Fic: Threw Away the sun 2/6 SPN AU Sam/Dean
Title: Threw Away the Sun
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence, a bumpy ride
Characters/pairings: Jess, Sam/Dean
Rated: NC-17 sex and violence
Summary: AU. Six months after John Winchester goes missing on a hunt, Dean Goes to Palo Alto to find a psychic.
Notes: OMG. Okay. Special thanks to jellicle and nova_berry and all the other people who have read this since I started it. I began this fic between seasons one and two of SPN and just now have it ready to publish. I'm sure I've forgotten someone who read it there in the middle and I'm so sorry and I remember appreciating you, just not which of you wonderful people it was.
The scorching wind that rushes against his face brings with it the scent of smoke and charred meat, burnt hair and melted rubber. Sam closes his eyes and breathes it in deep, the odor of power and freedom.
The city is in ruins beneath him, and beside him stand the ranks of his brothers and sisters, the army of the reclaimed, strong and beautiful in the red glow of the sun. Their power flows into him. His senses sharpen, expanding until he sees what they all see, feels what they feel. The very air seems to throb in time to his pulse.
The pet at his feet whimpers and clings tighter to Sam’s leg. Sam wraps the leather of the leash another time around his fist. He hears the whimpering thoughts of close secure kept not-lost as it presses its face against his thigh.
“Hush,” Sam says and it shivers. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll never let anything hurt you, Dean.”
The man in the passenger seat startles awake and Dean turns the radio down. Sam’s trembling hands reach out to touch the dash, the windshield, the roof, the window. Searching fingers brush Dean’s shoulder and then jerk away like he hadn’t been expecting to find a person in the driver’s seat.
“Whoa, hey, you okay?” He takes his foot off the gas and starts slowing down. The last thing he needs is some crazy blind guy jumping out of his car at seventy miles an hour.
It seems to take a long time for Sam’s breathing to stop being desperate gasps, for his huge hands to stop pressing against glass and vinyl like the car’s his only anchor to reality.
“Yeah,” Sam rasps as Dean pulls off the highway. He still looks pale, shaken. “Where are we?” Dean could eat right about then anyway and he figures Sam might appreciate stretching those long legs out a bit so he stops at a truck-stop diner.
“Food,” says Dean as he turns off the engine and gets out of the car. He waits almost a minute and the other door doesn’t move. With a frown, he walks around and opens it.
“Waitin’ for an engraved invitation?” He asks, half teasing and half annoyed.
Sam unfolds his lanky limbs and stands, one hand on the Impala at all times. “I didn’t know if there was a car beside us or a road or what,” he explains and Dean feels like an ass. The food’s smelling pretty good though, and Sam’s not moving.
“You need your cane or something?” Dean asks. He’s trying for polite; he’s not sure he makes it.
“Jess packed it,” Sam says, half mumbling, “But I haven’t used it in years. I haven’t-I haven’t gone out.”
Dean bites back a curse. “Out, like what, out of your house? And you’re telling me this now?”
“You said whatever it takes,” Sam reminds him, standing a little straighter. “Are you really whining ‘no fair’ this early?”
“Fine,” Dean growls and adds some choice words as he digs through the bag that Jess so carefully packed. He finds the cane and unfolds it and puts it in Sam’s palm.
Sam takes the cane and reaches out with his other hand. His desperate fingers try to grab Dean before he can walk away. There’s a flash of real fear on his face and Dean tries to imagine what it would be like, to have nothing but chaos beyond the tips of his fingers, to be so lost and helpless in a place as common as a parking lot.
“I’m right here,” he grumbles and grabs Sam by his jacket and half-drags, half-leads him into the diner. He’s still annoyed enough to let him trip on the curb but he doesn’t let Sam fall on his face or walk into the doorframe.
The waitress gives Dean a dirty look as he manhandles Sam into a booth and he has to resist the urge to protest “but he started it.”
Sam has a sausage biscuit for breakfast. Sandwiches or liquids in a mug, Jess’ notes say. Dean reads the whole notebook while they eat. The items on his dad and the demon aren’t quite the detailed city and date list he was hoping for. There are lines like “spring wet trees, hungry mud, young women, gold hair, freckles,” that Dean thinks he might be able to narrow down once the events start happening and he has news articles to match with the vague text. One thing about the notes makes him uneasy: Dad’s hunting, and still, for some reason, out of touch. Something’s weird, wrong. He hopes that maybe as they get closer, Sam will have clearer visions.
Jess has given him copious pages of plastic-sleeved notes, things like what shampoo to refill Sam’s bottles with when they run out and how to tell him where things are using the hours on a clock for directions.
There are two sheets of paper, back to back in their protective covering. One says “Don’t let him get lost in nightmares.” The other says “Don’t let him get lost in dreams.” Like Sam’s not cryptic enough on his own and Dean needs another person talking riddles at him.
