Har-Magedon - Sam/Dean - R
Title: Har-Magedon
Author: benitle
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R (for disturbing subject matters)
Summary: Battered and beaten and dealing with the aftermath of the apocalypse.
Word count: 1,977 words
Notes: Wincest. I have no idea where this came from. I was trying to write something for memphis86 Happy Endings meme and then it turned into this. Dark and maybe/probably disturbing. Definitely angsty. But with hope sprinkled on top.
Many thanks to mnemosime and twofourteen for read through, hand-holding and betaing! <3
No copyright infringement intended. Feedback/Concrit is appreciated. Please enjoy!
And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison, and shall go out to deceive the nations which are in the four quarters of the earth, Gog, and Magog, to gather them together to battle: the number of whom is as the sand of the sea.
And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them.
And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.
Revelation 20:7-10
His mind becomes fuzzy when he tries to remember how he got to this very point. He's shifting between awake and asleep, feels like he's been doing it for years.
He remembers some things. He remembers. Castiel. And Uriel. He remembers Ruby and Lilith and more angels and demons than he could ever have imagined. He remembers Bobby. And Ellen and every other hunter he's ever known. And that most of them are dead now.
He sees it clearly, only, he does not.
He remembers the stench of smoke and charred meat. Fire. And sulfur. The sound of shooting and sharp knives and swords piercing through skin. Killing and crippling. He remembers crying. And shouting. Pitiful pleas for mercy - when there was none.
And light. So much light.
He remembers the goddamn apocalypse.
Until very recently, he always thought that the description of the apocalypse in the Bible was simply the result of a few dudes who had too much time on their hands and decided to come up with an epic horror story. Until very recently, he also believed that angels and God did not exist.
He feels himself drift off to sleep again. He's hot and cold at the same time and he's tired, so tired. He's in a soft bed, but he doesn't know where. And he doesn't really care either. Sleep. Sleep is all he cares about as he thinks that closing his eyes once more is not going to do him any harm. But closing his eyes is not a good idea, never has been. All that comes back to him is pictures. Awful pictures he doesn't want to see. Blood trying to seep in a ground that is already so soaked that it can't take any more blood. People, dead people, staring at him with their eyes wide open, frozen in shock, that last look the evidence that they did not see it coming.
He sits up with a hoarse cry. A shout, raw and painful from his throat. It's dark. Whenever he wakes up these days it's dark. The blackness is encircling him like a soft blanket, only that it's not warm and comforting.
He didn't hear the door opening. He didn't hear him coming. He only notices when he feels the bed dip next to him. Feels the tender hand on his shoulder that's pushing him back down and strokes him carefully as if he were made out of china. Easily to break.
"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here."
Sam. Oh God, Sammy. Sammy, his Sammy.
"Sammy?" Dean croaks.
"Yeah, I'm here," Sam says. It's soft and barely audible. But it's unmistakably Sammy.
Dean sighs in relief. Sammy's here. They're both here. Everything's gonna be okay. His arm moves to the side, trying to reach the bedside table, trying to find the lamp that's hopefully sitting there.
He gets frustrated when his attempts remain fruitless. With a sigh, he pleads, "Turn on the light. Need to see ya."
"Dean-" There's so much pain in Sam's voice. So much hurt and pity that Dean's stomach drops. Something's wrong here. Something he doesn't know, something he can't figure out, something he doesn't remember. If only his brain didn't feel like cotton.
"What?" he asks, his voice weak and trembling to his own ears.
He's not sure he wants to know, not with that weird timbre in Sam's voice. "Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?"
Sam sighs. "The apo- the battle. The hospital-"
I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, there's nothing we can do for your brother, except treating his lacerations.
Oh yes, Dean does remember now. It's all coming back to him. The apocalypse, their victory, their sacrifices. The sounds and smell of the hospital - or rather what was left of it after a rain of sulfur and chaos and destruction.
He doesn't need Sam to go on.
When he runs a hand over his face, he's shocked, he's disgruntled to find his eyes are already open. He drops his hand quickly like a child that touched a hot stove and makes a disgusted noise. Disgusted at himself. Disgusted at what Sammy must see.
