fic: Flesh for Stone (Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg)
Since I am in some hellish hold world of holding, and the challenge is now closed, it seems as good a time as any to repost this here. Written for the spnflashfic fairy tale challenge:
Flesh for Stone
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg; minor spoilers through 3.01; 3,837 words
"If I find a way to free your soul, the demon lets us both go, no strings attached. If I don't, she gets mine, too. It's a great deal."
Thanks to mousapelli for the brilliant idea, to amberlynne for listening to me whine, and to luzdeestrellas for making it a better story. All remaining errors are mine.
~*~
Flesh for Stone
"Thirteen dead in a mysterious fire--"
Sam flicks the television off. These days, the news is never good, and he can't bring himself to care.
He hears the whispers wherever he goes: judgment day is coming, going to hell in a handbasket, the end is really fucking nigh. Even evil's been reduced to clichéd banalities, but none of it penetrates. For Sam, the world ended six months ago, when he woke up and Dean was gone. Nothing but getting him back has mattered since.
His motel room is covered in books and papers and takeout containers half-full of rancid food. He still buys enough for two, and rarely remembers to eat.
He packs up what he needs and leaves the rest behind. He won't be coming back.
*
The first few hours after Dean disappeared, Sam had held out hope that he had gone on his own, that he was trying to spare Sam--or himself--those final moments of goodbye, and that he'd be back soon, that one of the things Sam had tried over the course of the year had worked, had broken the deal. The salt line across the threshold hadn't been disturbed and the car was still outside. Frantic, Sam had driven to the nearest crossroads, but Dean had been nowhere to be found.
All Sam had left of him was the silver ring and the amulet Dean hadn't taken off since Sam had given it to him. He'd found them on Dean's pillow, lying in the indent where his head had been. It had still smelled of him--shampoo and hair gel and Dean--when Sam buried his face in it and cried. Sam put the ring on the cord with the amulet, and wore them both around his neck, their weight both reproach and comfort against his skin.
The few people who knew what had happened all told him to give up, to move on, as if he were supposed to somehow forget that Dean was in hell, that Dean had gone there for him.
He'd thought about eating his gun, one quick pull of the trigger to end it all, and if Dean had just been dead, he probably would have done it. But he knows that hell is a real place, and the vague glimpses he'd had of it when Meg had possessed him, long before Dean had sold his soul, made him completely aware that it's not a place he'd send his worst enemy, let alone the person he loves most in the world.
*
The number of demons walking the earth is increasing, has been since even before Jake opened that damned devil's gate and let loose the flood, and there aren't enough hunters to even begin to handle them, but for Sam, each exorcism is a chance to discover what happened to Dean, and how to get him back.
"He's not dead, Sam," says a demon possessing a little girl in Ouachita. "He's walking the earth like a lion, fighting for the other side now. You're gonna have to put him down like a rabid dog." She laughs, the filthy sound obscene from the throat of an eight-year-old in a Winnie the Pooh t-shirt, and Sam cuts through it with Latin, jaw and fists clenched tight so he doesn't hurt the girl the way he's afraid he might. The way he almost wants to.
Demons lie. Sam knows this like he knows his own name. But he also knows they tell the truth when it suits them; they can tell the truth with the best of them, bring an exorcism to a screeching halt with a few well-chosen words they know will fuck your head up.
The next demon he hunts, and the next, and the next--they all tell him Dean is not dead, and they all take some kind of fiendish glee in recounting Dean's torment and his own response to hearing it. Each drops a hint or a rumor he hasn't heard before, and he spends nearly six months teasing the truth from their lies and cryptic insinuations, chasing them across the country, lost and lonely and afraid, but determined to track down and exorcise every last one of them to find out where Dean is and how to save him. But it's not until he has a threat more permanent than exorcism that he gets the details--the crossroads demon is using Dean as her own personal errand boy, and as much as it makes his skin crawl to think of Dean in service to a demon, it means he's alive, if not well, and Sam can get him back.
So he hopes--has to hope, lives on hope and caffeine and holy water, the scent of sulfur burned into his nose as he sends those sons of bitches back to hell, one after another, and each of them assures him that Dean is above ground, and his for the taking.
All he needs is a plan.
*
The first time he'd summoned the crossroads demon, she'd laughed and said he had nothing she wanted, that his misery at being left behind was too delicious to assuage. She hasn't answered since, though he knows refusing to play by her own rules has to be costing her something. He hopes she won't refuse the call tonight.
He doesn't have to wait long to find out.
"Hiya, Sammy. Long time, no see." The voice comes from behind him, cocky and familiar, sharp as a knife to the spine.
