Supernatural fanfic: every line is the second last
Oh Dear... You see I needed another fandom like a hole in the head. A fandom that finally broke my incest squick I needed about as much as a shotgun blast of rock salt in the head. Which, apparently, was a lot.
Title: every line is the second last
Author: Mistress Kat /
kat_lair
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warning: Incest, adult themes.
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 2000
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: Dean’s never been the one to draw the lines, so it makes a weird kind of sense that he’s not the one crossing them either.
Author notes: So I am totally new to Supernatural but have fallen hard. As this is a first fic in this fandom any comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. Beta by
virtualinsomnia - may the gods of editing smile upon you for ever and ever *throws comma-shaped confetti at your feet*
Cover by the lovely sadiane:
every line is the second last
The wheat is yellow, rippling in the wind like human hair. Dean imagines a giant hand reaching down, smoothing the stalks this way and that like a father shushing a frightened child.
The August heat wraps them in the moment like a shroud. Dean tries to catch his brother’s eyes, unable to help the nervous twitch of his muscles, slowly coming down from the adrenaline high.
Sam is standing a few feet away, breathing hard, blood dripping from his clenched fists. Dean glances down and away. The body on the ground is finally still, curled tight around its own mortality. The black earth will soak up the blood quickly, new life feeding on the dead.
“Sam,” he says for no reason but the need to connect. They’re standing in the middle of a field, the sky blindingly blue above their heads. In the distance, the nondescript farmhouse droops in isolation, the tractor probably still idling in the yard.
Dean already knows what they will find inside, what they would find right beneath their feet if they were to bring out a shovel and dig. The expression on Sam’s face tells him that’s exactly what they’ll be doing before the day is over.
“Come on.” Dean starts toward the house. “We should-”
“Doesn’t matter.” Sam’s voice is steady. “We were too late. She died yesterday morning.”
Dean doesn’t stumble. He can’t pretend to be surprised. Not even for Sam.
After all, Dean doesn’t believe in coincidences. He believes in consequences, in everything coming with a cost.
They walk side by side, and the wheat whispering against their thighs sounds like a goodbye. The sun is warm against his back, midday heat mellowing into the long afternoon. Inside, Dean can feel a cold sense of acceptance spreading through him, slow like a stream of ice and comforting in its inevitability.
Once they’re at the house, Sam steps inside while Dean goes to the car and gets a shovel. They dig just enough to make sure. Dean doesn’t need convincing, but this isn’t something he’s going to argue about.
They mark graves long into the night, not speaking. Later, two towns over, Dean will find a payphone and call the cops. The families deserve to know.
He and Sam deserve each other. And some things are worth any price.
***
Their quarry is running, Sam closely behind, silhouettes clearly visible against the primary colours of the sun-ripened field.
Dean vaults over the fence, the wood coarse and solid under his hand. He’d been at the other side of the house when Sam shouted, and Dean knows he’ll be lucky to reach them in time for the aftermath, much less to be of any help.
Dean throws himself into the chase, arms and legs pumping. To his left, a murder of crows takes flight, frightened and angry, a tangle of black wings covering the sun. He expects a cacophony of croaks, but the birds are eerily silent, growing smaller and smaller, finally disappearing behind the distant tree line.
Oxygen is an accelerant stroking the fire in his lungs, the flames licking at his muscles. Ahead, Dean sees a telltale glint of metal in Sam’s hand, but it’s not a gun he’s pulling out. It’s a knife.
Dean runs faster, the stalks whipping him on. Sam’s flying tackle is clumsy but effective, and with a muffled cry the two runners go down, rolling into the soft dirt. The waist-high grass hides them from Dean’s eyes momentarily, but at least they’re finally staying in one place, allowing him catch up.
Twenty seconds later Dean skids to a halt by the wrestling pair. He draws his gun, grip slippery enough to justify a two-handed stance, legs wide and surprisingly steady. Dean blinks rapidly, eyes stinging with sweat, and tries to find a clear target amidst the flailing limbs.
He wants to pull the trigger, wants to, because the son-of-a-bitch is clawing at his brother’s eyes, face ugly and twisted, and- “Goddammit, Sam! Get out of the way!” But Sam is too caught up in trying to keep hold of his knife, teeth bared in a snarl, body locked in fight.
