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roxyTitle:To The Waters And The Wild
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4219, total WC: 59784
A/N: And here we are, finished. Some of you swore there was no happy ending possible here. Well, you were right.
A/N part two: The title comes from the poem The Stolen Child, and the idea for the story very loosely inspired by legends of changelings. Here's an excerpt from the poem.
Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand
The Stolen Child by W.B. Yeats
Also, in my haste to post last night I forgot to thank my two biggest helpers through this thing, Thanks and hugs and lots of chocolate to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
selinamoonfire and toldthestars, thanks guys, thanks so much for putting up with my desperate demands for help!
"All right," Sam lied. "Come morning, I'll call him, and let him know we're going to Bobby's, okay? I won't try and contact Ruby, and…we'll see. I mean, I know Bobby will help." Sam smiled and hoped it looked more real than it felt.
"That's all I'm asking," Dean murmured, and flicked Sam's shoulder with his fingers. Sam snorted and tried to capture them, and when Dean smiled up at him, shoved down a hot spike of guilt. He told himself, there were times you *had* to lie to protect the people you loved. And after, when Dean realized he'd done the right thing for the both of them, he'd understand, he'd forget....
Dean turned to his side, unsticking himself from Sam like they were coated with glue. The room was too stuffy to be comfortable; the heater was working over-time, pumping out hot air like it sat over a volcano. The hot air intensified the slight smell of incontinent cat he'd noticed when he first came in. They were spread over the room's single bed, both of them wearing nothing but damp boxers and sweat. The ancient television propped up on the low dresser spat static and snow and the heater moaned and croaked out more hot air, and it just got hotter and hotter….
Dean suddenly kicked the covers to the floor, cursing and flailing. "Mother-fuck!—Why am I sweating my balls off when it's colder than shit outside? This is a heck of a frickin' great place you picked," he complained. "Plus it smells like some Cat Lady's living room."
"Hey, when I get Radisson money, we'll stay in a Radisson room. Until then, it's broken heaters and cat piss. And don’t go losing your balls," Sam smirked, "I'd planned on using them later."
"Dude…what have we said about you showing me a lousy time and then expecting me to put out? I'm like some big slutbar for you?"
"Well…yeah," Sam grinned and turned to his side, letting his finger trace the path of a determined bead of sweat making it's way to Dean's navel. "Aren't you?"
Dean scowled, dark and thunderous, before suddenly grinning--huge, wide and happy, a grin that creased his eyes and showed all his teeth. Laughed, and said, "Yeah." He slung a leg over Sam's and pulled him close. They kissed, deep, slow, the promise of sex in each lingering kiss. Dean moved his hips against his, tried to pull Sam over him, but Sam didn't want that, not this night.
"I want you to fuck me," Sam whispered into Dean's shoulder…Dean groaned, lifted himself away from Sam, easily breaking his grip.
"Aw, Sam, come on—"
"Please. I just…I need you to. Please? I really need it that way."
Dean stared into Sam's eyes, and finally he nodded. "Sure. Anything you want, Sammy."
Sam smiled as Dean pulled him close and kissed him right through his smile. "Baby…my baby boy," Dean breathed into his mouth…surprise and a rush of heat swept through Sam. He liked it, he liked Dean calling him baby. Probably shouldn't let him know that…
Ah, what the fuck. "Say it again…" He let Dean push him back against the bed, and cover him in the slow, hot kisses Dean trailed down his neck, across his shoulders…
"You like me calling you baby?" Dean touched his cheek. "Baby, 'cause you're mine. All mine…."
Dean kissed down the center of his chest, soft swirls of his tongue chasing the kisses downwards…"Don’t ever forget." Dean's head against his stomach felt heavy, in a good way, like being held in place, being reminded that this was real, and they were right there, together….
He drew the fingers he'd curled around the back of Dean's head through his damp hair, scratching, twisting the strands in them, pulling a little like Dean liked. Dean's strong, clever fingers skated under him, following the arch of his back, teased his cleft and then worked inside him. They felt so big and hot, felt so good. Tight muscle fluttered and opened, greedy for more. He groaned, fucked himself on Dean's fingers, moving in concert with the tiny moans Dean panted into his skin, certain that Dean didn't even know he made them….
Sam slid his hand to the back of Dean's neck and squeezed. Dean shivered, bent until his lips grazed the tip of Sam's dick, swirled his tongue through the leaking slit, sucked little kisses there until his lips parted enough for Sam to fuck his way in. He was swimming on the edge of orgasm--torn between the twin sensations of Dean's mouth, and Dean's fingers. His hips stuttered, trying to force them in deeper, faster. Dean twisted his fingers and his knuckles pushed in, opening Sam wider—moved his fingers just right, and Sam shook as electric heat cascaded through him.
"Now, I think I'm going to come now," he moaned and Dean let his dick slip out of his mouth, pulled his fingers free. Sam grumbled in disappointment and Dean hushed him with a kiss, searched out the lube on the nightstand. Seconds later, Dean was kneeling on the bed, slicking himself with tense concentration. He glanced up, caught Sam's eyes, and smirked. Shot Sam a sly, wicked grin, and drawled, "I'm going to fuck you now, I'm gonna do it slow and hot, and you're going to beg me for more."
Sam's dick jerked, and dragged a hot trail of precome across his belly; he barely managed not to come the second Dean's hands closed around his ankles, slid up his calves. "Aw--awful sure of yourself…" he stuttered, his voice sliding rough and out of control—he'd been trying for cocky, but lost it completely when Dean hands eased his legs apart, his thumbs slid over his balls and pushed into him, holding Sam open for the head of his dick to push in—slow, teasing, bumping in and out until Sam cried out, "Do it, do what you said—now!"
"Yeah, Sam, yes--" Dean's head dropped, muscle rippled along his arms, his sides—seriously fucking into Sam, hard enough to move him up the bed. Long, steady strokes had him gasping, crying out—Sam grabbed his dick and his hand flew up and down his shaft, his whole body straining towards orgasm, closer, closer…Dean leaned down, pushed his face into Sam's neck, sucked sweat and salt from his skin. "Sam, Sam...the way you smell…taste…I need you, need to touch you, fuck you…make you come…."
Sam groaned. Dean felt hotter, bigger inside him. Sam grabbed Dean's arms, felt how they trembled with the strain of holding himself back. Dean looked wild, feral--fucked into Sam, never taking his eyes from him—he was moaning, "Yeah, there you go, feel it? Feel me—" A growl rolled up out of his chest, deep, dark--he cursed. "I can't—can't—"
"Come, then, come with me—" felt like his blood was boiling under his too-tight skin, like he might rip open and let out everything he was—he came and it was mind-blowing--and hurt, fuck, it hurt--but in an amazing, wonderful, incredible way.
