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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 18 of ?)
Hi! It may have been months, but you can't argue that this chapter arrived much faster than the last one, right?
::listens to crickets::
Oh, fine. I'm working on 19, 'k? And yes, I know you've heard that kind of thing from me before... all 2 of you reading this (and speaking of, thank you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
varkelton and snarkgoddess, your beautiful beta bountifulness knows no bounds!).
Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapter 18 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 EIGHTEEN
Previous Chapter (17) | Story Index | Back to the Beginning
Dean woke to the smell of coffee perking over the fire. Sam absently held out a cupful for him, not pausing in his conversation. Feeling a little off-kilter but better for finally getting some rest, Dean rubbed his hands over his face to clear away the sleep cobwebs before he took the tin cup.
Dean breathed in deeply before drinking, letting that wonderful aroma fill his lungs and deliver its caffeine directly through the pores of his face. He held the coffee in his mouth for a long moment before swallowing it down to warm his belly. Greedily, he sucked down a second gulp, feeling the synapses spring back to life inside his skull. Dean had really missed coffee.
As he took in his third sip, off-kilter started to slide toward genuinely disoriented, and Dean's gut lurched sickeningly.
He stared down into his cup. He should still be missing coffee. They didn't have any coffee, not even before they'd lost a pack. The demon five-and-dime had wanted a freaking fortune for a tiny box of Sanka. Dean took in a deep breath to steady himself and couldn’t help but relish the coffee-laden air.
Wait.
How had they lost a pack again? There had been... something... something fast and full of fire and pounding vibration… Dean's mind strained for it, reaching back through the fog of pain and confusion. They'd been chased. Chased by… wolves?
No, that couldn't be. All the wolves were dead, along with almost everything else.
Dean poked at his brain, digging though the haze with cruel metaphorical fingers. Not wolves but… werewolves? It made sense, he supposed, they'd have to be starving, with nothing alive to feed on and…
Hold on.
Who the fuck was Sam talking to?
Dean resisted the urge to lunge up. Carefully, he set his cup down on the packed gravel (wherever the coffee had come from, there was no reason to risk spilling it) and looked around in what he hoped was a casual manner.
He needn't have bothered. The dude's entire focus was on his debate with Sam. Besides, he looked completely harmless, huddled across the fire with a ratty blanket tied around him like a cloak, occasionally driving his points into the fire with a thick branch. Sam, for his part was talking with his whole face and waving his hands like a parody of an eighty-year-old, Italian grandmother. They were both completely engrossed in whatever the fuck they were talking about.
Dean listened just enough to determine they were discussing the relative merits of traveling north versus northeast then let their conversation fade back into background noise. Even staring openly didn't change his initial assessment much – the guy was just another survivor, and an old, wrinkled one at that. Sure, his voice seemed a bit too boisterous for his bird-like frame, and his hooked nose must've been a bitch to live with in high school, but he was just an ordinary dude.
But where the fuck had he come from?
"Philadelphia, of late, my dear boy. Though, you'd have to travel rather farther east to find my natal land."
It took Dean a full five seconds to decipher the clipped British-accented words and longer still to realize they meant he'd spoken his last thought aloud. Dean started to say something in reply but had to turn it into a cough when he realized he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth.
Dry as Dean was, his fake cough quickly turned into a real coughing fit, complete with wracking gasps and a serious attempt at the self-expulsion of his lungs. Before Dean could be positive he'd actually seen a gleeful gleam in grandpa's eyes, Sam loomed up between them, helpfully holding out a bottle of water.
Dean snatched the water from Sam, convulsing with another cough at the same instant. He crushed the bottle with the force of his fit. Sam cursed, and Dean looked up to find his brother drenched with water.
Of course Sam had opened the bottle for him.
Dean hid his automatic smile with the bottle and drained what little water that was left in a single sip. He got out a hoarse, "Sorry, Man," around his coughs, gesticulating with the bottle as he spoke. The bottle sprayed its remaining few droplets across Sam's face.
A drop of water rolled down Sam's chin and dripped onto the already saturated t-shirt below. It bothered Dean that he didn't recognize the shirt, but he let that go when Sam shivered.
