Christmas Ficlets: Moths and DST
And I think these are the rest of the timestamp ones. Once again, no literary merit. :)
Sam and Chet discuss matters - timestamp for Moths on the Mirror
The escape happens while Chet's still off sick. He feels vindicated. He always knew Harrison was just a little too wonderful to be true. No one else saw it, but Chet did. Guys like that, they're the worst. At least Chet's an honest bastard. He has his faults, just like anyone. But he doesn't pretend to be better than the rest.
"It was his brother," says Lauren when she calls. "His brother. He was there all that time. It's so… creepy. No wonder Dean had issues."
"Twisted piece of work," Chet says, and Lauren pauses, maybe not sure which Winchester Chet's talking about.
"The FBI are probably gonna want to talk to you," she says. "They've been here talking to everyone. But I don't think they've got any idea where they've gone."
Chet would like to say he doesn't care where they've gone but it makes him edgy, thinking of Dean and his brother out there somewhere. It's a threat that doesn't have to be spoken or even hinted at. It's just there. Crazy Dean and his capable, crazier brother.
As the weeks go by, Chet relaxes a little. He goes back to Red Haven, back to his job. Talks to the FBI a couple of times but doesn't give them anything they don't already have: Dean's a whackjob and his brother's worse. He tries to make a point of catching the news, just in case Dean's face should appear. He even grows to miss Dean a little, or rather, misses his dazed compliance and slack cocksucker lips.
Weeks become months and the Winchesters become part of Red Haven history. There's a new admittance to Red Haven, a young guy with sharp cheekbones and legs that go on 'til next week, who just so happens to have a thing about setting stuff on fire. Chet watches him in the rec room and thinks about breaking him in, one more animal brought to heel.
His weekend off, he heads back into the town, to his crappy apartment and take-out pizza. Lets himself in, drops his keys on the side as he flicks through the junk mail for the week. He kicks the door shut and dumps the letters in the trash.
"Hey," says Sam, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. "Sorry I took so long getting back to you. But Dean's been in a pretty bad way and I haven't really been able to leave him for long before."
For such a big fucker, Winchester's quick. Quicker than Chet. He's between Chet and the door before Chet's even figured out what's happening. Chet swings about to launch a fist at him but there's a sharp scratch at the back of his neck and suddenly his body starts getting heavier. His knees wobble beneath him like the floor's turned to water.
"What've you…"
"Just a mild muscle relaxant," says Sam and his voice is soothing. Reassuring. Except Chet's sinking to the ground in front of him and he knows this is not good. In no way is this good. "Don't worry, you're not gonna lose consciousness. You'll be awake for this."
Chet crashes face first onto the floorboards, slurring out words that won’t take shape. He's aware of Sam moving around behind him and then Sam's hands are at his ankles and he's bodily dragged into the main space of his apartment. Sam hooks a foot under him, into his stomach and kicks him over onto his back. The breath is slammed out of Chet's body and he can only lie there, looking up at Sam.
In that second, he realises just how fake Harrison was. A sweet, prim, slightly wussy guy. That was Harrison. That's what Sam pretended to be.
Sam's lips are tight and thin. He's so still when he looks down at Chet. Guy doesn't even so much as twitch. That's not natural. Not human.
"So," Sam says. "Look at you. Helpless, scared… not quite sure what I'm gonna do to you. Make you think of anyone? Like my brother, maybe?"
Chet blinks at him, sluggish and slow. His body seems to have sunk away, only his heart is jumping in his chest. He tries to drag a scream from his throat - there's a couple living next door, he can hear the muffled chatter of their TV. They'd hear him. They could at least call the cops. If Chet could only get this scream out. He manages a dull moan when Sam pulls a short, thick blade. Sam shows it to him and leans in close to watch the look in his eye.
There's sweat pooling in Chet's pits. When Sam reaches down and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, Chet feels his bladder go and there's a rush of piss down his thigh. Sam doesn't even seem to notice. He's all caught up on the knife.
"You raped him. All the rest of 'em? They were just stupid. Thought he needed fixing. You…" Sam taps the point of the blade on the curved flesh of Chet's belly. Its coolness cuts through the hazy warmth. "You used him like he was yours." Sam lets out a shuddering breath and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "You hurt him. Nobody hurts him. Nobody."
The blade see-saws back and forth and then Sam jerks his wrist and Chet feels it go in. He hisses, eyes rolling back in his skull, but it's more in shock than pain. It doesn't hurt. There's only a dull buzz of it sliding through his skin. He can't move his head to see how deep the cut is but he feels the slipperiness of his blood.