"Right now, Sam, now." Dean moaned, loud, long into his ear. "Right now—" The feel of Dean's dick throbbing, the hot wash of Dean's come inside him, blew electric shocks through him, again, again, and he felt like he was coming forever.
Drifting, wrapped up in velvet dark, thick heat pushing at every inch of him, skin slick with sweat and come…he sighed, content. His ass ached, and his throat was raw like he'd been screaming for hours--he loved it, all of it. Dean's tongue tickling his neck slowly made him come back to himself…long soothing licks, wet and soft and smooth against his throat, settled Sam, until he open his eyes again.
"Fuu-ck. So…so…."
"Mmm." Dean nodded. "It was."
Sam curled around him. "We should wash up, right? We fall asleep and it'll be all funky and stuff in th'mornin'…should get up'n get a washcloth…" he was drifting again even as he spoke. He barely heard Dean chuckle, tell him to sleep, and he'd take care of everything.
"Sleep, Sammy. I love you. I'm going to take care of you."
Sam wanted to tell him that he knew he would, but sleep took him first.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Dean lay stretched out next to Sam, had been for a few hours, just watching his chest move to deep, solid breaths, smiling at the twitches, the fleeting frowns and smiles that chased across Sam's sleep soft features. Dean felt love—pure, fierce and burning. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Sam—nothing. And if Sam was in need of him to take control of the situation, than that's what he'd do. He leaned closer, and kissed Sam's mouth, gently, barely brushing his lips, so soft….
He traced the arch of his neck, the swell of his shoulder, traced down to his navel, and slipped his finger in, grinned when Sam snickered and huffed, his eyes racing back and forth under closed lids. He smiled and Dean felt warmth spread through his chest. Sam was having a pleasant dream. Good.
Dean swung off the bed, and padded across the room. He pulled on a tee-shirt, slipped into his jeans, his boots, and shrugged the leather jacket Sam loved so much on. He unzipped the duffle, searching for a particular gun--a pretty, pearl handled, Colt semi-automatic. He came up with it and made a small sound of triumph. Got it! He pushed it into the back of his jeans. He hummed quietly as he rinsed out the room's toy coffee maker, and set it brewing. He tipped quietly to the bed. "Sleep good," he said, and kissed Sam's forehead. "Made coffee," he whispered, knowing Sam was out hard, and not even the smell of coffee would wake him up…not for a while.
He eased out the door, leaning on it for a moment. The sun was barely up, just a milky glow at the horizon. Sniffing the air brought the faint, far-away hint of snow. Clouds hung over the mountains in the distance, rising from them like smoke. Up there, it'd be snowing, and he wished they'd had the time to head up into them. Snow…he'd like to see that. He had dim memories of snow, hiding everything under a thick blanket of crisp white. Seemed like that would be a beautiful thing to see….
He closed his eyes and let memories come… laughed softly to himself at the first one that floated up, Sam in a pink puffy jacket and a huge scowl, covered with snowball guts. Poor Sammy…he'd really suffered with that cast-off coat, until Dad had managed to get him a manly navy blue.
Hey, Princess, now all you need is a crown to go with your pretty pink coat.
Screw you, Dean!
Ooo, Language! I'm going to tell Dad!
Dad and Sam, sweeping snow off the Impala and Dad laughing at something Sam said...Sam on his back, sweeping angels into the snow…the feel of cold biting at his cheeks. A sensation he'd never had, but he knew how it'd feel, knew all about bare fingers aching from packing snow into a hard ball….
He came back to himself with a little start, remembered what he'd come outside for. He walked across the parking lot, stopping to pat the metal flank of the black beast that was supposed to mean something to him. He sighed— it didn't--it was just a collection of stale smells overlaid with the stink of gasoline, but Sam loved it and expected him to, and Sam's scent ran all through it, so in some way it did mean something. Mostly, it just made him sad.
He moved into the trees behind the motel, up a slight hill. He trotted along a cut through, and across a small road, into a proper woods—the tree trunks thick and furred with moss, interlacing branches over head blocking out the rising sun's rays. It smelled good—full of green things, the rich smell of leaf mold and soil—he stretched, spread his arms wide to the unseen sky. Ran deeper into the woods, until he couldn't hear the road sounds any more, or smell anything on the cool wet air but the land around him. It was nothing like the fire and ash and the burning he knew he came out of, that he sometimes dreamt of, but it felt…good. Right. Almost as right as standing near Sam.
He pushed through leaves and underbrush, leaped over a fallen log, and flushed a rabbit—instinct sent heat flushing through him, sent him flying after it, and in seconds he was on it. He scooped it up in mid-leap, and swung it by its head—the snap of vertebrae separating ignited a hot burst of pleasure under his ribs. He ran on a bit until he found a spot protected by thickly overgrown shrubs. He crawled in under them and folded his legs up, still smiling. The dead animal was spread over his lap, its eyes wide and glassy, a thin red ribbon of blood snaking from its nose. If he poked his fingers through the neck, he could peel the skin off like a glove….
He looked down at the scrap of cooling meat in his lap, a little surprised to see this thing. He really didn't remember grabbing it, killing it….
He sighed, and let it drop with a sad shake of his head. What would Sam think? He licked his fingers clean and shimmied out from under the bush. He thought about Sam, how much Sam wanted from him, how much he wanted to be what Sam wanted.
But that was impossible.
Every day he spent with him, every minute Sam was close to him, was poisonous. He was breaking Sam, bit by bit, just by being with him, and as long as he was, Sam wouldn't go back to where he belonged. And that was bad.
He moved a little deeper into the woods, where the sun broke through thick branches, spotting the forest floor with gold. He thought it was sad, that now when he'd come to love this place so much—the quiet, the cool air—now he was going to have to leave it.
He took off the jacket, and sat back against a sturdy tree…oak another Dean memory provided, and eased the pretty gun out of his waist band. He laughed quietly when a memory surfaced—Dean getting the gun as a gift. It was his…it was not his. Now, the gun would bring another gift—it would set Sam right again. Of course, he knew Sam would grieve, and that was a horrible weight, but eventually, the shadow would lift and Sam would be where he was supposed to be—next to his brother. His eyes burned with the pain of wanting to cry, when no tears were possible. He lifted the gun and took a second. He had nothing to turn to, no soul to ask protection for. The best he could hope for was oblivion and he hoped for it with all his might—and then, he wished with everything he had, with every stolen moment of this life, that Sam be well, be safe. Be loved.
