even in death i gave you life, Sam/Dean, NC-17
even in death i gave you life
Author: *koulagirl (koulagirl666 / raise_the_knife
Pairing: Sam/Dean, very mild Dean/Ellen and Dean/Jo
Rating: NC-17 (themes, non-corporeal sex, suicide)
Summary: Dean's perceptions change when he no longer has to worry about Sam dying.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters don't belong to me. Surprise! I can only play with them for a short while before I have to give them back. I make no profit from this tentative venture.
A/N: Written for spn_apocasmut, based on prompts 5, 30 and 71 (found here), basically, a picture of a doorframe and the lyrics to All Apologies by Nirvana and When The World Ends by the Dave Matthews Band.
Spoilers up to and including 3x12, with an AU spin. Title taken from 'The Ministry of Lost Souls' by Dream Theater.
In all his dreams and uncontrolled thoughts, Dean had never thought that his own personal world would end like this. It had always been a heroic death, saving someone or killing something, always violent and always with a last valiant attempt at strength. Since killing the demon and making the deal, it hadn't been so clear, but still... he'd saved Sam, killed the demon, and suddenly the final struggle didn't seem so important. He'd spent his dream time on the hellhounds instead; seeing their shadows cast against the window as they approached, hearing their growls echo back from the wooden walls so that the sound surrounded him and each interrupting bark amplified his fear. Even knowing what he knew now and hadn't known then, he'd always planned to wait for them, patiently sitting somewhere out of the way where nobody would come looking if the hounds ripped him up and he happened to scream out of pain. One of those old abandoned houses in an untouched wood would have been fine; he knew there were enough of those out there, and he could find one that was empty and isolated enough that nobody would find him while there'd be something left that could be identified as his. The last thing that Dean wanted when he died was for someone to start tracking Sam, giving him trouble over his already-dead older brother's mysterious habit of dying and being resurrected.
Sam wouldn't be there when it happened, of course; Dean would make sure he was somewhere far away, just in case the hounds decided a two-for-one deal was on the menu.
Sam wasn't here now, either. Things had changed, but Dean still had everything he wanted and a bonus on the side. The hounds weren't due for another three days; it would be one year exactly and he didn't expect her to fudge a few hours either side, not when there were a hundred other demons waiting to take him if she messed up. His personal end of the world was coming either way; his time was finally up, whether he took her way out or his own.
It wasn't a bad thing; he was tired enough of life to be ready for the end and certainly dumb enough to try to end it on his own. Everything he'd ever said about it was true; he'd given over and over, paid more than his dues in death and pain while receiving nothing more than a few moments peace in a stranger's arms. He saved people; didn't know how else to think of what he did in a positive way because it was all killing and fighting and uncertainty, complicated by demons and spells and the twistedness of nature itself. People owed him their lives though he should already be dead - was dead twice over, at least, not counting the bureaucratic crap that had him officially off the radar even if it had ended up being a demon who'd done it. It was kind of a heavy burden to bear; remembering to cover his tracks even though anyone following him would end up nowhere and the only people who'd stay on the trail would be looking for a grave that didn't exist after shooting him with something that wouldn't even deter him on a good day. Doing it all without Sam was harder, of course; he relied even more on Bobby in Sam's absence, and was grateful for Ellen's help when she showed up in Minnesota. He got by, though, for a month or so; the deadline was too close, then, and he'd left to find that abandoned house he'd been thinking of.
The goodbyes had been hard, even though he'd known everyone knew it was coming. Ellen had been first; he'd leant in to kiss her and she'd turned her head just enough that his lips had touched hers. She'd hidden her face after, but when Dean was done with standing awkwardly and had turned away she'd called him back and hugged him roughly. He found a pentacle on a bracelet later, when he was going through the pockets of his leather jacket, and knew that she'd put it there; it had been on her wrist when he'd entered the bar and she waved him over.
Bobby had hugged him and that had been awkward too; not in the way touching Ellen had been since Bobby had patched him up and patted his shoulder more times than he probably remembered, but in the way that meant Bobby knew what he was planning. It had been just as evident in the way Bobby had let him go without telling him to take care of himself now, just silently raising a hand at the same time Dean's eyes flicked to the rear vision mirror as he drove out of Bobby's yard for the last time.
