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Entry tags:
SpN: Come The Night part 3/?
Title: Come The Night
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2532
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. 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: 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….
one
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icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deny1984
Live In Hell
"And that's just the beginning."
1
When Dean wakes up again, he's lying on his back in a bare small room. The light seems to come from everywhere, though he can't find a light fixture, and there aren't any windows or doors and the walls and floors are the same colorless, featureless, solid panels of nothing. He rolls to his feet, noting that the floor is warm, and though it looks like metal or concrete, it's almost got a give to it…he inches his way along one wall, arms spread and dragging his fingertips lightly over the surface, searching. He gets nothing—there's not the slightest bump or pimple. Can't feel a tool mark of any kind, the fucking walls are smoother than his skin…great. Just great.
"Shit." He drops back to the floor, cross-legged, his chin heavy in his hands. So. He's locked up in a damn cage, with no brick to chip, no paint to scrape… no way to mark the passage of time. If he's gonna be in this cell a while, it's gonna suck fierce, like being stuck in a dry sensory deprivation tank. There's no sound, even his own voice is muffled. He finds that out screaming for Sam to fucking show himself, stop trying to fuck with his head. No one comes.
Or maybe they hear him and don't care. They don't come, not to find out what's up with the noise, and they don't come to feed him either, or give him water…no one ever comes. No matter what he does--shit, piss in the corner, bleed like a stuck pig that time he bit through his wrist and that was…if he hadn't done a tour in hell already, he doubts he would have been able to do that…still the same thing happened then that happens all the time—he passes out and when he comes to, the room is a spotless, beige box again, his skin is perfect, and he's fine…just fine. Forever the same--oblivion and then, reset. His brother…Dean was afraid to think his name. Afraid he wouldn't come. Afraid he would come.
No one ever comes.
2
Dean thinks he's curled on his side. He thinks his eyes are open, but they could be closed for all he knows. He'd thought once, before thoughts became wordless showers of stars, of a fable he read a million years ago, a story about a man who lived too long. So long he turned into a grasshopper…Dean had wondered if it was possible.
What he knows now is this: his legs twitch occasionally; his good hand is tightened and curled in to his chest, clutched in a fist he can't open. His ruined arm is tightly drawn up as well. Time passes, and he curls in tighter and tighter in tiny increments. He's aware of this on some level, his body feels it faintly. There's no pain, pain faded long ago, or maybe he's lost the concept of it. It's all very simple now: he just is. It's not painful, it's not sad, it's not anything. He is, and is, and is. He curls up in the dark and breathes, in and out, slow and steady. Quietly, so quietly it's like he's not living at all.
Until there is light. Light everywhere, reaching down inside him and forcing him back to the surface. He's awake again and alive in his body, and it's like being flayed and dipped in acid and then sandblasted and then wrapped in barbed wire.
"Ah, there you are." The Voice calls awake an instinct to hide from It, but something deeper in him makes him want to move towards It, too. It makes his bones splinter and his skin crack. "I keep forgetting you're here."
He moves differently, and smells differently, His voice is different and so's His smile but he knows it's his Brother, blood calls to blood.
There's shadow in the light, a soft touch on the gnarled twist of his arm. The touch changes his world, turns it upside down…it's intense…not bad, but not good. He wants. More. But he wants it to stop, too…The Voice breaks in again. "What's wrong with your arm?"
Dean works his mouth, the skin flakes off in dry strips; his voice is a puff of mummy dust... words come and he speaks them. "Y'did it."
"Oh." He looks thoughtful, and then says, "I can fix that." He reaches out with a little smile and Dean has about half a second to panic before everything goes Very Bad. His bones splinter like glass and fight to rearrange themselves into proper order. Muscle shred as splinters move, reform, become whole bone, and blood burns as infection boils out and for the first time he can remember, he can move. Though that fact seems kind of insignificant, compared to the refreshed hell he's living. His Brother makes a dissatisfied sound, reaches down to grab his ruined arm. Squeezes, and it feels like liquid fire's being poured into him. Dean opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes.
