![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beansideJess' b-day fic continues. This fandom has eaten my brain.
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?
With a frustrated noise, Dean sat up, and Sam quickly looked elsewhere, but not before he noted the strong muscles of Dean’s chest and stomach, the thin trail of hair that ran from his navel to the low slung boxers that hung off his hipbones.
“Sam,” Dean said sharply.
Sam glanced over, realizing that Dean had been speaking. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Dean sighed, running his hand through his hair. “It was almost a year after mom-after the fire,” he amended. “Dad was just getting started on the demon hunting gig, and we were way too young to take along. There was this little old lady down the street, Mrs. Appleton, who kept an eye on us now and then. She had to be in her seventies, but she was great. Used to bake us cookies and spoil the hell out of us.”
Sam smiled at the fondness in his brother’s voice. Even back then, Dean could charm any woman he met, apparently.
“Dad was planning on being gone three or four days. We’d been dropped off that morning, when he showed up.”
“Springheel?”
“Yeah. He knocked on the door, said that he was a traveling salesman, selling children’s encyclopedias. She was so excited, said she’d been planning on getting us some for when I started school that year that she didn’t even look before she opened the door.” Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
“What exactly is Jack?”
“A shell. It’s a shell. This pale material, like stretchy, flexible oilskin. It takes it’s shape from it’s victims, until the flesh becomes too rotted to consume. Then, it takes a new victim.” Dean swallowed again. “The moment the door opened, it pushed its way in, reaching for Mrs. Appleton. And then the…material just flowed off the body it had been on, and onto her.” He shuddered.
“It uses their bodies?”
“For everything. It uses their form to get around, their flesh as food, and the gases as they rot to power its flames. The only thing it has of its own are those damn claws.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened, they focused on the wall behind Sam. “It enveloped her in what seemed like a few seconds. She fought, but it was stronger. I watched her hands beat against the material, watched the press of her face against it as she gasped for air. And then, she died, and it settled around her, took on a human shape.”
“Ew.”
“I could have done something, but all I did was stand there and nearly wet my pants.”
“Dean, you were five.”
“I know. Anyhow, it saw me, and I bolted back into the kitchen and started unstrapping you from the high chair. I don’t know where I’d have gone, but—he caught me, grabbed me by the leg and hoisted me up, while you wiggled in my arms.”
“Jesus, Dean.”
“I kept trying to turn away, to shield you, and it just laughed at me, threw us into the pantry with the rotted corpse it had worn before, and barred the door. It was still laughing when it left, whistling “London Bridge is Falling Down.” Dean shuddered, closing his eyes and resting his face in his hands.
Sam moved, sitting on the bed next to Dean, letting his hand rest on the small of Dean’s back. Comfort, dammit, he thought, stroking his fingertips over the warm skin.
“Dad got back three days later, to find us still locked in the pantry with a rotted corpse. That was the last time he left us with anyone. For a heartbeat, Dean leaned into the touch; then he pulled away, shaking his head. “The skin is something else, too. When it’s on the victim, it’s impossible to kill—bullets go right through without leaving a trace, fire doesn’t bother it, and blades get tangled in the baggy skin. I looked for ways to kill it over the years, but there’s only one time it’s vulnerable.”
“Which is?” Sam asked.
“While it’s smothering its new host, the skin becomes elastic, solid. But, to kill it, you’ll kill the host, too.” Dean’s lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “Gee, that sounds familiar.” He stood abruptly, pacing at the foot of the bed. “I—I’m going to grab a shower.”
“Yeah. Watch the salt line.”
Dean slanted a look at him. “Sam.”
“Yeah, I know. Just…I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Making you relive that. It had to have been horrible.”
Dean shrugged. “Nah. We had food and water, it’s not like we were going to die.” He turned quickly, shutting the bathroom door behind him and cranking on the shower.
He sat in the tub, letting the scalding water hit him as he pulled his knees to his chest, breathing through the sobs that threatened to slide up his throat. Three days of trying to keep Sammy from noticing the decaying corpse, three days of the smell of rotted meat in his throat, of pulling maggots off his baby brother. Three days.
And then, finally, Dad was there, strong arms and soft words, pulling him from hell. The memory hurt more than the rest now. The feeling of being loved, of being safe. Never again.
His stomach twinged, and he ran his hand over the pale scar the demon had left, remembered the feeling of its gaze on him. He’d almost died that night. Almost would have welcomed it; release from the pain, the rage. But his job wasn’t done yet.
So, he would kill the demon, do his job. Release their father. Protect Sam. And then, maybe he could finally rest.
He’d hate to leave Sam alone, but that might be best, afterall. Sam had a chance at a normal life. Dean thought he’d lost that long ago, probably the night Spingheel Jack had walked into his life—taken his innocence and turned him into what he was. His fingers found the deep scar on the back of his thigh where one of those claws had bitten in, branding him as damaged goods. He hadn’t told Dad about that, but he’d known somehow. The next week, Dad had started training him, making sure that if something came for him, he’d be ready. He wasn’t a child anymore—never would be again.
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?
With a frustrated noise, Dean sat up, and Sam quickly looked elsewhere, but not before he noted the strong muscles of Dean’s chest and stomach, the thin trail of hair that ran from his navel to the low slung boxers that hung off his hipbones.
