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beansideSo, Jess' birthday hits in a couple of weeks, and as always, I offered to write her fic for her birthday. I think this one's going to go somewhat long, so I offered her the choice: One big lump, or in chapters, as I wrote it. She, being greedy [her words, not mine] decided to go for chapters.
Title: Fallen
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult only, just to be on the safe side.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, this is just for entertainment until the new season starts. Damn you, Kripke.
Warnings: Probable Wincest. Definite blood and gore. Disturbing mental images. Aside from that, we'll take it as we go, shall we?
"Open doors as I walk inside
Swallow me so the pain subsides
And I shake as I take the sin
Let the show begin
The higher you are
The farther you fall
The longer the walk
The farther you crawl
My body my temple
This temple it tilts
Step into the house that Jack built"
–Metallica, “The House that Jack Built.”
It was the thunder that woke Sam. He came awake in a rush, automatically reaching next to him to comfort Jess. His hand hit cool pillow, and he stilled, memory flooding back. Grief came next, with its drinking buddy, regret, and he laid still, letting it wash over him and recede like a wave on the beach. It never went away, but it was always worse right after waking, in those moments of half sleep when his guard was still down.
A harsh grating noise brought his eyes open, and he looked towards the table, not surprised to find Dean, carefully filing the barrel of his new shotgun. “What’re you doing up?” Sam asked slowly.
“Couldn’t sleep with that racket,” he said, head jerking towards the window. “You?”
“Jess was afraid of storms,” Sam muttered. “One of her friends got struck by lightning in front of her when she was a kid.”
Dean nodded, the file never pausing in its slow grind against the gun. Sam watched idly for a moment before rolling out of bed to take a piss. He didn’t bother to flick on the light—it would just jar him, like normal. Jess would have had his ass for how much weight he’d lost over the last few months—since Dad had disappeared.
Sam figured that Dean was too afraid of breaking him, thought he was too fragile to really take to task. Instead, he just put extra food in front of Sam in the hopes that he’d eat more; teased him a little more gently, tried to get a smile. Dean didn’t understand that it was too late. He was already broken. The crash had been the last straw, the one that had shattered whatever Sam had left inside after the rest of what had been going on during the year.
He hadn’t told Dean all of it. Hadn’t told Dean that he’d been conscious when the demon had come for them. He couldn’t reach in the car, but he hadn’t needed to. Dad had seen it, standing outside the window, smirking, and all the rage had boiled up from him. He’d forced the door open, ignoring the way his breath gurgled in his chest, and the harsh grating of bone on bone. He’d told Sam to give him the Colt, that he was ending this now. And he’d tried to stand up, only to end up in a crumpled heap by the car. That was when the demon had made its move. Suddenly, John had come to his feet, stood upright, to leer back in the car at Sam. He’d fumbled for the colt, but that fast, Dad was gone.
The demon hadn’t gone far. He’d stood out of sight for a little while, taunts ringing out in the still air. It had looked deep into him, just as it had for Dean—taunted him with the things he wanted most.
When that hadn’t worked, it had dredged deeper into his soul, found….things, shameful things. Dirty things that he thought sometimes. Perversion, filfth.
As long as he lived, he would never forget the way the demon had stepped from behind cover—too far to be a sure shot, too far to waste the bullet. It had smiled at him then, a parody of his father’s smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you, Sammy boy. You’d have been so much fun. So many twisted thoughts in that mind.” He inhaled the air. “I can taste the taint from here.”
He’d staggered, and for a moment, he thought he saw his father’s eyes, but they were gone as quick as they’d come. The demon smiled again. “Oh, he’s pissed with you, boy. Thinking like that.” Then, whistling a jaunty tune, it walked away, leaving them alone.
In some ways, he was glad that Jess had died before whatever was in him had gotten out. It would have gotten out eventually. The part of him that was just somehow wrong.
“You okay?” Dean asked abruptly.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You’re moving like you’re a hundred years old.”
Sam blinked, realizing that he was indeed moving slowly, carefully. “I pulled a muscle in my back, I think. Nothing major.” He reached the bed and sat down, pulling the covers up. How did one explain that they were moving slowly so that the shards of themselves didn’t slice any deeper? Dean wouldn’t understand. Dean had never broken like this, had never felt this cold inside.
Dean nodded, going back to the gun. Sam dozed back off to the rhythmic scrape of the file.
