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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 16 of ?)
::meeeep::
It's been 7 months since I last updated this story. Bad Author! Stoopid reality, always getting in the way of my fantasy.
Does anybody even remember this story? Other than my marvelous betas![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
varkelton & snarkgoddess, I mean. Does it help to know that Chapter 17 is already in beta? Even a little?
Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapter 16 of ? (WIP)
Author:rivestra
Rating: NC-17 series wide
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Previous Chapter (15) | Story Index | Back to the Beginning
Afterward, when Sammy picked up Dean's towel from where it had fallen and wiped the come off his stomach with shaking hands, they didn't talk about it. Neither uttered a word as he wiped at a lower stain, down on his jeans, and they both realized it hadn't come from the outside.
Dean didn't say a word as Sammy got up stiffly and stared out at the room, bone dry except for within their circle. He didn't react to the way the color drained out of his brother's face, but he did follow Sam's gaze as it took in the sodden rug beneath their feet, and the circle of newborn glass that surrounded them. He couldn't help but notice the dazed look on Sam's face or the oblivious reach he wasn't – quite – quick enough to stop. Sam quickly pulled back, clearly offended by the intrusion of reality and sucking on a burned finger. The glass was hazed, charred in places and cracked into large ragged chunks, but it still encircled them completely.
He didn't ask about the almost-familiar tattoo on his brother's chest, or about the scars that crisscrossed it, breaking up the rays of the sun. He almost asked why he'd never seen it before, why he knew so absolutely that the scars didn't belong, but then Sam stepped out of the circle and covered the tattoo with a dark t-shirt, and the questions disappeared from his mind.
He followed Sam immediately, desperately not wanting to be in that circle alone. The leather around his neck reflected his pulse back at him, pounding along with his heart. He tried not to think about Sam's other scars, red and raw the hour before – now completely gone. He pushed back all the questions that suddenly clamored for his attention, now that he was free to ask them. He didn't even let himself think about how right this all felt or about the warmth buzzing all along his skin and the pleasant pressure pulsing just to the left of his heart – right where he'd hurt since Ketill had branded him months before.
He didn't have to look at his back to know that Ketill's brand was gone, vanished under Sam's mark like it had never been.
Without a word, Sam dumped the supplies from his pack onto the bed, filling it instead with the sodden rug and the bowl, and with the candle and the feathers and the leaves. There was no sand left, but Sam covered his hands with a sheet and broke the still-steaming glass up into chunks small enough to load into his pack. Since he wouldn't let Dean help with that, Dean dumped everything out of his own pack, then refilled it with whatever seemed most essential from the two piles, trying to prioritize as best he could for a trip he knew nothing about.
He didn't ask what was going on. Whatever it was, he could feel the urgency in his bones, and they'd have time for everything else later.
*****
Ten minutes later they sat astride matched Harleys, engines thrumming impatiently as they waited for the gate. Sam was tense beside him, wound tighter than tight, that huge brain focused intensely on... something. Whatever it was, it was thrumming along Dean's nerves louder than their engines.
Neither of them really breathed until the guard waved them out of the camp. Forty-five mph felt agonizingly slow, but Sam kept them to it for the first mile or so. Dean didn't see any markers, but he felt the tightness in his chest ease fractionally just before Sam let loose, accelerating into the North, pushing their bikes all the way into the red.
Neither one of them looked back.
*****
They rode hard, stopping only to siphon gas when they needed to, draining and filling their more personal tanks at the same time, always back on the road within a few minutes. Dust ground into Dean's skin, caking painfully around his eyes and nose, and he hawked up huge blackened balls of snot when he coughed. The bike thrummed mercilessly under him, vibrating his bones against each other like his flesh was no padding at all.
Sam never complained. He never spoke at all, actually, just watched the road in front of them through some filter in his head and counted on Dean to keep up.
That, Dean could do.
They flew along the back roads and byways in a seemingly random series of turns and switchbacks, avoiding just about everything but the dry, gray desolation. It took Dean hours to figure out they were pushing north and west, cutting through northern Texas, but he had no way of knowing if it was deliberate. He didn't know if Sam actually had a destination in mind, didn't know if Sam was as clueless as he was for once, or if his brother actually had a plan.
