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Fic: Steel on Shadow (SPN, Gen, PG13)
Title: Steel on Shadow
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rivestra
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Dark themes, but nothing graphic.
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
Length: 1,100 words
Summary: There are some things you can never un-hear. (Pre-series AU.)
Vertical shadows chased through his nightmares. He fled in small tight circles, confined and constrained by the very metal giving chase. Fierce steel bit into his flesh wherever it touched, pressing into his thighs and arms, its chill penetrating through flesh and muscle, stabbing its frigid cold down into his bones. He tired, growing weaker and weaker with every step, and it pushed into him whenever he stumbled. His legs were heavy, his feet clumsy-numb, and the pressure was everywhere, intolerable, forcing him to struggle to even stay upright, turning every breath into a desperate struggle for air…
Dean woke with a gasp, his arms flailing against sleep-vivid bars, pinwheeling freely in the empty air above his bed. Dad’s snores filled the small space; they pushed heavily at Dean’s chest, compressing the air inside as surely as the bars had.
Struggling upright, Dean tried to be grateful Dad had made it home tonight at all, let alone mostly in one piece. He padded toward the other bed, deftly threading through the obstacle course of shotgun shells, textbooks, soda cans and bottles of Jack that littered their crappy utility carpet. He stopped up short when the moon showed him a pile of bloody bandages next to John’s boots.
Sketch by the wonderful denyce
Dean shook himself, agitating the pause off his skin and sucking in a deep breath. The copper tang of blood was subtle, but it was there. His quick inspection revealed nothing but a thick graze on John’s scalp, probably from a knife, not a claw. The wound was still bleeding sluggishly, but Dean couldn’t do anything about that now, not without making it bleed again. He’d stitch it up out in the morning light, before he headed off to school.
He picked up the bandages and squeezed them into a heavy duty Ziploc bag, sealed it, then tugged a second bag over the first and sealed that shut too. Weak reflected light flashed on the bars and caught Dean’s eyes as he turned back toward his bed.
Dean shut them tight and crawled back in by feel.
*~*~*~*~*
"I’m sorry, Son." Dad didn’t sound sorry. "There just wasn’t anything there." Not sorry enough, anyway. What he did sound was hopeless and burned out – and more than a little frustrated with Dean.
Dad’s voice was thick with exhaustion when he continued, "Even Doc Maynard didn’t have any new ideas…" Again, Dean didn’t say, "..but he’s got people looking all over. He’ll come up with something soon."
No, Dean thought. He won’t.
Dad reached for him, but Dean ducked away and out the door. It echoed when it slammed, ringing out like iron.
*~*~*~*~*
Dad bled more when he was drunk. Dean was convinced of this, regardless of what his biology teacher said. Tonight it was a deep laceration down his left thigh, thirty-six precise stitches and counting.
He hadn’t been able to get Dad to move to the porch for the stitching, and Dean imagined a restless stirring from the corner of the room. His mind hunted for any hint, desperately trying to will movement into existence, desperately searching for anything instead of the near-silence that was actually there.
When the cabin was absolutely quiet, slow, steady breathing whispered out of the gloom. Dean’s ears strained to hear it, even in his sleep.
*~*~*~*~*
One night, Dad hadn’t made it back in time to administer the drugs. He hadn’t made it home until the next dawn.
Dean hadn’t known that anything could make him long for that terrible quiet, but that did it.
There are some things you can never un-hear.
*~*~*~*~*
Dad gave him a key to the drug box, after that, and that should have been it.
It wasn’t.
*~*~*~*~*
He picked his night carefully. Wouldn’t do to have Dad come home unexpectedly, and that’s the only way Dad ever came home anymore.
When the time came, Dean nearly chickened out. He stood there, holding Dad’s steak in his hands, just out of reach of the table. Dad’s gruff, "What, you finally decide it’s okay to eat in here, then change your mind after making a royal mess out of the kitchen?" broke Dean’s daze and made him wrench his eyes away from the corner. Dad pointed at the steak, "Am I supposed to eat that from here?" Dean couldn’t hide his glare as he set the plate down, but Dad didn’t ask.
Dad never asked anymore.
Dean watched him chew, watched him droop in his chair without touching his beer, watched him fall to the crappy carpet, mouth still full of meat. Dean hoped he’d gotten the dosage right, but he didn’t lean over to feel for a pulse.
Dean threw the front door open wide; moonlight flooded the room.
The cage loomed, a hulking – breathing – thing in the darkness on the far side of the cabin. Dean opened the far window and let the moon’s light fall on the bars. It sliced eagerly into the dark; silvery light falling on fur and muscle. Dean’s breathing quickened in time with those suddenly laboring lungs’. Long unused muscles twitched under dense fur, and Dean’s pulse sped as he watched. His blood was pounding, roaring in his ears, muffling everything but the slow slide of fur on carpet and the echoing ting of claws against the bars.
Within the cage, the dark form stretched slowly, pulling strength from the moonlight. Waking, finally.
