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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 9)
Title: Winchester
Author: Rivestra
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
SECTION TWO – Fall
Chapter Nine
Fast and loose, he makes his way through the camp. Most of the flesh around him barely registers; torn and damaged, not broken so much as destroyed. Useless.
Off to his left there’s a girl, maybe 15. He strides purposefully up to her, grabbing her by the hair, lifting her bodily up off the dry earth she sits on. She struggles as he pulls her up, can’t help herself, but her eyes are dead. She can’t manage hate anymore, but fear… nose pressed hard into the nape of her neck, he breathes deep… and smiles. Not completely useless then, after all. His attendants move forward at his nod.
He watches her eyes as they bind her hands together. Follows them as they slip up and drift into the shadows behind the water trough, catching on the pile of blankets there. He already knows this paddock holds nothing more of interest for him, but for her?
Grabbing a long noose-pole from the truck as he passes, he heads to the pile. Behind him, the girl’s breathing catches, and she whimpers involuntarily as he begins to poke at the blankets, rousting the middle aged woman hidden within. She’s virtually lifeless, so broken-down his nose wrinkles in disgust. This creature is everything he’s not looking for, but the girl behind him has started to beg for her mother’s life, and that means there’s a different kind of potential locked in those dull, soulless eyes.
Not wanting to touch this specimen, he deftly slides the noose-pole around its neck and drags the unresisting thing toward the truck. She’s going to like this pair.
*****
An hour later finds him desperate enough to contemplate entering the chaotic intake section of the camp. He needs at least one more just to make quota, and it had better be something special if he’s going to come in with a load that light.
Standing outside the intake yard, he closes his eyes and allows the stench to wash through him. His mind sifts through the miasma, searching for even the hint of a spark, hunting for even a sliver of humanity left in this useless garbage, looking for something they can use.
He’s wide-open when it hits him, and he’s certain it would have sent him to his knees if his attendants hadn’t caught him up, making it look casual. A glance up at one of their wrinkled faces reveals what he already knows: he’ll pay dearly for that save later. Right now though, he doesn’t care. He bolts out of their grasp, hot on a trail there’s no chance he’s going to loose.
It leads him through the holding pens and into a place he seldom ventures, the heart of the intake center. Wet, naked humans jostle him and each other as they’re herded out through the doors of the decontamination area and toward the room labeled “Survivor Counseling” in bold, bureaucratic letters. The stench of them is almost overwhelming, but the other scent’s stronger here, and he follows it blindly through several rooms, moving upstream through the dwindling line of incoming refugees.
The guards at the shower doors must not have seen his face, because they try to stop him. He casts them aside with a thought, only peripherally aware of the wet, bone-crunching smack their bodies make as they hit the far wall, never sparing a glance for their bloodied forms. It’s very close now, and so very, very strong. He has to get to it before anyone else does. No one else gets to touch this one.
He blasts through the shower doors with his mind, too impatient to use his hands. He’s never sensed anything like it before, and it pulls him forward, into the tile-lined room.
A fresh lot of bound and sealed survivors are being herded under the showers, black hoods pulled tight over their heads. His mind quickly sorts through the rank, pathetic bunch of them, ignoring the cries of the guards. Nothing, nothing…damn it! Where the hell…
There!
He stalks forward without caution, long strides taking him quickly across the room, his boot-falls the only real sound in the cavernous space. The remaining guards cower against the far wall, but the Shower Foreman holds his ground in the middle of the room, directly in front of the line of survivors. The useless bureaucrat yells loudly, imagined authority propped up by fear. He reaches out as he passes by, effortlessly snapping the pathetic creature’s neck.
He draws up even with the line and pauses, blood boiling at the sight of the chains tying the one in the center to the useless garbage around him. He cuts at the chain with a sharp thought and barely registers his own surprise when it actually works, slicing through the chain to his left like it was just so much butter. The sharpness continues unchecked through the survivors on that side, and they go down, wet and bloody to the floor, guts spilling onto the tile.
