ladyjanelly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladyjanelly) wrote2007-10-21 10:19 am
ladyjanelly) wrote2007-10-21 10:19 am
Fic: Threw Away the sun 5/6 SPN AU Sam/Dean
Title: Threw Away the Sun 5/6
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence, a bumpy ride
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.
The day after Dean fucks Sam is a little on the strange side. Sam’s sore in the morning, walking stiff and slow. Dean insists on checking, but he’s not bleeding, just tender.
Something has changed in Sam himself--despite the aches, his smile is easy, flashing those dimples at the slightest provocation. It reminds Dean of how Sam smiled the first time they met and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
Sam seems deeply content, and despite how desperate Dean is to find his dad, that contentment is almost contagious. Dean catches himself singing with the radio for the first time in ages and it feels good. Maybe when this is all over, he thinks, maybe he can manage to swing by Palo Alto every now and then. Visit maybe, spend the night.
He happens to glance over and witness the instant when everything changes--Sam folds like he’s been gut-punched, flailing out for the dash and door to ground himself.
“Here,” he says, “Here, here!”
Dean hits the brakes. The only thing he can see is a small dirt track cutting through the trees.
“Sam, are you sure?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Turn,” says Sam, all gritted teeth and hoarse voice, and Dean turns.
The way is so narrow the leaves and branches along the path screech against the Impala’s paint. Dean can’t even worry about it though, if this brings him to his father.
Far back into the woods, four miles or so of slow driving, the track ends at a dilapidated old hunting cabin. Dad’s truck is out front, gleaming black. Adrenaline spikes through Dean’s system at the sight of it. He checks the knife in his boot and the pistol under his jacket.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, “Take me with you.”
Dean’s first reaction, to turn him down with a flat no, is tempered by the fact that Sam’s been content to wait in the car or hotel every other time Dean went to work.
“It’s important,” Sam urges, “It turns out better for everyone if I go in with you.”
Everybody means dad and Sam both and Dean’s come to trust Sam’s visions. Sam slides over the seat and climbs out the driver’s side door before Dean can say “Okay, fine,” his ridiculous man-purse tucked tight under one arm.
“Hold onto me,” he orders as he moves Sam’s hand to his shoulder, waiting for him to get a good grip of the leather jacked. This is stupid, he doesn’t need a psychic to tell him that, but he’s doing it anyway, and god damn it, Sam better be right.
Sam follows and doesn’t stumble and Dean hopes to all he holds dear that he’s not doing that vision-walking thing again.
The cabin door hangs half off of its hinges and it looks like it’s been moved recently. Dean sets it aside and ducks his head in. The interior is dimly lit. What little sun there is comes through the tree-cover and the glassless windows or through gaps in the roof. The shadows are as dark as any sewer, between the bright speckles of light.
“Dean,” his father’s voice rumbles out of the grey. Dean’s never heard that tone from his father, all sex-satisfied and sensual. He knows the shit’s hitting the fan before he sees the twin flecks of gold in the dark, before something wearing his father’s body steps out from the shadows.
“Son of a bitch!” Dean hisses, then “Sam, get back!”
Sam’s fingers tighten on Dean’s jacket but he doesn’t move away. “It’s okay, Dean.” The words are like an icy tongue, licking up his neck. “It’s for the best, I swear to you.”
Dean wants to curse again--it’s a fucking set-up, Sam and his psychic bullshit. A giant invisible hand grabs Dean then. Sam’s ripped away from him as Dean’s thrown across the room, hitting the far wall so hard the whole cabin rattles and dust falls from the rafters. The demon pins him there, helpless as Sam feels his way into the room.
“Looks like I have the Winchester hat trick,” the thing that is not Dean’s father says, and that makes no sense because a hat trick is three and it’s only got him and Dad.
“I gave it to you,” Sam says, way too confident to be dealing with a demon. “I’ve seen what happens if I fight. How I lose. How you lose.”