*****
Twenty-seven mind-numbing hours later, they pulled up to Ike's Gas'n Go and parked the bikes next to a line of chainsaw-carved bears. Dean watched Sam stumble as he got off the bike, barely catching himself on the sweatshirt-clad bear beside him. Long after Sam had disappeared around the side of the store, Dean finally managed to read the "Of course I shit in the woods," carved onto the front of the bear's hoodie.
He rubbed his eyes hard and carefully got off his own bike, pocketing his keys and swaying where he stood, for all the world like the road was still moving beneath him. Hesitating, he stared at Sam's bike; he had to squint to see it clearly. With a sigh, he pulled Sam's keys out of the ignition and slid them into his pocket too.
Ten minutes later, Sam found him setting up a makeshift camp in the haven of the mechanic's bay. His brother stared at the pile of carpet scraps and towels Dean was building for a long moment before the light went on in his head and he scowled. "We have to get back on the road," he said as he started to shove gear back into Dean's pack.
Dean said simply, "No," and continued building them a place to sleep.
Sam looked up from what he was doing, eyes narrowing at Dean. "We're leaving," he said evenly. "Now."
Dean didn't know if it was something about Sam's flat tone or just his imagination, but the leather band seemed to constrict, warm and alive, pulsing a warning around his neck. Either way, Dean didn't really care. He kept his own tone even too, "Why are you packing that wrench, Sam? You really think we're gonna need a 15mm on the road? The bikes aren't even metric."
Brow furrowed, Sam stared down at the tool he'd half crammed into the pack, for all the world like he'd never seen it before.
It should have been funny, but Dean was way past that. "Sam, if we get back out on the road, we're gonna be smeared across it within an hour."
Exhausted, Sam stood and turned away to survey the parking lot in front of them. Dean didn't know what the fuck he expected to find; they hadn't seen a single living – a single moving – thing since they left the camp, but he waited for Sam to finish thinking anyway.
He had the second pallet half built by the time Sam's attention was back on him, awareness of his brother's stare creeping up his spine until he had to turn around. Sullen and tense but slightly less exhausted because of the walk, Sam opened his mouth to speak.
Dean cut him off. "I don't care, Sam. This place is as good as any." Dean could hear the condescending big brother tone dripping from his voice, but didn't change a thing. "You may think you're getting your 568th wind, but it's not gonna be enough. We go back out there," he finished the pallet and crouched, riffling through his pack and slamming the supplies for a quick meal into the concrete floor to emphasize his words, "and we're gonna be lucky to find a fucking tree to pass out under, it's gonna hit so hard and fast.
"And that's only if we can keep the bikes upright that long." Dean looked up at Sam and watched his brother startle as he slammed a can of Vienna sausage into the ground, despite the fact that Sam had been watching his every move. "Damn it, Sam! After everything I've gone through to find you..." He shook his head, staring down at the can of beans in his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose against a sudden flare of headache. "No way. No way it ends with us as road kill. No way it ends with us asleep at the wheel and pitching off a cliff like you..." The stench of burning steel and flesh rushed in to fill his lungs, and his brain veered sharply away from the vivid sense memory. "Just... No. No fucking way."
Sam was staring at him again, mouth open slightly, eyes soft but confused, working something out for himself. He looked fifteen, with his hair plastered to his head by sweat and grime and more dirt than skin visible on his face. Dean wanted to reach up and wipe at it, to wash away the road and the years and everything that had happened between them. Suddenly realizing that he could now, the urge became so strong and immediate that he found himself standing without ever deciding to, crossing toward Sam, the can of beans still lamely clutched in his hand.
The exhaustion had really caught up with him and he wasn't tracking. He barely noticed the widening of his brother's eyes as he closed the distance, and he wasn't hearing Sam's words at all until one, "...Erich," flew out and sucker punched him, stopping him cold. Sam continued talking, oblivious, "I think you'd better tell me what's going on..." and Dean watched himself throw the can at his brother, hard.