"There. Fixed this too," He says and when He opens His hand, Dean's body is whole.
Sam smiles at him. Dean feels his whole self wake and his stomach scream, screams for food and his dry throat aches for water. He wants so much, needs so much….
Sam pats his arm. "And that's just the beginning."
3
When he opens up his eyes again he feels normal…like the last thousand years never were. He's in a bed, big as a football field--feels like a football field filled with clouds. He's tumbled into a pile of pillows. They're soft, and smell good, and what's he's feeling is kind of like a full body orgasm. All he wants—just for a minute or two—is to lie back in pillows and wallow in the feeling and move his fucking arm, open and close his perfect fucking unmarked hand, and seriously enjoy the lack of pain. Store the feeling, bank it up, because it's still hell, no matter what it looks like at the moment and hell's all about the surprise dry ass fucking….
It's a damn impressive room. High ceilings, curtains line one wall, and light breezes sweep the hems gently on the floor with a whispering sound. The walls are a pale, pale green. Very restful, Dean thinks. Vases of real flowers sit here and there on furniture he's only seen in magazines in hospital waiting rooms…the flowers make his eyes burn and water. Color: bright orange, magenta, vibrant green leaves--even their smell makes tears leak from his eyes. The little bit of proof that there's real life outside of his head makes him sob and he feels weak and pathetic with it. Dean struggles to control this galloping loss of emotional control. Something tells him that it might not be just pathetic to let Sam catch him crying over a couple of vases of mutant daises, it might be downright dangerous... Castiel had done something to Sam that day, for sure…what it was, Dean didn't know. He wasn't sure who Sam was now…or if it was Sam at all.
Time's working again because he can track the progression of shadows across the walls, and tracking the movement draws Dean's eyes to the artwork hung here and there. Paintings, prints, Dean can't tell. It's the same gray skies over and over, some prints feature mountains, some deserts, in almost all of them there is a huge black tree, so tall it's unnatural. Its branches look like twisted arm bones, clawing fingers reach for the wide gray sky and puncture lead tinted clouds. The tree…he thinks he's seen it before.….
A door clicks open, the breeze kicks up and the gauze curtains billow. There's the click of heels against the marble tiles. He looks to the door, expecting dreading Sam but it’s a big, well dressed guy, followed by a couple of guys that Dean would recognize anywhere as thumb breakers.
Dean blinks. When Sam had rescued him from the chain gang shoved him in the trunk of a car it'd been all Road Warriors in Hell, now everyone's playing The Godfather. The big guy sneering at him was pimped out in pinstripes and pinky rings. "Boss says you got an appointment. We're here to take you there."
Dean shoves back against the massive black headboard of the bed, flinging a corner of the bed sheet tighter around himself as he scuttles backwards. He's naked, naked as he'd been on the chain, and in the room…he gnaws at his lip, nervous, edging into desperate because he knows. They're going to parade him through where ever he was going bare-ass naked and that means--always means--something Very Bad. He blinks, and swallows bile…"I—I'll let Sam get me. He can take me." Dean tries to look defiant but he remembers all too well how things work here.
~o0o~
In the end protesting hadn't done much for him. He ends up hanging in chains again.
Once when he was a kid, home sick from school, he'd seen a black and white movie, something about a mad doctor who'd worn round thick glasses and a long white coat with a high, stiff, strip of collar around his neck. The arms of his white coat had been long and tight and almost covered his hands and Dean remembers this because that man was here, in that same coat, and his cuffs were edged in blood. The man smiles and smiles.
"Beautiful, beautiful. The old ways, the best, yes?"
Where Dean hangs suspended from chains, there are two tall metal tables. On one table, there's a tray, and on the tray, tools of various types. On the other table is another tray, but this tray is splashed with blood, and the tools are covered with blood and gobbets of meat. A lamp on the end of a thin segmented pole casts bright blue-white light over everything.
The room is long, and narrow, cold. There's a hint of damp brick walls and arching metal struts and light through a single, huge window casts the shadows of bars on the floor, climbing up the far wall….Dean thinks he hears things shuffling and scratching in the far corners, faint sniffling and moaning, but he's not sure if it's real. Not really sure what's real at this point. The room might just be an echo of memory…Sam's in one of the corners, smiling and winking at him. That can't be real.
