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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 11)
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ailise this round, for dealing with all my pronoun angst. As always, this story is dedicated to varkelton , because she’s twisted enough to want it.Chapter Twelve, I hope you’ll be happy to hear, is already in Beta.
Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapters 11 of ? (WIP)
Author: Rivestra
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
Chapter Eleven
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The air changes, and he can feel its charge building, gooseflesh pricking up the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck even though it’s warm here in front of the fire, wrapped up in blankets and fuzzy pajamas. Something thunks, hard against the outside cabin wall and Dean crawls up out of their warm nest, calling out, “It’s probably just raccoons,” over his shoulder as he heads to check the closest window.
They both know it’s too soon for Dad to be back; he’s never home before midnight when he goes out after a hunt. Often, it’s a hell of a lot later.
He watches the fire, listening as Dean checks the wards and salt lines around the tiny cabin. There’s another thud from outside. “Stay here, Sammy,” Dean grabs Dad’s shotgun from beside the door, “I’m gonna go check it out.” He listens to the front door open and close, then silence.
The fire pops.
He’s standing before he knows it, moving quickly toward the door. There’s a loud crash from right outside, and he flings the door open. The gun’s lying there, forgotten. Snow’s swirling around the figures on the porch, but it’s not thick enough to hide that Dean’s on the bottom with the creature crouching above, huge and looming. There’s nowhere near enough snow to hide the expanding pool of crimson underneath Dean’s back.
He doesn’t notice himself picking up the shotgun. He aims carefully; he doesn’t think about hitting Dean by mistake, doesn’t think about anything but getting that thing off his brother. The blast rings in his ears, butt punching into his shoulder like a freight train. The force sends him crashing into the doorjamb behind him, and he cracks his head against the wood, landing heavily on his ass before scrambling back up frantically.
He looks out quickly; the thing’s not moving but neither is Dean.
He grabs Dean by the jacket, but his hands won’t work right. They slip off the fabric and send him careening back to the porch again. His brother hasn’t moved, still pinned securely by the creature, and he stares at the still forms in frustration. A twig snaps off to his left, and he scans the dark forest line intently, nearly jumping from his skin when an owl hoots above.
He knows better than this. He can do this. He has to.
Getting back up shakily, he grabs a tight handful of jacket, braces himself carefully and pulls with all his weight behind it.
Dean doesn’t budge.
Face red and breath uneven with the effort, he tries again and then again with no success. He stands up, resolve straightening his spine, and stares at the creature. There’s still no movement, so he moves toward it, grabbing its feet and tugging with everything he’s got. After what seems like forever, it shifts fractionally, and that’s going to have to be enough.
He’s back up at Dean’s shoulders in a flash and reaches up under them for a better grip. All his tugging finally succeeds in pulling Dean free, and he drags his brother quickly into the cabin. By the time he has them both inside, he’s panting heavily and his head’s pounding from where he whacked it on the door.
He almost goes down again as he scrambles towards the door to close it; Dean’s left a trail of blood all the way into the cabin, and it’s thick enough to be slick. Reaching to shut it, he looks out at the creature, grateful to find it exactly where he left it. Dad’s voice booms disapprovingly in his head when he sees the shotgun lying in the snow, forgotten, so he darts out after it.
On his way back in, he slams the door behind him hard enough to make the whole cabin shudder. His salt line’s crooked because his hands are shaking badly when he redoes it, but he thinks it should hold. Back pressed into the door, he stares at Dean spread out in front of him.
There are long gashes on Dean’s chest and arms from the thing’s claws, and the blood’s flowing freely, almost spurting, from a nasty-deep cut on one arm. Dean’s pale, but has got to be still breathing, right? Because chest movement like that is pretty much the definition of breathing, and besides, he can feel it against his cheek when he leans over Dean’s face. Okay. Right. Think-think-think! The next step is to stop the bleeding, right? At least according to the books…
He pushes himself off the door, toward his brother. Working quickly, he pulls Dean’s belt from its loops and tightens it down hard on the arm just above the worst cut. The bleeding slows but doesn’t stop completely – not a good sign. He tears off the blood-soaked shirt to get a look at the gashes underneath, and finds they’re just oozing – he can ignore those for now. There’s a large bruise coming up right above Dean’s right ear – not so good, but there’s nothing he can do about it.
