Fanfic - SPN: Dagger Mine (PG-13, Gen: Sam, Dean, Ruby)
Title: Dagger Mine
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby
Prompt: "001-Accomplished" for 100moods, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~1,000 words.
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Warnings/Spoilers: Gen. Future!fic. Apocalypse. Episode coda. Violence. Plot. Spoilers for everything through 03x04.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Sam walks the dark path to its end and Dean lives, but Ruby is the one who wins.
Beta: lostandalone22.
Author's Notes: Inspired by the end of SPN 03x04 and ensuing speculation. Intentionally neutral, but broyay-oriented interpretations won't offend me. Title taken from "The Dagger," a poem by Michail Lermontov.
Internet Dating Services
"You're unopposed now, Sam. The throne is yours." She smiled cheerily, stepping over one of the many shredded bodies on the ground by the door to the mausoleum. Then her lips sunk into a smirk. "And mine. Again."
Sam's grip shifted on the handle of the symbol-laden sword before his eyes left it to give her a hard look. "You never said anything about sharing."
"I didn't say much about anything, Sam. I just told you what you needed to get your brother out of his deal. Now you have it." She nodded towards the sword.
Tracing the rough base of the sword with his thumb, Sam considered her, trying to get a read on what she was really saying. "Won't killing the crossroads demon trigger the deal-breaker?"
"You're not going to kill her. You're going to go over her head." She blinked at him with eyebrows bunched down as if he should've thought of this himself.
"But you said she doesn't have to defer to me on this. It's within the rules and pre-dates my ... claim ... to the ... throne." He tilted his head as his words slowed. There was a massive shadow looming behind her, but his eyes refused to focus on it, as if he and it were shifting too fast or too slow to completely catch each other.
Her grin was pure malice as if it should have been dripping with blood. "Connect the dots, little boy. Who had the throne before you? Whose. Sword. Is that?!"
"Lucifer?" The word was a question and a name, but he might as well have whispered a prayerful 'yours'.
"End this body with the sword. The blood of its death will have traces of me. Make your brother drink it without his charms or amulets interfering and his soul will be off the table permanently." She shrugged some and the shadow seemed to move with her, hypnotic yet impossible.
"What about you?" He didn't really care, but he was vaguely curious and more than a little wary.
Her lips pursed a moment, head tilting to the side. "I'll go elsewhere."
It didn't seem like she was lying, but her answer still didn't satisfy him. "Why would you do that? I mean ... I'm no idiot. I know you want your sword back, but how do you know l won't just decide to keep it. Seems pretty useful."
"It is, but it only works insofar as the user is loyal to the source of its power, loyal to its true owner. Your betrayal would destroy it usefulness to you. Besides ..." She drew the dagger from her belt sheath, turning it in a slow presentation to reveal its own etched symbols. "The dagger is meant to be yours, but it will only work for you once the sword is returned to the proper hands."
The catch in the final stages of their cat and mouse game didn't really surprise him, but he still couldn't figure out how Dean fit into all of this. "You needed me to get the sword, like Azazel with the gate. I get that, but ..." He searched his mind to determine where the hole in his logic was and how to fill it. Then it clicked as he watched her jaw shift, hands moving to her hips. "You're stuck, aren't you?"
She clenched her teeth for a moment but slowly reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled up, revealing an intricate mass of tattoos that seemed to extend in all directions. Few of the symbols were immediately recognizable, but the organization of their placement suggested something akin to a devil's trap with a number of supernatural lockbox-type patterns around it.
"They sealed you in." His voice was awed, but he resisted the urge to reach out and trace the lines and curves of ancient languages lost and forgotten millennia ago. "When?"
"Too long." She spoke somberly, bitterly. "Long before what you could even begin to know as history."
"But the symbols don't just keep you in, do they?"
She looked away as she yanked her shirt back down then found his eyes again. "Azazel was a fool to think a mixed-blood boy could lead Hell to victory. You were merely meant to prepare the way and stand in glory beside me." Her neck cracked sickeningly as she twisted it and crouched some, fingers curling to beckon him to her. "Do what you were born to, Sam. Or tomorrow you can watch your brother die."
Her words pulled at him and he hefted up the sword, pointing it at her. Her body began to shake and her eyelids fluttered, eyes flicking black and human, black and human, but it was the intensity of joy and anticipation there that made his hand unsteady. He'd gone so far for Dean, walking an ever darker path, seeking the throne of Hell reborn on Earth, all to have the power to save his brother, but somewhere along the way it had become less of a chore and more of a challenge, an amusement, a calling. He hadn't fully believed it until right then, but as his steadiness returned he knew that this was right, not just for Dean, but for him and for every other thing, living or not, so he finally let himself grin.
The twin edges of the sword split her stomach with little resistance, metal through meat. Then the fireworks began, lightning crackling out from the sword's entry point with bursts of firelight. She didn't yell or scream like others had, though, when she fell. The only sound spilling from her lips was wicked, triumphant laughter that echoed even as her eyes burned hellfire orange and faded into blank nothingness.
His flask full of holy water emptied into the ground just fine, making way for the blood of some woman with more names than he'd ever know, blood stained by the essence of a being he'd freed with a self-satisfied smirk, knowing he'd topple the world into Armageddon. He was nothing close to stupid or weak, though, no matter what the soon-to-be-ash sacred books might say. So, when Dean had drunk from the flask and awoke after sleeping peacefully through his final night, Sam just knelt at his feet and gave him his sword.
