SpN: Come The Night, 15/?
11/1/11 11:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night, 15/?
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2122
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: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen
The red sand stretches out for miles in every direction he looks. Red and sand and sand and red, forever. He walks like he's walking through the Palace gardens, like he's walking across that green lawn, brushing past the rose bushes he kind of loves, if only because he thinks they're funny. They are—with their fat red heads bobbing in the breeze--his eyes narrow and he smiles. The yellow tinted wind blows past him; he feels the gritty crunch of fine grains driven against his lips, the tang of sulfur on his tongue and in his nose. Fire erupts to one side of him and screams well up and fade in the distance. The crows flying along his path land, dip their beaks to scrape against the black stones breaking out of the sand like cracked burned bones….
It's a good day.
He looks at the small screen in his hand, watches the tiny, grainy figure of his brother walking along a long dirt road edged here and there with stunted fruit trees. Some animals hunt him through the grass growing high and wild along the road, and Sam gets a little hard, thinking of them catching him, dragging him to ground. Pictures Dean wide-eyed and wide mouthed under their jaws, roses of red bursting from his lips…he adjusts himself, gives himself up to the memory he's sure this must be….
He frowns when they come into clearer view; it's a bitter dash of disappointment to see that they're just dogs, just plain, old, garden-variety, mangy mutts falling all over. Which of course they'd have to be, seeing that that plane is just…the upper world, dreary, full of meatsacks and woe and guilt and so many stupid things.
Sam growls and his entourage skitters sideways trying to get out of his line of sight. He always finds how pedestrian the upper world is hard to remember when he's in the Basement…his mind works differently here. Clearer. Sharper, devoid of excess baggage—feelings and emotions that are useless to him. and the creeping pain in his middle, the sharp jab and burn of ice in his chest He huffs, disgruntled at the thoughts that dare creep in where they're not wanted. Stares at the screen again. Why the fuck is the bloodbag talking to itself? As he watches, Dean throws a stick or something for the animals, and turns and talks to something not there. Maybe he's gone crazy. Crazier. Sam smiles. How sweet, that. It's a clear sign that Dean needs him. Needs Sam's loving hand on him to protect him, to guide him, shape him…only Sam can keep him safe. Only Sam knows what Dean needs, better than Dean knows himself. Hell leaves a print on a body, needs that the upper world could never understand.
No one loves Dean like his brother does.
Sam turns and looks back at the tall bronze gates. Grasping, bare boned branches and the thick gnarled tree trunk worked into the verdigris-streaked metal shimmer as he looks. It's time to go back inside, to talk to the damn angel again and figure out what is wrong with the sentry eyes. The images he gets of his property are few and far between and when he does get them, the images are generally staticy, grainy to the point of uselessness. He gave a brief thought to replacing all the eyes with a fresh batch. He looks up to catch the acid blue eyes blinking at him from their little black perches on the poles that line the path to the Basement door. They all slam shut when Sam looks at them and he laughs. Points an admonishing finger at the boxes and says, "You've seen Dean, haven't you? I think…you know where he is."
The little eye box closest to him swims in liquid before its lashes drop and Sam thinks this is even funnier. Cas, Cas…why does the wreck of an angel even bother?
"Majesty…do you want us to fetch it here?" His current consigliere asks him, a tall obsidian-black thing made of wings and claws and eyes and so many teeth, head bent but all those eyes on him, carefully deferential.
"No," Sam says, "I have lots of time to fetch him. Right now, I have too much to do." He turns to the thing with a small smile, sighs a sigh full of patient disappointment. "Tell me, I may be wrong, but did you just refer to my brother as it? My Pet, my sibling, my Sacrifice…the future Consort? Did you have the audacity to refer to him as 'IT'?"
"But you call it—sometimes you say—I didn't—of course not, I would never—say, isn't that Moloch over there by the stairs--?" The soon to be former consigliere whirls around and sprints across the sugar fine red sand but nothing can move as fast as Sam in his element. No matter where the demon runs to, Sam is there smiling and waving. It dashes every which way before it gives up, gibbering, bleating out apologies from its many mouths, screaming justifications and outright lies until Sam finally has enough. It's just not entertaining anymore, and he waves a hand, speaks a few words that have it dancing in flames across the red sand, leaving streaks of soot and smoking pieces of meat. Sam watches it with a small, satisfied smile before waving his hand again. The flame dies down and it's lying in glassy puddles of fused sand, only the irregular trembling of its flesh a sign that it's still alive.