He hadn't wanted to spend the time finding Jo; Ellen would pass the message on though, somehow, and Jo didn't want to be found anyway. The goodbye had been an accident; she was working a bar in Indiana and he'd stopped by in search of something heavier after cruising Lisa's house and finding it empty, 'sold' sign blood red against the pale exterior of her former house. All the apologies he'd offered to Ellen and Bobby seemed hollow when Jo looked at him with the same exasperated look she'd always given him when he appeared at the Roadhouse and asked if he'd call this time, just once, to let her know he was okay.
He still tasted the ashen quality of the best whiskey on offer when he remembered how gently he'd said no, and asked her to forget him. She'd known, though; it had been obvious, maybe, in the way he acted or held himself, and she'd been able to tell.
"I hope you and Sam are happy, wherever you're going," she'd said, and that was when he'd wanted her to hold him, because Sam was already there.
It hadn't been unexpected; Sam had been turning for a long time and perhaps was always meant to. Dean had watched him, knowing somehow that it would lead to something like this. He'd known and done nothing, because he could no longer hold Sam back from the edge that had been coming closer on its own steam as if driven by hellfire's heat. Sam had killed in anger and murdered with unmerited viciousness; he'd tortured for the delight of being cruel and acted without mercy and compassion for innocents whom he could have saved. As far as Dean could judge, Sam had become like a child of hell; someone down there was laughing at what he'd given his ill-omened soul to save. Sam had done enough to earn his place above demons they'd sent back together and proved himself enough to put down a rebellion when he'd taken it.
Dean found Sam's body and a note when he'd gone searching; it was three miles out of town and he'd burned it without hesitation. It hadn't hurt inside until later, when he had nothing that smelled like Sam that he could hold in his hands and press against his face. Even the smell of blood, ash and sulphur would have been enough of a reminder of Sam's humanity, though the smell of those last days had choked him like cheap cigarettes in a low-class bar in the bad part of town. Dean only had the note, now; he'd left all Sam's things behind, mostly with Bobby. The last thing he'd let go he'd buried in a grave in Lawrence, and he'd apologised for not looking after Sam well enough, that it had come to this.
He'd pulled the collar of his jacket close to his neck to ward against the cool breeze that followed him from the cemetery, but he'd felt it kiss his cheek and ruffle his hair. He'd buried something of himself there as well, because nobody would be left who'd think to say goodbye for him.
The house was in Arkansas, north of Hatfield and close enough for Dean to be amused as he drove through. The roads were named by numbers once he was out of town, and he followed them without looking as he made his way to the last place he'd see; he'd cased places across the state and this one called to him with Sam's voice. He'd parked his girl under the cover of the back verandah; the closest to a garage that she'll ever see again, and patted her hood, still gleaming from the last time he polished it.
"Stand guard for me, girl," he'd said because he didn't know what else to say as a goodbye to her when she knew everything in both his mind and his heart; he didn't need to plan a speech for her because she'd seen everything and judged him on nothing, even brought him here without complaint though her engine had seemed listless towards the end.
Now he was standing at the door; just one way in and it was already open, inviting him in as if it knew he'd never leave. He'd put salt down around the windows and around the car and it glistened as the crystals reflected the sunrise; it was pretty, but it reminded him that time was short. The salt was only a habitual precaution, anyway; the exterior paint was flaking away and had already weathered to a greyish-white that hid the cracks until pieces were missing and the nails were rusty - anyone who knew this house was here hadn't visited in a long while, and he'd be gone before any demons could interfere.
Not that he was welching on the deal, though, just checking out early and saving the hounds a trip from the kennel. He was still going to hell, still paying his overdue fees and keeping his end of the bargain, and if he'd lit a few candles and wound some bits of string and somehow bound himself to Sam then it was just so he'll be able to find his brother when his debt is paid thrice over.
"Man, I hate witchcraft," he mutters as if Sam can hear him - as if Sam's right there, waiting for him to be done. The spells were simple enough and not even that gross; they're the kind of thing teenage girls do when they're too young to wonder what exactly they're invoking. He'd do anything that made it easier to find Sam down there, though, short of wearing a pink tutu and dancing for the dragon.