"Dude, you're soaked." It was never warm in the constant twilight they lived in, and it was getting cooler the higher they climbed into the Rockies.
Sam snorted.
Dean stood unsteadily, then reached back down to grab his blanket for Sam. He felt water splash on his face and looked up to find Sam stripped to the waist. Dean swayed, vision twisting and folding in on itself as he tried to steady himself. Dean could tell Sam was vigorously wringing at his shirt - getting water all over both their boots – but he couldn't pull his eyes away from the stark lines inked into his brother's chest, crisp-edged and perfect, so black they looked brand new.
And why did that feel so wrong?
He'd seen Sam shirtless before hundreds – probably thousands – of times. Dean remembered the tattoo (of course he did!). There was absolutely nothing unusual about it; it was just Sam, as ordinary as size one million shoes left out to trip him in the dead of night.
Except… a part of Dean was dead certain he'd never seen the perfect lines of that black sun before. Ever. The tattoo had to be brand new. It had to be.
The spinning in Dean's head increased as he reached for the memories, mercilessly pushing his subconscious wherever it most resisted going. Dean had no idea when Sam had gotten the ink. He couldn’t remember a time when his brother's chest had been without it, not even before Sam had sprouted his first dusting of chest hair, and that... that just couldn't be right, right?
But the fucking thing was almost familiar.
Dean's head lurched, and the spinning took him down to his knees, his brain chasing its own tail, trapped in the twists of the paradox and unable to fight its way free. Helpless, Dean had to look away from Sam's chest.
He was fighting to keep his coffee down when Sam's hand landed on his shoulder; the world went suddenly still, and Dean's knees became trustworthy again beneath him. "Breathe," Sam said, and it seemed like good advice, so Dean did. The ground beneath him got a little more solid. The collar around his neck pulsed gently, in time with the blood running through his brother's palm.
Dean risked a look at Sam's chest. The tattoo was still there (and why the fuck should that surprise him?), perfect and mocking, but that was all. His head didn't climb back onto whatever cheap carnival ride it'd been on before, and the ground beneath his knees stayed put. Sam's face held no clues, only bewildered concern, so Dean looked around the rest of the camp.
Fire. Blankets. Packs. Plural. Coffee. Breakfast. Sam.
And that crazy-assed stranger, watching them from across the fire. The crazy-ass Dean had completely forgotten about.
Again.
Dean sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed Sam's hand when his brother tried to pull away.
Very deliberately, Dean stared at the fucker across the fire. It took work.
The fire kept catching Dean's attention with its vivid display of blues and oranges. He could almost feel it licking across his skin. The collar pulsed again, stronger, and Dean pushed the crawling burn away, tightening his focus on the far side of the fire. The sharp-edged man seemed to soften, bleeding into the background a little. Dean sucked in another breath… and fought off a suddenly-urgent desire to pour himself the rest of the coffee and revel in its heady smell… to dive into the bacon (bacon!) sizzling over the fire and gorge himself on its smoky, crispy goodness… to stay there, collar a welcome, warm weight, the firm grip of his brother's hand on his shoulder, never-ever letting go of that smooth, solid flesh...
Dean felt his focus retighten; the collar throbbed, almost hot in its approval. Invoking Sam had been a bad idea. Sam was what this was all about, the only thing that made it worth fighting to figure this shit out. Sam was his strength and his reason to… everything. Everything except stop. Dean glared across the fire and growled a little.
It seemed like the thing to do.
The fucker winked at Dean, then vanished. Poof.
Dean growled again, louder, beginning to feel like he was developing a habit. Ever-freaking helpful, Sam asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'll be fine as soon as you tell me," Dean was a little alarmed at how much growl was still in his voice. He swallowed thickly and tried to smooth it out, "…where that fucker went."
Sam drew back to look at him. "Who?" He didn't release Dean's shoulder though, so that was okay.
"The fucker," Dean repeated usefully.
