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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 10)
Happy New Year, Everybody!
Title: Winchester
Author: Rivestra
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
~ Go Back to Chapter 9 ~
Chapter Ten
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They move into the building, meeting no resistance. They almost never meet any resistance, and when they do, it’s always how he fills his fucking quota. The hard part in those instances is in keeping his chaperones from killing his target before he can open his mouth.
That isn’t his problem this time though. This time, just like most times in the two weeks he’s been at this sickening game, nothing meets their intrusion but blank stares. Faces turn slowly toward them as they enter, all hope skinned away with that part of their souls the demons now own. He tries not to think about it as his entourage of pinkish Felstab demi-demons begin to round up the survivors – if that’s even the right word for these people. They search the offices and cubicles methodically, opening cabinets and lifting each dirty blanket they find; poking each pile of garbage, looking for any human debris that might hide within. The once-business-bland rooms remind him now of a homeless camp, or an urban drug den, and he resists the urge to pinch off the air coming in through his nose as he follows in the Felstabs’ wake.
Moving into the center of the largest room, he closes his eyes and breathes deep, relieved when he finds nothing, even though he knows the kind of pain that missing his quota again will bring. He heads up the stairs, stopping on each floor of the decaying high-rise and opening his senses wide again, wondering how the building – all the buildings, really – became so damaged so fast. It’s only been six weeks since the world ended and the place feels like it should have been condemned years ago.
He guesses it actually had been, really.
His luck holds all the way to the top floor. The Felstabs are just finishing their sweep as he comes out of the stairwell. He pauses at the top, sensing the spark like a kick to his gut, but staying quiet as they file past him and back down the stairs.
He’s playing games with his fucking life again, and he knows it, knows better. Knows he can’t allow himself this kind of indulgence, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Fuck it. He’s already found five, and he’s still got a day before they have to come back in. He can make this one up tomorrow.
Grinding the palm of his hand into his forehead, he wishes he could excise the sense of them in his head. Wishes he could just not see them, feel them. Of course, he’s got no one to blame but himself for that.
His entourage’s footsteps are fading in the distance as he moves into the copy room, stepping around piles of toner cartridges and reams of paper scattered by their searching. Unerringly, he moves to the ancient copier on the far wall, opening what he never would have recognized on his own as a storage compartment in its side.
The terrified girl inside literally falls out at his feet. He knows better than to touch her, to spook her more than she already is. Instead he comes down to her level, crouching down at her side – and not-so-coincidentally blocking her view of the room’s only exit. “I’m Sam,” he keeps his voice level, patient. “What’s your name?”
She turns her huge eyes on him, meeting his in a determined glare. “Molly Ann Leighton,” she pushes her dark hair out of her face and thrusts her chin out at him, her voice barely shaking. “Why? Are you a fucking census taker?”
A low laugh escapes him, and he smiles genuinely at her. “Nope, somebody should take one though, don’t you think?”
“What for?” she spits out, not buying his charm. He revises his estimate of her age up a bit. She’s maybe sixteen. “So you and your freak friends can make sure you find us all?”
He considers her, “Yeah, I guess that would be a downside. But don’t you want to know how many are left?”
“You don’t know?” Her eyes flash angrily, “Shouldn’t you know how many you left? Or doesn’t it matter since most of us are nearly catatonic anyway?” She stands up, brushing off his offered hand. He rises as she does, and she draws back against the copier to look up at him. Years of trying to appear harmless have taught him how to minimize his looming, but it’s really no help here. Not while he’s blocking the door.
Not while they both know she’s his prisoner.
He ventures, “It wasn’t that coordinated,” but she’s clearly skeptical. “Really. Nobody here caused this, they’re just reaping the benefits.” She scowls at him and he realizes his pronoun choice had been a mistake: he may like to pretend he’s not, but she knows he’s neck deep in this, and now she’s sure she’s being played.
“Just…” she looks away, at the wall, at the floor, at anything but him, deflating visibly. “Just do whatever the hell you’re gonna do, okay? I don’t need the fucking sweet talk.”
It would be kinder to just let her hope die. He knows it would. He just… can’t help himself. “Listen, Molly, I can’t fix it, but maybe I can help…”
“Save it, Sam. I get it, and I don’t want anything from you,” she grabs up a small bag from the depths of the copier and slings it over her shoulder. “Just take me wherever you had your friends take what’s left of my family.”