He sees them fall from the corner of his eye, all his focus on the man in front of him, just inches from him now. He watches as the man checks his own fall against the low shower wall. Watches the bare muscles in his chest heave, fascinated by the breath moving in and out of his lungs, mesmerized as it changes, becoming even and steady.
Abruptly, his own breathing stutters as the offal stink from the guts he’s just split reaches him, mixing with the sulfur-wash to become strong enough that he can no longer smell the man in front of him. He leans forward bodily over the man, his man, brushing lightly against the hood as he reaches for the cutoff valve to the showers.
The vile water stops flowing, but it’s not enough, and he stops as he’s pulling back, drawn to a spot on the back of the man’s neck, just under the hood. He breathes in deeply, nose less than an inch above skin, luxuriating in the smell of him. This one isn’t getting anywhere near her. This one belongs to him. A fine shudder runs through the man and the feelings spike, intensify, possessiveness surging through his veins, hands itching to touch, to claim what belongs to him.
He’s never letting this one go. Ever.
A survivor to his right loses his footing and stumbles slightly and suddenly the men, the hood, the chains - the fucking seal - it’s all too much. He growls, low in his throat, and wrenches his head away from that sweet smell. None of that belongs. It shouldn’t be touching what belongs to him. He grabs at the chain and tears, sending the remaining survivors squelching into the wall, their cries ending abruptly with the impact, his focus on them ending long before that, almost instantly back on the one still standing.
His breath is uneven again and he’s drawn back slightly, as if poised for flight. Rage rips through him at the thought – Never! – and he grabs the man by the arm, spinning him around, pinning him between the low wall and his chest, breathing him in again deeply. Instantly, the fight goes out of both of them. His hand slides up the bare chest, feeling hot breath and coiled strength and the man leans back against him, into him, and it’s more intoxicating than surrender. It feels like home, just out of reach, simmering inside this man’s skin, and it’s all his, except it’s blocked by that fucking seal.
He closes his fist over the large muscles above the heart, digging into the flesh there. “Mine!” Follows his own tendons and nerves right in, riding the connection into the man’s core, ruthlessly attacking what shouldn’t be, what doesn’t belong. He grabs at the spell, grips it in his hands and teeth and mind and pulls. Keeps pulling as he feels it start to slip, feels the tendrils begin to release from the everywhere they’d been lodged. He pulls and pulls and pulls and it starts to slip faster and faster until it finally squelches free, thin, dead tendrils popping loose from every orifice the man has, right down to his pores. “Mine!”
He casts the noxious thing aside, as far as he can throw it, but blindly. He doesn’t look away for a second, drawn in more surely than ever, desperate to fill the aching emptiness the spell has left in its wake. He wrenches the cuffs off the man’s wrists. “Mine.” None of that can be allowed to touch what’s his. He tears at the hood, getting his free hand up under it, but can’t manage the strangle-strap and stops short of ripping it off the same way, leaving it hanging instead.
He pulls back with his left arm, maintaining the connection between hand and heart while drawing the pliant man closer, pulling him in. His other hand reaches, feeling, needing everything, touching everything. His very skin is grasping, demanding contact, demanding more and he rips at the clothing in his way, desperate to feel it all, desperate to connect, diving deeper until he’s engulfed, surrounded, and his whole body sings with the connection and he’s everywhere, clutching and soothing at every spot where the spell tore free, claiming what belongs to him, completely lost in sensation.
Lost but home.
He wants to stay here forever, but something pulls at him and he can’t. It’s not only that he’s driven to finish this, something’s changed. Different. There’s something he has to pay attention to, something important. He tries, desperately, to tear his attention away, but he’s not done, it’s not done, and he has to finish this. He has to. His mind barely registers the door opening, or the wash of familiar presence behind him. Barely registers the danger until its focus shifts from him and onto what’s his.
