you never die and you never grow old
three inch horses (two faced monsters)
supernatural gen (spoilers up to 2.01), dark
heavily heavily influenced by this modest mouse track
This is how Dean dies (time number five.)
This is how Dean dies (time number five.)
It's November and it's midnight and he's waiting for this Chupacabra that'd traveled farther North than any Dean's ever heard of. Sam's no more than two feet away but Dean's distraced, missing Dad, worrying about Sam and the sonofabitch gets him. Right in the chest, with claws and ripping-gripping pain, so hard that, even with his mortal wound-level pain threshold, Dean blacks out.
Well, okay-- faints and when he wakes, swims his way up through the pitch darkness, there's Sam, pressing down on his chest with those huge hands and mumbling his name and No, not yet. Shut up, and Dean. Come on. Nononono.
Then he starts, on his knees and covered with Dean's blood. Starts in with these un-Sam-like, wailing keening, baby hasn't had his milk yet noises. Dean's never heard Sam like this, not even when Jessica-- not even when Dad-- never and he wants to tell Sam it's okay and that he's not dead yet, idiot, get to the fucking hospital, but there's too much blood. He's coughing it up or maybe swallowing it and he's just too-- he can't, so he lays his head back and just lets it happen. It's not like he won't be coming back anyway.
Later, Sam will claim he picked Dean up and carried him to the hospital, ran there on foot. Dean knows he could do it, has seen the power his brother's body keeps in reserve for emergencies, but he always remembers. Remembers that Dead feeling, the from the time before, and the time before that, and in the back of his mind he's seen Sam getting up, knees stained with Dean's blood and striding toward his car. His shaking hands leafing through Dad's journal and, when that doesn't provide a solution, through the big tome Sam hides in his duffle bag and thinks Dean doesn't know about. Reading Latin sometimes, sometimes smoke rituals, sometimes things that Dean won't, can't, let himself think about, but all of it for the same purpose-- bringing Dean back.
Sam's addicted to this. Dean can see it in the shine of his eyes as he wakes up, sore and stiff but horribly, horribly alive, time and time again. He'll keep doing it, the sick feeling in Dean's stomach tells him, maybe forever. At least until one time when, while Dean's out, whatever's killed him will come back for Sam and Dean won't be around and Sam'll be distracted and-- then they'll both be gone.
So tries to at least do some damage, hurt these monsters and psychos before they take him out, sort of an insurance policy that he can come back and keep killing these sons of bitches. In some ways it almost makes things easier-- he can throw himself entirely into a job or a fight, not have to worry about what Sammy'd do without him. He finds himself hoping, for the first time in his entire life, that Sam'll go first-- later, much later, a hundred years later maybe-- just so Dean can be sure that when he dies, he'll stay that way. It's too easy to picture the two of them, old and aching and so tired, Dean's just grasping at death and Sam keeps tearing him back, that same terrifyingly bright look in his eyes. The first time he pictures it, Dean gags and vomits out behind a motel, sits in the dark for god knows how long, the wall cold against his back, comfortingly hard, until he can bear to be in the same room as Sam.
They don't talk about it. Ever and Dean wonders sometimes if Sam knows that he knows but it's when he starts thinking like that, that he has to just shut his brain off and go fight or fuck or something. Anything that can remind him that he's alive, not just because Sam says so but because he actually exists. He breathes, he comes, he bleeds. And it's okay, for a while. Until the next time, when he falls or gets shot or stabbed and he sees, through dimming vision, Sam reaching for him, his hands big and hot and heavy and something like pleasure, like triumph, glistening in his eyes.
And Dean, well, he'd rather be dead.
This was written very early on in season two, within the first few episodes, and was set several months, maybe even years, beyond that. It's almost entirely unedited-- a few spelling/grammar mistakes have been corrected, but the rest is all 2006-me. It hasn't technically be AUed yet, which I love, but there are some new dynamics which would effect the story were I writing it today. Although I do feel vindicated thanks to "Mystery Spot"-Sam and "All Hell Breaks Loose"-Dean haha.
supernatural gen (spoilers up to 2.01), dark
heavily heavily influenced by this modest mouse track
This is how Dean dies (time number five.)