"You mean the trader?" Sam's confusion was tangible. "What the hell'd he do to you, other than bring breakfast?" Sam pushed away and stared at Dean; it felt like Sam had suddenly cut all his lines and sent him drifting off into space, completely untethered. Dean felt his jaw moving but couldn't get any useful words past his lips.
A dramatic sigh escaped Sam. "He resupplied us and headed back down the mountain, remember?" Sam looked at his watch, and so did Dean, his eyes following the motion on autopilot. "Almost thirty minutes ago now." Sam lowered his hand and Dean shook off the impulse to follow it back down. Staring at Sam was not a habit he felt the need to encourage.
Dean tried to wrench his eyes away from Sam completely, but they paused when they reached Sam's chest, catching on that blank expanse of skin and muscles. Dean couldn't figure out why that bothered him, but it did.
He opened his mouth to say that no, he didn't fucking remember that. Dean remembered the fucker disappearing right in front of their faces, just a minute ago now. He was going to say it, really.
Except he didn't.
Sam watched Dean flail then looked away pointedly, as if to give Dean privacy. Maybe that's what Sam thought he was doing, but Dean kept watching him as he turned his gaze toward the fire. Dean watched Sam look through the fire, for just a second, and saw his brother's face scrunch lightly in confusion, eyes narrowing. Then somebody flipped a switch, and Sam shook his head like a horse shaking off a fly, said, "Bacon's about ready," and got up.
Impulsively, Dean reached out to stop him, intending to apologize for being an ass. As his hand caught Sam's wrist, his words abandoned him in a rush, taking his air with them. The leather around his neck pulsed approval at him, a languid warmth that sloshed through his veins. Dean thought, What the fuck? at the damn thing, but didn't have time to give it much consideration; his attention narrowed abruptly to the five points of black ink on his brother's chest.
Sonofabitch!
Dean very deliberately let go of Sam's arm. The tattoo flickered and disappeared. He grabbed Sam again before the disorientation swirling around him could get its teeth into him and completely ignored Sam's dismayed, "Hey!" The tattoo was back, just like it had always been there, and he felt solid again immediately. The collar pulsed its pleasure, and how fucked up was that?
Dean breathed in all the way down to his toes and narrowed his eyes at the ink. He steadied himself with the dirt under him – felt the calm overtake him just like he was about to go head to head with a particularly nasty thing – and let Sammy pull away.
The tattoo blinked out of existence. Dean swayed a bit, but stayed solid. Sam muttered, "Freak," but it was without any real heat.
Dean stared at his brother's chest until Sam turned away. The tattoo stayed gone, but at least Dean knew it was gone. When Sam turned back around to offer Dean some bacon, his chest was still blank, and that was still wrong.
He might still be clueless, but Dean had won this round.
In celebration, Dean let himself be distracted by the bacon. Real bacon! He fell on it like a starving dog. Sam shook his head and put on a shirt; Dean watched fabric slide over blank skin and remembered.
After he'd finished inhaling his food, Dean got up and poured them both some more coffee. It'd been too damn long since he'd had coffee.
Thank whatever looked out for stray hunters for that nice old trader.
*****
That night found them camping on a ledge high in the Rockies, exposed to the elements but not the road. If there'd been wind or rain or, you know, actual night anymore, it would have been miserable. As it was, it was no worse than anywhere else at this altitude would be.
Dean watched Sam's blank chest as he changed. He contrived to brush against Sam's skin as he tugged his own shirt into place; like clockwork, the tattoo winked into existence. Dean stumbled but covered it quickly. That pulsing rush was going to take some getting used to.
In unspoken agreement, they arranged their bags next to each other and settled down back to back, a long solid line of Winchester, braced together against the cold. Collar warm and happy against his neck, Dean thought determinedly about the tattoo, and dropped off almost instantly.
*****
His shoulder burns. It's minor, in comparison, but he tries to focus on that burning. He shifts minutely to stretch in his bindings, hoping to shut out the other. It isn't working.
Probably because she has a blowtorch.
At least, he's pretty sure it's a blowtorch, and not one of the kind you use for creme brulee. He'd screwed his eyes shut when she came back into the room, but he can still see a tell-tale glow through his lids.