He grabs her shoulders as she tries to step past him. “I don’t think you do understand, Molly. There’s nothing I can do for them.” A rush of frustration swamps him, exposing ill-covered nerves, salting badly healed scars. He can feel it showing on his face, and decides to use what he can’t conceal, pouring the emotions he’d thought were dead into his words, “There’s nothing anybody can do. They’re gone. They were gone long before we got here, their souls parceled out to the reigning demons.” Surprised to find himself shaking her, he stills his hands on her shoulders. “But it’s not too late for you.”
He holds his breath, watching for her reaction. She has to listen to him. She has to. “What does that mean?” Her voice is soft, and she’s still not looking at him. “About their souls?”
It takes a second for him to realize she didn’t ask the obvious question, the one about herself. Closing his eyes briefly, he forces them back open, making himself look at her again before he tries to explain. “Most people didn’t really survive, Molly.” She looks up at him again, lost. He resists the urge to touch her face, knowing she wouldn’t be comforted. He lets his hands drop instead. “Their bodies may have, and some of their personality remains, but…” He swallows, throat dry; the words are hard. He watches her wrap her arms around herself, seeking comfort. She’s so young, the youngest he’s found by a wide margin. Most of the truly living ones have been at least 30 and he can’t help but wonder…
She jolts him back out of his head, “But what?” This really isn’t the time for woolgathering: they’ve got another five minutes, max, before his guards come looking for him.
“You already know they’re not really themselves anymore.” She makes an irritated waving motion with her hands, urging him to get to the point. He resists the urge to smile, knowing she’d misinterpret it, but fiercely glad to see her impatience return. He really needs to remember that he probably can’t actually save her. “A part of their souls – the demons call it the spark,” she nods like she understands, “that belongs to them now, to the demons.”
She makes a face, openly skeptical again, “Like those pink things that came in before you?”
He shakes his head. “Not like them. I’m talking about their bosses.” That clearly makes more sense to her, and she nods, though he doubts she notices. “There were maybe fifty demons who were in a position to profit from the apocalypse, and they divided the ‘
“Demons...” The word gives her trouble, but, thankfully, she shakes it off quickly. They’re running out of time. “Demons own their souls?”
“Not just own. The demons have…” It’s hard to put into words, to explain to someone who can’t feel it, “They already have that piece. It’s not going to come due later, that Spark’s already feeding them, strengthening them and expanding their power base. They’re literally sucking away a big portion of the energy that makes a person a person, leaving barely enough behind to sustain the body.”
Molly’s looking at him again, squarely in the eyes. He holds his breath, willing her to get it, “Which is why they don’t really heal anymore…” she’s contemplative, hungry to finally understand what’s actually going on, but feeling no urgency about it. “Ok. So these fifty demons are gathering up…” He should be rushing this, but he can’t make himself.
“It’s more like thirty now.” She tilts her head at him in a clear question, so he continues, heedless of the danger to them both, not analyzing why it’s so damn important that he make her understand, that she believe him. “Infighting. Everybody wants a bigger piece of the pie. That’s why they’re collecting survivors; they can concentrate their power by bringing them in close. It makes it easier to draw off their energy.”
He almost misses her softly muttered, “Their life-force.” Her face is open, eyes distant, like he’s given her important chunks of the complicated jigsaw she’s fitting together in her mind. The word sounds like bad sci-fi to him, but he nods anyway. Really, it’s better than any he’s found for what they steal.
Her attention on him turns suddenly sharp, and he almost flinches under her stare. “Why aren’t I affected?”
He keeps his face open, his eyes steady on hers, not letting even a hint of his inward reaction show, “Some people just weren’t, as far as I can tell.” He stops her before she can say whatever she was about to, hands once again going to her shoulders, “Molly.” She sucks in a deliberate breath, but doesn’t pull away from his touch. “You have to hide it. You have to pretend to be one of them.”
Now she fights him, but he catches her firmly as she draws back. “Why? You just said they don’t own a piece of me! Why in the hell should I…”
Calmly, “Because it just makes you more valuable to them.” He’s got to keep his calm, because then she’ll calm back down. “The demons don’t process the life-force very well, but you do. And they get more when they rip it from you.” He lets that sink in for a moment, watching it slide into her brain like a sucker-punch. “Molly, you’re like fresh water in a desert to them. You’re one of the few things on this entire planet that’s still really, truly alive.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean woke suddenly, certain there was someone moving nearby. He mentally shook off his reluctance to let go of his dream and the information it promised – it was just a vivid dream, after all. Sure, it was unusually… unusual, but he’d dreamed about Sam a lot since losing him – he’d just never dreamt he was Sam before this place. And the dreams…
There was a loud thud off to his right, followed by a poorly suppressed cough. Right. Current crisis first. Sam would explain everything soon anyway. The noise-maker ripped something that sounded like cardboard, and he heard cloth rustling, again to his right. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing light, evaluating the situation. He was fuck-knew-where, naked again, face down on some kind of soft surface, hands still securely cuffed behind his back and it was starting to feel like his shoulders were healing in their dislocated positions. Perfect. He was getting really tired of this shit. At least the warm body stretched out along his right side was new, and he’d’ve bet every penny he didn’t have that it belonged to Sam.
