LOOK! I WROTE FIC!
Sorry, mediaville, it's not more of the J2 plotbunny, though I did work on that as well.
I don't know if anyone is even reading this: I went back over past sections and saw nobody commented, but I never know if that's because it sucked, or because no one was remotely interested. I actually discovered the plot arc for this one over the weekend, so hopefully, I'll be able to produce more. We shall see . . . what did this take, almost a year?
No one who knows me should be particularly surprised that this is going slowly.
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4 / ?
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Dean is warm when he wakes, deep in the plush comfort of flannel and feathers.
He lies still for long moments, as he’s trained himself to do, listening to his surroundings for clues to his whereabouts. He already knows that he’s not in his room at the coven.
Yet someone has treated his wounds and put him to rest in a comfortable bed, well-wrapped against the chill. There’s a gas fireplace burning in one corner, dimly lighting his surroundings as Dean slits open his eyes. A lamp with a glass shade, flame set low, flickers warmly on the bedside table and briefly gilds the velvet hangings that are partially drawn back from the bed.
Dean hears no heartbeats close by, so he opens his eyes fully and scans the room.
It’s fairly large, dominated by the massive posted bed in which he lies. There are two upholstered chairs by the fireplace, a low table between them containing a decanter and a pair of sturdy-looking tumblers. Flames twinkle off the glass and send prisms dancing across the room.
The walls are stone, great blocks of gray granite hung with tapestries like a medieval castle. Since he’s lying on his back, Dean can see that the ceiling is lower than he expected, beamed with rough-hewn wood and whitewashed or painted so that the light reflects and brightens the room. He can’t see anything that looks like a window, and wonders if he’s underground.
Dean puts out a hand, cautiously, and tests the wrappings around his ribcage. He can tell already that he is mostly healed, and he wonders who has found him. It must be another vampire, because Dean has clearly been doctored by someone with vulpine experience. Humans would have taken him to a hospital, and Lycans would have killed him out of hand. But Dean’s chest has been bound tightly enough to hold the flesh in place while it knits, without the foolishness of stitches or transfusions.
He runs his tongue across his teeth, tests their sharpness. He’ll need to drink soon, although the taste of old copper in the back of his throat tells Dean that someone has seen to his needs in that department as well.
It takes a massive effort of will, but Dean manages to lever himself to one elbow, and from there into a sitting position. He shakes off the momentary lightheadedness and swings his legs over the side of the bed, only to discover that he’s completely naked except for the bandages.
A quick glance around the room shows no sign of a wardrobe or dresser, not even a door that might lead to a closet, so Dean shrugs and tears down one of the lengths of heavy velvet that drapes the bed. The fancy silken rope that acts as a tieback does double duty as a belt, and Dean knots it loosely so that it is easily accessible if he needs to use it as a garrote as well.
It’s not about modesty, merely defensibility: a naked man wandering unfamiliar halls is a target, whereas one clad, however poorly, is less likely to draw attention, and therefore, to arouse suspicion. He moves carefully across the room to the door and tries the handle. Locked, of course. And also . . . magicked? Dean hovers one hand above the wood, feels the power engraved therein. From the other side, he thinks, since there are no sigils visible. He flicks his eyes to vampire vision to double-check, but still, nothing.
So. Meant to keep him in, rather than to keep others out. He was a prisoner, then.
He’s about to move away to investigate the rest of the room when the door opens, swinging in silently on well-oiled hinges. Dean has a moment to glimpse more featureless gray stone, spiraling into darkness beyond the reach of hanging lamps dotting the wall opposite his door. There are other doorways visible, shadowed alcoves with the hint of heavy wood, barred with iron and carved with runes. Something whispers to him, something just beyond the range of his senses, drawing his attention.
Dean doesn’t even notice the tall human, pushing past him into the room, so focused he is upon the mystery in the hall. Then the door to his room shuts firmly, and he finds himself staring at a broad, happy grin, to all appearances a man who is delighted by the very sight of him. “Great, you’re up,” the human says cheerfully. “We weren’t sure how long it might take for you to recover. Do you need more blood? You drank about three pints already, but I brought more in case you’re still hungry.”
Dean blinks, caught off guard and confused by the offer. Was he a prisoner? An honored enemy? The man was behaving most oddly. He’s tempted to simply attack and to bleed out the information he needs, but he checks his impulse with the faint memory of the alley. This man had recognized him, had called him by name and more, had reacted as if he had known Dean well. Perhaps he could fill in some of the blank spots in Dean’s memory.
The man has settled the tray on the low table by the fire. There’s not enough room for it, so he scoops up the decanter and tumblers in one big hand while he balances the tray, glances around the room as if looking for a better place for them, and with a quick, careless shrug, deposits the glassware on the floor. Crystal chimes as it strikes stone, and the man winces briefly at the high-pitched sound.
