CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS // SPN & OTHER CHARACTERS Prompt Post // June 1-15
This post is for ANY AND ALL SPN & OTHER CHARACTER PROMPTS. Characters from other fandoms are allowed as long as the main pairing includes one Supernatural character. Reminder: all prompts with characters under the age of 18 should be posted to the underage post.
( READ BEFORE COMMENTING )
( READ BEFORE COMMENTING )
"Honey, can I steal a pen from you?"
"'Course," she says brightly, and gives him a generic red ball-point.
Dean winks and she blushes, right on cue. He turns back to Sam and grabs his hand; before he can protest, Dean flips it over and begins to draw on Sam's big palm, over the life line, heart line, all of it-a circle, and within that, carefully rendered symbols, not particularly artful but precise. Sam's fingers twitch then stretch, open and compliant.
"That's me," Dean says.
Sam's not even looking at the sigil, but straight at Dean's face. He's searching for signs of deceit, of a ruse. But in this smallest moment, in this tenuously drifting piece of time, there is none of that, not one flyspeck.
Dean lets loose of Sam's hand, letting his fingertips brush over Sam's wrist where the fine blue trails of veins sit so close to the skin. "Now you can summon me."
And if that isn't trust, Dean doesn't know what is.
He doesn’t want to blip out, but he must. He vanishes on a waft of vaguely brimstone-scented air, leaving the pen to drop onto the picnic table. The next move is Sam’s, it has to be. It’s the only way this will work.
Which is exactly what Dean wants. For now, anyway.
-_-_-_-_-
Dean’s leaning on his favorite birch again. The morning is damp and misty, smelling of rich, rotting leaves. The bunker door creaks open, finally, and Sam steps out. In running gear.
In running gear.
Sam runs to cope, always has. He ran to cope with their father’s militant training tactics; ran track at Stanford-Dean assumes to cope with the pressures of getting good enough grades to keep the scholarship; ran every time they settled down in one place long enough to make room for it. He ran when Dean had been blown into smithereens and Purgatory. Sam runs, it’s what he does, literally and metaphorically. But he hadn’t gone running a single day since Dean’s death. He’d stopped the day Dean died. Stasis. No coping, no dealing.
A small black piece of Dean is smug about that.
So he watches as Sam takes a few minutes to stretch before loping off down the gravel drive, hair bouncing, breath fogging in the chill, and Dean feels even more smug this time around.
By mid-day tomorrow, Sam will be jittery and nauseous, and he won’t know why. He might briefly consider that it feels like withdrawal-the twitching fingers, sweats, headaches. He might think it’s a stomach bug coming on, something he ate, especially the next day when he starts puking out his guts. But the day after, when it’s worse yet with hallucinations and tremors and full-body cravings so hard they hurt, he’ll pull it all together and it’ll be too late.
Because Dean isn’t your average demon, no sir. Crowley and Cain had made good and fucking sure of that. Dean is something mighty and grim, a most terrible fiend, even by Hell’s standards, and there was enough of Dean in that strawberry milkshake to send Sam deep into the throes of addiction.
By day three, Dean feels the pull of a summoning. It’s weak, poorly done. He could fight it if he wants, but he doesn’t.
He allows the strange suction to pull him through time and space, colors smearing and his ears popping, until he recognizes the basement of the bunker. The room with the devil’s trap painted on the ceiling and the reinforced walls, soaked in brine.
At first he doesn’t see Sam, but he hears him. Wheezing, teeth chattering. Dean slowly turns around in his cozy little invisible cell, his gaze dragging through the shadows. A ceremonial bowl smolders on the floor, giving up the last of its components to the air. Sam is sitting on his heels, watching, eyes full of seething hurt.
Reply
Fucking stupid question, really. Sam knows why. Better question is: why not? Dean simply lets his eyes tick black and shrugs. It’s what I do, Sam. Take care of you. Of us.
Sam rocks back on his ass, slumps against the wall. The posture throws his face into the dark, but Dean can see through the gloom as clear as glass. He’s crying, Sam is. Gritting his teeth to stay quiet, but tears and sweat roll down his face, and the tips of his hair shudder with droplets. The want oozes from his pores.
