New ficlet: Set me as a seal [Sam + Dean, S9, 900 words, R for violence]
Dean’s hands were steady on the gun as he advanced toward Sam’s room. His breathing was calm, his footsteps careful and quiet.
The bunker was a silent witness as Dean crept through its halls. Generations of secret knowledge had soaked into its walls until the foundations were sodden with power. Dean imagined he could feel it flowing around him as he wormed his way through its veins. Dean was a bullet heading straight toward the last true Man of Letters. The bunker merely observed; it knew not to interfere with an experiment. It was a fitting monument to a once-magnificent culture. It would make a good tomb, too. Maybe today.
Dean took a deep breath as he rounded the last turn. Clarity pervaded him, burning away his hesitation like a tumor under a laser. He’d been a coward, letting an enemy grow strong with what he drained out of his brother. Dean had set a table with 100% Sam on the menu, and handed the hungry guest of honor a napkin. Zeke might be content to bide his time a little longer, but Dean had no illusions. The instant he tried to tell Sam the truth, he’d be talking to Zeke instead. Sam couldn’t help him anymore-Dean had seen to that. This was Dean’s mess to clean up.
There was only one real option. Dean swung around the door frame, his favorite gun raised.
Only the shock of staring down the barrel of Sam’s favorite gun halted Dean from shooting on the spot. The man aiming the gun looked just like Sam.
“I should have known,” the man said.
“Sam?”
“‘Watch out for Sammy,’ huh? Doesn’t it get a bit old, Dean?” Sam. Despite everything, his eyes looked sad. Like he saw through to Dean’s weakness, to the price Dean was paying to construct a false idol out of his brother’s skin and bones, taping it together with pieces of his own soul, bargained away a bit at a time. Possession, memory wipes, collateral damage. Lies.
“Don’t you just want to stop?” Sam asked.
Dean wanted to stop. More than anything, he wanted to stop. “I have to do this, Sam.”
Sam looked at him, his gun expertly trained on Dean’s face. He wasn’t going to waste his time watching Dean bleed out on the floor, if it came to that. The bunker absorbed the endless seconds between them, filing them away. Data points for no one to read.
“No, Dean. You don’t.” Sam turned his gun around and fired straight through his own heart.
--
Sam was bleeding out on the floor. He was gasping for breath, hands automatically trying to hold his blood inside, even as it pumped in forceful gushes between his fingers.
Dean had had his knife out before Sam even finished falling. His eyes had watched Sam recoil as if in slow motion. Sam had arced away gracefully, the long length of him curving in a crescent as he fell. He wasn’t a god toppling, he was a messiah giving himself away. Dean’s hand had gripped the hilt of the knife tight and sure as he fell to his knees at Sam’s side.
Dean ripped Sam’s hands away unceremoniously. Sam was beyond any kind of earthly measure; the fact that he still had enough strength to hold his hands anywhere at all was testament to the fact that unearthly forces had been upgrading his meatsuit until it wasn’t exactly street-legal anymore. Nice to know Dean had been right about that, even if Sam had to eat a bullet to prove it. Dean cut open Sam’s shirt and hoped Sam’s souped-up chassis would be enough.
Dean placed his knife against Sam’s skin, Sam’s tattoo and bullet hole forming an unholy trinity with the point of the blade. Sam caught Dean’s wrist with his hand. Dean’s heart lightened to feel the slight strength in his grip. Sam was weak, but he was fighting. Even with Zeke’s power turned toward healing Sam’s mortal wound, Sam was going to have to fight like hell to keep Zeke submerged for the time this was going to take.
Dean’s hand itched to continue-the timing of this had to be perfect. They were playing Russian roulette with Sam’s life against an age-old being. But Sam deserved to know.
“Imma pull a ‘Cas’,” Dean said, hoping like hell Sam would know what he meant and Zeke wouldn't.
“Duh,” Sam gasped. Flecks of blood and taut lines of pain distorted his bitchy expression--clearly we had exactly the same plan you moron--but it was there. Under everything, Sam was there. Dean was unworthy of the moment.
Sam seemed to agree. “I--,” he choked, “Fucking--mad.”
“Good.” Dean’s grin was so full of love it was almost feral. An angry Sam was a Sam he knew. Most important, an angry Sam was a Sam that was gonna live through this.
Dean started to carve. The lines of the angel-banishing symbol bled with his brother’s blood, obscuring the pattern, making Dean's canvas slippery and imperfect. Good thing Dean had some expertise in close knife work.
