Fic: Monstrous
Author: tahirire
Wordcount: 725
Rating: PG 13
Beta: Off-the cuff comment fic
Genre: Tag for 7.02
Spoilers: Up through 7.02
A/N: I was really taken by Dean's line about how it feels different upstairs, because it reminded me of Alastair saying Dean just wasn't getting deep enough. Anyway, then this happened.
Monstrous
You snap awake to the sound. Sam is gasping, fumbling with his sheets, trying to shake off his nightmares.
You wait, remembering so many endless nights of this, lifetime after lifetime - after Jess, before you, after Lilith fell and Lucifer busted out of his cage. You know how this should go -Sam’s breathing should slowly even out, and he’ll roll to face the wall, turning his back from where he knows you’re watching from the shadows, preferring to handle it on his own.
Except that was then. This is now.
“Dean?”
Sam’s voice is small and unsure, like maybe you aren’t really there at all. The possibility gets stuck in your head, turns over and over like an hourglass full of sand that’s always falling, but never runs empty. You think maybe you aren’t there. Maybe you haven’t been for years.
“Dean!” Sam’s pitch roughens, deepening into the abrasive edge of panic. You're the only one he ever calls for. He's the only one who calls you.
You clear your throat. “Yeah, Sammy. What is it?” You swing your legs off the side of the bed and move to Sam’s slowly, keeping your voice calm in the hope that he won’t be able to sense how frayed your edges are.
Sam’s eyes flit rapidly around the room. His arms are crossed over each other and his nails are digging into his biceps. He’s doing everything but rocking back and forth. He blinks rapidly, sucks in another grating breath, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Dean? That you?”
You reach for his wrists before he can do any damage. You brace yourself for a struggle, but Sam lets you pull his hands away. “Right here, man. What do you see?”
Sam is sweating buckets. His face is flushed and his eyes can’t seem to focus, but the haze clouding them isn’t from distraction. It’s from pain.
“D-on’t see.” Sam shakes his head in quick jerks. “F-feel,” he shudders, “everywhere, oh God - Dean- “ Sam’s muscles tense. His eyes threaten to roll back in their sockets.
“No,” you snarl, gripping Sam’s wrists until the bones slide against each other. He can’t go, he can’t leave, and these pieces of him that you hold like water in your hands, they’re all you have left in this Godforsaken world that you died for. “Sammy, no. Stay with me, talk to me. What do you feel?”
Sam doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. You know what it looks like when someone is burning alive.
You cross Sam’s forearms and grip them tight in your left, restraining him the best you can, not willing to walk away. You just want the pain to end. You just want him to be safe. You don’t make a conscious decision to move, but there in the depths of Hell, standing in the fire with your brother, you react.
The flash of your blade glows red in the cast-off of the cheap motel alarm clock light. The sharp edge digs up against Sam’s throat, pressing firmly along the line of life and death. Sam’s eyes go wide, and you can sense him fighting himself, trying not to struggle.
“Sam,” you clip out, making the name an order, “you stay with me. Right here.”
You let the blade sink in at the point, just one layer of skin, barely enough to draw blood. Adrenaline. Immediacy. Danger. As long as you can remember, they’ve been the only things that work for you. It’s a harsh and tenuous gift to give your brother, but it’s the only piece of you that Alastair didn’t carve away.
Realization flickers behind the whites of Sam’s eyes. Some of the haze disappears; you watch him fight his way back to you. Sam holds your gaze as he leans into the blade, silently begging for more proof, trusting you to teach him how to handle this. Choosing, against all rational reasoning, to believe in you.
That, too, seems familiar.
You’re a killer, plain and simple. A soldier emptied out of everything but the life, the afterlife, this necro-shadowed half-life. Inflicting pain - it’s what you’re good at. This is where destiny has brought you. The blade fits perfectly in the curve of your hand.
Take care of Sammy, you hear?
Yeah, Dad. You know I will.