He whirls around to see Dean striding towards him, thinner than Sam ever remembers seeing him, and paler, too, the angles of his face sharp enough to cut glass, gleaming fair in the light of a waxing moon. Sam takes an involuntary step forward, has to keep tight rein on himself to keep from running to Dean, pulling him close.
"Dean?" His own voice is hoarse--he goes days sometimes without speaking--and the words feel strange in his mouth--when he does speak these days, it's nearly always in Latin. He has to take a deep breath before he can speak again, pushing the words past the ache of hope in his chest. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Dean's grin is jagged and feral, his gaze hollow, predatory. "Is that any way to greet your big brother after so long, Sammy?"
Sam swallows down the bile rising at the back of his throat. "Don't you call me that."
"Aw, Sammy, my feelings are hurt." He puts a hand over his heart, miming pain, but his eyes are cold. It's strange to see him without his ring and amulet, which still lie heavy against Sam's chest under his shirt, but there's dirt under his fingernails. That, at least, is familiar.
Sam splashes him with holy water. "Christo."
Dean laughs, unaffected. "Nice try, kiddo. But I'm not possessed."
"Not...possessed?"
"Nope. Dispossessed. Whole different thing." He hums a brief snatch of tune that sounds familiar, but Sam can't identify it. Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh, the kind that used to signal that Sam wasn't figuring out something Dean thought too obvious to actually say. The familiarity of it makes Sam want to cry, just one more thing about Dean he'd never thought he'd miss until it was gone. "So, what, you just stopped by to say hi? See how I was doing in hell?"
Sam flinches. "I want to make a deal."
"Well, you've come to the right place, then."
"You're--a demon now?" He hates how young he sounds, how easy it is to fall into believing this is really Dean and not some trick or evil imitation, how much he just wants to ask Dean to make it all better.
"No, Sammy. I'm just a hardworking representative of the crossroads demon. She's a little busy right now, fighting her way up the demonic food chain. They're all a little shook up in hell since we killed ol' yellow-eyes, still trying to sort themselves out. She's got opportunities for advancement. Can't let 'em go to waste." He grins that razor grin again, and though it doesn't reach his eyes, Sam finds himself grinning back before he remembers, and forces his face into a more neutral expression.
"So you're authorized to make deals on her behalf?"
Dean's mouth pooches out as if he's thinking, and then he says, "Yeah, that's the gig, pretty much."
Sam nods, trying to wrap his head around the new information. "There's a knife that kills demons--"
Dean doesn't let him finish. "A knife you don't even have? Sammy, please. Don't try to con a con man."
Sam opens his mouth to refute that, then closes it again, reassessing his strategy. It's risky to assume that Dean knows everything the demon knows--or doesn't know, in this case--but the knife gives him an advantage, so it's a risk worth taking.
They stare at each other for a long moment, and Sam tries to pretend this is like any other pissing contest he's had with Dean, that if he just thinks long and hard enough, he'll come up with a way to get Dean to do what he wants. If it's still Dean he's dealing with. Though maybe that doesn't matter, if he offers something every other demon they've run into wants. It's not like he hasn't always known his soul is the only real bargaining chip he has.
"If I find a way to free your soul in the next year, the demon lets us both go, no strings attached. If I don't, she gets mine, too. It's a great deal, would give her a boost up the corporate ladder." He smiles tightly. "I know she wants the matching set."
Dean looks intrigued despite himself, but shakes his head. "One month."
"Six months," Sam offers.
"Six weeks," Dean counters.
Sam doesn't answer with words. Instead, he curls his hands in the front of Dean's shirt and hauls him in for a kiss. Dean's lips are cool and dry, and the heartbeat beneath Sam's fingers is sluggish, the pulse of a man caught between life and death, so different from the rapid tattoo Sam's heart is currently beating against his ribs.
After the first quick spike of nausea at the taste of sulfur on the familiar curl of Dean's tongue, Sam gives himself over to the kiss, shivering at the way Dean licks into his mouth, desperate and hungry as a starving man. Dean's hands slide into his hair, one cool, strong hand coming up to cup his jaw, and Sam whimpers when he pulls away.
There's a light in Dean's eyes now that was missing before, desperation and torment, and his voice is a hoarse whisper when he says, "She left enough of my soul with me to make this more painful. She gets off on it, likes to torture me. Says the risk makes it sweeter." Sam opens his mouth--to apologize, to promise to save him, to tell him to hang on; Sam doesn't even know--and Dean says, "Don't freak on me now, Sam. There's no time, and I thought I knew what I was signing on for. Just listen. There's a way to make it whole again--"
Sam has to lean in to hear the directions, Dean's lips warm and his breath humid on his ear, each word rough and bitten off, like it's being torn from Dean's throat.