He runs his hands along the rest of Dean’s skin, trying to make sure he’s found the worst of it. When he doesn’t find anything else wrong with him, he just stands there for a moment. He watches Dean’s chest rise and fall, feeling his own heart thunder as he tries to figure out what he needs to do next.
The kit. He needs the first aid kit. He races to the small kitchen table – desperately grateful John had been hurt earlier so it isn’t still in the Impala where it belongs – then stops, staring at the bandages and sutures. He thinks hard, trying to recall everything from the Paramedic textbook he checked out last month. Dean’s heart’s beating, breath’s coming in and out evenly. There’s a lot of bleeding though, so he’s going to need bandages.
He gathers up the kit then remembers the chapter on shock, remembers how important warmth is, so he rolls Dean onto a blanket, tucks the kit in close and drags the whole thing over near the fire. Once he’s got the blankets settled, he turns his attention to Dean’s bleeding arm; the skin around the cut is already puffy and red, and the blood’s not clotting at all. He pours water from the kit over the wound, trying to get a better look. It looks like the diagrams from the book, and that… that can’t be good. He knows he shouldn’t be able to see so many layers of skin and stuff, shouldn’t be able to see that tube-like thing – is that an artery? – that’s slit and still leaking blood heavily.
Bandages aren’t going to be enough.
He wishes that wishing ever brought Dad home then lets the thought go.
He’s done stitches before. Dad had caught him sewing up a hole in his favorite tee shirt last summer and had had him stitch up the cut when the next creature got too close. His father had barely winced as his small hands learned how much tension was required to hold flesh together. This is the same thing, he tells himself, only he has to sew the artery closed first.
And it’s his brother.
He rifles through the kit, coming up with Betadine and several surgical suture kits. He winces sympathetically as he pours Betadine into the cut, but Dean doesn’t even twitch. He pulls on gloves, but they’re way too big for him, so he drenches his hands in the Betadine instead, scrubbing hard. He stares at the blood slowly seeping out of his brother, mesmerized, losing precious minutes before he shudders and rips open a kit.
He takes a deep breath then says, “Ok, Dean, here we go,” and he keeps his voice calm and steady, just in case Dean can hear him.
He watches his hands stitch, fingers nimble and fast, and is amazed that they don’t shake. He finishes sewing the artery closed and ties it up with a knot his teacher, Mrs. Grillion, showed him last year, since he can’t remember any of the knots in the book. Then, hands still steady, he closes up the cut.
By the time he’s done, his back aches from hunching over and as soon as he looks up, the room starts to swim. Terrified, he releases the belt from around Dean’s arm and waits. Nothing happens except the skin in Dean’s hand gets pink again –that’s a good sign, right? He turns his attention to the rest of his brother.
The gashes on Dean’s chest are puffy and bright red now, and he douses them with the Betadine then slathers them with antibiotic cream. He covers them carefully with gauze and tape like he’s done for Dad what feels like a hundred times before.
He feeds the fire and stares at the mess of his brother for a while, unable to look away. Eventually, he gives up and pushes Dean up enough to tuck himself in close against his brother’s back so he can feel each breath as it comes. “’s ok, Dean, Dad’ll be home soon.”
He tries to stay alert, keeping the shotgun close at hand and listening for sounds from outside. His mind drifts though, and the only thing that really stays in focus is the slow in-and-out of Dean’s breath, his hands riding each rise and fall of Dean’s chest, feeling each movement like a benediction.
A blue jay’s screech wakes him from a fitful sleep just as it’s starting to get light. Where the hell is Dad? The fire’s low and he’s cold except for where Dean’s radiating heat like an oven against his chest. It takes him a second to realize that the heat coming off his brother’s not normal, that Dean’s burning up, breath coming shallow and quick.