At least this explains the complete darkness.
He's quick to turn away, away from where the bed is dipped and where Sam's voice is coming from. Dean doesn't feel like talking, he'd rather be alone, left to his thoughts, but he's disoriented and the hunter inside him needs to know what's going on around him.
"Where am I? What time is it?" he eventually asks.
Sam doesn't answer right away. Instead, he caresses a soft hand over Dean's side. Dean goes stiff but doesn't find it in him to tell him to fuck off. Not without fully understanding what happened.
"Three in the afternoon. We're at Bobby's. It's safe now," Sam explains while his movements never stop.
With dread, Dean asks, "Where's Bobby?"
He thinks he's about to throw up, scared that Sammy will tell him that he buried him in the backyard, that they lost the last bit of family they still had.
There are not enough words to describe the relief when Sam whispers, "Downstairs."
"Have I asked these questions before?" Dean asks. It's a hiss and comes out sharper than he intended to.
"Dean-"
"Have I?" he repeats.
He hears Sam draw in a sigh and, fuck, he wishes he could turn around and look at Sammy.
"Yeah." Sam sighs again. He sounds wary and it makes Dean wonder just how many times he's asked those questions. "The doctor said you were pretty shaken up and that it would take a while until you're fully getting round to everything again."
"Is there anything else wrong with me?" Dean asks. He's torn between anger and desperation. Anger at Castiel, God, the demons, himself. Why is it always them that need to sacrifice everything? There's desperation. The need to hear that he'll be all right. And there's fear. So much fear.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Dean," Sam says softly. It's full of agony, of that urgency Sam gets when he talks about despair and death and the end of the world. Dean hates the fucking pity.
Nothing's wrong, except for the fucking blindness, Dean thinks.
The bed shifts again and Dean wants to plead Sam not to leave him, to stay by his side a little longer. But before he can overcome his pride and do it, he feels Sam's strong body press against him from behind. Dean knows what the guest beds at Bobby's are like, remembers their picture. He doesn't know where this is coming from but the idea of Sam behind him when Dean didn't move an inch makes him smile. Half of Sammy's bony ass is probably hanging over the edge.
No words are being said as Sam clings to him, as Dean simply lets him.
Dean's posture is stiff and he doesn't know how to relax. So this is it. This is the moment he's been dreading. It's over, the whole apocalypse deal is done and somehow they made it out alive. He knows it's never gonna be over entirely, if there's no demon to send back to hell, then there's a werewolf to shoot, a vampire to behead or a zombie to stake.
For him it's over anyway.
He knows that Sam said in the past that he wasn't interested in going back to college, but that was before everything changed. That was back when Sam was on a mission to find Jessica's killer, on a mission to prove Dad wrong and not go darkside, on a mission to save the world. Now all that's done and Sam needs to find a new purpose in life.
It takes Dean by surprise when Sam's arm curls around his waist. He can feel Sam nuzzle the back of his neck while he keeps pressing against Dean. Dean wants to scoot away to give them space, to give himself space, but it looks as if Sam's having none of that. His grip only tightens.
"You know I'm not going anywhere, right?" Sam says.
Sometimes Dean hates how much of a fucking mind reader Sam can be.
He doesn't comment, feels like there's nothing to say. On the one hand he wants to beg Sam to stay with him, on the other hand, he doesn't want to guilt trip him into throwing away a second chance at a different life. Only because of his condition.
"I'm sure I could stay with Bobby for a while," Dean suggests. "Until I got back on my feet."
Sam snorts. He shoves a hand under Dean's shirt, just like this. As if this were the most normal thing after you almost died because you got caught between sides during an apocalyptic war and after your brother was turned into a cripple.
But maybe touching is the only way to deal with this right now.
"There goes my chance to settle down with you, have 2.5 kids, a dog and a house with a white picket fence. Because you would rather settle down with Bobby than me. I'm hurt, Dean." Sam mocks, his tone amused and friendly, his breath warm against the back of Dean's neck. "There's no getting rid of me, no matter how hard you try."