"I was gonna kill you," says Sam, eyes fixed on the knife. "I wanted to. You have no idea. Every time he- God, I wanted to kill you." His gaze flicks up to Chet. "I'm not going to. You might still die, but I'm not gonna kill you."
He gets to his feet and snags a towel from the kitchen which he smoothes over the blade until it's dark with Chet's blood. Then he folds it carefully inwards and waves it towards Chet.
"This is for Dean. I figure it'll go some way to helping him sleep better at night."
Blood keeps trickling down Chet's sides. He can feel it gathering around him, a slow steady bleed-out. He can still hear the TV in the next room - they're at home. But he can't even bang his heels on the floor, his legs just don't respond.
"Maybe the muscle relaxant'll wear off before you bleed to death," says Sam. He shrugs and smiles, a Harrison smile, all dimples and bright teeth. "Maybe it won't. I'd love to wait it out with you but I gotta get back to my brother."
Sam waves as he leaves. He closes the door with a quiet click and Chet hears his footsteps on the stairwell. The TV goes on and on next-door and the blood keeps coming.
:::
Sam tries to help Dean deal with the effects of his time at Red Haven - another timestamp for Moths on the Mirror
It's two days before Sam dares gives his brother any medication. He knows Dean needs it. Can't let someone spend a year on a cocktail of drugs then yank 'em off 'em without any grace period at all. Sam's read the books, done the research. He got Dean out of Red Haven but the job doesn't end there. Dean's damaged in ways Sam is only just beginning to understand and before he can fix any of those problems, he has to get Dean safely and properly off his meds.
Still, doesn't mean he approves of shovelling yet more drugs down Dean's throat.
He counts the pills into the palm of his hand, glancing again at the printouts he made to check he's getting the dosage right. He kinda worries that Henrickson's gonna be able to track 'em just by the trail of drugstores that Sam's going to have to raid. Can't be avoided. Sam'll deal with that problem when it comes around.
Dean's asleep again. He sleeps a lot. Selfishly, Sam prefers it like that. It hurts too much to see Dean's blank gaze, to look in his eyes and know that his mind's working away feverishly on something that Sam can't even start to make out.
Sitting on the edge of the bed beside Dean, Sam indulges himself briefly by letting his fingertips skate over the plane of Dean's chest. Then he catches his shoulder and shakes him gently. He smiles as Dean's lashes flutter and he makes a soft, disgruntled noise.
"Hey," he says. He holds the pills towards him. "You need to take these. They'll-"
He cuts off because Dean has already scooped the tablets from his palm and stuck them in his mouth. Sam blinks as Dean looks expectantly at him. Dean's eyes are still bleary with sleep and Sam hopes he's not seeing Harrison instead. Harrison's gone and he's not coming back. Sam can do this without him.
"You're supposed to have a little glass of water for me," Dean says. "I like to take my meds with water. Sometimes they stick in my throat if I don't have water."
Sam takes a deep breath.
"Don't you want to know what the pills I just gave you are for?" he asks, trying to sound reasonable.
Dean goes on looking at him and Sam sighs, gets off the bed and fetches him a glass of water. He hands it to Dean and waits. Dean takes a small, almost polite sip of water from the glass and then hands it back. The now familiar-urge to go back to Red Haven and smash a few things is running at full speed.
When Dean starts to settle back down on the bed, Sam grabs at his shoulder.
"Stop it," he hisses. Dean's eyes widen in confusion and Sam lets his hand drop. He rakes his fingers through his hair, scraping the strands out of his face. "You don't have to take pills just because I give 'em to you. You can be a stubborn asshole about it. You can refuse. You can throw them across the room."
Dean goes on staring at him for a moment and then slowly opens his mouth and lifts his tongue to show Sam the tablets under there. He spits them out and offers them to Sam.
It's crazy how Dean being so blankly obedient makes Sam feel so fucking out of his depth. He glances at the pills, glistening wetly in Dean's palm, then looks up at Dean, eyebrow raised.
"You said they weren't helping," Dean says. "You said I had to stop taking 'em."
The desire to smash things up in Red Haven develops into a fully-fledged daydream about burning the entire building to the ground.
:::
A brief piece from Dean's pov from Dark Side of the Moon (fairly graphic wincest)
Okay, so not that Dean would ever tell him, but Sam's kinda become Dean's god these last few weeks. It makes him flush and makes his belly squirm to think it but it's true. The world is a flat grey desert, like endless, silent static and then Sam will touch Dean and there will literally be sparks, silver-gold firecrackers. The whole goddamn world will spring into life just with the brush of Sam's fingertips over the nape of Dean's neck.