He still felt kind of stupid once he'd put down an internal salt line and started on the first spell, even when he was done and nothing had happened or changed. The air smelt different when he sniffed at it, though; rosemary and hibiscus and cardamom and something burning even before he lit the white candle by the doorway, before he said the words that would guide him to Sam.
"Let this candle's light show the path of love to me."
Even though the sun was high enough in the sky to cast light through most of the room, the candle flared so brightly that it seemed the room was illuminated from darkness. It regained the vividness that it must have had once - the walls were white and the carpet unstained, while the furniture was strong and new instead of decrepit - and then fell back into the ordinary sunlit dreariness, with cracks and watermarks visible again. Dean had seen it, though, and still could see what remnants of it there were now that it had shown itself. Light, though dimmed, was reflected onto the wall from something metallic that lay near his rucksack. It danced as shadows moved across it, cast by the wind moving the trees gently enough that the reflection was never more than blurred. Sam's knife, however, stayed still though it beckoned to Dean with Sam's voice. Dean hadn't cleaned it; for some reason he'd wanted to keep that part of Sam's spirit with him and now it whispered to his soul and staked a greater claim on it than any demon had the power to hold.
Dean stripped before he put the knife to his skin; he removed the plaid and torn jeans but kept the amulet that Sam had given him, so it lay surprisingly cool on his chest while the sunlight caressed him with warmth. The touch of the knife along his inner thigh was like Sam's kiss; it didn't hurt until the knife was gone, like losing Sam over again had been fine until Sam didn't come back, then it bled too slowly and he wanted it to be over. He watched his blood flow and shine vivid red before it faded to a dark stain on his jeans that expanded not far enough. Sam was waiting.
He'd saved Sam from fire, once, and then let him go into fire and away from him; the world made circles like that, always coming back to the same patterns and the same events, over and over. Their dad had taught them that; he'd taught them everything they knew but the taste of each other and Dean remembered all those lessons with a strange, unusual clarity - ow to fight, when to let go and fall back; how to kill and how to disable. If the blade angled downwards it was easier to kill, but when striking behind always angle up and push.
Dean held the knife away from him, blade up and tip level with his waist; it seemed to waver but Dean's hands had never been unsteady. He saw Sam's pyre as he pulled the blade into his stomach and twisted the handle (easier to get it out after; Dad had said it so it was true just like when Sam said he loved you) and he tried to laugh. It came out as a gargled breath and then he heard nothing, felt nothing but the soft flannel of his shirt as he let his body fall back to the ground.
You found me, said Sam, not in words but in thoughts and a vague sense of connection that twisted its way around Dean, in ways both familiar and not. You didn't have to do all that, you know.
Dean reached for him and touched nothing. Couldn't leave you alone here, Sammy, you know that, not after you left me to be your Brunnhild.
You remember that?
I remember... everything. You. Dean tried to touch Sam again but Sam was always just out of reach, touching back somewhere else.
You remember this? Dean caught Sam and held on to what slipped through his grasp and came back to wrap around him, surrounding him and passing through him. You remember us?
If Dean could hear, that would have been hope in Sam's voice, but he sensed Sam rather than heard him. He could just remember what Sam looked like and visualised Sam talking to him, head bowed to watch as he twisted his fingers around each other.
I bought your contract, Dean; your soul. Sam looked up at him, eyes wide before the last memories of Sam faded and all Sam was became this; purer and formless, Sam claimed him.You're mine, now, and everyone knows.
Dean remembered that this was what warmth felt like when he had a body and he smiled. It was like being light; he darted around behind Sam but Sam turned and held him there. Let me take you.
Dean would have leaned his head back so that Sam could kiss him and it was almost like that; Sam seemed to hold him and push inside him until he reached out and did the same.
Thank you for coming to me.
Dean wanted to ask when Sam had ever thought otherwise but it seemed as if Sam knew; Sam knew everything and nothing else mattered because they were together and this was it; this was forever. The fires grew dark and shrank around them; the sky faded from red to grey and the clouds parted.
What's happening, Sam?
The world's ending, Dean; you made it out just in time. Look - the stars are fading.
And if he could feel, that wind would be Sam's cock nudging his hip, and he'd turn his head and let Sam kiss him until...
but the world is ending, the way he never thought it would, and he has forever to give to Sam.