The shot was clean and quick, because Dean was good at what he did.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
"What?" Sam jerked upright. For a second, he was completely lost—this was not his apartment, not New York…
"Dude…did you…hey…." He was alone in a motel at the end of the world, and suddenly his brain gave a name to the sound that had yanked him out of sleep. He fell out of bed and fumbled around on the floor, grabbing clothes, and dressing quickly as he could. His hands shook the whole time—a freezing well of fear was opening inside him.
He was standing in the courtyard before he even realized he'd left the room—blinking his eyes against the rising sun. The wind whipped around the courtyard, almost as cold as the ice rising in him.
There was no one outside, or in the car, no one in the office, he wasn't behind the motel, he wasn't on the road….
The change in light drew Sam's eyes to the woods. The ice inside him grew, rippled up his spine. The woods drew him—he knew it came from there—the noise that had pulled him out of sleep.
Sam found the jacket, folded neatly, with a rock weighing it down. The breath caught in his throat, the ice crackled and snapped in his veins…he tore through the woods, a name he hadn't spoken aloud for days echoing around him.
It didn't take long for Sam to find him…propped against a tree, the colt in his lap. There was a lot of blood, a lot of mess, and he'd probably died quickly. Sam was shivering, empty and cold and brittle.
The body weighed nothing—his hands slipped, wet and gritty, when he picked it up. Dozens of different scenes he and his crew had worked flashed through his mind. He knew just what to do for blood, organic matter contaminating a site, for an outdoor site…Sam blinked, unsure of where he was, and then he felt the wet heat dripping through his fingers, running down his chest….
He carried the body back to the room, nearly blind from tears and not caring if anyone saw but of course, the god of fools was looking out for him.
Sam wrapped him up carefully, first in a sheet, then in a blanket ripped off the bed. He laid him out in the back of the Impala, and drove away…let the motel curse George Lutz for running out on his bill.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
They were high up in the mountains before Sam could bring himself to stop driving. In the mountains was where he burned him.
The flames flared upwards, snapping at the sky. Snowflakes swirled around the fire, hissing as they dropped into the flames. The smell of burning wood snarled together with the stink of gasoline and roasting flesh, thick and greasy…like any other body they'd ever burned. Heat from the flames reached out, touched him—and the ice filling him up inside, split and split until it was gone and it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair to be left alone with this…
Sam hated him.
More than anything, more than any pain he'd ever felt, Sam hated him for leaving him all alone. Sam screamed it over and over in the thin cold air, until finally he was just screaming, and why the fuck not, he was alone. Sam cursed him, and demanded to know what he was supposed to do now, how he was supposed to live without him…why he should even bother trying to.
He couldn't do it again.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
He came down off the mountain and drove, straight on to nothing, just driving and driving. He lived in the car, he didn't eat, slept when he couldn't hold out anymore and more than once thought about just closing his eyes and letting the car drift as he drove, and finally he ended up at a rest stop on the side of the road, cored out and kneeling next to the car and just breathing because he couldn't do anything else…that was when he finally understood what he was supposed to do…
He called.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Falling snow made a sloppy mess of the parking lot, did nothing to make the two-story motel look anything less like a last stop on the way to hell.
He dragged himself up a flight of iron stairs, made his way along a narrow walkway, and stood in front of a sun-faded metal door. Room 27. He stared at the black stick-on lettering until they shivered, until glowing dots danced in front of his eyes. He lifted his hand and before he could change his mind, hammered on the door.
It opened so fast, he nearly fell forward. Strong arms gripped him, wrapped him up and pulled him close. "Fucking finally. Sammy."
Dean—Dean—all he could do was cry and cry, and Dean held him and told him, "It's going to be okay now, don't worry, I'll fix it, I always fix it, right? I'll make it okay, promise—I'll help you."
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Epilogue
He has this dream sometimes, that he's walking above a field with no end, on hills sky high that ring this field--a battle rages perpetually across it. Sometimes in the dream, he hears his name being screamed, over and over. Difficult to tell if the voices are cheering, cursing, or begging.
He's never alone in this dream. There's this…thing on a chain he holds. He can feel the links twist and burn in his palm as it tries to get out on the field….
The battlefield is burning, like images of hell he used to see in movies when he was a kid. Constantly burning, and flames sweep the low, dark sky, vomiting out black smoke and turning everything shades of black and gray. In all that darkness, only the flames have color, and he's kind of glad about that.
The thing on the chain is howling and whining and pawing at the muddy earth. The churned earth fills the air with the stink of copper, wet copper pennies. The chain rips through his palm again, and he hisses, warm wet fill the creases of his skin. Immediately the thing drops back, slack on the chain brings relief almost as sharp as pain. It snakes its neck around, rolls jade eyes in the bony shell of its face until it's looking into his. It licks Sam's palms clean, and makes a noise meant to be a whine.
"It's okay. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me." He looks up; a black wave fills the sky, rank after rank of wide black wings shedding feathers like rain. The sound…he closes his eyes. He'd never imagined the sound, oddly enough. The fire, the blood, corpses like bricks piled up in a wall…he'd seen all of that and nothing makes him falter, but…the sound makes his heart bleed. "I wish…."
The air shimmers and the battle falters and the thing on the chain turns and faces him, trots back to him and rears up on its hind legs, licks his face. He can't help but laugh, wrap his fist in its collar to hold it back. "Stop!"
The battle rages on. It leaves black paw prints from the thick mud under its feet, all over his white, white shirt. The chain chimes as it slithers to the ground.
Now? the long white thing asks.
Go he says, but come back soon. I miss you when you're not here.
It shivers and stretches. Stands and with a low laugh, unlocks its collar, lays it on his palm. Green eyes shine warm, and it gathers his face in its palms. Yours forever.
It turns and runs off to the field, so happy to be free again.
He sits on the hill and watches the battle rage and watches his Dean be free. He knows, without a doubt, he'll return.
There's a black sun flaring in the sky, on the other side of the field is a hill like this one, but he doesn't look there. He doesn't listen. His eyes pick out his Dean and watch him run, watches the legions of black shapes lunge up from the ground as he passes, and soar above him, shouting--
"Ah—" Sam wakes up on sweat dampened sheets in a hard narrow bed, panting like he's run a race. Fear and sorrow tumble through him until he's sure he's not--there, in that place. He squints through the darkness and recognizes where he is—Bobby's spare room. The one he and Dean spent time in, in summers long gone by. Even some of the old posters he'd let them tack up on the wall were still there, cars and girls—Dean's stuff.