There's more silence. Dean doesn't know what to say, a million thoughts racing through his mind all at once at a speed that makes his head spin. The touch of Sam's large hand on his stomach feels good, it's comforting because it's familiar in a situation where nothing is as it used to be. Sam's hand wanders from his stomach to his chest, stroking softly. Dean relaxes under the soothing sensation and when Sam kisses his neck, he lets him without protesting.
He can't tell for how long they lie there. The darkness makes it hard to tell. There's no fading sunlight to indicate the passing of the day, no stealing glance to a watch. This is weird and even though Dean grew up with having to constantly change and adapt, new towns, new schools, new everything, he knows he'll have a hard time dealing with this.
Sam keeps ghosting his fingers over Dean's skin, keeps placing soft butterfly kisses on his neck and throat and shoulders. It's making Dean sleepy, that and the goddamn darkness. He places a hand on top of Sam's and then interlaces their fingers, simply holding softly.
More minutes pass without either of them speaking. Sam pulls him closer then and whispers, "You know whatever happens, I'm not leaving you, right? We're in this together, Dean. Have been since day one. I have no idea what's to come and what's gonna happen in the future and probably things will be a little rough on the way, but I know, we're gonna go through it all together."
Dean thinks for a moment, thinks hard about the things Sam just said. He wants to believe it, wants to believe it so bad that Sam's not gonna get tired of staying with him, taking care of him, but he's not sure he can do that. Who knows, maybe he'll have to see what the future brings.
Once more Sam kisses his throat and before he says, "I never thought we would make it out alive. I- I thought I'd lose you. Or that I would die. But look at us. We're here. Alive. Bobby's alive. And it's finally fucking over. I still got you. That's all I need to be happy, Dean."
Dean doesn't trust his voice to cooperate, doesn't really know how to say it either. Not with his mind still so crazy, not with still being so confused by this whole situation and everything that happened.
However, there's one thing that always has been and will always be true, no matter what. That's all I need, too.
Author: benitle
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R (for disturbing subject matters)
Summary: Battered and beaten and dealing with the aftermath of the apocalypse.
Word count: 1,977 words
Notes: Wincest. I have no idea where this came from. I was trying to write something for memphis86 Happy Endings meme and then it turned into this. Dark and maybe/probably disturbing. Definitely angsty. But with hope sprinkled on top.
Many thanks to mnemosime and twofourteen for read through, hand-holding and betaing! <3
No copyright infringement intended. Feedback/Concrit is appreciated. Please enjoy!
And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison, and shall go out to deceive the nations which are in the four quarters of the earth, Gog, and Magog, to gather them together to battle: the number of whom is as the sand of the sea.
And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them.
And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.
Revelation 20:7-10
His mind becomes fuzzy when he tries to remember how he got to this very point. He's shifting between awake and asleep, feels like he's been doing it for years.
He remembers some things. He remembers. Castiel. And Uriel. He remembers Ruby and Lilith and more angels and demons than he could ever have imagined. He remembers Bobby. And Ellen and every other hunter he's ever known. And that most of them are dead now.
He sees it clearly, only, he does not.
He remembers the stench of smoke and charred meat. Fire. And sulfur. The sound of shooting and sharp knives and swords piercing through skin. Killing and crippling. He remembers crying. And shouting. Pitiful pleas for mercy - when there was none.
And light. So much light.
He remembers the goddamn apocalypse.
Until very recently, he always thought that the description of the apocalypse in the Bible was simply the result of a few dudes who had too much time on their hands and decided to come up with an epic horror story. Until very recently, he also believed that angels and God did not exist.
He feels himself drift off to sleep again. He's hot and cold at the same time and he's tired, so tired. He's in a soft bed, but he doesn't know where. And he doesn't really care either. Sleep. Sleep is all he cares about as he thinks that closing his eyes once more is not going to do him any harm. But closing his eyes is not a good idea, never has been. All that comes back to him is pictures. Awful pictures he doesn't want to see. Blood trying to seep in a ground that is already so soaked that it can't take any more blood. People, dead people, staring at him with their eyes wide open, frozen in shock, that last look the evidence that they did not see it coming.