This is how Dean dies (time number five.)
It's November and it's midnight and he's waiting for this Chupacabra that'd traveled farther North than any Dean's ever heard of. Sam's no more than two feet away but Dean's distraced, missing Dad, worrying about Sam and the sonofabitch gets him. Right in the chest, with claws and ripping-gripping pain, so hard that, even with his mortal wound-level pain threshold, Dean blacks out.
Well, okay-- faints and when he wakes, swims his way up through the pitch darkness, there's Sam, pressing down on his chest with those huge hands and mumbling his name and No, not yet. Shut up, and Dean. Come on. Nononono.
Then he starts, on his knees and covered with Dean's blood. Starts in with these un-Sam-like, wailing keening, baby hasn't had his milk yet noises. Dean's never heard Sam like this, not even when Jessica-- not even when Dad-- never and he wants to tell Sam it's okay and that he's not dead yet, idiot, get to the fucking hospital, but there's too much blood. He's coughing it up or maybe swallowing it and he's just too-- he can't, so he lays his head back and just lets it happen. It's not like he won't be coming back anyway.
Later, Sam will claim he picked Dean up and carried him to the hospital, ran there on foot. Dean knows he could do it, has seen the power his brother's body keeps in reserve for emergencies, but he always remembers. Remembers that Dead feeling, the from the time before, and the time before that, and in the back of his mind he's seen Sam getting up, knees stained with Dean's blood and striding toward his car. His shaking hands leafing through Dad's journal and, when that doesn't provide a solution, through the big tome Sam hides in his duffle bag and thinks Dean doesn't know about. Reading Latin sometimes, sometimes smoke rituals, sometimes things that Dean won't, can't, let himself think about, but all of it for the same purpose-- bringing Dean back.
Sam's addicted to this. Dean can see it in the shine of his eyes as he wakes up, sore and stiff but horribly, horribly alive, time and time again. He'll keep doing it, the sick feeling in Dean's stomach tells him, maybe forever. At least until one time when, while Dean's out, whatever's killed him will come back for Sam and Dean won't be around and Sam'll be distracted and-- then they'll both be gone.
So tries to at least do some damage, hurt these monsters and psychos before they take him out, sort of an insurance policy that he can come back and keep killing these sons of bitches. In some ways it almost makes things easier-- he can throw himself entirely into a job or a fight, not have to worry about what Sammy'd do without him. He finds himself hoping, for the first time in his entire life, that Sam'll go first-- later, much later, a hundred years later maybe-- just so Dean can be sure that when he dies, he'll stay that way. It's too easy to picture the two of them, old and aching and so tired, Dean's just grasping at death and Sam keeps tearing him back, that same terrifyingly bright look in his eyes. The first time he pictures it, Dean gags and vomits out behind a motel, sits in the dark for god knows how long, the wall cold against his back, comfortingly hard, until he can bear to be in the same room as Sam.
They don't talk about it. Ever and Dean wonders sometimes if Sam knows that he knows but it's when he starts thinking like that, that he has to just shut his brain off and go fight or fuck or something. Anything that can remind him that he's alive, not just because Sam says so but because he actually exists. He breathes, he comes, he bleeds. And it's okay, for a while. Until the next time, when he falls or gets shot or stabbed and he sees, through dimming vision, Sam reaching for him, his hands big and hot and heavy and something like pleasure, like triumph, glistening in his eyes.
And Dean, well, he'd rather be dead.
This was written very early on in season two, within the first few episodes, and was set several months, maybe even years, beyond that. It's almost entirely unedited-- a few spelling/grammar mistakes have been corrected, but the rest is all 2006-me. It hasn't technically be AUed yet, which I love, but there are some new dynamics which would effect the story were I writing it today. Although I do feel vindicated thanks to "Mystery Spot"-Sam and "All Hell Breaks Loose"-Dean haha.