“Sam!” Dean tries to yell, and even he isn’t sure if it’s in anger or warning. A pain cuts through his torso like a hundred miniature chest-bursters ripping their way out of him at once, and he grits his teeth against the scream.
“Stop it!” Sam commands and the demon’s so startled it complies.
“I want three things,” Sam says, and Dean can see the tremble in his knees, how much this is taking out of him. “Three things, and I serve you forever, willingly, the perfect general for your perfect army.”
The thing in John seems amused if nothing else. “Name your terms then, boy.”
Demons lie, Dean wants to say but an invisible vice closes around his throat and all he can do is choke.
“I want my brother, alive.”
Sweet oxygen flows through Dean’s lungs and he breathes deep as much as he can before it stops again. The pain in his chest mellows but he can feel the tickle of blood running between his shirt and his skin.
Sam takes a fumbling step towards the demon, one hand reaching out towards it, the other clutching his bag against his hip.
“I want to see again.” His voice breaks with need. The demon cups a hand around the back of his head like a lover’s embrace. Dean can remember his own hand, holding Sam like that, Sam the betrayer, Sam who used him, Sam who is making a God-damn deal with The Demon.
The scar tissue on Sam’s cheek twitches and slithers, receding just enough to prove that the demon can deliver on that promise. Sam grins, this pained, crooked smile.
“I want to be the one to kill my father,” he says, low and sure and steady. John’s face splits into a wicked grin.
“Done,” it says with a tone of finality, and pulls Sam’s head down, plundering his mouth, claiming him. It’s too busy to see, but Dean isn’t, as Sam reaches into his bag. He doesn’t even bother pulling the gun free, just angles it up between their bodies.
“No!” Dean screams, but nobody is listening to him.
The ratty old pistol fires like any other gun, but then lightening crackles around Dean’s dad, an unearthly light. His body stiffens and twitches before he crumples. Sam steps back and trips, falling to the ground in a sprawl.
The force holding Dean to the wall disappears and he scrambles to his father’s side. A dark mist crawls out of John’s mouth, sluggish and wounded. The shadow sinks to the floor and dissipates while Dean rushes to his father, cradling the older man’s head with one hand, pressing the other to the entry wound just under his sternum.
John’s hazel eyes gaze up into his son’s and a slow smile spreads over his face. “We got it,” he says, content, and then he dies.
Dean keens high in his throat and presses his face against the last of his father’s warmth. He lets his grief pour out of him, rip him apart.
The sound of an unsteady breath, almost a sob, breaks him out of his sorrow. He raises his head to see Sam huddled in a corner, ribs heaving like he’s crying, like he has a fucking right to cry over the man he just killed.
Anger feels better than sorrow any day, and Dean climbs to his feet. His lip curls back from his teeth. “You used me,” he growls, “You killed my dad.”
Sam raises his head and Dean wishes the bastard had eyes ‘cause he’d like to look into them as he ripped him to shreds.
With the wall for support, Sam climbs to his feet. “It was for the best,” he grits out, and Dean can’t believe that, can’t even understand it.
“We could have done something else,” he protests, “You stupid shit, you killed him for nothing.”
Sam smiles like he hurts. “I got everything that matters,” he says. His head snaps to the side and there’s blood on his mouth before Dean realizes he’s thrown the first punch. Sam starts to sag to the floor but Dean grabs his shirt, keeping him up.
The first strike’s the hardest, holding Sam up as he pulls back his fist. He looks so broken and helpless.
Then Dean remembers this is the guy who planned and executed his father’s murder, who let Dean hope for weeks that they’d find the man, only to shoot him in the fucking chest when they did.
The fist to the gut doubles Sam over. Dean straightens him up again, slams his head into the wall and follows up with a hard right cross. Sam brings his arms up to guard his face and Dean wraps both hands around his scrawny throat and crushes in. He squeezes until Sam’s face turns red and his frantic clawing at Dean’s fingers goes weak.
