![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 13a)
Thanks for sticking with this story and for all your wonderful feedback! It really keeps me going.
Title: Winchester Synchronicity, Chapter 13a of ? (WIP)
Author:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
rivestra Rating: NC-17 series wide
Warnings: violence, non-con, wincest
~ Story Index ~
Chapter Thirteen, part A
Sam barely stirred the next day and when Dean changed his bandages again, the lashes still looked almost fresh, the bruises on his face not yet starting to yellow. Even before, Sam had healed quicker than this.
Fucking magic.
Fucking bitch.
******
Dean paced.
He paced, he dreamed of hell whenever he shut his eyes, and he paced some more.
That was pretty much it.
He’d had better days, even after the world ended.
He didn’t want to leave Sam, but he needed supplies. The Power Bars he’d finally broken down and eaten out of the camping supplies weren’t going to work for Sam. There was no way Sam was up to that much chewing. The dried stroganoff might work, but they were on their last bottle of water and Dean didn’t think the stuff coming out of the bathroom tap was drinkable.
Maybe if it hadn’t been brown.
Even if it was magical energy Sam needed, he knew food mattered too – it had to. Maybe it mattered even more now – it’s not like Dean had any fucking experience with this shit.
He roused Sam enough to tell him his plan – not that Sam responded – and went out in search of a friendly Pinkie.
*****
It took three tries before he found a guard that didn’t escort him directly back to their room. Each time he had to wait until the damn thing got bored with watching his door before he could try again. He had no idea how many hours they wasted.
Dean said something to the third guard that made it pause. He honestly had no idea what he was babbling about at the time, but it turned out it was Sam. He didn’t think the guard wasn’t exactly a friend of his brother’s, but the Pinkie clearly didn’t want Sam to die, either.
He gave Dean cans of fruit and chili and showed him where the drinkable water tap was.
Then he dragged Dean back to the room.
*****
Bang-Bang-Bang!
Dean fought his way up out of the thick, hopeless, sulfur-laden air of the dream. Bang-Bang! Sam had glued himself to Dean’s back, one long arm stretched under and around him, the other resting on Dean’s hip, sleeping deeply, completely undisturbed by the noise.
BANG!
Dean shouted, “Gimme a minuite!” and picked his way free of Sam’s clutching. Carefully not thinking about Sammy’s new sleeping habits, he crossed to the door and flung it wide.
A Pinkie stood on the other side with fist raised, no doubt to pound again, but Dean had moved the door. It just stood there, blinking at him. It looked a little lost.
Dean cleared the sleep out of his throat noisily.
The Pinkie lowered its fist. Dean thought it kinda looked like the same one who’d given him the cans of food for Sam earlier – there was kind of a squiggly scar under its right eye – but he couldn’t be sure. It blinked at him some more, then held out a plastic container of something with its other hand.
Dean’s nose abruptly caught up with his eyes. Soup? He took it from the Pinkie and brought it up to his nose. Fresh chicken soup? Wherever it had come from, it smelled incredible, and it was going to be one hell of a lot easier to get into his brother… the canned chili had been a disaster.
Dean saluted the Pinkie with the soup, “Thanks.” It nodded solemnly at him, eyes fixed on the room behind him. Dean moved to block its view of Sammy, still sprawled unmoving on the bed. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate this.”
The Pinkie looked Dean in the eyes for a moment, then turned on its heel and strode away down the hall.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He watches as Dean tilts the knife back and forth slowly, staring down at it, mesmerized. The blade casts fire-reflections around the room, scattering light into the dark corners, flashing on the walls, the rack, flaring brightly across the girl’s bare skin. There’s not a mark on her, not a mark on Dean either, standing there shirtless, holding the knife.
He watches Dean reach out to place the knife back on the table, his brother moving as if expecting a blow, back and shoulders tense with expectation, every line burning with uncertainty. He watches Dean pause, hand on the table, shaking and still clutching the knife, hesitating.
He listens as the white-eyed demon cajoles, “What’s it gonna be, Deany-boy?” The girl whimpers on the rack. Dean doesn’t look up, not at her, and not at the Demon, and it continues, voice low and conspiring, “She deserves it, you know. The things this little vixen did when she was alive…”
He sees Dean glance up at the bound woman then quickly back down. Dean grinds out, “Shut. Up,” through clenched teeth, but still doesn’t release the knife. The Demon laughs, a sound simultaneously disturbing and coercive, both deeply erotic and incredibly repellant. Dean’s grip shifts on the knife. Clutching the sharp end now, tight and barehanded, blood wells up quickly to coat the blade, dripping down, decorating the implements laid out on the table.