Just as Dean is about to throw his gun to the ground and simply introduce a third pair of fists into the equation, Sam manages to get the upper hand, rolling on top and bringing his knee up in a vicious thrust. It connects to the soft underbelly of his opponent with devastating efficiency.
And there is an opening then, not long, maybe two heartbeats, for Sam to get off and let Dean take control. But instead he crowds closer, closer, until the only thing Dean can see clearly is his bowed back, dirty t-shirt clinging to skin like wet paint.
Sam’s arm jerks sideways, fast and violent. Dean knows what he’s done even before the blade reaches the end of its arch, tearing through flesh and air and every last line that’s still left.
Red makes the colour palette complete. Dean feels the moment resonate like a door snapping shut or a circle closing, one thing ending while another begins, only he can no longer tell which is which.
And yet, the next breath is no different from the last, and they are both still here to take it. Dean lowers his gun carefully.
***
Dean wakes up to his brother’s lips against his chest, swallowing down the heartbeats one by one.
“Shhh,” Sam whispers, “let me,” even though Dean doesn’t make a sound, his spine curving off the bed in unconditional invitation.
Despite his slow, almost languid movements, there is something urgent about Sam’s wide hands curling around Dean’s biceps, thumbs stroking the delicate skin of his underarms.
“Please, Dean. Please,” The words shatter against his skin, brittle and hesitant, as Sam works his way up. Dean grapples for purchase, sheets crumbling underneath him, the need to get closer sudden and overwhelming. He doesn’t understand why Sam’s asking for something that is already his, nor does he want to.
Dean’s never been the one to draw the lines, so it makes a weird kind of sense that he’s not the one crossing them either.
To Dean all rules are arbitrary except the ones Sam makes. It’s Sam who defines the parameters of their life, both in what they do and who they are, and Dean’s always been happy to follow him as far as he would go and no further.
Sam is poised above him, trembling, and even though it hurts to realise that for Sam this line is harder to cross than the ones that will surely come after, Dean won’t hold him back. He made the decision long ago to take this any way it was given.
So he does, opening his arms and legs wide until their bodies slide flush against each other, and all the shades of grey they’ve lived with for so long finally become indistinguishable.
***
Even with the windows rolled all the way down, the inside of the car is like a sauna. Dean leans forward over the steering wheel in a vain attempt to coax some of the air to his back. The sweat trickles down his neck, making the collar of his t-shirt damp and itchy.
Beside him, Sam twists a little in his sleep, body crammed awkwardly in the too small space of the front seat. Dean keeps half an ear on the news, the other half of his attention remaining on his brother. He’s turned the radio down, not off, because the silence would wake Sam surer than any amount of loud music.
They’re chasing a monster. Nine little girls dead, and Jenny makes ten.
Dean thinks about that really hard, pictures their faces from the blurry newspaper photos, and then pictures them bloody and beaten and crying.
He thinks about Jenny, lets himself imagine all the things that could make her cry. There are a lot of them.
The road is a straight line, punching through the fields like a fist, and Dean closes his eyes for just a second, maybe three, relying on muscle memory to keep the Impala going. There’s nothing to crash into out here anyway, just grass and corn and ripening things that don’t care about death, just the growing.
Sam turns toward the window, arms tied in a protective knot across his chest. He’ll be awake soon. Dean lets his foot fall down on the gas more heavily. The engine whines for a moment, grudgingly settling into the higher gear.
They are chasing a monster. It’s important for Dean to remember that.
***
Dean hasn’t had his morning coffee yet when Sam slaps the local newspaper in front of his face. He hasn’t had his morning shower, his morning piss or his morning wank. He glances at the bedside clock. Just as well, it’s not really morning yet.
Sam may not sleep much anymore, but dammit if someone doesn’t need to get some shut-eye in this outfit.
“Fuck off.” Dean buries his head into the pillow and waits for Sam to pull the blankets off, dump water on him or do any of the puerile little pranks they used to start their mornings with.
The mattress dips as Sam sits down, the heat of him radiating through the sheets, seeping through Dean’s skin right into his very marrow. Sam does nothing.