He seats himself and waves Dean over to join him before the fire. It’s the warmest place in the room, and also the only location with anything resembling a distance weapon. Dean has once before survived thrusting his hand into a fire to withdraw a blazing log to wield against an enemy, when he was out of bullets and backup and dawn was too close for comfort. Drinking more blood will help if it comes to that, so Dean joins the stranger, but takes the precaution of turning his armchair slightly as he sits, so that he has a better view of the room.
The man’s quick hazel eyes flick over him in silent acknowledgment of the maneuver, and Dean curses himself for being so obvious. He learned subtlety in the coven, but it never came naturally to him like it did to the others, and again, he resists the urge to kill out of hand. The human leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingertips touching, and says carefully, “You’re pretty suspicious of your surroundings.”
Dean decides not to dignify that statement with a response, and the man sighs heavily. He looks genuinely distressed when he says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Dean starts to shrug, and then stops, arrested by the memory of the alley, again. He had been dazed and bleeding, but he thinks he remembered recognizing the man there, in the rain and the darkness. Dry and well-lit, though, he can’t recall what seemed so familiar. Something about the eyes, maybe. So, “I’m not sure,” he temporizes.
The man sprawls back in his chair, puffing out a breathy curse that stirs the shaggy fringe of hair over his forehead, but does little to disturb its fall. “I don’t know where to start, then,” he admits. “My name is Sam.”
Something in Dean leaps in awareness at that sound, echoing through the emptiness of his broken mind like months before, when he had first heard the name of the dead leader of the Lycans. “Sam,” he repeats, slowly.
The human so named grins and leans forward again. He’s all long limbs, flung about carelessly to punctuate his conversation. It is supremely distracting to concentrate on speech or thought in the face of this coltish eagerness. “Do you remember? Dean? You look like you remembered something! Do you remember who I am?”
Dean glances up, startled. “I-I don’t know,” he falters. “It . . . your name-it’s like I should know it, but I’m not, I’m just not sure.”
He winces and rebukes himself internally. There’s no reason to trust this human, and Dean’s just given away truth for no reason and no return. He’s hungry, off his game, he rationalizes, and he motions at the covered tray. “Did you say something about food?” he asks, trying not to sound desperate.
The human-Sam, Dean reminds himself-nearly leaps out of his chair in his haste to serve. “Of course, I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He lifts the lid, slides it carelessly to the floor and rests it against the leg of his chair. “I brought the blood in a bag for you, but I can get it warmed up if you’d rather have it that way?”
But Dean is staring at the other contents of the tray: a sandwich of some sort of red meat, oozing juices all over the platter; crispy fried potatoes, redolent of seasonings; two bottles of beer, condensation sliding down the glass. He reaches out one hand, hesitantly.
“You want my burger?” Sam asks, sounding puzzled. “Sure, no problem. It won’t make you sick or anything, will it?”
Dean has the sandwich in both hands before Sam finishes speaking. He can feel his fangs lengthening, the lenses of his eyes flicking over to protect his vision as he attacks. When he sinks his teeth into the bread and meat, he can’t help the low moan of pleasure at the taste. Most of the prey is gone in a matter of seconds, and Dean turns on the other foodstuffs ravenously.
He comes back to himself when he hears a sound like a whipcrack, his startled eyes quickly scanning the room for a potential threat, but there’s only Sam, holding out one of the two bottles of beer, now open and wisping the scent of hops. His eyes are a little big, but his hand is steady, and Dean accepts the drink, gulping thirstily.
Sam makes a sound like a coughing chuckle and says, “You’ve never been much on table manners, but I’ve never seen you eat quite like that before.”
Dean nearly drops the bottle, realizing then that he’s crouched on the floor over the remains of his meal. Shame floods his system: he’s no animal, to lose awareness of himself like the filthy Lycans are prone to do when they feed, so it’s said. He snatches at a cloth napkin lying on the tray and wipes juices from his face and hands, then levers himself back into his seat.
Vampires pride themselves on their grace, their ability to control the base instincts that their enemies the Lycans have embraced. A vampire who loses that control is nothing, lower than the animals they hunt. Dean’s lapse has brought shame upon his coven, his clan, his entire race. He turns his face away and hopes the flames hide the flush he can feel staining his fair skin.
Sam hastens across the space between them and kneels at his feet, one hand on Dean’s knee. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” he chides softly. “You know-oh, well, I guess you don’t know, but honestly, it’s no big deal. I used to think that your jaw unhinged, like a snake’s, back when we were kids, do you remember?”
Dean turns his head back and blinks at him. They were children together? This human, this Sam, he knew Dean that long ago?
Sam takes Dean’s hand and presses it to his cheek. “I’ve been missing you so much,” he says, soft and heartfelt. “It’s been a year since you disappeared, and I thought I was going to lose my mind without you.” He rests his head in Dean’s lap, then, and sobs for a long time.
