SPN: Fire in the Blood, by WesleysGirl
Title: Fire in the Blood
Author: wesleysgirl
Dean, Sam. Dark-ish.
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R
Fire in the Blood
by WesleysGirl
It's burning in him, searing through Dean's veins, everything reduced to the pure, vicious heat of it. Later, he'll wonder if steam was rising from him, the water in his cells boiling, but now all he can do is scream and try to get away, as if it might be possible to escape this. He's tied down, thin twine, sharp like wire, twisted 'round his wrists, cutting deep into his skin as he struggles.
"Sam!" He doesn't know where he is, can barely remember what happened before this -- that's the one thing he does know. "Sam!"
There are things moving in the darkness around him. Demons, monsters, ghosts. They're talking to each other in a language he can't understand, whispers, clicks, alien creatures swirling and plotting, and oh, fuck, he's totally out of his head.
He remembers, then, his head being tilted back. There'd been a hand in his hair, freakishly long fingers pushed between his lips, foul-tasting. He'd gagged, and then his jaw had been forced open and a bitter, slick liquid drizzled into his mouth. Hot even then, like some kind of chemical, and fear had spiked through him as he'd realized they were poisoning him. He'd tried to spit it out, but there was too much of it. It burned all the way down; now his throat is raw from it and the screaming, his voice hoarse and his lungs aching after what feels like hours. Maybe days.
There's a sound, loud and sudden, and the darkness is split with light, shockingly bright after so long in the black. More sounds then; scuffles, thuds, shrieks. And Sam's voice calling his name.
"Dean!" It's wrong, Sam's voice. It sounds wrong, different, and Dean knows suddenly, deep in his gut, that this isn't really Sam. It looks like him, sure. Tall, tousled hair, huge hands. But it's not Sam. It's some kind of shape-shifter instead, trying to fool him. One monster stealing him from others.
Shouting again, Dean flings himself backward, hoping to tip over the chair he's sitting in, but it doesn't budge. He can feel his blood running hot in his veins, hot as it drips from his wrists. Can't do anything but sit there, though, as the Sam-monster fights the other monsters. Everything moves like it does in dreams -- there are shimmers, like watching through heat waves rising from blacktop, and moments when the whole picture blinks out in a crazy strobe light effect. The Sam-monster lifts a huge blade, brings it down in a shining arc, and dark blood -- it looks almost black as it travels through the tunnel of sunlight streaming in from the doorway -- spurts, in slow motion.
Then the Sam-monster is standing over him. It's not quiet; Dean realizes that's because he's still screaming. He's burning up from the inside, whatever it was they made him drink eating its way through his stomach. It feels like it's traveled to his brain, too. Maybe his brain is melting, turning to mush in his skull.
"Dean, it's okay," the Sam-monster says. Its face twists, shifts, and for a second or two Dean can see the demon underneath. He screams again, as loud and long as he can, his throat shredding with the effort, and the monster lifts its knife.
"Get away from me, you freak," Dean shouts. "Sam! Sam!" His brother has to be within earshot. Anything else is impossible. "Sam!"
The Sam-monster lowers the knife and mutters something under its breath, and Dean can feel the blade cutting through skin and bone, severing his fucking hand like it was nothing. He screams, feeling the blood pouring from him like acid. The knife lifts, slick with blood, and starts to lower again. There's a cruel litany in the back of Dean's head -- useless without hands, he'll be useless, no such thing as a hunter without hands -- and as the blade touches his other wrist, Dean passes out.
* * *
He wakes up still on fire, still burning. His mouth is so dry he can barely part his lips, but there's someone there lifting his head, holding a plastic cup to his mouth. The water is cool; he gulps thirstily, not caring that the wet spills down his chin and onto his t-shirt. Hell, at that moment he wouldn't care if the whole cup-worth was dumped over his head. He coughs, breathes, and remembers everything.
Dean opens his eyes and shoves away from the thing that looks like Sam but probably isn't. It's not until he teeters on the edge of the bed, then falls to the floor, landing face down, that he realizes it is Sam -- not like a demon or monster would take him to a motel room and give him water when he woke up, is it?