Sam who’d been bleeding pretty heavily last time he saw him. Fuck this stealth shit. He twisted around and pulled himself up to his knees in one fluid, extremely painful motion.
He took in several things in quick succession. It was indeed Sam next to him. The noisy person was a woman and she’d stopped mid-motion, bent over a box on the floor, caught rummaging through it and transferring assorted things into a small duffle. Sam’s breathing was even, the working of his lungs clearly visible in the line of his back. The woman stared at Dean, early twenties, slender and red-haired, her face drawn tight and her eyes glittering with something he couldn’t quite identify. The sheets were clean and Dean couldn’t see any blood on Sam’s body either – and of course Sam was naked too – but he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t blood pooling under him without turning him over. He had to suppress a growl when her eyes moved onto Sam. She hadn’t done anything, but his Spidey-sense was tingling.
He needed to get out of these fucking cuffs. “Hi,” he said, trying for an approximation of his usual easy charm, but the chick scowled at him, her expression clearly sizing him up and finding him lacking. He really wanted a sheet; there was a time and a place for naked and this wasn’t it. “Sorry about the… attire. It’s not my first choice either.” No reaction at all, not even a flicker. “I could do something about it,” he twisted to show her his bound wrists, managing to hide neither his grimace nor his hiss of pain at doing so, “if you’d free up my hands.” He watched his usual winning smile fall flat, reflected back at him in her eyes.
“Do you know Sam?” Something changed in her expression, but Dean still couldn’t read her, and that bothered him. He was missing something, but he couldn’t tell what. “Are you the one who cleaned him up?” She nodded, slowly, calculating, the first real indication she was actually hearing him. “Is he still bleeding?” Her head shook sharply, and she turned back towards him so she could glare. Belatedly, he noticed the trailing ends of clean white bandages on his brother’s side. Good.
“Listen…” Names. Names seemed important here, though he still had no clue why, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“I…” she looked startled by the question. “I’m…” she shook her head, anger flashing across her features. “It doesn’t matter.” He could almost place her accent – definitely Southern,
Telling himself she was probably entitled to some weirdness after whatever she’d been through, he tried again. “Okay, do you think you could get my hands free?” He’d tamed his voice, finally, and it was smoother this time, less threatening. “My shoulders are killing me here.” He tried for a harmless smile, and got an odd one in return. He didn’t mean to volunteer, “I kind of dislocated them,” but he was getting desperate to put her at ease. She considered him for a second, then began to rummage through one of the boxes at her feet. It seemed like progress.
Talking down into the box she was searching, she said, “Just wait a second and I’ll cut you free.” After a minute, she popped back up with a large knife, motioning with it for him to turn around. He watched her for a moment, before turning around slowly, still trying to interpret the signals his instincts were giving him.
In the same instant it finally occurred to him to wonder how she intended to open metal handcuffs with a knife, she was on him. He got away, but not clean, her knife sliding through the skin over his kidney as he dodged her attack. She spat at him as she lunged toward him again, and now the crazy was easy to read in her eyes – he had no idea what he’d done, but this chick really hated him. He dodged her easily this time, but she got Sam in the ribs with a kick meant for his own head.
Girl was a fucking hazard.
On her next lunge, Dean used her own momentum against her and sent her crashing to the floor at the foot of the bed, cursing a blue streak. He landed heavily next to her, his right knee pressing into her back, pressing her into the floor. Even pinned down, she kept flailing at him with the knife, cutting the fuck out of his legs but unable to do much damage because of her angle. Still, he leaned to his left as much as he could while keeping pressure on her through his knee, wishing he was either less naked or less well-endowed.
Dean was still trying to figure out how to disarm her without a) hurting her or b) using his still-bound hands when a sharp, “Enough, Hannah!” cut through the air.
His heart nearly skipped a beat – it was so very good to hear that voice. The girl went still beneath Dean, all fight suddenly gone out of her. Sam seemed a little stiff as he stood up off the bed, but looked healthy and whole, other than the white bandages on his stomach and side. “Let her up.” Dean hopped up awkwardly, wincing as he jarred his shoulders. He backed off a step, still wary of her, but willing to trust Sam’s assessment of the situation.
