SpN Fic: Come The Night, 2/?
8/10/11 08:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) 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.
Notes/Warnings: torture, rape, dubious consent, allegations of sexual abuse of a minor, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
This story I've been working on since last year. Writing, rewriting, and mostly wringing my hands. I've decided to post it and hope desperately to hammer the ending I have planned into something readable. But just so you know, unfinished, this bitch is 48000 words….
part 1
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
00noctum00
Dean blinks--or tries to, his eye lashes are stuck together with blood and sweat and brick dust; they ping and pull loose as he finally gets them open, and groans. "Fuck, that was a waste of eyelashes."
There's a ton of dust in the air and way fewer buildings then there were before. Sirens are dead, it's all silent now. Concrete's cracked and powdered all around him, feels like he's cradled in it. Feels like he's got the mother of all sunburns. Like he's been sanded and dipped in bleach.
He's alone. Cas healed him, held him, but he's gone now and it's just him and Sam. Sam's coming towards him, the sun behind his shoulder, his hair a halo of chestnut and gold. He's smooth and clean and bare, like he's walked through purifying flame and all that's left is this being , this other worldly being that looks like his brother but has deep, glowing eyes.
"Sam?"
Sam stops, towering over him. Assessing.
Dean takes inventory himself. There's a block of concrete holding him down. He feels sore all over but whole inside, thanks to Castiel. Whatever mojo Cas used on him must still be blocking pain, because he's just now noticing a piece of rebar's pinning his hand to the ground and that's why he can't move. The concrete is resting on him, but he's in a shallow gulley, covered but not crushed. He could get up if—
Sam reaches down, wraps his huge hand around Dean's wrist like he'd done the night before and pulls him straight up out of the trough he's lying in, right through the sharp edged crushed concrete and broken panes of glass and shards of metal and—
Feels like he's being peeled and he's fucking certain most of his hand's been left behind, still impaled on the rebar Sam hadn't removed before yanking him out of the ground. Sam's unbelievably strong now, more than he seems to know because the grip Sam's got on his arm is turning the bones to powder.
And then, Sam drops Dean on an unbroken piece of concrete. Dean passes out but not long enough. His eyes flutter open, he feels slightly warm, mostly numb. He can feel his heartbeat, feel his lungs expand. He's so conscious of them he feels if he's distracted everything will stop and he'll die. He blinks at a cool breeze on his cheek. Surprised to be feeling it…
It's bright still, so not much time has passed, still early afternoon. The sun shines down, butter yellow and warm. Dean can smell gasoline, hear it pitter patter onto the ground like rain. Sam's still standing quietly over him and it makes his heart beat faster. He's grateful because at least, here at the end, he's not alone. Sam shifts, his eyes flick over Dean and past, mild curiosity turning to disinterest. He turns away, ignorant of Dean's pleas, his screams as the pain comes rushing up out of nowhere. Sam mutters a vague "Shhh," before wandering away.
Dean barely has a moment to feel glad for the black wave of oblivion rushing over him before he passes out.
Wake Up In Hell
"Cities to burn, people to turn into bloody slush…"
Dean wakes up all at once and it sucks. He hurts like a motherfucker, like a full body ass kicking took place while he was out. A few more minutes pass before he realizes he's moving—he's on his feet, walking and carrying an armful of--rocks. It's not long after that, that the truth of it hits him like a sledgehammer to the heart—he's in hell again. Stinks like hell, sounds like hell—he refuses to lift his head and look around. The longer he can avoid looking, the longer he can pretend it's just another nightmare. He ignores that he's crying.
He's one of a line of people, hunched over their own burden of rock and chained neck to neck. Dean feels the chain tap his chest with each lurching step. Not cold, not as heavy as he'd expect…the chains are dull pale gray. Bone, not iron. A thing comes out of the foggy crimson dark, armed with a whip. Roars something, and brings the whip down on Dean's arm. The skin splits and he screams.
