankful. The humans tended to be less invested in making him suffer, they just did what Sam ordered quickly as possible and got out of the way fast.
They end up in a room he's never been in before. It's not the lab; it's not Sam's office. It's big, cold, looks and smells like Doc Benton's operating room. Behind glass walls, there are tiers of seats, filled with humans and demons and horses, all looking down at Dean. The floor is empty, the tiles gleaming whitely under dozens of hanging lamps.
Sam's waiting for him, smiling—Dean double-takes. He's really smiling, like, something good is gonna happen smiling. He steps to the side and Dean sees he's got a woman trussed up in some complicated rope and knot pattern, like the oddball, kind of boring porn he'd come across occasionally when Sam forgot to clear his history.
Sam's still smiling as he ushers Dean across the floor. "Stand here," he says and winks. Snaps his fingers and something streaks across the floor, something like a furred centipede. It swarms over the woman and every pass reveals a new streak of blood.
Sam hisses in Dean's ear. "She hurt you, touched you, shamed you, she's paying for everything she did to you."
Dean shudders, struggles to keep down bile. This is insanity, this is the kind of things that only psychopaths or his brother do. Present a quivering, bleeding thing as a gift.
The queen of the floating cities is smearing the tiles with her blood, screaming for forgiveness, squirming in a growing puddle of blood and it reminds Dean of the Doctor, the way he bled and begged for salvation. Dean flinches when Sam grips his shoulder gently. "She'll never hurt you again, no one will." and Dean wants to ask, is it because she hurt me, or because she played with your toy, but Sam's looking at him oddly and it takes Dean a moment to realize it's expectation.
Dean jerks, his mouth drops open. Sam thinks, he thinks Dean wants this. He thinks Dean wants her dead. Sam's giving him a gift…
Dean stands, silent and shaking until Sam calls an end to it finally. He's cold, his stomach is cramping and his mouth is sour. His eyes ache. He flinches hard when Sam touches him, and freezes when Sam's face falls. Waits for it…but Sam only asks him if he wants Gavreel, the angel also and Dean almost chokes getting the words out, no, no, it's fine, it’s fine really…
Just before Sam closes the apartment door on him Dean works up the courage to ask, "What about the cities, the people—"
"I didn’t touch them—why, do you want me to, I can—"
"No! No, it's good, thank you, good," Dean chokes out.
Sam doesn’t say anything before the door shuts with a barely audible click.
Dean drops down to the floor, gasping for breath. Fuck—what the hell was that? Sam was. Sam was…Dean covers his face. "God. Angel. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
~o0o~
So Sam gave him a gift, and then took it away.
Dean's sitting cross-legged on the couch, drinking an honest-to-god beer and watching the screen, which is, thankfully, playing an old movie instead of the Brother Citizen Loves You fucking hour, when Sam's minions pull him out of the room and frog-march him into the elevators. He ends up being tossed into a windowless beige room, a room empty of everything but a dim golden glow that seems to come from everywhere. The door slams behind him and he whirls around—the door's gone. He's in a box with no windows, no doors…Dean stands still in the center of the room, forcing himself to calm, deliberate breaths. He examines the room, eyes first and then walks along the walls. The floor's got a slight give to it even though it looks like metal, it's blood temperature, like the air in the room. He trails his hand over the skin-smooth wall trying to find something, a seam, a blemish of some kind—and freezes.
"Fuck…fuck. FUCK." The memory of this place drops him to his knees, has him scrabbling backwards until he hits a wall. Sam's dropped him back in a particularly insidious cage and this time, he's afraid Sam is never coming back for him…Dean tilts his head back to hit the wall and closes his eyes. His knees draw up and his hands hang loose between his knees. He wonders how long it will take him to loose it. Wonders if the hunger pains he feels from time to time will fade away or grow until he's ripping at himself. Dean laughs a little and wipes his face. Crying again—being with Sam has wiped out all embarrassment he's ever had about crying. He's like a leaky faucet these days.
He's pretty hungry, and he's slept a few times since he's been locked in. He hasn't bothered to try and keep track—he's got a feeling that doing it will only drive him nuts even faster. He's just sliding to his side, curling his arms around his knees and about to try and drop off again when a rectangular seam appears on a wall. The seam parts and the door opens slowly and Sam walks in.
God…Dean closes his eyes and waits…waits…opens them again when nothing happens and Sam's just staring at him. And wringing his hands.