And yeah, Sam the god moves in mysterious ways because Dean has no frickin' clue where his brother is, what he's doing but he waits for him, feeling like a goddamn flower straining toward sunlight. Fuck it, he's comparing himself to a flower. This is what needing Sam so much it's a constant, physical ache has done to him.
There's this worry deep down inside Dean that maybe he doesn't exist when Sam's not touching him. Like he fades away to nothing and Sam has to reach into the space where he used to be and bring him back. And the fullness of feeling Sam's cock deep inside him, so full he can't move, can't even breathe - that convinces him he still exists.
He knows he probably comes across as a whore, making fucking ridiculous whimpery noises, and he hopes to God Sam isn't embarrassed or humiliated by him but he's totally helpless when it comes to Sam. He spreads himself wide and wraps himself up in Sam, gives everything he has to Sam because Sam will keep him real, gives the world shape and form and substance, gives Dean a reason to be.
The shower hums over his skin and Sam's fingertips slide through the water, pressing bruises into the flesh that Dean wishes he could see. And sometimes it's Sam's tongue and even the thought of that, let alone the slick hot glide of the sensation, makes Dean's cock thicken between his legs.
He wants to kiss Sam but Sam decides when he wants kissing and when he wants more and that's fine, dammit that is just fine. Dean wants whatever Sam wants so long as it involves Sam's body pressing against his. He can feel the sharp points of Sam's hipbones, the corded muscle in the arm Sam snakes about his belly.
Every damn thing he can feel means so much more to him when it's all he has.
Sam's fingers knead at his belly and it sets up this high, frantic shivering in Dean. And he knows that trembling's not gonna stop until he's got Sam fucking him into the wall.
He can't go by Sam's expressions or by the way he says things, can't judge the situation like that, but there's a greediness in the way Sam touches him that makes Dean believe that maybe Sam's spinning out of control just like he is. It feels wrong to hope that Sam's in as deep as Dean is, but Dean hopes it all the same. If he could see or hear, he'd play it properly, do everything he could to make sure that he's exactly what Sam wants.
Or maybe, maybe it's better that Dean's forced into playing this one honestly. It's Sammy after all.
Sam and Chet discuss matters - timestamp for Moths on the Mirror
The escape happens while Chet's still off sick. He feels vindicated. He always knew Harrison was just a little too wonderful to be true. No one else saw it, but Chet did. Guys like that, they're the worst. At least Chet's an honest bastard. He has his faults, just like anyone. But he doesn't pretend to be better than the rest.
"It was his brother," says Lauren when she calls. "His brother. He was there all that time. It's so… creepy. No wonder Dean had issues."
"Twisted piece of work," Chet says, and Lauren pauses, maybe not sure which Winchester Chet's talking about.
"The FBI are probably gonna want to talk to you," she says. "They've been here talking to everyone. But I don't think they've got any idea where they've gone."
Chet would like to say he doesn't care where they've gone but it makes him edgy, thinking of Dean and his brother out there somewhere. It's a threat that doesn't have to be spoken or even hinted at. It's just there. Crazy Dean and his capable, crazier brother.
As the weeks go by, Chet relaxes a little. He goes back to Red Haven, back to his job. Talks to the FBI a couple of times but doesn't give them anything they don't already have: Dean's a whackjob and his brother's worse. He tries to make a point of catching the news, just in case Dean's face should appear. He even grows to miss Dean a little, or rather, misses his dazed compliance and slack cocksucker lips.
Weeks become months and the Winchesters become part of Red Haven history. There's a new admittance to Red Haven, a young guy with sharp cheekbones and legs that go on 'til next week, who just so happens to have a thing about setting stuff on fire. Chet watches him in the rec room and thinks about breaking him in, one more animal brought to heel.
His weekend off, he heads back into the town, to his crappy apartment and take-out pizza. Lets himself in, drops his keys on the side as he flicks through the junk mail for the week. He kicks the door shut and dumps the letters in the trash.
"Hey," says Sam, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. "Sorry I took so long getting back to you. But Dean's been in a pretty bad way and I haven't really been able to leave him for long before."
For such a big fucker, Winchester's quick. Quicker than Chet. He's between Chet and the door before Chet's even figured out what's happening. Chet swings about to launch a fist at him but there's a sharp scratch at the back of his neck and suddenly his body starts getting heavier. His knees wobble beneath him like the floor's turned to water.