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby
Prompt: "001-Accomplished" for 100moods, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~1,000 words.
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Warnings/Spoilers: Gen. Future!fic. Apocalypse. Episode coda. Violence. Plot. Spoilers for everything through 03x04.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Sam walks the dark path to its end and Dean lives, but Ruby is the one who wins.
Beta: lostandalone22.
Author's Notes: Inspired by the end of SPN 03x04 and ensuing speculation. Intentionally neutral, but broyay-oriented interpretations won't offend me. Title taken from "The Dagger," a poem by Michail Lermontov.
Internet Dating Services
"You're unopposed now, Sam. The throne is yours." She smiled cheerily, stepping over one of the many shredded bodies on the ground by the door to the mausoleum. Then her lips sunk into a smirk. "And mine. Again."
Sam's grip shifted on the handle of the symbol-laden sword before his eyes left it to give her a hard look. "You never said anything about sharing."
"I didn't say much about anything, Sam. I just told you what you needed to get your brother out of his deal. Now you have it." She nodded towards the sword.
Tracing the rough base of the sword with his thumb, Sam considered her, trying to get a read on what she was really saying. "Won't killing the crossroads demon trigger the deal-breaker?"
"You're not going to kill her. You're going to go over her head." She blinked at him with eyebrows bunched down as if he should've thought of this himself.
"But you said she doesn't have to defer to me on this. It's within the rules and pre-dates my ... claim ... to the ... throne." He tilted his head as his words slowed. There was a massive shadow looming behind her, but his eyes refused to focus on it, as if he and it were shifting too fast or too slow to completely catch each other.
Her grin was pure malice as if it should have been dripping with blood. "Connect the dots, little boy. Who had the throne before you? Whose. Sword. Is that?!"
"Lucifer?" The word was a question and a name, but he might as well have whispered a prayerful 'yours'.
"End this body with the sword. The blood of its death will have traces of me. Make your brother drink it without his charms or amulets interfering and his soul will be off the table permanently." She shrugged some and the shadow seemed to move with her, hypnotic yet impossible.
"What about you?" He didn't really care, but he was vaguely curious and more than a little wary.
Her lips pursed a moment, head tilting to the side. "I'll go elsewhere."
It didn't seem like she was lying, but her answer still didn't satisfy him. "Why would you do that? I mean ... I'm no idiot. I know you want your sword back, but how do you know l won't just decide to keep it. Seems pretty useful."
"It is, but it only works insofar as the user is loyal to the source of its power, loyal to its true owner. Your betrayal would destroy it usefulness to you. Besides ..." She drew the dagger from her belt sheath, turning it in a slow presentation to reveal its own etched symbols. "The dagger is meant to be yours, but it will only work for you once the sword is returned to the proper hands."
The catch in the final stages of their cat and mouse game didn't really surprise him, but he still couldn't figure out how Dean fit into all of this. "You needed me to get the sword, like Azazel with the gate. I get that, but ..." He searched his mind to determine where the hole in his logic was and how to fill it. Then it clicked as he watched her jaw shift, hands moving to her hips. "You're stuck, aren't you?"
She clenched her teeth for a moment but slowly reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled up, revealing an intricate mass of tattoos that seemed to extend in all directions. Few of the symbols were immediately recognizable, but the organization of their placement suggested something akin to a devil's trap with a number of supernatural lockbox-type patterns around it.
"They sealed you in." His voice was awed, but he resisted the urge to reach out and trace the lines and curves of ancient languages lost and forgotten millennia ago. "When?"
"Too long." She spoke somberly, bitterly. "Long before what you could even begin to know as history."
"But the symbols don't just keep you in, do they?"
She looked away as she yanked her shirt back down then found his eyes again. "Azazel was a fool to think a mixed-blood boy could lead Hell to victory. You were merely meant to prepare the way and stand in glory beside me." Her neck cracked sickeningly as she twisted it and crouched some, fingers curling to beckon him to her. "Do what you were born to, Sam. Or tomorrow you can watch your brother die."
Her words pulled at him and he hefted up the sword, pointing it at her. Her body began to shake and her eyelids fluttered, eyes flicking black and human, black and human, but it was the intensity of joy and anticipation there that made his hand unsteady. He'd gone so far for Dean, walking an ever darker path, seeking the throne of Hell reborn on Earth, all to have the power to save his brother, but somewhere along the way it had become less of a chore and more of a challenge, an amusement, a calling. He hadn't fully believed it until right then, but as his steadiness returned he knew that this was right, not just for Dean, but for him and for every other thing, living or not, so he finally let himself grin.
The twin edges of the sword split her stomach with little resistance, metal through meat. Then the fireworks began, lightning crackling out from the sword's entry point with bursts of firelight. She didn't yell or scream like others had, though, when she fell. The only sound spilling from her lips was wicked, triumphant laughter that echoed even as her eyes burned hellfire orange and faded into blank nothingness.
His flask full of holy water emptied into the ground just fine, making way for the blood of some woman with more names than he'd ever know, blood stained by the essence of a being he'd freed with a self-satisfied smirk, knowing he'd topple the world into Armageddon. He was nothing close to stupid or weak, though, no matter what the soon-to-be-ash sacred books might say. So, when Dean had drunk from the flask and awoke after sleeping peacefully through his final night, Sam just knelt at his feet and gave him his sword.