The doctor hums quietly as he selects a tool, black rubber coated fingers poking delicately at the assortment, before selecting what looks like a long, thin saw. Dean screams, and tries to jerk away. The chains rattle frantically and the doctor looks disappointed.
"Please. It's better if you don't move," the doctor says in a mildly scolding tone, and begins to cut a series of loops and swirls and angles into his shoulders, around his neck--careful little cuts, painstakingly applied as Dean's caught, immobile, like a fly in amber. There's nothing he can move, nothing, and all he can do is take it. It's not the worst thing that's happened to him this day. The doctor stops. "There, I think you'll find your…subject, sufficiently protected now."
Dean moans low and long and hopeless, the sound mushy and caught in the bloody mess of his face. The black coated fingers splay over his stomach, rub gentle circles. "I can cut here, if you like. Or, take a limb. We've taken his tongue, an eye, his ears...."
Sam moves from the corner he's been sitting in, watching. He circles Dean and Dean jerks and trembles, trying to keep his eye on Sam. Real live Sam, really watching him get cut to bloody ribbons with a real expression…research expression, Dean thinks and would gag if he could.
Dean had stopped asking "why, Sam" after the doctor took his tongue, and then his jaw. Sam cradles the bloody shreds of his face. Stares into Dean's remaining eye. He whispers, so low that Dean thinks maybe it's not meant for him to hear, "It's odd, I'm still drawn, still want something--even ugly, I want—" Sam dropped his hand and flicked blood away. "Take his skin off."
"Oh my." The doctor looks pleased and picks up a sharp instrument. He shows it to Dean, and his one eye picks up the bright glint of light the thing throws off. "I'm so excited. These are brand new, a gift…a lovely selection of skinning knives. Have you ever used one? Well, of course you have." He smiles softly. "I imagine there's nothing new here, not for you. I'm just a dabbler, compared to you," he murmurs shyly as he draws the tip of a broad-bladed knife in tiny circles around Dean's navel.
"Get to it, I've got things to do," Sam snaps.
Dean lets the pain out, no point in pretending to be brave. The monster pretending to be Sam tilts his head at the sound. His eyes narrow, he nods slightly. Dean makes noise, he keeps nothing in, twisting and fighting in the chains, and Dean swears inside he'll never break. Not where it's important. He was going to give that thing whatever he wanted, all the pain, all the humiliation and eventually it would either get bored and erase him or maybe…maybe Cas will…
Dean feels the instant his mouth's whole again, and he's screaming, shouting for it to stop, for Sam to save him, for Castiel.
Sam's laughing. "Really, you think Castiel will save you?"
~o0o~
The doctor slices a long careful cut in the skinned muscle of his stomach and stands aside. The pink-grey glimmer of Dean's gut peeks out of the slice, each movement exposing a bit more and a bit more. Sam approaches, barefoot but his step sounds like bone against stone, like a hoof striking concrete. He slides his hot hand over Dean's bloody but perfect face, traces the thunder of his pulse down his neck, past chest, his sharp nail ripping a bloody piece out of Dean's nipple but he has no eyes for that and Dean's startled yell of pain doesn't yield more than a quick grin from him. He moves his hand lower and lower until his fingertips are tickling the edge of the cut, and then worming into it, opening it and Dean's shrieking—
He's elsewhere. Falling deeper, into a place where Alistair wore Sam's face to do terrible things to him, the things Sam's doing now…Sam's hand slides inside him and Dean feels his hand moving in him, touching inside him, squeezing, breaking things, popping things inside him. Dean moves and moves and there's no merciful blackness. Sam won't let his heart stop, won’t let his mind break. Even when he yanks, and Dean's intestines slither through Sam's hands and pool on the floor, Dean is awake and aware for every bit of it.
Sam says, "Call the angel again," and laughs, laughs. "I think he might be otherwise occupied, though."
