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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 12)
Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapter 12 of ? (WIP)
Author:
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rivestra Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
~ Go back to Chapter Eleven ~
~ Story Index ~
Chapter Twelve
He woke slowly this time, welcomed by a wonderful quiet and the touch of soft, clean sheets that smelled of nothing worse than detergent. He was exhausted, but his head just felt fragile now, delicate like a blown-out eggshell. It didn’t pound at all. His shoulders didn’t even twinge.
Tentatively, he sat up and surveyed the room. No Sam.
Someone had cleaned him up though, and dressed him in soft sweatpants before tucking him into the clean sheets. A note rustled beside him on the pillow, and he grabbed it. A familiar scrawl covered the page.
Sorry I had to go out. I shouldn’t be too long.
I’ll bring food when I get back.
- Sam
PS - The sweats should be pretty clean, but if you want more clothes, you’re gonna have to wash them – I can’t imagine your nose is up to wearing dirty stuff. Laundry’s down the hall to your left.
He wished Sam had noted the time, because Dean had no idea how long he’d been asleep. Of course, he had no way to tell what time it was currently either, and the slice of gray sky he could see through the vent in the ceiling wasn’t exactly ever going to be helpful again.
He rooted around in the piles of clothes until he came up with a t-shirt that didn’t make him immediately drop it in distaste. It actually smelled kind of good, somehow like Sam, which he’d add to the list of things he wasn’t going to think about, thank you very much.
Dean had slipped it on before he noticed it said “Stanford” across the chest. Not that it mattered.
Tired, but unwilling to lie back down, he started gathering up laundry.
Once he had loads in both washers, he sank down against one and tried to gather up the fragments of his dream. They were strangely elusive, skittering through his brain like water striders on a pond, moving in and out of his grasp. He remembered pain but couldn’t tell if that had been from the spell or from the dream. The fragments danced through his mind, almost vivid one second, faded and blurred the next, and detail eluded him completely.
The motion of the washer was lulling, and he was still bone-tired. He was asleep again before the spin cycle started.
*****
Someone was moving though the hall outside the laundry room, talking loudly. Their passage woke Dean with a start, but that adrenaline couldn’t mask the overwhelming feeling of desperation the dream had left in him. He hadn’t been asleep long; the dryer was still spinning.
Dean stood, restless, trying to catch the threads of the dream. Heat and screaming and pain. Watching, helpless, unable to affect, to change anything. A man, floating… no, suspended by some kind of giant hooks piercing through skin, spread out in the viscous air. An invasive sulfur-stink permeated, blasting furnace-hot, but couldn’t hold a candle to the despair that tinged everything.
Hell. He was sure of it.
The first washer buzzed, and Dean moved the clothes to the dryer.
*****
Dean lay still on the bed, head dangling over the end, staring from upside down at the door, willing it to open. The door stared back belligerently, resisting his Jedi mind tricks.
The cardboard boxes that served as Sam’s drawers and shelves were neatly arranged against the walls, filled with neatly folded clothing (six loads, much of it obviously not Sam’s) and carefully stacked supplies. He’d even sorted the camping stuff into logical piles.
Twice.
Hours ago, he’d wandered the building. He’d barely managed to see enough of it to confirm his suspicion that it was indeed a converted hanger when a very pleasant pink demon had suggested he go back to Sam’s room. Ten minutes later, another pinkie hadn’t been so polite; he’d been almost to the door that time though all it had net him was a glimpse of gray sky and a good gauge of the strength of the sucker dragging him back to Sam’s room.
That pinkie had lingered outside the door for the next few hours before it had gotten bored and gone off to do whatever the damn things went off to do. That had been a few hours ago.
Dean popped up off the bed and went back to pacing the room. He had a better time-sense now than he had in the early days after the sun had disappeared, but he still wasn’t sure how long Sam had really been gone. Ten or twelve hours? Maybe longer.
Too fucking long.
*****
When the door finally opened, Dean was trying to put a new edge on an irredeemably cheap buck knife. He threw the piece of crap at the doorjamb, landing the blade two inches from Sam’s nose as he came in, belatedly thinking, way to get yourself psychic’d into the wall again, idiot, but nothing happened.
In that next instant, when Sammy stepped into the light and Dean got a good look at him, he started to understand why. He never would have let his irritation fly if he’d actually seen Sam first. His face was decorated with more shades of purple and black than any straight man could be expected to have words for, and Sam clung to the open door like he was afraid he’d fall without its support. Dean had expected a glare, and he did get an angry flash of one, but it couldn’t find more than a toehold on his brother’s battered face.
He was moving to Sam’s side before he’d considered the motion. The thought that he might not be welcome came slow and foreign to his mind, triggered only by Sam’s barely perceptible shift away from his steadying hand. Dean didn’t draw back. He couldn’t. His hunter instincts added distance with words instead, “Dude, what the hell happened to you? You have a run in with Ali?”