Author: *koulagirl (koulagirl666 / raise_the_knife
Pairing: Sam/Dean, very mild Dean/Ellen and Dean/Jo
Rating: NC-17 (themes, non-corporeal sex, suicide)
Summary: Dean's perceptions change when he no longer has to worry about Sam dying.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters don't belong to me. Surprise! I can only play with them for a short while before I have to give them back. I make no profit from this tentative venture.
A/N: Written for spn_apocasmut, based on prompts 5, 30 and 71 (found here), basically, a picture of a doorframe and the lyrics to All Apologies by Nirvana and When The World Ends by the Dave Matthews Band.
Spoilers up to and including 3x12, with an AU spin. Title taken from 'The Ministry of Lost Souls' by Dream Theater.
In all his dreams and uncontrolled thoughts, Dean had never thought that his own personal world would end like this. It had always been a heroic death, saving someone or killing something, always violent and always with a last valiant attempt at strength. Since killing the demon and making the deal, it hadn't been so clear, but still... he'd saved Sam, killed the demon, and suddenly the final struggle didn't seem so important. He'd spent his dream time on the hellhounds instead; seeing their shadows cast against the window as they approached, hearing their growls echo back from the wooden walls so that the sound surrounded him and each interrupting bark amplified his fear. Even knowing what he knew now and hadn't known then, he'd always planned to wait for them, patiently sitting somewhere out of the way where nobody would come looking if the hounds ripped him up and he happened to scream out of pain. One of those old abandoned houses in an untouched wood would have been fine; he knew there were enough of those out there, and he could find one that was empty and isolated enough that nobody would find him while there'd be something left that could be identified as his. The last thing that Dean wanted when he died was for someone to start tracking Sam, giving him trouble over his already-dead older brother's mysterious habit of dying and being resurrected.
Sam wouldn't be there when it happened, of course; Dean would make sure he was somewhere far away, just in case the hounds decided a two-for-one deal was on the menu.
Sam wasn't here now, either. Things had changed, but Dean still had everything he wanted and a bonus on the side. The hounds weren't due for another three days; it would be one year exactly and he didn't expect her to fudge a few hours either side, not when there were a hundred other demons waiting to take him if she messed up. His personal end of the world was coming either way; his time was finally up, whether he took her way out or his own.
It wasn't a bad thing; he was tired enough of life to be ready for the end and certainly dumb enough to try to end it on his own. Everything he'd ever said about it was true; he'd given over and over, paid more than his dues in death and pain while receiving nothing more than a few moments peace in a stranger's arms. He saved people; didn't know how else to think of what he did in a positive way because it was all killing and fighting and uncertainty, complicated by demons and spells and the twistedness of nature itself. People owed him their lives though he should already be dead - was dead twice over, at least, not counting the bureaucratic crap that had him officially off the radar even if it had ended up being a demon who'd done it. It was kind of a heavy burden to bear; remembering to cover his tracks even though anyone following him would end up nowhere and the only people who'd stay on the trail would be looking for a grave that didn't exist after shooting him with something that wouldn't even deter him on a good day. Doing it all without Sam was harder, of course; he relied even more on Bobby in Sam's absence, and was grateful for Ellen's help when she showed up in Minnesota. He got by, though, for a month or so; the deadline was too close, then, and he'd left to find that abandoned house he'd been thinking of.
The goodbyes had been hard, even though he'd known everyone knew it was coming. Ellen had been first; he'd leant in to kiss her and she'd turned her head just enough that his lips had touched hers. She'd hidden her face after, but when Dean was done with standing awkwardly and had turned away she'd called him back and hugged him roughly. He found a pentacle on a bracelet later, when he was going through the pockets of his leather jacket, and knew that she'd put it there; it had been on her wrist when he'd entered the bar and she waved him over.
Bobby had hugged him and that had been awkward too; not in the way touching Ellen had been since Bobby had patched him up and patted his shoulder more times than he probably remembered, but in the way that meant Bobby knew what he was planning. It had been just as evident in the way Bobby had let him go without telling him to take care of himself now, just silently raising a hand at the same time Dean's eyes flicked to the rear vision mirror as he drove out of Bobby's yard for the last time.