It's cold that burns across his chest when she takes it to him, his skin screaming in a thousand points of brittle ice and fucked up nerves. He can feel the heat reflected up into his face, though, so he knows he's got it right, even without giving in and opening his eyes.
Ice eventually gives way to fire, and he can feel his skin split beneath the torch. There's a crackling pop, and liquid gushes down his belly, too much and too fast for the torch to burn away. He opens his mouth to scream and sweet smoke coats his throat. His scream turns into a frantic cough and that turns quickly into a wracking gag the moment he realizes that roast-is-browned-and-burning smell is his own flesh cooking.
Intellectually, he knows it hasn't been long when she stops. It can't have been; she doesn't want to damage him past the point she can heal him. He hears metal tink against the table and knows it to be her setting the torch down even though the burning doesn't falter. He passes out to the click-click of her heels leaving the room, eyes still triumphantly closed.
It feels like no time at all later when the healer's brusque hands wake him. He passes out again under their ministrations.
When he next wakes, he finally opens his eyes. He's pretty sure she's not there, so he doesn't count it as a loss – not that she's even aware of his little game – and he can never resist looking down at his chest after, anyway.
Burns should take longer to heal than knife scars, but that doesn't seem to matter. He smiles loopily down at the sunbust star peeking out though the healing char of his chest… and tries not to wonder what she'll try next time.
*****
Dean lurched awake, head spinning. What the fuck is up with that damn tattoo?!? He lay there for a while, still and pressed hard against Sam's back. He told himself he was trying to calm his pulse, but he wasn't buying it, and neither was his collar.
Sam snored on, oblivious.
Wishing desperately that it still got dark at night, Dean sighed and rolled over. He hesitated for only a moment before settling his hand on the bare skin of Sammy's hip where the shirt had ridden up. The world steadied around Dean, the shift was becoming subtler with each repetition he marked, but no less profound.
He listened closely, but Sam's breathing didn't change. Warm leather pulsed gently around Dean's neck, urging him on.
After a moment, Dean let the rest of his body settle where it wanted, and ended up with his nose pressed into the back of Sammy's neck in a position he would not call spooning even if that bitch came at him with her blowtorch.
Shuddering slightly at the image, Dean reached again for sleep and resolved not to dream anymore that night.
~ To Be Continued ~
~ Fic Index ~
::listens to crickets::
Oh, fine. I'm working on 19, 'k? And yes, I know you've heard that kind of thing from me before... all 2 of you reading this (and speaking of, thank you,
varkelton and snarkgoddess, your beautiful beta bountifulness knows no bounds!).Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapter 18 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 EIGHTEEN
Previous Chapter (17) | Story Index | Back to the Beginning
Dean woke to the smell of coffee perking over the fire. Sam absently held out a cupful for him, not pausing in his conversation. Feeling a little off-kilter but better for finally getting some rest, Dean rubbed his hands over his face to clear away the sleep cobwebs before he took the tin cup.
Dean breathed in deeply before drinking, letting that wonderful aroma fill his lungs and deliver its caffeine directly through the pores of his face. He held the coffee in his mouth for a long moment before swallowing it down to warm his belly. Greedily, he sucked down a second gulp, feeling the synapses spring back to life inside his skull. Dean had really missed coffee.
As he took in his third sip, off-kilter started to slide toward genuinely disoriented, and Dean's gut lurched sickeningly.
He stared down into his cup. He should still be missing coffee. They didn't have any coffee, not even before they'd lost a pack. The demon five-and-dime had wanted a freaking fortune for a tiny box of Sanka. Dean took in a deep breath to steady himself and couldn’t help but relish the coffee-laden air.
Wait.
How had they lost a pack again? There had been... something... something fast and full of fire and pounding vibration… Dean's mind strained for it, reaching back through the fog of pain and confusion. They'd been chased. Chased by… wolves?
No, that couldn't be. All the wolves were dead, along with almost everything else.
Dean poked at his brain, digging though the haze with cruel metaphorical fingers. Not wolves but… werewolves? It made sense, he supposed, they'd have to be starving, with nothing alive to feed on and…
Hold on.