"More rock." It points, and Dean looks down at the rock held in his arms—one arm, the other is a mutilated stump, balancing the rock against his chest. Dean grunts as he's jerked almost off his feet when the line pulls away. They drop their rocks on a pile off to the side of the track they're on. He does the same, the rock tumbling awkwardly out of his arms, taking skin on the way.
Walk some more, get more rocks, walk some more…they shuffle along and one by one, a wave of heads bob and bend to get more rock and shuffle limp hobble scuttle to the pile and dump it. Move off a few feet and repeat, move and repeat, repeat, repeat.
Dean's been doing this long enough that in places, the flesh has been worn to the bone on his useless arm. He's been doing this for a long, long time without being at home, lights off and no one in the driver's seat. He hopes some miracle occurs and he leaves his body again.
The landscape of hell hasn't changed in the hundreds of years he's been gone. Flat red plains broken by fire falls and bone studded cliff face, streams of lava roll and play over bodies waist deep in them, and screaming. There's always screaming.
The chain weaves through jets of fire and superheated steam, like an uncoordinated and ugly dance. Fire licks at them, bubbles their skin. Rocks tear at their feet, leaving bloody prints in the dust. The whip slices them, acid rain makes their skin burn, their throats cry out for water, their bodies cry out for rest, but they move and move and move....
Dean knows that none of this is real, or rather, none of this is permanent. He can forever thirst, forever hunger, he can wear his feet to the bone, and never die. Can't die. That's what hell's all about.
Sometime later, one hundred years later, or a hundred hours or maybe minutes, half an eternity, the air quivers with a noise other than weeping or the crackle of fire or the overseer's demands. It's odd; the sound's so weirdly out of context that Dean has no idea what it is at first. For the first time in forever, there's a reason to lift his head. His eyes sweep the plain that the 'road' cuts through. Nothing. The red and black hills roll away the river bubbles and steams, the firefalls sheet flame same as usual. Black bones poke out of the red soil here and there; black crows drop down on them, sharpening their beaks same as usual, and they eye Dean hungrily. Business as usual. He knows those eyes; he's felt those beaks, hungry, hungry beaks. He'd rather be endlessly trudging rocks on a barely formed road than to be game for the crows again.
Another look yields him black, twisted trees scratching at the yellow and red sky. He blinks when the limbs shiver, move in the windless air. Far away stands a single tree, taller than any tree could possibly be, it's clawed branches reach up into the yellow clouds and disappear. Nothing, and then, in the distance, a thin stream of red dust billows skyward, drifts closer. The odd noise grows louder and clearer.
Metal, that's what it is. Creaking, clanking metal and the sound of men in pain. Louder and louder and then, a car horn, cheerfully blatting what sounds like "La Cucaracha" over the creak and screech and jingle of metal…
A line of men yoked together like oxen appears on the horizon, longer and longer, dozens of them, dozens pulling something. And the something comes near enough for him to see. He snorts. It was…nuts. Purely crazy, designed by a crazy person with a twisted, crazy, belief that they had a sense of humor.
So, everyday there was fire and brimstone and sadistic freaks with leather wings wide enough to block out what passed for the sun. Every day, they shuffled past pyramids of skulls and fences made of legs bones and every day, blood rained out of the sky. Ash dropped liked snow constantly, acid pooled up like rain puddles under their feet and they kept on moving, feet churning up the burning dust, lungs processing what felt like mustard gas and then suddenly out of the night, there's something like this…Dean shakes his head, marveling at the absurdity.
On a road in hell, pulled by living, suffering corpses, comes rolling up a Lincoln Continental, circa 1980, with half the top peeled off and cast-off Hollywood starlets grinding big wigs in the backseat…Dean stumbles into the body next to him. Looks at that shit and thinks, Now there's something you don't see every day….
One of the demons in the front seat stands up. He's a tall fucker, built like a monster. He sniffs the air and Dean…Dean's frozen. The pain he constantly feels disappears, he shivers despite the heat. Shock he thinks. The big thing towering over the chain…it's him. His brother, alive, breathing. And he's…terrifying. Wrong. There's something terribly wrong with him. Dean feels it. And the moment he feels it, Sam sees him.
