SpN: Come The Night, 6/?
8/21/11 07:47 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: 2972
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.
We're almost at the end of the hard parts, folks. :)
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five
icon by fragilecat@![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
a_random_mess
9
The Doctor pets his hand. "You're perfect. The master is pleased with us both." He strokes his rubber-sheathed hand through Roach's hair, tweaks his ear playfully. "Go on now, run find your master. We're all done here."
Roach slides carefully from the examination table to the floor, waiting for pain to come shrieking at him when his bare feet touch the cold steel floor but he feels nothing. He touches his bare skin all over and he's unmarked, whole and not bleeding at all. He quivers—his master will be angry. He runs all the way to the master's room by himself, panting in fear, whining quietly to himself. He slows at the door, opens it carefully and walks in, keeping his head down. Ten steps into the room. Go to his knees. Wait for orders.
He waits and waits…the room is too silent. The master's not there. The master's always there when Roach is released, always waiting to examine the work, to heal or not….
Roach lets out a shuddering cry of dismay and falls to the floor, ignoring the crack of his forehead against tile. "Oh, no, no, no, don't leave me here alone, please…" He crawls across the floor, searches for clues to where the master might be, a long, low, moan of fear he barely hears coming from him as he scuttles about the room…he needs to find him, or maybe hide, what should he do? What is he supposed to do?
He's distracted by the prints on the wall, rather the lack…there's only one now, and it spans the entire length of the couch. It's the tree, and the fruit is a man trapped in the branches, a man with huge black wings…the sky is bright blue and the ground is the brown of autumn grass. The man is bloody but smiling, and Roach feels something besides fear, feels an itch under his scalp. A voice is calling and he knows it's calling out a single word to him but he can't make out its meaning. He's still staring at print when the Master comes. Master tells him he's lashing him for not presenting himself properly, for staring at a blank wall like an idiot, for being so very, very, stupid. And that's when Roach knows the master doesn't see the prints, never has…but what does it mean?
Later, feeling in a generous mood, the master explains that something he calls the War is escalating, that it requires more of his time to keep the maggots in check, and that Roach is going to have to expect a little neglect, but the master promises to make it up to him. Roach doesn't understand much of what the master is talking about, but he understands promise, and what that means…hopes the master forgets about all promises.
New Life
"Don't hold it in, I can make it really hurt if you do"
He brings Roach with him to the meeting room as a treat, though Roach thinks to himself he'd rather wait in the suite. Being unclothed in front of those things reminds him that it was different once, long, long time past. There was more pain but there was more…something else, something that was good.
The master doesn't let him linger in his thoughts too long, he makes him kneel, forehead on the floor, facing the head of the long table. "Wait here until I want you. Keep quiet."
Roach knows how to do that, knows how to filter out everything except the sound of master's voice. Time passes very slowly, and Roach kneels, waiting for master to give direction. His whole body is tuned to what the master wants. He lets the rising and falling thrum of voices, speaking about things that have no meaning, wash over him like a warm stream...it's almost pleasant, the soft, steady, sound. Finally, what feels like hours later, the master orders him closer. "Come over here, Roach."
Roach walks the length of the table and doesn't dare dodge the hands that reach out, the claws that trail over him, the pinch that breaks skin, tongues that leave wet, burning trails over his back, his chest…if the master had wanted it not to be so, he would have said. At last he's away from the reaching, grasping hands and drops in front of the master. Drops his head to the floor and waits and even after all this time, he's too aware of being open, exposed and defenseless in this position. Something deep inside him whispers, there are two doors into the suite, neither guarded, the windows that make up the far wall are breakable, and the lamp behind the throne is heavy enough to crack skulls—Roach squashes it down so ruthlessly it makes his head hurt.
He waits for whatever comes next, and next turns out to be the master demanding he sit in his lap…the master is bored, which never yields good results for Roach. He inches closer until the master huffs impatiently, wraps a hand around the back of his neck and yanks him close.