Who the fuck was Sam talking to?
Dean resisted the urge to lunge up. Carefully, he set his cup down on the packed gravel (wherever the coffee had come from, there was no reason to risk spilling it) and looked around in what he hoped was a casual manner.
He needn't have bothered. The dude's entire focus was on his debate with Sam. Besides, he looked completely harmless, huddled across the fire with a ratty blanket tied around him like a cloak, occasionally driving his points into the fire with a thick branch. Sam, for his part was talking with his whole face and waving his hands like a parody of an eighty-year-old, Italian grandmother. They were both completely engrossed in whatever the fuck they were talking about.
Dean listened just enough to determine they were discussing the relative merits of traveling north versus northeast then let their conversation fade back into background noise. Even staring openly didn't change his initial assessment much – the guy was just another survivor, and an old, wrinkled one at that. Sure, his voice seemed a bit too boisterous for his bird-like frame, and his hooked nose must've been a bitch to live with in high school, but he was just an ordinary dude.
But where the fuck had he come from?
"Philadelphia, of late, my dear boy. Though, you'd have to travel rather farther east to find my natal land."
It took Dean a full five seconds to decipher the clipped British-accented words and longer still to realize they meant he'd spoken his last thought aloud. Dean started to say something in reply but had to turn it into a cough when he realized he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth.
Dry as Dean was, his fake cough quickly turned into a real coughing fit, complete with wracking gasps and a serious attempt at the self-expulsion of his lungs. Before Dean could be positive he'd actually seen a gleeful gleam in grandpa's eyes, Sam loomed up between them, helpfully holding out a bottle of water.
Dean snatched the water from Sam, convulsing with another cough at the same instant. He crushed the bottle with the force of his fit. Sam cursed, and Dean looked up to find his brother drenched with water.
Of course Sam had opened the bottle for him.
Dean hid his automatic smile with the bottle and drained what little water that was left in a single sip. He got out a hoarse, "Sorry, Man," around his coughs, gesticulating with the bottle as he spoke. The bottle sprayed its remaining few droplets across Sam's face.
A drop of water rolled down Sam's chin and dripped onto the already saturated t-shirt below. It bothered Dean that he didn't recognize the shirt, but he let that go when Sam shivered.
"Dude, you're soaked." It was never warm in the constant twilight they lived in, and it was getting cooler the higher they climbed into the Rockies.
Sam snorted.
Dean stood unsteadily, then reached back down to grab his blanket for Sam. He felt water splash on his face and looked up to find Sam stripped to the waist. Dean swayed, vision twisting and folding in on itself as he tried to steady himself. Dean could tell Sam was vigorously wringing at his shirt - getting water all over both their boots – but he couldn't pull his eyes away from the stark lines inked into his brother's chest, crisp-edged and perfect, so black they looked brand new.
And why did that feel so wrong?
He'd seen Sam shirtless before hundreds – probably thousands – of times. Dean remembered the tattoo (of course he did!). There was absolutely nothing unusual about it; it was just Sam, as ordinary as size one million shoes left out to trip him in the dead of night.
Except… a part of Dean was dead certain he'd never seen the perfect lines of that black sun before. Ever. The tattoo had to be brand new. It had to be.
The spinning in Dean's head increased as he reached for the memories, mercilessly pushing his subconscious wherever it most resisted going. Dean had no idea when Sam had gotten the ink. He couldn’t remember a time when his brother's chest had been without it, not even before Sam had sprouted his first dusting of chest hair, and that... that just couldn't be right, right?
But the fucking thing was almost familiar.
Dean's head lurched, and the spinning took him down to his knees, his brain chasing its own tail, trapped in the twists of the paradox and unable to fight its way free. Helpless, Dean had to look away from Sam's chest.
He was fighting to keep his coffee down when Sam's hand landed on his shoulder; the world went suddenly still, and Dean's knees became trustworthy again beneath him. "Breathe," Sam said, and it seemed like good advice, so Dean did. The ground beneath him got a little more solid. The collar around his neck pulsed gently, in time with the blood running through his brother's palm.