He scrambles up and ransacks the first aid kit again, looking for the pills, coming up with three different kinds of antibiotics. He studies the information sheets attached to the bottles, fighting to make some kind of sense out of the dense text, but there’s no clear reason to pick one over another. The sky’s bright with morning before he gets doses of Augmentin and Tylenol into Dean.
He builds the fire back up then fills a bowl with cool water. He brings it over to the hearth, wetting a washcloth and running it over his brother’s face and chest, trying to cool the fever. He’s never read this in a book, but he’s seen it in movies and is desperate enough to try anything. Dean settles down a bit; the soothing seems to calm the rapid breathing some, and the twitching that had been going on for a while finally stops. Maybe it’s actually the pills that help, but at least this gives him something to do.
It’s well past noon when he finally hears a car approach. He recognizes the Impala’s roar, but finds himself standing between Dean and the door anyway, shotgun held high and ready to fire.
“DEAN? SAMMY?”
His father reeks of whiskey and perfume, but is sober and solid and finally home. Dad plucks the gun from his shaking hands and scoops him up, asking, “Dean?”
The rest of him is trembling right along with his hand when he points to the hearth. Dad sets him on the couch, crosses the room, and sucks in a sharp breath on catching sight of Dean.
“Dad.”
Crouched down next to Dean, John takes a moment to look up.
“He needs to go to the hospital.”
John looks back at Dean, and reaches to check under the bandages.
“Now, Dad.” He catches John’s eyes, and holds them with his own, “He needs to go right now.”
John nods jerkily and, without another word, bundles Dean up tight and heads out to the Impala, sparing not a single glance back toward the cabin.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean woke slowly, warm and comfortable, for once. Sam was stretched out next to him, snoring lightly.
The dream – memory? – wouldn’t let him go. He remembered opening that damn cabin door, remembered seeing that thing charging at him… but none of the rest until he was waking up in the hospital. Later, he remembered overhearing the doctors tell Dad that his quick thinking and nimble stitching had probably saved Dean’s hand, and Dad just grunting at them, an odd expression on his face.
He remembered celebrating Sammy’s eighth birthday in his hospital room a few days after he woke up, the sterile room strung up with colorful streamers and balloons that Sammy ignored. Remembered feeling like Dad was trying too hard, but not understanding why.
He remembered hearing, weeks later at a checkup, that he nearly hadn’t made it, that his heart had stopped twice as they fought the infection and that he was lucky to be alive.
He remembered not being able to pry his little brother away from his side for months afterward.
But where in the hell had his subconscious pulled the rest from? It all felt so real, like the memory was a part of him now, but that was… kind of insane. The real problem was, it all fit so perfectly. He’d always wondered what miracle had brought Dad home early that night…
Sam stirred next to him and he tried to shake the dream off. Of course it fit what he knew, it was coming from his mind. His memories. Sam probably remembered it very differently. Dean resolved to ask him about it later, sometime after he’d kicked Sam’s ass for selling him into a Gladiator flick.
Dean shifted onto his right shoulder, testing its healing. It ached a bit, but he was almost comfortable on it and figured that meant he must have been out for at least few hours. The shallow cuts Hannah had made on his legs were almost gone. Cautiously, he stretched his left arm toward the ceiling and, yup, that one still hurt like hell. Sam started getting restless behind him, and Dean stilled, wondering what Sam’s injuries looked like under their gauze.
For a while, Dean drifted in and out, his mind too busy to let sleep take him again, but not really awake, either.
There wasn’t a lot to the room, really, besides the bed they were lying on, a tiny bathroom to the left, and a bunch of cardboard boxes. The only other thing he could see was a long pole standing in the corner, a stiff loop attached to the up-end. Dean stared at it for a while, trying to figure out what the fuck it was for, why it seemed familiar, until he suddenly knew; he remembered it from the dream he’d had right after he’d arrived in the camp. He remembered Sam slipping it over the neck of some poor girl right before he ran off to find…
His eyes and mind skittered away from the catch-pole, determinedly becoming fascinated by the boxes scattered throughout the room. They covered almost all of the floor space, and most of them were open, spilling clothing, bedding and camping supplies onto the floor from Hannah’s earlier rifling. Embracing his denial, he started making a mental inventory of the supplies he could see.