He hadn't wanted to spend the time finding Jo; Ellen would pass the message on though, somehow, and Jo didn't want to be found anyway. The goodbye had been an accident; she was working a bar in Indiana and he'd stopped by in search of something heavier after cruising Lisa's house and finding it empty, 'sold' sign blood red against the pale exterior of her former house. All the apologies he'd offered to Ellen and Bobby seemed hollow when Jo looked at him with the same exasperated look she'd always given him when he appeared at the Roadhouse and asked if he'd call this time, just once, to let her know he was okay.
He still tasted the ashen quality of the best whiskey on offer when he remembered how gently he'd said no, and asked her to forget him. She'd known, though; it had been obvious, maybe, in the way he acted or held himself, and she'd been able to tell.
"I hope you and Sam are happy, wherever you're going," she'd said, and that was when he'd wanted her to hold him, because Sam was already there.
It hadn't been unexpected; Sam had been turning for a long time and perhaps was always meant to. Dean had watched him, knowing somehow that it would lead to something like this. He'd known and done nothing, because he could no longer hold Sam back from the edge that had been coming closer on its own steam as if driven by hellfire's heat. Sam had killed in anger and murdered with unmerited viciousness; he'd tortured for the delight of being cruel and acted without mercy and compassion for innocents whom he could have saved. As far as Dean could judge, Sam had become like a child of hell; someone down there was laughing at what he'd given his ill-omened soul to save. Sam had done enough to earn his place above demons they'd sent back together and proved himself enough to put down a rebellion when he'd taken it.
Dean found Sam's body and a note when he'd gone searching; it was three miles out of town and he'd burned it without hesitation. It hadn't hurt inside until later, when he had nothing that smelled like Sam that he could hold in his hands and press against his face. Even the smell of blood, ash and sulphur would have been enough of a reminder of Sam's humanity, though the smell of those last days had choked him like cheap cigarettes in a low-class bar in the bad part of town. Dean only had the note, now; he'd left all Sam's things behind, mostly with Bobby. The last thing he'd let go he'd buried in a grave in Lawrence, and he'd apologised for not looking after Sam well enough, that it had come to this.
He'd pulled the collar of his jacket close to his neck to ward against the cool breeze that followed him from the cemetery, but he'd felt it kiss his cheek and ruffle his hair. He'd buried something of himself there as well, because nobody would be left who'd think to say goodbye for him.
The house was in Arkansas, north of Hatfield and close enough for Dean to be amused as he drove through. The roads were named by numbers once he was out of town, and he followed them without looking as he made his way to the last place he'd see; he'd cased places across the state and this one called to him with Sam's voice. He'd parked his girl under the cover of the back verandah; the closest to a garage that she'll ever see again, and patted her hood, still gleaming from the last time he polished it.
"Stand guard for me, girl," he'd said because he didn't know what else to say as a goodbye to her when she knew everything in both his mind and his heart; he didn't need to plan a speech for her because she'd seen everything and judged him on nothing, even brought him here without complaint though her engine had seemed listless towards the end.
Now he was standing at the door; just one way in and it was already open, inviting him in as if it knew he'd never leave. He'd put salt down around the windows and around the car and it glistened as the crystals reflected the sunrise; it was pretty, but it reminded him that time was short. The salt was only a habitual precaution, anyway; the exterior paint was flaking away and had already weathered to a greyish-white that hid the cracks until pieces were missing and the nails were rusty - anyone who knew this house was here hadn't visited in a long while, and he'd be gone before any demons could interfere.
Not that he was welching on the deal, though, just checking out early and saving the hounds a trip from the kennel. He was still going to hell, still paying his overdue fees and keeping his end of the bargain, and if he'd lit a few candles and wound some bits of string and somehow bound himself to Sam then it was just so he'll be able to find his brother when his debt is paid thrice over.
"Man, I hate witchcraft," he mutters as if Sam can hear him - as if Sam's right there, waiting for him to be done. The spells were simple enough and not even that gross; they're the kind of thing teenage girls do when they're too young to wonder what exactly they're invoking. He'd do anything that made it easier to find Sam down there, though, short of wearing a pink tutu and dancing for the dragon.