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I don't know if anyone is even reading this: I went back over past sections and saw nobody commented, but I never know if that's because it sucked, or because no one was remotely interested. I actually discovered the plot arc for this one over the weekend, so hopefully, I'll be able to produce more. We shall see . . . what did this take, almost a year?
No one who knows me should be particularly surprised that this is going slowly.
************************
4 / ?
************************
Dean is warm when he wakes, deep in the plush comfort of flannel and feathers.
He lies still for long moments, as he’s trained himself to do, listening to his surroundings for clues to his whereabouts. He already knows that he’s not in his room at the coven.
Yet someone has treated his wounds and put him to rest in a comfortable bed, well-wrapped against the chill. There’s a gas fireplace burning in one corner, dimly lighting his surroundings as Dean slits open his eyes. A lamp with a glass shade, flame set low, flickers warmly on the bedside table and briefly gilds the velvet hangings that are partially drawn back from the bed.
Dean hears no heartbeats close by, so he opens his eyes fully and scans the room.
It’s fairly large, dominated by the massive posted bed in which he lies. There are two upholstered chairs by the fireplace, a low table between them containing a decanter and a pair of sturdy-looking tumblers. Flames twinkle off the glass and send prisms dancing across the room.
The walls are stone, great blocks of gray granite hung with tapestries like a medieval castle. Since he’s lying on his back, Dean can see that the ceiling is lower than he expected, beamed with rough-hewn wood and whitewashed or painted so that the light reflects and brightens the room. He can’t see anything that looks like a window, and wonders if he’s underground.
Dean puts out a hand, cautiously, and tests the wrappings around his ribcage. He can tell already that he is mostly healed, and he wonders who has found him. It must be another vampire, because Dean has clearly been doctored by someone with vulpine experience. Humans would have taken him to a hospital, and Lycans would have killed him out of hand. But Dean’s chest has been bound tightly enough to hold the flesh in place while it knits, without the foolishness of stitches or transfusions.
He runs his tongue across his teeth, tests their sharpness. He’ll need to drink soon, although the taste of old copper in the back of his throat tells Dean that someone has seen to his needs in that department as well.
It takes a massive effort of will, but Dean manages to lever himself to one elbow, and from there into a sitting position. He shakes off the momentary lightheadedness and swings his legs over the side of the bed, only to discover that he’s completely naked except for the bandages.
A quick glance around the room shows no sign of a wardrobe or dresser, not even a door that might lead to a closet, so Dean shrugs and tears down one of the lengths of heavy velvet that drapes the bed. The fancy silken rope that acts as a tieback does double duty as a belt, and Dean knots it loosely so that it is easily accessible if he needs to use it as a garrote as well.
It’s not about modesty, merely defensibility: a naked man wandering unfamiliar halls is a target, whereas one clad, however poorly, is less likely to draw attention, and therefore, to arouse suspicion. He moves carefully across the room to the door and tries the handle. Locked, of course. And also . . . magicked? Dean hovers one hand above the wood, feels the power engraved therein. From the other side, he thinks, since there are no sigils visible. He flicks his eyes to vampire vision to double-check, but still, nothing.
So. Meant to keep him in, rather than to keep others out. He was a prisoner, then.
He’s about to move away to investigate the rest of the room when the door opens, swinging in silently on well-oiled hinges. Dean has a moment to glimpse more featureless gray stone, spiraling into darkness beyond the reach of hanging lamps dotting the wall opposite his door. There are other doorways visible, shadowed alcoves with the hint of heavy wood, barred with iron and carved with runes. Something whispers to him, something just beyond the range of his senses, drawing his attention.
Dean doesn’t even notice the tall human, pushing past him into the room, so focused he is upon the mystery in the hall. Then the door to his room shuts firmly, and he finds himself staring at a broad, happy grin, to all appearances a man who is delighted by the very sight of him. “Great, you’re up,” the human says cheerfully. “We weren’t sure how long it might take for you to recover. Do you need more blood? You drank about three pints already, but I brought more in case you’re still hungry.”
Dean blinks, caught off guard and confused by the offer. Was he a prisoner? An honored enemy? The man was behaving most oddly. He’s tempted to simply attack and to bleed out the information he needs, but he checks his impulse with the faint memory of the alley. This man had recognized him, had called him by name and more, had reacted as if he had known Dean well. Perhaps he could fill in some of the blank spots in Dean’s memory.
The man has settled the tray on the low table by the fire. There’s not enough room for it, so he scoops up the decanter and tumblers in one big hand while he balances the tray, glances around the room as if looking for a better place for them, and with a quick, careless shrug, deposits the glassware on the floor. Crystal chimes as it strikes stone, and the man winces briefly at the high-pitched sound.
