Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9431834.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, Penny_Dreadful_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Sam_Winchester/Other(s)
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Lucifer_(Supernatural), Ferdinand_Lyle,
      Bela_Talbot, Crowley_(Supernatural), Jessica_Moore
  Additional Tags:
      Adultery, killing_and_eating_of_animals, Blood_and_Violence, Derogatory
      Language, Underage_Masturbation, Blasphemy, Gratuitous_Smut, No
      penetrative_sex, but_all_other_kinds_of_sex, slight_crack_in_the_most
      unfitting_moments, Alternate_Universe_-_Penny_Dreadful_Fusion, Alternate
      Universe_-_Victorian, Abortion
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-23 Completed: 2017-09-08 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 34429
****** I'll be your liqour ******
by Uial
Summary
     This is a Penny Dreadful Au of Supernatural.
     Sam is Miss Ives. Dean is a witch. Crowley is sass personified and
     Lucifer is an ass.
Notes
     Disclaimer: Supernatural and Penny Dreadful don't belong to me, and I
     don't make any money from this.
     You don't have to have seen Penny Dreadful to understand this,
     hopefully. But if you have watched episode five of season one and
     episode two of season three, you will be familiar with the basic
     outline of the story. I still added new things, though, so it won't
     be boring.
     Regarding the warnings: The Non-Con happens to Sam, but it doesn't
     happen between him and Dean. Regardless, if you are sensitive to
     issues of consent, this might not be the fic for you. Most of the sex
     in here is not explicitly consensual. The underage warning is for
     masturbation only.
     If you want to know why I wrote this thing and other information
     tidbits, see the end notes.
     All mistakes are my own.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
1891
Sam sought after people like himself. People who were, in some way or another,
special. He wanted to find what he was, what he could do, and how to use his
power to once and for all find a way to close himself off from Lucifer.
His abilities only seemed to have grown during his short liaison with the
devil. He caught glimpses of time, seeing people on the street and the next
moment he knew that they wanted to propose or that they had played with a
wooden duck when they were small.
Most of the visions were useless since he couldn't find out when the vision he
had seen took place. It was rather rare that he could get a glance at a
newspaper or a calendar during the vision. Sometimes Sam could at least
localize the vision somewhere in the span of a few years when the people didn't
look any older or younger than they were today. Still, most things he saw could
have already happened or they could happen ten years in the future, there was
no way to know.
A rare occurrence were visions that were so clear and detailed that he would
get a deep sense of urgency from them and in that case, the visions often
became true in the next few days. He slept at work sometimes, his head resting
on the flour-dusted wooden table in the back room. Sleep was elusive, plagued
by nightmares and visions and no way to differentiate between the two. One time
he woke from such a sleep with a very clear vision of the old lady that came to
the bakery every morning, she had been grasping a picture of an equally old man
to her chest.
She clutches the frame hard enough to hear the wood creak. The tears are
blinding her, but the dark surrounds her completely, whether she sees it or
not. A sharp pain stabs her chest and she can’t determine if her grief is the
cause or if this is her heart acting up again. She hopes for the latter, and
can't keep her frail body from shaking any longer. The gasping breaths feel
like acid in her throat. Why did he leave? He had promised to stay forever.
The old lady never came back to the bakery.
-oo-
Sometimes he saw a person dying and the one time he managed to locate the event
in time, he tried to stop it from happening. It was like drifting in a stream
and forcing himself to not follow the way of its riverbed. In the end, the
river would always find a way to the sea. You could build a dam, but the water
would accumulate behind it and at some point, it would flow over the barrier to
follow it's old path.
The gunshots are loud in the cramped back alley. The sound ricochets between
the boxes storing perishables for the small inn and the red brick walls. In the
darkness, both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously. He dies first,
labored breaths turning to gasps and then silence. His opponent clings to life
with the desperate anger of a wronged man, but he too soon stills.
Sam knew that street, it was right on his way to work. And the poster for the
magic show in the old brewery was still there. So the time frame had to be
something like a week. He waited there for three consecutive evenings and
succeed to stop the confrontation before it escalated. Of course, he patted his
own back and went home in the positive knowledge that he had done a good thing.
His high spirits evaporated as he read the paper the next morning. One of the
men he'd saved had been killed that same night by a stray bullet. Nobody could
even explain where it had come from. The article called it mysterious and
hinted that witchcraft had probably been involved.
The other man was gunned down the following morning. He had strangled a young
girl and was killed by a police officer in the resulting stand off, as one of
his contacts told Sam.
He did not try to alter the future again after that.
--oo--
Over a few months, Sam had built a good network, mostly homeless people,
prostitutes and street urchins, all in need of something, even if it was a
little as a few shillings or a day old bread from the bakery for any
information they brought to him. They contacted him whenever they heard of
something unnatural happening.
Often times these rumors turned out to be nothing. A card player who was just
unusually talented or good at cheating. A gypsy woman who was very perceptive
and used that to convince people her visions of the future were as accurate as
her guesses about the present. A thief who was good at sniffing out easy
targets.
Sometimes, though, he found the real deal. And when Katie came to him with an
address in the good part of town and an invitation to a séance, he put on the
only good suit he hadn't pawned for rent money yet and hired a carriage. He
would owe her big time for this, and his future looked darker the more he
thought about it, but the lead was more important.
Sam dove back into the shark tank of high society like a goldfish that had
lived its life in a bowl. His hair was a little too long, but he passed it off
as a rich boy's quirk easily. His suit wasn't tailored to the style of the
season, but it still met the standards of his company, which, to be honest,
weren’t too high. Meetings like these were for bored high society Ladies and
thrill seeking new-rich gents. He had missed the beautiful clothes and polite
conversation, the bright golden chandeliers and backstabbing.
When he entered the room in which the meeting would take place, he first
noticed the big, round oak wood table. Around it stood six chairs, all
comfortably padded with a gaudy red and green pattern. The paintings on the
walls, all of them in golden plated frames, told him quite a bit about the
taste of his host, namely that it was appalling. Naked women and men in all
imaginable and unimaginable poses, often mixed with animal hybrids, pictured
amidst lush forests and lounging on white beaches. Reptile tails, bird wings,
and goat hooves did nothing for him, thankfully, so he was left only with the
thought of how his adoptive parents would have disowned him immediately if he
had brought such a travesty into their home. Nonetheless, it was a welcome
change from the mold stains in his room.
The medium looked like any woman did these days, hair pinned up, too much rouge
and definitely too much jewelry. The collar of her blue satin dress was too low
to still be modest, but her laugh was infectious, as she conversed with a man
Sam didn't know. In fact, the only person known to him was Doctor Hamish, a
talented musician, and forward thinker. They had met on a ball Sam's parents
had held when he was ten. He'd been fascinated by the beautiful violin piece
the doctor had played there to exemplify a musical theory that had been to
complex for him to even comprehend. Later that evening a few chosen guests had
been invited to the Salon, and it was there that they had talked briefly.
The blue-eyed man didn't seem to remember Sam because took his place at the
table without a greeting. Sam followed. A few minutes later everyone was seated
and silence fell.
“Welcome to my home, I am Madame Lefere.” The medium's voice wasn't annoying
exactly, but it was slightly too high to be pleasant. The only thing Sam had
seen in relation to her was that she would chip her fingernail at some point.
“We are here to take a glimpse through the veil.” The candle in the middle of
the table flickered ominously and Sam suppressed a sigh. In the last few
months, he had heard a dozen variations of this exact same speech. “We shall
contact the great beyond to see which ghosts yet remain here with us.”
A woman with curly red hair to Sam's right gasped in shock. Madame Lefere took
the hands of the guests sitting next to her and gestured for the others to do
the same. “I plead with you to suspend your doubt, spirits do not take kindly
to disbelievers.” Sam rolled his eyes. Supernatural beings did whatever they
wanted whether you believed in them or not. Priests could end up possessed and
scientists haunted, Lucifer called to them all.
Suddenly, all the lights in the room went out. Only the candle in the middle of
the table provided weak illumination. Sam glanced around and everyone seemed
scared now. Madame Lefere groaned and collapsed, her body only remaining seated
because her neighbors held her up.
Sam began to whisper the Rituale Romanum under his breath. The guests screamed
as the medium jerked up as though controlled by invisible strings. She hung
suspended in the air, her arms outstretched and head tilted back. When she
spoke the words weren't her's and she sounded like her voice had just crawled
out of the depths of hell.
“Dear boy, it's been so long.”
This could be any of the thousands of demons that clamored in the pit, but Sam
knew in his heart that it was Lucifer speaking to him. He had hoped he wouldn't
have to hear that voice again in his lifetime, but then again he had never been
that lucky. Sam didn't answer and focused on reciting the Latin verses
correctly. “Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura
tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” Finishing the words of
the exorcism he looked up.
Madame Lefere had lifted her head and stared back at him with pitch black eyes.
”We are connected on the most intimate level, Sam. You can't drive me out any
more than you could drive your own soul out.”
He swallowed and contemplated running for all of five seconds. The people here
had nothing to do with him, but they would probably pay the price for his
oversight. Keeping his voice level was a struggle, even more so than looking
into the empty black pits before him. “You said that I'd have to consent. I
didn't consent.”
The chuckle that came out of the medium's mouth was chilling. “Thus I need the
mouthpiece. I'm not technically there with you. We're really just conversing
over some distance. Telephones, there’s something to look forwards to.”
Madam Lefere's body sank back down. She molded herself to the chair, crossing
her ankles and twisting her arms up and backward around the backrest. At least
she appeared human again, even if her pose was completely inappropriate for
polite society. The black eyes, however, destroyed the illusion. “I know what
you are searching for.” Her lips formed the words carefully, as though each one
was important. “And since we are friends, I'm here to help you.”
Sam asserted that he didn't want any help, especially not from Lucifer and that
he would rather drown himself in the sewers than listening to anything the
demon had to say, but his protests were gracefully ignored.
“I know that you are disinclined to believe me, but you have been here for
months and you found nothing. I'm getting bored here, there’s only so many
demons to disintegrate, you know? Look for the Soul's Prophecy, Sam. And come
to me I when you have found him.”
The medium collapsed and sank to the floor, the other guests jumping up to help
her. Curious enough, no one remembered what had happened in the last half hour.
Sam slipped back into the cold night air unnoticed in the confusion.
He was determined to ignore the hint Lucifer had given him. After all, if it
came from the devil it couldn't be good advice anyway.
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     I have split the fist chapter because it seems too long. I don't even
     know. Anyway, the chapters will be a bit shorter now, but I will post
     twice a week to make up for it, with the next chapter coming
     tomorrow.
As the months slipped by and fall turned to winter, Sam was hard pressed to
leave his humble room and find an even cheaper abode, so he would have enough
money left for food. None of the hints turned out to be anything of substance.
He found a few witches and seers, but none of them wanted anything to do with
him. When he mentioned the devil their expressions turned fearful, they recited
exorcisms at him, made the sign of the cross and aggressively drove him off.
Sam found the Soul's prophecy in an obscure volume titled “Myths and Truths of
Clairvoyants” that had been published the same year he had been born. It was
written by a man named Ferdinand Lyle, a professor of Egyptology with a wealth
of knowledge in dead languages and obscure rituals. Apparently, he had traveled
the land far and wide in search of clairvoyants and had written down whatever
they told him. As a result, the book was an odd mixture of recipes, prophecies,
rituals, behavioral analysis, and superstition.
Lyle warned at the beginning or the chapter that such divination was often
comprehensible only to the person that was subject to said prophesy. The
process of the prophecy itself was described in vivid detail. How the witches
eyes rolled back into her head and how her voice echoed through the room, not
even recognizable as human anymore.
“The young soul born and born again, wandering endlessly.
to know him is to live, to love him is to die.
One-half a boy,
one-half a king,
one-half of a whole.
Destined to live and jet cursed to die,
find your match
and watch the world burn.
 
