OhSam Triple Play 2016!
It's November 2, an auspicious (if ominous) day for our darling Sam, so to herald his introduction to The Red Stuff, let's revisit an annual tradition. Welcome to the OhSam Triple Play 2016! This year, we're offering a focus on a reoccurring theme in Sam's life: blood"Blood" could be interpreted in many ways. Family don't end with blood. The demon
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Genre/pairing: gencest
Characters: Sam, Dean, Balthazar
Spoilers: post-6 x11
Warnings: resouling trauma, canon liberties
Notes: wrote this when 'flu' was part of the prompt ( :
The crime of self-defilement seems a long way off. That’s the problem.
*
I don’t remember, Sam mumbles. Dean could’ve sworn he was just alone, pulling himself up in more ways than one.
I don’t think-Dean says, and stops, flicks off the bedside lamp. Turns out having a soul implanted doesn’t make your T-cells soldier up, though you’d think they might.
Sam coughed all morning. Started to flush around noon.
Dean caught him by the shoulder and pulled him. From the case. From the car. Into bed.
*
Hotel’s better than Elysian, even. Glossy chocolates. More than a few floors. Good little bottles in the minibar, full first aid kit. Sweet sink. Glittery.
They’re wet and coughing. Sam shakes with chills.
The city’s outside, all shifters and towers and rain.
*
Boys, Balthazar says, perches on the end of the bed, you don’t know how to live.
Doncha think the drugs-and-sluts thing is a little played out, Dean says.
I’m reserving judgment, Balthazar says and curls, wingless, around sweet-skirted twins, one firehouse red, the other black-haired as Baby’s back.
Right, Dean says, this is a dream.
You know-
One of the girls puts out a hand, strokes it light down Dean's arm .
You know, Balthazar says, looks at sleeping-Sam arch and fond, you should have let me have him. Not every day an angel meets an empty vessel that walks and talks and does its own smiting.
The murderous thump of Dean’s pulse wakes him up.
*
Why’re my hands bloody, Sam mutters, Dean you have to tell me.
Dean would say they’re not, but.
The sheets have a major threadcount. Sam wants to sit up. His hair splashes out over the pillow.
I died, Dean wants to say, trying to get you back. Instead puts a hand on his brother’s forehead, goes for some of the iced juice, silver bucket.
Death ‘s on holiday.
So are they.
*
Sam’s temperature goes up, then down again. Outside, Chicago rain.
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And you took wonderful advantage of the change, since feverish, hallucinatory blood is always a good look on Sam. I love how Dean's reality is shifting as well, how the unusually luxurious hotel is an echo of Balthazar's also-compromised hedonism, and how sad and strange any definition of vacation is in the circumstances.
Beautiful, atmospheric writing, as always. Thank you so much for filling my prompt.
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