"What've you…"
"Just a mild muscle relaxant," says Sam and his voice is soothing. Reassuring. Except Chet's sinking to the ground in front of him and he knows this is not good. In no way is this good. "Don't worry, you're not gonna lose consciousness. You'll be awake for this."
Chet crashes face first onto the floorboards, slurring out words that won’t take shape. He's aware of Sam moving around behind him and then Sam's hands are at his ankles and he's bodily dragged into the main space of his apartment. Sam hooks a foot under him, into his stomach and kicks him over onto his back. The breath is slammed out of Chet's body and he can only lie there, looking up at Sam.
In that second, he realises just how fake Harrison was. A sweet, prim, slightly wussy guy. That was Harrison. That's what Sam pretended to be.
Sam's lips are tight and thin. He's so still when he looks down at Chet. Guy doesn't even so much as twitch. That's not natural. Not human.
"So," Sam says. "Look at you. Helpless, scared… not quite sure what I'm gonna do to you. Make you think of anyone? Like my brother, maybe?"
Chet blinks at him, sluggish and slow. His body seems to have sunk away, only his heart is jumping in his chest. He tries to drag a scream from his throat - there's a couple living next door, he can hear the muffled chatter of their TV. They'd hear him. They could at least call the cops. If Chet could only get this scream out. He manages a dull moan when Sam pulls a short, thick blade. Sam shows it to him and leans in close to watch the look in his eye.
There's sweat pooling in Chet's pits. When Sam reaches down and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, Chet feels his bladder go and there's a rush of piss down his thigh. Sam doesn't even seem to notice. He's all caught up on the knife.
"You raped him. All the rest of 'em? They were just stupid. Thought he needed fixing. You…" Sam taps the point of the blade on the curved flesh of Chet's belly. Its coolness cuts through the hazy warmth. "You used him like he was yours." Sam lets out a shuddering breath and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "You hurt him. Nobody hurts him. Nobody."
The blade see-saws back and forth and then Sam jerks his wrist and Chet feels it go in. He hisses, eyes rolling back in his skull, but it's more in shock than pain. It doesn't hurt. There's only a dull buzz of it sliding through his skin. He can't move his head to see how deep the cut is but he feels the slipperiness of his blood.
"I was gonna kill you," says Sam, eyes fixed on the knife. "I wanted to. You have no idea. Every time he- God, I wanted to kill you." His gaze flicks up to Chet. "I'm not going to. You might still die, but I'm not gonna kill you."
He gets to his feet and snags a towel from the kitchen which he smoothes over the blade until it's dark with Chet's blood. Then he folds it carefully inwards and waves it towards Chet.
"This is for Dean. I figure it'll go some way to helping him sleep better at night."
Blood keeps trickling down Chet's sides. He can feel it gathering around him, a slow steady bleed-out. He can still hear the TV in the next room - they're at home. But he can't even bang his heels on the floor, his legs just don't respond.
"Maybe the muscle relaxant'll wear off before you bleed to death," says Sam. He shrugs and smiles, a Harrison smile, all dimples and bright teeth. "Maybe it won't. I'd love to wait it out with you but I gotta get back to my brother."
Sam waves as he leaves. He closes the door with a quiet click and Chet hears his footsteps on the stairwell. The TV goes on and on next-door and the blood keeps coming.
:::
Sam tries to help Dean deal with the effects of his time at Red Haven - another timestamp for Moths on the Mirror
It's two days before Sam dares gives his brother any medication. He knows Dean needs it. Can't let someone spend a year on a cocktail of drugs then yank 'em off 'em without any grace period at all. Sam's read the books, done the research. He got Dean out of Red Haven but the job doesn't end there. Dean's damaged in ways Sam is only just beginning to understand and before he can fix any of those problems, he has to get Dean safely and properly off his meds.
Still, doesn't mean he approves of shovelling yet more drugs down Dean's throat.
He counts the pills into the palm of his hand, glancing again at the printouts he made to check he's getting the dosage right. He kinda worries that Henrickson's gonna be able to track 'em just by the trail of drugstores that Sam's going to have to raid. Can't be avoided. Sam'll deal with that problem when it comes around.
Dean's asleep again. He sleeps a lot. Selfishly, Sam prefers it like that. It hurts too much to see Dean's blank gaze, to look in his eyes and know that his mind's working away feverishly on something that Sam can't even start to make out.