Long after Sam fell back to sleep, Dean watched him. He wasn’t lying, he didn’t sleep well during storms. Too much noise, too easy for someone to sneak up on them. He wouldn’t risk Sam like that.
Not now. Not while Sam looked so…fragile. So broken.
He’d purposely avoided taking any jobs that looked too potentially violent for the last few weeks. He wasn’t up to it, and Sam…He wouldn’t be ale to protect him.
He’d kid around and laugh, but it seemed forced somehow. Like he was playing a role. Worst of all, though, was the flinching. Sam seemed to think he hid it. But he didn’t. Every time they touched, be it the brush of a hand as he passed a flashlight, or a shoulder grazing his back in a tight area, Sam flinched from him like he was contaminated.
Dean laid his forehead against the smooth barrel of the shotgun. There had to be a way to bring Sam out of this. To fix it, somehow.
Dad would’ve known. Somehow, he would’ve made it right. It was kind of odd, Dean thought, that he knew what went bump in the night, yet still held the steadfast belief that his father could have fixed anything. Anything except himself. God, Dad.
Their father was dead. For all intents and purposes, their father had died when the semi had hit them. All that was left was to release him.
Sam shifted in his sleep, his mouth working silently. It wasn’t too hard to read some of the words. “Jess” still featured prominently, as did the words “I’m sorry,” but now, he’d added “Dad,” and “Dean,” to the mix.
Before long, he’d start thrashing on the bed and wake himself up. It was the same every night.
With a low, frustrated noise, Dean came to his feet and walked to the window, slipping behind the curtains to watch the storm. The wind was blowing viciously, screaming through the trees between rumbles of thunder. In the flashes of lightning, he could see some of the branches fallen onto the ground, scraping along the shadows, moving in a vaguely terrifying skitter. It reminded him of too many other creatures. Too many things he’d seen that moved in an entirely inhuman way.
Behind him, he heard Sam shifting, working himself up to a full nightmare. He laid his forehead against the glass, letting the storm cover the sigh that came out more like a sob.
As he lifted his head, preparing to wake Sam, a pale form landed on the glass with an audible slap of wet skin. Dean yelled, reaching for the gun at the small of his back, and a face followed, hideous, with palid skin and glowing red eyes.. The creatures other hand came at the glass, fingers bent into claws, and Dean cursed, jerking back, hearing the drapery rip, the pole landing on him as he stumbled.
He heard a gun cock behind him, and let himself fall, rolling out of Sam’s shot.
A horrible shriek rent the night, nails on a chalk board, or talons on a windowpane.
The curtain landed on him, a cascade of ugly apricot brocade that saved him from the glass that shattered onto him a heartbeat before the gun thundered.
Dean rolled, trying to push the curtains off, and came up with his automatic leveled at the empty window. “Sam?” He wondered idly if his brother could see his hand shaking.
“Missed the sonofabitch. It’s fast.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t know what the hell that was. It’s big, pale, and moves like lightning. I swear it got out of the way of my shot—just jumped, and was gone.”
Dean came to his feet slowly, moving towards the window, noting the smoldering window sill, biting back a soft noise that might have been a sob. He really hadn’t needed this right now.
“Did I mention the blue flames?”
Dean sighed wearily. “No, you really didn’t.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. Like gas flames, blue.”
The bubble seemed to shatter, and suddenly they could hear the sirens, hear people stirring outside.
“Great. Get your stuff.” Dean barked.
Sam nodded, stuffing the weapons back into the duffel bag. “Any thoughts on what it is?”
Dean nodded, reaching for their father’s book. “Yeah. We’re leaving. Now.”
They beat the fire department by only a few seconds, the truck roaring into the night, in the opposite direction.
“Dean, pull over,” Sam said.
Dean ignored him, flipping the headlights on and pressing harder on the accelerator.
“Dean, what the hell is wrong with you? What do you mean, ‘we’re leaving’? You don’t mean leaving, leaving?”
“Yup.” He reached over and gave the radio knob a vicious twist, and suddenly Sabbath was blaring through the speakers at him.
Sam turned it off, ignoring the glare Dean shot at him. “Why?”
When Dean reached for the knob again, Sam’s hand closed on his wrist. “Dean, talk to me.”
“We can’t handle this. Not now.”
“Handle what? I don’t even know what that thing was!”
“Springheel Jack,” Dean said darkly, before turning the radio back up.
Title: Fallen
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult only, just to be on the safe side.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, this is just for entertainment until the new season starts. Damn you, Kripke.