And then the sun rose on a brand new day.
four
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2532
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. 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: 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….
one
two
icon by
deny1984Live In Hell
When Dean wakes up again, he's lying on his back in a bare small room. The light seems to come from everywhere, though he can't find a light fixture, and there aren't any windows or doors and the walls and floors are the same colorless, featureless, solid panels of nothing. He rolls to his feet, noting that the floor is warm, and though it looks like metal or concrete, it's almost got a give to it…he inches his way along one wall, arms spread and dragging his fingertips lightly over the surface, searching. He gets nothing—there's not the slightest bump or pimple. Can't feel a tool mark of any kind, the fucking walls are smoother than his skin…great. Just great.
"Shit." He drops back to the floor, cross-legged, his chin heavy in his hands. So. He's locked up in a damn cage, with no brick to chip, no paint to scrape… no way to mark the passage of time. If he's gonna be in this cell a while, it's gonna suck fierce, like being stuck in a dry sensory deprivation tank. There's no sound, even his own voice is muffled. He finds that out screaming for Sam to fucking show himself, stop trying to fuck with his head. No one comes.
Or maybe they hear him and don't care. They don't come, not to find out what's up with the noise, and they don't come to feed him either, or give him water…no one ever comes. No matter what he does--shit, piss in the corner, bleed like a stuck pig that time he bit through his wrist and that was…if he hadn't done a tour in hell already, he doubts he would have been able to do that…still the same thing happened then that happens all the time—he passes out and when he comes to, the room is a spotless, beige box again, his skin is perfect, and he's fine…just fine. Forever the same--oblivion and then, reset. His brother…Dean was afraid to think his name. Afraid he wouldn't come. Afraid he would come.
No one ever comes.
Dean thinks he's curled on his side. He thinks his eyes are open, but they could be closed for all he knows. He'd thought once, before thoughts became wordless showers of stars, of a fable he read a million years ago, a story about a man who lived too long. So long he turned into a grasshopper…Dean had wondered if it was possible.
What he knows now is this: his legs twitch occasionally; his good hand is tightened and curled in to his chest, clutched in a fist he can't open. His ruined arm is tightly drawn up as well. Time passes, and he curls in tighter and tighter in tiny increments. He's aware of this on some level, his body feels it faintly. There's no pain, pain faded long ago, or maybe he's lost the concept of it. It's all very simple now: he just is. It's not painful, it's not sad, it's not anything. He is, and is, and is. He curls up in the dark and breathes, in and out, slow and steady. Quietly, so quietly it's like he's not living at all.
Until there is light. Light everywhere, reaching down inside him and forcing him back to the surface. He's awake again and alive in his body, and it's like being flayed and dipped in acid and then sandblasted and then wrapped in barbed wire.
"Ah, there you are." The Voice calls awake an instinct to hide from It, but something deeper in him makes him want to move towards It, too. It makes his bones splinter and his skin crack. "I keep forgetting you're here."
He moves differently, and smells differently, His voice is different and so's His smile but he knows it's his Brother, blood calls to blood.
There's shadow in the light, a soft touch on the gnarled twist of his arm. The touch changes his world, turns it upside down…it's intense…not bad, but not good. He wants. More. But he wants it to stop, too…The Voice breaks in again. "What's wrong with your arm?"
Dean works his mouth, the skin flakes off in dry strips; his voice is a puff of mummy dust... words come and he speaks them. "Y'did it."
"Oh." He looks thoughtful, and then says, "I can fix that." He reaches out with a little smile and Dean has about half a second to panic before everything goes Very Bad. His bones splinter like glass and fight to rearrange themselves into proper order. Muscle shred as splinters move, reform, become whole bone, and blood burns as infection boils out and for the first time he can remember, he can move. Though that fact seems kind of insignificant, compared to the refreshed hell he's living. His Brother makes a dissatisfied sound, reaches down to grab his ruined arm. Squeezes, and it feels like liquid fire's being poured into him. Dean opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes.
"There. Fixed this too," He says and when He opens His hand, Dean's body is whole.
Sam smiles at him. Dean feels his whole self wake and his stomach scream, screams for food and his dry throat aches for water. He wants so much, needs so much….