The old soul carrying a thousand lives, wandering endlessly,
to know him is to die, to love him is to live.
One-half a demon,
one-half a man,
one-half of a whole.
Destined to die and jet cursed to live,
find your match
and watch the world burn.”
After that, the clairvoyant blacked out and waking a few hours later,
remembered nothing of the happenings.
Sam had no idea why Lucifer would want him to read this. The verses told him
nothing, they didn't resonate with him and he couldn't make sense of them. He
assumed that he was one of these souls and that he should go and search for the
other one, but again, he wasn't to keen on doing anything the Devil told him to
do.
October_3,_1873
Sam had been cursed his whole life. From the moment of his birth, he had felt
the pull, a temptation to give in. He didn't remember his real mother, but Mrs.
Wesson had always told him that it was the call of the devil, to abandon
morality and commit sins of the flesh. She said that everyone felt this way and
that it was his responsibility to resist, in order to save his immortal soul.
And then he began to touch himself when he was seven. Well, honestly he had
begun earlier than that, driven by curiosity and the enticing flutter deep in
him. But he had his first conscious orgasm when he was seven, muscles clenching
and clear fluid dripping from his prick onto his friends, Jess', comforter. It
didn't have anything to do with Jess herself, with her slender figure, her pale
skin or blond, wavy hair. It was just that he was more often at her place than
his own, and whenever she had piano lessons he would have to wait for her, and
he had to do something to alleviate his boredom.
Naturally, that was the moment he expected his life to change, expected a
terrifying creature with horns and a tail to pop into existence and drag him
down to hell. Needless to say, nothing happened. But the pull was still there.
It was ever present. And he realized that maybe he would have to do something
worse to be truly lost to god.
--oo--
The cold months eroded his determination. Each week only brought more snow and
dead ends. His funds dwindled, the days on which he had more to eat then the
dry leftover bread from the bakery became rare. He had to choose to either pay
his informants or his rent. Most times the former won out.
In January he went for an interview with Lyle. Sam claimed to be a reporter
working for a small newspaper that wrote about all things supernatural, Lyle
ate the story up like a cupcake.
He wanted to believe Sam was there out of admiration for his work, he seemed
desperate for some recognition. Also, he seemed to prefer the recognition to
come in the shape of a young, slightly shaggy looking guy with too long hair
and a suit that had definitely seen better days.
In fact the first thing Sam noticed about him was that Ferdinand Lyle was
flamboyantly gay. The second thing was that his hair was curled and snow-white
with orange tips, his beard had the same particular color scheme, parted in the
middle and combed outwards. It was quite possibly the strangest hairstyle Sam
had ever seen. The checkered red suit Lyle wore clashed with his olive green
and white striped shirt and the golden tie to a degree that it was nearly
painful.
“So, you are the young mind that wanted to take advantage of my expertise. It's
so wonderful to see the new generation still values knowledge even if it is in
a field as controversial as ours. ” Lyle rolled his r's in a weird way and
spoke very nasally, all in all, it reminded Sam weirdly of a fake German
accent.
The younger man coughed to hide that he had no idea what to say to that
exactly. He hadn't thought as far as to think of an actual excuse to why he
wanted to know these things. Sam settled on a mumbled “yes” and followed Lyle
to sit in front of the man's large and messy desk. The whole office seemed
rather chaotic, there were cages with colorful birds and glass boxes with all
sorts of insects in them. Fortunately, Lyle didn't seem bothered by
monosyllabic answers. He told Sam a whole lot about carrion beetles, which was,
granted, very fascinating, but also not really the reason why Sam was there.
“The beetles are used when we want to clean the bones of any remaining flesh.
They are quite good at eating all the rotten fibers without damaging the
skeleton in the process. This is a wonderful option to ...” At one point Sam
just took heart and interrupted Lyle in the middle of his sentence. “Actually
I'm here about the Soul's Prophecy, the one in your book.”
Lyle's watery blue eyes bore into him. “Right, yes, but why would you want to
study such ancient ramblings?”
“I think that the prophecy is about me.“ Sam went with the truth, hands
sweating through the cotton of his trousers, where they lay on his thighs.
“Many believe that they are destined for great things, but let me tell you, Mr.
Wesson, we are all just ordinary people, here.” The older man's inquisitive
gaze turned pitying. “I sometimes wish that I hadn't written these books. They
made me rich, yes, but I can't tell you how many people come here with the
certainty that the Soul's prophecy is about them. Even I believed myself to be
the subject of such an augury for a time.” Lyle's eyes found an old photograph
and remained there for a time.
Leaves fall to the ground next to him. He's young maybe twenty years old, hair
not yet white, stands face to face with a taller man. His father looks like
him, they have the same nose, the same heavy tear sacks, but where he himself
has a happy and carefree disposition, the older is prone to outbursts of
violence and bad temper.
He senses confrontation before it happens, they stand too close. The man grabs
the youth's arm. It hurts, he flinches away but the grip is too strong.“You
have wasted enough time with that mystic nonsense.” His words pain Lyle more
than the bruise he presses into his arm. “I paid for your education so you
could get an actual job. And what do you do?” The older man's voice is steadily
rising in pitch, climaxing when he hits his son in the face. It's not a real
punch, more a slap. Something that one would do to a hysteric woman to calm her
down.
“You study languages and cultures and everything that strikes your fancy and
you haven't one certificate to show for three years.” He is close to tears, a
tremor wrecks his lips and his father snarls: “You are a failure to this
family.” He finally let's go of Lyle's arm and walks away.
Lyle allows himself to break down only when the older man is out of eyeshot.
One of the birds screeched loudly and fluttered it's turquoise and yellow
wings, snapping the man out of his daydream and Sam out of the vision. Lyle got
up, rounded the desk and stopped at the younger man's side. “A prophecy is
something for heroes, Mr. Wesson, something for people who have powers strong
enough to change the course of history.” He took Sam's hand and Sam was flooded
by the other man's perfume. It was a good scent, flowery and yet musky,
unconventional and therefore fitting, but Lyle applied a bit too much of it.
“Who is the man in the Photograph you looked at earlier? Your father, right?”
The other man drew back but Sam continued on, not expecting a response. “He
didn’t really approve of your career, did he?”
Lyle practically fled back behind the desk. “ How do you know that? He has been
dead for thirty years. Have you been following me?” The nervous tremor in his
tone intensified his accent.
“I know things.” Sam smiled knowingly, trying to look mysterious. He hoped that
it was enough to sway the other man because he didn't have more. It was rare
enough that he actually got visions when he needed them, even rarer still that
he saw something of actual use to him. Lyle folded his arms defensively and
Sam's heart sank.
A pleasant sound dissolved the tension in the room. The turquoise bird tweeted
a few sweet notes, and Lyle smiled. “Mr. Wesson, I am shocked, but also
charmed. You could have just told me that you had...” The older man leaned over
the towards Sam and whispered ”special abilities” like he expected people to
burn Sam at the stake if somebody found out.
The truth was that in the big cities, nobody cared about witchcraft anymore.
Superstitious citizens were common and sometimes the matter even came to trial,
but these trials were shushed and ended with short prison sentences and fines
rather than public execution. Fortune telling was an acceptable entertainment
for the high society now.
It was different in small villages and on the countryside. Stoning, burning,
drowning and hanging of alleged witches was, though illegal, still practiced
among the ignorant.
Sam shrugged. “I'd rather not advocate the fact. But I need to know who
foretold this particular prophecy.”
“Very well,” Lyle blinked slowly, “if you are certain.” The man pulled open
different drawers obviously in search of something. His protruding stomach
turned out to be a complication in that regard, and Sam had time to look
around. He saw large, mahogany colored cockroaches sitting on a human skull and
assumed those to be the aforementioned carrion beetles. There also were papers
with signs and runes on nearly every surface, even the couch was covered in
them.
Lyle cleared his throat and Sam focused his attention on his counterpart once
more. “I have here the transcript of the whole conversation. There we have it,
2nd of May, 1864, The cutwife of Ballentree Moor.” Sam flinched. It wasn't only
the year he had been born, it was the exact date he had been born, too.
 