"Make it wet, Roach mine." He's unzipping, and pulling his mostly soft dick out, holding it in his fist. Roach dips his head and without hesitating, takes it into his throat. He's grateful master waits, lets him adjust to his reduced ability to breathe and then fucks him rather hard. It's an effort not to drool, or to choke, even though master likes the feel of Roach's throat working frantically to breathe.
He's getting the taste of precome now and let's his tongue slip over and into the slit, teasing thrusts that make the master moan—he slams a fist into the side of Roach's head. "Stop trying to make me come, you little shit…" Blinking stars away, he dares sneak a look at the master and sees he's not especially angry. Relief is woven into dizziness and he sways for a second before master pulls him to his feet with his hand sunk into his hair.
He's barely aware that he's climbing into the master's lap, finding the hot silky head of his dick and pressing against it until he opens up—the pleasure forces a groan out of him. Roach hates being in front of the demons, but it feels so good, that first push, that hot smoothness forcing him open—master grabs his hips and slams Roach down on his dick. Roach forces himself not to clamp down, splits his lip open biting down to keep from shouting.
Soft explosions of breath sear his face; he clings to the image of his master wanting him, only him. Master talks to him, tells him what a good roach he is, perfect little slut, eager hole, only good for this—Roach sucks his bleeding lip into his mouth when master shoves a finger in alongside his dick, and another finger, and another, until Roach feel like he's going to rip in half. His attempts to stifle pained gasps makes his master smile.
"Don't hold it in, I can make it really hurt if you do," he says and spreads his fingers wide. Roach throws his head back, howling with the way it makes him feel like he's on fire. Master says, "Come, Roach." and of course he does. His head drops to his master's chest, the only moment that truly counts to him, brief precious seconds he's allowed to touch master this way, having paid the price for it.
Master groans, grits his teeth, yanks fingers and dick out of Roach. He shoves him to the floor and lays stripes of hot thick come across Roach's back.
The master stands frozen for a time, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in a wild rhythm. There's something like a smile on his face and he mouths a word….his eyes open and land on Roach and…something washes over his face, something that makes his eyes go a soft hazel, a color that makes Roach's heart beat faster—
They flicker to a mottled yellow, and he snarls…lashes out with a vicious kick to Roach's belly, kicks him over and over until he's rolled nearly across the room. "Get away from me. Go—get out of my sight, you fucking freak—"
The demons laugh as Roach moves as quickly as possible, crawling away because his legs refuse to carry him. He lays face down on the floor for a few beats until he realizes that he's pulled himself to the corner with the man. Roach looks up and doesn't even see the man—his eyes are locked on the print behind the man. It's huge, taking up almost all one wall, and bright—the sun is blazing out of it, the skies are deep, pure sapphire, streaked with wisps of clouds and there is the tree and in the tree is the winged man. This winged man is different; he's sitting, not hanged, and clean of blood. His wings are spread wide and he's smiling, and oh, the smile…Roach feels warm tracks down his cheeks…he wipes and his hands come away wet with tears.
Come closer, I have a gift for you, the crippled man says. Roach inches forward. Closer, closer and then the broken man in the corner stands straight and Roach has the impression of an eyeless face, raw flesh where there should be ears, strips of skin ripped away and behind him, great tattered masses of something—feathers, or maybe leaves--clump to the ground as it fights the chains, and he's finally able to lay hands on Roach.
"Oh. Cas…"
There's a quiet rush of flame inside of him that grows steadily painful, fuck, so fucking painful, worse than anything Alistair ever managed to do to him and Alistair had cut him right out of his humanity…worse than Sam….
Quiet. Don’t say a word.
RoachdeanRoach drops his eyes, chest heaving as he tries to control his breathing, to fight against the meaningless words smashing into his head. Roachdean struggles not to look at the thing wearing his brother's face because Dean—Roach--Dean knows right down in the marrow, knows that that thing is not Sam—it will kill him if it knows what's happening to Roach—to him.
I'm sorry. It is Sam. Or rather, it is and isn't.
Roach—Dean--crumbles. This is. It's too much. Too much knowledge, too much to live with and he can't, can't, can't live with it, no—Sam, Sam--what he's done, what terrible things he's done.