"I'm. I don't know exactly what happened. I was just thinking, about you and that…that thing. How you watched out for him and I got so pissed off, thinking somehow all of this is your fault and I told them to take you…put you in here. You wouldn’t have starved you know."
Dean just stares at Sam, wordless because there just...there just weren't enough words for what he was feeling.
"You wouldn't have," Sam taking Dean's silence for disbelief. "You would have just…oh."
Dean stares and hopes that his imperfect memory of this cage is enough. He hopes that what he does know shows in his eyes. He thinks it must, the way Sam drops his head, his hands hanging loose and still at his sides.
"You don’t know what it's like," he says and steps aside. "Get out of here." His words are harsh, but the tone isn't. Dean's not a complete idiot; he jumps up and sidles past Sam, careful not to touch. He remembers which way to run.
~o0o~
They're sitting at the sealed French doors and Dean says, "Sam, you're killing me. You're taking me to bits in slow motion. You're making me go crazy, crazier, and I don’t know what's real anymore. Am I in hell with you, or am I still in Chronopolis? Or am I in the Floating City…Sam, am I in hell, am I in the basement with you?"
Sam stares at Dean and doesn't say anything.
"I wish you'd kill me, man. If there's any part of you that cares even a little about me, you'd turn me to ash." Dean drops his head, and tears drip into his lap, darkening the cotton pants he's wearing.
"I've killed everything that ever meant anything to me. I've killed myself. I can't kill you."
~o0o~
Sam's suddenly over him in the dark. His big, big hand comes down over Dean's face and it covers him from forehead to chin, presses down until Dean can't draw in air anymore. His lungs flutter, begging for oxygen, and Sam presses harder.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Look at you, begging to breathe when days ago you asked me to kill you. This is for you, Dean; this is my gift to you."
It gets darker and the dark fills with silver sparks, and his lungs stop fighting it and warm waves swell through him but he doesn’t really want to die. Why not? It's Sam's last gift. And it's not a bad way to go, he thinks, as he starts to go limp in Sam's hands. Regrets nibble at the edge of his mind as he fades. He's sorry for failing him, sorry for not shooting Sam when he had the chance, he should have saved him, saved him this pain on top of everything because some year, some distant time, maybe, Sam was going to wake up to everything he'd done since losing his soul and it would kill him.
Dean drifts deeper into the dark, but some vestige of big brother lets him pat Sam's hand before he goes away.
28
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:
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 ~ twenty-six
icon by
taliosi_xHe's screaming before his eyes open, pulling against the nails that pin him to the stainless steel table. The Doctor's hovering over him with a bright shiny, clean saw, his coat is spotless and a blinding white. There's a smile on his face, his eyes swim behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "This will be special, for both of us," he breathes and Dean stops screaming.
Sam's voice fills the air. "Take him down to nothing, then do it again."
The first, long horizontal cut sends him scrambling inside his head, his body trying to void everything—the bisecting cut stops his heart but it's okay, Sam just brings him back and the Doctor cuts him, and they do it again, and they do it again. Dean screams when he can, wide-awake through it all. Sam won’t let him escape, not into shock or insanity or death. He talks to Dean, asks him how he feels.
How he feels? He feels like he made the world's worst mistake. He feels like he's lost everything and anything worth breathing for. He feels like he deserves it, but still…he's so fucking ashamed because even after failing in the most miserable way, rendering Castiel's sacrifice useless and betraying Angel horribly, he can't stop wanting to live.
Dean screams for John, begging him to save him. He screams for Cas to come back and stop the pain, screams for Bobby, begs for Angel—Dean bargains and pleads for it to stop with everyone he's ever known, but he never once asks Sam for a fucking thing, and Sam goes from laughing and giggling at the list of names, from suggestions to his minion, to slowly quieting, and the quieter he gets, the angrier he seems to get and Dean has no idea what else he can give to Sam....
He's in the process of drowning in his own blood, his back cracked open and his ribs flung wide. The Doctor's searching inside him, pawing at his guts, slowly pulling his lungs out through his back. There's a moment when time feels like it's slipped sideways, he's coming out of a deep, dark pit and suddenly, everything is crystal clear, bright and painless, like he's free. Unfortunately, the feeling only lasts for a moment—Sam's in his face, looking like an avenging god—all thunder and lightning, eye-for-an-eye. Dean waits for it, a not-so-killing blow, but then Sam's behind him, ripping the Doctor out of his guts. Throws him, grabs one of the standing lamps. Snaps it in half and drives the jagged stalk into the Doctor's chest, pinning him to the floor. He's cursing and sawing, saws until the Doctor's in pieces. As he tries to crawl away from Sam, the Doctor pleads, "What did I do wrong, master, how did I fail?" over and over.