It hit Sam in the head, a loud, sickening smack stealing the air from Dean's lungs. Dean expected him to go down, but he didn't. Instead, they both watched the can land a few feet away and roll under the Dakota truck parked just outside. Dean was still staring, waiting for it to reemerge on the other side when Sam slammed into him bodily, taking them both to the floor.
Sam shouted, "What the fuck?" His brother was heavy on him, pinning him to the concrete even though he wasn't resisting. "What the fuck are you doing?" One of Sam's hands was on the leather, fingers wrapping around it, knuckles pressing hard against Dean's neck. "Answer me, Erich!"
Anger surging again at that hated name, Dean tried to throw Sam off. Sam countered easily and Dean ended up in a head lock with Sam behind him, fist still tight around the leather band. Dean leaned back into Sam, partly to get enough air to breathe but mostly because, as of that moment, he desperately wanted to. He used his air to push, "Erich is not my fucking name," out of his mouth and ignored the pain that blossomed, literally blinding in its intensity, at the base of his skull. It surged all along his back, excruciating, but he just pushed harder into his brother behind him. Sam was solid and real all along his spine, and Dean felt lighter, almost above the wrenching agony that was drilling its way through him.
Sam released Dean and tried to push him away. The leather around his neck pulsed again when Sam let go, but Dean didn't budge, leaning in deeper instead. Everything burned, and Dean couldn't see Sam through the pain. He could feel the vibrations of Sam's voice through the fire tearing into him, but he couldn't hear whatever cautions Sam was screaming at him. He could feel the cool press of Sam's skin even through their heavy clothing and the searing pain, and he drew strength from that. It felt like he drew his very breath from that.
Far past determined, Dean sucked in another breath, his intent so inexorable he felt like he'd already succeeded. He got as far as, "I. Am..." before everything he was imploded, turning him inside out. The unbearable pressure grew stronger and stronger until his own muscles revolted and wrenched him away, tearing him away from Sam.
Blackness overtook him as he slammed into the wall headfirst, but even that didn't stop the pain.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Fire.
Everywhere.
The flames consume the ground beneath his feet, burning along his skin and through his veins. The sky runs red with fire; it pulses brightly, casting blood-red shadows across the buildings that crumble on the horizon. Burning people run everywhere, frantic, but he stands, sill in the middle of the maelstrom.
Thinking. Analyzing as the waters of his brain begin to boil, steam escaping through his eyes and ears. His skin is crisping, blackened. It cracks deep and wide, exposing bloody muscle and tendon through the gaping holes.
Still, the scream that tears from his throat is more frustration than pain. Despair chases the agony and overtakes it as the world whites out, tumbling toward the next...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Something pulled at him. It kicked at his lizard brain, hard, dragging it toward the surface from where it cowered, buried deep and drenched in pain and fire. Dean tried to open his eyes, but couldn't tell if he had. The pulsing intensified with the effort though, and he had to fight for breath against it. There was a thud from somewhere, then a clank and a crash. He strained to hear more, but straining made everything flare and spin, his focus caught in a blender, and the blades tore at him, rending and shredding.
Sammy cursed, "FUCK!" It rang out through the nightmare fugue and pushed back the darkness a tiny bit, letting Dean hear the low growling that seemed to come from everywhere around them. He tried to sit up, tried to force his muscles to move. He needed to help Sam and he tried and tried, swimming in the agony long after the blackness had claimed him again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Heat. Smoke filling his lungs. Copper and sulfur flooding his mouth. Crib walls closing in and fire blossoming out above him, pure white glowing out from the middle, screaming.
Yellow peering into his soul, flashing in triumph.
A rush of air and the flames flare out, down toward his face, forcing his eyes closed. Strong arms, a shielding body, momentary shelter against the heat.
The pressure changes, hard against his ears, painful. Thinner arms, clutching him tightly. Shaking. Terrified but strong. Defiant. The rush of fresh air against his skin, the burst of it in his lungs. Dean in all of it, surrounding and warming him, fierce and solid and forever between.
Always.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Vibration thrummed through him, buzzing through the wash of fire, bouncing sharply along shattered nerves. He tried to shift, but couldn't, and couldn't tell if that was because he just couldn't move at all or if something was stopping him. He couldn't make sense of it, couldn't even hold onto the questions. He slipped back, down, into the blood-tight clutches of the pain, the vibration receding as everything else fell away again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
So soft.
