Supernatural fic: Mortal Coil 1/1 [PG-13] Dean - 6.06 coda
Title: Mortal Coil
Rating: PG-13 for canon violence
Characters: Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.06
Notes: Coda to 6.06. Dean POV.
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take.
This is the companion to the Sam POV I wrote earlier in the week.
Yes, I've seen the previews and sneak peaks. This may be somewhat informed by them because I can't unsee something, but I don't think it spoils for anything.
11/04/10 09:28:01 PM
Mortal Coil
If Alistair had taught Dean anything down there in Hell, it was to recognize breaking points. He'd picked it up with uncanny quickness - the ability to tell when a screaming soul under his hands was ready to shatter into a thousand broken pieces...
Sometimes, like his mentor, he'd stop just short of it, stretch out the moment.
Often, he just dealt the final crippling blow, with no remorse, and even some pleasure.
Dean knew breaking points.
He even recognized his own.
For a few seconds he saw it coming, reached it... and with deliberation did not hold himself back from breaking through.
It had been a long time since he'd felt flesh crush under his hands, heard the distinctive snap of bone under calculated blows.
The... thing he battered went unconscious and limp, but the rage beating didn't stop on a dime. There was too much impetus behind it. To much loss, too much pain.
It was a raw kind of pain he hadn't felt in a very long time.
A little less than a year.
Looking down at the thing that looked like his brother, Dean wanted to keep beating, and smashing... the well of loss and pain he felt, it was as if the ground had opened up a second time and swallowed Sam again. Part of him wanted to keep going until this thing looked like Dean had looked, felt like he'd felt...
The skin was split and abraded over his knuckles.
Finally, Dean stopped.
The thing was every bit as heavy as Sam, stupidly heavy and awkward and impossible to carry, yet Dean's arms knew exactly how to do it. Knew how to scoop, and shift weight, and use leverage to get the whole package into the Impala so he could get out of Veritas' home before the cops showed, looking for a lady reporter. Those dismembered bodies would be damn hard to explain.
The thought of putting a bullet in the back of that familiarly shaped skull did dance through his mind. He didn't, though. Whatever it was, it would probably just come back.
Dean's arms knew how to gather the long, heavy limbs out out of the car, and carry the weight into a room where he could tie it up.
That might not work either but so far, the only thing it had done that he could put his finger on was lie, and smirk.
Oh, and let him get turned into a bloodsucking freak.
Unbidden, the thought materialized from nowhere - was that what Sammy's thirst for demon blood had been like? Dean remembered the way Sam had begged them to chain him up, that time they'd faced the horseman, Famine. The way Sam had looked... that was how Dean had felt, for a relatively brief eternity.
He shook his head sharply to dislodge the train of thinking. Went to the bathroom and washed his hands, watching Sam's blood... no, the thing's blood, wash down the drain.
He couldn't let himself think of it as Sam.
And yet...
The quiet in the room was heavy, and Dean didn't even have the slightest urge to call Bobby. Lisa... that door was closed. Whatever he could explain... she'd made it clear enough. He didn't blame her a bit, but it hurt like having something important, like a liver, ripped out bleeding.
But not like his heart.
His heart was a howling empty hole and had been for a year. Briefly, when he'd seen Sam - the thing - the first time, now and then after that... when they were actually working, it was almost as if Sam was really... had never....
Yeah, things had been off from the jump. But, and this was the worst part, not everything.
Not everything.
Dean pulled the whiskey out of his bag and uncapped it, sending a cold glare towards the motionless figure he'd trussed up.
Then, he screwed the cap back on.
The slump of those stupidly wide shoulders...
It made something run like a sick thrill along the back of Dean's neck.
Why, he wondered, why hadn't it fought back? Why had it just accepted the beat down?
Had to be a trick.
Dean sloshed the amber liquid around in the bottle, almost absently. He'd been drinking a lot lately. Had his reasons, hell knew.
He watched the motionless figure.
Unconscious, it had felt so familiar. The weight... okay, it was denser. The planes of muscle under clothing had been flatter, harder. More sharply cut. But it was... it was Sam.
His brother.
Dean set the bottle down on the dresser and flexed abraded hands. Because, his hands had already told him.
It's Sam.