He sits up with a hoarse cry. A shout, raw and painful from his throat. It's dark. Whenever he wakes up these days it's dark. The blackness is encircling him like a soft blanket, only that it's not warm and comforting.
He didn't hear the door opening. He didn't hear him coming. He only notices when he feels the bed dip next to him. Feels the tender hand on his shoulder that's pushing him back down and strokes him carefully as if he were made out of china. Easily to break.
"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here."
Sam. Oh God, Sammy. Sammy, his Sammy.
"Sammy?" Dean croaks.
"Yeah, I'm here," Sam says. It's soft and barely audible. But it's unmistakably Sammy.
Dean sighs in relief. Sammy's here. They're both here. Everything's gonna be okay. His arm moves to the side, trying to reach the bedside table, trying to find the lamp that's hopefully sitting there.
He gets frustrated when his attempts remain fruitless. With a sigh, he pleads, "Turn on the light. Need to see ya."
"Dean-" There's so much pain in Sam's voice. So much hurt and pity that Dean's stomach drops. Something's wrong here. Something he doesn't know, something he can't figure out, something he doesn't remember. If only his brain didn't feel like cotton.
"What?" he asks, his voice weak and trembling to his own ears.
He's not sure he wants to know, not with that weird timbre in Sam's voice. "Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?"
Sam sighs. "The apo- the battle. The hospital-"
I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, there's nothing we can do for your brother, except treating his lacerations.
Oh yes, Dean does remember now. It's all coming back to him. The apocalypse, their victory, their sacrifices. The sounds and smell of the hospital - or rather what was left of it after a rain of sulfur and chaos and destruction.
He doesn't need Sam to go on.
When he runs a hand over his face, he's shocked, he's disgruntled to find his eyes are already open. He drops his hand quickly like a child that touched a hot stove and makes a disgusted noise. Disgusted at himself. Disgusted at what Sammy must see.
At least this explains the complete darkness.
He's quick to turn away, away from where the bed is dipped and where Sam's voice is coming from. Dean doesn't feel like talking, he'd rather be alone, left to his thoughts, but he's disoriented and the hunter inside him needs to know what's going on around him.
"Where am I? What time is it?" he eventually asks.
Sam doesn't answer right away. Instead, he caresses a soft hand over Dean's side. Dean goes stiff but doesn't find it in him to tell him to fuck off. Not without fully understanding what happened.
"Three in the afternoon. We're at Bobby's. It's safe now," Sam explains while his movements never stop.
With dread, Dean asks, "Where's Bobby?"
He thinks he's about to throw up, scared that Sammy will tell him that he buried him in the backyard, that they lost the last bit of family they still had.
There are not enough words to describe the relief when Sam whispers, "Downstairs."
"Have I asked these questions before?" Dean asks. It's a hiss and comes out sharper than he intended to.
"Dean-"
"Have I?" he repeats.
He hears Sam draw in a sigh and, fuck, he wishes he could turn around and look at Sammy.
"Yeah." Sam sighs again. He sounds wary and it makes Dean wonder just how many times he's asked those questions. "The doctor said you were pretty shaken up and that it would take a while until you're fully getting round to everything again."
"Is there anything else wrong with me?" Dean asks. He's torn between anger and desperation. Anger at Castiel, God, the demons, himself. Why is it always them that need to sacrifice everything? There's desperation. The need to hear that he'll be all right. And there's fear. So much fear.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Dean," Sam says softly. It's full of agony, of that urgency Sam gets when he talks about despair and death and the end of the world. Dean hates the fucking pity.
Nothing's wrong, except for the fucking blindness, Dean thinks.
The bed shifts again and Dean wants to plead Sam not to leave him, to stay by his side a little longer. But before he can overcome his pride and do it, he feels Sam's strong body press against him from behind. Dean knows what the guest beds at Bobby's are like, remembers their picture. He doesn't know where this is coming from but the idea of Sam behind him when Dean didn't move an inch makes him smile. Half of Sammy's bony ass is probably hanging over the edge.