“Damn you!” Dean cries as he throws him to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Sam wheezes and curls in a protective ball.
Red rage burns through Dean. He doesn’t stop kicking until Sam’s not moving and Dean’s struggling for air. He stumbles to the wall and leans against it for support. Oh Jesus, he thinks as he looks down at what he’s done.
Sam’s chest rises and falls with his unsteady breaths, and Dean can hear how wet the sound is.
Oh Jesus. He pushes himself from the wall and goes to his dad. He crosses the dead man’s limp arms in front of him and half-drags, half-carries him out the Impala.
Dean can’t look back, he won’t. He is touched by a measure of comfort at the familiar low rumble of the motor. From there it’s easy to shift into drive and take his foot off the brake.
Branches slip by, brushing the windows and doors. He stops once, to hang over the side and puke. He pulls a tarp out of the back seat floorboards and wraps it around the body. Sam’s cane rattles around behind his seat but his brain twists away from thinking about Sam.
He makes it to the edge of the paved road before the guilt of beating a blind guy and leaving him for dead overwhelms the pain of his father’s death and his anger at his killer. He wipes at his eyes without quite understanding why they’re so blurry and reaches for his phone. 911 brings him some Podunk emergency services and he hopes for Sam’s sake that it’s the right one.
“I beat him,” Dean chokes out to the woman on the other end. He knows he’s not making much sense but it’s been a hard day and a man’s entitled. “There’s--there’s a cabin, off county road 41. About five miles off the hard top on the south side.”
The operator is saying something like “Sir, are you with the injured…” but Dean talks right over her.
“He’s blind, and alone and God--oh God, he needs an ambulance.”
By now they’ve got his phone number and are probably doing a trace on it, so he wipes it down and tosses it out into the road. The Impala’s wheels grind it to bits of plastic and wire as Dean drives away.
Dean finds a secluded field a few towns over and waits for nightfall. The pyre for dad burns hot and bright and Dean’s anger burns up with the body. When the fire dies, all that’s left in him is pain and sorrow, a void of loss that stretches for miles inside his heart.
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence, a bumpy ride
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.
The day after Dean fucks Sam is a little on the strange side. Sam’s sore in the morning, walking stiff and slow. Dean insists on checking, but he’s not bleeding, just tender.
Something has changed in Sam himself--despite the aches, his smile is easy, flashing those dimples at the slightest provocation. It reminds Dean of how Sam smiled the first time they met and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
Sam seems deeply content, and despite how desperate Dean is to find his dad, that contentment is almost contagious. Dean catches himself singing with the radio for the first time in ages and it feels good. Maybe when this is all over, he thinks, maybe he can manage to swing by Palo Alto every now and then. Visit maybe, spend the night.
He happens to glance over and witness the instant when everything changes--Sam folds like he’s been gut-punched, flailing out for the dash and door to ground himself.
“Here,” he says, “Here, here!”
Dean hits the brakes. The only thing he can see is a small dirt track cutting through the trees.
“Sam, are you sure?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Turn,” says Sam, all gritted teeth and hoarse voice, and Dean turns.
The way is so narrow the leaves and branches along the path screech against the Impala’s paint. Dean can’t even worry about it though, if this brings him to his father.
Far back into the woods, four miles or so of slow driving, the track ends at a dilapidated old hunting cabin. Dad’s truck is out front, gleaming black. Adrenaline spikes through Dean’s system at the sight of it. He checks the knife in his boot and the pistol under his jacket.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, “Take me with you.”
Dean’s first reaction, to turn him down with a flat no, is tempered by the fact that Sam’s been content to wait in the car or hotel every other time Dean went to work.
“It’s important,” Sam urges, “It turns out better for everyone if I go in with you.”
Everybody means dad and Sam both and Dean’s come to trust Sam’s visions. Sam slides over the seat and climbs out the driver’s side door before Dean can say “Okay, fine,” his ridiculous man-purse tucked tight under one arm.