Sitting on the edge of the bed beside Dean, Sam indulges himself briefly by letting his fingertips skate over the plane of Dean's chest. Then he catches his shoulder and shakes him gently. He smiles as Dean's lashes flutter and he makes a soft, disgruntled noise.
"Hey," he says. He holds the pills towards him. "You need to take these. They'll-"
He cuts off because Dean has already scooped the tablets from his palm and stuck them in his mouth. Sam blinks as Dean looks expectantly at him. Dean's eyes are still bleary with sleep and Sam hopes he's not seeing Harrison instead. Harrison's gone and he's not coming back. Sam can do this without him.
"You're supposed to have a little glass of water for me," Dean says. "I like to take my meds with water. Sometimes they stick in my throat if I don't have water."
Sam takes a deep breath.
"Don't you want to know what the pills I just gave you are for?" he asks, trying to sound reasonable.
Dean goes on looking at him and Sam sighs, gets off the bed and fetches him a glass of water. He hands it to Dean and waits. Dean takes a small, almost polite sip of water from the glass and then hands it back. The now familiar-urge to go back to Red Haven and smash a few things is running at full speed.
When Dean starts to settle back down on the bed, Sam grabs at his shoulder.
"Stop it," he hisses. Dean's eyes widen in confusion and Sam lets his hand drop. He rakes his fingers through his hair, scraping the strands out of his face. "You don't have to take pills just because I give 'em to you. You can be a stubborn asshole about it. You can refuse. You can throw them across the room."
Dean goes on staring at him for a moment and then slowly opens his mouth and lifts his tongue to show Sam the tablets under there. He spits them out and offers them to Sam.
It's crazy how Dean being so blankly obedient makes Sam feel so fucking out of his depth. He glances at the pills, glistening wetly in Dean's palm, then looks up at Dean, eyebrow raised.
"You said they weren't helping," Dean says. "You said I had to stop taking 'em."
The desire to smash things up in Red Haven develops into a fully-fledged daydream about burning the entire building to the ground.
:::
A brief piece from Dean's pov from Dark Side of the Moon (fairly graphic wincest)
Okay, so not that Dean would ever tell him, but Sam's kinda become Dean's god these last few weeks. It makes him flush and makes his belly squirm to think it but it's true. The world is a flat grey desert, like endless, silent static and then Sam will touch Dean and there will literally be sparks, silver-gold firecrackers. The whole goddamn world will spring into life just with the brush of Sam's fingertips over the nape of Dean's neck.
And yeah, Sam the god moves in mysterious ways because Dean has no frickin' clue where his brother is, what he's doing but he waits for him, feeling like a goddamn flower straining toward sunlight. Fuck it, he's comparing himself to a flower. This is what needing Sam so much it's a constant, physical ache has done to him.
There's this worry deep down inside Dean that maybe he doesn't exist when Sam's not touching him. Like he fades away to nothing and Sam has to reach into the space where he used to be and bring him back. And the fullness of feeling Sam's cock deep inside him, so full he can't move, can't even breathe - that convinces him he still exists.
He knows he probably comes across as a whore, making fucking ridiculous whimpery noises, and he hopes to God Sam isn't embarrassed or humiliated by him but he's totally helpless when it comes to Sam. He spreads himself wide and wraps himself up in Sam, gives everything he has to Sam because Sam will keep him real, gives the world shape and form and substance, gives Dean a reason to be.
The shower hums over his skin and Sam's fingertips slide through the water, pressing bruises into the flesh that Dean wishes he could see. And sometimes it's Sam's tongue and even the thought of that, let alone the slick hot glide of the sensation, makes Dean's cock thicken between his legs.
He wants to kiss Sam but Sam decides when he wants kissing and when he wants more and that's fine, dammit that is just fine. Dean wants whatever Sam wants so long as it involves Sam's body pressing against his. He can feel the sharp points of Sam's hipbones, the corded muscle in the arm Sam snakes about his belly.
Every damn thing he can feel means so much more to him when it's all he has.
Sam's fingers knead at his belly and it sets up this high, frantic shivering in Dean. And he knows that trembling's not gonna stop until he's got Sam fucking him into the wall.
He can't go by Sam's expressions or by the way he says things, can't judge the situation like that, but there's a greediness in the way Sam touches him that makes Dean believe that maybe Sam's spinning out of control just like he is. It feels wrong to hope that Sam's in as deep as Dean is, but Dean hopes it all the same. If he could see or hear, he'd play it properly, do everything he could to make sure that he's exactly what Sam wants.
Or maybe, maybe it's better that Dean's forced into playing this one honestly. It's Sammy after all.