Warnings: Probable Wincest. Definite blood and gore. Disturbing mental images. Aside from that, we'll take it as we go, shall we?
"Open doors as I walk inside
Swallow me so the pain subsides
And I shake as I take the sin
Let the show begin
The higher you are
The farther you fall
The longer the walk
The farther you crawl
My body my temple
This temple it tilts
Step into the house that Jack built"
–Metallica, “The House that Jack Built.”
It was the thunder that woke Sam. He came awake in a rush, automatically reaching next to him to comfort Jess. His hand hit cool pillow, and he stilled, memory flooding back. Grief came next, with its drinking buddy, regret, and he laid still, letting it wash over him and recede like a wave on the beach. It never went away, but it was always worse right after waking, in those moments of half sleep when his guard was still down.
A harsh grating noise brought his eyes open, and he looked towards the table, not surprised to find Dean, carefully filing the barrel of his new shotgun. “What’re you doing up?” Sam asked slowly.
“Couldn’t sleep with that racket,” he said, head jerking towards the window. “You?”
“Jess was afraid of storms,” Sam muttered. “One of her friends got struck by lightning in front of her when she was a kid.”
Dean nodded, the file never pausing in its slow grind against the gun. Sam watched idly for a moment before rolling out of bed to take a piss. He didn’t bother to flick on the light—it would just jar him, like normal. Jess would have had his ass for how much weight he’d lost over the last few months—since Dad had disappeared.
Sam figured that Dean was too afraid of breaking him, thought he was too fragile to really take to task. Instead, he just put extra food in front of Sam in the hopes that he’d eat more; teased him a little more gently, tried to get a smile. Dean didn’t understand that it was too late. He was already broken. The crash had been the last straw, the one that had shattered whatever Sam had left inside after the rest of what had been going on during the year.
He hadn’t told Dean all of it. Hadn’t told Dean that he’d been conscious when the demon had come for them. He couldn’t reach in the car, but he hadn’t needed to. Dad had seen it, standing outside the window, smirking, and all the rage had boiled up from him. He’d forced the door open, ignoring the way his breath gurgled in his chest, and the harsh grating of bone on bone. He’d told Sam to give him the Colt, that he was ending this now. And he’d tried to stand up, only to end up in a crumpled heap by the car. That was when the demon had made its move. Suddenly, John had come to his feet, stood upright, to leer back in the car at Sam. He’d fumbled for the colt, but that fast, Dad was gone.
The demon hadn’t gone far. He’d stood out of sight for a little while, taunts ringing out in the still air. It had looked deep into him, just as it had for Dean—taunted him with the things he wanted most.
When that hadn’t worked, it had dredged deeper into his soul, found….things, shameful things. Dirty things that he thought sometimes. Perversion, filfth.
As long as he lived, he would never forget the way the demon had stepped from behind cover—too far to be a sure shot, too far to waste the bullet. It had smiled at him then, a parody of his father’s smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you, Sammy boy. You’d have been so much fun. So many twisted thoughts in that mind.” He inhaled the air. “I can taste the taint from here.”
He’d staggered, and for a moment, he thought he saw his father’s eyes, but they were gone as quick as they’d come. The demon smiled again. “Oh, he’s pissed with you, boy. Thinking like that.” Then, whistling a jaunty tune, it walked away, leaving them alone.
In some ways, he was glad that Jess had died before whatever was in him had gotten out. It would have gotten out eventually. The part of him that was just somehow wrong.
“You okay?” Dean asked abruptly.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You’re moving like you’re a hundred years old.”
Sam blinked, realizing that he was indeed moving slowly, carefully. “I pulled a muscle in my back, I think. Nothing major.” He reached the bed and sat down, pulling the covers up. How did one explain that they were moving slowly so that the shards of themselves didn’t slice any deeper? Dean wouldn’t understand. Dean had never broken like this, had never felt this cold inside.
Dean nodded, going back to the gun. Sam dozed back off to the rhythmic scrape of the file.
Long after Sam fell back to sleep, Dean watched him. He wasn’t lying, he didn’t sleep well during storms. Too much noise, too easy for someone to sneak up on them. He wouldn’t risk Sam like that.
Not now. Not while Sam looked so…fragile. So broken.
He’d purposely avoided taking any jobs that looked too potentially violent for the last few weeks. He wasn’t up to it, and Sam…He wouldn’t be ale to protect him.