She stood shakily, grip still white around the knife hilt. He kicked it out of her hand without even thinking about it; he simply wasn’t that trusting. Sam didn’t react, but she did, spitting in Dean’s face.
Sam responded to that. His voice was cutting when he snapped, “I said that was enough.” The hate drained out of her eyes as she turned them on Sam, and her knees buckled out from under her.
“Please, Sam. Tell me it’s not true” She was crying now, pleading, eyes wet and huge, “Please… it can’t be.”
“It’s true, Hannah.” Sam looked down at her, his eyes distant, their usual mercy locked away. “Pack your things and go.”
She choked back a sob. “You can’t…” his cold stare changed her tactics. “Please, Sam, don’t turn me over to Aireuana.” Her eyes were terror-filled, more soul showing in them than in her entire encounter with Dean, and he didn’t blame her. Aireuana was one scary bitch. “She’ll rip me to shreds!” She grabbed hold of his legs, unconcerned by his nudity, and wailed at him, “She’s furious with you right now for claiming that…” gesturing rudely at Dean and nearly spitting out the rest, “…useless pit fighter. She’ll…”
Dean didn’t get to find out what else Aireuana was going to do to her because Sam hoisted the girl up by the back of her shirt and half dragged her across the room, his face completely expressionless. “Noooo!” she cried, struggling ineffectively against his grip. “If I kill him, she’ll let me stay with you!”
He opened the door, much to the surprise of the eavesdropping pair of pinkies on the other side who nearly fell into the room, and pushed her into the arms of the guards. They caught her reflexively, and Sam scooped up her duffle and tossed it at her before shutting the door in her face without another word. Dean had never seen his brother so cold.
They stared at each other for a second as her wails became more distant. What the fuck had that crazy bitch done to Sam? He figured he should hate her too, what with her eagerness to kill him and all, but by the end he’d mostly read her as just… broken. Sammy’s icy treatment of her confused him. Of course, he’d be even less friendly than usual to anyone who tried to kill Sam right now…
She was almost out of earshot when he turned his back toward Sam and rattled his cuffs. Sam leaned over and hunted through a couple different boxes, flashing his ass to the world. Dean studied the corrugated metal walls of the room in sudden fascination. They were in a converted hangar, maybe?
Sam jingled something and Dean looked back toward him, then turned again to catch the keys with his cuffed hands. When he turned back around, Sam was staring at him, at all of him, and Dean felt his color rise while he tried not to stare back. It was so good to see Sam alive, to see him whole, but… “Seriously, dude?” His brother looked up at his face, questioningly, “How ‘bout some pants?”
A smile ghosted across Sam’s face before he crossed to the other side of the room. Dean fumbled for the right key by feel, but even after he’d found it, he couldn’t get it into the lock. Noticing his grimace of pain as he fumbled yet again, Sam crossed to him quietly, slinging the pair of sweats he’d found over his shoulder. He took the keys back and quickly opened the lock.
Fire shot through his back and shoulders as his arms finally fell free, and Dean let out an involuntary hiss. Sam’s eyes narrowed, “What’s wrong with your shoulder?” His hands slid up Dean’s right side, hot and huge against his skin, probing the joint.
Dean ground out, “Dislocated,” just as Sam pushed the bone back into its socket, tearing through badly healed muscle and tendon in order to slide the joint back into place.
Dean was getting really tired of passing out, but he did it anyway. He was even kind of glad about it; he didn’t really want to hear himself screaming, anyway. Besides, for the first time in a long while, it was okay: Sammy had his back.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Agony screams along his nerves, formless and sourceless. He floats, bathed in it, every sense saturated for long, endless-seeming moments. Eventually the bitch pulls back – out – and the pain spikes jaggedly, then recedes a fraction, leaving him gasping for breath in its wake. As he starts to come back to himself, she leans in over his shoulder, bringing her face right up to his, cupping his ass with the spiked glove. The points drive into his skin, but that pain barely registers in comparison to what he’s just endured.
Even so, he flinches when she squeezes tightly, and she laughs mirthlessly in his face, the breath of her rotting body fetid and sour. “You will help me, Samuel, it’s just a matter of time.” She runs the spikes over his hip, just scratching, barely drawing blood, “And I think you’ll find I can be very patient.” She gentles the pressure as she reaches down to lightly cup his balls. He can feel his eyes rolling back in his head as he tries vainly to pull away from her touch, biting hard into his gag. Gentle is never, ever good.
“The next time you see me, I won’t be wearing this same flesh, but I think you’ll manage to recognize me…” she trails her gloved hand up to his dick, jacking him harshly with the spikes. The pain’s so intense his world goes white for a moment, but it’s far from the blackness he craves, and he wishes for the millionth time she’d just let him pass out.