Castiel shouts, "Don't give up now," and Dean surges to his feet. The man in the corner. Dean knows him fully now.
Cas…Castiel, fucking Cas, and Sam's been peeling pieces offa him to make some kind of fucked up Rube Goldberg sentry system? The blue eyes blink and the screens near the throne clear and Dean sees images of himself, looking around the room, naked and wild-eyed and--fuck. The moaning picks up, growing louder and slowly Dean can pick words out of the noise. "Don't give up," small black boxes wired into the screens moan, just as Cas moans the words himself.
Dean can hear Sam howl, he's gonna kill the both of them, no doubt, 'cause Sam was a jealous…thing. Dean shifts, edging away from the corner as he digs thumbs into his eyes, thinking. The light pouring in from the windows illuminates all too clearly the monstrous wrong all around him, none of this should be--Sam and his demon cohort, the throne, chains snaking across the floor, tangling Cas in a metal web—he remembers being chained himself and it's like seeing everything for the first time. Cas has opened his eyes, and now Dean was seeing the truth for the first time--
Sam's staring at him, shock and horror racing over his face, anger building higher and higher until he's bright red with fury, about to explode with it. His eyes lock on Dean's and flash a hard sickly yellow, a yellow that Dean's only seen in nightmares. Before he can even stop himself, he's babbling, like his fucking mouth is on autopilot.
"Please, please, please master, please, whatever you want, do it, please don't…" he's scrabbling backward, fuck, and ready to piss himself, because he remembers. Remembers burning for days and days while Sam watched and a wide smile put dimples in his cheeks…
"You get over here, Roach, you fucking piece of shit," Sam roars, "on your fucking knees before I tear your lungs out and feed them to you!"
Sam makes a fist and from across the room, he breaks Dean's ribs. Dean feels them crack…tears wash out of his eyes and he sees his brother at last, like he hasn't in all the time before this and he can see that this creature is just barely his brother—the flesh sits on his bones like a thrift store suit--Sam but not Sam. It's so plain to see now, how wrong Sam is. Dean just manages to fight his training. He's carefully circling around Sam, away from him…fighting his conditioning for everything he's worth. He wants to obey, god, it hurts not to. "Oh Sam…what did you do to us?" he whispers. "Are you in there at all, Sammy, even a little bit?"
His throat slams shut and against his will, he freezes—Cas. Don't! What the hell are you doing to me?
Dean gives up, gives in to the sharp-edged flood of memory Cas force-feeds his brain: Sammy having a bath in a motel sink. Sammy, laughing, knocking the soap to the floor and Dad chuckling, sending Dean to chase it down--riding a bike--Dad making them lunch--reading to them--Dean knocking out a bully for picking on Sam--first hunt--first fuck--first time for Sam and him and—
What he'd lost comes back to him and it comes and it comes and it doesn't stop—"Fuck. Fuck!" He slaps his free hand to his chest and can't believe there's not a huge bleeding hole there.
"Roach, baby, sweetie, honeymunch, come on, come on back to me, baby. Come back to Sammy, Roachling I need you, as much as you need me, you know you do, come on, you love it as much as I do," Sam croons.
What he's saying is pure fucking bullshit but the tone is…seductive. The memory of being held down by him and—and used, calling his brother master and needing it, loving it…Dean's fighting the urge to vomit but still, his lizard brain drags him a step or two towards Sam before he can shut it down. "Fuck you, you sick fuckin' bastard. My name is Dean. And I want my damn brother back."
There's a rustle in the ranks of demons behind Sam, an impatient move. They're just waiting for permission to rip him to shreds and Sam looks like a heartbeat away from giving it. Sam holds his arms out, that sideways smile slipping into place, that look he'd always paste on that screamed, 'I'm trying to be patient but your stupid hurts me'.
"Ro--Dean. Stop. Stop fighting me. After all, this is what you made of me. Be proud of what you did, what the angels, what Dad did…you know it's not my fault." Sam's ramps it up, his face creased in that way that meant emotion was kicking his ass. The face that made Dean try and do anything he could for him. His fucking brother, the one thing on the planet he loved—still loves--more than. Fuck--anything. Sam's put him through so much fucking shit, so much hell and he still can't bring himself to break those bonds.