***** Chapter 3 *****
The roads were rustic in Ballentree Moor if you could call it a road with all
of the potholes, and the mud and rain didn't make it any better. The horses
struggled to reach the little hut another thirty minutes away from the actual
little village that was Ballentree. The coachman threw Sam's leather bag with a
change of clothes right next to him in the mud, but only after he had taken
Sam's money to pay for the journey.
“Curse you witches, stay away from us god fearing people.” And with the crack
of his whip, he rode off.
The hut looked run down and not rainproof at all, but it would still be better
than the waterfall that was raining down on Sam now. He spotted two pillars
that were built with all sorts of pebbles, at the very top lay two round, flat
stones. Drawn, on both of them was a raven, seemingly painted in blood with a
blunt instrument, a fingertip maybe. However, the rain did nothing to wash the
crimson off the dark gray rocks.
Sam tried to pass through the pillars and found that he could not. There was
something keeping him from crossing. He found more pillars, all with the same
symbol and each one them a cornerstone for the strange force that would not let
him pass. Raindrops soaked his coat and with nothing else to do, Sam went back
to the dead tree, crooked and twisted in front of the house. However little
protection the branches could offer, Sam would use, as he leaned against the
gnarled stem and waited.
That marked the beginning of the longest period of time he'd ever been denied.
When the downpour stopped, he was still waiting. As the storm began, he was
still waiting. Then it dawned and he was still waiting. At one point he could
have sworn he saw a pale face through the dirty window and heard a crackling
laugh, but he was half delirious from the cold by then. Once the morning came
he was shaking, his tailored black trousers, shirt, and jacket not really
suited for the sub-zero temperatures or the persistent dampness that clung to
them. By the next night's rain, he fell to his knees and passed out for a few
hours.
The mist on the next morning finally opened the door for him. A strange man
stood in the door frame. He was a few inches shorter than Sam and had green,
cat-like eyes that shone unnaturally bright through the opaque swirls of fog.
He moved slowly and with a slight limp. His hair was dirty blond and stood in
messy spikes. Wearing a too big, black cloak with frayed seams, trousers made
from the same fabric and a dark blue cotton shirt adorned by buttons of pale
bone, he looked a few years older than Sam.
The man stopped right in front of him and cupped his balls in a hard grip. Sam
was too shocked to even say anything, but the pressure was gone after a second
and he honestly wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. The man then
proceeded to rip the flesh of his thumb open with his teeth and drew a cross of
blood onto Sam's forehead, all the while mumbling in language Sam didn't
understand.
“You can move now. “ He said, voice rough as though he didn't use it very
often. “You here for a love potion? Need a little help to woo your missus?”
Sam shook his head.
Poisonous Green narrowed to suspicious slits. “You need something for your
prowess in bed, then.”
“No...” said Sam, confused now.
“So you are here for the pain in your joints and the creaking of your back when
you get up?” The fog made little crystal drops of water cling to the man's
ashen hair.
Sam shook his head again.
The other man's voice was agitated now. “You're not like the others, are you?
You need nothing, yet you come here, wanting.”
“I am like no others.” He whispered, weak from the cold and two days without
food or drink. “I am like no one.”
The man nodded, resigned but also determined and stepped closer. “All right, I
have a scar on my back and you will tell me how I got it.”
"How could I possibly know..." Sam choked on the rest of his words as suddenly
the strange man curled his left hand around Sam's neck, keeping him in place,
the fore- and middle finger of his right hand pressed into Sam's forehead,
right at the center of the bloody cross, dirty fingernails indenting his skin.
“You close your eyes and go into your mind. You feel my spine through my
fingertips, you do this now or you turn around and take your cursed soul
elsewhere.” Sam closed his eyes.
"Well done, Sammy." The man cooed and Sam's knees went weak. "You have a strong
mind, though it's been breached before. You are constantly alert, waiting,
dangerous and nimble. Like a snake. Rattling and rattling your little tail, and
people still step on you. And how they cry and cry when you bite them." Dean
paused. "Flick your tongue now, smell my bones and follow them. Feel my spine
and my past, feel my pain and follow to its source."
Sam shuddered and tried to imagine himself as a cobra, coiled and dangerous.
His body long and smooth, feeling the world around through vibration and smell,
noticing even the smallest of movements the least bit of warmth.
"A man," he whispered feeling the ghost of claws biting into his flesh. Hooks
too deep to ever let go. The absolute certainty that he wouldn't escape, that
the Demon would rather kill him than giving him up. The burning touches on his
skin. Hurting, even more so when the master was kind, stroking rather than
scratching. Yellow eyes that saw everything. Every emotion open to him, and
every single one of them a weapon. Sam retched to get rid of the bile in his
throat: "Ownership. A branding iron." He coughed and the restrictive touch was
gone. Sam fell forward, vomiting onto the mud.
The man turned around and slowly made his way back to the building, speaking
without turning. "You can cross now. Leave everything you were outside this
door. Bring only what you are."
When Sam entered the hut, a damp rag hit his chest.
"Clean up." The man took an iron plate from a cupboard, poured some thick stew
into it, and sat down on a wooden chair by the fire. Sam did as he was told and
stepped closer to the hearth. Warmth blossomed on his skin and it felt so good
he could have cried. There wasn't much space, even less so because the ceiling
was low and there were herbs and flowers dangling from it, amidst bits of
string and twig, fur, and bone.
The man gestured towards to chair facing him. “You can sit.” Sam sat down.
"No one comes here unless they want to see me. I get the occasional poacher,
but you look more like a rich fuck from the city." Sam blushed, still not quite
used to hearing blatant cursing, however often times he had heard it in the
dark and narrow streets of the big city.
“I spoke with Ferdinand Lyle.” Sam swallowed nervously. “And others.”
The man chuckled, a dry sound like a creaking door. " Yeah, right, I'm famous.
Published in a book and all that. Didn't help me to put food on the table,
though."
"I assumed you were a woman." Sam glanced hungrily at the stew. It didn't look
appealing but it smelled like heaven, the distinctive aroma of rabbit, cabbage,
and mushrooms. His mouth watered.
As if to spite him the man slowly ate a few spoonful of soup before he
answered. “Witches are always women. And Cuthousband sounds kinda dumb. You
wanna know why that's my name?” The man didn’t leave Sam a chance to answer.
“They come to me when they are pregnant. When they need their baby’s killed,
they come here. I cut it out of them. Cutwife.”
Their eyes locked. Sam noticed that there was a certain wild beauty to the man.
His pupils were too big and too dark, as though he had glanced behind the veil
and seen too much. His lips were plush, and pale freckles were spattered across
his nose and cheeks.
“Fetching name, don't you think?” Dean smirked as though he was daring him to
disagree. When Sam didn't answer he continued. “People talk a lot of shit. I'm
cursed and wretched, but they still come. They come when they have no choice.
Did you have a choice?”
Sam thought about it, then nodded.
"So you're not completely useless. Congratulations." The man inclined his head
to the left, curious like a crow. "You can call me Dean. Tell me what you
want."
Outside the rain made hollow noises as it hit the thick, ox-eye windows.
Suddenly Sam felt the effort of the last few days as though a physical weight
had been placed on his shoulders. It was pulling him down, urging him to just
give in. Give up. No food, no sleep, always hunted, always different, always
struggling.
"I want to know what I am." His voice was brittle.
Dean looked at him like he was a child, caught with his hands in his mother's
wallet. “You already know what you are, Boy King.”
Sam nodded again. Lucifer had called him that, too. He had searched for the
phrase some time back. The Boy King was the one to lead hell's legions. Lead
them out of hell and into one last battle against the Angels. In the book, it
said that the earth and all living things would be destroyed if this ever came
to pass. "I am cursed, you need to help me. Cure me," he begged.
"Not gonna happen." Dean shook his head and continued to eat the soup, talking
through the food. Either he had no manners or he didn't care about basic
niceties. Sam smiled, remembering all the times he had to go to bed without
dinner when the maids or the Wessons caught him, talking too animatedly to let
himself be stopped by a mouthful of food.
"I can cure your back pain or your broken heart. I can curse a girl to fall in
love with you. I can help you poison your brother. I can help you to kill your
best friends." Dean smirked, it was sharp-fanged and hurt. "Though you don't
seem to need any help with that."
 
May 11, 1874
Sam strolled through the big, bright corridors of his family's mansion, always
on the way to Jessica, his best friend, and daughter of their only neighbors.
He would have to pass through a few sparse trees and a great black iron gate to
get to Moore's estate. The gate was never closed, both of their families united
in friendship. He and Jess would walk along the shore, playing, nothing but
endless blue skies watching over them. Jess was the more reasonable one. She
always popped the bubbles of Sam's daydreams with her rationality.
Sam would say: “Let's just swim as far out as we can. We will swim until we
reach Africa. We will do whatever we want, we will explore and ride on lions
and no one will ever tell us what to do.”
And Jess would argue: “It's too cold and too far. We have no money and we are
too young. We have no idea how far Africa is, and we don't speak the language.
They would send us back as soon as we arrive and the lions would eat us.”
Things that Sam didn't want to hear and hadn't even thought about either.
He would dare her into it anyway.
They swam for an hour before Jessica's father, Sir Nicolas, dressed as always
in a sharp suit even on his day off, came out with a boat to rescue them from
drowning. They weren't allowed on the beach for a month after that.
Dean took another spoonful of soup, chewed on the brawny bits of the rabbit for
a while. “Vampire. Nasty business. Nothing you could have done. But you already
knew that. You didn’t want to know, but that’s not how this works.”
Sam said nothing, he sat there, shivering with exhaustion and hunger, waiting
for the hearth's warmth to reach his core. Trying to accept that both Peter and
Jess were dead and gone. And realizing that the cold in his heart had nothing
to do with rain and storm.
"She's still alive though" Dean continued, seemingly random. "She's just not
herself anymore. Are you prepared to deal with that?"
Sam looked away. He wasn't and doubted that he ever would be.
Dean spat a bit of bone onto his hand and placed it on the rim of his bowl.
"Anyway, if you are truly touched by the devil, I can't do anything for you."
He placed the empty bowl on a nearby side table. "There is but one path you can
walk and it has one conclusion. I can give you knowledge, it will lead you
there faster, easier, but I can't help you if you don't want to walk." He stood
up and carried the bowl to the sink where he cleaned it, silently, as though
the younger man was already gone. It was a blatant hint to do just that.
Only Sam didn't want to go. Not before he at least gained some more insight
into his powers and fate. Not before he learned more about Dean. There was
something about the witch that fascinated Sam, something that called to him,
something he needed to explore. He summoned the snake, felt smooth scales
covering his skin, his eyesight getting dimmer and the new brightness that came
with taste and sound. “The one that burned you. You loved him?” He spoke, his
words warping on his forked tongue like hisses. “You were his and he betrayed
you. You trusted him, you gave him everything and he took it and twisted it
until you didn't recognize yourself anymore.”
Dean sighed deeply in surrender, dried his hands with a towel and fetched a
deck of cards out of a mahogany box. The cards were a luxurious violet that
changed to ruby when he moved them, with a curling silver snake skeleton
glancing in the pale light. They seemed completely out of place in the humble
shack, like Sam had been at the big celebrations in the Wesson estate. Always
more interested in discussions than dancing.
The other man spread the cards out in a big half-circle over the table. "So you
want to learn? Everything? The arts?"
Sam nodded, although he didn't know what the other meant exactly.
“You're not scared?”
He shook his head but Dean's narrowing eyes told him that the lie had not
slipped by him. The man took Sam's hand in his and guided it to hover over the
cards. "What do they tell you?"
"Nothing," Sam answered immediately, without thinking and received a hard slap
to the back of his head.
Dean growled, his palm slamming down onto the table. “I told you it doesn't
work like that. You either get over yourself or get your ass out of here. I
don't particularity care if you want your gifts or not, but you will start
using them now, or you will stop wasting my goddamn time.”
Sam tried to get something, anything, from the cards. He didn't want to
disappoint Dean and he really wanted to get better at this. His forefinger came
to rest on a card before he had even realized the silky feeling of paper on his
fingertip. “Do I look at it?”
Dean was already climbing up the narrow staircase, Sam assumed that his bed was
up there. "You can, though we both know what it shows. There's still stew left.
You can sleep on the sofa." And with that, he was gone from view.
Sam carefully turned the card around. It was the devil.
 