With a spike of fear stronger than anything he’s felt in months, his attention coalesces a bit. He tries to focus on something beyond sensation, beyond the incredible rightness of coming together like this, and onto their surroundings, onto the details.
Both their hearts are beating way too fast, their breath coming in ragged, synchronized pants. His hands are gripping too tightly at the body beneath him, and he feels the slickness of blood coating the skin in their grasp. Distantly, he becomes aware he can taste blood too. He flicks his tongue against his teeth, and finds them sunk into flesh, deep in that sweet spot on the side of his man’s neck. Distracted again, he flicks his tongue a second time, this time against the flesh, and the man beneath him shudders. His concentration is blown completely as he feels that shudder run through the length and breadth of him, starting in the molten heat around his cock, but reaching, touching, everywhere. Consumed by the sensation, he thrusts harder, hopelessly lost again.
A sharp, “Samuel!” cuts through the air, freezing them both in place, stilling even the air in their lungs. “I will be most displeased if you finish claiming that slave.” Her familiar voice is like ice in his veins, accepting nothing but complete obedience – No! – and his hands close convulsively on the hair under them, fighting his mind’s immediate attempt to surrender, something deeper chanting mine-mine-mine.
Desperate, he draws in a shuddering breath. He has to stop. To let go. He knows this, so he pulls against the compulsion as it pulls back at him, stronger than anything he’s ever felt in his life. He has to move away; to separate himself, themselves, or they’ll both be dead, or so much, much worse.
He forces his fingers to release and starts to draw them out from under the hood. Unlocks his jaw, unable to resist swabbing at the sluggish blood as he tries move away from the heat, the rightness. Tries to unstick their skin, but it clings together; tries to draw out, away, but he can’t make himself move except to shake. The arms beneath him lock and the body pushes back, hard along the length of him, increasing the contact, drawing him back in. Pushing back onto him, and that delicious heat around his cock pulses and constricts, destroying any control he had left in a blaze of intensity that washes through him, lighting up from the inside out in waves of blinding, velvet light. The last thing he’s consciously aware of is a firm voice whispering a single word.
“Yours.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean woke breathless and disoriented, trying to shake off the vivid dream enough to figure out where he was. Why his shoulders hurt so fucking much.
He tried to stretch them and stumbled instead, pitching forward off his feet. Great. Waking suspended by his arms and balanced on his toes never signaled good times, even when there was a hot chick involved. Even without waking up from a dream like that. He opened his eyes, deeming stealth unlikely at this point, and took in the thick, rust velvet-covered wall he was facing. What the?
He shook off the question and tried to get his balance back, quickly becoming aware that his left shoulder was more than just distended, it was dislocated. Inventory time, again: naked? Of course. Pain? He felt bruised all over, but the only bad spots were his shoulder and… his ass. His ass hurt almost as bad as his fucking shoulder.
Memory flooded back in, and he spun around, searching for Sam. Vertigo gripped him at the sudden movement and the room grayed in and out. Later, he’d be grateful both his arms were attached to the same swivel point, but right then he didn’t think, couldn’t think past the point where he’d found Sammy and…
He just left it there for now. Sam was alive. Sam was alive and they were together again. And that meant it was going to be ok. It was gonna work out. All of it.
He drew in a deep breath and watched the room swim back into focus, opulent and lush. It was all low tables and cushions strewn about, fabrics in more shades of red-brown-gold-green than any guy could hope to name. Eye-curlingly busy, almost to the point of nausea; garish in its very autumnal glory. There was even a pair of leafless fucking trees coming up out of the sea of pillows in the center of the room, blocking much of his view. Apparently, the trees at least were functional: his arms hung from one of the massive outreaching branches.
Belatedly, Dean noticed sloping walls behind the several brothels worth of silk and velvet, and realized he was actually in a huge-ass tent. It took him a moment longer to realize that some of the pillows toward the center of the room were actually people kneeling unmoving, completely prostrate.