It took him a while because of his limited angle and all the scattered clothing in the way, but he counted two sleeping bags, five packets of dehydrated “beef stroganoff” (ick, Sammy couldn’t have been that hungry), three cans of cheese whiz (much better), two oil lanterns, three bottles of water (two Aquafina and one, inexplicably, Evian), an old-fashioned percolator (there could be coffee? Really?), what looked like half a camp chair (WTF?), four coils of rope and what he hoped was a hammock, but feared was a pile of thick netting.
He was staring at the pile of knives on top of one of the boxes, trying to figure out if he should count them in his inventory, when he felt Sam shift behind him. He turned over and bumped into Dean, bringing his chest to rest against the long line of Dean’s back, his hand sliding onto Dean’s hip.
Dean tensed, then cursed under his breath and forced himself to relax. He felt the rise and fall of Sam’s breathing against his spine and made himself take a moment to appreciate the rhythm of it, vital and strong and still heavy with sleep. He might give Sam hell for the cuddling later, but right now… right now he was just glad to be with his brother. He felt closer to safe than he had since everything had changed and was incredibly reluctant to let anything break the illusion, especially his own mind; so he gave into it instead and just let himself drift on sensation, Sam tucked in tightly behind him, more essential to this feeling than air was to breathing.
It took him a while to notice Sam was starting to wake up, and when he did, he bit down hard on the snicker that was threatening to escape him. This would be much more fun if he let Sam puzzle out how he’d ended up glued – and there was not other way to put it – to his brother all by himself. Dean would be able to work with this for years, and there was nothing Sam could do about it. Total score!
Sam’s head ducked down drowsily, nose tucking into the hollow between Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean didn’t react to the tickling brush of it. Sam’s breath felt hot and damp on Dean’s bare skin, still sleepily even, but starting to quicken with wakefulness. Dean kept his own breath deep and steady and his laughter out of it completely. He continued to play asleep until several things happened all at once.
1) Sam’s mouth opened against Dean’s back and began tracing a slow, wet trail towards Dean’s neck.
2) Sam’s hand slipped off Dean’s hip, coming to rest against the front of his sweats, cupping him gently. Cupping him and squeezing.
3) Sam shifted his lower body, bringing the line of it against Dean’s. Snugging in close, bringing his crotch against Dean’s thigh – bringing his hard dick against Dean’s thigh.
Dean flung himself off the bed, adrenaline too high to be moderated at all by the fact that he knew he’d just been played masterfully: point, set and fucking match, all to Sam. He stood there, feet from the bed, bare chest heaving, and stared at his brother.
At his sleepy, perplexed-looking brother.
Who wasn’t gloating. At all.
Sam rubbed his hand over his eyes, looking for all the world like he was trying to decide if Dean’s reaction was worth the brain power to figure out, and that… that just pissed Dean off. Loudly, he snapped, “What the fuck was that, Sammy?”
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected Sam’s reaction to be, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he got.
Sam was up in a flash, coming at Dean, his face ridged with anger. “Nobody,” and Dean flew, untouched, into the far wall, slamming back hard, knocking the air out of his lungs, “calls me Sammy.” Sam came at him then, every line of him tight and livid and burning with anger. He held Dean several inches off the floor, phantom hands around his neck squeezing tightly enough to make him wheeze. “Understand?”