He watches as his brother jumps in surprise then notices the demon’s hand closing on the knife hilt. “It’s okay if you’re not ready, Dean.” Its tone is soft, a whispered reassurance between intimates. “Maybe she’s not the one.” It gently pries Dean’s fingers free of the blade. “We’ll just try again tomorrow…”
He watches, and his heart cracks, splitting open, raw, when he hears Dean’s anguished, “No…” It’s more sob than word, but the knife-hand closes on the hilt once again, dislodging the demon’s hand and taking up a white-knuckled fighting grip. Trembling but standing tall again, Dean stares at the demon, eyes shining, full of hatred and despair, “No. I…” but that knife hand comes up. Dean swallows heavily, voice unsteady, “I can…” Eyes closing, swallowing hard and deep, Dean visibly fights to continue, to keep the knife moving toward the terrified girl.
He claws away, up into wakefulness before he can hear his brother finish that sentence, before he can see the triumph shining out from the demon’s eyes. He bursts into consciousness with a loud, shuddering breath, sulfur still clogging his lungs then stills as Dean turns restlessly in the next bed.
After a minute, Dean mumbles, “’nother nightmare, Sammy?” Dean’s still mostly asleep, so he doesn’t answer and instead slips out of his sweat-soaked covers and retreats to the motel bathroom. He turns on the shower knowing it will do absolutely nothing to scrub the stench of hell from either of their souls…
He can’t. This… he has to change it. Has to find away to get Dean out of this fucking deal. Nothing else matters anymore.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean woke, gasping, scrambling up, scrambling away from the dream, from himself. What the…? He… he was… that girl? What the fuck had he been about to do with that knife?
“Erich?” Sam was below him, looking up blearily, annoyance warring with concern on his face. Sam was below him, sprawled on the floor.
Crap. “Sorry,” Dean grimaced, “weird nightmare.” He offered his hand to Sam, reaching down and pulling his brother up bodily. Sam swayed on his feet, but not as much as Dean expected him to. Maybe the chicken soup had helped? It was about time something did.
Dean hovered, keeping his hands close until Sammy brushed him off, pushed away and stumbled toward the bathroom. A minute later, he heard the shower start.
Five minutes of determinedly avoiding the bathroom later, Dean heard a loud thump-crash from the shower stall.
Dean was in there listening to his brother curse before Sammy had even started to pick himself up off the floor. Dean helped him stand, and Sam’s gratitude took the form of more cursing and a good solid push away. As soon as Dean started to back off though, Sam started to fall again, a tumble of wet, soapy limbs and slick skin, splashing suds across Dean’s face and into his eyes. Dean caught Sam firmly under his arms and hefted him back up to his feet, reaching up and around Sam’s shoulders to wipe the soap off his own face.
Sam stood there panting in Dean’s grip for a moment before he tried to push Dean away again. Predictably, he started to go down again, tumbling hard into Dean’s bare chest, runoff drenching Dean’s boxers as they collided. Using his most reasonable voice, Dean asked, “Dude, you do want the soap off, right?”
Sam growled, but let Dean stand him up again.
It was a near thing, but Dean managed not to chuckle. “Then let’s get you back under the water, ‘kay?” Dean quickly matched action to words, sliding a glaring Sam face first back under the spray and holding him up gently while he rinsed. Dean grinned widely, choosing to focus on how good it was to have Sam awake again, even pissy and barely verbal.
Dean turned Sammy around under the spray, and Sam slipped a little as he went, colliding wetly into Dean again. Something poked Dean in the stomach, sliding, hot and firm, toward his hip. Sam jolted backward as if shocked, recoiling until he hit the shower wall hard, and folded in on himself, sliding down to the floor.
With Sam no longer blocking it, the water hit Dean full in the face. He sputtered and blinked, scrubbing at his face before pulling himself together and looking down at his brother. Sam was panting hard, knees drawn up almost to his chest, staring down at the tile floor. Dean moved closer, boxers stretching with a wet, squelchy sound as he crouched down. “Are you ok?”
Sam shifted, trying awkwardly to get up, bracing himself against the wall. His foot slipped as he tried to get it under him. Dean out reached to steady him, but Sam fell back against the tile, flashing his rock-hard cock to the world.
Dean drew away so fast he overbalanced himself, landing on his ass but managed, just barely, not to scramble backwards as he did.
Sam let out a hard sound that was probably meant to be a laugh, “Just get me standing, Erich, then get the fuck out.”
Dean stood, red-faced and incredibly aware of the boxers clinging wetly to his ass and dick, more revealing than if he’d been nude. He reached down and helped Sam up, and Sam must have found a little more energy somewhere, because he was soon standing on his own.