“Hold onto me,” he orders as he moves Sam’s hand to his shoulder, waiting for him to get a good grip of the leather jacked. This is stupid, he doesn’t need a psychic to tell him that, but he’s doing it anyway, and god damn it, Sam better be right.
Sam follows and doesn’t stumble and Dean hopes to all he holds dear that he’s not doing that vision-walking thing again.
The cabin door hangs half off of its hinges and it looks like it’s been moved recently. Dean sets it aside and ducks his head in. The interior is dimly lit. What little sun there is comes through the tree-cover and the glassless windows or through gaps in the roof. The shadows are as dark as any sewer, between the bright speckles of light.
“Dean,” his father’s voice rumbles out of the grey. Dean’s never heard that tone from his father, all sex-satisfied and sensual. He knows the shit’s hitting the fan before he sees the twin flecks of gold in the dark, before something wearing his father’s body steps out from the shadows.
“Son of a bitch!” Dean hisses, then “Sam, get back!”
Sam’s fingers tighten on Dean’s jacket but he doesn’t move away. “It’s okay, Dean.” The words are like an icy tongue, licking up his neck. “It’s for the best, I swear to you.”
Dean wants to curse again--it’s a fucking set-up, Sam and his psychic bullshit. A giant invisible hand grabs Dean then. Sam’s ripped away from him as Dean’s thrown across the room, hitting the far wall so hard the whole cabin rattles and dust falls from the rafters. The demon pins him there, helpless as Sam feels his way into the room.
“Looks like I have the Winchester hat trick,” the thing that is not Dean’s father says, and that makes no sense because a hat trick is three and it’s only got him and Dad.
“I gave it to you,” Sam says, way too confident to be dealing with a demon. “I’ve seen what happens if I fight. How I lose. How you lose.”
“Sam!” Dean tries to yell, and even he isn’t sure if it’s in anger or warning. A pain cuts through his torso like a hundred miniature chest-bursters ripping their way out of him at once, and he grits his teeth against the scream.
“Stop it!” Sam commands and the demon’s so startled it complies.
“I want three things,” Sam says, and Dean can see the tremble in his knees, how much this is taking out of him. “Three things, and I serve you forever, willingly, the perfect general for your perfect army.”
The thing in John seems amused if nothing else. “Name your terms then, boy.”
Demons lie, Dean wants to say but an invisible vice closes around his throat and all he can do is choke.
“I want my brother, alive.”
Sweet oxygen flows through Dean’s lungs and he breathes deep as much as he can before it stops again. The pain in his chest mellows but he can feel the tickle of blood running between his shirt and his skin.
Sam takes a fumbling step towards the demon, one hand reaching out towards it, the other clutching his bag against his hip.
“I want to see again.” His voice breaks with need. The demon cups a hand around the back of his head like a lover’s embrace. Dean can remember his own hand, holding Sam like that, Sam the betrayer, Sam who used him, Sam who is making a God-damn deal with The Demon.
The scar tissue on Sam’s cheek twitches and slithers, receding just enough to prove that the demon can deliver on that promise. Sam grins, this pained, crooked smile.
“I want to be the one to kill my father,” he says, low and sure and steady. John’s face splits into a wicked grin.
“Done,” it says with a tone of finality, and pulls Sam’s head down, plundering his mouth, claiming him. It’s too busy to see, but Dean isn’t, as Sam reaches into his bag. He doesn’t even bother pulling the gun free, just angles it up between their bodies.
“No!” Dean screams, but nobody is listening to him.
The ratty old pistol fires like any other gun, but then lightening crackles around Dean’s dad, an unearthly light. His body stiffens and twitches before he crumples. Sam steps back and trips, falling to the ground in a sprawl.
The force holding Dean to the wall disappears and he scrambles to his father’s side. A dark mist crawls out of John’s mouth, sluggish and wounded. The shadow sinks to the floor and dissipates while Dean rushes to his father, cradling the older man’s head with one hand, pressing the other to the entry wound just under his sternum.