Hackles immediately up, he leaned to his right, bighting back a hiss as his bad shoulder flared. His eyes, watering from the pain, followed the angle of the kneelers, peering between the massive black tree trunks in the direction they faced. It didn’t exactly surprise him to find the ice bitch holding court there.
She looked exactly the same as the last time he’d seen her, wearing the same white dress and haughty sneer. The dress was running red with blood now though, splattered from the poor soul suspended flat between the trees on a glowing green platform, feet barely visible from Dean’s limited angle. Almost mesmerized, he watched the steaming rivulets of blood flow freely over the platform’s edge from both ends, largely obscuring the lower half of her, making her look even more like a comic book villain. He pushed his distraction down, trying to turn his attention toward his own predicament, and thinking that she’d need a new victim soon at that rate. Even a demon couldn’t survive blood loss like that for very long, certainly nothing human could.
She drew her arm back, and Dean’s attention caught on the flash of metal as it descended again. His overactive imagination supplied the wet snicking sounds of a sharp knife slicing through flesh. At least, he’d thought that the sounds were in his head, right up until she pulled a handful of something white and red and slick free of the body. Bored, she examined the gory mess for a moment before dropping it daintily from the tips of her fingers, flicking them after it fell to shed the worst of the mess. The pillows below sucked up the blood that gushed off the table. Dean couldn’t suppress his wince, and he shifted slightly backwards, making his chains slip along the branch with a loud, metal-on-metal shriek.
She looked up, straight at him, a tight, feral smile on her face. “Ah. Your prize has rejoined us, Samuel.” Dean felt his blood freeze in his veins, his breath catching in his throat. He found his eyes had closed involuntarily and wrenched them back open just as she pivoted the platform toward him, bringing Sam’s face into view as she rotated it up to vertical.
She started talking again, but it took Dean a moment to tear his focus off the bloody mass of his brother, so he lost some of what she said. She wasn’t talking to him, anyway, “… hope you still think he’s worth it, Samuel, because he’s no good to me now.” She drew back her lips in an unconvincing parody of a smile, her hand resting familiarly on – in – the gaping hole in Sam’s belly. “Come to think of it, none of that group’s any good to me now, are they?”
Lightening fast, she drove the knife in just below his last rib and jammed it down viciously, burying the knife and half the handle deep inside him. Sam didn’t make a sound, but his jaw twitched violently. She stared at her blood-drenched hand for a bemused moment, then twisted the blade 90 degrees, leaning her body-weight into the thrust and draping herself over Sam. Her other hand moved from his belly up to cup his face as she added softly, “They really were quite expensive, Samuel,” and pulled the blade back out violently, yanking the knife’s guard out through the surrounding skin, leaving another deep, gaping hole in his side.
Agony flashed across Sam’s features and his eyes bulged inches out of their sockets, a silent scream locked tight within them. Thick blood rushed down his naked form, pooling in the fabrics beneath him.
Dean emptied his stomach all over the floor, the violence of his retching knocking him off his balance again. He scrambled to right himself, to get his weight off his screaming shoulder, but his bare feet couldn’t gain traction on the now-slick fabric, so he just kept slipping in his own vomit.
He heard snippets through his struggle, her mocking laughter, her arrogant voice telling Sammy his prize didn’t look like a much now, flailing in his own puke. How disgusting.
Dean felt disgusting. Eventually, he simply hung from his shoulders, breathing raggedly, trying to ignore the blinding pain. Trying to bring his head back up so he could see what was going on, see how badly his brother was bleeding.
They were both looking at him when he managed to raise his head, his eyes fighting to focus through the searing pain coming from his neck and shoulders. Sammy’s blood was still coming out at an alarming rate. Dean couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out what to say, but he had to try. He had to shift her attention away from Sam, make her focus on him instead. Dean barely managed to grind out an anemic, “Hey Frosty!” before he was coughing uncontrollably, swinging in his chains again.