Dean sits down, crossed-legged, and settles in to wait. It’ll get worse before it gets better. If Sam’s smart, he’ll leave and detox far, far away from his drug. Twenty minutes later though, Sam is still there, scratching at his arms, his t-shirt plastered wetly to his chest. Because Dean knows damned well that Sam doesn’t want to leave. He wants Dean to see how much damage he’s wrought, but what Sam doesn’t get is that this isn’t damage; this is deconstruction. There’s a fuck-ton of difference. Deconstruction is breaking something-someone-down in order to rebuild him from those raw components into a better machine. It’s unlearning bad habits. It’s a second, third, fourth, chance.
But more than that, for Dean, it’s communion. It’s listening to a machine and fine-tuning the performance, putting just a little bit of his soul into it until there’s not a thing he doesn’t understand about it, not a thing he couldn’t make it do. And the engine will purr for him, run like a champ, give and give again.
Gradually, Sam’s heels slide across the floor until his legs are splayed out in front of him, boneless. His chin drops to his chest and his breath regulates into measured huffs. The sameness of it catches Dean’s attention.
“Sam. Sammy.”
Nothing. He’s out cold, asleep, though he’s still trembling. Dean can feel the fever in Sam’s system, even fifteen feet away.
Dean stands up and reaches behind his back. He’s not quite sure how it works, but the First Blade appears in his hand, despite the devil’s trap. Probably has something to do with the artifact existing in both Hell and on Earth at once. He doesn’t think much on it, just knows that it works. The weapon talks to him, after all; it’s probably more creature than inanimate object. Dean raises the tip of the Blade towards the ceiling but even on the balls of his feet, he can’t reach the sigil. Close, but no cigar. Maybe if he jumped...but there’s a more entertaining way.
Plan B.
Rolling up a shirtsleeve, Dean drags the sharpened bone across his forearm. The skin parts eagerly for the Blade and blood rolls out in a thick spill. He switches the weapon to his other hand and sops his fingertips in red. Sam stirs as the smell lifts into the room. Dean flicks his fingers. The blood is heavy and almost opaque; it plunks onto the bottoms of Sam’s boots. A harder flick, and drops spatter his chest, his cheek.
Sam’s eyes fly open, spooked-horse wild. His gulps down air like a drowning man.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Dean says. “Time to talk.”
Sam shakes his head so hard, he almost hurts himself.
“Alrighty, then. You listen. I’ll talk.” Dean causally flips the Blade in his hands, his blood hitting the floor in audible glops. What does he care? It’s not like he can bleed out.
“I know this seems shitty and cruel, but really, it’s not. Think about it, Sam. Think about how much we’ve sacrificed. How much we’ve given up and lost and done without.” Dean stops fiddling and quirks a brow. “The universe owes us a thing or two, wouldn’t ya say?”
“N-not this, Dean. Please.” Sam can barely pull the words out.
Something mean and spoiled rolls up in Dean’s chest cavity, crawls up his esophagus and makes his lip curl. “Why?” he snaps. “Why shouldn’t we get what we want? One. Fucking. Time. And you can’t tell me you don’t want, Sam. ‘Cause I can feel it from here, little brother. I can.”
Sam drags up the wall, swaying to his feet. Dean can see his ribcage heaving with the effort of breathing, and Dean tugs the line. Reels him in.
Reply
Sam kicks over the ritual bowl and the sound is over-loud, careening off the hard walls. Another step.
Dean flips the Blade around and holds it by the sharp edge, presenting the handle to Sam. Dean can’t reach beyond the confines of the devil’s trap, but he won’t need to. Sam reaches in, his fingers trembling so badly, he can barely grip.
The Blade shrieks in Dean’s brain kill kill kill kill, but Dean tells it to have faith and patience, cool its fucking jets, that this is the better way-that it won’t go hungry for long. Best to wait for the banquet than to lick at crumbs.
The Mark on Dean’s arm burns for a moment when Sam grips the big knife. Sam stares at it numbly, knuckles white and tendons strung. Dean draws his hand away, releasing the weight of it. Then Sam raises the Blade, reaching to the fullest extent of his height, and scrapes a gouge through the painted circle on the ceiling.
The pressure escapes in a gust, but it’s Sam who topples. Dean catches him before he hits the floor. Sam is slick with sweat and hot to the touch, all floppy limbs and heavy muscle and bone, but Dean hoists him effortlessly. Sam sags. A moan escapes him, though it’s clear he’s trying so very hard to keep control, teeth bared, eyes squeezed tight.