Dean risked a look at Sam's chest. The tattoo was still there (and why the fuck should that surprise him?), perfect and mocking, but that was all. His head didn't climb back onto whatever cheap carnival ride it'd been on before, and the ground beneath his knees stayed put. Sam's face held no clues, only bewildered concern, so Dean looked around the rest of the camp.
Fire. Blankets. Packs. Plural. Coffee. Breakfast. Sam.
And that crazy-assed stranger, watching them from across the fire. The crazy-ass Dean had completely forgotten about.
Again.
Dean sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed Sam's hand when his brother tried to pull away.
Very deliberately, Dean stared at the fucker across the fire. It took work.
The fire kept catching Dean's attention with its vivid display of blues and oranges. He could almost feel it licking across his skin. The collar pulsed again, stronger, and Dean pushed the crawling burn away, tightening his focus on the far side of the fire. The sharp-edged man seemed to soften, bleeding into the background a little. Dean sucked in another breath… and fought off a suddenly-urgent desire to pour himself the rest of the coffee and revel in its heady smell… to dive into the bacon (bacon!) sizzling over the fire and gorge himself on its smoky, crispy goodness… to stay there, collar a welcome, warm weight, the firm grip of his brother's hand on his shoulder, never-ever letting go of that smooth, solid flesh...
Dean felt his focus retighten; the collar throbbed, almost hot in its approval. Invoking Sam had been a bad idea. Sam was what this was all about, the only thing that made it worth fighting to figure this shit out. Sam was his strength and his reason to… everything. Everything except stop. Dean glared across the fire and growled a little.
It seemed like the thing to do.
The fucker winked at Dean, then vanished. Poof.
Dean growled again, louder, beginning to feel like he was developing a habit. Ever-freaking helpful, Sam asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'll be fine as soon as you tell me," Dean was a little alarmed at how much growl was still in his voice. He swallowed thickly and tried to smooth it out, "…where that fucker went."
Sam drew back to look at him. "Who?" He didn't release Dean's shoulder though, so that was okay.
"The fucker," Dean repeated usefully.
"You mean the trader?" Sam's confusion was tangible. "What the hell'd he do to you, other than bring breakfast?" Sam pushed away and stared at Dean; it felt like Sam had suddenly cut all his lines and sent him drifting off into space, completely untethered. Dean felt his jaw moving but couldn't get any useful words past his lips.
A dramatic sigh escaped Sam. "He resupplied us and headed back down the mountain, remember?" Sam looked at his watch, and so did Dean, his eyes following the motion on autopilot. "Almost thirty minutes ago now." Sam lowered his hand and Dean shook off the impulse to follow it back down. Staring at Sam was not a habit he felt the need to encourage.
Dean tried to wrench his eyes away from Sam completely, but they paused when they reached Sam's chest, catching on that blank expanse of skin and muscles. Dean couldn't figure out why that bothered him, but it did.
He opened his mouth to say that no, he didn't fucking remember that. Dean remembered the fucker disappearing right in front of their faces, just a minute ago now. He was going to say it, really.
Except he didn't.
Sam watched Dean flail then looked away pointedly, as if to give Dean privacy. Maybe that's what Sam thought he was doing, but Dean kept watching him as he turned his gaze toward the fire. Dean watched Sam look through the fire, for just a second, and saw his brother's face scrunch lightly in confusion, eyes narrowing. Then somebody flipped a switch, and Sam shook his head like a horse shaking off a fly, said, "Bacon's about ready," and got up.
Impulsively, Dean reached out to stop him, intending to apologize for being an ass. As his hand caught Sam's wrist, his words abandoned him in a rush, taking his air with them. The leather around his neck pulsed approval at him, a languid warmth that sloshed through his veins. Dean thought, What the fuck? at the damn thing, but didn't have time to give it much consideration; his attention narrowed abruptly to the five points of black ink on his brother's chest.
Sonofabitch!