Sam’s quiet all through the meal. Dean’s been awake for thirty-six hours and driving for most of those and Sam still looks like the more tired of the two. “You said we have a few days, right?”
“Even if we lose a couple doing research or whatever,” Sam replies.
“Good,” says Dean. “There’s a hotel we passed on the way in. I need a few hours of sleep before I wrap the car around a tree.”
“Blue tile,” Sam says, so soft it’s almost a whisper. “That’s fine. I--could use the rest.” And Dean could swear that wasn’t what he had been about to say.
The check comes and Sam pulls out a credit card. Of all the things that have gotten on Dean’s nerves so far this trip, Sam picking up the tab isn’t one. Gift horses are too rare in this life to question, and when Dean finds out why Sam’s here, the fact that Sam paid for a meal and hotel room a couple of times isn’t going to have any bearing on how Dean reacts. He just hopes he’s not the only one who’s aware of it.
After breakfast, Dean gets Sam back in the car and leaves him there while he pays for the hotel. He drives to their room door, then half-leads, half-drags Sam to the room. Unlike the last time, Sam’s carrying his bag and Dean actually warns him of the curb and doorway. Dean will give him this-the guy’s no whiner. That’s a good thing, unless it means he has no spine.
“Bathroom’s through the door straight across,” Dean says, “Your bed’s the one closest to it.”
Sam reaches out a hand, follows the door to the doorframe to the wall and starts making his laborious way around the room. Dean shakes his head and thinks I would have led you if you’d asked. What he says instead is, “You want the first shower?”
“Nah, you go ahead.” It’s kind of weird, the way Sam’s body language is so flat, missing all the nods and shrugs and hand-gestures normal people use.
Dean leaves him to his explorations of the motel room. The bathroom is a monstrosity-the walls and floors are both covered in a random seventies mosaic of different sizes and shades of freakin’ blue tile. More than anything, that little detail makes Dean start to believe that he’s not getting conned.
When he gets out of the shower, Sam’s curled up on the bed Dean assigned him, his leather satchel nestled against his stomach. One arm is thrown over his face, and his back is to the window. A rectangle of afternoon sun turns the stray wisps of hair at the nape of his neck to gold.
“Hey,” Dean says, and his voice is gentler than it was. “The uh-You see at all? Like light or anything? I was gonna close the curtains, thought I’d warn you.”
“That’s fine,” Sam says, still without moving. “I only see in the visions. In the best dreams, and the worst nightmares.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dean closes the curtain and strips out of his jeans. “Try to get some sleep if you can.”
Author: Ladyjanelly
Warnings: Wincest, violence, a bumpy ride
Characters/pairings: Jess, Sam/Dean
Rated: NC-17 sex and violence
Summary: AU. Six months after John Winchester goes missing on a hunt, Dean Goes to Palo Alto to find a psychic.
Notes: OMG. Okay. Special thanks to jellicle and nova_berry and all the other people who have read this since I started it. I began this fic between seasons one and two of SPN and just now have it ready to publish. I'm sure I've forgotten someone who read it there in the middle and I'm so sorry and I remember appreciating you, just not which of you wonderful people it was.
The scorching wind that rushes against his face brings with it the scent of smoke and charred meat, burnt hair and melted rubber. Sam closes his eyes and breathes it in deep, the odor of power and freedom.
The city is in ruins beneath him, and beside him stand the ranks of his brothers and sisters, the army of the reclaimed, strong and beautiful in the red glow of the sun. Their power flows into him. His senses sharpen, expanding until he sees what they all see, feels what they feel. The very air seems to throb in time to his pulse.
The pet at his feet whimpers and clings tighter to Sam’s leg. Sam wraps the leather of the leash another time around his fist. He hears the whimpering thoughts of close secure kept not-lost as it presses its face against his thigh.
“Hush,” Sam says and it shivers. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll never let anything hurt you, Dean.”
The man in the passenger seat startles awake and Dean turns the radio down. Sam’s trembling hands reach out to touch the dash, the windshield, the roof, the window. Searching fingers brush Dean’s shoulder and then jerk away like he hadn’t been expecting to find a person in the driver’s seat.
“Whoa, hey, you okay?” He takes his foot off the gas and starts slowing down. The last thing he needs is some crazy blind guy jumping out of his car at seventy miles an hour.
It seems to take a long time for Sam’s breathing to stop being desperate gasps, for his huge hands to stop pressing against glass and vinyl like the car’s his only anchor to reality.
“Yeah,” Sam rasps as Dean pulls off the highway. He still looks pale, shaken. “Where are we?” Dean could eat right about then anyway and he figures Sam might appreciate stretching those long legs out a bit so he stops at a truck-stop diner.
“Food,” says Dean as he turns off the engine and gets out of the car. He waits almost a minute and the other door doesn’t move. With a frown, he walks around and opens it.
“Waitin’ for an engraved invitation?” He asks, half teasing and half annoyed.