Dean could have been a mechanic.
He was a killer.
His hands were smart, in the flesh and bone smart, the way some people, stupidly tall freaks of nature for example, were smart in the head area. Dean wasn't stupid, but his genius wasn't in abstracts. His genius, as Alistair had delighted in discovering, was in his fingers, his palms, his wrists, arms, shoulders, waist, hips, knees, feet. When cutting, his skill wasn't in the blade, it moved through his posture, his balance, every inch of him.
He'd felt skin mash and bone crunch.
It was Sam.
It couldn't be, of course. Sam would never do that! Never watch Dean get turned into a freaking monster and just watch!
Sam would never. Ever.
This thing... he hated it so much for the travesty it made of his brother. His brother who had jumped! not fallen, into the freaking Cage at the bottom of Hell to save the world.
To save Dean.
To make it right.
And what had come back was... this.
For a moment, the rage boiled up again, and his hand clenched into fists, his body leaned to move forward, to...
But his hands had told him.
It's Sam.
He didn't look at the whiskey bottle any more.
It couldn't be Sam.
Sam would never do that.
But.
What... if...
Down in the deep dark howling emptiness at the pit of Dean Winchester's soul, something twitched.
In the set of his shoulders something invisible, undefinable, adjusted.
In green eyes that could be both cold and incendiary at the same moment, things focused.
It was impossible, but what if, what if, some evil son of a bitch in the freaking universe had figured out one final, one freaking more way to screw over the Brothers Winchester?
Unlikely?
Oh, it was almost a ironclad lead cinch.
Take Sam's sacrifice and turn it into a twisted joke.
Take the bond between them and wrap it around their necks and choke them with it.
Rip them apart.
Okay, so maybe it was a little meglomaniacal to think the universe had the freaking attention-span for that, maybe it was assuming way too much to imagine that anyone even gave a rat's ass. That someone in the universe cared enough.
It wasn't as if every time they turned around something wasn't coming right for them...
Oh freaking hell.
None of that mattered really. Because his hands... his hands told him.
It's Sam.
Castiel had better freaking answer the damn phone this time.
Dean had work to do.
~
10:23:53 PM
~
♦ other season 6 codas
Rating: PG-13 for canon violence
Characters: Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.06
Notes: Coda to 6.06. Dean POV.
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take.
This is the companion to the Sam POV I wrote earlier in the week.
Yes, I've seen the previews and sneak peaks. This may be somewhat informed by them because I can't unsee something, but I don't think it spoils for anything.
11/04/10 09:28:01 PM
Mortal Coil
If Alistair had taught Dean anything down there in Hell, it was to recognize breaking points. He'd picked it up with uncanny quickness - the ability to tell when a screaming soul under his hands was ready to shatter into a thousand broken pieces...
Sometimes, like his mentor, he'd stop just short of it, stretch out the moment.
Often, he just dealt the final crippling blow, with no remorse, and even some pleasure.
Dean knew breaking points.
He even recognized his own.
For a few seconds he saw it coming, reached it... and with deliberation did not hold himself back from breaking through.
It had been a long time since he'd felt flesh crush under his hands, heard the distinctive snap of bone under calculated blows.
The... thing he battered went unconscious and limp, but the rage beating didn't stop on a dime. There was too much impetus behind it. To much loss, too much pain.
It was a raw kind of pain he hadn't felt in a very long time.
A little less than a year.
Looking down at the thing that looked like his brother, Dean wanted to keep beating, and smashing... the well of loss and pain he felt, it was as if the ground had opened up a second time and swallowed Sam again. Part of him wanted to keep going until this thing looked like Dean had looked, felt like he'd felt...
The skin was split and abraded over his knuckles.
Finally, Dean stopped.
The thing was every bit as heavy as Sam, stupidly heavy and awkward and impossible to carry, yet Dean's arms knew exactly how to do it. Knew how to scoop, and shift weight, and use leverage to get the whole package into the Impala so he could get out of Veritas' home before the cops showed, looking for a lady reporter. Those dismembered bodies would be damn hard to explain.
The thought of putting a bullet in the back of that familiarly shaped skull did dance through his mind. He didn't, though. Whatever it was, it would probably just come back.