No words are being said as Sam clings to him, as Dean simply lets him.
Dean's posture is stiff and he doesn't know how to relax. So this is it. This is the moment he's been dreading. It's over, the whole apocalypse deal is done and somehow they made it out alive. He knows it's never gonna be over entirely, if there's no demon to send back to hell, then there's a werewolf to shoot, a vampire to behead or a zombie to stake.
For him it's over anyway.
He knows that Sam said in the past that he wasn't interested in going back to college, but that was before everything changed. That was back when Sam was on a mission to find Jessica's killer, on a mission to prove Dad wrong and not go darkside, on a mission to save the world. Now all that's done and Sam needs to find a new purpose in life.
It takes Dean by surprise when Sam's arm curls around his waist. He can feel Sam nuzzle the back of his neck while he keeps pressing against Dean. Dean wants to scoot away to give them space, to give himself space, but it looks as if Sam's having none of that. His grip only tightens.
"You know I'm not going anywhere, right?" Sam says.
Sometimes Dean hates how much of a fucking mind reader Sam can be.
He doesn't comment, feels like there's nothing to say. On the one hand he wants to beg Sam to stay with him, on the other hand, he doesn't want to guilt trip him into throwing away a second chance at a different life. Only because of his condition.
"I'm sure I could stay with Bobby for a while," Dean suggests. "Until I got back on my feet."
Sam snorts. He shoves a hand under Dean's shirt, just like this. As if this were the most normal thing after you almost died because you got caught between sides during an apocalyptic war and after your brother was turned into a cripple.
But maybe touching is the only way to deal with this right now.
"There goes my chance to settle down with you, have 2.5 kids, a dog and a house with a white picket fence. Because you would rather settle down with Bobby than me. I'm hurt, Dean." Sam mocks, his tone amused and friendly, his breath warm against the back of Dean's neck. "There's no getting rid of me, no matter how hard you try."
There's more silence. Dean doesn't know what to say, a million thoughts racing through his mind all at once at a speed that makes his head spin. The touch of Sam's large hand on his stomach feels good, it's comforting because it's familiar in a situation where nothing is as it used to be. Sam's hand wanders from his stomach to his chest, stroking softly. Dean relaxes under the soothing sensation and when Sam kisses his neck, he lets him without protesting.
He can't tell for how long they lie there. The darkness makes it hard to tell. There's no fading sunlight to indicate the passing of the day, no stealing glance to a watch. This is weird and even though Dean grew up with having to constantly change and adapt, new towns, new schools, new everything, he knows he'll have a hard time dealing with this.
Sam keeps ghosting his fingers over Dean's skin, keeps placing soft butterfly kisses on his neck and throat and shoulders. It's making Dean sleepy, that and the goddamn darkness. He places a hand on top of Sam's and then interlaces their fingers, simply holding softly.
More minutes pass without either of them speaking. Sam pulls him closer then and whispers, "You know whatever happens, I'm not leaving you, right? We're in this together, Dean. Have been since day one. I have no idea what's to come and what's gonna happen in the future and probably things will be a little rough on the way, but I know, we're gonna go through it all together."
Dean thinks for a moment, thinks hard about the things Sam just said. He wants to believe it, wants to believe it so bad that Sam's not gonna get tired of staying with him, taking care of him, but he's not sure he can do that. Who knows, maybe he'll have to see what the future brings.
Once more Sam kisses his throat and before he says, "I never thought we would make it out alive. I- I thought I'd lose you. Or that I would die. But look at us. We're here. Alive. Bobby's alive. And it's finally fucking over. I still got you. That's all I need to be happy, Dean."
Dean doesn't trust his voice to cooperate, doesn't really know how to say it either. Not with his mind still so crazy, not with still being so confused by this whole situation and everything that happened.
However, there's one thing that always has been and will always be true, no matter what. That's all I need, too.