The crows hop slowly closer.
Sam smacks his lips. He's a little on edge. Frowns down at the small screen again. There's something there, something he's not seeing, that he's not getting. He hates that feeling, of knowing whatever it is, is just on the edge of discernment, but something is keeping him from it, shielding—whatever it is. There's an itching at the inside of the back of his skull, a yawning ache in the center of him that only wading knee deep in blood and entrails helps to sooth. That's why he hates being upstairs too long. It's not the memories crowding him, it's the itchy, sticky, vibrating lack of the true sense of them that makes his blood run cold and sluggish in his veins.
He shakes himself, willing the morbid thoughts away, like water shaken off a hound's pelt. He just got in a shipment of green eyes…still attached to their owners but that was a small inconvenience. If any of them were pretty enough he might keep the whole shell for a while. Castiel hates that…when they scream, he curls in on himself like a snail's eyeball. Sam laughs, a delighted peal of clear, young laughter that makes the crows explode into the air and take flight, a whirring black cloud scudding low over the red, red sand….
~o0o~
Icon by fragilecat
Dean's sick. His stomach is rolling and rolling, he's thrown up a million times and every time he comes out of the vomit induced blur, Angel is right there, wiping his mouth, holding his head. Angel is…well, an angel. Dean feels so much gratitude for him it's ridiculous. His eyes spark with tears just thinking about it, how Angel helps him breathe just by being there. It makes him warm from the inside out, and for once he feels safe. He falls in and out of sleep, of delirium, but it's okay. Whenever Dean opens his eyes, he's there. Angel, he loves him so much his heart feels like it's going to break…Angel's smell, his voice soft and sweet in his ear, his touch like an anchor…it's centering, it’s what he needs. It's like home….
~o0o~
It's been the better part of a day and he's holding water down now. He hasn't had to crawl out to the outhouse in a few hours, so—score. The last few days are a miserable blur but at least he can keep his fucking eyes open now. Angel tells him that he's got to go out for a bit, not to let anyone in, or talk to anyone—or NominiDei, fuck anyone. Dean doesn't think that's funny at all…he shudders, his dick lurches kind of painfully, and he curses the kid under his breath. Freakin' bitch ass bitch. Scrawny motherfucker thinks he's funny. Just wait, the second he can stand for longer than five minutes without wanting to hork, he's going to beat the shit right out of the annoying little motherfucker and laugh his ass off while he's doing it.
The sun's setting and it's getting cooler by the time Angel comes back. He's got a pot of soup, bread, and something like an ugly, lumpy orange that he peels and shoves at Dean. Insists stubbornly that he eat it all before sitting down himself. "So…we've got to get out of here, like, soonest. The petition thing's tanked. We've gotta figure out some way to get into Chronopolis that doesn't involve this shit heap." He divides the food between the two of them, grabs one of the biscuits and moves to the tent flap, and stands facing the street.
Dean rips into the biscuits, licks soup off the spoon, his wrist—he's so fucking hungry now he can hardly open his mouth fast enough to get food in. He swallows once or twice before saying," Angel…"
"She was never going to let you go, you know. She planned to use you up, bru."
"Succubus," Dean hisses. "God damn it, I knew something was off. Fucking thinking with my dick. Sam always said it was gonna kill me."
Angel jerks and stiffens, but before Dean can say anything else, he slumps. Turns towards Dean and shakes his head. "Nah—not a succubus, De. Just fucked-up an' crazy. People," his lip curls in disgust.
Dean sighs. Nods. As much as he hates it, the kid's right. Nothing could be more fucked up than, "People, dude." He rakes his eyes over Angel and worries. Dean knows body language, has depended on that particular strength all his life to deal with the two most difficult to live with people in the world. It's not even hard to tell something's off with Angel, the way his shoulders curl in…hopes it's not anything he did while out of his mind. He wishes he could grab that fucking bitch by her throat and... "Hey. Angel, man, you okay?"
Angel rolls his eyes, a smirk firmly pasted in place. "Why wouldn't I be? You're the one who's been trying to get rid of his insides from both ends. We need to get to work, now that you can stand up without passing out again."