Dean very deliberately let go of Sam's arm. The tattoo flickered and disappeared. He grabbed Sam again before the disorientation swirling around him could get its teeth into him and completely ignored Sam's dismayed, "Hey!" The tattoo was back, just like it had always been there, and he felt solid again immediately. The collar pulsed its pleasure, and how fucked up was that?
Dean breathed in all the way down to his toes and narrowed his eyes at the ink. He steadied himself with the dirt under him – felt the calm overtake him just like he was about to go head to head with a particularly nasty thing – and let Sammy pull away.
The tattoo blinked out of existence. Dean swayed a bit, but stayed solid. Sam muttered, "Freak," but it was without any real heat.
Dean stared at his brother's chest until Sam turned away. The tattoo stayed gone, but at least Dean knew it was gone. When Sam turned back around to offer Dean some bacon, his chest was still blank, and that was still wrong.
He might still be clueless, but Dean had won this round.
In celebration, Dean let himself be distracted by the bacon. Real bacon! He fell on it like a starving dog. Sam shook his head and put on a shirt; Dean watched fabric slide over blank skin and remembered.
After he'd finished inhaling his food, Dean got up and poured them both some more coffee. It'd been too damn long since he'd had coffee.
Thank whatever looked out for stray hunters for that nice old trader.
*****
That night found them camping on a ledge high in the Rockies, exposed to the elements but not the road. If there'd been wind or rain or, you know, actual night anymore, it would have been miserable. As it was, it was no worse than anywhere else at this altitude would be.
Dean watched Sam's blank chest as he changed. He contrived to brush against Sam's skin as he tugged his own shirt into place; like clockwork, the tattoo winked into existence. Dean stumbled but covered it quickly. That pulsing rush was going to take some getting used to.
In unspoken agreement, they arranged their bags next to each other and settled down back to back, a long solid line of Winchester, braced together against the cold. Collar warm and happy against his neck, Dean thought determinedly about the tattoo, and dropped off almost instantly.
*****
His shoulder burns. It's minor, in comparison, but he tries to focus on that burning. He shifts minutely to stretch in his bindings, hoping to shut out the other. It isn't working.
Probably because she has a blowtorch.
At least, he's pretty sure it's a blowtorch, and not one of the kind you use for creme brulee. He'd screwed his eyes shut when she came back into the room, but he can still see a tell-tale glow through his lids.
It's cold that burns across his chest when she takes it to him, his skin screaming in a thousand points of brittle ice and fucked up nerves. He can feel the heat reflected up into his face, though, so he knows he's got it right, even without giving in and opening his eyes.
Ice eventually gives way to fire, and he can feel his skin split beneath the torch. There's a crackling pop, and liquid gushes down his belly, too much and too fast for the torch to burn away. He opens his mouth to scream and sweet smoke coats his throat. His scream turns into a frantic cough and that turns quickly into a wracking gag the moment he realizes that roast-is-browned-and-burning smell is his own flesh cooking.
Intellectually, he knows it hasn't been long when she stops. It can't have been; she doesn't want to damage him past the point she can heal him. He hears metal tink against the table and knows it to be her setting the torch down even though the burning doesn't falter. He passes out to the click-click of her heels leaving the room, eyes still triumphantly closed.
It feels like no time at all later when the healer's brusque hands wake him. He passes out again under their ministrations.
When he next wakes, he finally opens his eyes. He's pretty sure she's not there, so he doesn't count it as a loss – not that she's even aware of his little game – and he can never resist looking down at his chest after, anyway.
Burns should take longer to heal than knife scars, but that doesn't seem to matter. He smiles loopily down at the sunbust star peeking out though the healing char of his chest… and tries not to wonder what she'll try next time.
*****
Dean lurched awake, head spinning. What the fuck is up with that damn tattoo?!? He lay there for a while, still and pressed hard against Sam's back. He told himself he was trying to calm his pulse, but he wasn't buying it, and neither was his collar.
Sam snored on, oblivious.
Wishing desperately that it still got dark at night, Dean sighed and rolled over. He hesitated for only a moment before settling his hand on the bare skin of Sammy's hip where the shirt had ridden up. The world steadied around Dean, the shift was becoming subtler with each repetition he marked, but no less profound.