Sam unfolds his lanky limbs and stands, one hand on the Impala at all times. “I didn’t know if there was a car beside us or a road or what,” he explains and Dean feels like an ass. The food’s smelling pretty good though, and Sam’s not moving.
“You need your cane or something?” Dean asks. He’s trying for polite; he’s not sure he makes it.
“Jess packed it,” Sam says, half mumbling, “But I haven’t used it in years. I haven’t-I haven’t gone out.”
Dean bites back a curse. “Out, like what, out of your house? And you’re telling me this now?”
“You said whatever it takes,” Sam reminds him, standing a little straighter. “Are you really whining ‘no fair’ this early?”
“Fine,” Dean growls and adds some choice words as he digs through the bag that Jess so carefully packed. He finds the cane and unfolds it and puts it in Sam’s palm.
Sam takes the cane and reaches out with his other hand. His desperate fingers try to grab Dean before he can walk away. There’s a flash of real fear on his face and Dean tries to imagine what it would be like, to have nothing but chaos beyond the tips of his fingers, to be so lost and helpless in a place as common as a parking lot.
“I’m right here,” he grumbles and grabs Sam by his jacket and half-drags, half-leads him into the diner. He’s still annoyed enough to let him trip on the curb but he doesn’t let Sam fall on his face or walk into the doorframe.
The waitress gives Dean a dirty look as he manhandles Sam into a booth and he has to resist the urge to protest “but he started it.”
Sam has a sausage biscuit for breakfast. Sandwiches or liquids in a mug, Jess’ notes say. Dean reads the whole notebook while they eat. The items on his dad and the demon aren’t quite the detailed city and date list he was hoping for. There are lines like “spring wet trees, hungry mud, young women, gold hair, freckles,” that Dean thinks he might be able to narrow down once the events start happening and he has news articles to match with the vague text. One thing about the notes makes him uneasy: Dad’s hunting, and still, for some reason, out of touch. Something’s weird, wrong. He hopes that maybe as they get closer, Sam will have clearer visions.
Jess has given him copious pages of plastic-sleeved notes, things like what shampoo to refill Sam’s bottles with when they run out and how to tell him where things are using the hours on a clock for directions.
There are two sheets of paper, back to back in their protective covering. One says “Don’t let him get lost in nightmares.” The other says “Don’t let him get lost in dreams.” Like Sam’s not cryptic enough on his own and Dean needs another person talking riddles at him.
Sam’s quiet all through the meal. Dean’s been awake for thirty-six hours and driving for most of those and Sam still looks like the more tired of the two. “You said we have a few days, right?”
“Even if we lose a couple doing research or whatever,” Sam replies.
“Good,” says Dean. “There’s a hotel we passed on the way in. I need a few hours of sleep before I wrap the car around a tree.”
“Blue tile,” Sam says, so soft it’s almost a whisper. “That’s fine. I--could use the rest.” And Dean could swear that wasn’t what he had been about to say.
The check comes and Sam pulls out a credit card. Of all the things that have gotten on Dean’s nerves so far this trip, Sam picking up the tab isn’t one. Gift horses are too rare in this life to question, and when Dean finds out why Sam’s here, the fact that Sam paid for a meal and hotel room a couple of times isn’t going to have any bearing on how Dean reacts. He just hopes he’s not the only one who’s aware of it.
After breakfast, Dean gets Sam back in the car and leaves him there while he pays for the hotel. He drives to their room door, then half-leads, half-drags Sam to the room. Unlike the last time, Sam’s carrying his bag and Dean actually warns him of the curb and doorway. Dean will give him this-the guy’s no whiner. That’s a good thing, unless it means he has no spine.
“Bathroom’s through the door straight across,” Dean says, “Your bed’s the one closest to it.”
Sam reaches out a hand, follows the door to the doorframe to the wall and starts making his laborious way around the room. Dean shakes his head and thinks I would have led you if you’d asked. What he says instead is, “You want the first shower?”
“Nah, you go ahead.” It’s kind of weird, the way Sam’s body language is so flat, missing all the nods and shrugs and hand-gestures normal people use.
Dean leaves him to his explorations of the motel room. The bathroom is a monstrosity-the walls and floors are both covered in a random seventies mosaic of different sizes and shades of freakin’ blue tile. More than anything, that little detail makes Dean start to believe that he’s not getting conned.
When he gets out of the shower, Sam’s curled up on the bed Dean assigned him, his leather satchel nestled against his stomach. One arm is thrown over his face, and his back is to the window. A rectangle of afternoon sun turns the stray wisps of hair at the nape of his neck to gold.
“Hey,” Dean says, and his voice is gentler than it was. “The uh-You see at all? Like light or anything? I was gonna close the curtains, thought I’d warn you.”
“That’s fine,” Sam says, still without moving. “I only see in the visions. In the best dreams, and the worst nightmares.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dean closes the curtain and strips out of his jeans. “Try to get some sleep if you can.”