Sam ignores him. All his attention is on Dean, contemplating the mess of bone and blood and skin hanging in the chains, trying to breathe. Dean, at last, doesn't feel a thing. He's a blank, black slate. Sort of aware of the Doctor on the floor and of Sam at his side, staring…but there's nothing. Not even relief that there's nothing…until Sam touches him. Kisses the slash of his mouth, the cracked edge of his jaw. The muscle and tendons of his neck. Sam slides the flat of his hand into the wings the doctor made of Dean's ribs and pulls it back out, dripping red, leaving streaks on whatever skin's undamaged on Dean's body. "Heal," Sam says and laughs soft and low like he's laughing at his own private joke, but Dean does. It's quick and complete—for seconds Dean feels like he's boiling in acid but it's gone almost as soon as he feels it. And now the only pain he feels is the chain holding him up, and the strain on his shoulders…it's almost too much.
Meanwhile the doctor's been trying to crawl for cover, trailing blood and viscera behind him and not stopping, not dying. There's blood everywhere, and it's so ugly and horrible, it breaks through the shell of Dean's own nightmare world. He watches with growing horror as Sam follows after the doctor, stabbing, stabbing, shredding bits away until Dean screams, "Please, Sam. Stop—stop!"
Sam hesitates, not really angry now, more…puzzled. "Why should I? He hurt you—don’t you want revenge?"
"Yes—no. No, please. Just—stop playing with him, please. Fix him, whatever—"
The Doctor's agonized moaning grows, he slobbers apologies into the stone, begs Sam to let him show how much better he can do, he promises Dean's pain will be transcendent if only Sam will let him heal, a few days at most, he begs, a few days to regrow limbs and guts and—
Sam kicks at the Doctor, roars, "Shut UP"—and vaporizes him. "I can't fucking hear myself THINK."
The only sound is the creak of cooling stone and Dean's shattered breathing…until Sam speaks. "You tricked me into killing my most useful servant. You're really going to have to pay for that." Sam bears down on Dean, all the pain in the world visible in his eyes.
"But-but…you stopped him. You did that, not me, I thought, for-for me…?" Dean stammering in his effort to get the words out as fast as he can, deflect Sam's anger and maybe get him talking…he doesn't get it, why this fury? If Sam killed the Doctor because he was hurting Dean than this makes no sense, Sam has to explain what’s going on—and then Sam's all over him and the why doesn't matter anymore.
For days afterward, Dean makes himself a ghost in the apartment. Sam comes in and out, wanders the rooms but never really acknowledges Dean, never looks directly at him...there are some days he comes in bloody from head to toe, his eyes so yellow they look like open flames. He hisses and mutters to himself and if Dean's unlucky, Sam notices him. Other days he slips in quietly, clean and pressed and dressed like Dean's dreams of a Sam that will never exist again. He looks around the room as if he's never seen it before and if he has to speak to Dean, he does while looking at some point over Dean's shoulder. He'll ask Dean if he needs more food, or water, nods at whatever answer Dean gives and leaves again. When it's a quiet day, Sam's eyes shift constantly, from yellow to black to red to hazel and Dean's strung tight as a wire, trying to figure out what's coming next. It's a giant fucking relief when Sam leaves on those days; right up until the door closes behind him.
He knows he should be grateful that Sam's making himself scarce but he's not and not only because part of him worries that Sam's taking the time to devise a suitable punishment for Dean. He's sure Sam hasn't forgiven Dean for making him lose his temper and his precious torturer. It's this…forever being stuck in the rooms alone. Dean hates it, almost as much as he hates that he can't take being alone. It unnerves him that he'd rather have Sam near than be alone…scares him when he thinks of the one sure-fire way to keep him close.
Dean's disgusted with himself, hates himself even more that the idea isn't as repulsive as he wants it to be.
Desperation drives Dean to do something stupid. In retrospect, Dean thinks he really should have known better but hey, reckless and impulsive is practically his middle name….
When Sam comes into the room, it's dark. Dean's not sure if it's dark because it's night or dark because of Sam. Dean's perched uncomfortably on one of the steel and leather things that Sam calls furniture, squatting on the edge. Sam's dressed in a grey linen suit, his face is blank and when he looks at Dean there's nothing in his hazel eyes. Perfect, Dean thinks.