He nods once, jaw clenched tight so he doesn't give into the tears starting to burn behind his eyes. He blinks them away, and Dean is gone.
*
All Hallow's Eve, the veil between life and death, between earth and hell, thins at the soft places of the world. Demons put on their party clothes and come out to play, vulnerable in ways they aren't during the rest of the year.
Salt first, and then goofer dust, double layer of protection poured widdershins around the crossroads, to let her in but not back out; a devil's trap carved into the dirt with a stick, to keep her trapped, and locked in whatever form she takes tonight, and prevent Dean from being sucked back into hell; all of it so tenuous, so easy to break, like the hope he's been carrying around the past few days, a small green shoot poking its head out of the ground at the wrong season, ready to be snuffed out by reality.
He pours a smaller circle of salt, large enough for him and Dean, makes sure he's got his weapons ready and available. He kneels in the center, careful of the lines he's drawn, and buries the box--graveyard dirt, black cat bone, picture of himself in a suit, hair slicked back, face set with false authority (Steve Zing, the badge says, Department of Agriculture).
He stands in his circle, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and waits.
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in." Her voice is low, throaty, and full of cruel laughter.
Sam whirls around to face her, forcing himself to stay calm. The demon is beautiful--white-blonde hair and sky blue-eyes and legs up to her neck. She's nearly as tall as Dean, who stands beside her, leaner and hungrier looking than he was just a few days ago. Her eyes flash red as her lipstick, and her mouth is curled in a nasty smile.
She notices his assessing stare. "You like it, Sammy?" she asks, smoothing a hand over the white satin clinging to her hip. "I picked it out just for you."
"I might like her better if you weren't possessing her," he says, testing, still not sure if he believes the information Dean's given him.
"You think you know so much and you really know so little." She shakes her head, tsks in mock concern for his apparent lack of knowledge. "This is all me, tonight, boy. No need to sully myself with someone else's meat suit."
Sam has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from whooping in triumph. When he's sure he's got control of his voice, he says, "Let's do this, then. We have a deal, right?"
"We do indeed." She touches the pink tip of her tongue to her upper lip. "You were right, Sammy. I do want the matched set. Oh, how pretty you'll be, my pair of Winchesters, snatching the souls of the desperate and damned, and carrying them down to hell." She cocks a hip, rests a well-manicured hand on it, long red nails gleaming in the moonlight. "I have a busy night tonight, and this is just my first stop, so can you speed it up a little? I admit, I didn't think you'd give up so quickly, but I guess you just couldn't live without your brother any longer. I know you think waking up alone each morning is hell, but you have no idea." She laughs again. "You will, though."
"Not so fast," Sam snaps, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him into the circle. Dean, by dint of long years' habit, automatically steps over the salt line, which is a relief. Sam hadn't been sure about that part, had been afraid the demon would have taken steps to prevent it, or even possess Dean herself. He should have realized her pride would keep her from taking him seriously.
He shoves the silver ring onto Dean's finger, like some gross parody of a wedding ceremony, and keeps his own fingers wrapped around Dean's wrist. He can feel that same sluggish pulse, the thin skin over it cool as marble.
Dean tries to yank his hand away. "You're a big boy now, Sam. No need to hold hands." When Sam doesn't let go, he says, "Dude, what is your damage?"
Sam holds on, tight as he can; the hurried research he'd done had mentioned the personality changes, the tests, said he had to hold on through it all, so he does, sweaty palms and squirmy Dean and all.
"You know, I appreciate the gesture," Dean says, still trying to shake free of Sam's grip and grimacing in pain when he can't, "but don't you think it's too little, too late? I mean, you let me go to hell for you, and then it took you six months to come around and say hi? That's harsh, man."
Sam flinches, but doesn't let go. He remembers their childhood curled up together under the covers, waiting for Dad to come home, only Dean standing between him and the things lurking out in the dark; he'd clung to Dean like a lifeline then, and he does the same now.
Dean's voice turns soft, sincere. "Just let me go, Sam, please. I did this for you. Can't you just let it be?"
Sam has to bite his lip to keep from snapping. He settles for a terse, "No," as he tightens his grip.
"You're hurting me," Dean says, pitiful now, pleading, and Sam almost lets him go, closes his eyes to steel himself against the look on Dean's face.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, but doesn't release him.
Dean's slippery, though, expertly trained and dangerous. He almost gets loose, takes Sam down with a well-aimed kick, and then they're both on the ground, tussling, Sam struggling to keep hold of Dean's hand. That's it, Sam thinks, the sign he was waiting for. He slips Dean's amulet from around his neck and loops it over Dean's head. Dean's still trying to fight him--he's going to have a nasty burn on his wrist where he's trying to twist out of Sam's grip. Sam pulls out his flask of holy water, flicks the top off, and dumps it over Dean.