Dean's heart rips in two, joy at the sight of his brother, fear of what he might be…..
"Oh. So that's what happened to it."
The ground dips sideways suddenly; he's staggering…lights flash in front of his eyes. "The fuck? That's all you—" Dean starts, and slams his mouth shut. His first tour in hell taught him—never trust anything you see, hear, smell, or taste. Never trust anything at all. Silence was the best way that he'd had to protect himself, seems like the smart thing to fall back on now. Sam leaps out of the Lincoln; it sets the electric chandeliers wired into the car's hood to shaking. Shouldn't have let Sammy watch Escape From New York…he was no way as cool as Isaac Hayes. No way he could pull off that car….
"Face down, maggots. No one looks at the King!" The gravelly voice of the overseers splits the relative silence and Dean flinches as the whole chain hits the ground and grind their foreheads into the dirt, Dean right along with them—he learned early on that it's okay to cry and scream like a baby because no one gets a medal for being John McClaine in hell. Besides even big John would have peed himself here, Dean figures. Turns out it doesn't matter that they're all as obedient as puppies, that fucker lays the whip on anyway. Searing fire stripes his back and legs. All up and down the line the bone chain clacks and chatters and miserable bastards scream and cry.
"Wrap that one up and put it in the car." Sam sounds like he's purring. Dean remembers that self-satisfied voice…in a more pleasant situation. Like after Sam's made him come so hard his toes ache. The thought makes Dean kind of sad that there's not even an echo of arousal at the memory. "Hurry up," he hears and now there's the edge of impatience Dean also remembers, it almost makes him smile. He waits for the overseer to unlock him from the chain when suddenly he's yanked and jerked around until he feels like a ping-pong ball in a dryer. Soft popping noises and the whoosh of displaced air force him out of the place in his mind he dives into when shit gets to be too much. He's blinking, gagging, his face pressed into ash-coated mud. They sam didn't take him off the chain, they sam just cremated everyone chained on either side of him. They sam just—burnt them into ash. Disappeared them.
Dean lifts his head from the mud, barely, tries to see through his lashes. He sees Sam, and an unsuited demon kneeling in front of him, all barbs and tentacles and horns. "Um…what, do you want him, I mean, it, in tha car, your majesty, sir, like, in the front seat or, or…"
There was a brief shower of demon blood and guts and small sharp bits that prick Dean's skin. Dean screws his eyes shut, tight as he can and prays, hard as he can.
"Idiot. Now. You. Where are we putting it?" Sam's definitely not happy.
A different and very tentative voice says, "In…in the trunk?"
"And hurry up. Cities to burn, people to turn into bloody slush…"
Dean kicks hard. He screams, hands over his face, too fucking aware he's inhaling what's left of his fellow slaves. He's screaming, loud as he can and trying to scrabble away from Sam's demon playmates. He's not wasting time wondering if Sam's going to hurt him—it's hell. That's the game plan every day; it's not changing just because he wants it to. He's kicked and rolled into something dank and scratchy like a horse blanket, then lifted and crammed into a space that sadly, he recognizes as a trunk. Normal people wouldn't know just from the feel what the tiny enclosed space that they've been crammed into was, he thinks hysterically. He wishes he could brace himself. Riding in a trunk on an ordinary roadway was like being tossed in a martini shaker—he figured this was going to be a ride in…hell. He's torn between crying and laughing, he wishes he could breathe—he wishes he were the kind of dead that brought oblivion.
three
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) 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.
Notes/Warnings: torture, rape, dubious consent, allegations of sexual abuse of a minor, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
This story I've been working on since last year. Writing, rewriting, and mostly wringing my hands. I've decided to post it and hope desperately to hammer the ending I have planned into something readable. But just so you know, unfinished, this bitch is 48000 words….
part 1
icon by
00noctum00Dean blinks--or tries to, his eye lashes are stuck together with blood and sweat and brick dust; they ping and pull loose as he finally gets them open, and groans. "Fuck, that was a waste of eyelashes."
