Fic: Threw Away the sun 3/6 SPN AU Sam/Dean

[ladyjanelly]

Title: Threw Away the Sun
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence,
Characters/pairings: Jess, Sam/Dean
Rated: NC-17 sex and violence
Summary: AU. Six months after John Winchester goes missing on a hunt, Dean Goes to Palo Alto to find a psychic.

Notes: OMG. Okay. Special thanks to jellicle and nova_berry and all the other people who have read this since I started it. I began this fic between seasons one and two of SPN and just now have it ready to publish. I'm sure I've forgotten someone who read it there in the middle and I'm so sorry and I remember appreciating you, just not which of you wonderful people it was.

  
“You stay away from my brother, you son of a bitch, and get the hell out of my dad!” Dean is shouting, pushing Sam back and Sam’s trying to shove back in front, but it’s so hard in the dark.

You’re expendable to it, he wants to shout. It’ll take me no matter what you do. But there’s no time and Dean’s screaming and there’s the smell of blood in the air as Dean’s weight crashes into him. He wraps his arms around Dean’s chest, feeling for his heartbeat, for his breath, but there’s nothing, an unmistakable stillness.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he cries out. He has no tears, but he’s choking on his sobs. “I would have done anything!” The sweet fire of anger burns through his veins, clean and pure.

“Now? Fuck you,” he hisses. “You killed my brother, and you set me free.”

The thing laughs, in the voice he’s heard only in visions of memory. “Oh, I hear you, Sammy. I just wanted to make sure I had your attention.” It’s so lazy, sure, a deep rumbling drawl. “What’s been done can be undone. You join me and I’ll bring him back. He’ll be yours forever, there at your side for as long as you’re at mine.”

And Sam knows. He can see the future, Goddamn it. He knows the Dean he’ll get back will be a shell of the man he once was. The real Dean would make him strong, and the demon can’t have that. But without Dean—there’s nothing left, no reason to hold on, to endure the pain, to risk breaking. His hand slips underneath Dean’s jacket and closes around the still-warm grip of the Colt. It’s sticky with Dean’s blood and Sam’s resolve hardens.

“See you next millennium, asshole.” He can feel the thing’s lack of fear. What are the chances a blind man could strike a fatal blow at this range? Overconfident bastard.

He holds the gun with both hands and jams the muzzle under his own jaw. He doesn’t hesitate as he pulls the trigger. A thousand years of confinement for the demon. He can live with that. Die with that. Semantics.


Dean wakes to the noise of restless shifting in the next bed, small fear/hurt/distress sounds. For a second, it’s incredibly disorienting because the only person he’s shared a hotel room but not the bed with is his dad, and his dad always slept like a corpse. It takes him a second before he remembers the previous day. Sam, and he’s not sure why he’s so gentle as he rolls out of bed and reaches out a hand, resting it on Sam’s shoulder.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, like somebody else might say “Oh, thank God,” and every muscle in his wiry body seems to go limp. There’s something about hearing his name like that; it strikes a chord in Dean. Yeah, he’s saved people before, it’s what they do, but the gratitude he’s received has always been so general, so “Thanks for saving us, whoever you are.”

Sam makes it feel like nobody but Dean could have made this right. As he settles back into deeper sleep, Dean sits on the edge of the bed and rubs a hand over his bony back and he’s not really sure why.

When it seems like Sam’s not waking up again, Dean grabs the red notebook and his cell phone and steps outside. It’s late afternoon and he sits in the sun and dials the number Jess gave him. She answers on the second ring, breathless like she ran for it.

“Dean?” she says instead of hello and Dean feels stupid. He has no idea why he called, beyond having someone to talk to who understands.

“Hey,” he says, and yeah, awkward much?

“How’s Sam?” Jess asks, not beating around the bush. Dean can respect that.

“Sleeping now. He’s been quiet all day. I dunno. Weird, I guess.”

Jess sighs. “You have no idea how hard this is for him,” she says, “Interacting with people, trying not to look ahead and see the outcome of every word he’d say to them.”

Dean leans his head back against the wall of the room Sam’s asleep in and closes his eyes.

“I know you don’t know him,” Jess murmurs, “But he’s known about you for a long time. He’s never said why, but this is really important to him. You’re really important to him.”

Dean wishes he knew what to say to that but he doesn’t. “Look, I gotta go. He shouldn’t wake up alone in a strange place.”

“Okay,” says Jess. “Take care of yourself.” She sounds like she even means it.

The next time they stop for food, Dean has it planned out, how he’s going to get the door and lead Sam in and not be a pain in the ass this time.

Sam’s car door opens before Dean gets there though, and the blind man levers himself out of the car, his cane feeling along the way. His lips press into a fine line, his head cocks to the side like he’s listening for the way. His fingers grip the slender pole so tight that Dean’s half-afraid he’ll break it.

Dean watches in amazement as Sam taps his way to the curb and from there to the diner’s door. He wrestles with the door for a moment, then gets it open and himself straight to an empty table.

Dean takes a seat across from Sam. He’s about to ask how the hell he accomplished that, when he sees how pale Sam is, how hard he’s shaking. A bright trickle of blood creeps from his right nostril down his lip.

“Jesus!” Dean breathes. He grabs a napkin and comes around the table, trying to stop the nosebleed. “Jesus, Sam, what the hell did you do?”

Sam grins, a smile so crooked that thoughts like stroke and cranial hemorrhage pop into Dean’s head.

“I saw it,” Sam says, “I ran through every possible direction I could step until I found the only path here.”

Dean’s not the type of man to find himself speechless, but what the hell can he say to that?”

“One chance in five of it even being possible,” Sam says, and then, “Oh God, I need some painkillers.”

Dean gets the pills out of the car and orders himself a burger. Sam has fucked himself up too bad to keep lunch down, so they get back on the road.

Half an hour later, the impala pulls off on the shoulder. Dean holds Sam’s head while he barfs like he’s gonna puke up his socks.

“Why would you do that?” Dean demands, because, dude, this shit ain’t pretty.

“Had to prove it,” Sam says between dry heaves. “To you. To me. Won’t get you killed.”

Dean snorts. “Lot of good that does me if you’re in no shape to ride.”

Sam sags down, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

“Look,” says Dean, “Seriously. Are you bleeding in your brain or something? Do I need to get you to a hospital?”

“If I am, I won’t die from it.”

It pisses Dean off more than a little that Sam sounds so sure, like Dean’s the last one to be let in on a secret.

“Never?”

Sam smirks. “Hardly ever. C’mon, I can ride again. We can’t fall that far behind schedule.”

Dean gets in the car and drives, but he doesn’t like it.