September_12,_1876
Sam was also friends with Jess' brother, Peter. The three of them would work
together to stuff the many dead animals Nick brought from the far away
continent. Their first experiments at taxidermy looked awkward and more like
Sam's plush toys than an actual animal, but they got better with time. Nick
brought them the horns of rhinos, the pelts of big cats and the ivory of
elephants. The kids would imagine all these animals, how they would look, and
what they would eat and they had a great time together.
Both Sam and Jess would daydream about any and all of their very limited male
acquaintances. They would gush about Mr. Andrews mustache and sly elegance
until Peter begged them to talk about literally anything else.
Peter was the first to tell Sam to stop talking about men like he had a crush.
That his interests should lie with girls and even if they didn't, he should at
least act like they did, because it was wrong for men to like other men.
Mrs. Wesson was the second. She lectured him that God made man and woman be
partners, everything else was sin and Sam would be punished for it.
When Sam told Jessica about his preference for boys she hugged him and said
that people were stupid, and he should love whoever he wanted. Nevertheless,
she agreed that he should probably only reveal his true feelings to them once
he was sure that they would accept him. Whenever Sam was with her he didn't
have to hide his crushes, but from then on, the both of them only talked about
boys when they were alone.
Sam loved Jess like a sister, she was his only confidant, and the only person
he did not have to keep any secrets from. They told each other everything,
shared dreams and passions, habits and possessions. Their families often joked
about how those two were basically engaged already and neither Sam nor Jess
could have imagined a greater pleasure than to be promised to their best
friend.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     From here on out there will be smut.
That evening Dean prepared a stew with the rabbit's bones and the few chunks of
stringy meat it provided. Sam expected that they would eat little else. They
had no cattle, and deer was a lot harder to catch than critters. He sorted
through all the herbs, some of them he bound into a bunch to dry, others had to
be mashed or cut into pieces as Dean told him.
They had both changed clothes, Dean was in a better fitting, long sleeved tan
shirt and forest green trousers. Without the cloak, Sam could at least guess
his body type now. Brawny he thought, muscles more pronounced by little food
and hard living.
“Tell me about your mother.” Sam sucked a breath in and forced himself to
exhale quietly. Whenever he became close to feeling content, Dean would say
something that got him into emotional turmoil again. Completely oblivious to
his discomfort, or maybe just not caring, Dean chopped the rabbit into bits.
August_25,_1878
It was the evening of another one of Sir Nicolas' glorious returns. Both or
their families were united by rich food and Nicks exotic tales. It was an
opportunity for Jess, Peter, and Sam to also learn a few choice cuss words they
hadn't known before. Later that evening, as the sun began to set, Sam wandered
into the hedge maze that made up a big part of Moore's family garden. He aimed
to find Peter and Jess as they had been playing a game of hide and seek and the
maze was always the first hiding spot. It was familiar to him, the confined
corners held no danger, for he knew it like the back of his hand.
Soft laughter and heavy breathing were pouring from the next corner but Sam
didn't run to catch up with Jess and Peter. Perhaps he felt even then that
something wasn't quite right. The night got darker the further he went and
where he never before felt afraid, an ominous thrill now called goosebumps to
his skin. He didn't find his friends. Instead, he found Sir Nicolas fucking
Mrs. Wesson against a hedge.
Sam knew what fucking was. It was something he has seen Mr. and Mrs. Wesson do
on one memorable occasion. When he had asked, Mr. Wesson had told him that it
was something only married people did to make children, that it only took place
in private bedrooms and that it was in very bad taste to talk about it. Sam had
wondered then, why the Wesson would even have to do that since he was the
living, painful truth, that they could not have kids of their own.
Anyway, he knew that Nicolas and his mother were neither married nor in a
bedroom and therefore that they did something bad. He felt the evening breeze
on his skin, how it ruffled his white silk shirt and carried soft grunts and
shrill cries to him. The pull grew stronger in him, he felt it whispering, felt
the heat curl in his stomach, the beginning of stiffness in his cock. It felt
stronger now, like fingertips on his skin, pulling it apart at the seams.
His right hand wandered to his cock, stroking in tandem with Mr. Moore's
thrusts, the other he bit into, leaving red indents and see-through threads of
spit, so he wouldn't make a sound. He focussed on Nicolas, imagining the sly
curl of his lips, the cocky light in his eyes, how he'd press his mouth onto
Sam's in desperation, sucking, nipping at his taste, like he was sucking
bruises into Mrs. Wesson's cleavage. His hands placed on Sam's hips, fingers
digging into his skin, hard enough to leave their shape imprinted over slim hip
bones. Sam stayed there, hidden, watching until the pair drew apart, Nick
closing his pants back up and Mrs. Wesson ruffling her skirts back into order.
Sam prayed that night. The Wesson's were very religious, and he had always
found comfort in the familiar words. This night, however, he felt like
something dark had finally found its nest in him, something cold that not even
God's warm light could touch. The lord's prayer didn't make him feel as whole
and content as it did before and the wicked voices of his desire grew stronger
over the next years, strengthened by the many little sins Sam committed.
The first of them was watching the scene and not turning away in horror. The
second not to tell Jess about what he had seen. At the time he told himself
that he kept it to himself to protect her innocence, however, in truth, he
enjoyed having this potentially disastrous knowledge, this depraved little
secret that belonged to him and him only.
Of course, Sam never called them sins, sins was a too big and bad word for what
he did. He called them mischief, something every boy would do, a harmless
pastime when the sweeping corridors moved in on him and the endless luxury
bored him to tears. Sam would steal one Jess's many brushes, safe in the
knowledge that she would never even notice that it was gone. He would touch
himself, whimpering soft noises onto his shirtsleeve, twisting his wrist just
right, in places where people could easily find him. He would eavesdrop when
other people talked, even though he knew that these words were not meant for
him to hear.
"I don't want to talk about her." It was clear what Dean was after but Sam
didn't have to make it easy for him.
The chopping got a little more violent and Sam couldn't hide a wince. He would
choke on those splintered rabbit bones at dinner, he just knew it.
Dean's voice had this special pitch sometimes. Like a laugh that was only a
choke away from crying. “She was an adulterer, wasn't she?”
Sam turned around and went to the other side of the room to put the wild
rosemary onto the window sill to dry. The sinking sun put the dead tree outside
in stark relief and for a moment he imagined a hanged corpse dangling from the
crooked branch. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of the wooden
table next to him. “I don't want to talk about it.” He repeated.
“Well, tough luck, Sammy, cause we're gonna talk about it.” He heard Dean's
footsteps and turned around. Sam could feel the satisfaction radiating from the
older man like glowing embers, he didn't even have to see the damned smirk.
“You watched her and you liked it, how she was fucked by other men, such a
dirty boy you were, Sammy.”
Suddenly, it was too much. Dean's looming presence, standing too close and
seeing everything Sam didn't want him to. Whatever was left of his self-
control had been torn to shreds by the nickname. He hated how it felt so
achingly familiar when Dean said it. “Will you just stop calling me that? It's
not my name and you really don't know me well enough for nicknames.”
Dean smirked and crowded him against the wall next to the window. “Oh, but I
know you, Sammy. I know you so well. I know that you imagined yourself in your
mother's place a thousand times, always watching and so so envious. All those
men, so far under her station, gardeners, and servants and your best friends
dad.”
Sam closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the flowery smell of rosemary.
The other man's strong arms surrounded him and there was no chance to get away.
Sam was half-hard and Dean kicked his quivering legs apart with decisive
movements, pressing his thigh against the bulge. Sam whimpered and his eyes
flew open.
A hard tug on his hair made him look up, Dean had an almost cruel light in his
eyes. He was still unearthly beautiful. His lips were this perfect pink that
looked so fucking inviting, Sam would have done anything to kiss him. ”Yeah,
spread your legs,” Dean grunted, “just like your whore mother did.”
The fog is his brain dissolved, swept away by his intense anger, good thing too
because he had been seconds away from humping Dean's leg, and wouldn't that be
the perfect end to a fucking perfect day? He shoved the other man away and
followed with a hard punch to his face. Dean didn't even try evade, just stood
there, with a weirdly sincere smile. The split lip oozed blood and he licked it
away, while Sam tried not to make a sound at that.
“Finally.” Dean sighed. “I was beginning to think I had to get you off first.”
"What?" Sam had no idea what was even going on anymore.
"Well, the original intent of this whole exercise was that you learn to stay in
control because you really have enough weaknesses already, you don't need your
whole past to be another one. You didn't save Peter, or Jess, or your mother,
hell some would argue that their deaths were in some way, more or less, caused
by you."
Sam really wanted to punch Dean again.
“But you can't let that affect you.” Dean stepped close and placed a warm hand
on Sam's shoulder and he really wanted to shake the soft pressure off, but he
couldn't bring himself to do it. Because it was Dean, and Dean not touching him
was ultimately always worse than the opposite.
“If you want to have a chance against Lucifer, you have to control your
emotions. You have to fight, even if they taunt you, even if their words hurt,
you have to keep on fighting. They will come for you, and when they do, you
can't afford any weaknesses.” Sam saw Dean's intent expression blurring before
his eyes.
Voices taunting him. He's sitting curled into a corner. Dirty like a rat, maybe
thirteen years old, blond hair and green eyes. There is a mob of people
surrounding him, some of them throw small stones and rotten fruit. They scream
abuse at him. Freak. Witch. Demonchild. The words fill his head, thicken the
air until he struggles just to breathe.
No one there will help him. His clothes are too big on him, he nearly drowns in
them, cowering on the floor as he is, trying to appear as small as possible but
they still see him. He is pressed against the wall, hard enough to bruise, but
not to vanish. He feels the warm wetness of urine running down his legs and he
knows he will die. His last thought is of his brother.
Before Dean had time to say anything, Sam asked: “Won't you be in danger too?”
The other man frowned. “I'm on borrowed time already. Makes my last days more
worthwhile. But you still have a life to live, you have time...” He stopped
talking and looked at the door like he had heard something. That was the first
time he ever saw fear in Dean's eyes.
“Stay here. Do not move.” Dean said with a stern look and left the hut, closing
the door firmly on his way out. Naturally, Sam ignored the warning and watched
through the little window in the door. The older man was struggling to walk
upright without his stick, the strain apparent in the rigid line of his back.
Three people in dark cloaks stood in front of the pillars, the man in the
middle spoke, Sam assumed it was a man because he was as tall as Dean. He
understood nothing of the conversation, the heavy winds of the moor howled too
loud. Dean seemed to answer because the man kept on speaking to him, but he
glanced towards the door ever so often. Sam had no idea what was happening and
resolved to open the door a bit to eavesdrop when he saw Dean taking a small
step forward. And another. He walked like he struggled through a storm,
fighting for each step. Or fighting to stay still.
Sam threw the door open, screamed “Stop” and both Dean and the man fell to
their knees. He rushed forwards to help Dean to his feet.
The man got up and looked at Dean pityingly like one would look at a dead cat.
A moment of sadness but ultimately of no greater notice than that. "Oh, he is
wasted on you." He had a posh accent, pitch black eyes and short hair that was
darker than Sam's. The man looked like he was in his forties, three-day
stubble, cocky smirk and rigged like he was expecting to meet the queen that
same evening. The emerald velvet of his vest stood out, tapered with silver and
black. The two girls at his side would have been pretty, if not for their cruel
eyes and bared teeth. "Give him to me."
"No,"Dean refused, leaning heavily on Sam's arm.
The man smiled but it never reached his eyes. "The circle won't hold forever.
Your power is running out." He came closer, steps elegantly like he was
dancing. "Do you really want this to be your last battle?" His condescending
tone had Sam's teeth on edge.
"It is the only fucking battle that matters." Dean's voice was shaking, but
there wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that he meant it.
The man and his goons turned around, walked a few steps into the night, and
vanished.
Dean seemed weakened in the aftermath, his limp worse than ever and Sam led him
straight to bed, He helped Dean undress, exhaling hard when he saw the other
man's back. Dean was very muscular beneath his loose-fitting clothes, but that
wasn't the reason Sam was shocked. The scar Sam had felt was so much bigger
than he had thought, bisecting Dean's whole back, the elevated pale lines
coming together to create a pentagram.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Dean said, sounding old and tired as he closed his eyes.
Sam tugged him in and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I can hear you thinking, just ask." The heavy blankets made him look small.
Sam smiled, relieved that Dean still had the strength to sass him. “Who was
that out there?”
"Crowley." Dean said the name like he intended to curse the person bearing it."
When my father died, I was in a bad spot. We had lost my little brother, Samuel
and my mom a year before to a fire and my dad couldn't accept it. He drank too
much and left me with nothing. I slept on the streets of New York for a month
and then I decided that morals are nice and everything, but I'd much rather
have food. I joined a gang. Nearly got myself killed on my first job too,
stabbed."
Sam didn't want to think about what his life would have been like on the
street. He had remained in an orphanage until he was three but then the
Wesson's had adopted him and from that point on he had lived in luxury. His
recent money troubles were tame compared to what Dean must have gone through.
Dean continued: “Crowley found me and stitched me back together. He delivered
me to a man named Azazel, said I would learn things there. Said I was something
special. Azazel gave me food and a place to sleep. I found a family with him,
orphans, rejects and thieves, and he was our mentor. We were all so happy
there, learning witchcraft and spells, it seemed like a dream to me. I looked
up to him, would have done anything he asked and did many things I wasn't proud
of.” The older man smiled softly, lost in the memories.
“Sure we had to steal a few things for him, hurt a few people, but it was way
better than what you had to do in the gangs. I thought I was truly blessed back
then.” He laughed, it was a sad, little sound. “I was stupid. When something
seems too good to be true, that's because it usually is.”
"Then, a few years later, Crowley came to visit. From then on Azazel took more
and more kids in, spent less and less time with each of us. The spells we
learned got more dangerous, required more power. We learned more blood magic
and curses and where we previously paid the price for those, he now found more
or less willing sacrifices we used. He demanded that we fight each other, fight
to the death. He said that he needed to find the best of us, the strongest,
that he had a special purpose for them. Naturally, he bribed us with gold and
fame, power, love, everything children that lost too much were starved for."
Fighting with his emotions, Dean swallowed silently before continuing, his
words harsh.
"But I had already been happy. I had friends and a home now. I didn't want
anything. All I wanted was for things to go back the way they were. I had no
desire to fight my brothers and sisters, so I fled. Azazel didn't let me go
that easy. With the bits of magic I knew, I tried to make a living, but people
are always wary of witches and I had to leave often. I traveled for some years
before I came here, and the people were even crueler. But I stayed." Sam
remembered the scared, green eyed boy and wished that he could have been there
for him. It felt wrong to not have dried his tears and dressed his scrapes. If
fact the very idea that they had led separate lives before seemed fundamentally
wrong to him.
"The village witch took me in, this was her hut." Dean's tone was colored with
gratitude as he gestured towards the shabby building around them. "She
continued to teach me the arts. I learned different things from her, smaller,
but more useful. How to cure aches, how to curse someone, without outright
killing them. How to heal injuries or make them worse. She died and since then
I became the resident witch." Dean didn't really look sad, but regretful.
“I'm sorry.” Sam took Dean's hand into his own and squeezed it softly, to let
him know that he wasn't alone now, and would never again be so.
Dean smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, well, not your fault. The villagers killed her
as she went to fetch food for us, fucking fanatics. Tried to burn the hut down
with me in it, but thankfully, it began raining once they left. The next day, a
young girl came to have her baby killed and I helped her, as I helped everyone
that sought my help since then. But that's the past. We need to concentrate on
the future. Go to bed, Sammy." He didn't want to leave. Sam wanted to stay here
with Dean, lay down on the bed next to him. To put his arms around him and keep
both their nightmares at bay. But that wasn't his place and he left to sleep on
the couch, once again.
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Yo, new chapter. Meet Franklin, you might know him from somewhere,
     cause I can't write original characters for shit.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for not keeping up my posting schedule. I hurt my back two
     summers ago, moving a fridge...
     No, I just pinched a nerve or something, and I couldn't get up for
     two weeks. I just read fanfic and watched shows, lying on my back the
     whole time, it was awesome, except for the excruciating pain. But I'm
     back now and posting should resume normally.
A few days later, as Sam came back from the forest, firewood in his arms, he
found a man standing by the door of the hut. His dense beard was well-groomed
and he was dressed in leather and linen, his belly protruding in evidence of
his wealth. The expression on his face spoke of equal parts intrigue and fear
but managed to put on a neutral mask as Sam approached. He seemed like he
hadn't quite made the decision to stay, but now that there was another one
here, he felt obligated to prove his courage.
Sam knocked on the door and Dean let them both in. As he put the branches away,
he wondered why the man could pass the stones when he, himself, had not been
able to. Maybe the barrier blocked the supernaturally gifted exclusively. If
there was one thing he was sure of, it was that the man was completely and
utterly normal.
Taking a seat on the wobbly wooden stool they offered him, his calm facade
broke down and the man looked around like a nervous animal, trying to keep both
Sam and Dean in his line of sight and find an escape route at the same time.
With his carefully waxed and curled mustache trembling, he resembled a fluffed
up hamster.
Sam had a hard time not to laugh, but Dean shot him a warning glance and so he
leaned against the table right next to Dean's chair, folding his arms
threateningly and schooling his features into a grim expression, the daunting
picture somewhat ruined by the insistent, bored tapping of his right foot.
This seemed to sit unwell with their guest. "Why are there two of you? I
thought there was only one witch." His voice had the maudlin undertone of a man
too often ignored in favor of others.
Dean ignored his worries with a dismissive gesture. “Oh he is a witch, I assure
you. The very best, I'm afraid. The witch to end all witches. He's also my
protector. I'm sure you remember what happened to the previous cutwife.”
“I had nothing to do with that.” The man stuttered.
Dean smirked. It was a familiar smirk for Sam. The one that meant that Dean
would say something threatening or hurtful and Sam would probably come out of
the conversation a total emotional wreck. Sam was glad that it wasn't him that
would be leaving in tears, for a change.
"Dear, dear Franklin." Dean made a long pause. "I know that. Otherwise, you
wouldn't be sitting here right now. You would be buried alive, in the dark, no
company but your own thoughts. Worms slowly eating away at your flesh, bugs
slurping your tears until your eyes looked like little raisins. Your lips eaten
away, and your nice smile crawling with roaches."
The room got progressively darker, more oppressive, Sam felt the touch of
Dean's magic and smiled inwardly at his theatrics. Franklin looked at Dean with
pure, undiluted horror, there was a sheen of nervous sweat on his face and his
fingers were painfully twisted together.
"Let's get to business," Dean said and with that, the room brightened once
again. "Love potion, right?"
Franklin finally stopped looking like he would get a heart attack and relaxed a
bit. Shifting back onto the chair where he had previously balanced at the edge
of the seat, ready to bolt. “How did you...” He mumbled, still without looking
directly at Dean and then stopped himself with a whispered, “Oh, right, witch.”
Dean pressed his palms together in his lap before he continued to speak. Sam
called it his Praying-for-patience-pose. “You have two choices. A potion, or a
curse. The potion, as long as she drinks it once every month, will make her
more suggestive to your charm. You still have to woo her the old way, though. “
Franklin seemed confused as to what that would entail but Dean offered no
further explanation.
Taking pity, Sam offered: "Bring her flowers or other small gifts, listen to
her when she talks, and just show her that she is important to you." Franklin
nodded gratefully. But just for a second, Sam would have sworn that there had
been a hint of annoyance in the downward tilt of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Dean drawled, “best listen to the guy with the dead girlfriend.” Never
in his life had Sam met someone he wanted to punch in the face with such
regularity. Pity he also wanted Dean's cock with the same regularity. Not that
he'd ever had it. Didn't change wanting it, though.
“She will still be her own person and she will not mindlessly agree with you.
She will also still expect to be treated with basic human decency, ignoring
little faults, but not abuse from you.” Dean said the last sentence with a
grave expression and there it was again, Franklin was definitely frowning.
 