She did turn to look at him for a moment, watching him cough and flail. Quickly though, she shifted her gaze back to Sam, utterly bored with Dean’s pathetic outburst, “Well?”
He glared at her murderously, and Dean finally noticed the odd way his jaw was set. The bitch turned toward her pillow-people, exclaiming, “Oh, that’s right!” in mocking fake realization. Playing to the silent crowd, she gestured dramatically toward Sam’s mouth with the knife in her hand, “I didn’t want to hear you complain.”
Splatter from the knife landed wet and heavy across his pale face, glistening red on what had been the only un-bloodied place on his body. Sam flexed his jaw deliberately as the spell lost its grip on his muscles. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, a dangerous growl that Dean recognized instantly, even over his own coughing. Against all logic, it filled him with hope; he’d heard that growl in a dozen different impossible situations that they’d survived, together. “The rest were garbage, Aireuana.” Her head whipped back toward Sam, glaring. He didn’t look at Dean as he spoke, his attention entirely on the bitch, “This one was the only one worth having.”
She advanced quickly on Sam, standing between his legs, looking up at him, pointing her finger at his chest. She was more than a foot shorter without the added disadvantage of the platform’s height and the angle should have been ridiculous. Dean felt chilled instead. “And yet I don’t have him, Samuel, do I?” She jabbed her finger deep into the hole in Sam’s stomach, a sick parody of maternal finger wagging. “You do.”
Sam’s eyes were fierce, his voice carefully controlled, but Dean could see the fear lurking behind his words, “I can serve you better with him at my side, Aireuana.” The bitch flinched when Sam said her name, but concealed it quickly. “Let me show…”
She cut him off with an icy glare, “Fine. If he’s to be so useful, I’ll increase your quota by 25%.” She nodded, agreement with herself clearly all she needed. “And he’d better be useful, Samuel, because he’s all the help you’re going to get from this point forward. You claimed a gladiator; you don’t need my people to protect you.”
She glanced down at the bloody pool beneath the platform and wrinkled her nose in distaste. Plucking at her bloody dress where it stuck to her chest, she continued, “And no more parlor tricks,” her eyes narrowed on him, “or I’ll lock you down.” Sam flinched. “You have made quite enough mess for a while.” Her gesture encompassed the entire room and the camp outside, with an extra-special sneer for Dean.
Clearly vomit was worse than blood in her book. He needed to find out what she used for laundry detergent. What her slaves used.
Dean watched her stalk toward the door, stripping her ruined dress off as she went. Most of the kneeling figures rose and followed in her wake, and one caught the dress she casually dropped before it hit the floor. She paused, one hand smearing blood on the doorway. Sam’s blood.
She let her parting shot fly without bothering to look back at either of them, “And Samuel? Claim him publicly by Midwinter, or he’s mine.”
*****
For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Dean wanted to be sure she was really gone, and he was sure Sam was thinking the same. So much blood. He had no idea how long it took before his resolve broke and he croaked out, “Sammy?” into the quiet room.
Sam didn’t even twitch. Louder now, he called out, “Sammy?” Ten seconds and desperation was already creeping into his voice – so much for keeping his cool in case they were being watched. Too much, there was too much blood. “Sam!” He struggled violently in his bonds, trying to ignore the fiery pain every move caused in his shoulder. “Hey Sam! Wake your ass up!”
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a timid voice offered, “He’s unconscious." She came into view from his left, and Dean felt his other shoulder finally pop out of its socket as he wrenched around in surprise. He bit back his scream, certain he was going to get them both killed if he kept this up.
Pushing the pain away, he tried to calm down while he took her in. She was slight, malnourished; one of the cushion people, if her brown-green clothes were any indication. Gauging age was hard for Dean since the world ended, but he thought she was young, barely out of her teens. He’d probably have considered her pretty before, but death clung to her now, like it did to everything else.
"They most always go unconscious when she leaves." She considered him for a moment, "I think it's part of her magic, like the knife."