"Dean," Sam says. "Easy."
"My hands," Dean says, and looks at his left, which is still attached to his wrist. "How --"
"It's okay." Sam sounds worried as he helps Dean up, shoving him into a sitting position on the side of the bed. "You've been out of it for hours. What happened?"
Dean coughs again. "They made me drink something. I don't know what it was. Burned like hell, though." He lifts both hands and stares at them; the memory of them being cut off is so vivid he almost can't believe they're actually there. His wrists are bandaged.
"You cut them trying to get free," Sam says. "They bled a lot, but it's not deep enough to be serious. Some kind of poison?"
"I don't know," Dean snaps. "I feel better, not worse, so if it was, I guess I didn't swallow enough of it." He hates to think what more would have felt like. "Some kind of potion, maybe. Truth serum? Maybe just something to keep me from fighting back."
Sam frowns. "Did they try asking you questions?"
"No. Jesus, can we stop talking about it?" Dean drops his head as an involuntary shiver runs through him.
"Hey." Sam hunkers down so he can get a better look at Dean's face. "Hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah," Dean says, and stretches his hand toward the cup of water even though it's on the other side of Sam and out of reach. Sam sees what he's doing and gets it himself, presses it into Dean's hand. The feel of the thin plastic crinkling in his grip is like a revelation, but isn't as good as the feel of the water in his mouth and then throat as he swallows.
Sam presses the backs of his fingers to Dean's forehead. Dean doesn't shrug him off. "You're still kind of feverish."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised." Dean finishes the water and crumples the cup in his fist just because he can. "Don't worry -- I'll sleep it off."
"You might want to take a shower first," Sam says.
The thought of a cold shower is even better than he would have guessed, even if it means he'll have to re-bandage his wrists afterward. Dean nods and gets up on legs that are only a little bit shaky.
"If you think you can manage without falling down," Sam adds, and Dean scowls at him.
"Thanks," he says sarcastically, pulling off his shirt and dropped it onto the bed. Still, he pauses in the bathroom doorway and looks back at his brother. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam smiles at him. "No problem, Dean."
End.
Author: wesleysgirl
Dean, Sam. Dark-ish.
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R
Fire in the Blood
by WesleysGirl
It's burning in him, searing through Dean's veins, everything reduced to the pure, vicious heat of it. Later, he'll wonder if steam was rising from him, the water in his cells boiling, but now all he can do is scream and try to get away, as if it might be possible to escape this. He's tied down, thin twine, sharp like wire, twisted 'round his wrists, cutting deep into his skin as he struggles.
"Sam!" He doesn't know where he is, can barely remember what happened before this -- that's the one thing he does know. "Sam!"
There are things moving in the darkness around him. Demons, monsters, ghosts. They're talking to each other in a language he can't understand, whispers, clicks, alien creatures swirling and plotting, and oh, fuck, he's totally out of his head.
He remembers, then, his head being tilted back. There'd been a hand in his hair, freakishly long fingers pushed between his lips, foul-tasting. He'd gagged, and then his jaw had been forced open and a bitter, slick liquid drizzled into his mouth. Hot even then, like some kind of chemical, and fear had spiked through him as he'd realized they were poisoning him. He'd tried to spit it out, but there was too much of it. It burned all the way down; now his throat is raw from it and the screaming, his voice hoarse and his lungs aching after what feels like hours. Maybe days.
There's a sound, loud and sudden, and the darkness is split with light, shockingly bright after so long in the black. More sounds then; scuffles, thuds, shrieks. And Sam's voice calling his name.
"Dean!" It's wrong, Sam's voice. It sounds wrong, different, and Dean knows suddenly, deep in his gut, that this isn't really Sam. It looks like him, sure. Tall, tousled hair, huge hands. But it's not Sam. It's some kind of shape-shifter instead, trying to fool him. One monster stealing him from others.