February_15,_1883
Jess told Sam that she was supposed to marry Captain Charles Branson as they
were sitting together under their favorite cherry tree. His family was wealthy
and he would help to elate the Moore's social standing to new heights. More so
than Sam's borrowed Wesson heritage would. Sam was able to understand the
political reasons if nothing else.
And so he watched their romance unfold. Now, whenever they talked about boys,
Jess would dote on Charles' mustache, and it was a majestic one, Sam quite
agreed. Jessica with her blue eyes, pale complexion, blond hair and pastel
dresses and Branson with his lithe muscles, brown hair, beard and stylish suits
were a striking couple.
The two of them and Sam and Peter soon became fast friends. They would talk
much about their intent to travel, Peter wanted to go to Africa, like his
father had done so often, Sam wanted to travel anywhere, though his parents
wanted him to get a degree first and the Captain talked much about India. But
for all their talk Sam never thought further about the implications of their
conversations until one day, he realized his oversight.
If Charles went to India, Jess would, without a doubt, go with him. The both of
them were happy, and they would want to stay together. Sam would be left at
home until he finished his theology and philosophy degree and India was
terribly far away. He would lose his best friend.
But there was another thing that troubled Sam. His envy. Sam envied Jess for
the love and admiration that was so freely given to her. For the freedom to
travel with her soon to be husband and to begin a new life somewhere far away.
He envied her happiness, the kisses she and Charles shared, their closeness and
their conversations.
All Sam had was the pull, luring him with its dark promises. Why should soft
and gentle Jess be the one to have this adventure in her life, when Sam was so
much better suited for it?
 
That seems like too much work." Franklin was definitely displeased. "I'm only
here so I don't have to deal with her in the first place. I just want an easy,
simple live with her. I can't do that if she runs after every single one of her
dreams and aspirations. Petra wants to learn how to read, like that would help
her cook or wash or even care for our children. I'm not rich. I can't pay for a
maid to keep the house in order, while my wife fancies herself a scholar." At
this point, Sam's fingernails left red half moons imprinted in the meat of his
upper arms.
"Ahh, see, now we're talking. You want the love curse. It will change her
innermost self to become exactly what you desire." Dean's bright grin was
unsettling but his words pulled Franklin in like a fish on a hook. "If you want
an independent partner in crime, she will become that. If you want a devoted
housewife that'll bear your children, she'll become that. If you want a
helpless pet to care for, she'll become that. But don't come crying to me, when
you can't handle what she turns into. It's your head, not mine." The older man
went through one of the cabinets and fetched the box in which they kept the
curse ingredients. Every curse had different ones, but some, like cats teeth
and beech ash went into almost every curse bag.
Franklin's eyes were alight with want, Dean seemed very pleased with himself
and Sam felt violently ill. How could anyone do that to someone they claimed to
love?
Dean extended his open hand. "For the potion you will give me all the money you
brought and for the curse, that, and your happiest memory." Franklin emptied
his purse into the waiting palm and followed the path of the coin into Dean's
pocket with a longing gaze.
There was so much wrong with Dean's words, Sam didn't even know where to start.
It wasn't right to turn people into slaves for your own desire. And one's
deepest wishes were something best kept in the dark. They held power,
certainly, but it was a poisonous and destructive force that could enthrall a
person to the point of no return. He had never expected Dean to actually do
something so obviously evil.
He had known that Dean could cast this curse and many more, even darker ones,
but he never expected him to actually do it. Somehow, in his naive little mind,
Sam had assumed that Dean would turn these cases away. Humans were created in
god's image, and altering something as essential as a person's character wasn't
done easily. This would have far-reaching, dire consequences. Dean would have
to take Franklin's happiest memory because curses necessitated sacrifices.
Someone had to pay the price, and if it wasn't Franklin it would be Dean
himself.
However much appalled Sam was with the curse, he didn't want Dean to lose his
own happiest memory. He was very much aware that that made him a hypocrite, but
with Dean, he never reacted in any way justifiable. Nothing was easy anymore.
When Dean asked for the big knife, Sam fetched it for him. To his credit, he
did wonder what Dean wanted it for, but he just assumed that the other man
wouldn’t have asked if he didn't need it. It was probably used in some later
part of the ritual, maybe for chopping ingredients.
Dean instructed Franklin to lay down on the sofa flat on his back, which he
managed barely, with half of his bottom hanging over the edge. Sam knew that
feeling, he always had to sleep on his side because his shoulders wouldn't fit
otherwise. Dean then put a chair down next to Franklin's head and sat, casually
placing the tip of the knife at Franklin's temple.
The big knife lived up to its name. It was fifteen inches long, gleaming steel,
with a tip that was curved slightly upward and jagged looking teeth, beginning
five inches to the handle and sharpened to perfection. Sam had used it to
dismember the doe that Dean had caught in a trap yesterday, the thing went
through sinews, cartilage and even small bones like butter.
Franklin looked like he was ready to piss himself and croaked out a “Why are
you doing this?” Sam was equally baffled and Deans manic smirk wasn't helping
him to feel more calm about this.
"See, Franklin, I will now use this blade," Dean held the knife in front of
Franklin's eyes so he could look at it again, before putting it back at his
temple. The heavyset men was sweating like a pig and whimpered horrified noises
that made Sam almost pity him. Almost. Dean continued completely deadpan: "to
dig out the memory you owe me."
From then on Sam knew that something was seriously wrong. He had read about
taking a memory in Dean's books. It was done with a ritual, a special set of
runes and focussing intensely on the needed memory, retelling it, if necessary.
It would be insane to physically cut a memory out of the brain, aside from the
fact that no one knew where memories were stored exactly, and using this big a
knife would give the guy a lobotomy before finding anything.
"No, please no." Franklin gasped between sobs while Sam wondered if he should
intervene. He would have to if the guy continued to cry like that. There was a
blob of snot perched on his right cheek and it was very close to dropping. Sam
had to sleep on that couch later, dammit.
Dean nodded mock-sympathetically. "I really don't see why you would make such a
big deal out of me screwing around in your head, considering how very insistent
you were on fucking with Petra's."
He began cleaning the dirt under his fingernails with the tip of the blade,
always keeping it in Franklin's field of vision. ”Taking one memory from you is
nothing compared to changing her entire being. But you can't even go through
with that little bit of sacrifice, can you? ” Dean spat the accusation, green
eyes glowing with disgust, the knife twitching forward, cutting a deep, gaping
wound along Franklin’s cheekbone. It would make for a prominent scar, once
healed.
Satisfied with his knife work, Dean nodded and kicked against the backrest
which sent Franklin tumbling to the floor with a groan. He struggled to get up
and hurried towards the door, pressing the sleeve of his shirt against the
wound and cursing under his breath about demented witches. Dean shouted after
him: “I'm keeping the money, asshole, and don't even think about coming back.”
 