"You don't want to fight me, Dean. You can't. You'd rather kill yourself than fight me." Sam's voice is sweet, his hands reach out to him and look so soft and Dean knows what he can do for him…to him, and there's a thing inside screaming at him to go to his master.
"Yeah…I know you were kind of counting on me rolling over for you eternally, but Sammy—there's not much of you left. You. Well, Sam, you just—I don't know--smell wrong—" Dean wants to laugh, inside him there's a bubbling, black, poisoned well of laughter, primed to erupt. He forces it down--tastes like once he starts, he'll never, ever, ever stop.
And Sam…Sam swells all up like a pissed-off cat, pulls his back straight up and his shoulders fly back and his pinched 'owie puppy' face morphs into 'I'm going to eat your liver' face and that—that makes it easier. The flat yellow eyes staring into his don’t hurt either. Dean sighs. This is it, no more time outs. This is game-over. Right this minute. He gives Sam a look—I fucking love you, always love you Sammy, says," You're right about that one thing, Sam," and he throws himself straight at the window he's been angling towards the whole time Sam was talking.
The glass shatters outward, claws at him as if to hold him back. A shard skewers his throat as he goes through. Instinct jerks his neck away and the action rips him wide open. Hot, slick fluid sluices down the glass, gushes out over his hands, spilling over the floor, spraying into air, drenching everything close. Massive blood loss, a quick death—he doubts even Sam can stuff his soul back, once it's totally fled his corpse.
Behind him, he hears Sam's insane scream of rage, hears Cas shout, "Dean!"—and feels his bones burning, feels every inch of his skin coming apart in an explosion of burning ash.
"Last gift, Dean," Castiel calls out, "the last thing I can do—finish hiding you. Forget, once more--"
seven
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2972
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.
We're almost at the end of the hard parts, folks. :)
one
two
three
four
five
icon by fragilecat@
a_random_messThe Doctor pets his hand. "You're perfect. The master is pleased with us both." He strokes his rubber-sheathed hand through Roach's hair, tweaks his ear playfully. "Go on now, run find your master. We're all done here."
Roach slides carefully from the examination table to the floor, waiting for pain to come shrieking at him when his bare feet touch the cold steel floor but he feels nothing. He touches his bare skin all over and he's unmarked, whole and not bleeding at all. He quivers—his master will be angry. He runs all the way to the master's room by himself, panting in fear, whining quietly to himself. He slows at the door, opens it carefully and walks in, keeping his head down. Ten steps into the room. Go to his knees. Wait for orders.
He waits and waits…the room is too silent. The master's not there. The master's always there when Roach is released, always waiting to examine the work, to heal or not….
Roach lets out a shuddering cry of dismay and falls to the floor, ignoring the crack of his forehead against tile. "Oh, no, no, no, don't leave me here alone, please…" He crawls across the floor, searches for clues to where the master might be, a long, low, moan of fear he barely hears coming from him as he scuttles about the room…he needs to find him, or maybe hide, what should he do? What is he supposed to do?
He's distracted by the prints on the wall, rather the lack…there's only one now, and it spans the entire length of the couch. It's the tree, and the fruit is a man trapped in the branches, a man with huge black wings…the sky is bright blue and the ground is the brown of autumn grass. The man is bloody but smiling, and Roach feels something besides fear, feels an itch under his scalp. A voice is calling and he knows it's calling out a single word to him but he can't make out its meaning. He's still staring at print when the Master comes. Master tells him he's lashing him for not presenting himself properly, for staring at a blank wall like an idiot, for being so very, very, stupid. And that's when Roach knows the master doesn't see the prints, never has…but what does it mean?
Later, feeling in a generous mood, the master explains that something he calls the War is escalating, that it requires more of his time to keep the maggots in check, and that Roach is going to have to expect a little neglect, but the master promises to make it up to him. Roach doesn't understand much of what the master is talking about, but he understands promise, and what that means…hopes the master forgets about all promises.