Dean stiffens as if he's been shocked, and then goes limp, his weight pressing Sam to the ground. Sam's fingers feel like ice as he fumbles for the pulse in Dean's neck, and he breathes a long sigh of relief when he finds it beating strong and fast, skin warming under his touch. Dean feels lighter than he should be, a shadow of himself, all angles and ropy muscle, six months without real food or rest taking their toll.
Sam lowers Dean gently to the ground, has to curl his fingers into fists to stop touching him, making sure he's breathing and warm and alive. He stands in front of him as the demon stalks forward, her beautiful face twisted in rage.
"You think you're so clever," she spits, "but Dean is mine, and no stupid ritual is going to take him from me."
"It already has," Sam says. He feels like he might collapse if the wind blows from the wrong direction, but he shows no sign of weakness in his voice. "If you go now, I won't take anything else."
Dean is stirring behind him, and Sam offers him a hand up, though he doesn't take his eyes off the demon. Dean's hand is warm on his back, and he feels a brief pang of panic that it actually didn't work when Dean slides the knife out of his waistband, but then he trails his fingers along Sam's lower back and gives him a quick pinch. Sam bites his lip to keep from yelping and laughing.
"You can't do this," the demon says. "This is some sort of trick."
"No, we made a deal, fair and square. If I found a way to free Dean's soul, it was mine to keep. Your authorized representative agreed to it." Sam bares his teeth at her in a vicious grin. "Obviously, I found a way."
"No," she says, shaking her head. She backs away, but though the devil's trap has been smudged, the circles are still intact, and she can't leave. "How did you know?"
"Dean told me." He can feel Dean moving behind him, restless, and when he glances over, Dean's testing the feel of the knife in his hand, calculating look on his face, body coiled and ready to leap into action. Sam keeps talking, keeps her attention on him, away from Dean. "See, you left just enough of his soul inside him to make doing your dirty work painful, and that gave him just enough free will to tell me what to do." He laughs. "You screwed yourself, basically. Can't say I'm sorry. Or surprised, really. You're not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you?"
"You should have taken the knife," Dean says; his voice is raspy as sandpaper, and has no mercy in it. "Let me show you why."
He's on her quick as a flash, slits her throat with one swift slash of the knife. The demon's body lights up from within, like she's been struck by lightning, and then collapses. The smell of charred flesh fills the air, and only long familiarity with the stench keeps Sam from retching.
His shaky legs give way, though, landing him on his ass on the cold, damp ground, and he shakes his head in disbelief that it actually worked.
Dean drops down next to him, warm hand trembling as he cups Sam's face, the long-lost touch like sunlight on his skin. "Sam, Sammy? You okay?"
Sam laughs, and for the first time in months, it's free of bitterness. He turns his face to press his lips to Dean's sweaty, dirty palm, closes his eyes to breathe him in for a long moment before he says, "Yeah, Dean, I am. How are you?"
Dean ducks his head for a second, then looks up, eyes wide and shining in his gaunt face, freckles and specks of dirt standing out in sharp relief against his paper-pale skin. "Fine. Good. Better than."
"Good, 'cause you look like shit."
"You don't look so hot yourself." Dean shakes his head, laughs a little himself, bright as silver, and the sound, unheard for so long, makes Sam's heart feel like it's going to burst from his chest. "When was the last time you ate something? Be honest now."
"Need my big brother to take care of me."
Dean snorts. "Obviously." They're quiet for a few moments, basking in each other's presence. Then Dean says, "All that stuff I said--"
Sam leans heavily against him, once again aware of how underweight Dean is, the jut of his shoulder sharp and his clothes hanging loose. Sam remembers six months of extra food he didn't eat and feels another pang of remorse at how long it took to rescue him. "Wasn't you. Not a problem."
Dean bumps his shoulder, grinning so hard Sam thinks his face might stay like that permanently. "Thanks, man."
Sam answers the only way he can--he leans in and kisses him, hard and needy, all, you'd do the same for me, and don't ever leave me again, and I even missed your stupid music, but what he says when he pulls back is, "You can repay me by doing the laundry for the next six months." And then he cuts off Dean's laughter with another kiss.
end
***
Notes: This story is inspired by the ballad of Tam Lin (from whence the cut-tag comes). The song Dean hums is "A Little Bit o'Soul" by The Music Explosion (also covered by The Ramones). Steve Zing was a member of Glenn Danzig's band Samhain, which seemed fitting for this story.