Sam pats his arm. "And that's just the beginning."
When he opens up his eyes again he feels normal…like the last thousand years never were. He's in a bed, big as a football field--feels like a football field filled with clouds. He's tumbled into a pile of pillows. They're soft, and smell good, and what's he's feeling is kind of like a full body orgasm. All he wants—just for a minute or two—is to lie back in pillows and wallow in the feeling and move his fucking arm, open and close his perfect fucking unmarked hand, and seriously enjoy the lack of pain. Store the feeling, bank it up, because it's still hell, no matter what it looks like at the moment and hell's all about the surprise dry ass fucking….
It's a damn impressive room. High ceilings, curtains line one wall, and light breezes sweep the hems gently on the floor with a whispering sound. The walls are a pale, pale green. Very restful, Dean thinks. Vases of real flowers sit here and there on furniture he's only seen in magazines in hospital waiting rooms…the flowers make his eyes burn and water. Color: bright orange, magenta, vibrant green leaves--even their smell makes tears leak from his eyes. The little bit of proof that there's real life outside of his head makes him sob and he feels weak and pathetic with it. Dean struggles to control this galloping loss of emotional control. Something tells him that it might not be just pathetic to let Sam catch him crying over a couple of vases of mutant daises, it might be downright dangerous... Castiel had done something to Sam that day, for sure…what it was, Dean didn't know. He wasn't sure who Sam was now…or if it was Sam at all.
Time's working again because he can track the progression of shadows across the walls, and tracking the movement draws Dean's eyes to the artwork hung here and there. Paintings, prints, Dean can't tell. It's the same gray skies over and over, some prints feature mountains, some deserts, in almost all of them there is a huge black tree, so tall it's unnatural. Its branches look like twisted arm bones, clawing fingers reach for the wide gray sky and puncture lead tinted clouds. The tree…he thinks he's seen it before.….
A door clicks open, the breeze kicks up and the gauze curtains billow. There's the click of heels against the marble tiles. He looks to the door, expecting dreading Sam but it’s a big, well dressed guy, followed by a couple of guys that Dean would recognize anywhere as thumb breakers.
Dean blinks. When Sam had rescued him from the chain gang shoved him in the trunk of a car it'd been all Road Warriors in Hell, now everyone's playing The Godfather. The big guy sneering at him was pimped out in pinstripes and pinky rings. "Boss says you got an appointment. We're here to take you there."
Dean shoves back against the massive black headboard of the bed, flinging a corner of the bed sheet tighter around himself as he scuttles backwards. He's naked, naked as he'd been on the chain, and in the room…he gnaws at his lip, nervous, edging into desperate because he knows. They're going to parade him through where ever he was going bare-ass naked and that means--always means--something Very Bad. He blinks, and swallows bile…"I—I'll let Sam get me. He can take me." Dean tries to look defiant but he remembers all too well how things work here.
In the end protesting hadn't done much for him. He ends up hanging in chains again.
Once when he was a kid, home sick from school, he'd seen a black and white movie, something about a mad doctor who'd worn round thick glasses and a long white coat with a high, stiff, strip of collar around his neck. The arms of his white coat had been long and tight and almost covered his hands and Dean remembers this because that man was here, in that same coat, and his cuffs were edged in blood. The man smiles and smiles.
"Beautiful, beautiful. The old ways, the best, yes?"
Where Dean hangs suspended from chains, there are two tall metal tables. On one table, there's a tray, and on the tray, tools of various types. On the other table is another tray, but this tray is splashed with blood, and the tools are covered with blood and gobbets of meat. A lamp on the end of a thin segmented pole casts bright blue-white light over everything.
The room is long, and narrow, cold. There's a hint of damp brick walls and arching metal struts and light through a single, huge window casts the shadows of bars on the floor, climbing up the far wall….Dean thinks he hears things shuffling and scratching in the far corners, faint sniffling and moaning, but he's not sure if it's real. Not really sure what's real at this point. The room might just be an echo of memory…Sam's in one of the corners, smiling and winking at him. That can't be real.