Feather-light, quiet and dark. It all just falls apart this time.
The clock rolls over, the Earth shifts to its closest point and everything just... crumbles, dissolving into clumps of soft, ashy powder, so fine they break up when they touch. The ash swirls back up when it hits the fast-receding ground, filling the air and the sky, turning the Earth into a ghost-gray snow globe in minutes.
Minutes after that, and it's all imploding, the dust sucking down-down-down as the core collapses, all strength and structure gone, winking out with a soft sigh as if none of it had ever been.
He floats in the nothingness and wishes for enough air to scream.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Warmth. Heat along his chest, pressing against him from belly to cheek, shoving at the searing fire that still coursed through his veins, pushing it back. He chased the gentle heat, burrowing deeper into it, and felt cold wind rushing past his skin, the smell of Sam filling his nose. Warm leather pulsed reassuringly against his neck. Wide straps pushed against him at shoulder and waist and the bike hummed between his legs.
He couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't block out the pain that swooped and burned through him. He wasn't really conscious even, he suspected, but, pressed against Sam like this, he could drift on it all, and that's what he did.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Snow falls softly outside the window, coating the world in its thick, white blanket, muffling even the noise in his head. Jess is nestled against his side, fitting there like a missing piece, warm and snug. They watch the flames flickering in lodge's huge stone fireplace, relaxing after a long day's fun, falling down in the early snow. He can feel her breathing against his side, the air moving steadily in and out of her lungs, inexorable proof that this – that she – is real, solid and tangible as the hearth stones, and he sees their whole future spread out before the warming fire.
He drifts against her, staring contentedly into the flames until they pop loudly and, suddenly, he hears her scream. The fire shifts and draws him in, its gaping maw hot and hungry, swallowing him down until all he can hear is her screaming.
Until all that he is is her screaming.
All that she is is screaming. She's always screaming, always has been screaming, and always his name. The fire burns away at her, consuming flesh and hair, muscle and sinew, raging away at her until everything that makes her Jessica is gone, pared down into nothing but agony and searing heat, her scream the only thing she can ever hold onto, the only thing she can keep, the only thing her soul refuses to let go of until, every time, she finally breaks – hours, weeks? - and darkness envelops her, its cool black soothing as she falls and falls and falls, only to wake screaming again, fighting still, always, always certain he will manage to save her this time...
She's vibrant and alive in his arms when he wakes, but he can't seem to get warm. And he can still hear her screaming.
On to Seventeen
~ Fic Index ~
It's been 7 months since I last updated this story. Bad Author! Stoopid reality, always getting in the way of my fantasy.
Does anybody even remember this story? Other than my marvelous betas
varkelton & snarkgoddess, I mean. Does it help to know that Chapter 17 is already in beta? Even a little?Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapter 16 of ? (WIP)
Author:
rivestra Rating: NC-17 series wide
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
Previous Chapter (15) | Story Index | Back to the Beginning
Afterward, when Sammy picked up Dean's towel from where it had fallen and wiped the come off his stomach with shaking hands, they didn't talk about it. Neither uttered a word as he wiped at a lower stain, down on his jeans, and they both realized it hadn't come from the outside.
Dean didn't say a word as Sammy got up stiffly and stared out at the room, bone dry except for within their circle. He didn't react to the way the color drained out of his brother's face, but he did follow Sam's gaze as it took in the sodden rug beneath their feet, and the circle of newborn glass that surrounded them. He couldn't help but notice the dazed look on Sam's face or the oblivious reach he wasn't – quite – quick enough to stop. Sam quickly pulled back, clearly offended by the intrusion of reality and sucking on a burned finger. The glass was hazed, charred in places and cracked into large ragged chunks, but it still encircled them completely.
He didn't ask about the almost-familiar tattoo on his brother's chest, or about the scars that crisscrossed it, breaking up the rays of the sun. He almost asked why he'd never seen it before, why he knew so absolutely that the scars didn't belong, but then Sam stepped out of the circle and covered the tattoo with a dark t-shirt, and the questions disappeared from his mind.