He lies back down again. There's not much point in changing the sheets, and in a bit, he'll probably get up and make coffee, drink a cup with Bobby and watch the sun come up. It's warm enough now for it to be comfortable squatting out on the porch….
Dean's steadily snoring, sleeping peacefully in the bed nearest the door, of course. Even here.
Sam sits up, and watches Dean, filling himself up on it, staring all he wants because Dean's asleep, and won’t ask him what the hell is wrong, does he have a zit? Is Sam going blind? Does he realize how fucking creepy the staring is?
Sam always laughs, and Dean always laughs, and that's always the end of it, except sometimes when Dean looks at him, tight-faced and worried, when he thinks Sam doesn't see.
Dean turns on his bed and mutters in his sleep, and for a moment Sam feel like his chest is cracking open and everything is pouring out, blood and guts and his soul…and then life catches up with him and he lays back, and watches Dean breathe.
Tomorrow is Sam's birthday.
6-11-2009
fin
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4219, total WC: 59784
A/N: And here we are, finished. Some of you swore there was no happy ending possible here. Well, you were right.
A/N part two: The title comes from the poem The Stolen Child, and the idea for the story very loosely inspired by legends of changelings. Here's an excerpt from the poem.
Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand
The Stolen Child by W.B. Yeats
Also, in my haste to post last night I forgot to thank my two biggest helpers through this thing, Thanks and hugs and lots of chocolate to
selinamoonfire and toldthestars, thanks guys, thanks so much for putting up with my desperate demands for help! "All right," Sam lied. "Come morning, I'll call him, and let him know we're going to Bobby's, okay? I won't try and contact Ruby, and…we'll see. I mean, I know Bobby will help." Sam smiled and hoped it looked more real than it felt.
"That's all I'm asking," Dean murmured, and flicked Sam's shoulder with his fingers. Sam snorted and tried to capture them, and when Dean smiled up at him, shoved down a hot spike of guilt. He told himself, there were times you *had* to lie to protect the people you loved. And after, when Dean realized he'd done the right thing for the both of them, he'd understand, he'd forget....
Dean turned to his side, unsticking himself from Sam like they were coated with glue. The room was too stuffy to be comfortable; the heater was working over-time, pumping out hot air like it sat over a volcano. The hot air intensified the slight smell of incontinent cat he'd noticed when he first came in. They were spread over the room's single bed, both of them wearing nothing but damp boxers and sweat. The ancient television propped up on the low dresser spat static and snow and the heater moaned and croaked out more hot air, and it just got hotter and hotter….
Dean suddenly kicked the covers to the floor, cursing and flailing. "Mother-fuck!—Why am I sweating my balls off when it's colder than shit outside? This is a heck of a frickin' great place you picked," he complained. "Plus it smells like some Cat Lady's living room."
"Hey, when I get Radisson money, we'll stay in a Radisson room. Until then, it's broken heaters and cat piss. And don’t go losing your balls," Sam smirked, "I'd planned on using them later."
"Dude…what have we said about you showing me a lousy time and then expecting me to put out? I'm like some big slutbar for you?"
"Well…yeah," Sam grinned and turned to his side, letting his finger trace the path of a determined bead of sweat making it's way to Dean's navel. "Aren't you?"
Dean scowled, dark and thunderous, before suddenly grinning--huge, wide and happy, a grin that creased his eyes and showed all his teeth. Laughed, and said, "Yeah." He slung a leg over Sam's and pulled him close. They kissed, deep, slow, the promise of sex in each lingering kiss. Dean moved his hips against his, tried to pull Sam over him, but Sam didn't want that, not this night.
"I want you to fuck me," Sam whispered into Dean's shoulder…Dean groaned, lifted himself away from Sam, easily breaking his grip.
"Aw, Sam, come on—"
"Please. I just…I need you to. Please? I really need it that way."
Dean stared into Sam's eyes, and finally he nodded. "Sure. Anything you want, Sammy."
Sam smiled as Dean pulled him close and kissed him right through his smile. "Baby…my baby boy," Dean breathed into his mouth…surprise and a rush of heat swept through Sam. He liked it, he liked Dean calling him baby. Probably shouldn't let him know that…
Ah, what the fuck. "Say it again…" He let Dean push him back against the bed, and cover him in the slow, hot kisses Dean trailed down his neck, across his shoulders…
"You like me calling you baby?" Dean touched his cheek. "Baby, 'cause you're mine. All mine…."
Dean kissed down the center of his chest, soft swirls of his tongue chasing the kisses downwards…"Don’t ever forget." Dean's head against his stomach felt heavy, in a good way, like being held in place, being reminded that this was real, and they were right there, together….
He drew the fingers he'd curled around the back of Dean's head through his damp hair, scratching, twisting the strands in them, pulling a little like Dean liked. Dean's strong, clever fingers skated under him, following the arch of his back, teased his cleft and then worked inside him. They felt so big and hot, felt so good. Tight muscle fluttered and opened, greedy for more. He groaned, fucked himself on Dean's fingers, moving in concert with the tiny moans Dean panted into his skin, certain that Dean didn't even know he made them….
Sam slid his hand to the back of Dean's neck and squeezed. Dean shivered, bent until his lips grazed the tip of Sam's dick, swirled his tongue through the leaking slit, sucked little kisses there until his lips parted enough for Sam to fuck his way in. He was swimming on the edge of orgasm--torn between the twin sensations of Dean's mouth, and Dean's fingers. His hips stuttered, trying to force them in deeper, faster. Dean twisted his fingers and his knuckles pushed in, opening Sam wider—moved his fingers just right, and Sam shook as electric heat cascaded through him.
"Now, I think I'm going to come now," he moaned and Dean let his dick slip out of his mouth, pulled his fingers free. Sam grumbled in disappointment and Dean hushed him with a kiss, searched out the lube on the nightstand. Seconds later, Dean was kneeling on the bed, slicking himself with tense concentration. He glanced up, caught Sam's eyes, and smirked. Shot Sam a sly, wicked grin, and drawled, "I'm going to fuck you now, I'm gonna do it slow and hot, and you're going to beg me for more."
Sam's dick jerked, and dragged a hot trail of precome across his belly; he barely managed not to come the second Dean's hands closed around his ankles, slid up his calves. "Aw--awful sure of yourself…" he stuttered, his voice sliding rough and out of control—he'd been trying for cocky, but lost it completely when Dean hands eased his legs apart, his thumbs slid over his balls and pushed into him, holding Sam open for the head of his dick to push in—slow, teasing, bumping in and out until Sam cried out, "Do it, do what you said—now!"