There's a ton of dust in the air and way fewer buildings then there were before. Sirens are dead, it's all silent now. Concrete's cracked and powdered all around him, feels like he's cradled in it. Feels like he's got the mother of all sunburns. Like he's been sanded and dipped in bleach.
He's alone. Cas healed him, held him, but he's gone now and it's just him and Sam. Sam's coming towards him, the sun behind his shoulder, his hair a halo of chestnut and gold. He's smooth and clean and bare, like he's walked through purifying flame and all that's left is this being , this other worldly being that looks like his brother but has deep, glowing eyes.
"Sam?"
Sam stops, towering over him. Assessing.
Dean takes inventory himself. There's a block of concrete holding him down. He feels sore all over but whole inside, thanks to Castiel. Whatever mojo Cas used on him must still be blocking pain, because he's just now noticing a piece of rebar's pinning his hand to the ground and that's why he can't move. The concrete is resting on him, but he's in a shallow gulley, covered but not crushed. He could get up if—
Sam reaches down, wraps his huge hand around Dean's wrist like he'd done the night before and pulls him straight up out of the trough he's lying in, right through the sharp edged crushed concrete and broken panes of glass and shards of metal and—
Feels like he's being peeled and he's fucking certain most of his hand's been left behind, still impaled on the rebar Sam hadn't removed before yanking him out of the ground. Sam's unbelievably strong now, more than he seems to know because the grip Sam's got on his arm is turning the bones to powder.
And then, Sam drops Dean on an unbroken piece of concrete. Dean passes out but not long enough. His eyes flutter open, he feels slightly warm, mostly numb. He can feel his heartbeat, feel his lungs expand. He's so conscious of them he feels if he's distracted everything will stop and he'll die. He blinks at a cool breeze on his cheek. Surprised to be feeling it…
It's bright still, so not much time has passed, still early afternoon. The sun shines down, butter yellow and warm. Dean can smell gasoline, hear it pitter patter onto the ground like rain. Sam's still standing quietly over him and it makes his heart beat faster. He's grateful because at least, here at the end, he's not alone. Sam shifts, his eyes flick over Dean and past, mild curiosity turning to disinterest. He turns away, ignorant of Dean's pleas, his screams as the pain comes rushing up out of nowhere. Sam mutters a vague "Shhh," before wandering away.
Dean barely has a moment to feel glad for the black wave of oblivion rushing over him before he passes out.
Wake Up In Hell
Dean wakes up all at once and it sucks. He hurts like a motherfucker, like a full body ass kicking took place while he was out. A few more minutes pass before he realizes he's moving—he's on his feet, walking and carrying an armful of--rocks. It's not long after that, that the truth of it hits him like a sledgehammer to the heart—he's in hell again. Stinks like hell, sounds like hell—he refuses to lift his head and look around. The longer he can avoid looking, the longer he can pretend it's just another nightmare. He ignores that he's crying.
He's one of a line of people, hunched over their own burden of rock and chained neck to neck. Dean feels the chain tap his chest with each lurching step. Not cold, not as heavy as he'd expect…the chains are dull pale gray. Bone, not iron. A thing comes out of the foggy crimson dark, armed with a whip. Roars something, and brings the whip down on Dean's arm. The skin splits and he screams.
"More rock." It points, and Dean looks down at the rock held in his arms—one arm, the other is a mutilated stump, balancing the rock against his chest. Dean grunts as he's jerked almost off his feet when the line pulls away. They drop their rocks on a pile off to the side of the track they're on. He does the same, the rock tumbling awkwardly out of his arms, taking skin on the way.
Walk some more, get more rocks, walk some more…they shuffle along and one by one, a wave of heads bob and bend to get more rock and shuffle limp hobble scuttle to the pile and dump it. Move off a few feet and repeat, move and repeat, repeat, repeat.
Dean's been doing this long enough that in places, the flesh has been worn to the bone on his useless arm. He's been doing this for a long, long time without being at home, lights off and no one in the driver's seat. He hopes some miracle occurs and he leaves his body again.