The doctor hums quietly as he selects a tool, black rubber coated fingers poking delicately at the assortment, before selecting what looks like a long, thin saw. Dean screams, and tries to jerk away. The chains rattle frantically and the doctor looks disappointed.
"Please. It's better if you don't move," the doctor says in a mildly scolding tone, and begins to cut a series of loops and swirls and angles into his shoulders, around his neck--careful little cuts, painstakingly applied as Dean's caught, immobile, like a fly in amber. There's nothing he can move, nothing, and all he can do is take it. It's not the worst thing that's happened to him this day. The doctor stops. "There, I think you'll find your…subject, sufficiently protected now."
Dean moans low and long and hopeless, the sound mushy and caught in the bloody mess of his face. The black coated fingers splay over his stomach, rub gentle circles. "I can cut here, if you like. Or, take a limb. We've taken his tongue, an eye, his ears...."
Sam moves from the corner he's been sitting in, watching. He circles Dean and Dean jerks and trembles, trying to keep his eye on Sam. Real live Sam, really watching him get cut to bloody ribbons with a real expression…research expression, Dean thinks and would gag if he could.
Dean had stopped asking "why, Sam" after the doctor took his tongue, and then his jaw. Sam cradles the bloody shreds of his face. Stares into Dean's remaining eye. He whispers, so low that Dean thinks maybe it's not meant for him to hear, "It's odd, I'm still drawn, still want something--even ugly, I want—" Sam dropped his hand and flicked blood away. "Take his skin off."
"Oh my." The doctor looks pleased and picks up a sharp instrument. He shows it to Dean, and his one eye picks up the bright glint of light the thing throws off. "I'm so excited. These are brand new, a gift…a lovely selection of skinning knives. Have you ever used one? Well, of course you have." He smiles softly. "I imagine there's nothing new here, not for you. I'm just a dabbler, compared to you," he murmurs shyly as he draws the tip of a broad-bladed knife in tiny circles around Dean's navel.
"Get to it, I've got things to do," Sam snaps.
Dean lets the pain out, no point in pretending to be brave. The monster pretending to be Sam tilts his head at the sound. His eyes narrow, he nods slightly. Dean makes noise, he keeps nothing in, twisting and fighting in the chains, and Dean swears inside he'll never break. Not where it's important. He was going to give that thing whatever he wanted, all the pain, all the humiliation and eventually it would either get bored and erase him or maybe…maybe Cas will…
Dean feels the instant his mouth's whole again, and he's screaming, shouting for it to stop, for Sam to save him, for Castiel.
Sam's laughing. "Really, you think Castiel will save you?"
The doctor slices a long careful cut in the skinned muscle of his stomach and stands aside. The pink-grey glimmer of Dean's gut peeks out of the slice, each movement exposing a bit more and a bit more. Sam approaches, barefoot but his step sounds like bone against stone, like a hoof striking concrete. He slides his hot hand over Dean's bloody but perfect face, traces the thunder of his pulse down his neck, past chest, his sharp nail ripping a bloody piece out of Dean's nipple but he has no eyes for that and Dean's startled yell of pain doesn't yield more than a quick grin from him. He moves his hand lower and lower until his fingertips are tickling the edge of the cut, and then worming into it, opening it and Dean's shrieking—
He's elsewhere. Falling deeper, into a place where Alistair wore Sam's face to do terrible things to him, the things Sam's doing now…Sam's hand slides inside him and Dean feels his hand moving in him, touching inside him, squeezing, breaking things, popping things inside him. Dean moves and moves and there's no merciful blackness. Sam won't let his heart stop, won’t let his mind break. Even when he yanks, and Dean's intestines slither through Sam's hands and pool on the floor, Dean is awake and aware for every bit of it.
Sam says, "Call the angel again," and laughs, laughs. "I think he might be otherwise occupied, though."
And then the sun rose on a brand new day.
four
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Well done so far!!!
Cannot wait for the next chapter!!
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Thanks so much for reading!
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These chapters are so intense! :)
*hugs and cookies *
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Love your icon!
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Right?