New Life
He brings Roach with him to the meeting room as a treat, though Roach thinks to himself he'd rather wait in the suite. Being unclothed in front of those things reminds him that it was different once, long, long time past. There was more pain but there was more…something else, something that was good.
The master doesn't let him linger in his thoughts too long, he makes him kneel, forehead on the floor, facing the head of the long table. "Wait here until I want you. Keep quiet."
Roach knows how to do that, knows how to filter out everything except the sound of master's voice. Time passes very slowly, and Roach kneels, waiting for master to give direction. His whole body is tuned to what the master wants. He lets the rising and falling thrum of voices, speaking about things that have no meaning, wash over him like a warm stream...it's almost pleasant, the soft, steady, sound. Finally, what feels like hours later, the master orders him closer. "Come over here, Roach."
Roach walks the length of the table and doesn't dare dodge the hands that reach out, the claws that trail over him, the pinch that breaks skin, tongues that leave wet, burning trails over his back, his chest…if the master had wanted it not to be so, he would have said. At last he's away from the reaching, grasping hands and drops in front of the master. Drops his head to the floor and waits and even after all this time, he's too aware of being open, exposed and defenseless in this position. Something deep inside him whispers, there are two doors into the suite, neither guarded, the windows that make up the far wall are breakable, and the lamp behind the throne is heavy enough to crack skulls—Roach squashes it down so ruthlessly it makes his head hurt.
He waits for whatever comes next, and next turns out to be the master demanding he sit in his lap…the master is bored, which never yields good results for Roach. He inches closer until the master huffs impatiently, wraps a hand around the back of his neck and yanks him close.
"Make it wet, Roach mine." He's unzipping, and pulling his mostly soft dick out, holding it in his fist. Roach dips his head and without hesitating, takes it into his throat. He's grateful master waits, lets him adjust to his reduced ability to breathe and then fucks him rather hard. It's an effort not to drool, or to choke, even though master likes the feel of Roach's throat working frantically to breathe.
He's getting the taste of precome now and let's his tongue slip over and into the slit, teasing thrusts that make the master moan—he slams a fist into the side of Roach's head. "Stop trying to make me come, you little shit…" Blinking stars away, he dares sneak a look at the master and sees he's not especially angry. Relief is woven into dizziness and he sways for a second before master pulls him to his feet with his hand sunk into his hair.
He's barely aware that he's climbing into the master's lap, finding the hot silky head of his dick and pressing against it until he opens up—the pleasure forces a groan out of him. Roach hates being in front of the demons, but it feels so good, that first push, that hot smoothness forcing him open—master grabs his hips and slams Roach down on his dick. Roach forces himself not to clamp down, splits his lip open biting down to keep from shouting.
Soft explosions of breath sear his face; he clings to the image of his master wanting him, only him. Master talks to him, tells him what a good roach he is, perfect little slut, eager hole, only good for this—Roach sucks his bleeding lip into his mouth when master shoves a finger in alongside his dick, and another finger, and another, until Roach feel like he's going to rip in half. His attempts to stifle pained gasps makes his master smile.
"Don't hold it in, I can make it really hurt if you do," he says and spreads his fingers wide. Roach throws his head back, howling with the way it makes him feel like he's on fire. Master says, "Come, Roach." and of course he does. His head drops to his master's chest, the only moment that truly counts to him, brief precious seconds he's allowed to touch master this way, having paid the price for it.
Master groans, grits his teeth, yanks fingers and dick out of Roach. He shoves him to the floor and lays stripes of hot thick come across Roach's back.