*
October 14, 2007
~*~
Feedback is always welcome. Thank you to the people who've already commented. I truly appreciate it.
~*~
Flesh for Stone
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg; minor spoilers through 3.01; 3,837 words
"If I find a way to free your soul, the demon lets us both go, no strings attached. If I don't, she gets mine, too. It's a great deal."
Thanks to mousapelli for the brilliant idea, to amberlynne for listening to me whine, and to luzdeestrellas for making it a better story. All remaining errors are mine.
~*~
Flesh for Stone
"Thirteen dead in a mysterious fire--"
Sam flicks the television off. These days, the news is never good, and he can't bring himself to care.
He hears the whispers wherever he goes: judgment day is coming, going to hell in a handbasket, the end is really fucking nigh. Even evil's been reduced to clichéd banalities, but none of it penetrates. For Sam, the world ended six months ago, when he woke up and Dean was gone. Nothing but getting him back has mattered since.
His motel room is covered in books and papers and takeout containers half-full of rancid food. He still buys enough for two, and rarely remembers to eat.
He packs up what he needs and leaves the rest behind. He won't be coming back.
*
The first few hours after Dean disappeared, Sam had held out hope that he had gone on his own, that he was trying to spare Sam--or himself--those final moments of goodbye, and that he'd be back soon, that one of the things Sam had tried over the course of the year had worked, had broken the deal. The salt line across the threshold hadn't been disturbed and the car was still outside. Frantic, Sam had driven to the nearest crossroads, but Dean had been nowhere to be found.
All Sam had left of him was the silver ring and the amulet Dean hadn't taken off since Sam had given it to him. He'd found them on Dean's pillow, lying in the indent where his head had been. It had still smelled of him--shampoo and hair gel and Dean--when Sam buried his face in it and cried. Sam put the ring on the cord with the amulet, and wore them both around his neck, their weight both reproach and comfort against his skin.
The few people who knew what had happened all told him to give up, to move on, as if he were supposed to somehow forget that Dean was in hell, that Dean had gone there for him.
He'd thought about eating his gun, one quick pull of the trigger to end it all, and if Dean had just been dead, he probably would have done it. But he knows that hell is a real place, and the vague glimpses he'd had of it when Meg had possessed him, long before Dean had sold his soul, made him completely aware that it's not a place he'd send his worst enemy, let alone the person he loves most in the world.
*
The number of demons walking the earth is increasing, has been since even before Jake opened that damned devil's gate and let loose the flood, and there aren't enough hunters to even begin to handle them, but for Sam, each exorcism is a chance to discover what happened to Dean, and how to get him back.
"He's not dead, Sam," says a demon possessing a little girl in Ouachita. "He's walking the earth like a lion, fighting for the other side now. You're gonna have to put him down like a rabid dog." She laughs, the filthy sound obscene from the throat of an eight-year-old in a Winnie the Pooh t-shirt, and Sam cuts through it with Latin, jaw and fists clenched tight so he doesn't hurt the girl the way he's afraid he might. The way he almost wants to.
Demons lie. Sam knows this like he knows his own name. But he also knows they tell the truth when it suits them; they can tell the truth with the best of them, bring an exorcism to a screeching halt with a few well-chosen words they know will fuck your head up.
The next demon he hunts, and the next, and the next--they all tell him Dean is not dead, and they all take some kind of fiendish glee in recounting Dean's torment and his own response to hearing it. Each drops a hint or a rumor he hasn't heard before, and he spends nearly six months teasing the truth from their lies and cryptic insinuations, chasing them across the country, lost and lonely and afraid, but determined to track down and exorcise every last one of them to find out where Dean is and how to save him. But it's not until he has a threat more permanent than exorcism that he gets the details--the crossroads demon is using Dean as her own personal errand boy, and as much as it makes his skin crawl to think of Dean in service to a demon, it means he's alive, if not well, and Sam can get him back.
So he hopes--has to hope, lives on hope and caffeine and holy water, the scent of sulfur burned into his nose as he sends those sons of bitches back to hell, one after another, and each of them assures him that Dean is above ground, and his for the taking.
All he needs is a plan.
*
The first time he'd summoned the crossroads demon, she'd laughed and said he had nothing she wanted, that his misery at being left behind was too delicious to assuage. She hasn't answered since, though he knows refusing to play by her own rules has to be costing her something. He hopes she won't refuse the call tonight.
He doesn't have to wait long to find out.
"Hiya, Sammy. Long time, no see." The voice comes from behind him, cocky and familiar, sharp as a knife to the spine.