He followed Sam immediately, desperately not wanting to be in that circle alone. The leather around his neck reflected his pulse back at him, pounding along with his heart. He tried not to think about Sam's other scars, red and raw the hour before – now completely gone. He pushed back all the questions that suddenly clamored for his attention, now that he was free to ask them. He didn't even let himself think about how right this all felt or about the warmth buzzing all along his skin and the pleasant pressure pulsing just to the left of his heart – right where he'd hurt since Ketill had branded him months before.
He didn't have to look at his back to know that Ketill's brand was gone, vanished under Sam's mark like it had never been.
Without a word, Sam dumped the supplies from his pack onto the bed, filling it instead with the sodden rug and the bowl, and with the candle and the feathers and the leaves. There was no sand left, but Sam covered his hands with a sheet and broke the still-steaming glass up into chunks small enough to load into his pack. Since he wouldn't let Dean help with that, Dean dumped everything out of his own pack, then refilled it with whatever seemed most essential from the two piles, trying to prioritize as best he could for a trip he knew nothing about.
He didn't ask what was going on. Whatever it was, he could feel the urgency in his bones, and they'd have time for everything else later.
*****
Ten minutes later they sat astride matched Harleys, engines thrumming impatiently as they waited for the gate. Sam was tense beside him, wound tighter than tight, that huge brain focused intensely on... something. Whatever it was, it was thrumming along Dean's nerves louder than their engines.
Neither of them really breathed until the guard waved them out of the camp. Forty-five mph felt agonizingly slow, but Sam kept them to it for the first mile or so. Dean didn't see any markers, but he felt the tightness in his chest ease fractionally just before Sam let loose, accelerating into the North, pushing their bikes all the way into the red.
Neither one of them looked back.
*****
They rode hard, stopping only to siphon gas when they needed to, draining and filling their more personal tanks at the same time, always back on the road within a few minutes. Dust ground into Dean's skin, caking painfully around his eyes and nose, and he hawked up huge blackened balls of snot when he coughed. The bike thrummed mercilessly under him, vibrating his bones against each other like his flesh was no padding at all.
Sam never complained. He never spoke at all, actually, just watched the road in front of them through some filter in his head and counted on Dean to keep up.
That, Dean could do.
They flew along the back roads and byways in a seemingly random series of turns and switchbacks, avoiding just about everything but the dry, gray desolation. It took Dean hours to figure out they were pushing north and west, cutting through northern Texas, but he had no way of knowing if it was deliberate. He didn't know if Sam actually had a destination in mind, didn't know if Sam was as clueless as he was for once, or if his brother actually had a plan.
*****
Twenty-seven mind-numbing hours later, they pulled up to Ike's Gas'n Go and parked the bikes next to a line of chainsaw-carved bears. Dean watched Sam stumble as he got off the bike, barely catching himself on the sweatshirt-clad bear beside him. Long after Sam had disappeared around the side of the store, Dean finally managed to read the "Of course I shit in the woods," carved onto the front of the bear's hoodie.
He rubbed his eyes hard and carefully got off his own bike, pocketing his keys and swaying where he stood, for all the world like the road was still moving beneath him. Hesitating, he stared at Sam's bike; he had to squint to see it clearly. With a sigh, he pulled Sam's keys out of the ignition and slid them into his pocket too.
Ten minutes later, Sam found him setting up a makeshift camp in the haven of the mechanic's bay. His brother stared at the pile of carpet scraps and towels Dean was building for a long moment before the light went on in his head and he scowled. "We have to get back on the road," he said as he started to shove gear back into Dean's pack.
Dean said simply, "No," and continued building them a place to sleep.
Sam looked up from what he was doing, eyes narrowing at Dean. "We're leaving," he said evenly. "Now."
Dean didn't know if it was something about Sam's flat tone or just his imagination, but the leather band seemed to constrict, warm and alive, pulsing a warning around his neck. Either way, Dean didn't really care. He kept his own tone even too, "Why are you packing that wrench, Sam? You really think we're gonna need a 15mm on the road? The bikes aren't even metric."