Dean's arms knew how to gather the long, heavy limbs out out of the car, and carry the weight into a room where he could tie it up.
That might not work either but so far, the only thing it had done that he could put his finger on was lie, and smirk.
Oh, and let him get turned into a bloodsucking freak.
Unbidden, the thought materialized from nowhere - was that what Sammy's thirst for demon blood had been like? Dean remembered the way Sam had begged them to chain him up, that time they'd faced the horseman, Famine. The way Sam had looked... that was how Dean had felt, for a relatively brief eternity.
He shook his head sharply to dislodge the train of thinking. Went to the bathroom and washed his hands, watching Sam's blood... no, the thing's blood, wash down the drain.
He couldn't let himself think of it as Sam.
And yet...
The quiet in the room was heavy, and Dean didn't even have the slightest urge to call Bobby. Lisa... that door was closed. Whatever he could explain... she'd made it clear enough. He didn't blame her a bit, but it hurt like having something important, like a liver, ripped out bleeding.
But not like his heart.
His heart was a howling empty hole and had been for a year. Briefly, when he'd seen Sam - the thing - the first time, now and then after that... when they were actually working, it was almost as if Sam was really... had never....
Yeah, things had been off from the jump. But, and this was the worst part, not everything.
Not everything.
Dean pulled the whiskey out of his bag and uncapped it, sending a cold glare towards the motionless figure he'd trussed up.
Then, he screwed the cap back on.
The slump of those stupidly wide shoulders...
It made something run like a sick thrill along the back of Dean's neck.
Why, he wondered, why hadn't it fought back? Why had it just accepted the beat down?
Had to be a trick.
Dean sloshed the amber liquid around in the bottle, almost absently. He'd been drinking a lot lately. Had his reasons, hell knew.
He watched the motionless figure.
Unconscious, it had felt so familiar. The weight... okay, it was denser. The planes of muscle under clothing had been flatter, harder. More sharply cut. But it was... it was Sam.
His brother.
Dean set the bottle down on the dresser and flexed abraded hands. Because, his hands had already told him.
It's Sam.
Dean could have been a mechanic.
He was a killer.
His hands were smart, in the flesh and bone smart, the way some people, stupidly tall freaks of nature for example, were smart in the head area. Dean wasn't stupid, but his genius wasn't in abstracts. His genius, as Alistair had delighted in discovering, was in his fingers, his palms, his wrists, arms, shoulders, waist, hips, knees, feet. When cutting, his skill wasn't in the blade, it moved through his posture, his balance, every inch of him.
He'd felt skin mash and bone crunch.
It was Sam.
It couldn't be, of course. Sam would never do that! Never watch Dean get turned into a freaking monster and just watch!
Sam would never. Ever.
This thing... he hated it so much for the travesty it made of his brother. His brother who had jumped! not fallen, into the freaking Cage at the bottom of Hell to save the world.
To save Dean.
To make it right.
And what had come back was... this.
For a moment, the rage boiled up again, and his hand clenched into fists, his body leaned to move forward, to...
But his hands had told him.
It's Sam.
He didn't look at the whiskey bottle any more.
It couldn't be Sam.
Sam would never do that.
But.
What... if...
Down in the deep dark howling emptiness at the pit of Dean Winchester's soul, something twitched.
In the set of his shoulders something invisible, undefinable, adjusted.
In green eyes that could be both cold and incendiary at the same moment, things focused.
It was impossible, but what if, what if, some evil son of a bitch in the freaking universe had figured out one final, one freaking more way to screw over the Brothers Winchester?
Unlikely?
Oh, it was almost a ironclad lead cinch.
Take Sam's sacrifice and turn it into a twisted joke.
Take the bond between them and wrap it around their necks and choke them with it.
Rip them apart.
Okay, so maybe it was a little meglomaniacal to think the universe had the freaking attention-span for that, maybe it was assuming way too much to imagine that anyone even gave a rat's ass. That someone in the universe cared enough.
It wasn't as if every time they turned around something wasn't coming right for them...
Oh freaking hell.
None of that mattered really. Because his hands... his hands told him.
It's Sam.
Castiel had better freaking answer the damn phone this time.
Dean had work to do.
~
10:23:53 PM
~
♦ other season 6 codas