He’d kid around and laugh, but it seemed forced somehow. Like he was playing a role. Worst of all, though, was the flinching. Sam seemed to think he hid it. But he didn’t. Every time they touched, be it the brush of a hand as he passed a flashlight, or a shoulder grazing his back in a tight area, Sam flinched from him like he was contaminated.
Dean laid his forehead against the smooth barrel of the shotgun. There had to be a way to bring Sam out of this. To fix it, somehow.
Dad would’ve known. Somehow, he would’ve made it right. It was kind of odd, Dean thought, that he knew what went bump in the night, yet still held the steadfast belief that his father could have fixed anything. Anything except himself. God, Dad.
Their father was dead. For all intents and purposes, their father had died when the semi had hit them. All that was left was to release him.
Sam shifted in his sleep, his mouth working silently. It wasn’t too hard to read some of the words. “Jess” still featured prominently, as did the words “I’m sorry,” but now, he’d added “Dad,” and “Dean,” to the mix.
Before long, he’d start thrashing on the bed and wake himself up. It was the same every night.
With a low, frustrated noise, Dean came to his feet and walked to the window, slipping behind the curtains to watch the storm. The wind was blowing viciously, screaming through the trees between rumbles of thunder. In the flashes of lightning, he could see some of the branches fallen onto the ground, scraping along the shadows, moving in a vaguely terrifying skitter. It reminded him of too many other creatures. Too many things he’d seen that moved in an entirely inhuman way.
Behind him, he heard Sam shifting, working himself up to a full nightmare. He laid his forehead against the glass, letting the storm cover the sigh that came out more like a sob.
As he lifted his head, preparing to wake Sam, a pale form landed on the glass with an audible slap of wet skin. Dean yelled, reaching for the gun at the small of his back, and a face followed, hideous, with palid skin and glowing red eyes.. The creatures other hand came at the glass, fingers bent into claws, and Dean cursed, jerking back, hearing the drapery rip, the pole landing on him as he stumbled.
He heard a gun cock behind him, and let himself fall, rolling out of Sam’s shot.
A horrible shriek rent the night, nails on a chalk board, or talons on a windowpane.
The curtain landed on him, a cascade of ugly apricot brocade that saved him from the glass that shattered onto him a heartbeat before the gun thundered.
Dean rolled, trying to push the curtains off, and came up with his automatic leveled at the empty window. “Sam?” He wondered idly if his brother could see his hand shaking.
“Missed the sonofabitch. It’s fast.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t know what the hell that was. It’s big, pale, and moves like lightning. I swear it got out of the way of my shot—just jumped, and was gone.”
Dean came to his feet slowly, moving towards the window, noting the smoldering window sill, biting back a soft noise that might have been a sob. He really hadn’t needed this right now.
“Did I mention the blue flames?”
Dean sighed wearily. “No, you really didn’t.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. Like gas flames, blue.”
The bubble seemed to shatter, and suddenly they could hear the sirens, hear people stirring outside.
“Great. Get your stuff.” Dean barked.
Sam nodded, stuffing the weapons back into the duffel bag. “Any thoughts on what it is?”
Dean nodded, reaching for their father’s book. “Yeah. We’re leaving. Now.”
They beat the fire department by only a few seconds, the truck roaring into the night, in the opposite direction.
“Dean, pull over,” Sam said.
Dean ignored him, flipping the headlights on and pressing harder on the accelerator.
“Dean, what the hell is wrong with you? What do you mean, ‘we’re leaving’? You don’t mean leaving, leaving?”
“Yup.” He reached over and gave the radio knob a vicious twist, and suddenly Sabbath was blaring through the speakers at him.
Sam turned it off, ignoring the glare Dean shot at him. “Why?”
When Dean reached for the knob again, Sam’s hand closed on his wrist. “Dean, talk to me.”
“We can’t handle this. Not now.”
“Handle what? I don’t even know what that thing was!”
“Springheel Jack,” Dean said darkly, before turning the radio back up.
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Date: 2006-05-08 12:36 pm (UTC)So, yes. Thank you for the great feedback. *grin*
And since I'm all about the shameless pimping, Jess and I are working on a Supernatural fic over in her journal, too. "Of Bastard Saints. (http://nilchance.livejournal.com/205229.html) It kind of hits a lot of the same narrative kinks that the Ragnarok series does, about mortality, and whether a person is the sum of his parts, or something more.