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Have some quiet alone time between Sam and Dean, and also some smut.
Chapter Notes
     By the way, the plant lore in this is as accurate as I could make it,
     but the cartomancy is mostly random with a little inspiration from
     soothsaying websites.
One evening, as another satisfied woman left the hut with a poison to get rid
of her husband, Sam asked Dean: "Aren't you concerned about your soul?" He'd
grown up with his parent's teachings, and they made sure that he knew about the
fragility of the human soul. Evil deeds would weigh it down, good ones made it
light and in the end, it either floated to heaven or dropped to hell. Sam
didn't necessarily believe this, but after having irrefutable evidence that the
devil wasn't just a nasty fairytale creature, he wasn't as septic as he'd once
been.
Dean huffed a disbelieving laugh. "You are really one to talk, Antichrist boy."
He gestured towards the chair next to him and Sam sat down, placing his palms
on his thighs because his near constant fiddling annoyed Dean. "We don't know
the story behind her wish. Maybe her man hit and abused her. Maybe he ignored
her. Maybe she didn't love him. Maybe she loves another, or maybe she's just
plain bored. It's not our place to judge. She paid the price and that's all we
need to know."
“But isn't that just ignoring the issue? The morally questionable aspect of our
work doesn’t just vanish, just because you don't think about it.” He had no
idea why he cared so much. Well, he did know. When it came to Dean he was way
too involved not to care.
"Morality isn't quite the same thing for us witches." He didn't look at Sam,
instead, he was focused on the gnarly tree outside. "Most people see their
deeds as either bad or good, black or white, but in reality, it's much more of
a gradient. You have to consider the intent, and the outcome of it, too. Is a
well-meant decision that leads to a negative conclusion inherently good or bad?
In my opinion, it's both, but you could just as well make a strong argument for
either extremes."
Sam nodded and Dean finally turned to him. He seemed to enjoy teaching, because
in moments like these when he found Sam attentive and involved, he got this
expression that was proud, but also nostalgic and regretful. Like he remembered
receiving the same lessons, and he was glad that he could pass them on
differently.
“Most witches are morally ambiguous, we do things for our own reasons, and they
can be as good or bad as we decide. But there are those of us, that have
abandoned themselves and consequently lose their humanity. These Nightcomers
rejected god and serve Lucifer above all else. We Daywalkers, however, still
walk in gods light, no matter how murky it is when it reaches us.”
Sam gave him a skeptical look and received a somewhat indignant eye roll in
return. "Like I wouldn't have noticed if you'd gone dark side. We may have
killed with our gift and we may have come close to temptation. We may have
dabbled in blood magic and cursework, but we paid the price. God has not
forsaken us, but we are always in danger to venture one step too far into the
darkness." The older man leaned back into the wooden structure of the chair,
relaxing his posture, spreading his legs and Sam's breath hitched.
How someone this pretty could even exist was a mystery to him. He wanted to
look at Dean forever and yet it always hurt, too. Seeing the myriad of freckles
on his skin, the strong cut of his jaw. It was a sacrilege seeing him like
this, sprawled on the chair, no ounce of tension left. No human should be
allowed to gaze at something that so clearly had been created by a higher
power.
“The Lord's prayer brings comfort to us, but to those who have left his light,
it is damaging. A Nightcomer will flinch, if they are confronted with the name
of the lord, with holy water or a cross.” It was hard to believe Dean when Sam
felt so far removed from god now that he might as well never believed at all.
He was tainted by his experiences, his faith in tatters, weak and insubstantial
compared to the horrors in his dreams.
“You know about the pull, the thing that constantly whispers sweet promises, if
only you were to give in?" Sam nodded. Of course, he knew.
"Consider yourself lucky it's still there. That means you haven't given in
yet." Dean reached over and petted Sam's head a little too rough, smiling as
the younger man tried to escape. "We all want to do terrible things, beautiful
things, great things. It's even harder for us witches to resist because we
already have a taste of the power we could wield. We are like addicts, drinking
a sip of beer every day, so we don't chug on the bottle of whiskey we really
want."
 
July_24,_1885
On the day before Jess' wedding, Sam tried to kiss Peter. They had become
closer over the last year, left out whenever the loving couple wanted privacy.
But Sam never shared all his emotions with Peter. He tried to be a perfect
picture of himself, a polished jewel, where Jess knew all his edges, Now that
Jess had Charles, his fear of rejection was so strong it paralyzed him at
times.
The Moore's estate brimmed with people and flowers, food and presents. Sam
hated the signs of the change that was about to come. He didn't know most of
the guests, as they were friends and family of Charles and Jessica's parents.
Peter seemed likewise inclined to leave the busy wedding preparations behind,
and so they fled to the hedge maze together.
 He fondly remembered the times Jess and he had hidden here, between the dark
green bushes, frantic nannies shouting after them. They came to a halt in the
shadows and Peter confessed his struggle to show his father that he was grown
up and strong enough to live his own life. It was his deepest wish to go to
Africa with Nicolas and earn some respect for himself there. He saw himself a
discoverer, where Nick was a conqueror.
 Sir Nicolas, however, was disinclined to take his son with him, and Sam saw
why. Peter was a weak and fragile man, too emotional, too soft for the wild and
dangerous country. Where his father was a distinguished authority with the
muscle to back it up, Peter was all empathy and wiry grace. But the young man
was beautiful in his own right, his emotions like a magnetic pull, disarming
and attractive.
Sam witnessed Peter's turmoil, his frustration bright and volatile, exploding
stars illuminating darkness. Without thinking he blurted out: “Stay here with
me.” He knew it wasn't right. He wasn't right for Peter, but if he tried, if he
could just manage to fit in, maybe he could keep him here. Keep him safe.
 "I can't," Peter answered like Sam knew he would, and still it hurt. "I have
to go, I must prove my worth to my father." Sam heard only: "I'm leaving you
too."
 In his despair, he cupped Peter's jaw, pulled him forward and kissed him
deeply.
For a second he let himself consider this life. A life with Peter wher7e he
could be normal. Maybe they would adopt children, or dogs, maybe Peter would
give up and travelling and Sam would give up on all the visions and all the
unused potential inside of him. Maybe it would be pleasant and content. Maybe
they would both resent each other forever. There was no way to know.
 But Peter backed away and hurried back to the house, one last apologetic
glance over his shoulder. It ached in Sam's heart, and yet there was also a
relief.
 
 Heat, dust, and his throat feels dry. The thought of water seems too far
removed at that moment, that he doubts he would recognize its cooling wetness
if he somehow manages to obtain it. He is lying in the sand and it feels like
the world stopped turning. His skin is tanned, his body failing and   almost
painfully slim, his hair is long and unkempt, and his beard a tangled mess. His
appearance a testament to the harsh desert surrounding him. As his eyes close
slowly, the life draining out of him, blood oozing into the desert sand, he
thinks that his father would surely be proud of him now.
 
 Sam recognized the vision and knew what it meant. He tried to pray for Peter,
but he had seen the future and knew that there was no way to change it.
 
--00--
On one of their frequent walks through the woods, Dean tried to teach him the
Verbis Diablo. It didn't seem like he was learning a completely foreign
language at all. It came to him naturally, nothing like French where he had to
repeat each word until it annoyed him to death. The Verbis Diablo was
completely different than any other language he had ever studied, in fact, he
doubted that it was a language at all. A means of communication, certainly, but
it didn't follow any grammatical or logical rules.
Rather than Sam expressing himself through the words, the words were expressing
themselves through him. The growled syllables and hissed sounds were influenced
by his intent, but they were not mastered by him. If the language found his
choice of words or the meaning behind them objectionable, it would simply
change them to suit itself.
Which was why he had just proposed a bout of wild, passionate outdoor sex to
Dean instead of asking him about the weather like he had originally intended.
Dean answered him, one eyebrow arched, cheeks slightly red, the language
flowing flawlessly and strangely compelling from his lips. “You have to be in
control at all times, always focus on what you want to convey. It's easier if
you concentrate on the feeling, rather than the pure meaning of the words.
Accept a few of the suggestions the language presents you with and add these to
your own.”
He switched back to English and Sam felt bereft for it. Dean could have recited
intricate poetry and it wouldn't have the same power, the same emotion, or
allure the Verbis Diablo employed effortlessly. “That's enough for today. One
mustn’t use the devil's tongue frivolously. You felt the flow behind it, the
seduction. You want to speak it and speak it and soon Lucifer's words will be
the only ones on your tongue and so the Daywalker becomes a Nightcomer.”
Dean pointed to a plant with pink, small blossoms, all around the upper part of
their long stems. Sam didn't need more prompting. "Bethany. Burned at the
midsummer solstice for purification and protection. Sprinkled near doors and
windows for a protective barrier against evil spirits. Put the ash in a small
pouch and place under your pillow to dispel nightmares."
They were interrupted by a cart pulled by two horses. It carried four men, all
of them tired looking, probably on their way home from the fields. They made
the cross sign as they passed, one of them spitting at Dean's face. Sam nearly
vibrated with rage, but Dean wiped the saliva away with his sleeve, completely
unaffected.
“As long as I lived, I will never understand people.” He muttered. “Why they
are so scared of all things different? Sometimes I think it's because they want
to be something special, but don't have the guts for it. That's probably
arrogant of me.”
That evening when Sam washed with a bucket of tepid water he couldn't keep his
thoughts from roaming into dangerous territory. He didn't know if his arousal
was a repercussion of the Verbis Diablo or if he was just sexually frustrated
enough to do something he would have shied away from, otherwise. But as the
cloth traveled over his skin, leaving a wet, softly glistening trail, he
couldn't resist imagining Dean guiding its path.
Would he blush at the sight or would his eyes roam freely, hungry with the same
desire Sam felt so often? Would he trace Sam's muscles leisurely or would his
touch be proficient and quick? Would he take the time to wash Sam's hair,
massaging his scalp and running his fingers through the wet strands?
The thought experiment dissolved quickly when Sam's wandering fingers wrapped
around his hardening cock.
--oo--
They often spoke in the evenings, when there was nothing to do but listen to
the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wind. Both of them were
propped against the solid wooden dinner table, standing in front of the
fireplace. On the table were Dean's beautiful tarot cards, randomly spread.
Dean reached for one of the cards and showed it to Sam. “What does this one
mean?”
"The lovers." He didn't have to look at Dean to know that he was leering, as
his humor consisted mostly of crude puns. Sam himself wasn't much better since
he found it endearing instead of annoying and smiled indulgently. "It is a
symbol of a connection, not necessarily a romantic one, it's a union, a
friendship, or a symbiosis. If two people work together to achieve something,
if they are true and fair to each other, give and take, there is little to
stand in their way. It also symbolizes the natural balance of things, man and
woman, day and night, good and evil, nature needs both in equal measure."
The next card pictured a man hanging by his feet from a t-shaped tree. One leg
was stretched, the other bent, both of his hands clasped behind his back, a
halo around his head.
"The hanged man," Sam answered the silent question. "It means to believe, even
if there's no hope. To accept pain, knowing that it is only temporary. And to
wait and embrace change as it comes."
Dean nodded, picking another card from the ones on the table and looking at it
with a frown. “It really shouldn’t be possible picking the same card that
often.” He revealed it to Sam.
“The devil. A warning to recognize the evil and our lives and our minds and get
rid of it. A reminder to stay strong in the face of temptation and accept our
potential to do good, as well as bad.”
Dean shook his head slowly. “I sometimes wonder if you really experience the
world like this, or if you can't bear to see it any another way.” Dean's glance
was soft and his voice rough in the evening. The deliberate cruelty Sam
witnessed during the day seemed to disappear with the light.
“What happens when we give in?” The question burst out him and he immediately
wished he could take it back. He didn't want to ruin the good mood with his
whining.
"Well." Dean crossed his arms and glanced out of the window, into the darkness
of the night. "You become the Boy King. Your coming will mark the apocalypse.
You are Lucifer's vessel, so he will take possession of you. I don't know how
mentally strong you are, as I'm no match for you in that respect, but best case
is you stay yourself, crueler, maybe, certainly more powerful. Worst case he
takes over everything and you will be a prisoner in your own mind, able to
watch but never to  interfere with what he does. When the world has been
ravaged by the fighting between demons and angels, when all the dark creatures
of the night have fed and the last of humanity has been decimated by plagues,
only then is your fate fulfilled.”
“What happens to you?” Sam kept his voice steady, somehow.
“I will become a Nightcomer, I shall use my magic to serve first Lucifer, then
myself, in that order. If I should be a lacking servant to him, if I’m not
powerful or ruthless enough, I will host a demon who shall feed on my strength
and serve Lucifer in my stead.” There was no sign that any of this upset him in
any way. It was like he already made his peace with this outcome. Like he
expected it.
Sam felt his temper rise. "How can say that so calmly? You wouldn't even try to
fight. You would just give up and let yourself be taken, be used, again. " By
the end, he nearly screamed the words.
The older man shrugged. “It either happens or it doesn't. I should have died a
long time ago. My reason to live died a long time ago.”
Sam stepped in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. "Does this mean nothing to
you?" he whispered, the words echoing in his head: "Do I mean nothing to you?"
Dean didn't answer and Sam pressed a hard kiss against his lips, biting into
the plump flesh of his lower lip, tearing into it, willing Dean to respond.
Dean tried to shove him away, but at the same time he returned the kiss, blood
and spit shared between them like ambrosia. He welcomed Sam into his mouth with
sweet surrender, and though he gasped “We really shouldn't...” on his next
breath, it didn't sound convincing for either of them.
With one shove Sam pushed Dean backward onto the table, scattering the cards
some more and bending to whisper "Shut up" into his ear, nibbling at the skin.
The movement brought his dick in contact with Dean's stomach and he groaned at
the delicious friction.
Their lips met again and Dean's mouth was wet and yielding, the slight iron
tang, a delicious addition to Dean's own sweetness. His tongue tasted like all
of Sam's favorite things as it intertwined with his own, rosemary and sage from
their shared dinner, the lemon balm leaves Dean chewed whenever he needed a
treat and something musky and addicting that was just Dean. Every one of Sam's
hip thrusts Dean retaliated by a rough stab of his tongue. It was a fight, felt
as violent as some of their more serious arguments and Sam couldn't figure out
who was winning. He couldn't think beyond a litany of  fuckdeanwantmore,
couldn't imagine ever not having this    ,     having Dean    .
Each slick glide of the other man's tongue against his own caused another drop
of precome soaking trough the rough wool of Sam's pants. He was painfully hard,
too many layers of clothing separating them, and yet neither bothered to get
rid of them. Dean's irregular pushes against him threw his rhythm off, it was a
struggle to get enough stimulation. Embarrassing little whimpers and desperate
pleas fell from his lips and Dean devoured them all, licked them up like
sweets.
Sam's orgasm overtook him without any kind of warning, one second he was
rutting against Dean frantically, the next he was shuddering and clinging to
his body like a lifeline, trying to stay afloat. He drowned, felt the darkness
taking him, numbing his racing thoughts, muting all sounds. It felt divine,
this complete surrender, being so vulnerable, so dependent on another person.
He came to kneeling alone on the floor, with no sign of Dean anywhere. Sam
searched even the upper levels of the house, Dean's small bed with its rugged
wool blankets and furs was empty. There was no trace of the other man anywhere.
After one night of panic and restless, nightmare-plagued sleep on the couch,
Dean returned. He behaved like he always did, rude and painfully honest with
the one exception that he didn't answer any of Sam's questions regarding the
previous evening.
 