Dean’s hand stuttered to a stop. He didn’t notice how tightly he was gripping the lock until he felt the blood trickling down his wrist. He thought, I can’t do this, and stared at his blood, mesmerized as it flowed down into his sleeve. Dean kept staring until he felt a whuff of soft breath on his skin and looked out into soft, wide eyes, inches from his own.
All Dean’s doubt melted away under that stare. His hands didn’t shake at all as he opened the lock and pulled it free. This was the way things needed to be – the way they were supposed to be. Dean’s pulse was even as he flung open the cage door, his hand steady as he held it out for inspection.
He didn’t flinch at the soft brush of nose against his arm. He held his ground as the wet tongue investigated his wrist, lapping gently against his skin. When it found the blood and quickened, he whispered, "Come on, Sammy," and pressed in closer so Sammy’s sharp canines could better tear into his arm. The pain didn’t matter at all; it was just a means to an end.
Soon, it would be him and Sam again, and nothing was anything compared to that.
~ fin ~
A/N: Many thanks tovarkelton for the marvelous beta and to snarkgoddess and denyce for the suggestions and squee. Written for the cages square on my kink bingo card, thought not exactly what I was expecting for it. Muses are fun!
I've always know that I have some incredibly talented friends, but I was still surprised by all the wonderful stuff this little fic inspired them to make! In addition todenyce's wonderful sketch (above inline), varkelton wrote a hurts-so-good Sammy POV prequel, Descent into Shadow, then sinandcinnamon gave us a dark and powerful glimpse into John's motivations with her Shadow Stains My Heart, and, finally, varkelton offers us a peek into the boy's future with her sequel, In the Shadow of Hunger (a much happier ending than I could have made believable). ::twirls and adores them all:: Thank you guys so much!
~ Fic Index ~
Author:
rivestra Rating: PG13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Dark themes, but nothing graphic.
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
Length: 1,100 words
Summary: There are some things you can never un-hear. (Pre-series AU.)
Vertical shadows chased through his nightmares. He fled in small tight circles, confined and constrained by the very metal giving chase. Fierce steel bit into his flesh wherever it touched, pressing into his thighs and arms, its chill penetrating through flesh and muscle, stabbing its frigid cold down into his bones. He tired, growing weaker and weaker with every step, and it pushed into him whenever he stumbled. His legs were heavy, his feet clumsy-numb, and the pressure was everywhere, intolerable, forcing him to struggle to even stay upright, turning every breath into a desperate struggle for air…
Dean woke with a gasp, his arms flailing against sleep-vivid bars, pinwheeling freely in the empty air above his bed. Dad’s snores filled the small space; they pushed heavily at Dean’s chest, compressing the air inside as surely as the bars had.
Struggling upright, Dean tried to be grateful Dad had made it home tonight at all, let alone mostly in one piece. He padded toward the other bed, deftly threading through the obstacle course of shotgun shells, textbooks, soda cans and bottles of Jack that littered their crappy utility carpet. He stopped up short when the moon showed him a pile of bloody bandages next to John’s boots.
Sketch by the wonderful denyceDean shook himself, agitating the pause off his skin and sucking in a deep breath. The copper tang of blood was subtle, but it was there. His quick inspection revealed nothing but a thick graze on John’s scalp, probably from a knife, not a claw. The wound was still bleeding sluggishly, but Dean couldn’t do anything about that now, not without making it bleed again. He’d stitch it up out in the morning light, before he headed off to school.
He picked up the bandages and squeezed them into a heavy duty Ziploc bag, sealed it, then tugged a second bag over the first and sealed that shut too. Weak reflected light flashed on the bars and caught Dean’s eyes as he turned back toward his bed.
Dean shut them tight and crawled back in by feel.
*~*~*~*~*
"I’m sorry, Son." Dad didn’t sound sorry. "There just wasn’t anything there." Not sorry enough, anyway. What he did sound was hopeless and burned out – and more than a little frustrated with Dean.
Dad’s voice was thick with exhaustion when he continued, "Even Doc Maynard didn’t have any new ideas…" Again, Dean didn’t say, "..but he’s got people looking all over. He’ll come up with something soon."
No, Dean thought. He won’t.
Dad reached for him, but Dean ducked away and out the door. It echoed when it slammed, ringing out like iron.
*~*~*~*~*
Dad bled more when he was drunk. Dean was convinced of this, regardless of what his biology teacher said. Tonight it was a deep laceration down his left thigh, thirty-six precise stitches and counting.
He hadn’t been able to get Dad to move to the porch for the stitching, and Dean imagined a restless stirring from the corner of the room. His mind hunted for any hint, desperately trying to will movement into existence, desperately searching for anything instead of the near-silence that was actually there.
When the cabin was absolutely quiet, slow, steady breathing whispered out of the gloom. Dean’s ears strained to hear it, even in his sleep.
*~*~*~*~*
One night, Dad hadn’t made it back in time to administer the drugs. He hadn’t made it home until the next dawn.
Dean hadn’t known that anything could make him long for that terrible quiet, but that did it.