Brow furrowed, Sam stared down at the tool he'd half crammed into the pack, for all the world like he'd never seen it before.
It should have been funny, but Dean was way past that. "Sam, if we get back out on the road, we're gonna be smeared across it within an hour."
Exhausted, Sam stood and turned away to survey the parking lot in front of them. Dean didn't know what the fuck he expected to find; they hadn't seen a single living – a single moving – thing since they left the camp, but he waited for Sam to finish thinking anyway.
He had the second pallet half built by the time Sam's attention was back on him, awareness of his brother's stare creeping up his spine until he had to turn around. Sullen and tense but slightly less exhausted because of the walk, Sam opened his mouth to speak.
Dean cut him off. "I don't care, Sam. This place is as good as any." Dean could hear the condescending big brother tone dripping from his voice, but didn't change a thing. "You may think you're getting your 568th wind, but it's not gonna be enough. We go back out there," he finished the pallet and crouched, riffling through his pack and slamming the supplies for a quick meal into the concrete floor to emphasize his words, "and we're gonna be lucky to find a fucking tree to pass out under, it's gonna hit so hard and fast.
"And that's only if we can keep the bikes upright that long." Dean looked up at Sam and watched his brother startle as he slammed a can of Vienna sausage into the ground, despite the fact that Sam had been watching his every move. "Damn it, Sam! After everything I've gone through to find you..." He shook his head, staring down at the can of beans in his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose against a sudden flare of headache. "No way. No way it ends with us as road kill. No way it ends with us asleep at the wheel and pitching off a cliff like you..." The stench of burning steel and flesh rushed in to fill his lungs, and his brain veered sharply away from the vivid sense memory. "Just... No. No fucking way."
Sam was staring at him again, mouth open slightly, eyes soft but confused, working something out for himself. He looked fifteen, with his hair plastered to his head by sweat and grime and more dirt than skin visible on his face. Dean wanted to reach up and wipe at it, to wash away the road and the years and everything that had happened between them. Suddenly realizing that he could now, the urge became so strong and immediate that he found himself standing without ever deciding to, crossing toward Sam, the can of beans still lamely clutched in his hand.
The exhaustion had really caught up with him and he wasn't tracking. He barely noticed the widening of his brother's eyes as he closed the distance, and he wasn't hearing Sam's words at all until one, "...Erich," flew out and sucker punched him, stopping him cold. Sam continued talking, oblivious, "I think you'd better tell me what's going on..." and Dean watched himself throw the can at his brother, hard.
It hit Sam in the head, a loud, sickening smack stealing the air from Dean's lungs. Dean expected him to go down, but he didn't. Instead, they both watched the can land a few feet away and roll under the Dakota truck parked just outside. Dean was still staring, waiting for it to reemerge on the other side when Sam slammed into him bodily, taking them both to the floor.
Sam shouted, "What the fuck?" His brother was heavy on him, pinning him to the concrete even though he wasn't resisting. "What the fuck are you doing?" One of Sam's hands was on the leather, fingers wrapping around it, knuckles pressing hard against Dean's neck. "Answer me, Erich!"
Anger surging again at that hated name, Dean tried to throw Sam off. Sam countered easily and Dean ended up in a head lock with Sam behind him, fist still tight around the leather band. Dean leaned back into Sam, partly to get enough air to breathe but mostly because, as of that moment, he desperately wanted to. He used his air to push, "Erich is not my fucking name," out of his mouth and ignored the pain that blossomed, literally blinding in its intensity, at the base of his skull. It surged all along his back, excruciating, but he just pushed harder into his brother behind him. Sam was solid and real all along his spine, and Dean felt lighter, almost above the wrenching agony that was drilling its way through him.
Sam released Dean and tried to push him away. The leather around his neck pulsed again when Sam let go, but Dean didn't budge, leaning in deeper instead. Everything burned, and Dean couldn't see Sam through the pain. He could feel the vibrations of Sam's voice through the fire tearing into him, but he couldn't hear whatever cautions Sam was screaming at him. He could feel the cool press of Sam's skin even through their heavy clothing and the searing pain, and he drew strength from that. It felt like he drew his very breath from that.