"Sam, take me upstairs. I can't…can you please take me upstairs to the outside? I can't breathe down here. Just, for a little bit, just enough to. I don’t know, stretch. See if there's a real world out there…" Dean slams his mouth shut, wishes he could take that last bit back, but Sam just stops, his mouth works before speaking. He looks nonplussed. "I, okay, maybe. I've got a lot of clean-up to do first," he says and his eyes flash gold. "The Duke and I have." He stops and scoops his hair out of his eyes, sighs heavily and Dean clenches inside. It's so oddly Sam, the gesture….
He comes off the couch and stops in front of Sam. "Turn around," he says, and gently urges Sam around, hoping Sam will just go with it.
Wonder of wonders, he does, even lets Dean slide his suit jacket off. Dean works the muscles at the base of Sam's neck, familiar with Sam's aches and pains because they did this hundreds of times for each other, after a hunt, in down-time…Dean works on across Sam's shoulders and down and eventually Sam groans, his body loosens a bit. "Better?" Dean asks and Sam nods. Dean stops kneading, switches to stroking. He bites his lip, this is…his hands work their way down Sam's side, slide around to his belly, ease their way lower. His heart's beating harder, but he's started this, he needs to just… Dean slides his hand into the loose band of the pants. Sam's already hard and he palms Sam's dick and works him, slow, just enough and on the edge of teasing, like Sam used to like. Sam's moaning, "Dean, yeah, good…"
Tears spring into Dean's eyes. Sam fills his head, Sam in a motel room bathroom, rocking back against Dean, Sam grinning at him as he crawls his way up a ratty queen bed in some other non-descript, mildew scented joint…"Sam," he says, and Sam in his arms stiffens.
"What are you doing?" he snaps, and jerks out of Dean's grip. "What are you trying to do?"
"Nothing Sam, nothing, just…wanted to make you feel good."
Sam stares at him, his eyes flat, gold and blank again. "Good? Good?" he repeats and slams Dean against the wall. When Dean hits the floor, Sam crouches over him, has his eyes on him like he's some unknown, disgusting thing—smashes his fist into Dean's mouth. The shock, the unexpected pain, floods Dean's eyes with tears. Flashes of light explode behind closed eyelids, and his mouth fills with blood from his lip. He's bitten through it and…he wiggles his tongue in his mouth. Yeah. Just as he thought, Sam's knocked some teeth loose. Blood drools over his chin and he spits bits of tooth on the floor. "You fuckin' bastard," he mumbles.
Sam rears back, shakes blood off his hand and asks Dean in all fucking seriousness, "Why'd you make me do that?"
Dean would laugh if he could—shit, at this moment, if he had a loaded gun, he'd have no problem firing on Sam—but since his face feels like someone's let off a stick of dynamite in the center of it, laughing is something beyond him right now. He gargles some reply and Sam steps on Dean's hand, pinning him to the floor. "You were nothing once, a roach, my roach. I turned you inside out until all you knew was my name--why shouldn't I do that now? Oh right," he snarls. "Can't. You made me kill my favored servant."
Dean spits again. "Fuck you, so do it yourself, you prick—you don’t need him. Break me, erase me. I don’t fuckin' care."
"You should," Sam shouts. "You have to care!"
"What?" Dean blinks, his head's swimming and the pain is turning him stupid. "Why? S'there a reason? Wha' the fuck for…" he's drifting, swimming in a warm cloud like a shot of really good drugs, he's most of the way out when he thinks he hears, because I need you to. Sounds like Cas, he thinks, I miss Cas, miss Sammy….
When he wakes again, he's fine. He's not too surprised about that, a little disappointed he's awake. Alive. He shrugs.
So, he's alive and alone, and…he gingerly cracks his jaw, flexes. And in one piece again. That means it's time to start the day. He showers and dresses in one of the many identical outfits Sam makes appear on the bed each morning. "You're a damn near omnipotent being—you can't make more than t-shirts and jeans? A fuckin' pack of underwear would be nice," he grumbles to himself. "Paira goddamn socks, how hard can that be?"