He seats himself and waves Dean over to join him before the fire. It’s the warmest place in the room, and also the only location with anything resembling a distance weapon. Dean has once before survived thrusting his hand into a fire to withdraw a blazing log to wield against an enemy, when he was out of bullets and backup and dawn was too close for comfort. Drinking more blood will help if it comes to that, so Dean joins the stranger, but takes the precaution of turning his armchair slightly as he sits, so that he has a better view of the room.
The man’s quick hazel eyes flick over him in silent acknowledgment of the maneuver, and Dean curses himself for being so obvious. He learned subtlety in the coven, but it never came naturally to him like it did to the others, and again, he resists the urge to kill out of hand. The human leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingertips touching, and says carefully, “You’re pretty suspicious of your surroundings.”
Dean decides not to dignify that statement with a response, and the man sighs heavily. He looks genuinely distressed when he says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Dean starts to shrug, and then stops, arrested by the memory of the alley, again. He had been dazed and bleeding, but he thinks he remembered recognizing the man there, in the rain and the darkness. Dry and well-lit, though, he can’t recall what seemed so familiar. Something about the eyes, maybe. So, “I’m not sure,” he temporizes.
The man sprawls back in his chair, puffing out a breathy curse that stirs the shaggy fringe of hair over his forehead, but does little to disturb its fall. “I don’t know where to start, then,” he admits. “My name is Sam.”
Something in Dean leaps in awareness at that sound, echoing through the emptiness of his broken mind like months before, when he had first heard the name of the dead leader of the Lycans. “Sam,” he repeats, slowly.
The human so named grins and leans forward again. He’s all long limbs, flung about carelessly to punctuate his conversation. It is supremely distracting to concentrate on speech or thought in the face of this coltish eagerness. “Do you remember? Dean? You look like you remembered something! Do you remember who I am?”
Dean glances up, startled. “I-I don’t know,” he falters. “It . . . your name-it’s like I should know it, but I’m not, I’m just not sure.”
He winces and rebukes himself internally. There’s no reason to trust this human, and Dean’s just given away truth for no reason and no return. He’s hungry, off his game, he rationalizes, and he motions at the covered tray. “Did you say something about food?” he asks, trying not to sound desperate.
The human-Sam, Dean reminds himself-nearly leaps out of his chair in his haste to serve. “Of course, I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He lifts the lid, slides it carelessly to the floor and rests it against the leg of his chair. “I brought the blood in a bag for you, but I can get it warmed up if you’d rather have it that way?”
But Dean is staring at the other contents of the tray: a sandwich of some sort of red meat, oozing juices all over the platter; crispy fried potatoes, redolent of seasonings; two bottles of beer, condensation sliding down the glass. He reaches out one hand, hesitantly.
“You want my burger?” Sam asks, sounding puzzled. “Sure, no problem. It won’t make you sick or anything, will it?”
Dean has the sandwich in both hands before Sam finishes speaking. He can feel his fangs lengthening, the lenses of his eyes flicking over to protect his vision as he attacks. When he sinks his teeth into the bread and meat, he can’t help the low moan of pleasure at the taste. Most of the prey is gone in a matter of seconds, and Dean turns on the other foodstuffs ravenously.
He comes back to himself when he hears a sound like a whipcrack, his startled eyes quickly scanning the room for a potential threat, but there’s only Sam, holding out one of the two bottles of beer, now open and wisping the scent of hops. His eyes are a little big, but his hand is steady, and Dean accepts the drink, gulping thirstily.
Sam makes a sound like a coughing chuckle and says, “You’ve never been much on table manners, but I’ve never seen you eat quite like that before.”
Dean nearly drops the bottle, realizing then that he’s crouched on the floor over the remains of his meal. Shame floods his system: he’s no animal, to lose awareness of himself like the filthy Lycans are prone to do when they feed, so it’s said. He snatches at a cloth napkin lying on the tray and wipes juices from his face and hands, then levers himself back into his seat.
Vampires pride themselves on their grace, their ability to control the base instincts that their enemies the Lycans have embraced. A vampire who loses that control is nothing, lower than the animals they hunt. Dean’s lapse has brought shame upon his coven, his clan, his entire race. He turns his face away and hopes the flames hide the flush he can feel staining his fair skin.
Sam hastens across the space between them and kneels at his feet, one hand on Dean’s knee. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” he chides softly. “You know-oh, well, I guess you don’t know, but honestly, it’s no big deal. I used to think that your jaw unhinged, like a snake’s, back when we were kids, do you remember?”
Dean turns his head back and blinks at him. They were children together? This human, this Sam, he knew Dean that long ago?
Sam takes Dean’s hand and presses it to his cheek. “I’ve been missing you so much,” he says, soft and heartfelt. “It’s been a year since you disappeared, and I thought I was going to lose my mind without you.” He rests his head in Dean’s lap, then, and sobs for a long time.
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