"Yeah, Sam, yes--" Dean's head dropped, muscle rippled along his arms, his sides—seriously fucking into Sam, hard enough to move him up the bed. Long, steady strokes had him gasping, crying out—Sam grabbed his dick and his hand flew up and down his shaft, his whole body straining towards orgasm, closer, closer…Dean leaned down, pushed his face into Sam's neck, sucked sweat and salt from his skin. "Sam, Sam...the way you smell…taste…I need you, need to touch you, fuck you…make you come…."
Sam groaned. Dean felt hotter, bigger inside him. Sam grabbed Dean's arms, felt how they trembled with the strain of holding himself back. Dean looked wild, feral--fucked into Sam, never taking his eyes from him—he was moaning, "Yeah, there you go, feel it? Feel me—" A growl rolled up out of his chest, deep, dark--he cursed. "I can't—can't—"
"Come, then, come with me—" felt like his blood was boiling under his too-tight skin, like he might rip open and let out everything he was—he came and it was mind-blowing--and hurt, fuck, it hurt--but in an amazing, wonderful, incredible way.
"Right now, Sam, now." Dean moaned, loud, long into his ear. "Right now—" The feel of Dean's dick throbbing, the hot wash of Dean's come inside him, blew electric shocks through him, again, again, and he felt like he was coming forever.
Drifting, wrapped up in velvet dark, thick heat pushing at every inch of him, skin slick with sweat and come…he sighed, content. His ass ached, and his throat was raw like he'd been screaming for hours--he loved it, all of it. Dean's tongue tickling his neck slowly made him come back to himself…long soothing licks, wet and soft and smooth against his throat, settled Sam, until he open his eyes again.
"Fuu-ck. So…so…."
"Mmm." Dean nodded. "It was."
Sam curled around him. "We should wash up, right? We fall asleep and it'll be all funky and stuff in th'mornin'…should get up'n get a washcloth…" he was drifting again even as he spoke. He barely heard Dean chuckle, tell him to sleep, and he'd take care of everything.
"Sleep, Sammy. I love you. I'm going to take care of you."
Sam wanted to tell him that he knew he would, but sleep took him first.
Dean lay stretched out next to Sam, had been for a few hours, just watching his chest move to deep, solid breaths, smiling at the twitches, the fleeting frowns and smiles that chased across Sam's sleep soft features. Dean felt love—pure, fierce and burning. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Sam—nothing. And if Sam was in need of him to take control of the situation, than that's what he'd do. He leaned closer, and kissed Sam's mouth, gently, barely brushing his lips, so soft….
He traced the arch of his neck, the swell of his shoulder, traced down to his navel, and slipped his finger in, grinned when Sam snickered and huffed, his eyes racing back and forth under closed lids. He smiled and Dean felt warmth spread through his chest. Sam was having a pleasant dream. Good.
Dean swung off the bed, and padded across the room. He pulled on a tee-shirt, slipped into his jeans, his boots, and shrugged the leather jacket Sam loved so much on. He unzipped the duffle, searching for a particular gun--a pretty, pearl handled, Colt semi-automatic. He came up with it and made a small sound of triumph. Got it! He pushed it into the back of his jeans. He hummed quietly as he rinsed out the room's toy coffee maker, and set it brewing. He tipped quietly to the bed. "Sleep good," he said, and kissed Sam's forehead. "Made coffee," he whispered, knowing Sam was out hard, and not even the smell of coffee would wake him up…not for a while.
He eased out the door, leaning on it for a moment. The sun was barely up, just a milky glow at the horizon. Sniffing the air brought the faint, far-away hint of snow. Clouds hung over the mountains in the distance, rising from them like smoke. Up there, it'd be snowing, and he wished they'd had the time to head up into them. Snow…he'd like to see that. He had dim memories of snow, hiding everything under a thick blanket of crisp white. Seemed like that would be a beautiful thing to see….
He closed his eyes and let memories come… laughed softly to himself at the first one that floated up, Sam in a pink puffy jacket and a huge scowl, covered with snowball guts. Poor Sammy…he'd really suffered with that cast-off coat, until Dad had managed to get him a manly navy blue.
Hey, Princess, now all you need is a crown to go with your pretty pink coat.
Screw you, Dean!
Ooo, Language! I'm going to tell Dad!
Dad and Sam, sweeping snow off the Impala and Dad laughing at something Sam said...Sam on his back, sweeping angels into the snow…the feel of cold biting at his cheeks. A sensation he'd never had, but he knew how it'd feel, knew all about bare fingers aching from packing snow into a hard ball….
He came back to himself with a little start, remembered what he'd come outside for. He walked across the parking lot, stopping to pat the metal flank of the black beast that was supposed to mean something to him. He sighed— it didn't--it was just a collection of stale smells overlaid with the stink of gasoline, but Sam loved it and expected him to, and Sam's scent ran all through it, so in some way it did mean something. Mostly, it just made him sad.
He moved into the trees behind the motel, up a slight hill. He trotted along a cut through, and across a small road, into a proper woods—the tree trunks thick and furred with moss, interlacing branches over head blocking out the rising sun's rays. It smelled good—full of green things, the rich smell of leaf mold and soil—he stretched, spread his arms wide to the unseen sky. Ran deeper into the woods, until he couldn't hear the road sounds any more, or smell anything on the cool wet air but the land around him. It was nothing like the fire and ash and the burning he knew he came out of, that he sometimes dreamt of, but it felt…good. Right. Almost as right as standing near Sam.
He pushed through leaves and underbrush, leaped over a fallen log, and flushed a rabbit—instinct sent heat flushing through him, sent him flying after it, and in seconds he was on it. He scooped it up in mid-leap, and swung it by its head—the snap of vertebrae separating ignited a hot burst of pleasure under his ribs. He ran on a bit until he found a spot protected by thickly overgrown shrubs. He crawled in under them and folded his legs up, still smiling. The dead animal was spread over his lap, its eyes wide and glassy, a thin red ribbon of blood snaking from its nose. If he poked his fingers through the neck, he could peel the skin off like a glove….
He looked down at the scrap of cooling meat in his lap, a little surprised to see this thing. He really didn't remember grabbing it, killing it….
He sighed, and let it drop with a sad shake of his head. What would Sam think? He licked his fingers clean and shimmied out from under the bush. He thought about Sam, how much Sam wanted from him, how much he wanted to be what Sam wanted.
But that was impossible.