The light of Zeke leaving Sam’s body forever blanched all the walls of the bunker an unnatural blue white. The newest Men of Letters wrote in a bright and bloody ink, and the bunker filled itself with their story.
END
The bunker was a silent witness as Dean crept through its halls. Generations of secret knowledge had soaked into its walls until the foundations were sodden with power. Dean imagined he could feel it flowing around him as he wormed his way through its veins. Dean was a bullet heading straight toward the last true Man of Letters. The bunker merely observed; it knew not to interfere with an experiment. It was a fitting monument to a once-magnificent culture. It would make a good tomb, too. Maybe today.
Dean took a deep breath as he rounded the last turn. Clarity pervaded him, burning away his hesitation like a tumor under a laser. He’d been a coward, letting an enemy grow strong with what he drained out of his brother. Dean had set a table with 100% Sam on the menu, and handed the hungry guest of honor a napkin. Zeke might be content to bide his time a little longer, but Dean had no illusions. The instant he tried to tell Sam the truth, he’d be talking to Zeke instead. Sam couldn’t help him anymore-Dean had seen to that. This was Dean’s mess to clean up.
There was only one real option. Dean swung around the door frame, his favorite gun raised.
Only the shock of staring down the barrel of Sam’s favorite gun halted Dean from shooting on the spot. The man aiming the gun looked just like Sam.
“I should have known,” the man said.
“Sam?”
“‘Watch out for Sammy,’ huh? Doesn’t it get a bit old, Dean?” Sam. Despite everything, his eyes looked sad. Like he saw through to Dean’s weakness, to the price Dean was paying to construct a false idol out of his brother’s skin and bones, taping it together with pieces of his own soul, bargained away a bit at a time. Possession, memory wipes, collateral damage. Lies.
“Don’t you just want to stop?” Sam asked.
Dean wanted to stop. More than anything, he wanted to stop. “I have to do this, Sam.”
Sam looked at him, his gun expertly trained on Dean’s face. He wasn’t going to waste his time watching Dean bleed out on the floor, if it came to that. The bunker absorbed the endless seconds between them, filing them away. Data points for no one to read.
“No, Dean. You don’t.” Sam turned his gun around and fired straight through his own heart.
--
Sam was bleeding out on the floor. He was gasping for breath, hands automatically trying to hold his blood inside, even as it pumped in forceful gushes between his fingers.
Dean had had his knife out before Sam even finished falling. His eyes had watched Sam recoil as if in slow motion. Sam had arced away gracefully, the long length of him curving in a crescent as he fell. He wasn’t a god toppling, he was a messiah giving himself away. Dean’s hand had gripped the hilt of the knife tight and sure as he fell to his knees at Sam’s side.
Dean ripped Sam’s hands away unceremoniously. Sam was beyond any kind of earthly measure; the fact that he still had enough strength to hold his hands anywhere at all was testament to the fact that unearthly forces had been upgrading his meatsuit until it wasn’t exactly street-legal anymore. Nice to know Dean had been right about that, even if Sam had to eat a bullet to prove it. Dean cut open Sam’s shirt and hoped Sam’s souped-up chassis would be enough.
Dean placed his knife against Sam’s skin, Sam’s tattoo and bullet hole forming an unholy trinity with the point of the blade. Sam caught Dean’s wrist with his hand. Dean’s heart lightened to feel the slight strength in his grip. Sam was weak, but he was fighting. Even with Zeke’s power turned toward healing Sam’s mortal wound, Sam was going to have to fight like hell to keep Zeke submerged for the time this was going to take.
Dean’s hand itched to continue-the timing of this had to be perfect. They were playing Russian roulette with Sam’s life against an age-old being. But Sam deserved to know.
“Imma pull a ‘Cas’,” Dean said, hoping like hell Sam would know what he meant and Zeke wouldn't.
“Duh,” Sam gasped. Flecks of blood and taut lines of pain distorted his bitchy expression--clearly we had exactly the same plan you moron--but it was there. Under everything, Sam was there. Dean was unworthy of the moment.
Sam seemed to agree. “I--,” he choked, “Fucking--mad.”
“Good.” Dean’s grin was so full of love it was almost feral. An angry Sam was a Sam he knew. Most important, an angry Sam was a Sam that was gonna live through this.
Dean started to carve. The lines of the angel-banishing symbol bled with his brother’s blood, obscuring the pattern, making Dean's canvas slippery and imperfect. Good thing Dean had some expertise in close knife work.
The light of Zeke leaving Sam’s body forever blanched all the walls of the bunker an unnatural blue white. The newest Men of Letters wrote in a bright and bloody ink, and the bunker filled itself with their story.
END