Shouting again, Dean flings himself backward, hoping to tip over the chair he's sitting in, but it doesn't budge. He can feel his blood running hot in his veins, hot as it drips from his wrists. Can't do anything but sit there, though, as the Sam-monster fights the other monsters. Everything moves like it does in dreams -- there are shimmers, like watching through heat waves rising from blacktop, and moments when the whole picture blinks out in a crazy strobe light effect. The Sam-monster lifts a huge blade, brings it down in a shining arc, and dark blood -- it looks almost black as it travels through the tunnel of sunlight streaming in from the doorway -- spurts, in slow motion.
Then the Sam-monster is standing over him. It's not quiet; Dean realizes that's because he's still screaming. He's burning up from the inside, whatever it was they made him drink eating its way through his stomach. It feels like it's traveled to his brain, too. Maybe his brain is melting, turning to mush in his skull.
"Dean, it's okay," the Sam-monster says. Its face twists, shifts, and for a second or two Dean can see the demon underneath. He screams again, as loud and long as he can, his throat shredding with the effort, and the monster lifts its knife.
"Get away from me, you freak," Dean shouts. "Sam! Sam!" His brother has to be within earshot. Anything else is impossible. "Sam!"
The Sam-monster lowers the knife and mutters something under its breath, and Dean can feel the blade cutting through skin and bone, severing his fucking hand like it was nothing. He screams, feeling the blood pouring from him like acid. The knife lifts, slick with blood, and starts to lower again. There's a cruel litany in the back of Dean's head -- useless without hands, he'll be useless, no such thing as a hunter without hands -- and as the blade touches his other wrist, Dean passes out.
* * *
He wakes up still on fire, still burning. His mouth is so dry he can barely part his lips, but there's someone there lifting his head, holding a plastic cup to his mouth. The water is cool; he gulps thirstily, not caring that the wet spills down his chin and onto his t-shirt. Hell, at that moment he wouldn't care if the whole cup-worth was dumped over his head. He coughs, breathes, and remembers everything.
Dean opens his eyes and shoves away from the thing that looks like Sam but probably isn't. It's not until he teeters on the edge of the bed, then falls to the floor, landing face down, that he realizes it is Sam -- not like a demon or monster would take him to a motel room and give him water when he woke up, is it?
"Dean," Sam says. "Easy."
"My hands," Dean says, and looks at his left, which is still attached to his wrist. "How --"
"It's okay." Sam sounds worried as he helps Dean up, shoving him into a sitting position on the side of the bed. "You've been out of it for hours. What happened?"
Dean coughs again. "They made me drink something. I don't know what it was. Burned like hell, though." He lifts both hands and stares at them; the memory of them being cut off is so vivid he almost can't believe they're actually there. His wrists are bandaged.
"You cut them trying to get free," Sam says. "They bled a lot, but it's not deep enough to be serious. Some kind of poison?"
"I don't know," Dean snaps. "I feel better, not worse, so if it was, I guess I didn't swallow enough of it." He hates to think what more would have felt like. "Some kind of potion, maybe. Truth serum? Maybe just something to keep me from fighting back."
Sam frowns. "Did they try asking you questions?"
"No. Jesus, can we stop talking about it?" Dean drops his head as an involuntary shiver runs through him.
"Hey." Sam hunkers down so he can get a better look at Dean's face. "Hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah," Dean says, and stretches his hand toward the cup of water even though it's on the other side of Sam and out of reach. Sam sees what he's doing and gets it himself, presses it into Dean's hand. The feel of the thin plastic crinkling in his grip is like a revelation, but isn't as good as the feel of the water in his mouth and then throat as he swallows.
Sam presses the backs of his fingers to Dean's forehead. Dean doesn't shrug him off. "You're still kind of feverish."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised." Dean finishes the water and crumples the cup in his fist just because he can. "Don't worry -- I'll sleep it off."
"You might want to take a shower first," Sam says.
The thought of a cold shower is even better than he would have guessed, even if it means he'll have to re-bandage his wrists afterward. Dean nods and gets up on legs that are only a little bit shaky.
"If you think you can manage without falling down," Sam adds, and Dean scowls at him.
"Thanks," he says sarcastically, pulling off his shirt and dropped it onto the bed. Still, he pauses in the bathroom doorway and looks back at his brother. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam smiles at him. "No problem, Dean."
End.