Dean cradles the back of Sam’s head with one palm, presses his lips to Sam’s temple. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs. Thick blood trails down his forearm and mixes with Sam’s sweat, and before Dean can hush more sweet nothings, Sam breaks.
He snaps his dull teeth onto the wound and it hurts more than Dean expects. He also feels it in his cock...not something he would admit to or relish under more human circumstances, but there is no unringing this bell, and his old woeful humanity is the furthest thing from his mind these days.
Sam sucks at the wound, and Dean feels sharp fingers digging into his back, waist, wherever Sam can grab. There’ll be bruises for maybe ten minutes, until Dean’s body heals, on autopilot. Sam can take his fill; Dean will give it. Dean ruts in micro-movements, rocks with Sam as he swallows and prods his tongue, as coarse as a cat’s, into the gash. Dean’s getting so hard he aches, and he shifts to slide his dick up along the lean length of Sam’s thigh. They’re tangled together in mutual want, Dean grunting to Sam’s wet noises, until Sam seems to click back into cognizance. Maybe he’s had enough blood to calm the beast, maybe he finally noticed Dean was grinding into him. Either way, Sam wrenches free. He trips back, gasping. He’s thunderstruck, the poor fool, finally figuring out what hit him.
“What did you...make me...” Sam’s grimacing red all over his teeth.
Dean pointedly adjusts himself and snorts. “You were already heading to the grave, Sammy. Don’t blame the new hearse.”
Sam roars. He bellows and charges. There’s no time for Dean to square his chest or get his feet set; Sam hits him like an earthquake and hauls him up, bull-rushing until Dean’s back slams a wall and his skull whacks against the cinderblock.
Reply
The Mark blazes like a fresh hot brand and the Blade chitters madly. Sam’s nostrils are flaring, and he’s not looking at Dean; it’s like he can’t. Dean knows his tainted blood is staining its way through Sam’s system, through the skin and sinew, vessels and cells until finally, it will find the soul-that pretty, shiny thing Sam didn’t used to want, once upon a time, but now is so fiercely proud of.
Sam’s panting and grinding his teeth-the Blade stings at Dean’s Adam’s apple-and then it all slots into place. Just like that. Sam blinks. His breathing begins to settle, one drag after the next, and the fury fades from his expression.
Dean waits a few seconds more and feels himself start to grin. If he has to be honest, he’s almost giddy. Horny and giddy. “Sam. Look at me, bitch,” he says softly, amused with himself. And Sam does, sloe-eyed, numb.
Sam creeps his head down, hesitates. He nuzzles experimentally, nose to cheek, before pressing his sticky, soft lips against Dean’s. It’s almost coy, the way Sam’s tongue nudges at Dean’s teeth, coaxes its way inside. Sam’s breath is overly warm and tinged with metal, salt. Maybe a little whiskey. Dean opens up and lets him in. The Blade slips harmlessly away from Dean’s throat and Dean reaches up to grab a fistful of Sam’s dank hair.
Then Sam snaps his teeth down on Dean’s bottom lip, biting until blood pools into their mouths. Dean grunts in pain but the shock is short-lived; he knows the little son of a bitch is smiling.
Sam pulls back and spits. He pushes off Dean’s chest and throws the Blade to the floor.
“Jerk,” he says coolly.
Oh.
Dean drags a sleeve across his sore, bleeding mouth and decides, yes, this is exactly, precisely what he wants.
It is so on.
Reply
(I screwed up the numbering; sorry mods! I can never figure it out. I hope I didn't leave out text...my apologies if I did!)
Reply
Reply
I was worried because it is ridiculously lacking in anything truly resembling sexy times, but my kinks kinda veer in other directions, though I tried, I truly did! I'm soooo glad it did something right. :)
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Also demon! Dean was very true to character. On how I wish we'd see this in season 10 ; )
Well done :D
Reply
Reply
By mid-day tomorrow, Sam will be jittery and nauseous, and he won’t know why. He might briefly consider that it feels like withdrawal-the twitching fingers, sweats, headaches. He might think it’s a stomach bug coming on, something he ate, especially the next day when he starts puking out his guts. But the day after, when it’s worse yet with hallucinations and tremors and full-body cravings so hard they hurt, he’ll pull it all together and it’ll be too late.
Kudos!
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment