Instinct (Gen, R)
inspired by the vaguest of season 9 spoilers we've gotten thus far, and rokhal's prompt over at the ohsam Summer comment-fic meme:
After the trials, Sam doesn't get better. Kevin's theory is that it's cancer: the trials are supposed to purge him of all physical and spiritual impurities, so tuberculosis is out, and cancer is the only reason left for Sam to be coughing his lungs up when he's supposed to be the pinnacle of human perfection.
Nope. Sam's falling apart because the demon blood is gone.
words by monicawoe art by quickreaver
word-count: ~1300
warnings: disturbing situations,[Spoiler (click to open)]sleep-eating(sort of)
A scraping sound pulled Dean from his dreams. He listened again, conscious enough to analyze the direction, if not the source, and climbed to his feet. The noise was from below, almost directly below, which meant two things: the noise was not from the pipes in the bunker which ran along the back side of his room, and the noise was coming from the dungeon.
Dean walked barefoot to the cold hall, silence taking precedence over comfort, and made his way to the stairwell leading down to the storerooms. He took the steps in near-absolute silence, bare feet making no sound at all against the smooth stone.
The storeroom that concealed the dungeon from view was open, the door just slightly ajar and Dean slowed his approach, senses peeled for any movement, any indication of an intruder. He hadn't heard anyone pass by his room, so either whoever it was had been equally silent, or they were dealing with something inhuman. Something that had a vendetta against Crowley.
Kevin had been seething since they brought the King of Hell-bound and blinded-into the bunker. He had his reasons, and all of them were good, but Dean and Sam had talked him down from killing the demon. They had a use for Crowley: they could get him to spill the location of every other demon on Earth, and they intended to do just that.
As angry as he'd been about the decision, Kevin had agreed. And even if he hadn't, there was no way Kevin could have gotten past Dean's room without him noticing. The only one who could move like Dean was Sam, and that was only when he was up to snuff.
Sam had been looking better since they'd stopped the trials but not much. He'd slept the whole trip back to the bunker and most of the next day after that. The glow in his arms had come back a few times, but only for seconds at a shot. He wasn't coughing anymore, and his appetite had started to return. He looked almost like his old self again, a little thinner and exhausted, but not inches away from death like he had been.
And if Dean could help it, he'd keep focusing on that fact, the part where Sam was doing better every day, and not on what he'd seen-what he thought he'd seen-while Sam slept on their drive home. Because it couldn't have been real. It had been a stress-induced hallucination. They'd both gone through so much, and the sky had been literally falling all around them. So whatever Dean thought he'd seen that night in the Impala could've been nothing but confused signals. His brain mixing up after-images of light until they looked like drops of blood suspended in the air around Sam's head like a halo.
He neared the sliding shelving unit in the back of the storeroom and saw that it too was still pushed open. Whoever had come down here hadn't bothered to cover their tracks at all. Which meant they either weren't afraid of him, or they had nothing to hide.
He stepped into the dungeon, surprised to find the lights still off, and blinked into the darkness. His eyes wouldn't adjust quickly enough, and for a few seconds all Dean saw was shadows.
That part didn't bother him. It was the noise. The same scrape of metal on metal, much closer now. And underneath that was something else-a choked off gasp, nearly too quiet to hear under the wet sounds of something feeding.
Dean knew the sound of flesh being sucked dry, knew the pitiful keen of a closed off throat, because he'd made those sounds happen in Hell, played them on soul after soul with a bow made of razors.
He stepped closer as his eyes showed him more of the room. The Men of Letters had known the tools of the trade well enough. They'd left him and Sam a whole rack of tools designed to loosen tongues. He could see the shimmer of the blades against the rear wall, and he smelled blood and a trace of sulphur and here in the dark he could almost pretend that it didn't make him smile.
Someone was making Crowley bleed, and as much Dean hoped it wasn't Sam, he knew in his heart that it was. He'd known it the moment he woke up. Maybe even before.
Because as much as he wanted to pretend he'd been seeing things, he knew. That night on the drive home Dean had seen Crowley fall asleep, something demons never did, and the second he did, he started bleeding. His blood flowed right out of his skin in a soft red mist, slowly drifting through the air to gather around Sam. The little red droplets were alive, and each one of them sought a way into Sam's skin. Like Sam's blood-everything he'd put into Crowley-was coming back to him one drop at a time.