Dean tried to nod around the dismayingly familiar invisible hands. Even breathless, even though his skull had cracked against the metal hard enough to send off sparks when he hit, there was no chance he’d miss a word Sam was saying. No chance he could look away, either. His brother was on fire, lit from within by his rage, electric, magnetic and repulsive, all at once. Terrifying.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, Sam wilted and shook his head, bringing his hands up to scrub at his face briefly. He released Dean with his mind and reached out to steady him against the wall with his hands. “Look. Just…” He looked Dean in the eyes. “I’m sorry, okay?” His hands were huge and hot on Dean’s shoulders, and Dean felt stuck, trapped securely in their grasp. “I know you’ve had a crap day too, okay?” Dean’s heart kept hammering in his chest, like a bird against glass, unable to listen to the reason Dean couldn’t yet manage to offer it.
Sam lowered his hands, slowly, “I’m not…” he sucked in a deep breath, and Dean flinched. “I’m not like that, I swear.” He’d brought out his don’t-spook-the-victim voice. For Dean? “I’m not gonna… I wouldn’t…” Dean just stared and Sam sighed, his tongue inching out slightly as he bit his lip, frustrated guilt written all over him. “Look, it’s not going to happen again, okay. Not like that.” His eyes sought Dean’s as he spoke, but Dean evaded him. “I swear.”
Sam backed up until his calves hit the bed, never taking his eyes off Dean. Dean hated it, but he relaxed a tiny bit with every inch, relieved to have his brother that much further away. He reached ineptly for normalcy, lifting his eyes to Sam’s and pushing himself off the wall to stand on his own. It took real effort not to shake, but he managed.
Sam sat hard on the bed with a slight wince, making himself smaller, less threatening. “We are gonna have to talk about this though. There are things we need to figure… Oh fuck.” He stared at Dean for a moment, “I haven’t even read…” then jumped up and over to a pile of fabric by the door, rooting around in the clothes for a moment.
Dean stayed where he was, just watching. Waiting for… something. Some sign maybe. For something to make sense. Maybe he just needed to wake up. At the very least, he was determined to bring his breathing under control.
Eventually Sam came up with a paper scroll and unrolled it, running his finger quickly along the dense script as he skimmed. He looked up at Dean as he finished, and sucked in a breath. Every inch of him was familiar now; he was just Sammy about to explain something, like a thousand other times.
Dean let himself relax, finally admitting that he hadn’t been allowing himself to before. When Sam smiled at him, Dean even managed not to flinch, flat out refusing to see the artifice there, denying it completely, especially to himself.
Sam held up the scroll. “Okay, this is your contract.” He was looking at Dean carefully, evaluating him. “Listen, I don’t know how many times you’ve been though this, Erich.”
The world spun and wrenched around Dean.
Sam’s voice continued on for a bit, “…but there are some kind of unusual things about…” then either trailed off or Dean stopped being able to hear him. A moment later, he looked up at Sam’s hovering, worried face. When had he gone to his knees? Dizziness rushed him again and he was glad he was already on the floor. He needed to focus; Sam was still talking.
“… hurt you?” Concern was thick in Sam’s voice. “Erich, you have to talk to me. You have to tell me…”
Understanding flooded Dean, finally. God-fucking damn it! He reached up and grabbed at Sam, aiming for his shoulder, but Sam diverted him easily, catching he hand with his own. Dean ground out, “Not…me…” before he couldn’t continue. He Doubled over, pain roared through his head, his sight narrowing past pinpoint, his breath barely squeezing out through his lungs.
Still gasping, he clutched at his skull, pressing in hard with the heels of his hands for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, Dean became aware of Sam sitting on the floor next to him, rubbing at his back in firm, gentle circles, speaking soothingly. At least Dean assumed he spoke; he couldn’t hear anything for a long time, and when he finally could, it didn’t exactly make sense.
“…gotta stop trying. It doesn’t matter anyway. Doesn’t matter anymore who any of us really are… Shsssssh….” Dean realized he was rocking like a fucking three-year-old and stopped abruptly. Sam’s hand on his back stilled when he did, and Sam spoke in a more normal voice, “Feeling any better?”
Dean managed to nod without wincing, only then realizing how much the still nearly blinding headache had backed off. Sam smiled slightly. “I take it this is your first time with a new owne… The first time you’ve been…” Dean watched as he searched for a kinder word and failed to find it, “…sold?”
