New Low (1/1)
Author: myspn_addiction
Title: New Low
Genre: Gen, AU
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warning: Vague Spoiler for Season 6 plot
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I can lay no claims to the sexy boys. Just having fun with them.
Authors Note: Written for prompt 60 by neonchica, in the Writing Between The Lines Dean hc/ Challenge
Summary: Taking Soulless!Sam to a whole new level of evil.
~*~*~
Dean stares at Sam, who has turned back to face him, gleaming pistol in his hand pointed at Dean’s chest.
“Sam, what are you doing?” Dean demands, a little prickle of fear tingling on the back of his neck. He stops short and leans hard on the heavy branch that is his make-shift crutch, trying to ease the pressure on his bloody, torn, left leg.
“This is as far as we go together,” Sam says, and a cold sneer touches his lips. “Actually, this is as far as you go at all. You’re slowing me down with that wound and I’m not carrying you so--”
Without so much as a warning look or word, Sam’s finger squeezes the trigger and muzzles flashes.
The impact of the bullet with his body knocks Dean backwards several feet but he somehow manages to stay on his feet though his crutch falls to the ground.
He holds Sam’s gaze, expression on his face a collage of emotion ranging from shock to pain to confusion to forgiveness. Hand pressed to his chest, Dean ever-so-slowly drops his gaze, finally registering the bright crimson spilling through his fingers, making a path down his grey Henley to his jeans and then onto the lush green grass below.
Once again his eyes rise to meet his brother’s. “You shot me, Sammy.” He doesn’t say again, but the word bounces around the air anyway, clear in its implication.
And then he stumbles, stepping backwards and tripping over his own feet before falling to his knees. He coughs, droplets of blood speckling his lips as tears come to his eyes.
“I can’t believe you shot me.”
Sam’s eyes narrow and he shrugs, lowers the pistol to his side and regards his brother with an expression that can only be described as indifferent.
“Sorry Dean,” he says, sounding anything but. “But when an animal is hurt you put it out of its misery. Though your misery will last a bit longer I’d say. Besides it’s time I moved on.”
He turns away as his brother sways weakly and Dean almost misses the muttered words that follow. “You’re just holding me back from what I could become.”
The words hurt more than the bullet through his lung, and cold tears squeeze past his closed eyelids, making shiny tracks down his face.
“Sam,” he gasps, blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth, and his blood-covered hand trembles as he reaches after his brother’s retreating form. “Sammy, don’t leave me here!”
There is no hesitation in his brother’s stride and Dean doubles over and crumples to the ground, taking the sight like a punch to the gut.
It feels as if there’s a hot knife stuck into the right side of his chest and Dean gulps in a mouthful of air, choking on the blood spilling past his ashy pale lips. The pain doubles, searing through him and the pressure building in his chest is excruciating.
Dean’s breaths grow shallower and his vision wavers, the figure of his brother growing smaller and smaller, dancing and twisting across the clearing.
“Sam,” he tries to call again, but all that comes out is a whimper. His tongue feels thick, his entire body feels impossibly heavy and everything starts to blur and fade to white.
The last thing Dean sees before it all disappears is his brother marching away from him without a backwards glance.
~ * ~ * ~
Dean blinks rapidly, tries to focus his eyes in the dim light of dusk that somehow feels too bright still, and he feebly attempts to raise himself on his elbow. The effort is too much for him and he drops back with a groan of pain, and his body splashes in the large puddle around him that is his own blood.
There is so much of it, dark red, bright red and he is soaked in it, his skin feeling clammy and warm with the slick coating of it. The haze of pain has spread from his brain to his limbs apparently, because when he tries to move his legs, they felt heavy as logs.
Dean sucks in a pained breath, struggles to fill his punctured lung, but the air only makes it worse instead of better. It feels as if there is a red-hot iron fist clenched in his chest and its grasp is tightening by the minute.
“Sammy,” Dean begs again, knows it is useless but tries anyway. He can barely raise his voice to a whisper and makes another attempt with the same result.
The effort drains him and he gives a shudder as he sinks deeper into the relentless arms that hold him tight to the ground. There is only one other person who can help him now and Dean summon the last ounce of fight he has left, and calls his name.
“Cas….”
There is a rushing sound, a gust of light wind and with a rustle of wings Cas is standing over Dean, the soles of his shoes submerged in the injured man’s blood.
“Dean,” he says quickly as concern colors his voice and darkens his eyes. “What happened?”
“Sam,” Dean whispers and allows his eyes to close. “It was Sam. You have to help him Cas. He needs his soul back.”
Cas kneels beside Dean, the knees of his pants drenching instantly, the hem of his trench coat saturated with red. “First I have to help you Dean,” he says quietly, soft and low, eyebrows drawn over troubled eyes. “I’ll get you to Bobby’s.”
And then his hands are on Dean’s shoulder and head and it’s the last thing Dean remembers before the world fades in a flash of white light.