He whirls around to see Dean striding towards him, thinner than Sam ever remembers seeing him, and paler, too, the angles of his face sharp enough to cut glass, gleaming fair in the light of a waxing moon. Sam takes an involuntary step forward, has to keep tight rein on himself to keep from running to Dean, pulling him close.
"Dean?" His own voice is hoarse--he goes days sometimes without speaking--and the words feel strange in his mouth--when he does speak these days, it's nearly always in Latin. He has to take a deep breath before he can speak again, pushing the words past the ache of hope in his chest. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Dean's grin is jagged and feral, his gaze hollow, predatory. "Is that any way to greet your big brother after so long, Sammy?"
Sam swallows down the bile rising at the back of his throat. "Don't you call me that."
"Aw, Sammy, my feelings are hurt." He puts a hand over his heart, miming pain, but his eyes are cold. It's strange to see him without his ring and amulet, which still lie heavy against Sam's chest under his shirt, but there's dirt under his fingernails. That, at least, is familiar.
Sam splashes him with holy water. "Christo."
Dean laughs, unaffected. "Nice try, kiddo. But I'm not possessed."
"Not...possessed?"
"Nope. Dispossessed. Whole different thing." He hums a brief snatch of tune that sounds familiar, but Sam can't identify it. Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh, the kind that used to signal that Sam wasn't figuring out something Dean thought too obvious to actually say. The familiarity of it makes Sam want to cry, just one more thing about Dean he'd never thought he'd miss until it was gone. "So, what, you just stopped by to say hi? See how I was doing in hell?"
Sam flinches. "I want to make a deal."
"Well, you've come to the right place, then."
"You're--a demon now?" He hates how young he sounds, how easy it is to fall into believing this is really Dean and not some trick or evil imitation, how much he just wants to ask Dean to make it all better.
"No, Sammy. I'm just a hardworking representative of the crossroads demon. She's a little busy right now, fighting her way up the demonic food chain. They're all a little shook up in hell since we killed ol' yellow-eyes, still trying to sort themselves out. She's got opportunities for advancement. Can't let 'em go to waste." He grins that razor grin again, and though it doesn't reach his eyes, Sam finds himself grinning back before he remembers, and forces his face into a more neutral expression.
"So you're authorized to make deals on her behalf?"
Dean's mouth pooches out as if he's thinking, and then he says, "Yeah, that's the gig, pretty much."
Sam nods, trying to wrap his head around the new information. "There's a knife that kills demons--"
Dean doesn't let him finish. "A knife you don't even have? Sammy, please. Don't try to con a con man."
Sam opens his mouth to refute that, then closes it again, reassessing his strategy. It's risky to assume that Dean knows everything the demon knows--or doesn't know, in this case--but the knife gives him an advantage, so it's a risk worth taking.
They stare at each other for a long moment, and Sam tries to pretend this is like any other pissing contest he's had with Dean, that if he just thinks long and hard enough, he'll come up with a way to get Dean to do what he wants. If it's still Dean he's dealing with. Though maybe that doesn't matter, if he offers something every other demon they've run into wants. It's not like he hasn't always known his soul is the only real bargaining chip he has.
"If I find a way to free your soul in the next year, the demon lets us both go, no strings attached. If I don't, she gets mine, too. It's a great deal, would give her a boost up the corporate ladder." He smiles tightly. "I know she wants the matching set."
Dean looks intrigued despite himself, but shakes his head. "One month."
"Six months," Sam offers.
"Six weeks," Dean counters.
Sam doesn't answer with words. Instead, he curls his hands in the front of Dean's shirt and hauls him in for a kiss. Dean's lips are cool and dry, and the heartbeat beneath Sam's fingers is sluggish, the pulse of a man caught between life and death, so different from the rapid tattoo Sam's heart is currently beating against his ribs.
After the first quick spike of nausea at the taste of sulfur on the familiar curl of Dean's tongue, Sam gives himself over to the kiss, shivering at the way Dean licks into his mouth, desperate and hungry as a starving man. Dean's hands slide into his hair, one cool, strong hand coming up to cup his jaw, and Sam whimpers when he pulls away.
There's a light in Dean's eyes now that was missing before, desperation and torment, and his voice is a hoarse whisper when he says, "She left enough of my soul with me to make this more painful. She gets off on it, likes to torture me. Says the risk makes it sweeter." Sam opens his mouth--to apologize, to promise to save him, to tell him to hang on; Sam doesn't even know--and Dean says, "Don't freak on me now, Sam. There's no time, and I thought I knew what I was signing on for. Just listen. There's a way to make it whole again--"
Sam has to lean in to hear the directions, Dean's lips warm and his breath humid on his ear, each word rough and bitten off, like it's being torn from Dean's throat.