This is what you trained for.
Wordcount: 725
Rating: PG 13
Beta: Off-the cuff comment fic
Genre: Tag for 7.02
Spoilers: Up through 7.02
A/N: I was really taken by Dean's line about how it feels different upstairs, because it reminded me of Alastair saying Dean just wasn't getting deep enough. Anyway, then this happened.
Monstrous
You snap awake to the sound. Sam is gasping, fumbling with his sheets, trying to shake off his nightmares.
You wait, remembering so many endless nights of this, lifetime after lifetime - after Jess, before you, after Lilith fell and Lucifer busted out of his cage. You know how this should go -Sam’s breathing should slowly even out, and he’ll roll to face the wall, turning his back from where he knows you’re watching from the shadows, preferring to handle it on his own.
Except that was then. This is now.
“Dean?”
Sam’s voice is small and unsure, like maybe you aren’t really there at all. The possibility gets stuck in your head, turns over and over like an hourglass full of sand that’s always falling, but never runs empty. You think maybe you aren’t there. Maybe you haven’t been for years.
“Dean!” Sam’s pitch roughens, deepening into the abrasive edge of panic. You're the only one he ever calls for. He's the only one who calls you.
You clear your throat. “Yeah, Sammy. What is it?” You swing your legs off the side of the bed and move to Sam’s slowly, keeping your voice calm in the hope that he won’t be able to sense how frayed your edges are.
Sam’s eyes flit rapidly around the room. His arms are crossed over each other and his nails are digging into his biceps. He’s doing everything but rocking back and forth. He blinks rapidly, sucks in another grating breath, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Dean? That you?”
You reach for his wrists before he can do any damage. You brace yourself for a struggle, but Sam lets you pull his hands away. “Right here, man. What do you see?”
Sam is sweating buckets. His face is flushed and his eyes can’t seem to focus, but the haze clouding them isn’t from distraction. It’s from pain.
“D-on’t see.” Sam shakes his head in quick jerks. “F-feel,” he shudders, “everywhere, oh God - Dean- “ Sam’s muscles tense. His eyes threaten to roll back in their sockets.
“No,” you snarl, gripping Sam’s wrists until the bones slide against each other. He can’t go, he can’t leave, and these pieces of him that you hold like water in your hands, they’re all you have left in this Godforsaken world that you died for. “Sammy, no. Stay with me, talk to me. What do you feel?”
Sam doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. You know what it looks like when someone is burning alive.
You cross Sam’s forearms and grip them tight in your left, restraining him the best you can, not willing to walk away. You just want the pain to end. You just want him to be safe. You don’t make a conscious decision to move, but there in the depths of Hell, standing in the fire with your brother, you react.
The flash of your blade glows red in the cast-off of the cheap motel alarm clock light. The sharp edge digs up against Sam’s throat, pressing firmly along the line of life and death. Sam’s eyes go wide, and you can sense him fighting himself, trying not to struggle.
“Sam,” you clip out, making the name an order, “you stay with me. Right here.”
You let the blade sink in at the point, just one layer of skin, barely enough to draw blood. Adrenaline. Immediacy. Danger. As long as you can remember, they’ve been the only things that work for you. It’s a harsh and tenuous gift to give your brother, but it’s the only piece of you that Alastair didn’t carve away.
Realization flickers behind the whites of Sam’s eyes. Some of the haze disappears; you watch him fight his way back to you. Sam holds your gaze as he leans into the blade, silently begging for more proof, trusting you to teach him how to handle this. Choosing, against all rational reasoning, to believe in you.
That, too, seems familiar.
You’re a killer, plain and simple. A soldier emptied out of everything but the life, the afterlife, this necro-shadowed half-life. Inflicting pain - it’s what you’re good at. This is where destiny has brought you. The blade fits perfectly in the curve of your hand.
Take care of Sammy, you hear?
Yeah, Dad. You know I will.
This is what you trained for.