"Shut up," Dean mutters, and can't help the reflexive shudder that runs through him. It'd been like suffering through the worst hangover times ten with a side of flu. "Bitch…"
"Nomportah, asshole. I picked up some refs to people on the market who might be able to lend a hand. So." He dug under his bedroll and pulled out a double handful of slugs, carefully counted them into a small leather wallet. "We start in the seer's row."
"'Kay." Dean tips the bowl up, empties it. He heaves a sigh, part regret the soup's gone, part reluctance to say what he has to. "Angel, man. I'm sorry." Angel flinches but Dean goes on. "I've been a shit lately, okay more than lately, but ever since Min stuck you with me, you've done nothing but try an' take care of me, best you can. I'm not really used to that and…and. You deserve an apology. You deserve more than that."
"Stop." Angel swallows, hard. "Dean. Do not apologize, hear me?"
"No, it's true. And you're…" Dean stops, shakes his head. "You're like a combination of my dad and my brother," he laughs weakly. "You're fuckin' unstoppable, man."
"Yeah? I'm like family, hunh? So. I'm supposed to think that's a good thing?" Angel smirks—it's weak and little shaky. "I don't know about that, bru—after all, look at you."
Dean flips him off and Angel laughs, and it sounds better, more real, like maybe they've gotten past something. Dean hopes so. He depends on Angel more than he ever thought he could depend on someone not blood. Feels like some knot tangled in his chest is finally, finally coming loose. "Yeah. Damn right it's a good thing."
Angel kind of creeps closer to Dean, sidling up longways like a dog afraid of being kicked.
"Hey, fuck that dude, get your ass over here." Dean holds his arms out and Angel's in them so fast Dean blinks. And then smiles. Angel fits comfortably right under his chin—so what if he's stooping a bit to do so. He hasn't felt anything this good in…centuries. He laughs softly, and presses his grin into Angel's hair. "Real good thing, du—bru." Angel folds around him like a blanket, warm and comfortable. Later on, he'll be trying to shove the kid off, he puts out heat and sweat in equal amounts but right now, it's what he needs—though he'd swallow his own tongue before he said it out loud.
16
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2122
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: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen
The red sand stretches out for miles in every direction he looks. Red and sand and sand and red, forever. He walks like he's walking through the Palace gardens, like he's walking across that green lawn, brushing past the rose bushes he kind of loves, if only because he thinks they're funny. They are—with their fat red heads bobbing in the breeze--his eyes narrow and he smiles. The yellow tinted wind blows past him; he feels the gritty crunch of fine grains driven against his lips, the tang of sulfur on his tongue and in his nose. Fire erupts to one side of him and screams well up and fade in the distance. The crows flying along his path land, dip their beaks to scrape against the black stones breaking out of the sand like cracked burned bones….
It's a good day.
He looks at the small screen in his hand, watches the tiny, grainy figure of his brother walking along a long dirt road edged here and there with stunted fruit trees. Some animals hunt him through the grass growing high and wild along the road, and Sam gets a little hard, thinking of them catching him, dragging him to ground. Pictures Dean wide-eyed and wide mouthed under their jaws, roses of red bursting from his lips…he adjusts himself, gives himself up to the memory he's sure this must be….
He frowns when they come into clearer view; it's a bitter dash of disappointment to see that they're just dogs, just plain, old, garden-variety, mangy mutts falling all over. Which of course they'd have to be, seeing that that plane is just…the upper world, dreary, full of meatsacks and woe and guilt and so many stupid things.
Sam growls and his entourage skitters sideways trying to get out of his line of sight. He always finds how pedestrian the upper world is hard to remember when he's in the Basement…his mind works differently here. Clearer. Sharper, devoid of excess baggage—feelings and emotions that are useless to him. and the creeping pain in his middle, the sharp jab and burn of ice in his chest He huffs, disgruntled at the thoughts that dare creep in where they're not wanted. Stares at the screen again. Why the fuck is the bloodbag talking to itself? As he watches, Dean throws a stick or something for the animals, and turns and talks to something not there. Maybe he's gone crazy. Crazier. Sam smiles. How sweet, that. It's a clear sign that Dean needs him. Needs Sam's loving hand on him to protect him, to guide him, shape him…only Sam can keep him safe. Only Sam knows what Dean needs, better than Dean knows himself. Hell leaves a print on a body, needs that the upper world could never understand.