John’s hazel eyes gaze up into his son’s and a slow smile spreads over his face. “We got it,” he says, content, and then he dies.
Dean keens high in his throat and presses his face against the last of his father’s warmth. He lets his grief pour out of him, rip him apart.
The sound of an unsteady breath, almost a sob, breaks him out of his sorrow. He raises his head to see Sam huddled in a corner, ribs heaving like he’s crying, like he has a fucking right to cry over the man he just killed.
Anger feels better than sorrow any day, and Dean climbs to his feet. His lip curls back from his teeth. “You used me,” he growls, “You killed my dad.”
Sam raises his head and Dean wishes the bastard had eyes ‘cause he’d like to look into them as he ripped him to shreds.
With the wall for support, Sam climbs to his feet. “It was for the best,” he grits out, and Dean can’t believe that, can’t even understand it.
“We could have done something else,” he protests, “You stupid shit, you killed him for nothing.”
Sam smiles like he hurts. “I got everything that matters,” he says. His head snaps to the side and there’s blood on his mouth before Dean realizes he’s thrown the first punch. Sam starts to sag to the floor but Dean grabs his shirt, keeping him up.
The first strike’s the hardest, holding Sam up as he pulls back his fist. He looks so broken and helpless.
Then Dean remembers this is the guy who planned and executed his father’s murder, who let Dean hope for weeks that they’d find the man, only to shoot him in the fucking chest when they did.
The fist to the gut doubles Sam over. Dean straightens him up again, slams his head into the wall and follows up with a hard right cross. Sam brings his arms up to guard his face and Dean wraps both hands around his scrawny throat and crushes in. He squeezes until Sam’s face turns red and his frantic clawing at Dean’s fingers goes weak.
“Damn you!” Dean cries as he throws him to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Sam wheezes and curls in a protective ball.
Red rage burns through Dean. He doesn’t stop kicking until Sam’s not moving and Dean’s struggling for air. He stumbles to the wall and leans against it for support. Oh Jesus, he thinks as he looks down at what he’s done.
Sam’s chest rises and falls with his unsteady breaths, and Dean can hear how wet the sound is.
Oh Jesus. He pushes himself from the wall and goes to his dad. He crosses the dead man’s limp arms in front of him and half-drags, half-carries him out the Impala.
Dean can’t look back, he won’t. He is touched by a measure of comfort at the familiar low rumble of the motor. From there it’s easy to shift into drive and take his foot off the brake.
Branches slip by, brushing the windows and doors. He stops once, to hang over the side and puke. He pulls a tarp out of the back seat floorboards and wraps it around the body. Sam’s cane rattles around behind his seat but his brain twists away from thinking about Sam.
He makes it to the edge of the paved road before the guilt of beating a blind guy and leaving him for dead overwhelms the pain of his father’s death and his anger at his killer. He wipes at his eyes without quite understanding why they’re so blurry and reaches for his phone. 911 brings him some Podunk emergency services and he hopes for Sam’s sake that it’s the right one.
“I beat him,” Dean chokes out to the woman on the other end. He knows he’s not making much sense but it’s been a hard day and a man’s entitled. “There’s--there’s a cabin, off county road 41. About five miles off the hard top on the south side.”
The operator is saying something like “Sir, are you with the injured…” but Dean talks right over her.
“He’s blind, and alone and God--oh God, he needs an ambulance.”
By now they’ve got his phone number and are probably doing a trace on it, so he wipes it down and tosses it out into the road. The Impala’s wheels grind it to bits of plastic and wire as Dean drives away.
Dean finds a secluded field a few towns over and waits for nightfall. The pyre for dad burns hot and bright and Dean’s anger burns up with the body. When the fire dies, all that’s left in him is pain and sorrow, a void of loss that stretches for miles inside his heart.
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