Every day he spent with him, every minute Sam was close to him, was poisonous. He was breaking Sam, bit by bit, just by being with him, and as long as he was, Sam wouldn't go back to where he belonged. And that was bad.
He moved a little deeper into the woods, where the sun broke through thick branches, spotting the forest floor with gold. He thought it was sad, that now when he'd come to love this place so much—the quiet, the cool air—now he was going to have to leave it.
He took off the jacket, and sat back against a sturdy tree…oak another Dean memory provided, and eased the pretty gun out of his waist band. He laughed quietly when a memory surfaced—Dean getting the gun as a gift. It was his…it was not his. Now, the gun would bring another gift—it would set Sam right again. Of course, he knew Sam would grieve, and that was a horrible weight, but eventually, the shadow would lift and Sam would be where he was supposed to be—next to his brother. His eyes burned with the pain of wanting to cry, when no tears were possible. He lifted the gun and took a second. He had nothing to turn to, no soul to ask protection for. The best he could hope for was oblivion and he hoped for it with all his might—and then, he wished with everything he had, with every stolen moment of this life, that Sam be well, be safe. Be loved.
The shot was clean and quick, because Dean was good at what he did.
"What?" Sam jerked upright. For a second, he was completely lost—this was not his apartment, not New York…
"Dude…did you…hey…." He was alone in a motel at the end of the world, and suddenly his brain gave a name to the sound that had yanked him out of sleep. He fell out of bed and fumbled around on the floor, grabbing clothes, and dressing quickly as he could. His hands shook the whole time—a freezing well of fear was opening inside him.
He was standing in the courtyard before he even realized he'd left the room—blinking his eyes against the rising sun. The wind whipped around the courtyard, almost as cold as the ice rising in him.
There was no one outside, or in the car, no one in the office, he wasn't behind the motel, he wasn't on the road….
The change in light drew Sam's eyes to the woods. The ice inside him grew, rippled up his spine. The woods drew him—he knew it came from there—the noise that had pulled him out of sleep.
Sam found the jacket, folded neatly, with a rock weighing it down. The breath caught in his throat, the ice crackled and snapped in his veins…he tore through the woods, a name he hadn't spoken aloud for days echoing around him.
It didn't take long for Sam to find him…propped against a tree, the colt in his lap. There was a lot of blood, a lot of mess, and he'd probably died quickly. Sam was shivering, empty and cold and brittle.
The body weighed nothing—his hands slipped, wet and gritty, when he picked it up. Dozens of different scenes he and his crew had worked flashed through his mind. He knew just what to do for blood, organic matter contaminating a site, for an outdoor site…Sam blinked, unsure of where he was, and then he felt the wet heat dripping through his fingers, running down his chest….
He carried the body back to the room, nearly blind from tears and not caring if anyone saw but of course, the god of fools was looking out for him.
Sam wrapped him up carefully, first in a sheet, then in a blanket ripped off the bed. He laid him out in the back of the Impala, and drove away…let the motel curse George Lutz for running out on his bill.
They were high up in the mountains before Sam could bring himself to stop driving. In the mountains was where he burned him.
The flames flared upwards, snapping at the sky. Snowflakes swirled around the fire, hissing as they dropped into the flames. The smell of burning wood snarled together with the stink of gasoline and roasting flesh, thick and greasy…like any other body they'd ever burned. Heat from the flames reached out, touched him—and the ice filling him up inside, split and split until it was gone and it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair to be left alone with this…
Sam hated him.
More than anything, more than any pain he'd ever felt, Sam hated him for leaving him all alone. Sam screamed it over and over in the thin cold air, until finally he was just screaming, and why the fuck not, he was alone. Sam cursed him, and demanded to know what he was supposed to do now, how he was supposed to live without him…why he should even bother trying to.
He couldn't do it again.
He came down off the mountain and drove, straight on to nothing, just driving and driving. He lived in the car, he didn't eat, slept when he couldn't hold out anymore and more than once thought about just closing his eyes and letting the car drift as he drove, and finally he ended up at a rest stop on the side of the road, cored out and kneeling next to the car and just breathing because he couldn't do anything else…that was when he finally understood what he was supposed to do…
He called.
Falling snow made a sloppy mess of the parking lot, did nothing to make the two-story motel look anything less like a last stop on the way to hell.
He dragged himself up a flight of iron stairs, made his way along a narrow walkway, and stood in front of a sun-faded metal door. Room 27. He stared at the black stick-on lettering until they shivered, until glowing dots danced in front of his eyes. He lifted his hand and before he could change his mind, hammered on the door.
It opened so fast, he nearly fell forward. Strong arms gripped him, wrapped him up and pulled him close. "Fucking finally. Sammy."
Dean—Dean—all he could do was cry and cry, and Dean held him and told him, "It's going to be okay now, don't worry, I'll fix it, I always fix it, right? I'll make it okay, promise—I'll help you."
Epilogue
He has this dream sometimes, that he's walking above a field with no end, on hills sky high that ring this field--a battle rages perpetually across it. Sometimes in the dream, he hears his name being screamed, over and over. Difficult to tell if the voices are cheering, cursing, or begging.
He's never alone in this dream. There's this…thing on a chain he holds. He can feel the links twist and burn in his palm as it tries to get out on the field….
The battlefield is burning, like images of hell he used to see in movies when he was a kid. Constantly burning, and flames sweep the low, dark sky, vomiting out black smoke and turning everything shades of black and gray. In all that darkness, only the flames have color, and he's kind of glad about that.
The thing on the chain is howling and whining and pawing at the muddy earth. The churned earth fills the air with the stink of copper, wet copper pennies. The chain rips through his palm again, and he hisses, warm wet fill the creases of his skin. Immediately the thing drops back, slack on the chain brings relief almost as sharp as pain. It snakes its neck around, rolls jade eyes in the bony shell of its face until it's looking into his. It licks Sam's palms clean, and makes a noise meant to be a whine.
"It's okay. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me." He looks up; a black wave fills the sky, rank after rank of wide black wings shedding feathers like rain. The sound…he closes his eyes. He'd never imagined the sound, oddly enough. The fire, the blood, corpses like bricks piled up in a wall…he'd seen all of that and nothing makes him falter, but…the sound makes his heart bleed. "I wish…."
The air shimmers and the battle falters and the thing on the chain turns and faces him, trots back to him and rears up on its hind legs, licks his face. He can't help but laugh, wrap his fist in its collar to hold it back. "Stop!"
The battle rages on. It leaves black paw prints from the thick mud under its feet, all over his white, white shirt. The chain chimes as it slithers to the ground.
Now? the long white thing asks.