Dean sucked in his breath and tried to get up. Sam didn’t let him, holding him down with such a gentle pressure on his back that Dean knew the gesture was only to keep him from falling on his face. “Take it easy,” Sam soothed, “that damn spell packs quite a punch when you try to out-think it. You’re gonna be out of it for a while.” He was watching Dean sympathetically, “Can you talk yet?”
Dean tried to say that of course he could, but nothing came out. He shook his head reluctantly, and the room lurched into a violent spin. Thankfully, his stomach was already very empty; the bile that attempted to come up was awful enough, according to his nose and throat. Dean’s every sense felt raw and hyper-sensitized, everything too intense, too painful. To top it all off, he felt as weak as a fucking kitten, like his brain might go off like Hiroshima again any second if he so much as twitched wrong.
When he looked up again, Sam was grimacing down at him in sympathy. “Just… don’t try and fight it, okay? It’ll pass, but… It’s a standard part of the gladiator contract, okay? A relic from before. I know it sucks, but… you’re still under that contract, even if your new one’s kind of different and…” Sam paused, considering something. “Listen, I’ve heard that if you fight it hard enough, it can kill, so you can’t…”
Sam sighed, and Dean turned to face him, bringing his head to rest on the cool floor, “Just let your name be Erich, all right? It’s not like it makes any difference who any of us are anymore.” Dean tried to stop himself, he really did, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t not and he struggled with it again, trying to push words out past the spell, to tell Sam how very much it did matter to them both. He had to make Sam understand, had to tell him… he opened his mouth, absolutely determined to speak just one word…
Sam slid his hand over Dean’s mouth, trying to stop him. Dean doubled over again, his muscles spasming and clenching, ten times worse than the last time, pressure so sudden and intense under his skin he was sure he was going to explode. The bile that had threatened earlier came wrenching out of him, continuing long after his gut was empty. It twisted and pulled and his bladder and bowels followed suit, emptying violently as well. Fire raced all along his nerves, stinking, screaming, consuming him until there was nothing left for him to try with, chasing a single thought through him, ‘round and ‘round: Sammy had never intended to see him again.
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I loved the dream/revelation of truth. Pool little Sam had to take care of his brother for the first time.
The whole part about Sam with Dean vs. Erich blew me away! I am still piecing it together. But I will say you took a twist I hadn't expected, and I loved that.
You are doing a wonderful job, and I look forward to more. Thank you so much for continuing.
Nora
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Now that Dean's no longer trying to stall me (he *really* didn't want Sam to not recognize him), hopefully the chapters will come a little faster. 12's already in beta, so that much should be up quickly at least.
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You wouldn't think a beta would take me so long to go through but... Chapter Twelve's up, finally!
Hopefully I'll be quicker with the notes my wonderful betas give me on 13.
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I had this fic open in a browser tab weeks ago to download and devour when my browser suddenly died. I couldn't remember many details about it, 'cause I had only skimmed it to see if it was something I wanted to read. And I couldn't remember who wrote it!
'Wanted to read'. Huh. Hell YES!! ::happy dance:: now I can find out what happens next!
You are ebil and mean to leave it here and I'm so very happy that the next chapter is at beta and will be up soon, 'cause I want to find out what Dean does next and what Sam does next and did he really mean not to see Dean again and what about Dean's changes and just how is that frackin' contract worded anyway and...and...and...
::deep breath:: And...maybe I should go get some sleep so I can be coherent the next time I stop by, mkay?
*waves*
ps - friended you back. I will NOT be missing anymore of this fic. :)
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I'm really curious though - you said you had it open weeks ago? Was that off of varkelton's rec, or did you somehow managed to find me independently?
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I read too much and am on *way* too many comms for me to know how I got there. It might have been a rec from Crack!Impala or SPN Storyfinders... ::shrug:: Sorry.
And hell yes, I'm enjoying this story! ;D
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