He tried to speak and ended up clearing his throat harshly. She jumped back several feet, skittish. Cursing in his head, he tried again, trying not to cough, not to startle her. He reached deep inside and found a shy smile for her, cranking his charm up as high as it would go, under the circumstances. "So, the knife's magic?"
Nodding slowly, she let her eyes move up to his when she replied, "It might be just her magic. She never lets anyone else use the thing." Her eyes flicked toward Sam, then back to him, "It never hits anything major." She shuddered then, her eyes distant as an unpleasant memory flashed across her hollow face, "So she can just keep cutting and cutting..." She’s got some first hand experience with the fucking thing.
He sucked in another slow breath. Careful now, Dean. "They still die though, don't they, Sweethea...”
She cut him off, her eyes suddenly flat and cold, "Molly," their piercing stare holding his to be sure he understood that this was important, "My name is Molly." What the fuck was up with these people and names?
"Molly…” Dean struggled to focus, all he could see was Sam’s blood behind her – this was taking too much time. “Right, Molly. Good," he leaned toward her a little, trying to draw her in, taking it as a good sign when she didn't immediately back away. "Listen, Molly, that's Sam over there," She nodded like that meant something to her. Like she knew him. "He's gonna bleed to death real soon unless..." he drew his eyes back to her, off his brother. "Unless you help us. Unless you get me dow…"
Shaking her head, she backed away, one hand to her chest and the other out in front of her, as if Dean was advancing on her. “Molly don’t…” He closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength, letting real emotion pour into his voice, “Please, Molly. Please.” Begging easily, “I know she’s terrifying, but you can’t just let him…”
He just barely caught her whispered, “I can’t let you go.” She looked at Sam, then squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Louder, she repeated, “I can’t.” She opened them again and stared at Dean defiantly, “You’re asking me to die.”
He bit down his frustration, “I don’t want anyone to die, Molly,” her eyes were back on Sam, like she couldn’t keep them away. Gently, he continued, “Please, just help him then. Leave him there but,” she took a hesitant step toward Sam, “take one of the blankets and put some pressure on the bleeding.” So much fucking blood.
She was standing in front of Sam now, and Dean thought she was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her. Sam was clearly past hearing her as well. He strained to listen anyway, but his attention wandered, caught up in the marks – the gaping fucking holes – on his brother’s blood-covered body.
“I can help, but you have to be quiet,” he jumped. When had she turned back to face him? “You have to promise you will, no matter what.” Her stare was disconcerting, and for the first time he wondered if there was more to her than the broken girl he’d seen so far.
He stared back at her, trying to really see her, and she quickly grew impatient with him, “They’ll be here for you soon, and then there’s nothing I…”
“Yes.” What the fuck had he hesitated for? “I promise I’ll be quiet.” Use her name, idiot! “Molly.” He struggled to bring his eyes up to meet hers, “I swear,” and it finally occurred to him that he was very likely going into shock himself. As if he needed help being slow and stupid. Quite a pair we make, Sammy.
She held his eyes for a moment, clearly weighing whatever she saw there. She drew herself up tall, then nodded once, “Let me know if you hear anyone coming.” He nodded back, unsure how much help he was really going to be, but not about to point that out to her. He was all out of options.
He watched as she turned back toward Sam and leaned into him, bringing her head down toward the wound in his belly, examining it from below, Dean assumed. He resisted the urge to tell her to get the fucking blood stopped instead. He’d promised to be quiet.
She brought her hands up to the wound and her head was moving now, kind of rhythmically. What did she think was she doing? It was a familiar rhythm. Willing himself to stay quiet, Dean strained to change his angle so he could see more of what was going on. His chains slipped and screeched loudly as he slid a few inches along the tree branch above. Once the wave of agony from his dislocated shoulders passed, he found he had a much better view. She was leaning in well below the belly wound, head bobbing back and forth, mouth... She’s… she’s… What the fuck!