Sam shook his head, the ghost of a tired grin flashing across his face. He let Dean guide him to the bed, lowering himself carefully and leaning heavily toward one side in a way that practically screamed “broken ribs”. He started to lean back, but checked the motion with a sharp wince and stayed upright instead, staring glassily at Dean.
Remembering a first aid kit from his sorting binge, Dean crossed to the neat row of boxes and located it quickly. Sam’s eyes followed him, but passively; if he noticed the fact that Dean had cleaned up, he didn’t seem to care. Dean set the kit on the bed and said, “Let’s get this shirt off so I can wrap those ribs.” He figured it was a place to start anyway. From Sam’s demeanor, he was sure it would be just a start.
Sammy didn’t react to his words, so Dean reached out, slowly, for the buttons at his brother’s neck. He was relieved when Sam didn’t stop him and happier still when Sam moved his arms to help strip off the shirt. He had to peel the dark cloth off Sam’s back; it stuck to the long, ragged-red welts he uncovered. Dean hissed through his teeth, trying not to tear at the fragile scabs, unable to stop fresh blood from welling up and trailing down toward the sheets. Sam didn’t even flinch, but he was watching Dean with a little bit more intelligence in his eyes, so Dean ventured, “Is that the worst of it, or is there more?” He gestured at Sam’s jean-covered legs.
Sam shook his head in a negative, but Dean didn’t move until he’d watched for a moment more, carefully evaluating his brother’s expression and posture. The lashes weren’t deep enough to account for the level of shock he was seeing, but he wasn’t ready to wrestle Sam for his pants over it… yet. Dean picked up the gauze and began to tend the wounds in a very business-like fashion, trying to pretend it was just another night in Casa de Winchester, Motel of the Bloody and the Damned.
Sammy let himself be arranged passively under Dean’s hands until the lash marks were bandaged and his ribs were bound. He stayed still and compliant while Dean cautiously removed his pants and checked him for additional injuries, silently watching without expression as Dean moved around him. There was nothing there; Dean couldn’t find a single other injury.
When Dean had finished his exam, Sam twisted experimentally and looked pleased when the wrapping didn’t constrict his movement as much as he’d expected. Dean held his breath for a second, belatedly hoping Sam might recognize the Dean-Special Rib-Wrap, but the slight smile was quickly replaced with a flash of sadness, and even that was soon buried.
Determinedly, Dean turned his attention to Sam’s face. He forgot to move slowly when he reached out, but Sam let him tilt his head up toward the light without reaction. Dean placed a couple of butterfly bandages on Sam’s split cheek and tisked over his black eye, all puffy and hot to the touch. “I don’t suppose there’s an ice machine on this floor?”
Sam’s “No” was half sputtering laugh, and Dean was so relieved to hear it, he missed most of whatever had followed. It had something to do with room service and hotel stars, and had probably been pretty lame, but Dean didn’t care at all. He let it slide by, unchallenged, and gave Sam a grin instead. Sam cocked his head, clearly confused by the unexpected expression; that made Dean grin wider which made Sam really begin to laugh, and fuck but that was a good sound, at least until it made Sam start to cough.
By the time his coughing stopped, Sam was literally gray with exhaustion. Dean opened a bottle of water for him, and he drank half of it greedily, barely managing not to set himself off coughing again. He let Dean guide him to the top of the bed, and Dean continued the ritual right up to drawing up the bedding and tucking it in around Sammy’s shoulders.
Sam was watching him strangely when he drew back up, but he didn’t say anything, and he was asleep within seconds.
After pacing the room for a while, watching Sam and trying not to think, Dean gingerly lay down on the bed next to him.
*****
Dean woke gasping. He didn’t really remember much of the dream, but what he did clung to him, filling his mind with flashing white eyes and vivid knife-cut patterns that sank, burning, deep into muscle and bone. The memory of the smell made him want to retch, and a low keening cry still echoed through his mind, cutting into his soul. As before, the clearest part was that overwhelming, suffocating despair, subsuming, drenching everything in the dream as he watched, helpless, unable to change a fucking thing.
Carefully picking his way out of the bed, Dean disentangled himself from Sammy’s sprawling arms and dragged his ass into the tiny bathroom. He ducked his head down quickly to avoid his traitorous reflection in the mirror and splashed his face with water, trying to rinse the stench of burning skin from his nose and the sulfur-sting from his eyes. After a few minutes, he gave up and stepped into the shower, still not quite willing to acknowledge that the problem was in his memory, not in his senses. He stayed under the spray for a long time.
Who’d’ve guessed demons cared enough to install large hot water heaters?
He felt better enough to be hungry when he got out. Actually, starving was a better word for it. He wasn’t quiet as he moved around the room, grabbing clothes and designating an official box for dirty laundry. His metabolism might be all hyped up, but it still had to run on something and Dean’s last meal had been breakfast in his cell before he’d gotten on the truck who knew how many days ago.
He was ready for some fucking lunch.