 
 
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sorry for the delay. Life is really busy and I'm not quite recovered
     health-wise.
When Sam came back from his morning run, hair still wet from the wash bucket
outside, he found a woman with Dean. They sat close together, whispering and
laughing, it was such a foreign concept that Dean would have a friend amongst
the people living in the village, that Sam couldn't keep the surprise off his
face.
The woman met his gaze and she frowned immediately, Sam had no idea what he had
done to earn her ire but it was just at well since Dean didn't make any attempt
to introduce him or call him over.
So he continued on with his duties, inspecting all the bundles of dried herbs
for mold, checking if they had enough firewood left, washing the clothes and
hanging them outside since the sun shined and that was rare enough in the moor.
When he was finished he took a book about rare plants and their healing
properties out of Dean's shelf upstairs and settled down on the sofa to read
it. Placing his head on the armrest and putting his feet up on the cushions
just to annoy Dean, who always claimed that that was a privilege reserved for
the host only. Not that Dean even looked over to him once.
He didn't try to overhear their conversation, but the hut was small and he
couldn't really help it. Or so he told himself.
"You owe me, Dean," she said and pouted her pink lips. Sam wanted to believe
that she was ugly, but she really wasn't. She had gray eyes that shifted to
pale green or blue with the light, fine features, high cheekbones and ash blond
hair that fell to her shoulders in slight waves. She looked like Sam imagined
Dean would look as a woman, beautiful and capable. It was depressing how good
they looked together, how well they fit. Her classy, gray velvet dress hugged
her in all the right places, it accentuated her small waist, and the skirt
flowed like water as she leaned even closer into Dean's space. He was ogling
her cleavage with barely concealed interest and didn't mind her closeness at
all.
This one probably wouldn't even have to pay for what she wanted. Dean had told
him that he accepted sexual services as payment if the lady was pretty enough,
with a wink and a blinding smile that stunned Sam with its radiance. It was
always a bit of a shock to notice how handsome Dean actually was, not that Sam
was able to forget that fact very often.
"Yeah, I know sweetheart," His voice was rough and low, liquor smooth. Ex-
fucking-cuse me, Sam thought. Dean had never graced him with any endearments,
all he got was the occasional Sammy and until today that had been enough, but
now he wasn't so sure anymore. "I just don't know what I can do. This isn't a
one solution problem that you have. You need different curses and potions and
probably spells, too."
“That's why I came to you in the first place. You said that you owed me a
favor, so do your fucking job and get me out of this.” There was a hint of
hounded anguish in the woman's tone, and a cruel tilt to her lips that told Sam
she wasn't joking.
Dean placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, maybe to calm her down, maybe
because he wanted to touch her. Both pissed Sam off to an unreasonable degree.
"I said once that I would do everything for you, Bela, but if I get you out of
this, we are done. Whatever I owe you will be repaid in full and you leave me
alone after that. I can't have you coming here every year demanding another
favor." What was that about? Sam wished, not for the first time, that he knew
more about Deans past.
Bela stood with a stiff nod. Her body language closed off where it previously
was open, even flirtatious. Sam had seen that in women of the trade a lot,
affectionate during an interaction, guarded and ready to fight at every other
time. He wondered what her home life had to be when this was her coping
mechanism. “You have one month, I will stop by once a week to check up on your
progress.” She gave Sam a nod too and then left the hut, head held high.
The older man got up and sauntered over to where Sam was sitting on the sofa.
On sunny days his leg didn't hurt much and at those times his swagger just
burst out of him. Sam didn't like the moor much because sunny days were rarer
than caviar out here. Dean picked up Sam's feet and instead of dropping them
rudely to the floor like he usually did, he sat down with a sigh and then
placed them in his lap. That more than anything was a sign that something was
eating at him. Sam couldn't just ask, though, because that would lead to Dean
changing the topic and laughing about him and his delicate sensibilities.
He wiggled his toes a little and miraculously, Dean began to knead his feet
through the socks. It was as relaxing as the warm foot baths his nanny had
prepared for him in the winter and Sam wanted it to never stop. He was on his
thirtieth page before Dean finally decided to speak. "That was Bela." There was
a fondness in his voice but also an odd sort of quiet acquiescence.
“She has influence in the village and uses it to protect me. I helped her get a
few special things for her shop. She sells things that are difficult to obtain,
mostly.” Dean's eyes shifted suspiciously and Sam guessed that some of Bela's
merchandise wasn't exactly legal.
"This job for her will be dangerous, Sammy, and if you don't want to be
involved, I'd totally get it." Dean tilted his head, so it rested on the back
of the sofa. His pale throat was so inviting that Sam fought with himself not
to suck a bruise into the unmarked skin.
Shaking his head to dislodge the thought he asked Dean to tell him what Bela
wanted.
“10 years ago she made a deal with a crossroads demon so that she would be the
one in charge of her family’s affairs.” Sam nodded. Women didn't inherit their
family’s wealth, even if they were the firstborn, their husbands were the ones
in power. “The demon gave her ten years to enjoy her independence. Her husband
leads a firm in London and visits every two years, while she manages her
family’s fortune and the estate. In about a month her time is up.”
It was obvious where this went and Sam stared at Dean in disbelief as he
continued. "We have to get rid of the hellhound that will hunt her and find a
way to convince her husband to stay in America, leaving her to her own
devices." Dean finally opened his eyes and glanced in Sam's direction.
“Right,” Sam said, deadpan, “get rid of a hellhound. Are you completely fucking
crazy?”
Dean's puppy dog eyes were his weakness but considering the canine topic, it
failed to have the usual impact. “We have to do something,” Dean said,
expression turning cold, faced with Sam's refusal. “we can't just let her die.”
Normally Sam was all for saving people, but hellhounds were a serious danger to
them both, and he wasn't ready to sacrifice Dean's or his own life for anyone.
"You know as well as me that there is nothing we can do. The only one who can
call off hellhounds is the demon that holds her contract, or Lucifer himself.
And I won't ask Lucifer for a favor just so you can score some thank-you-for-
saving-my-life-sex. If she is stupid enough to make a deal with a demon, it's
her own fault."
"I'm not going to let this go, Sam. I have to find a way." He stood and in the
process dumped Sam's feet on the ground. Sam wanted to groan in frustration.
The older man's expression was determined and even though he had insisted again
that he wouldn't resent Sam for declining to help, the mood in the hut worsened
considerably over the next few days. Dean spent all his time pouring over books
he knew by heart in hopes to find a solution, ignoring Sam completely.
When Bela came by after six days and Dean had nothing to show for all his
research, she yelled and pleaded, going so far as to take a swing at Dean in
her despair.
Sam had never seen the other man so broken-hearted. However much Sam didn't
want to be involved with this, he realized that he already was. It hurt his
feelings to be faced with a person Dean so obviously adored, but he wasn't able
to stand idly by any longer. He had to help if only to see Dean happy again.
Just as soon as he had decided, Dean called for him. He followed the hopeful
voice up the stairs and found the older man sitting in his bed, an unfamiliar
book in his lap. “Bela got me a few new books and I found a ritual that might
work. It should summon the demon holding her contract.”
Answering Sam's panic he raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Don't worry,
I took every precaution and I won't summon it here. I just wanted to tell you
to keep the doors closed and stay inside the house. The bloodstones will
protect you.”
--oo--
Of course, he followed Dean into the night and watched the other man prepare
the summoning ritual, drawing a devil's trap onto the forest floor with animal
blood.
The man appearing in the middle of the bloody pentagram was an old friend. His
superior smirk was familiar and his elegant fashion sense too, as well as his
posh accent.
“Dean, you could have just called. No reason for this...” Crowley gestured
towards the trap.
Dean had until now hidden his surprise well, but Sam saw the strain. “I only
want to renegotiate Bela's deal with you.”
"Yeah...no." The demon glanced around the forest with a disgusted expression.
As he passed the point where Sam was hiding behind a tree he did a double take.
Dean looked over his shoulder and then raised a questioning eyebrow, to which
Crowley shrugged. Sam exhaled in relief. "You have nothing to trade." He said
it like he was speaking to a slow child and Sam ground his molars on Dean's
behalf.
"Look, kid, I always liked you." The demon winked and Dean rolled his eyes.
"Normally, I would offer you a deal for her life, but as things stand, that's
no option. Your soul belongs to another. So you will have to just deal with the
fact, that she's dog chow soon. Anyhow, I don't like being reminded of my early
career choices," He murmured: "Crossroads demon, what was I thinking?" before
continuing: "So why don't you just let me out of here? I have actual things to
do, souls to collect, demons to discipline."
When there was no answer forthcoming, Crowley nodded, before he bent his neck
to look at the sky. Seconds later the first raindrop landed on Sam's nose. The
devil's trap washed away, and the demon saluted, vanishing with a gleeful "See
you later, boys."
Sam still pondered the conversation when the pale moonlight before him went
completely dark. He looked up to find a very angry Dean standing in front of
him. He yelled at Sam all the way back to the hut for being so reckless.
 