There are some things you can never un-hear.
*~*~*~*~*
Dad gave him a key to the drug box, after that, and that should have been it.
It wasn’t.
*~*~*~*~*
He picked his night carefully. Wouldn’t do to have Dad come home unexpectedly, and that’s the only way Dad ever came home anymore.
When the time came, Dean nearly chickened out. He stood there, holding Dad’s steak in his hands, just out of reach of the table. Dad’s gruff, "What, you finally decide it’s okay to eat in here, then change your mind after making a royal mess out of the kitchen?" broke Dean’s daze and made him wrench his eyes away from the corner. Dad pointed at the steak, "Am I supposed to eat that from here?" Dean couldn’t hide his glare as he set the plate down, but Dad didn’t ask.
Dad never asked anymore.
Dean watched him chew, watched him droop in his chair without touching his beer, watched him fall to the crappy carpet, mouth still full of meat. Dean hoped he’d gotten the dosage right, but he didn’t lean over to feel for a pulse.
Dean threw the front door open wide; moonlight flooded the room.
The cage loomed, a hulking – breathing – thing in the darkness on the far side of the cabin. Dean opened the far window and let the moon’s light fall on the bars. It sliced eagerly into the dark; silvery light falling on fur and muscle. Dean’s breathing quickened in time with those suddenly laboring lungs’. Long unused muscles twitched under dense fur, and Dean’s pulse sped as he watched. His blood was pounding, roaring in his ears, muffling everything but the slow slide of fur on carpet and the echoing ting of claws against the bars.
Within the cage, the dark form stretched slowly, pulling strength from the moonlight. Waking, finally.
Dean’s hand stuttered to a stop. He didn’t notice how tightly he was gripping the lock until he felt the blood trickling down his wrist. He thought, I can’t do this, and stared at his blood, mesmerized as it flowed down into his sleeve. Dean kept staring until he felt a whuff of soft breath on his skin and looked out into soft, wide eyes, inches from his own.
All Dean’s doubt melted away under that stare. His hands didn’t shake at all as he opened the lock and pulled it free. This was the way things needed to be – the way they were supposed to be. Dean’s pulse was even as he flung open the cage door, his hand steady as he held it out for inspection.
He didn’t flinch at the soft brush of nose against his arm. He held his ground as the wet tongue investigated his wrist, lapping gently against his skin. When it found the blood and quickened, he whispered, "Come on, Sammy," and pressed in closer so Sammy’s sharp canines could better tear into his arm. The pain didn’t matter at all; it was just a means to an end.
Soon, it would be him and Sam again, and nothing was anything compared to that.
~ fin ~
A/N: Many thanks to
varkelton for the marvelous beta and to snarkgoddess and denyce for the suggestions and squee. Written for the cages square on my kink bingo card, thought not exactly what I was expecting for it. Muses are fun!I've always know that I have some incredibly talented friends, but I was still surprised by all the wonderful stuff this little fic inspired them to make! In addition to
denyce's wonderful sketch (above inline), varkelton wrote a hurts-so-good Sammy POV prequel, Descent into Shadow, then sinandcinnamon gave us a dark and powerful glimpse into John's motivations with her Shadow Stains My Heart, and, finally, varkelton offers us a peek into the boy's future with her sequel, In the Shadow of Hunger (a much happier ending than I could have made believable). ::twirls and adores them all:: Thank you guys so much!~ Fic Index ~
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And thank you!
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I wanna see!
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*sniffle*
Yeah, that was *not acceptable*.
*pets the boys*
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Dean's fixing it! As best he can, anyway.
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::repeats::
::Holds silver carrot in one hand and lays out line of bunny chow around you on the third pass::
::waves carrot up and down your body, all wafty and irritating-like::
::double checks to make sure is outside circle::
::focuses mind tightly on you::
::purses lips and holds fingers to them in vaguely peace symbol-like pose. makes deadly annoying sooper sekrit plot bunny call::
::chants writeitwriteitwriteitwriteitwriteitwriteitwriteit until you collapse under the weight of the bunny and your fingers start to move on your keyboard::
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Chilling.
*huddles under blanket, cowering*
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Would it help if I admit that I can also see ways for them to be happy? The two of them chasing each other through the forest, all flying fur and happy yips as the sunlight dapples their coats presents a very happy image. When they get older and more in control (and maybe a little bored with bringing down deer), they would make a really kick-as demon hunting team.
I really have no intention of writing a sequel, so you can pick your own version, really.
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Yes.
Please?
*bats eyes*
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I agree that there's potential, but I'm already working on one of those, and I think one's my limit on novels. Poke at
And she doesn't believe in short ;)
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<33
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Thank you!
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(Thanks ever so for the comment!)
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In my head, Dean will always choose Sam. Making impossible choices with confidence is kinda a button for me, it tends to show up in a lot of my fic...
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No, you're right. I don't really get out much.
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I love your icon (and it's so perfect for this story!).
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Thank you! Three letters, and you've made my morning.
::tries not to think too hard about what that says about her morning::
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