No one loves Dean like his brother does.
Sam turns and looks back at the tall bronze gates. Grasping, bare boned branches and the thick gnarled tree trunk worked into the verdigris-streaked metal shimmer as he looks. It's time to go back inside, to talk to the damn angel again and figure out what is wrong with the sentry eyes. The images he gets of his property are few and far between and when he does get them, the images are generally staticy, grainy to the point of uselessness. He gave a brief thought to replacing all the eyes with a fresh batch. He looks up to catch the acid blue eyes blinking at him from their little black perches on the poles that line the path to the Basement door. They all slam shut when Sam looks at them and he laughs. Points an admonishing finger at the boxes and says, "You've seen Dean, haven't you? I think…you know where he is."
The little eye box closest to him swims in liquid before its lashes drop and Sam thinks this is even funnier. Cas, Cas…why does the wreck of an angel even bother?
"Majesty…do you want us to fetch it here?" His current consigliere asks him, a tall obsidian-black thing made of wings and claws and eyes and so many teeth, head bent but all those eyes on him, carefully deferential.
"No," Sam says, "I have lots of time to fetch him. Right now, I have too much to do." He turns to the thing with a small smile, sighs a sigh full of patient disappointment. "Tell me, I may be wrong, but did you just refer to my brother as it? My Pet, my sibling, my Sacrifice…the future Consort? Did you have the audacity to refer to him as 'IT'?"
"But you call it—sometimes you say—I didn't—of course not, I would never—say, isn't that Moloch over there by the stairs--?" The soon to be former consigliere whirls around and sprints across the sugar fine red sand but nothing can move as fast as Sam in his element. No matter where the demon runs to, Sam is there smiling and waving. It dashes every which way before it gives up, gibbering, bleating out apologies from its many mouths, screaming justifications and outright lies until Sam finally has enough. It's just not entertaining anymore, and he waves a hand, speaks a few words that have it dancing in flames across the red sand, leaving streaks of soot and smoking pieces of meat. Sam watches it with a small, satisfied smile before waving his hand again. The flame dies down and it's lying in glassy puddles of fused sand, only the irregular trembling of its flesh a sign that it's still alive.
The crows hop slowly closer.
Sam smacks his lips. He's a little on edge. Frowns down at the small screen again. There's something there, something he's not seeing, that he's not getting. He hates that feeling, of knowing whatever it is, is just on the edge of discernment, but something is keeping him from it, shielding—whatever it is. There's an itching at the inside of the back of his skull, a yawning ache in the center of him that only wading knee deep in blood and entrails helps to sooth. That's why he hates being upstairs too long. It's not the memories crowding him, it's the itchy, sticky, vibrating lack of the true sense of them that makes his blood run cold and sluggish in his veins.
He shakes himself, willing the morbid thoughts away, like water shaken off a hound's pelt. He just got in a shipment of green eyes…still attached to their owners but that was a small inconvenience. If any of them were pretty enough he might keep the whole shell for a while. Castiel hates that…when they scream, he curls in on himself like a snail's eyeball. Sam laughs, a delighted peal of clear, young laughter that makes the crows explode into the air and take flight, a whirring black cloud scudding low over the red, red sand….
Icon by fragilecat
Dean's sick. His stomach is rolling and rolling, he's thrown up a million times and every time he comes out of the vomit induced blur, Angel is right there, wiping his mouth, holding his head. Angel is…well, an angel. Dean feels so much gratitude for him it's ridiculous. His eyes spark with tears just thinking about it, how Angel helps him breathe just by being there. It makes him warm from the inside out, and for once he feels safe. He falls in and out of sleep, of delirium, but it's okay. Whenever Dean opens his eyes, he's there. Angel, he loves him so much his heart feels like it's going to break…Angel's smell, his voice soft and sweet in his ear, his touch like an anchor…it's centering, it’s what he needs. It's like home….