After dressing and bitching, there's hopefully breakfast. Sam sucks at that too. Turns out there's a box of Pop-Tarts in one of the kitchen cabinets, along with a can of condensed milk and a vacuum pack bag of coffee. He just stares at it. Shakes his head. "Fuckin' great." There's no coffee maker in the kitchenette. He grabs one of the Pop-Tarts and looks in the fridge. Jesus," he says. "What the serious fuck…" There's a bottle of tomato juice and a couple of eggs. It's like being in a really crappy-ass fairy tale, a Grimm style tale. Lots of blood and low-rent magic. Shaking his head again he wanders over to look at the French doors. He doesn't twist the handles—the doors have been sealed. It made him laugh the first time he tried to open them, after his little trip. Still makes him smile….
He's just settled on a couch, wondering if he can stomach the kind of things that the screen in the apartment will show him, picking sticky crumbs from his hands when the door opens and one of Sam's pinstriped clad thumb breakers saunters in. "Majesty wants ya—now."
Dean squints. This one is real meat—nothing's riding him. Dean's surprised. And thankful. The humans tended to be less invested in making him suffer, they just did what Sam ordered quickly as possible and got out of the way fast.
They end up in a room he's never been in before. It's not the lab; it's not Sam's office. It's big, cold, looks and smells like Doc Benton's operating room. Behind glass walls, there are tiers of seats, filled with humans and demons and horses, all looking down at Dean. The floor is empty, the tiles gleaming whitely under dozens of hanging lamps.
Sam's waiting for him, smiling—Dean double-takes. He's really smiling, like, something good is gonna happen smiling. He steps to the side and Dean sees he's got a woman trussed up in some complicated rope and knot pattern, like the oddball, kind of boring porn he'd come across occasionally when Sam forgot to clear his history.
Sam's still smiling as he ushers Dean across the floor. "Stand here," he says and winks. Snaps his fingers and something streaks across the floor, something like a furred centipede. It swarms over the woman and every pass reveals a new streak of blood.
Sam hisses in Dean's ear. "She hurt you, touched you, shamed you, she's paying for everything she did to you."
Dean shudders, struggles to keep down bile. This is insanity, this is the kind of things that only psychopaths or his brother do. Present a quivering, bleeding thing as a gift.
The queen of the floating cities is smearing the tiles with her blood, screaming for forgiveness, squirming in a growing puddle of blood and it reminds Dean of the Doctor, the way he bled and begged for salvation. Dean flinches when Sam grips his shoulder gently. "She'll never hurt you again, no one will." and Dean wants to ask, is it because she hurt me, or because she played with your toy, but Sam's looking at him oddly and it takes Dean a moment to realize it's expectation.
Dean jerks, his mouth drops open. Sam thinks, he thinks Dean wants this. He thinks Dean wants her dead. Sam's giving him a gift…
Dean stands, silent and shaking until Sam calls an end to it finally. He's cold, his stomach is cramping and his mouth is sour. His eyes ache. He flinches hard when Sam touches him, and freezes when Sam's face falls. Waits for it…but Sam only asks him if he wants Gavreel, the angel also and Dean almost chokes getting the words out, no, no, it's fine, it’s fine really…
Just before Sam closes the apartment door on him Dean works up the courage to ask, "What about the cities, the people—"
"I didn’t touch them—why, do you want me to, I can—"
"No! No, it's good, thank you, good," Dean chokes out.
Sam doesn’t say anything before the door shuts with a barely audible click.
Dean drops down to the floor, gasping for breath. Fuck—what the hell was that? Sam was. Sam was…Dean covers his face. "God. Angel. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
So Sam gave him a gift, and then took it away.
Dean's sitting cross-legged on the couch, drinking an honest-to-god beer and watching the screen, which is, thankfully, playing an old movie instead of the Brother Citizen Loves You fucking hour, when Sam's minions pull him out of the room and frog-march him into the elevators. He ends up being tossed into a windowless beige room, a room empty of everything but a dim golden glow that seems to come from everywhere. The door slams behind him and he whirls around—the door's gone. He's in a box with no windows, no doors…Dean stands still in the center of the room, forcing himself to calm, deliberate breaths. He examines the room, eyes first and then walks along the walls. The floor's got a slight give to it even though it looks like metal, it's blood temperature, like the air in the room. He trails his hand over the skin-smooth wall trying to find something, a seam, a blemish of some kind—and freezes.