Far past determined, Dean sucked in another breath, his intent so inexorable he felt like he'd already succeeded. He got as far as, "I. Am..." before everything he was imploded, turning him inside out. The unbearable pressure grew stronger and stronger until his own muscles revolted and wrenched him away, tearing him away from Sam.
Blackness overtook him as he slammed into the wall headfirst, but even that didn't stop the pain.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Fire.
Everywhere.
The flames consume the ground beneath his feet, burning along his skin and through his veins. The sky runs red with fire; it pulses brightly, casting blood-red shadows across the buildings that crumble on the horizon. Burning people run everywhere, frantic, but he stands, sill in the middle of the maelstrom.
Thinking. Analyzing as the waters of his brain begin to boil, steam escaping through his eyes and ears. His skin is crisping, blackened. It cracks deep and wide, exposing bloody muscle and tendon through the gaping holes.
Still, the scream that tears from his throat is more frustration than pain. Despair chases the agony and overtakes it as the world whites out, tumbling toward the next...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Something pulled at him. It kicked at his lizard brain, hard, dragging it toward the surface from where it cowered, buried deep and drenched in pain and fire. Dean tried to open his eyes, but couldn't tell if he had. The pulsing intensified with the effort though, and he had to fight for breath against it. There was a thud from somewhere, then a clank and a crash. He strained to hear more, but straining made everything flare and spin, his focus caught in a blender, and the blades tore at him, rending and shredding.
Sammy cursed, "FUCK!" It rang out through the nightmare fugue and pushed back the darkness a tiny bit, letting Dean hear the low growling that seemed to come from everywhere around them. He tried to sit up, tried to force his muscles to move. He needed to help Sam and he tried and tried, swimming in the agony long after the blackness had claimed him again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Heat. Smoke filling his lungs. Copper and sulfur flooding his mouth. Crib walls closing in and fire blossoming out above him, pure white glowing out from the middle, screaming.
Yellow peering into his soul, flashing in triumph.
A rush of air and the flames flare out, down toward his face, forcing his eyes closed. Strong arms, a shielding body, momentary shelter against the heat.
The pressure changes, hard against his ears, painful. Thinner arms, clutching him tightly. Shaking. Terrified but strong. Defiant. The rush of fresh air against his skin, the burst of it in his lungs. Dean in all of it, surrounding and warming him, fierce and solid and forever between.
Always.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Vibration thrummed through him, buzzing through the wash of fire, bouncing sharply along shattered nerves. He tried to shift, but couldn't, and couldn't tell if that was because he just couldn't move at all or if something was stopping him. He couldn't make sense of it, couldn't even hold onto the questions. He slipped back, down, into the blood-tight clutches of the pain, the vibration receding as everything else fell away again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
So soft.
Feather-light, quiet and dark. It all just falls apart this time.
The clock rolls over, the Earth shifts to its closest point and everything just... crumbles, dissolving into clumps of soft, ashy powder, so fine they break up when they touch. The ash swirls back up when it hits the fast-receding ground, filling the air and the sky, turning the Earth into a ghost-gray snow globe in minutes.
Minutes after that, and it's all imploding, the dust sucking down-down-down as the core collapses, all strength and structure gone, winking out with a soft sigh as if none of it had ever been.
He floats in the nothingness and wishes for enough air to scream.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Warmth. Heat along his chest, pressing against him from belly to cheek, shoving at the searing fire that still coursed through his veins, pushing it back. He chased the gentle heat, burrowing deeper into it, and felt cold wind rushing past his skin, the smell of Sam filling his nose. Warm leather pulsed reassuringly against his neck. Wide straps pushed against him at shoulder and waist and the bike hummed between his legs.
He couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't block out the pain that swooped and burned through him. He wasn't really conscious even, he suspected, but, pressed against Sam like this, he could drift on it all, and that's what he did.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Snow falls softly outside the window, coating the world in its thick, white blanket, muffling even the noise in his head. Jess is nestled against his side, fitting there like a missing piece, warm and snug. They watch the flames flickering in lodge's huge stone fireplace, relaxing after a long day's fun, falling down in the early snow. He can feel her breathing against his side, the air moving steadily in and out of her lungs, inexorable proof that this – that she – is real, solid and tangible as the hearth stones, and he sees their whole future spread out before the warming fire.