He still felt kind of stupid once he'd put down an internal salt line and started on the first spell, even when he was done and nothing had happened or changed. The air smelt different when he sniffed at it, though; rosemary and hibiscus and cardamom and something burning even before he lit the white candle by the doorway, before he said the words that would guide him to Sam.
"Let this candle's light show the path of love to me."
Even though the sun was high enough in the sky to cast light through most of the room, the candle flared so brightly that it seemed the room was illuminated from darkness. It regained the vividness that it must have had once - the walls were white and the carpet unstained, while the furniture was strong and new instead of decrepit - and then fell back into the ordinary sunlit dreariness, with cracks and watermarks visible again. Dean had seen it, though, and still could see what remnants of it there were now that it had shown itself. Light, though dimmed, was reflected onto the wall from something metallic that lay near his rucksack. It danced as shadows moved across it, cast by the wind moving the trees gently enough that the reflection was never more than blurred. Sam's knife, however, stayed still though it beckoned to Dean with Sam's voice. Dean hadn't cleaned it; for some reason he'd wanted to keep that part of Sam's spirit with him and now it whispered to his soul and staked a greater claim on it than any demon had the power to hold.
Dean stripped before he put the knife to his skin; he removed the plaid and torn jeans but kept the amulet that Sam had given him, so it lay surprisingly cool on his chest while the sunlight caressed him with warmth. The touch of the knife along his inner thigh was like Sam's kiss; it didn't hurt until the knife was gone, like losing Sam over again had been fine until Sam didn't come back, then it bled too slowly and he wanted it to be over. He watched his blood flow and shine vivid red before it faded to a dark stain on his jeans that expanded not far enough. Sam was waiting.
He'd saved Sam from fire, once, and then let him go into fire and away from him; the world made circles like that, always coming back to the same patterns and the same events, over and over. Their dad had taught them that; he'd taught them everything they knew but the taste of each other and Dean remembered all those lessons with a strange, unusual clarity - ow to fight, when to let go and fall back; how to kill and how to disable. If the blade angled downwards it was easier to kill, but when striking behind always angle up and push.
Dean held the knife away from him, blade up and tip level with his waist; it seemed to waver but Dean's hands had never been unsteady. He saw Sam's pyre as he pulled the blade into his stomach and twisted the handle (easier to get it out after; Dad had said it so it was true just like when Sam said he loved you) and he tried to laugh. It came out as a gargled breath and then he heard nothing, felt nothing but the soft flannel of his shirt as he let his body fall back to the ground.
You found me, said Sam, not in words but in thoughts and a vague sense of connection that twisted its way around Dean, in ways both familiar and not. You didn't have to do all that, you know.
Dean reached for him and touched nothing. Couldn't leave you alone here, Sammy, you know that, not after you left me to be your Brunnhild.
You remember that?
I remember... everything. You. Dean tried to touch Sam again but Sam was always just out of reach, touching back somewhere else.
You remember this? Dean caught Sam and held on to what slipped through his grasp and came back to wrap around him, surrounding him and passing through him. You remember us?
If Dean could hear, that would have been hope in Sam's voice, but he sensed Sam rather than heard him. He could just remember what Sam looked like and visualised Sam talking to him, head bowed to watch as he twisted his fingers around each other.
I bought your contract, Dean; your soul. Sam looked up at him, eyes wide before the last memories of Sam faded and all Sam was became this; purer and formless, Sam claimed him.You're mine, now, and everyone knows.
Dean remembered that this was what warmth felt like when he had a body and he smiled. It was like being light; he darted around behind Sam but Sam turned and held him there. Let me take you.
Dean would have leaned his head back so that Sam could kiss him and it was almost like that; Sam seemed to hold him and push inside him until he reached out and did the same.
Thank you for coming to me.
Dean wanted to ask when Sam had ever thought otherwise but it seemed as if Sam knew; Sam knew everything and nothing else mattered because they were together and this was it; this was forever. The fires grew dark and shrank around them; the sky faded from red to grey and the clouds parted.
What's happening, Sam?
The world's ending, Dean; you made it out just in time. Look - the stars are fading.
And if he could feel, that wind would be Sam's cock nudging his hip, and he'd turn his head and let Sam kiss him until...
but the world is ending, the way he never thought it would, and he has forever to give to Sam.