Dean grimaces, face carefully hidden. The disappointment tastes sour and rank, like something good gone bad. “What’s so important it can’t-” He catches sight of the front page lying open on his pillow.
“Jennifer Hilton, age twelve.” The blond-haired girl smiles at Dean from the grainy picture. She has a gap between her front teeth and a green bow in her braid.
“Missing for forty-eight hours. She loves reading and looking after her baby-sister. Last year she broke her leg ice-skating, and it still hurts sometimes when the weather is cold, but she never told mommy or daddy. She didn’t want them to worry.” Sam’s voice is low and rough in the artificial intimacy of the motel room, and somehow Dean doesn’t think he’s getting all of this from the newspaper.
Dean struggles up to his elbows, turning to face his brother. Dust particles dance in the pale dawn filtering through the blinds. Sam doesn’t look up.
Instead he reaches out, hand pressing down between Dean’s shoulder blades, pushing him back on the bed. Dean goes willingly.
“She’s not the only one. There have been at least nine other kids gone missing over the last few years. All girls. All younger than fifteen.”
Dean tries to listen, tries to process the information Sam is giving him, but it’s difficult to think around the feel of Sam’s hand on his back, fingers rubbing small circles into overheated skin.
It takes several swallows to force down the groan that threatens to escape. “What-” Dean clears his throat. “What would go after kids like that? A lamia? We’re in farming country, maybe a phookah? Was there any-”
And then he has to shut up, has to, because the hand on his back trails down, disappearing under the sheets, and Dean can’t breathe much less talk. Sam’s palm comes to rest at the curve of his hip, cupping it briefly before slipping off and away.
The touch burns like a brand. Dean knows it’ll take days to fade, and the thought makes his whole body throb with assent.
“Not what. Who.” Sam stands up, shouldering his duffel bag. Dean can’t move. He’s so hard it hurts, aching with the certainty of what comes next.
“A man, Dean. Just a man. And I know where to find him.” Sam’s walking to the door. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Sam is going to take this road with or without him; that much is clear. Dean waits for the sound of the door clicking shut before he gets up, grabbing for his clothes. There’s no choice here that hasn’t already been made a thousand times before.
He’s always known he would follow his brother to Hell and back. There will be no turning back from this, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Dean will go. Grateful not to be left behind.
Fin.
Title: every line is the second last
Author: Mistress Kat /
kat_lair
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warning: Incest, adult themes.
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 2000
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: Dean’s never been the one to draw the lines, so it makes a weird kind of sense that he’s not the one crossing them either.
Author notes: So I am totally new to Supernatural but have fallen hard. As this is a first fic in this fandom any comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. Beta by
virtualinsomnia - may the gods of editing smile upon you for ever and ever *throws comma-shaped confetti at your feet*
Cover by the lovely sadiane:
every line is the second last
The wheat is yellow, rippling in the wind like human hair. Dean imagines a giant hand reaching down, smoothing the stalks this way and that like a father shushing a frightened child.
The August heat wraps them in the moment like a shroud. Dean tries to catch his brother’s eyes, unable to help the nervous twitch of his muscles, slowly coming down from the adrenaline high.
Sam is standing a few feet away, breathing hard, blood dripping from his clenched fists. Dean glances down and away. The body on the ground is finally still, curled tight around its own mortality. The black earth will soak up the blood quickly, new life feeding on the dead.
“Sam,” he says for no reason but the need to connect. They’re standing in the middle of a field, the sky blindingly blue above their heads. In the distance, the nondescript farmhouse droops in isolation, the tractor probably still idling in the yard.
Dean already knows what they will find inside, what they would find right beneath their feet if they were to bring out a shovel and dig. The expression on Sam’s face tells him that’s exactly what they’ll be doing before the day is over.
“Come on.” Dean starts toward the house. “We should-”
“Doesn’t matter.” Sam’s voice is steady. “We were too late. She died yesterday morning.”
Dean doesn’t stumble. He can’t pretend to be surprised. Not even for Sam.
After all, Dean doesn’t believe in coincidences. He believes in consequences, in everything coming with a cost.
They walk side by side, and the wheat whispering against their thighs sounds like a goodbye. The sun is warm against his back, midday heat mellowing into the long afternoon. Inside, Dean can feel a cold sense of acceptance spreading through him, slow like a stream of ice and comforting in its inevitability.