He hadn't said anything to Sam when he woke up, because what was he going to say, really? He'd made a promise to his brother, one he intended to keep. And if the trials were undoing the damage they'd done to Sam, then that was just fine by him.
It was Sam in the dungeon with Crowley. Dean knew that with certainty before he could clearly make out the shape of his brother's form. He knew because of the noises Sam was making. The needy swallows of a parched man finally being given water. He'd pulled Sam back from the brink too many times to not know that sound.
He could see Sam's long fingers entwined in Crowley's hair, pulling the demon's neck back as far as he could. The binding collar covered most of Crowley's throat, but Sam had pushed it down far enough to wrap his mouth tightly around the top of his jugular. There was a soft trickle of liquid, spattering on the stone floor by Crowley's feet. Sam was being sloppy.
Dean moved closer and thought about pulling Sam away. Considered screaming at him right then and there and threatening to lock him into the cuffs on the wall, and didn't he remember how bad the withdrawal had been last time and how could he do this again? But he didn't. He just…watched.
Crowley's eyes met Dean's and widened, silently pleading for release.
Sam never looked up, even though he had to know Dean was there.
Dean waited, standing right behind Crowley's chair. When Sam was finished, he'd look up and see him. There was no way to avoid it.
Almost as an afterthought, Dean reached out and nudged Crowley's head slightly to the left, until the trickle to the ground stopped.
Sam's throat muscles worked eagerly as he drank faster, and he didn't once look up. Not until he was finished, three full minutes later.
Dean waited for a reaction, a flicker of guilt, or the complete lack thereof Sam had shown years ago when he'd sought vengeance through power. But Sam didn't ever raise his eyes. His face was serene, and slightly blood-smudged chin aside, he looked…normal. He turned slowly, teetering a bit on his heel like his equilibrium wasn't quite right and walked back towards the dungeon's door.
Lagging a few feet behind, Dean followed Sam all the way back to his bedroom, just to watch him sit on his bed, wipe absently at his chin, and then lay back down. The moment Sam's eyes fell shut again, his breathing slowed and he drifted back into a deep sleep. As if he'd never even been awake.
Curiously, Dean moved closer to Sam. In the dark, the blood spot on Sam's chin looked like chocolate milk, and Dean wet his thumb, rubbing it gently across the spot until it was gone. Sam had always been a messy eater.
After the trials, Sam doesn't get better. Kevin's theory is that it's cancer: the trials are supposed to purge him of all physical and spiritual impurities, so tuberculosis is out, and cancer is the only reason left for Sam to be coughing his lungs up when he's supposed to be the pinnacle of human perfection.
Nope. Sam's falling apart because the demon blood is gone.
words by monicawoe art by quickreaver
word-count: ~1300
warnings: disturbing situations,[Spoiler (click to open)]sleep-eating(sort of)
A scraping sound pulled Dean from his dreams. He listened again, conscious enough to analyze the direction, if not the source, and climbed to his feet. The noise was from below, almost directly below, which meant two things: the noise was not from the pipes in the bunker which ran along the back side of his room, and the noise was coming from the dungeon.
Dean walked barefoot to the cold hall, silence taking precedence over comfort, and made his way to the stairwell leading down to the storerooms. He took the steps in near-absolute silence, bare feet making no sound at all against the smooth stone.
The storeroom that concealed the dungeon from view was open, the door just slightly ajar and Dean slowed his approach, senses peeled for any movement, any indication of an intruder. He hadn't heard anyone pass by his room, so either whoever it was had been equally silent, or they were dealing with something inhuman. Something that had a vendetta against Crowley.
Kevin had been seething since they brought the King of Hell-bound and blinded-into the bunker. He had his reasons, and all of them were good, but Dean and Sam had talked him down from killing the demon. They had a use for Crowley: they could get him to spill the location of every other demon on Earth, and they intended to do just that.
As angry as he'd been about the decision, Kevin had agreed. And even if he hadn't, there was no way Kevin could have gotten past Dean's room without him noticing. The only one who could move like Dean was Sam, and that was only when he was up to snuff.
Sam had been looking better since they'd stopped the trials but not much. He'd slept the whole trip back to the bunker and most of the next day after that. The glow in his arms had come back a few times, but only for seconds at a shot. He wasn't coughing anymore, and his appetite had started to return. He looked almost like his old self again, a little thinner and exhausted, but not inches away from death like he had been.