He mouth was distended around Sam’s cock; her hands clutching his hips, as her head drove down and back. Dean forced himself to take a ragged, deep breath instead of yelling at her, to take a moment to get his bearings, remembering his brain was less than totally there. Maybe he was wrong about…
No.
There was just no way. No fucking way that was anything other than a blowjob going on over there. He stared at his brother’s cock as she pounded it all the way in and back, feeling it pounding into himself instead, filling him, burning – he shook the memory off aggressively. Later. Freak the fuck out later, Dean!
Ok. There was nothing unclear about it. She was definitely checking her tonsils on Sammy’s dick.
Casting about for options – any options – he looked up at his brother’s face. Sam was… relaxing? His features were softer, no longer drawn as tight with pain. Dean followed the line of Sam back down, toward Molly, noting immediately that the bleeding – all that fucking bleeding! – had slowed. He was still covered in the stuff, but the awful wounds were just oozing now, sluggishly.
That was… just not the weirdest thing Dean had seen lately. Not even close. No yelling then. The least he could do was keep his promise to be quiet if she was gonna… his brain shied away, but his eyes refused to, staying locked on the two of them, watching her head bob, watching Sam’s hips move…
His eyes closed as relief flooded him. Moving. Sammy was fucking moving! He opened them again, needing to see his brother, craving the evidence that he was alive. The blood flow had stopped completely and, actually, Sammy was moving quite a lot now. Dean looked up at his face just as it scrunched up, as the line of his body tensed. For just an instant, Sam stared toward him, his eyes flashing open, wide and vulnerable as he came, then crashing shut again as soon as he was done.
Molly stood, looking shaky and pale. She took a deep breath and hovered there for a few moments before wiping at her mouth with a dry pillow, trying to get rid of the blood she’d picked up from touching Sam. She cast it aside and carefully picked up a drenched pillow, smearing it across Sam’s groin, coating the clean spot she’d made in blood. Destroying the evidence of her “help”.
Dean didn’t hear the guards approaching at first, but Molly did. She stumbled, catching herself on Sam’s platform, touching his face briefly, tenderly, before moving quickly to Dean’s side. The guards were right outside now, milling about and talking in boisterous voices, happy. Just before they came in, she stretched up and whispered into Dean’s ear, “Tell Sam I’m done. My debt’s paid.” Then she scurried out of the room.
The guards entered and moved quickly toward them both. A pair of them worked at the release mechanism for his chains while several more unhooked Sam from the platform, carelessly letting him slide to the floor. Dean’s hands were cuffed together, so he landed on his back, arms behind him when they let him fall the same careless way.
The world went mercifully black.
~ On to Chapter 10 ~
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You really know how to create a scene. I could feel and smell that camp. Even the tent scene with the barren trees was really clear in my mind. Your descriptions are wonderfully creative.
Ewww...human pillows. That's a scary thought!
And Sam walking through that camp, having caught a scent. That was incredible. He seemed so feral, it was amazing to read. I had a solid picture in my mind of just how he looked on the prowl for what was "his." His incredible use of power was fantastic. It makes me wonder what the ice b- has over him.
So, now they are a team. The gladiator and the...what? Really looking forward to more. I want to find out just exactly what it is Sam is doing for the evil b-. She is frightening.
And Molly paid off her debt. And in such a kind way. :)
This is just a marvelous read. I love your style, and I am really looking forward to more.
Nora
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The next part is going to take a bit longer, I'm afraid. My brain's refusing to be linear (timeline-wise) at the moment, which makes it harder to post what I'm writing
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I would really appreciate it if you reply to this when you post, if you don't mind. That way I won't have to stalk. :)
Thanks for writing.
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I hope you had a wonderful new year.
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You've created a really detailed and fascinating universe.
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Have you given any thought to posting some of the Consent before it's all done? Comments really are quite motivational ::g::
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Thanks for reading though!
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What a different story. I like it, especially with this new twist going down.
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Though I am gonna have that song stuck in my head all night now :P