He drifts against her, staring contentedly into the flames until they pop loudly and, suddenly, he hears her scream. The fire shifts and draws him in, its gaping maw hot and hungry, swallowing him down until all he can hear is her screaming.
Until all that he is is her screaming.
All that she is is screaming. She's always screaming, always has been screaming, and always his name. The fire burns away at her, consuming flesh and hair, muscle and sinew, raging away at her until everything that makes her Jessica is gone, pared down into nothing but agony and searing heat, her scream the only thing she can ever hold onto, the only thing she can keep, the only thing her soul refuses to let go of until, every time, she finally breaks – hours, weeks? - and darkness envelops her, its cool black soothing as she falls and falls and falls, only to wake screaming again, fighting still, always, always certain he will manage to save her this time...
She's vibrant and alive in his arms when he wakes, but he can't seem to get warm. And he can still hear her screaming.
On to Seventeen
~ Fic Index ~
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Welcome to my little apocalypse!
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That being said though, I still truly enjoy the story, your writing, and the fantastic imagery you use. I went back two chapters so I had a better take on it all, and I am still fascinated. Very, very concerned about what becomes of Dean's confession that Erich is not his name.
Great job. I do look forward to more.
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Thanks for hanging in here with me. Your comment is muchly appreciated, as always.
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Thanks for reading!
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Looking forward to part 17
Zaz
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Thanks for the comment (and for remembering!).
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I try to wrote for myself, but I'd be lying if I said that knowing people were waiting on more wasn't motivating...
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And I still picture Dean too. Sometimes I kind of forget he looks different, but I guess that's fair since he does too...
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Poor Dean. I wonder how long it will take Sam to figure it out? I mean Dean almost killed himself trying to tell him, and he got closer than anyone else would have...
I wonder why his apearence changed? I don't think Sam did that part, but maybe he did...Will he ever change back or is it permanent?
I can't wait to read more. Keep writing!
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All of which is a bit TMI, sorry. :brightens:: Thanks for reading! It's really good to know people are still interested.
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Thanks so much for writing and sharing :D
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I am lagging so much with this story, I'm surprised anybody still wants to put up with me. It is still very alive though, I just have no time.
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Such an awesome story and I'm dying to know what happens next. Please update.
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Things should be much better next month (once I relearn how to breathe), and I really, really want to be working on this.
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Cat
PS: You going for any comm-posting so we can get an update on this stuff?
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The boys say I'm the one who deserves to be throttled, obviously. (They may not be my biggest fans.)
I've been posting to spn_dark_vault and spn_hardcore, but figure I'll save the major postings for when it's no longer got a WIP attached to its name. Thanks for enjoying it enough to care about updates!
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Soon? I mean, I really think so this time... I've been poking it with the big, heavy stick a lot lately, I swear!
(Really glad you're enjoying, really sorry to leave you hanging!)
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The story's far from dead, I swear. Even disregarding the fact that
It's really, really good to get comments like this though, they help push me along the fence! Thank you!
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I can certainly believe that. Besides from telling the boys' story, when you write an AU, like this, with a world that's so different from ours, there's just a lot to tell to establish that world.
It's really, really good to get comments like this though, they help push me along the fence! Thank you!
You're welcome! And I'll keep checking back, hoping for that seventeenth chapter! *g*
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Should I send cookies?
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::gobbles up the encouragement::
It's all still very alive and well in my brain; I'm just having a bit of a hard time getting it to come out my fingers an onto the page, even without the issue of finding time to do so.
Soon, hopefully. Being reminded people care helps more than I'd like to admit, so thank you muchly!
More Please
Re: More Please
::facepalm::
Thing fought me every step of the way but... it's done now? Chapter Seventeen
Thanks for the virtual cookies; obviously, I needed all the help I could get in finishing up the next chapter!
Re: More Please
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(Anonymous) 2017-03-24 10:17 am (UTC)(link)no subject
Thanks for being interested. I'm sorry I've left you handing for so long.