He listened closely, but Sam's breathing didn't change. Warm leather pulsed gently around Dean's neck, urging him on.
After a moment, Dean let the rest of his body settle where it wanted, and ended up with his nose pressed into the back of Sammy's neck in a position he would not call spooning even if that bitch came at him with her blowtorch.
Shuddering slightly at the image, Dean reached again for sleep and resolved not to dream anymore that night.
~ To Be Continued ~
~ Fic Index ~
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I'm still holding off reading until you're done, so keep it up!
*waves cheerleader pom-poms*
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er... done?I mean yes. Certainly. I will indeed be done sometime. I have an ending and everything, I just have to get them there. Though you might wanna amend that to done with section 2-'cause section 3 will happen but... well, eventually.So yes. Thank you. Very much.
Love This Story
Re: Love This Story
Thank you - I'm working on it, I swear. I'm just not... anything like fast.
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Thanks for letting me know!
As excellent as always!
And I adore how your writing of POVs of confused/concussed/cursed characters always gets across the fuzziness and absurdity of their world without actually confusing the reader. I've stumbled through a lot of fics that I've had to stop reading and scroll back and forth to figure out if I'm just reading it wrong or if the author is actually on crack and not following their own lines of thought or what. My imagination can flow through your chapters without obstacle, and that's so fuckin' rare.
And you don't rush the lovey-angsty angle, you take your time and make a story with great plot and background characters I care about and I'm going to save all of this in a file and read it again and again for years to come. I really appreciate that you're quality all the way, instead of just pumping out an idea and that's that.
I really love you. Thank you for sharing this. And, if it counts, I have enough enthusiasm for you and this story to count for two people reading...? *grin*
Re: As excellent as always!
So it's incredibly good to have you confirm that I wasn't being completely unintelligible, and I'd be dancing gleeful circles around your comment just for that, but there's more. Thank you so much. You seriously made my week.
Henceforth, when I refer to my readers I shall number them 4 instead of 2, and thou shall know that thou art being counted twice.
Re: As excellent as always!
One of the Two?
(Anonymous) 2011-04-29 11:21 pm (UTC)(link)Re: One of the Two?
Re: One of the Two?
(Anonymous) 2011-04-30 12:28 am (UTC)(link)no subject
I usually avoid WIPs like the plague, but very occasionally one gets its claws into me, and I can't tell you how happy I am that this is one of the exceptions. Will be tracking.
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I'm so glad you're willing to hang with me and my WIP. I'm the same way with them, myself: mostly, I won't read them, but sometimes they catch me. I'm glad mine's caught ya.
Thanks for noticing the current canon 'winks; I've been trying to make it flow along (though that will likely stop as I haven't seen a single episode of the season that just finished). I am deadly curious about where you see Who canon though. Can you still remember (I know it's been forever since you left this comment...)?
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I think it was the campfire scene that made me think of Who - your description of Dean trying to keep focus and getting distracted made me think of a perception filter. And there was a hint of time jumps which reminded me a bit of Donna's experience of being saved in Silence in the Library. And that idea of not being able to remember something when you're not looking at it is one that Who have been playing around with a fair bit. So...yeah, any or all of that, I guess.
I'm hopeful that you responding now is a sign that maybe the next part will be up in the foreseeable future? Maybe? *crosses fingers* It really is a mesmerising piece of work. :)
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I can see what you mean about the campfire scene - it is rather reminiscent of... well, a lot of things, actually. Now that you've mentioned it, the whole thing reminds me a bit of the Silence's way of dealing with people (and I'm kinda glad I know I didn't see any of that until after writing this!).
As for 19 going up, it's about 2/3 written now, and I know where it's going. If I can just get some time... well, time when Dean's willing to talk to me. I had the thing open last night and he wouldn't utter a peep. Muses are fickle (though I suspect Dean's just being pissy). Soon?
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re: hi
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Ditto Vesuvianite!
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Still checking in to cheer for more progress :)
It's cool if this fic is dead, I just appreciate that you even wrote it to begin with so I wanted to make sure to tell you I still think of this story and thank you for your efforts!!
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