The landscape of hell hasn't changed in the hundreds of years he's been gone. Flat red plains broken by fire falls and bone studded cliff face, streams of lava roll and play over bodies waist deep in them, and screaming. There's always screaming.
The chain weaves through jets of fire and superheated steam, like an uncoordinated and ugly dance. Fire licks at them, bubbles their skin. Rocks tear at their feet, leaving bloody prints in the dust. The whip slices them, acid rain makes their skin burn, their throats cry out for water, their bodies cry out for rest, but they move and move and move....
Dean knows that none of this is real, or rather, none of this is permanent. He can forever thirst, forever hunger, he can wear his feet to the bone, and never die. Can't die. That's what hell's all about.
Sometime later, one hundred years later, or a hundred hours or maybe minutes, half an eternity, the air quivers with a noise other than weeping or the crackle of fire or the overseer's demands. It's odd; the sound's so weirdly out of context that Dean has no idea what it is at first. For the first time in forever, there's a reason to lift his head. His eyes sweep the plain that the 'road' cuts through. Nothing. The red and black hills roll away the river bubbles and steams, the firefalls sheet flame same as usual. Black bones poke out of the red soil here and there; black crows drop down on them, sharpening their beaks same as usual, and they eye Dean hungrily. Business as usual. He knows those eyes; he's felt those beaks, hungry, hungry beaks. He'd rather be endlessly trudging rocks on a barely formed road than to be game for the crows again.
Another look yields him black, twisted trees scratching at the yellow and red sky. He blinks when the limbs shiver, move in the windless air. Far away stands a single tree, taller than any tree could possibly be, it's clawed branches reach up into the yellow clouds and disappear. Nothing, and then, in the distance, a thin stream of red dust billows skyward, drifts closer. The odd noise grows louder and clearer.
Metal, that's what it is. Creaking, clanking metal and the sound of men in pain. Louder and louder and then, a car horn, cheerfully blatting what sounds like "La Cucaracha" over the creak and screech and jingle of metal…
A line of men yoked together like oxen appears on the horizon, longer and longer, dozens of them, dozens pulling something. And the something comes near enough for him to see. He snorts. It was…nuts. Purely crazy, designed by a crazy person with a twisted, crazy, belief that they had a sense of humor.
So, everyday there was fire and brimstone and sadistic freaks with leather wings wide enough to block out what passed for the sun. Every day, they shuffled past pyramids of skulls and fences made of legs bones and every day, blood rained out of the sky. Ash dropped liked snow constantly, acid pooled up like rain puddles under their feet and they kept on moving, feet churning up the burning dust, lungs processing what felt like mustard gas and then suddenly out of the night, there's something like this…Dean shakes his head, marveling at the absurdity.
On a road in hell, pulled by living, suffering corpses, comes rolling up a Lincoln Continental, circa 1980, with half the top peeled off and cast-off Hollywood starlets grinding big wigs in the backseat…Dean stumbles into the body next to him. Looks at that shit and thinks, Now there's something you don't see every day….
One of the demons in the front seat stands up. He's a tall fucker, built like a monster. He sniffs the air and Dean…Dean's frozen. The pain he constantly feels disappears, he shivers despite the heat. Shock he thinks. The big thing towering over the chain…it's him. His brother, alive, breathing. And he's…terrifying. Wrong. There's something terribly wrong with him. Dean feels it. And the moment he feels it, Sam sees him.
Dean's heart rips in two, joy at the sight of his brother, fear of what he might be…..
"Oh. So that's what happened to it."
The ground dips sideways suddenly; he's staggering…lights flash in front of his eyes. "The fuck? That's all you—" Dean starts, and slams his mouth shut. His first tour in hell taught him—never trust anything you see, hear, smell, or taste. Never trust anything at all. Silence was the best way that he'd had to protect himself, seems like the smart thing to fall back on now. Sam leaps out of the Lincoln; it sets the electric chandeliers wired into the car's hood to shaking. Shouldn't have let Sammy watch Escape From New York…he was no way as cool as Isaac Hayes. No way he could pull off that car….