He’s never going to give her what she wants.
“Still, I want to make things easy on you.” She reaches up and pats his cheek with her gloved hand, smearing blood and worse across his face, then crinkling her nose at the mess, “so we’ll go over it one more time.”
She backs off and looks him over possessively, “I paid dearly for you, Samuel, and you’re going to help me make the best of this mess you caused, understand?”
She’s moving behind him again, and he struggles frantically, uselessly, trying to watch her over his shoulder. “Until you’re ready to do that, we’re just going to keep exploring all the fun we can have now that infection’s no longer a problem…” She plunges her spike-covered hand back into his ass, blood slicking the way, making it hurt less than last time – at least until she begins to move.
His world flares and grays but still stubbornly refuses to go black. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s never going to break him this way, he knows it’s no more than he deserves. A small penance, really, in comparison, and he welcomes it, riding the agony, trying to embrace its unrelenting grip as wave after wave crashes over him, drawing him closer and closer to that beckoning blackness…
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean jolted awake, the sudden pain in his left shoulder paling in comparison to what he’d been enduring in the dream, the combination of the two leaving him dazed and drifting.
Large hands began working at the knots in his back, warm and familiar on his skin. Sam was straddling his back, using his weight to really dig into the massage. Still drifting, he realized that his right shoulder felt a lot better, but the left… the left was on fire. It made sense that it had healed up wrong more than the right, but Dean really didn’t want to think about that too much. Just then Sam hit a bad spot, digging in hard - Fuck but that hurt!
Agony floods him like lightening, flaring up from her hand deep inside him, as she pulls those spikes out and thrusts them back in deep… Sam thrusting into him, pushing deeper and deeper, over and over, growling “Mine” into his ear…
Dean jerked back into the moment, bucking under Sam, desperate to dislodge him. Sam let go, hands held high and harmless, far away from his skin, “I’m just trying to relax your muscles.” The harmless part would have been easier to believe if his body hadn’t still been weighing Dean down, but this was Sam, damn it. “Look, I’m gonna do real damage here if I try to set your shoulder again with you so tense.”
Dean drew in a deep breath, irritated at the way it made his whole body shudder under Sam’s. “I…” his voice was rough: had he been screaming again, or had that just been in the dream? “I’ll try but… it’s really tender, okay?” There, a reason he could explain, one he could face. He felt Sam’s nod, and tried to relax. Sam’s hands returned to his back, and he managed not to flinch. Sam. This was Sam. He could handle Sam’s hands on him. At least they’d both acquired sweat pants somehow.
He focused on the push and pull of Sam’s hands across his back. They were firm but gentle, working deep into his spine, loosening his pain-induced clenching, trying to get enough slack into his muscles to manipulate. He worked all around the shoulder, down Dean’s arm and back and, eventually, Dean found himself drifting again, this time almost comfortably. Pain pushed pleasure around in his head, Sam’s touch, Sam’s smell surrounding him, his very presence helping him relax.
Dean had no idea how long Sam hovered over him, trying to work him into a mass of goo. It must have worked though, because he didn’t catch on to Sam’s intent until he was sliding the bone back into place. Agony flared through him, hot and strong, feeling somehow clean compared to the dream.
He was grateful for the blackness when it came, welcoming its oblivion.
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Great description of what Sam has been up to while the brothers were seperated. And it was nice to see what Molly owed Sam for.
Sam's endured a lot while Dean's been gone, and I love the fact that Dean is getting insight into what Sam has suffered.
He seemed so adamant not to give in to Aireuana, I wonder what finally did it.
This is a great story. I have so many unanswered questions, I can't wait to see what happens next.
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I'm just getting started with what Sam's been up to, and already Dean's starting to really glare at me. You'd think he expected Sam's life had been all puppy dogs and wildflowers...
Thanks again for reading!
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Keep up the great work!
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As for next, well, I think they march off happily Disneyland now, with all the good little boys and girls. And where, because it's in my brain, an evil zombie Mickey Mouse chases them through the decimated park and into the Small World exhibit, then disembowels them one excruciating inch at a time while that damn song plays over and over...
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(Anonymous) 2009-01-23 09:23 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
The next part should be along sometime soon. I've got Sam's flashbacky half done, but Dean's fighting me a bit as I try to get the present part written - for once since I started this behemoth, he's not in too bad a place & *he wants to stay there*...
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I've been a bit distracted by butterflies lately, but I'm hoping to have chapter 11 up by next weekend.