Go he says, but come back soon. I miss you when you're not here.
It shivers and stretches. Stands and with a low laugh, unlocks its collar, lays it on his palm. Green eyes shine warm, and it gathers his face in its palms. Yours forever.
It turns and runs off to the field, so happy to be free again.
He sits on the hill and watches the battle rage and watches his Dean be free. He knows, without a doubt, he'll return.
There's a black sun flaring in the sky, on the other side of the field is a hill like this one, but he doesn't look there. He doesn't listen. His eyes pick out his Dean and watch him run, watches the legions of black shapes lunge up from the ground as he passes, and soar above him, shouting--
"Ah—" Sam wakes up on sweat dampened sheets in a hard narrow bed, panting like he's run a race. Fear and sorrow tumble through him until he's sure he's not--there, in that place. He squints through the darkness and recognizes where he is—Bobby's spare room. The one he and Dean spent time in, in summers long gone by. Even some of the old posters he'd let them tack up on the wall were still there, cars and girls—Dean's stuff.
He lies back down again. There's not much point in changing the sheets, and in a bit, he'll probably get up and make coffee, drink a cup with Bobby and watch the sun come up. It's warm enough now for it to be comfortable squatting out on the porch….
Dean's steadily snoring, sleeping peacefully in the bed nearest the door, of course. Even here.
Sam sits up, and watches Dean, filling himself up on it, staring all he wants because Dean's asleep, and won’t ask him what the hell is wrong, does he have a zit? Is Sam going blind? Does he realize how fucking creepy the staring is?
Sam always laughs, and Dean always laughs, and that's always the end of it, except sometimes when Dean looks at him, tight-faced and worried, when he thinks Sam doesn't see.
Dean turns on his bed and mutters in his sleep, and for a moment Sam feel like his chest is cracking open and everything is pouring out, blood and guts and his soul…and then life catches up with him and he lays back, and watches Dean breathe.
Tomorrow is Sam's birthday.
6-11-2009
fin
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
6/11/09 01:29 pm (UTC)well.... I suppose since it's finished, and it's nc-17, and it's written by you, I might put it in my bookmarks to read when I'm dispirit
*snickers*
(no subject)
6/11/09 03:39 pm (UTC)seriously! I can't believe you read this! *G*
(no subject)
6/11/09 03:42 pm (UTC)It's really quite good. oh and if you get any, "esu, who the frog is esu?" found this really kick ass link http://www.awostudycenter.com/Articles/art_what_is_esu.htm
(no subject)
6/11/09 04:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/11/09 04:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/11/09 03:54 pm (UTC)I just hurt for everyone here, and I can't help wondering how Sam's going to move on from this, wonder if he'll get closer to Dean or further apart, after all this.
Anyway, great story! Thoroughly enjoyed!
(no subject)
6/11/09 05:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/11/09 04:48 pm (UTC)Yes! I said it!
He fucked that poor creature up so hard, and then he's fucking himself up holding on to it so tight....
I know, i know, he really did *feel* everything he felt but - that wasn't *Dean*, it wasn't right, and....
Stop clinging, Sam. Let go. Live.
*flails*
This boy, i swear. And not!Dean. Remembering snow, and Sam, and taking control. Being the big brother.
*sniffles hard*
*pets him*
Damn you, Roxy, for making me cry *again*.
*clings to you*
(no subject)
6/11/09 05:35 pm (UTC)*hands you silky hankies and the fuzzy socks of love*
I've been sitting on this for a while. I made my own self feel bad.
Stop clinging, Sam. Let go. Live.
The Sam in my head makes bad choices and then refuses to see that they can't possibly work. He can't seem to hear good advice. The worst thing about Sam is that he's so convinced that what he does can't be wrong because he desires so much for it to be good. And now here's Dean, trying to deal with something he has no idea about.
No more sad fics! From now on, tiny ficlets full of cotton candy and shnuggles!
(no subject)
6/11/09 05:43 pm (UTC)*pets*
And wheeeeeeee! Yay! Happy happy joy joy!!
*yeah, right, like i believe that*
(no subject)
6/11/09 07:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/11/09 08:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/12/09 10:52 am (UTC)very very crackalicious "The incestuous courtship of the antichrist's bride"
haven't gotten all that far, you _might_ like it, I've only started it so i don't know if I'm even gonna like it, but it looks incredibly silly, so I'm giving it a try.
(no subject)
6/12/09 03:35 am (UTC)Oh, Sammy...you always make the stupid decisions. I love that bout him but it also makes me want to smack him. Though, honestly, what could he do? He loved his!Dean. Why wouldn't he want to keep him?
Poor boys...all of them.
I do kind of wonder what happens to Sam and post Hell!Dean afterward.
(no subject)
6/12/09 03:46 am (UTC)*nods* I'm right with you on this. He's a big ball of well-intention stupidity, with a loving heart he balances by being self-centered. He's not a magic, perfefct hero--even less than Dean is. But you can't help but love him!
I do kind of wonder what happens to Sam and post Hell!Dean afterward.
Don't tempt me, evol woman!
(no subject)
6/12/09 03:59 am (UTC)Sam's road to Hell is always going to be paved with good intentions, especially without Dean there to keep him from the epically stupid decisions.
I love Sam, but I'm kind of shocked sometimes by how many people hate him. Even early season Sammy. *pets my Sam!Muse*
Don't tempt me, evol woman!
Uh huh...you forget. Fangirls are evil. I'm honestly curious about what would happen. If I wasn't sure my Sam would have a hissy fit and leave for good, I'd take you up on the hint about writing what happened afterward. And I don't think I'd like Dean much after I got done with him.
(no subject)
6/12/09 05:40 am (UTC)I'm 100% behind Dean (the view is nice) but I don't get the Sam hate at all. He's a wobbie to me.
(no subject)
6/12/09 05:52 am (UTC)Sam is one of my favorite emo pups. I can't understand hating him. Hating the things he did and his epic screw up in s4, but to actually hate him? I don't get that at all. It makes me wonder if my version of him is OOC or something. *shrugs*
(no subject)
6/12/09 06:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/12/09 06:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/12/09 05:21 am (UTC)And at his end, he really was Dean, wasn't he? Doing that was the only way he saw to save his Sam. I wonder if *Dean*Dean ever thinks about what had to happen to bring Sam back to him, if he ever even gets past the fact (the hurt) that Sam fell for someone(thing) made to look like him. And Sammy really did fall for the guy, didn't he?
Well, I cried. But you left it open enough for me to give the boys a happy-ish ending in my head. :) Not too happy, though, or wouldn't be the Winchesters.