"Fuck…fuck. FUCK." The memory of this place drops him to his knees, has him scrabbling backwards until he hits a wall. Sam's dropped him back in a particularly insidious cage and this time, he's afraid Sam is never coming back for him…Dean tilts his head back to hit the wall and closes his eyes. His knees draw up and his hands hang loose between his knees. He wonders how long it will take him to loose it. Wonders if the hunger pains he feels from time to time will fade away or grow until he's ripping at himself. Dean laughs a little and wipes his face. Crying again—being with Sam has wiped out all embarrassment he's ever had about crying. He's like a leaky faucet these days.
He's pretty hungry, and he's slept a few times since he's been locked in. He hasn't bothered to try and keep track—he's got a feeling that doing it will only drive him nuts even faster. He's just sliding to his side, curling his arms around his knees and about to try and drop off again when a rectangular seam appears on a wall. The seam parts and the door opens slowly and Sam walks in.
God…Dean closes his eyes and waits…waits…opens them again when nothing happens and Sam's just staring at him. And wringing his hands.
"I'm. I don't know exactly what happened. I was just thinking, about you and that…that thing. How you watched out for him and I got so pissed off, thinking somehow all of this is your fault and I told them to take you…put you in here. You wouldn’t have starved you know."
Dean just stares at Sam, wordless because there just...there just weren't enough words for what he was feeling.
"You wouldn't have," Sam taking Dean's silence for disbelief. "You would have just…oh."
Dean stares and hopes that his imperfect memory of this cage is enough. He hopes that what he does know shows in his eyes. He thinks it must, the way Sam drops his head, his hands hanging loose and still at his sides.
"You don’t know what it's like," he says and steps aside. "Get out of here." His words are harsh, but the tone isn't. Dean's not a complete idiot; he jumps up and sidles past Sam, careful not to touch. He remembers which way to run.
They're sitting at the sealed French doors and Dean says, "Sam, you're killing me. You're taking me to bits in slow motion. You're making me go crazy, crazier, and I don’t know what's real anymore. Am I in hell with you, or am I still in Chronopolis? Or am I in the Floating City…Sam, am I in hell, am I in the basement with you?"
Sam stares at Dean and doesn't say anything.
"I wish you'd kill me, man. If there's any part of you that cares even a little about me, you'd turn me to ash." Dean drops his head, and tears drip into his lap, darkening the cotton pants he's wearing.
"I've killed everything that ever meant anything to me. I've killed myself. I can't kill you."
Sam's suddenly over him in the dark. His big, big hand comes down over Dean's face and it covers him from forehead to chin, presses down until Dean can't draw in air anymore. His lungs flutter, begging for oxygen, and Sam presses harder.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Look at you, begging to breathe when days ago you asked me to kill you. This is for you, Dean; this is my gift to you."
It gets darker and the dark fills with silver sparks, and his lungs stop fighting it and warm waves swell through him but he doesn’t really want to die. Why not? It's Sam's last gift. And it's not a bad way to go, he thinks, as he starts to go limp in Sam's hands. Regrets nibble at the edge of his mind as he fades. He's sorry for failing him, sorry for not shooting Sam when he had the chance, he should have saved him, saved him this pain on top of everything because some year, some distant time, maybe, Sam was going to wake up to everything he'd done since losing his soul and it would kill him.
Dean drifts deeper into the dark, but some vestige of big brother lets him pat Sam's hand before he goes away.
28
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(no subject)
7/1/12 06:26 am (UTC)Just spent the last hour or so catching up, and it's gripping and scary and sad and horrifying and... so good. I can't decide whether Sam's ever going to be himself again. I see glimpses of what he used to be, what Angel was, but how can he ever go back to that? He's been Lucifer/Prince of Darkness/the Anti-Christ for so long...
Don't wanna have to wait anymore to find out, either, so please: update soon!
(no subject)
7/1/12 06:19 pm (UTC)It got really convoluted, no? And yeah, they both have a long, long road to travel. Sadly, we're not going on that road with them but we will see them off at the gate. :)
Update should come fairly soon, I'm just dragging my feet on it. But, I think maybe two, three chapters to go before we're done? *X's fingers*
(no subject)
7/6/12 09:12 pm (UTC)Poor Angel. Too bad Dean couldn't resist trying to get closure with Samifer. =[
(no subject)
7/1/12 07:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/1/12 07:22 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for the comments, my dear! ♥
(no subject)
7/11/12 06:49 pm (UTC)Geez! I run away for a 9 day Alaskan vacation and all my favorite stories get updated! Maybe I need to go away more often, if it makes the Muses come out to play.
(no subject)
7/13/12 10:59 pm (UTC)