And if Dean could help it, he'd keep focusing on that fact, the part where Sam was doing better every day, and not on what he'd seen-what he thought he'd seen-while Sam slept on their drive home. Because it couldn't have been real. It had been a stress-induced hallucination. They'd both gone through so much, and the sky had been literally falling all around them. So whatever Dean thought he'd seen that night in the Impala could've been nothing but confused signals. His brain mixing up after-images of light until they looked like drops of blood suspended in the air around Sam's head like a halo.
He neared the sliding shelving unit in the back of the storeroom and saw that it too was still pushed open. Whoever had come down here hadn't bothered to cover their tracks at all. Which meant they either weren't afraid of him, or they had nothing to hide.
He stepped into the dungeon, surprised to find the lights still off, and blinked into the darkness. His eyes wouldn't adjust quickly enough, and for a few seconds all Dean saw was shadows.
That part didn't bother him. It was the noise. The same scrape of metal on metal, much closer now. And underneath that was something else-a choked off gasp, nearly too quiet to hear under the wet sounds of something feeding.
Dean knew the sound of flesh being sucked dry, knew the pitiful keen of a closed off throat, because he'd made those sounds happen in Hell, played them on soul after soul with a bow made of razors.
He stepped closer as his eyes showed him more of the room. The Men of Letters had known the tools of the trade well enough. They'd left him and Sam a whole rack of tools designed to loosen tongues. He could see the shimmer of the blades against the rear wall, and he smelled blood and a trace of sulphur and here in the dark he could almost pretend that it didn't make him smile.
Someone was making Crowley bleed, and as much Dean hoped it wasn't Sam, he knew in his heart that it was. He'd known it the moment he woke up. Maybe even before.
Because as much as he wanted to pretend he'd been seeing things, he knew. That night on the drive home Dean had seen Crowley fall asleep, something demons never did, and the second he did, he started bleeding. His blood flowed right out of his skin in a soft red mist, slowly drifting through the air to gather around Sam. The little red droplets were alive, and each one of them sought a way into Sam's skin. Like Sam's blood-everything he'd put into Crowley-was coming back to him one drop at a time.
He hadn't said anything to Sam when he woke up, because what was he going to say, really? He'd made a promise to his brother, one he intended to keep. And if the trials were undoing the damage they'd done to Sam, then that was just fine by him.
It was Sam in the dungeon with Crowley. Dean knew that with certainty before he could clearly make out the shape of his brother's form. He knew because of the noises Sam was making. The needy swallows of a parched man finally being given water. He'd pulled Sam back from the brink too many times to not know that sound.
He could see Sam's long fingers entwined in Crowley's hair, pulling the demon's neck back as far as he could. The binding collar covered most of Crowley's throat, but Sam had pushed it down far enough to wrap his mouth tightly around the top of his jugular. There was a soft trickle of liquid, spattering on the stone floor by Crowley's feet. Sam was being sloppy.
Dean moved closer and thought about pulling Sam away. Considered screaming at him right then and there and threatening to lock him into the cuffs on the wall, and didn't he remember how bad the withdrawal had been last time and how could he do this again? But he didn't. He just…watched.
Crowley's eyes met Dean's and widened, silently pleading for release.
Sam never looked up, even though he had to know Dean was there.
Dean waited, standing right behind Crowley's chair. When Sam was finished, he'd look up and see him. There was no way to avoid it.
Almost as an afterthought, Dean reached out and nudged Crowley's head slightly to the left, until the trickle to the ground stopped.
Sam's throat muscles worked eagerly as he drank faster, and he didn't once look up. Not until he was finished, three full minutes later.
Dean waited for a reaction, a flicker of guilt, or the complete lack thereof Sam had shown years ago when he'd sought vengeance through power. But Sam didn't ever raise his eyes. His face was serene, and slightly blood-smudged chin aside, he looked…normal. He turned slowly, teetering a bit on his heel like his equilibrium wasn't quite right and walked back towards the dungeon's door.
Lagging a few feet behind, Dean followed Sam all the way back to his bedroom, just to watch him sit on his bed, wipe absently at his chin, and then lay back down. The moment Sam's eyes fell shut again, his breathing slowed and he drifted back into a deep sleep. As if he'd never even been awake.
Curiously, Dean moved closer to Sam. In the dark, the blood spot on Sam's chin looked like chocolate milk, and Dean wet his thumb, rubbing it gently across the spot until it was gone. Sam had always been a messy eater.