He nods once, jaw clenched tight so he doesn't give into the tears starting to burn behind his eyes. He blinks them away, and Dean is gone.
*
All Hallow's Eve, the veil between life and death, between earth and hell, thins at the soft places of the world. Demons put on their party clothes and come out to play, vulnerable in ways they aren't during the rest of the year.
Salt first, and then goofer dust, double layer of protection poured widdershins around the crossroads, to let her in but not back out; a devil's trap carved into the dirt with a stick, to keep her trapped, and locked in whatever form she takes tonight, and prevent Dean from being sucked back into hell; all of it so tenuous, so easy to break, like the hope he's been carrying around the past few days, a small green shoot poking its head out of the ground at the wrong season, ready to be snuffed out by reality.
He pours a smaller circle of salt, large enough for him and Dean, makes sure he's got his weapons ready and available. He kneels in the center, careful of the lines he's drawn, and buries the box--graveyard dirt, black cat bone, picture of himself in a suit, hair slicked back, face set with false authority (Steve Zing, the badge says, Department of Agriculture).
He stands in his circle, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and waits.
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in." Her voice is low, throaty, and full of cruel laughter.
Sam whirls around to face her, forcing himself to stay calm. The demon is beautiful--white-blonde hair and sky blue-eyes and legs up to her neck. She's nearly as tall as Dean, who stands beside her, leaner and hungrier looking than he was just a few days ago. Her eyes flash red as her lipstick, and her mouth is curled in a nasty smile.
She notices his assessing stare. "You like it, Sammy?" she asks, smoothing a hand over the white satin clinging to her hip. "I picked it out just for you."
"I might like her better if you weren't possessing her," he says, testing, still not sure if he believes the information Dean's given him.
"You think you know so much and you really know so little." She shakes her head, tsks in mock concern for his apparent lack of knowledge. "This is all me, tonight, boy. No need to sully myself with someone else's meat suit."
Sam has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from whooping in triumph. When he's sure he's got control of his voice, he says, "Let's do this, then. We have a deal, right?"
"We do indeed." She touches the pink tip of her tongue to her upper lip. "You were right, Sammy. I do want the matched set. Oh, how pretty you'll be, my pair of Winchesters, snatching the souls of the desperate and damned, and carrying them down to hell." She cocks a hip, rests a well-manicured hand on it, long red nails gleaming in the moonlight. "I have a busy night tonight, and this is just my first stop, so can you speed it up a little? I admit, I didn't think you'd give up so quickly, but I guess you just couldn't live without your brother any longer. I know you think waking up alone each morning is hell, but you have no idea." She laughs again. "You will, though."
"Not so fast," Sam snaps, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him into the circle. Dean, by dint of long years' habit, automatically steps over the salt line, which is a relief. Sam hadn't been sure about that part, had been afraid the demon would have taken steps to prevent it, or even possess Dean herself. He should have realized her pride would keep her from taking him seriously.
He shoves the silver ring onto Dean's finger, like some gross parody of a wedding ceremony, and keeps his own fingers wrapped around Dean's wrist. He can feel that same sluggish pulse, the thin skin over it cool as marble.
Dean tries to yank his hand away. "You're a big boy now, Sam. No need to hold hands." When Sam doesn't let go, he says, "Dude, what is your damage?"
Sam holds on, tight as he can; the hurried research he'd done had mentioned the personality changes, the tests, said he had to hold on through it all, so he does, sweaty palms and squirmy Dean and all.
"You know, I appreciate the gesture," Dean says, still trying to shake free of Sam's grip and grimacing in pain when he can't, "but don't you think it's too little, too late? I mean, you let me go to hell for you, and then it took you six months to come around and say hi? That's harsh, man."
Sam flinches, but doesn't let go. He remembers their childhood curled up together under the covers, waiting for Dad to come home, only Dean standing between him and the things lurking out in the dark; he'd clung to Dean like a lifeline then, and he does the same now.
Dean's voice turns soft, sincere. "Just let me go, Sam, please. I did this for you. Can't you just let it be?"
Sam has to bite his lip to keep from snapping. He settles for a terse, "No," as he tightens his grip.
"You're hurting me," Dean says, pitiful now, pleading, and Sam almost lets him go, closes his eyes to steel himself against the look on Dean's face.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, but doesn't release him.
Dean's slippery, though, expertly trained and dangerous. He almost gets loose, takes Sam down with a well-aimed kick, and then they're both on the ground, tussling, Sam struggling to keep hold of Dean's hand. That's it, Sam thinks, the sign he was waiting for. He slips Dean's amulet from around his neck and loops it over Dean's head. Dean's still trying to fight him--he's going to have a nasty burn on his wrist where he's trying to twist out of Sam's grip. Sam pulls out his flask of holy water, flicks the top off, and dumps it over Dean.