“Sam,” Dean said sharply.
Sam glanced over, realizing that Dean had been speaking. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Dean sighed, running his hand through his hair. “It was almost a year after mom-after the fire,” he amended. “Dad was just getting started on the demon hunting gig, and we were way too young to take along. There was this little old lady down the street, Mrs. Appleton, who kept an eye on us now and then. She had to be in her seventies, but she was great. Used to bake us cookies and spoil the hell out of us.”
Sam smiled at the fondness in his brother’s voice. Even back then, Dean could charm any woman he met, apparently.
“Dad was planning on being gone three or four days. We’d been dropped off that morning, when he showed up.”
“Springheel?”
“Yeah. He knocked on the door, said that he was a traveling salesman, selling children’s encyclopedias. She was so excited, said she’d been planning on getting us some for when I started school that year that she didn’t even look before she opened the door.” Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
“What exactly is Jack?”
“A shell. It’s a shell. This pale material, like stretchy, flexible oilskin. It takes it’s shape from it’s victims, until the flesh becomes too rotted to consume. Then, it takes a new victim.” Dean swallowed again. “The moment the door opened, it pushed its way in, reaching for Mrs. Appleton. And then the…material just flowed off the body it had been on, and onto her.” He shuddered.
“It uses their bodies?”
“For everything. It uses their form to get around, their flesh as food, and the gases as they rot to power its flames. The only thing it has of its own are those damn claws.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened, they focused on the wall behind Sam. “It enveloped her in what seemed like a few seconds. She fought, but it was stronger. I watched her hands beat against the material, watched the press of her face against it as she gasped for air. And then, she died, and it settled around her, took on a human shape.”
“Ew.”
“I could have done something, but all I did was stand there and nearly wet my pants.”
“Dean, you were five.”
“I know. Anyhow, it saw me, and I bolted back into the kitchen and started unstrapping you from the high chair. I don’t know where I’d have gone, but—he caught me, grabbed me by the leg and hoisted me up, while you wiggled in my arms.”
“Jesus, Dean.”
“I kept trying to turn away, to shield you, and it just laughed at me, threw us into the pantry with the rotted corpse it had worn before, and barred the door. It was still laughing when it left, whistling “London Bridge is Falling Down.” Dean shuddered, closing his eyes and resting his face in his hands.
Sam moved, sitting on the bed next to Dean, letting his hand rest on the small of Dean’s back. Comfort, dammit, he thought, stroking his fingertips over the warm skin.
“Dad got back three days later, to find us still locked in the pantry with a rotted corpse. That was the last time he left us with anyone. For a heartbeat, Dean leaned into the touch; then he pulled away, shaking his head. “The skin is something else, too. When it’s on the victim, it’s impossible to kill—bullets go right through without leaving a trace, fire doesn’t bother it, and blades get tangled in the baggy skin. I looked for ways to kill it over the years, but there’s only one time it’s vulnerable.”
“Which is?” Sam asked.
“While it’s smothering its new host, the skin becomes elastic, solid. But, to kill it, you’ll kill the host, too.” Dean’s lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “Gee, that sounds familiar.” He stood abruptly, pacing at the foot of the bed. “I—I’m going to grab a shower.”
“Yeah. Watch the salt line.”
Dean slanted a look at him. “Sam.”
“Yeah, I know. Just…I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Making you relive that. It had to have been horrible.”
Dean shrugged. “Nah. We had food and water, it’s not like we were going to die.” He turned quickly, shutting the bathroom door behind him and cranking on the shower.
He sat in the tub, letting the scalding water hit him as he pulled his knees to his chest, breathing through the sobs that threatened to slide up his throat. Three days of trying to keep Sammy from noticing the decaying corpse, three days of the smell of rotted meat in his throat, of pulling maggots off his baby brother. Three days.
And then, finally, Dad was there, strong arms and soft words, pulling him from hell. The memory hurt more than the rest now. The feeling of being loved, of being safe. Never again.
His stomach twinged, and he ran his hand over the pale scar the demon had left, remembered the feeling of its gaze on him. He’d almost died that night. Almost would have welcomed it; release from the pain, the rage. But his job wasn’t done yet.
So, he would kill the demon, do his job. Release their father. Protect Sam. And then, maybe he could finally rest.
He’d hate to leave Sam alone, but that might be best, afterall. Sam had a chance at a normal life. Dean thought he’d lost that long ago, probably the night Spingheel Jack had walked into his life—taken his innocence and turned him into what he was. His fingers found the deep scar on the back of his thigh where one of those claws had bitten in, branding him as damaged goods. He hadn’t told Dad about that, but he’d known somehow. The next week, Dad had started training him, making sure that if something came for him, he’d be ready. He wasn’t a child anymore—never would be again.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 12:14 pm (UTC)(and Demon!John was hot. Just...wronghot.)
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 02:31 pm (UTC)And then Sam and Dean came along.
And Demon!John...guh.
::fans self::
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 06:10 pm (UTC)Demon!Daddy perving on Dean gave me hot flashes. So very, very wrong. But then, who would want to be right?
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 11:34 pm (UTC)On all levels.