Here's to falseDean! *raises glass* And here's to you, dear, the prolific writer of all things pathos in nature! (And I mean that as a sincere compliment, luv. *squeeze*)
(no subject)
6/12/09 05:47 am (UTC)I liked the ending the way it is a lot more than the various versions I chewed through. Some were kind of interesting, but too harsh. This one fit better, I thought. I'm glad falseDean(g) seemed to make himself known as a different character than realDean. That really pleased me!
Thanks for being so good to me, beloved! Glad you took the ride with me!
(no subject)
6/12/09 05:30 am (UTC)The real Dean had one to Hell, but how did he get out (midstory?) and why was he at Bobby's?
(no subject)
6/12/09 05:38 am (UTC)I'm sorry it was confusing but I'm really glad you enjoyed it anyway, and thanks for hanging in there!
(no subject)
6/12/09 03:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/12/09 06:55 am (UTC)I foolishly forgot that I created this icon for a reason. Dammit, woman, did you have to completely rip out my heart and run it through a meat grinder? I mean, I got to this and I just started crying so hard I couldn't see the screen anymore: His eyes burned with the pain of wanting to cry, when no tears were possible. He lifted the gun and took a second. He had nothing to turn to, no soul to ask protection for. The best he could hope for was oblivion and he hoped for it with all his might—and then, he wished with everything he had, with every stolen moment of this life, that Sam be well, be safe. Be loved.
How in hell did you make me feel so bad for what was essentially a hellbeast/Dean clone? And yet, like Sam, I really really didn't want him to have to go (even if that meant totally cheating on real!Dean). I mean, the whole process of Sam having to heal him from his memories of hell and darkness was so damn powerful. Poor broken not!Dean.
As usual, you did an amazing job making me like your OCs--Raphael and Danny, especially. (Wow, that scene where Dean was menacing Danny gave me the shivers!) And the whole concept of Sam's business was so clever and appropriate. I also really loved how well you handled the balance between Sam's continual sense of loss over Dean and yet his commitment to living his life as Dean would have wanted, in the beginning of the story.
Finally, I love how you just populate the story with random gods, goddesses and tricksters popping out of the woodwork--that was fun, especially Esu. (I loved the hat story--I assume that is traditional? Though if you made it up you did a fantastic job of making it sound traditional.
(no subject)
6/13/09 10:10 pm (UTC)I love that you liked Sam's business! I happened to catch a bit about haz-mat cleaning on TV and thought, wow, if the boys get to retire, who better to deal with that job than a Winchester?
I love how you just populate the story with random gods, goddesses and tricksters popping out of the woodwork
I had a hell of a time throwing the gods in there--it was fun researching them! The story Esu told is a traditional story--and learning about the various incarnations of Trickster was fun too. I can see him popping up again. He's close to SpN's version, but...likable? *g*
How in hell did you make me feel so bad for what was essentially a hellbeast/Dean clone?
I'm *thrilled* that people took to fakeDean so well. I tried not to give it away too early, and tried hard to make him sympathetic, or the reveal wasn't going to work for the story. And then like an idiot I ended up falling for him, oy! Writing his end was hard. Why do I always do that to myself? *G*
I'm so glad you liked the characters in the fic, and really happy you stopped in to read it. I miss you here!
Thanks so much, my dear, for reading and for the amazing rec! *hugs* You made my day!
(no subject)
6/13/09 03:37 am (UTC)Beautiful, gorgeous, heartbreaking.....long story short, it was awesome. I never expected the Pseudo Dean to kill himself, nor Sam to find him. However, his role had to end, as even though he did not have a soul, he did love Sam. And, the ending was so bittersweet, as Sam grieved and returned to the real Dean, only to find that the grief remains with him.
(no subject)
6/13/09 10:15 pm (UTC)his role had to end, as even though he did not have a soul, he did love Sam.
Honestly, I didn't know that this was how the story ended when I started.
Thank you so much for your comment--it made me all watery-eyed, and sad for Sam all over again.
(no subject)
6/14/09 04:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/14/09 04:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/09 06:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/16/09 09:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/19/09 09:48 pm (UTC)Cat
(no subject)
6/20/09 05:42 pm (UTC)And yes, it would be interesting to see it from Real!Dean's perspective, before and after Sam comes back.
...
Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime stamp!
Thank you for writing this.
(no subject)
6/24/09 11:57 am (UTC)This is definitely the best thing for Sammy, although I'm pretty sure that he doesn't feel it.
Great fic, honey.
(no subject)
10/23/10 12:02 am (UTC)So, well done for completely destroying my will to live. Again.
Oh, and one last thing: as you can probably tell, I'm making my way through your work, and your writing just gets better and better. This is truly stunning. Yay you :)
(no subject)
10/23/10 04:29 am (UTC)*HUGS* You say the loveliest things!
(no subject)
6/19/11 02:30 am (UTC)Wow wow wow. First of all, you are just really a fantastic writer. All of your stories I've read so far have such a strong voice, and a really vivid, evocative world. You convey mood really strongly though your setting and environment, and it's just beautifully done. Sam and Dean are always a little different, but I never have any sense of them being anyone but Sam and Dean. Finally, you have really unique and imaginative settings and plots!! Makes for a very absorbing story!
FINALLY finally, you are a master of emotions. The longings, the love, the (sometimes) hate, hope and despair - omg they are so rich! Half the time I am either so happy or else I am ready to cry (or DO cry) for the loss and the denial and the angst. Like this story!!! SO SAD for changing!Dean, so sad for Sammy going though all that, and then desperately clinging to changeling!Dean, since he won't have that relationship with real!Dean, and changeling!Dean doing what has to be done. Sammy knows he was right, and he loves real!Dean, but he's still now alone. Augh! talk about tangled webs!!!
I think I still have a couple of stories to go - sorry but Smallville is not one of my fandoms so I'm skipping those. And now I shall move on and stop burbling :-)
(no subject)
6/20/11 12:03 am (UTC)This is the best, most wonderful thing to be told, ever! I love changinging a character's background, or twisting events around them and then seeing how much it changes them and how much it doesn't.
I'm so glad you navigated the tangles web of this story--what a great description of what the fic went through. I started out with the basic idea of "what if Sam did go to hell to save Dean but what he brought back wasn't Dean anymore--or at all?" The story took off on its own, and there were some twists I hadn't expected myself. :)
Thanks so much for reading the stories, your comments are a real pleasure and you really seem to get what I'm trying to convey in this and other fics.
PS: if you ever decide to take a chance with Smallville, let me know! ;)