"Face down, maggots. No one looks at the King!" The gravelly voice of the overseers splits the relative silence and Dean flinches as the whole chain hits the ground and grind their foreheads into the dirt, Dean right along with them—he learned early on that it's okay to cry and scream like a baby because no one gets a medal for being John McClaine in hell. Besides even big John would have peed himself here, Dean figures. Turns out it doesn't matter that they're all as obedient as puppies, that fucker lays the whip on anyway. Searing fire stripes his back and legs. All up and down the line the bone chain clacks and chatters and miserable bastards scream and cry.
"Wrap that one up and put it in the car." Sam sounds like he's purring. Dean remembers that self-satisfied voice…in a more pleasant situation. Like after Sam's made him come so hard his toes ache. The thought makes Dean kind of sad that there's not even an echo of arousal at the memory. "Hurry up," he hears and now there's the edge of impatience Dean also remembers, it almost makes him smile. He waits for the overseer to unlock him from the chain when suddenly he's yanked and jerked around until he feels like a ping-pong ball in a dryer. Soft popping noises and the whoosh of displaced air force him out of the place in his mind he dives into when shit gets to be too much. He's blinking, gagging, his face pressed into ash-coated mud. They sam didn't take him off the chain, they sam just cremated everyone chained on either side of him. They sam just—burnt them into ash. Disappeared them.
Dean lifts his head from the mud, barely, tries to see through his lashes. He sees Sam, and an unsuited demon kneeling in front of him, all barbs and tentacles and horns. "Um…what, do you want him, I mean, it, in tha car, your majesty, sir, like, in the front seat or, or…"
There was a brief shower of demon blood and guts and small sharp bits that prick Dean's skin. Dean screws his eyes shut, tight as he can and prays, hard as he can.
"Idiot. Now. You. Where are we putting it?" Sam's definitely not happy.
A different and very tentative voice says, "In…in the trunk?"
"And hurry up. Cities to burn, people to turn into bloody slush…"
Dean kicks hard. He screams, hands over his face, too fucking aware he's inhaling what's left of his fellow slaves. He's screaming, loud as he can and trying to scrabble away from Sam's demon playmates. He's not wasting time wondering if Sam's going to hurt him—it's hell. That's the game plan every day; it's not changing just because he wants it to. He's kicked and rolled into something dank and scratchy like a horse blanket, then lifted and crammed into a space that sadly, he recognizes as a trunk. Normal people wouldn't know just from the feel what the tiny enclosed space that they've been crammed into was, he thinks hysterically. He wishes he could brace himself. Riding in a trunk on an ordinary roadway was like being tossed in a martini shaker—he figured this was going to be a ride in…hell. He's torn between crying and laughing, he wishes he could breathe—he wishes he were the kind of dead that brought oblivion.
three
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
8/11/11 12:53 am (UTC)*pets your severely warped head*
If you weren't already taken, hon, I would totally be proposing right now. Jesus fucking Christ, woman, this is awesome!!! I don't want to live in this place you've created, but I have no choice. I'm in it now; there's no turning back. You've sucked me in, and there's no escape. Poor Dean. Terrible, beautiful imagery here, and your trademark nailed-it-with-one-line characterization.
Can't believe I put off reading this one. MOAR?!
Oh, who am I kidding? MARRY ME!!!
Ahem.
(no subject)
8/11/11 01:19 am (UTC)As long as I can wear a tux...oh, and keep Mr. R. *BEAMS*
Thank you a million times, beloved--you make my heart sing, you, you!♥
(no subject)
8/11/11 05:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
8/11/11 05:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
8/12/11 01:46 pm (UTC)It's been difficult to get into fandom lately. I've been on a personal rant lately. LOL
(no subject)
8/11/11 09:50 am (UTC)*hugs and cookies*
(no subject)
8/11/11 01:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
8/11/11 11:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
8/12/11 02:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
8/20/11 08:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
8/20/11 09:03 pm (UTC)