The master stands frozen for a time, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in a wild rhythm. There's something like a smile on his face and he mouths a word….his eyes open and land on Roach and…something washes over his face, something that makes his eyes go a soft hazel, a color that makes Roach's heart beat faster—
They flicker to a mottled yellow, and he snarls…lashes out with a vicious kick to Roach's belly, kicks him over and over until he's rolled nearly across the room. "Get away from me. Go—get out of my sight, you fucking freak—"
The demons laugh as Roach moves as quickly as possible, crawling away because his legs refuse to carry him. He lays face down on the floor for a few beats until he realizes that he's pulled himself to the corner with the man. Roach looks up and doesn't even see the man—his eyes are locked on the print behind the man. It's huge, taking up almost all one wall, and bright—the sun is blazing out of it, the skies are deep, pure sapphire, streaked with wisps of clouds and there is the tree and in the tree is the winged man. This winged man is different; he's sitting, not hanged, and clean of blood. His wings are spread wide and he's smiling, and oh, the smile…Roach feels warm tracks down his cheeks…he wipes and his hands come away wet with tears.
Come closer, I have a gift for you, the crippled man says. Roach inches forward. Closer, closer and then the broken man in the corner stands straight and Roach has the impression of an eyeless face, raw flesh where there should be ears, strips of skin ripped away and behind him, great tattered masses of something—feathers, or maybe leaves--clump to the ground as it fights the chains, and he's finally able to lay hands on Roach.
"Oh. Cas…"
There's a quiet rush of flame inside of him that grows steadily painful, fuck, so fucking painful, worse than anything Alistair ever managed to do to him and Alistair had cut him right out of his humanity…worse than Sam….
Quiet. Don’t say a word.
RoachdeanRoach drops his eyes, chest heaving as he tries to control his breathing, to fight against the meaningless words smashing into his head. Roachdean struggles not to look at the thing wearing his brother's face because Dean—Roach--Dean knows right down in the marrow, knows that that thing is not Sam—it will kill him if it knows what's happening to Roach—to him.
I'm sorry. It is Sam. Or rather, it is and isn't.
Roach—Dean--crumbles. This is. It's too much. Too much knowledge, too much to live with and he can't, can't, can't live with it, no—Sam, Sam--what he's done, what terrible things he's done.
Castiel shouts, "Don't give up now," and Dean surges to his feet. The man in the corner. Dean knows him fully now.
Cas…Castiel, fucking Cas, and Sam's been peeling pieces offa him to make some kind of fucked up Rube Goldberg sentry system? The blue eyes blink and the screens near the throne clear and Dean sees images of himself, looking around the room, naked and wild-eyed and--fuck. The moaning picks up, growing louder and slowly Dean can pick words out of the noise. "Don't give up," small black boxes wired into the screens moan, just as Cas moans the words himself.
Dean can hear Sam howl, he's gonna kill the both of them, no doubt, 'cause Sam was a jealous…thing. Dean shifts, edging away from the corner as he digs thumbs into his eyes, thinking. The light pouring in from the windows illuminates all too clearly the monstrous wrong all around him, none of this should be--Sam and his demon cohort, the throne, chains snaking across the floor, tangling Cas in a metal web—he remembers being chained himself and it's like seeing everything for the first time. Cas has opened his eyes, and now Dean was seeing the truth for the first time--
Sam's staring at him, shock and horror racing over his face, anger building higher and higher until he's bright red with fury, about to explode with it. His eyes lock on Dean's and flash a hard sickly yellow, a yellow that Dean's only seen in nightmares. Before he can even stop himself, he's babbling, like his fucking mouth is on autopilot.
"Please, please, please master, please, whatever you want, do it, please don't…" he's scrabbling backward, fuck, and ready to piss himself, because he remembers. Remembers burning for days and days while Sam watched and a wide smile put dimples in his cheeks…
"You get over here, Roach, you fucking piece of shit," Sam roars, "on your fucking knees before I tear your lungs out and feed them to you!"
Sam makes a fist and from across the room, he breaks Dean's ribs. Dean feels them crack…tears wash out of his eyes and he sees his brother at last, like he hasn't in all the time before this and he can see that this creature is just barely his brother—the flesh sits on his bones like a thrift store suit--Sam but not Sam. It's so plain to see now, how wrong Sam is. Dean just manages to fight his training. He's carefully circling around Sam, away from him…fighting his conditioning for everything he's worth. He wants to obey, god, it hurts not to. "Oh Sam…what did you do to us?" he whispers. "Are you in there at all, Sammy, even a little bit?"