Dean grabbed a towel as he backed out of the tiny bathroom. He kept an ear trained on the shower as he dressed and dried (pretty much in that order), but Sam didn’t fall again. Dean was rubbing his hair dry when he heard the water shut off.
A minute later, Sam emerged from the steam, towel slung low on his hips, bruises contrasting starkly on his too-pale skin. Dean didn’t watch as Sam moved painfully around the room looking for his clothes in the reorganized boxes. Sam didn’t look at Dean at all, just got dressed and left without another word.
Dean couldn’t help his flinch when the door slammed.
*****
A few minutes later, Dean was out the door himself, determined to do a better job at mapping out the layout of the building, or… something else equally productive.
He swung around a corner in the hallway and eyed the group of five Pinkies clustered ahead of him.
Getting into a fight sounded productive.
Feeling himself go loose-limbed and ready as he approached them, Dean kept walking up the hallway. He strode right up into their circle, his posture lazy and arrogant, just one tiny hair shy of belligerent. Slinging a casual arm around the nearest two, Dean drawled out, “So, boys, what’re we up to?”
The one under his right arm tensed, ready to fight, but the one on his left smiled broadly and clasped his arm right back, saying, “Erich! My gladiator friend!” just a little too quickly.
The fight drained out of the one on Dean’s right. He filed the reaction away to think about later and peered closely at the demon on his left. It was Chicken Soup Guy; he definitely recognized the squiggly scar this time. Casual as could be, Dean pulled it into a back-thumping hug, “Squiggles! My Man!” He felt tension flare and disappear in the Pinkie as it decided to go with his flow.
Why the fuck were they being so cooperative?
Squiggles pounded Dean’s back in return and said, “What good timing!” It released Dean and continued, voice becoming low and serious, “My friends here were hoping I could teach them about your human game of Poker.” It looked right into Dean’s eyes, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever played?”
Dean threaded his fingers together, stretching them until they popped. This could work too. “Yeah, I’ve dabbled a bit.” He tried not to grin too widely. “You boys have some cards? A table somewhere?”
*****
It was hours later when Dean finally got back to the room, but there was still no sign of Sam.
Dean kept busy straightening the room. He was beginning to feel like a damn maid, but… at least it was something to do. He gathered up their towels and the clothes from the last few days and put them in the washer. He straightened out the boxes Sam had ransacked. Then he made the bed.
Then he paced, but pacing got dull fast, as it always did. Dean headed out into the hallway.
Three lefts and a right later, Dean was standing in front of the guarded pantry, just where Squiggles had told him it would be. Fishing out his stack of blue cardboard camp credits – C-cads for short, apparently – Dean bought a quart of pineapple juice, two snickers bars and a bag of teriyaki jerky. He had plenty of cardboard squares leftover, so he grabbed some cans of soup for Sam. Apparently, the pinkies had been playing for higher steaks than he’d thought; the one behind the counter only wanted two squares for his entire haul. He had at least fifty left.
He eyed the bottle of Jack sitting high on a shelf, but decided not to even ask.
Around the corner and wishing they’d thought to scavenge grocery bags, Dean was carefully tucking the candy and soup into his front pockets when he felt someone come up behind him and stop to watch. He didn’t turn around, just drawled, “You got somethin’ to say, or you just gonna stand there and check out my canned goods?”
“You shouldn’t let him go out alone, you know.” It was Squiggles.
That made Dean turn around. “What do you mean, let?”
Squiggles shrugged. “Aireuana stripped him of his guards when he claimed you.” The pinkie stared at Dean, and Dean finally understood what it wasn’t saying: it had been one of Sam’s guards. “Then she forbade him his powers, and now you let him wander around the camp, alone.”
“He doesn’t exactly take orders from me,” Dean protested around the fist in his gut, trying not to let his rising panic show.
Squiggles saw it anyway, and apparently approved, because he… it nodded curtly at Dean, acknowledging the point. “We cannot help you directly. We cannot interfere if he is attacked, but we can remind the camp that She finds him valuable. That She does not want him dead.” It took measure of Dean with its eyes, “Can you protect him?”
“I’m tougher than I look,” Dean said, just barely managing not to say and I’ve been doing it all his life, keeping the words barely sub-vocal and just below his headache-threshold.
“Will you?” Dean nodded roughly, unable to voice an answer that wasn’t too much, that wasn’t with everything I am. “Then you must get him to register you.” Dean looked at Squiggles blankly, and it… he… continued in a reasonable tone, “You cannot stay by his side if you are not allowed out of the building.”
A group of three Pinkies rounded the corner before Dean could ask what the fuck “register” meant. Squiggles clasped Dean’s shoulder briefly and fell into step with them as they passed, leaving Dean alone in the hall with his hands, and his pants, full of groceries.
Fucking perfect.