Once they’re at the house, Sam steps inside while Dean goes to the car and gets a shovel. They dig just enough to make sure. Dean doesn’t need convincing, but this isn’t something he’s going to argue about.
They mark graves long into the night, not speaking. Later, two towns over, Dean will find a payphone and call the cops. The families deserve to know.
He and Sam deserve each other. And some things are worth any price.
***
Their quarry is running, Sam closely behind, silhouettes clearly visible against the primary colours of the sun-ripened field.
Dean vaults over the fence, the wood coarse and solid under his hand. He’d been at the other side of the house when Sam shouted, and Dean knows he’ll be lucky to reach them in time for the aftermath, much less to be of any help.
Dean throws himself into the chase, arms and legs pumping. To his left, a murder of crows takes flight, frightened and angry, a tangle of black wings covering the sun. He expects a cacophony of croaks, but the birds are eerily silent, growing smaller and smaller, finally disappearing behind the distant tree line.
Oxygen is an accelerant stroking the fire in his lungs, the flames licking at his muscles. Ahead, Dean sees a telltale glint of metal in Sam’s hand, but it’s not a gun he’s pulling out. It’s a knife.
Dean runs faster, the stalks whipping him on. Sam’s flying tackle is clumsy but effective, and with a muffled cry the two runners go down, rolling into the soft dirt. The waist-high grass hides them from Dean’s eyes momentarily, but at least they’re finally staying in one place, allowing him catch up.
Twenty seconds later Dean skids to a halt by the wrestling pair. He draws his gun, grip slippery enough to justify a two-handed stance, legs wide and surprisingly steady. Dean blinks rapidly, eyes stinging with sweat, and tries to find a clear target amidst the flailing limbs.
He wants to pull the trigger, wants to, because the son-of-a-bitch is clawing at his brother’s eyes, face ugly and twisted, and- “Goddammit, Sam! Get out of the way!” But Sam is too caught up in trying to keep hold of his knife, teeth bared in a snarl, body locked in fight.
Just as Dean is about to throw his gun to the ground and simply introduce a third pair of fists into the equation, Sam manages to get the upper hand, rolling on top and bringing his knee up in a vicious thrust. It connects to the soft underbelly of his opponent with devastating efficiency.
And there is an opening then, not long, maybe two heartbeats, for Sam to get off and let Dean take control. But instead he crowds closer, closer, until the only thing Dean can see clearly is his bowed back, dirty t-shirt clinging to skin like wet paint.
Sam’s arm jerks sideways, fast and violent. Dean knows what he’s done even before the blade reaches the end of its arch, tearing through flesh and air and every last line that’s still left.
Red makes the colour palette complete. Dean feels the moment resonate like a door snapping shut or a circle closing, one thing ending while another begins, only he can no longer tell which is which.
And yet, the next breath is no different from the last, and they are both still here to take it. Dean lowers his gun carefully.
***
Dean wakes up to his brother’s lips against his chest, swallowing down the heartbeats one by one.
“Shhh,” Sam whispers, “let me,” even though Dean doesn’t make a sound, his spine curving off the bed in unconditional invitation.
Despite his slow, almost languid movements, there is something urgent about Sam’s wide hands curling around Dean’s biceps, thumbs stroking the delicate skin of his underarms.
“Please, Dean. Please,” The words shatter against his skin, brittle and hesitant, as Sam works his way up. Dean grapples for purchase, sheets crumbling underneath him, the need to get closer sudden and overwhelming. He doesn’t understand why Sam’s asking for something that is already his, nor does he want to.
Dean’s never been the one to draw the lines, so it makes a weird kind of sense that he’s not the one crossing them either.
To Dean all rules are arbitrary except the ones Sam makes. It’s Sam who defines the parameters of their life, both in what they do and who they are, and Dean’s always been happy to follow him as far as he would go and no further.
Sam is poised above him, trembling, and even though it hurts to realise that for Sam this line is harder to cross than the ones that will surely come after, Dean won’t hold him back. He made the decision long ago to take this any way it was given.
So he does, opening his arms and legs wide until their bodies slide flush against each other, and all the shades of grey they’ve lived with for so long finally become indistinguishable.