It's been the better part of a day and he's holding water down now. He hasn't had to crawl out to the outhouse in a few hours, so—score. The last few days are a miserable blur but at least he can keep his fucking eyes open now. Angel tells him that he's got to go out for a bit, not to let anyone in, or talk to anyone—or NominiDei, fuck anyone. Dean doesn't think that's funny at all…he shudders, his dick lurches kind of painfully, and he curses the kid under his breath. Freakin' bitch ass bitch. Scrawny motherfucker thinks he's funny. Just wait, the second he can stand for longer than five minutes without wanting to hork, he's going to beat the shit right out of the annoying little motherfucker and laugh his ass off while he's doing it.
The sun's setting and it's getting cooler by the time Angel comes back. He's got a pot of soup, bread, and something like an ugly, lumpy orange that he peels and shoves at Dean. Insists stubbornly that he eat it all before sitting down himself. "So…we've got to get out of here, like, soonest. The petition thing's tanked. We've gotta figure out some way to get into Chronopolis that doesn't involve this shit heap." He divides the food between the two of them, grabs one of the biscuits and moves to the tent flap, and stands facing the street.
Dean rips into the biscuits, licks soup off the spoon, his wrist—he's so fucking hungry now he can hardly open his mouth fast enough to get food in. He swallows once or twice before saying," Angel…"
"She was never going to let you go, you know. She planned to use you up, bru."
"Succubus," Dean hisses. "God damn it, I knew something was off. Fucking thinking with my dick. Sam always said it was gonna kill me."
Angel jerks and stiffens, but before Dean can say anything else, he slumps. Turns towards Dean and shakes his head. "Nah—not a succubus, De. Just fucked-up an' crazy. People," his lip curls in disgust.
Dean sighs. Nods. As much as he hates it, the kid's right. Nothing could be more fucked up than, "People, dude." He rakes his eyes over Angel and worries. Dean knows body language, has depended on that particular strength all his life to deal with the two most difficult to live with people in the world. It's not even hard to tell something's off with Angel, the way his shoulders curl in…hopes it's not anything he did while out of his mind. He wishes he could grab that fucking bitch by her throat and... "Hey. Angel, man, you okay?"
Angel rolls his eyes, a smirk firmly pasted in place. "Why wouldn't I be? You're the one who's been trying to get rid of his insides from both ends. We need to get to work, now that you can stand up without passing out again."
"Shut up," Dean mutters, and can't help the reflexive shudder that runs through him. It'd been like suffering through the worst hangover times ten with a side of flu. "Bitch…"
"Nomportah, asshole. I picked up some refs to people on the market who might be able to lend a hand. So." He dug under his bedroll and pulled out a double handful of slugs, carefully counted them into a small leather wallet. "We start in the seer's row."
"'Kay." Dean tips the bowl up, empties it. He heaves a sigh, part regret the soup's gone, part reluctance to say what he has to. "Angel, man. I'm sorry." Angel flinches but Dean goes on. "I've been a shit lately, okay more than lately, but ever since Min stuck you with me, you've done nothing but try an' take care of me, best you can. I'm not really used to that and…and. You deserve an apology. You deserve more than that."
"Stop." Angel swallows, hard. "Dean. Do not apologize, hear me?"
"No, it's true. And you're…" Dean stops, shakes his head. "You're like a combination of my dad and my brother," he laughs weakly. "You're fuckin' unstoppable, man."
"Yeah? I'm like family, hunh? So. I'm supposed to think that's a good thing?" Angel smirks—it's weak and little shaky. "I don't know about that, bru—after all, look at you."
Dean flips him off and Angel laughs, and it sounds better, more real, like maybe they've gotten past something. Dean hopes so. He depends on Angel more than he ever thought he could depend on someone not blood. Feels like some knot tangled in his chest is finally, finally coming loose. "Yeah. Damn right it's a good thing."
Angel kind of creeps closer to Dean, sidling up longways like a dog afraid of being kicked.
"Hey, fuck that dude, get your ass over here." Dean holds his arms out and Angel's in them so fast Dean blinks. And then smiles. Angel fits comfortably right under his chin—so what if he's stooping a bit to do so. He hasn't felt anything this good in…centuries. He laughs softly, and presses his grin into Angel's hair. "Real good thing, du—bru." Angel folds around him like a blanket, warm and comfortable. Later on, he'll be trying to shove the kid off, he puts out heat and sweat in equal amounts but right now, it's what he needs—though he'd swallow his own tongue before he said it out loud.
16
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