Moving around the room like this, waiting for Sammy to wake the hell up… it felt so normal. Dean threw his wet towel at his brother without giving it a single thought, and started to sing-song, “Rise and shine, Samm…” before biting back on his words.
Not that it mattered, because Sam didn’t stir. Not even when Dean’s towel landed in his face.
Fuck.
Dean sat on the bed next to Sam, his fingers moving to the pulse point on Sam’s throat. He counted off the beats of it under his fingers, using the wide leather-strapped watch on Sam’s wrist to mark the time. His pulse was slow but strong, and ditto for his breathing. The bruises Dean could see looked exactly as they had last night.
Dean shook him, then shook him again, harder when his first effort failed. On his third try, Sam mumbled incoherently and turned his face into the pillow, but that was it. Dean stripped back the blankets and began looking for whatever he’d missed, methodically going over every inch of Sam’s skin with his hands and eyes.
He didn’t find a damn thing.
*****
Hours later, Dean gave up on the gentle approach. He finally managed to wake Sam a bit with a sharp slap across the less-bruised side of his face.
His brother looked up blearily into his worried face and Dean asked, “Did they give you something, Sam?” He grabbed Sam’s chin to draw his focus, “What did that bitch do to you?” and shook him as he almost shouted, “Tell me how to help you!”
The desperation in Dean’s voice must have cut through some of the brain-fog, because Sam tried to answer, pushing words out groggily through his exhaustion. Dean couldn’t make them all out, but got a clear enough picture from, “energy,” “drained” and “need sleep”. Even those few words set Sammy coughing painfully again, so Dean didn’t push for more, instead sliding onto the bed behind his brother and slipping his arms around Sam’s back, trying to brace his cracked ribs through the wracking coughs.
Sam passed out again as soon as the coughing stopped, but it took Dean quite a while to let go.
~ On to Chapter Thirteen ~
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::scurries off to read::
Also: *first*!
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Hope you enjoy it!
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I will surely read it tomorrow evening, I've been looking forward to it. Very intrigued.
Nora
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I hope tomorrow ends up not being as long as you fear. And \o/ for vacation!
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Reread just for fun, and, I have to say, I just love this image... "instead sliding onto the bed behind his brother and slipping his arms around Sam’s back, trying to brace his cracked ribs through the wracking coughs."
Okay, where's the next chapter???
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So, thank you for adding some reading enjoyment to my day. :)
I don't know where to start. I am still so sad that Sam seems lost and more alone than he actually is. And I'm trying to puzzle out what the dreams are adding up to. I understand what a terrible experience both brothers have had, but I really need to go back and re-read. I've loved the story all along, but I know I'm forgetting details from the earlier parts.
I love to feel the emotion in a story, and I really do with this one. I feel so much for both brothers. At moments, it seems like Dean has the worst of it. He wakes up alone, with nothing but a note. He seems so vulnerable. His attempt to explore while being shooed back to Sam's room by the oh-so-lovable pink demons added a smile to my face. I did like the escalating actions they took to get Dean back to the room. He was so helpful though. The laundry and then organizing the room. It may all have been under the guise of filling his time, but in the end, he really helped his brother.
When Sam came back injured, and then again, when Dean couldn't wake him, I thought Sam had it worse. Not only is he so seriously injured, but he doesn't understand how close at hand help actually is.
I loved the dedication Dean showed as he tended Sam's injuries. It was incredibly loving and I could see how much he wanted Sam to understand. It was so tender, but so sad at the same time.
It hurts me when Dean avoids looking in the mirror. He must feel like he has lost a huge part of himself.
Beautiful job putting words to emotion. I really do enjoy reading this. I'm going to go back through and read again as soon as I can, I don't want to miss anything.
Nora
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The deeper I get into the dreams, the more I ache for Sam. Dean's had a shitty 6 months or so (ok, more than that), but Sam... I think I've kinda broken him. I'm probably biased right now because the dream I just finished writing for 14 has messed with my head a bit...
I am so glad you're enjoying this monster at all, let alone enough to be talking about re-reading it for nuance! Thank you so much for your comments, they're incredibly encouraging.
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87 was inside the house! I live in South Texas, and we had our first day over 100 degrees in February this year, so all those scientists espousing the "Greenhouse effect" are right, I'm pretty sure. :)
The deeper I get into the dreams, the more I ache for Sam.
--I'm looking forward to more about his character in the aftermath. I want to know what he is all about. Part of him seems so animalistic at this point. And that is fascinating.
I do enjoy your monster story, and I am a bit of an addict. I like to go back and figure out what I missed. Especially if it has been a while since I read it. Not complaining, don't get me wrong, I just don't like to forget the details.
I hope to have internet access in France (it's still way too cold for me there, but, oh well...) to read, but if I'm late responding to your next chapters, it is because of vacation only.
Neurotic writer be at ease! Your story is intriguing and well-written. The only thing that will slow my comments is poor wireless internet access in Europe.
You are doing a wonderful job!
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Have a WONDERFUL time!!!
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I hope you had an awesome time in France!
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And thank you for reading!