***
Even with the windows rolled all the way down, the inside of the car is like a sauna. Dean leans forward over the steering wheel in a vain attempt to coax some of the air to his back. The sweat trickles down his neck, making the collar of his t-shirt damp and itchy.
Beside him, Sam twists a little in his sleep, body crammed awkwardly in the too small space of the front seat. Dean keeps half an ear on the news, the other half of his attention remaining on his brother. He’s turned the radio down, not off, because the silence would wake Sam surer than any amount of loud music.
They’re chasing a monster. Nine little girls dead, and Jenny makes ten.
Dean thinks about that really hard, pictures their faces from the blurry newspaper photos, and then pictures them bloody and beaten and crying.
He thinks about Jenny, lets himself imagine all the things that could make her cry. There are a lot of them.
The road is a straight line, punching through the fields like a fist, and Dean closes his eyes for just a second, maybe three, relying on muscle memory to keep the Impala going. There’s nothing to crash into out here anyway, just grass and corn and ripening things that don’t care about death, just the growing.
Sam turns toward the window, arms tied in a protective knot across his chest. He’ll be awake soon. Dean lets his foot fall down on the gas more heavily. The engine whines for a moment, grudgingly settling into the higher gear.
They are chasing a monster. It’s important for Dean to remember that.
***
Dean hasn’t had his morning coffee yet when Sam slaps the local newspaper in front of his face. He hasn’t had his morning shower, his morning piss or his morning wank. He glances at the bedside clock. Just as well, it’s not really morning yet.
Sam may not sleep much anymore, but dammit if someone doesn’t need to get some shut-eye in this outfit.
“Fuck off.” Dean buries his head into the pillow and waits for Sam to pull the blankets off, dump water on him or do any of the puerile little pranks they used to start their mornings with.
The mattress dips as Sam sits down, the heat of him radiating through the sheets, seeping through Dean’s skin right into his very marrow. Sam does nothing.
Dean grimaces, face carefully hidden. The disappointment tastes sour and rank, like something good gone bad. “What’s so important it can’t-” He catches sight of the front page lying open on his pillow.
“Jennifer Hilton, age twelve.” The blond-haired girl smiles at Dean from the grainy picture. She has a gap between her front teeth and a green bow in her braid.
“Missing for forty-eight hours. She loves reading and looking after her baby-sister. Last year she broke her leg ice-skating, and it still hurts sometimes when the weather is cold, but she never told mommy or daddy. She didn’t want them to worry.” Sam’s voice is low and rough in the artificial intimacy of the motel room, and somehow Dean doesn’t think he’s getting all of this from the newspaper.
Dean struggles up to his elbows, turning to face his brother. Dust particles dance in the pale dawn filtering through the blinds. Sam doesn’t look up.
Instead he reaches out, hand pressing down between Dean’s shoulder blades, pushing him back on the bed. Dean goes willingly.
“She’s not the only one. There have been at least nine other kids gone missing over the last few years. All girls. All younger than fifteen.”
Dean tries to listen, tries to process the information Sam is giving him, but it’s difficult to think around the feel of Sam’s hand on his back, fingers rubbing small circles into overheated skin.
It takes several swallows to force down the groan that threatens to escape. “What-” Dean clears his throat. “What would go after kids like that? A lamia? We’re in farming country, maybe a phookah? Was there any-”
And then he has to shut up, has to, because the hand on his back trails down, disappearing under the sheets, and Dean can’t breathe much less talk. Sam’s palm comes to rest at the curve of his hip, cupping it briefly before slipping off and away.
The touch burns like a brand. Dean knows it’ll take days to fade, and the thought makes his whole body throb with assent.
“Not what. Who.” Sam stands up, shouldering his duffel bag. Dean can’t move. He’s so hard it hurts, aching with the certainty of what comes next.
“A man, Dean. Just a man. And I know where to find him.” Sam’s walking to the door. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Sam is going to take this road with or without him; that much is clear. Dean waits for the sound of the door clicking shut before he gets up, grabbing for his clothes. There’s no choice here that hasn’t already been made a thousand times before.
He’s always known he would follow his brother to Hell and back. There will be no turning back from this, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Dean will go. Grateful not to be left behind.
Fin.