His throat slams shut and against his will, he freezes—Cas. Don't! What the hell are you doing to me?
Dean gives up, gives in to the sharp-edged flood of memory Cas force-feeds his brain: Sammy having a bath in a motel sink. Sammy, laughing, knocking the soap to the floor and Dad chuckling, sending Dean to chase it down--riding a bike--Dad making them lunch--reading to them--Dean knocking out a bully for picking on Sam--first hunt--first fuck--first time for Sam and him and—
What he'd lost comes back to him and it comes and it comes and it doesn't stop—"Fuck. Fuck!" He slaps his free hand to his chest and can't believe there's not a huge bleeding hole there.
"Roach, baby, sweetie, honeymunch, come on, come on back to me, baby. Come back to Sammy, Roachling I need you, as much as you need me, you know you do, come on, you love it as much as I do," Sam croons.
What he's saying is pure fucking bullshit but the tone is…seductive. The memory of being held down by him and—and used, calling his brother master and needing it, loving it…Dean's fighting the urge to vomit but still, his lizard brain drags him a step or two towards Sam before he can shut it down. "Fuck you, you sick fuckin' bastard. My name is Dean. And I want my damn brother back."
There's a rustle in the ranks of demons behind Sam, an impatient move. They're just waiting for permission to rip him to shreds and Sam looks like a heartbeat away from giving it. Sam holds his arms out, that sideways smile slipping into place, that look he'd always paste on that screamed, 'I'm trying to be patient but your stupid hurts me'.
"Ro--Dean. Stop. Stop fighting me. After all, this is what you made of me. Be proud of what you did, what the angels, what Dad did…you know it's not my fault." Sam's ramps it up, his face creased in that way that meant emotion was kicking his ass. The face that made Dean try and do anything he could for him. His fucking brother, the one thing on the planet he loved—still loves--more than. Fuck--anything. Sam's put him through so much fucking shit, so much hell and he still can't bring himself to break those bonds.
"You don't want to fight me, Dean. You can't. You'd rather kill yourself than fight me." Sam's voice is sweet, his hands reach out to him and look so soft and Dean knows what he can do for him…to him, and there's a thing inside screaming at him to go to his master.
"Yeah…I know you were kind of counting on me rolling over for you eternally, but Sammy—there's not much of you left. You. Well, Sam, you just—I don't know--smell wrong—" Dean wants to laugh, inside him there's a bubbling, black, poisoned well of laughter, primed to erupt. He forces it down--tastes like once he starts, he'll never, ever, ever stop.
And Sam…Sam swells all up like a pissed-off cat, pulls his back straight up and his shoulders fly back and his pinched 'owie puppy' face morphs into 'I'm going to eat your liver' face and that—that makes it easier. The flat yellow eyes staring into his don’t hurt either. Dean sighs. This is it, no more time outs. This is game-over. Right this minute. He gives Sam a look—I fucking love you, always love you Sammy, says," You're right about that one thing, Sam," and he throws himself straight at the window he's been angling towards the whole time Sam was talking.
The glass shatters outward, claws at him as if to hold him back. A shard skewers his throat as he goes through. Instinct jerks his neck away and the action rips him wide open. Hot, slick fluid sluices down the glass, gushes out over his hands, spilling over the floor, spraying into air, drenching everything close. Massive blood loss, a quick death—he doubts even Sam can stuff his soul back, once it's totally fled his corpse.
Behind him, he hears Sam's insane scream of rage, hears Cas shout, "Dean!"—and feels his bones burning, feels every inch of his skin coming apart in an explosion of burning ash.
"Last gift, Dean," Castiel calls out, "the last thing I can do—finish hiding you. Forget, once more--"
seven
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8/22/11 04:45 am (UTC)I was about to say, HEY! aren't you supposed to be sleeping? :)
I'm all over happy that you read this though--I'm glad that it was worth being deprived of your sleep! As for Castiel in hell--later on there's an interlude with Sam and Castiel that's a little creepy & I think gives the flavor of what he's been going through which was very different than what Dean was going through.