Title: New Low
Genre: Gen, AU
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warning: Vague Spoiler for Season 6 plot
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I can lay no claims to the sexy boys. Just having fun with them.
Authors Note: Written for prompt 60 by neonchica, in the Writing Between The Lines Dean hc/ Challenge
Summary: Taking Soulless!Sam to a whole new level of evil.
~*~*~
Dean stares at Sam, who has turned back to face him, gleaming pistol in his hand pointed at Dean’s chest.
“Sam, what are you doing?” Dean demands, a little prickle of fear tingling on the back of his neck. He stops short and leans hard on the heavy branch that is his make-shift crutch, trying to ease the pressure on his bloody, torn, left leg.
“This is as far as we go together,” Sam says, and a cold sneer touches his lips. “Actually, this is as far as you go at all. You’re slowing me down with that wound and I’m not carrying you so--”
Without so much as a warning look or word, Sam’s finger squeezes the trigger and muzzles flashes.
The impact of the bullet with his body knocks Dean backwards several feet but he somehow manages to stay on his feet though his crutch falls to the ground.
He holds Sam’s gaze, expression on his face a collage of emotion ranging from shock to pain to confusion to forgiveness. Hand pressed to his chest, Dean ever-so-slowly drops his gaze, finally registering the bright crimson spilling through his fingers, making a path down his grey Henley to his jeans and then onto the lush green grass below.
Once again his eyes rise to meet his brother’s. “You shot me, Sammy.” He doesn’t say again, but the word bounces around the air anyway, clear in its implication.
And then he stumbles, stepping backwards and tripping over his own feet before falling to his knees. He coughs, droplets of blood speckling his lips as tears come to his eyes.
“I can’t believe you shot me.”
Sam’s eyes narrow and he shrugs, lowers the pistol to his side and regards his brother with an expression that can only be described as indifferent.
“Sorry Dean,” he says, sounding anything but. “But when an animal is hurt you put it out of its misery. Though your misery will last a bit longer I’d say. Besides it’s time I moved on.”
He turns away as his brother sways weakly and Dean almost misses the muttered words that follow. “You’re just holding me back from what I could become.”
The words hurt more than the bullet through his lung, and cold tears squeeze past his closed eyelids, making shiny tracks down his face.
“Sam,” he gasps, blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth, and his blood-covered hand trembles as he reaches after his brother’s retreating form. “Sammy, don’t leave me here!”
There is no hesitation in his brother’s stride and Dean doubles over and crumples to the ground, taking the sight like a punch to the gut.
It feels as if there’s a hot knife stuck into the right side of his chest and Dean gulps in a mouthful of air, choking on the blood spilling past his ashy pale lips. The pain doubles, searing through him and the pressure building in his chest is excruciating.
Dean’s breaths grow shallower and his vision wavers, the figure of his brother growing smaller and smaller, dancing and twisting across the clearing.
“Sam,” he tries to call again, but all that comes out is a whimper. His tongue feels thick, his entire body feels impossibly heavy and everything starts to blur and fade to white.
The last thing Dean sees before it all disappears is his brother marching away from him without a backwards glance.
~ * ~ * ~
Dean blinks rapidly, tries to focus his eyes in the dim light of dusk that somehow feels too bright still, and he feebly attempts to raise himself on his elbow. The effort is too much for him and he drops back with a groan of pain, and his body splashes in the large puddle around him that is his own blood.
There is so much of it, dark red, bright red and he is soaked in it, his skin feeling clammy and warm with the slick coating of it. The haze of pain has spread from his brain to his limbs apparently, because when he tries to move his legs, they felt heavy as logs.
Dean sucks in a pained breath, struggles to fill his punctured lung, but the air only makes it worse instead of better. It feels as if there is a red-hot iron fist clenched in his chest and its grasp is tightening by the minute.
“Sammy,” Dean begs again, knows it is useless but tries anyway. He can barely raise his voice to a whisper and makes another attempt with the same result.
The effort drains him and he gives a shudder as he sinks deeper into the relentless arms that hold him tight to the ground. There is only one other person who can help him now and Dean summon the last ounce of fight he has left, and calls his name.
“Cas….”
There is a rushing sound, a gust of light wind and with a rustle of wings Cas is standing over Dean, the soles of his shoes submerged in the injured man’s blood.
“Dean,” he says quickly as concern colors his voice and darkens his eyes. “What happened?”
“Sam,” Dean whispers and allows his eyes to close. “It was Sam. You have to help him Cas. He needs his soul back.”
Cas kneels beside Dean, the knees of his pants drenching instantly, the hem of his trench coat saturated with red. “First I have to help you Dean,” he says quietly, soft and low, eyebrows drawn over troubled eyes. “I’ll get you to Bobby’s.”
And then his hands are on Dean’s shoulder and head and it’s the last thing Dean remembers before the world fades in a flash of white light.