Dean stiffens as if he's been shocked, and then goes limp, his weight pressing Sam to the ground. Sam's fingers feel like ice as he fumbles for the pulse in Dean's neck, and he breathes a long sigh of relief when he finds it beating strong and fast, skin warming under his touch. Dean feels lighter than he should be, a shadow of himself, all angles and ropy muscle, six months without real food or rest taking their toll.
Sam lowers Dean gently to the ground, has to curl his fingers into fists to stop touching him, making sure he's breathing and warm and alive. He stands in front of him as the demon stalks forward, her beautiful face twisted in rage.
"You think you're so clever," she spits, "but Dean is mine, and no stupid ritual is going to take him from me."
"It already has," Sam says. He feels like he might collapse if the wind blows from the wrong direction, but he shows no sign of weakness in his voice. "If you go now, I won't take anything else."
Dean is stirring behind him, and Sam offers him a hand up, though he doesn't take his eyes off the demon. Dean's hand is warm on his back, and he feels a brief pang of panic that it actually didn't work when Dean slides the knife out of his waistband, but then he trails his fingers along Sam's lower back and gives him a quick pinch. Sam bites his lip to keep from yelping and laughing.
"You can't do this," the demon says. "This is some sort of trick."
"No, we made a deal, fair and square. If I found a way to free Dean's soul, it was mine to keep. Your authorized representative agreed to it." Sam bares his teeth at her in a vicious grin. "Obviously, I found a way."
"No," she says, shaking her head. She backs away, but though the devil's trap has been smudged, the circles are still intact, and she can't leave. "How did you know?"
"Dean told me." He can feel Dean moving behind him, restless, and when he glances over, Dean's testing the feel of the knife in his hand, calculating look on his face, body coiled and ready to leap into action. Sam keeps talking, keeps her attention on him, away from Dean. "See, you left just enough of his soul inside him to make doing your dirty work painful, and that gave him just enough free will to tell me what to do." He laughs. "You screwed yourself, basically. Can't say I'm sorry. Or surprised, really. You're not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you?"
"You should have taken the knife," Dean says; his voice is raspy as sandpaper, and has no mercy in it. "Let me show you why."
He's on her quick as a flash, slits her throat with one swift slash of the knife. The demon's body lights up from within, like she's been struck by lightning, and then collapses. The smell of charred flesh fills the air, and only long familiarity with the stench keeps Sam from retching.
His shaky legs give way, though, landing him on his ass on the cold, damp ground, and he shakes his head in disbelief that it actually worked.
Dean drops down next to him, warm hand trembling as he cups Sam's face, the long-lost touch like sunlight on his skin. "Sam, Sammy? You okay?"
Sam laughs, and for the first time in months, it's free of bitterness. He turns his face to press his lips to Dean's sweaty, dirty palm, closes his eyes to breathe him in for a long moment before he says, "Yeah, Dean, I am. How are you?"
Dean ducks his head for a second, then looks up, eyes wide and shining in his gaunt face, freckles and specks of dirt standing out in sharp relief against his paper-pale skin. "Fine. Good. Better than."
"Good, 'cause you look like shit."
"You don't look so hot yourself." Dean shakes his head, laughs a little himself, bright as silver, and the sound, unheard for so long, makes Sam's heart feel like it's going to burst from his chest. "When was the last time you ate something? Be honest now."
"Need my big brother to take care of me."
Dean snorts. "Obviously." They're quiet for a few moments, basking in each other's presence. Then Dean says, "All that stuff I said--"
Sam leans heavily against him, once again aware of how underweight Dean is, the jut of his shoulder sharp and his clothes hanging loose. Sam remembers six months of extra food he didn't eat and feels another pang of remorse at how long it took to rescue him. "Wasn't you. Not a problem."
Dean bumps his shoulder, grinning so hard Sam thinks his face might stay like that permanently. "Thanks, man."
Sam answers the only way he can--he leans in and kisses him, hard and needy, all, you'd do the same for me, and don't ever leave me again, and I even missed your stupid music, but what he says when he pulls back is, "You can repay me by doing the laundry for the next six months." And then he cuts off Dean's laughter with another kiss.
end
***
Notes: This story is inspired by the ballad of Tam Lin (from whence the cut-tag comes). The song Dean hums is "A Little Bit o'Soul" by The Music Explosion (also covered by The Ramones). Steve Zing was a member of Glenn Danzig's band Samhain, which seemed fitting for this story.
*
October 14, 2007
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Feedback is always welcome. Thank you to the people who've already commented. I truly appreciate it.
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