July 24, 1885
On the night before Jess' Wedding, Sam left his bed in the guest wing ofthe
Moore'smansion because he couldn't sleep. The nightmares were too intense and
the possibility that every bad dream might as well have been a vision instead
robbed him of any rest he could have had. He slid into black cotton trousers
and padded along the corridor's barefoot, trying to quiet his mind. Something
lured him towards the salon on the second floor. In the moonlight, the deep
blue and illuminating gold seemed oppressive, like an ocean ready to swallow
him whole. It took him a few seconds to notice Charles sitting on the lounge.
The soon-to-be groom enjoyed one last glass of whiskey before his wedding.
He felt the Captain's eyes on his naked torso and he wanted to run because he
knew exactly where this would lead. Instead, he smiled, and most of the time
his smiles were shy and crooked, but that evening he was all confident allure.
Charles followed him into the room where Jess' family kept all of their mounted
animals on tables and in showcases. Sam had always felt that the room had a
special atmosphere, the quiet hum of potential.
"I always give them a name first," Sam whispered and Charles, his uniform
jacket the color of barely coagulated blood, draw nearer. "A name has power."
Stroking over the soft wings of a hawk, he felt the caress of the feathers as
they ran through his fingers like water. "I named him Ariel, the spirit in the
Tempest. A creature of air and magic, bound in its power only by the folly of
men."
Charles smirked, in the darkness, his mouth appeared wet like an open wound.
"And do you always go for the predators?"
"Jessica recreated the cute and fluffy ones, bunnies, squirrels and the like."
Sam gestured towards a white rabbit, right next to the hawk on the oak wood
table. His voice crept through the darkness, smoke curling on a mirror. "But
the one's with a taste for meat were always mine."
He would never speak like that, would never say something so lewd and yet he
felt his lips shaping the syllables, carving them into the silence.
For the second time that day, he held a man's face in his hands and pulled it
in for a kiss. Charles mustache prickled on Sam's skin and he thought of how
much he and Jess had in common now, how this finally belonged to him, too. The
other man tugged Sam's pants down with decisive and none too gentle movements.
He opened his fly, not patient enough to get the stiff, uniform dress pants all
the way off while licking into Sam's mouth with a deep groan.
The other was strong, buff in a way that only military men were, and he hoisted
Sam onto the table without much trouble. As Sam leaned back, he saw Ariel's
amber eyes watching overhead while his dick stiffened with every rough pinch of
Charles' nails scraping over his chest. They rutted against each other without
restraint, didn't bother with the preparation for a real fuck. All of that
would take too long.Timethey didn't want and didn't have.Timethat would lead to
thinking about this, and then someone would want to stop. And he didn't want it
to stop.
Sam's skin was slick with sweat, his cockweepinga steady flow of precome. In-
between violent kisses their breathing had become labored, they gasped into
each other's mouths, trading shivering moans. It was disgusting and truly
abhorrent and yet it felt as good as nothing else ever had. For this feeling,
Sam could risk everything. For this, he could walk away from god, and gladly
so.
His eyes caught movement, Jess was standing in the doorway, her frail form
shuddering, either from the cold or the shock of their betrayal. Sam saw silent
tears running down her horrified face, saw her heart break, and he felt
relieved. She would stay with him and she would lead the same ordinary life as
him. No great adventures in India, no perfect husband. Finally, Sam was the
desirable one, Sam was the beautiful one with the bright future.
Charles bit hard into Sam's right nipple and his back arched off the table. He
came with a drawn out sigh while wondering if Jessica's tears would taste as
sweet as they felt, as her retreating form vanished into the night's shadows
like an apparition.
The next day, Jess canceled her wedding. Sam lay in his bed, vomiting up what
little liquid he'd managed to drink almost instantly, hoping and praying that
the last night had been a dream. He relived every moment of it in pain,
wondering how he could have done something so out of character, something so
cruel to his best friend.
When he came to apologize, Sir Nicolas shut the gate in Sam's face, his ever
amused expression turning cold at the gravity of Sam's transgression. There
would be no forgiveness for him here.
Sam told himself that it was better this way, Jess would have never accepted
his apology. At least this way he spared himself the heartbreak of her
righteous accusations, even if his heart felt ripped to tatters already.
--oo--
Despite Crowley's insistence, Dean didn't give up. They had solved one problem
with a memory charm and a few curse bags. Bela's husband now believed that his
wife was utterly revolting in appearance and which would hopefully lessen his
desire to visit. And should he ever come to America, trying to interfere with
his wife's business, he would find that her associates and contacts remained
loyal to her only, caught in a delicate web of blackmailing and well-informed
threats.
The only remaining problem was the hellhound and neither Dean nor Sam could
find any way to get out of it. Bela got more distraught with every fruitless
ritual they tried.
With each new day, the atmosphere in the hut became more oppressive. Bela
visited more often and left empty handed each time. The self-assured woman
became gaunter with each visit, her elegant dresses hanging like leaves on her
too thin frame. She winced with every sound and her gaze flickered around the
hut wandering from the door to the windows and the dark corners and then back
to the door. Sam almost felt sorry for her. If it weren't for the fact that she
spent more time than ever with Dean. They poured over books together arguing
and agreeing in turns, always pressed side to side.
His jealousy became a living thing that grew bigger with each new instance of
closeness between them, with each time Sam was ignored in favor Bela's demands.
His mood was snappish most of the time and his words aimed to hurt. He disliked
himself for it, but the pull fed on negative emotions and he had far too many
as of late.
The last week before the contract was due Dean asked Bela to stay with them. It
was more secure because of all the protection signs and the bloodstones. Sam
was one blow up away from walking out, but due to some wonder, Dean left Bela
his bed, while he took the couch, which left Sam with the floor. At least he
slept next to Dean now. Sam tried to feed as much of his power into the
bloodstones as he dared, the strain to maintain the barrier showed when even
the smallest magical effort made Dean breath heavier.
During the last week, the only thing keeping Sam from knocking Dean out and
fleeing with him was the knowledge that the other man would never forgive him
for it. During the nights, when the hellhound howled and scratched at the stone
pillars, and the tortured trees creaked while fighting the winds, Sam lay awake
and hoped. Hoped that they would somehow survive this. He even hoped that Bela
would die fast and that the hounds would leave after killing their target so
that he and Dean could survive unscathed.
 
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     This one fought with me, and I'm still not entirely happy with it,
     but it has porn, so it can't be that bad, right? Right.
The last day dawned with a dark red sun. Dean was sitting on the couch, groggy
from another wakeful night, while Sam brought two cups of tea over from the
fireplace. Neither of them had slept. Only Bela managed to find some much-
needed rest as the sun started its slow ascent upon the foggy moors.
"Blood will be spilled today," Dean muttered.
"Let's hope not," Sam answered and handed Dean a cup. He wasn't the only one
who felt the potential for violence in the air. "Dean, we can still leave." Sam
pleaded.
"I'm not going to let Bela die. I owe her my life, and I intend to fight for
hers." Despite his steely tone, Dean looked at him with soft eyes. Sam wanted
him with an intensity that both scared and amazed him. For Dean, there was no
limit, no moral or ethical or personal rule he wouldn’t break. "Just go, Sammy.
You are young, you have a chance to get out of this."
"No," Sam answered before he even made the conscious decision to do so. He took
a sip of peppermint tea to hide his frustration. Of course, he wouldn't go. Not
while Dean was still here. "You won't get rid of me that easy."
"But..." Dean was winding up to start to one of his endless tirades, so Sam
jumped in. There was no way to stop Dean when he was in the deep of an
argument. He had argued people into leaving with three curses and four herb
remedies when all they initially wanted was a tea for pain.
"I'm sure, Dean. You won't leave her and won't leave you. We might as well all
fight together. As much as you can fight against hellhounds, anyway." Sam even
resisted Deans pleading look, but it would have taken a stronger man than him
to not hug him for one last time when they could both be dead by evening.
They had collected a great deal more info on the beasts over their weeks of
research, but nothing that really helped them. The only person able to see the
hellhounds were the demons that commanded them, as well as their intended
victim, which made them hard to fight. There was nothing that could kill or
even harm them, no ritual, no curse or spell. The only thing that was rumored
to work was a demon blade and they had no idea where to even get such a thing.
The only person to ever survive a hellhound attack had only done so because the
demon had called the hound off in the last minute. And betting on Crowley's
mercy to survive was a pretty foolish thing to do.
Goofer dust and salt could hold them off, but the dust wasn't as heavy as the
salt crystals and every breeze of wind could erode a dust line. Devil's
shoestring was another alternative, but all of these were temporary measures
for a permanent problem. The hellhounds, once they had a victim's scent, would
not give up until they had ripped that person's soul out of their body. And if
Bela ever wanted to leave the hut, they would have to fight. There was no other
solution.
They spent the rest of the morning huddled together on the couch with Sam's arm
around Dean's shoulders and Dean's head rested on Sam's chest. It was warm and
cozy, and just for a few moments, Sam was able to forget the danger in which
they remained.
That was until the hound broke through the bloodstones. Sam felt as though
someone had cut off one of his limbs. The pain was so intense, that for a
moment; his vision blurred white. For weeks he had felt his and Dean's power
pulse through the stones, protecting their home together. He had felt every
visitor that crossed the pillars and every mouse that hurried past them on
their search for food and rest. The awareness, the companionship was gone now,
as was the warmth of Dean's magic and Sam felt weaker for it.
It had to be even worse for Dean because he had fainted the moment the hound
breached the circle. Sam reclined Dean's lifeless form, so he lay flat on his
back and immediately set another, smaller circle of Goofer dust around the
couch. Seconds later, the beast was at the door, scratching and snarling, it's
jaws snapping shut with a sound like bones breaking. The sound brought Bela
running down the stairs in a panic.
When she spotted Deans unconscious body, she looked at Sam in terror, as though
she actually believed that Sam was responsible for it. “What happened to him?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper and Sam had to make an effort to even hear
her over the constant barking of the hellhound.
He replied with barely concealed anger while setting another line with salt
around the couch and reinforcing it with the only three twigs of Devil's
Shoestring they had. “I'm guessing the barrier took too much strength to
maintain. And instead of letting me help, he tried to force it to hold on his
own and passed out from the strain. He'll wake up once his magic has
replenished a bit.”
Bela nodded and took a deep, steadying breath, but her voice still shook as the
hound crashed against the door over and over, rattling its hinges. "What do we
do?"
“You could still give up and let it rip you apart.” Sam aimed for casual but
his tone missed that by a mile. It came out way too serious and Bela frowned.
"Look, I know you hate me, but I have no one else. There is no one that would
even help me against something so dangerous. I came to Dean because I knew he
would take his debt seriously." There were tears in her eyes and she wiped them
away with an impatient gesture. She looked like Dean in that instant. Broken
and hurt but far too stubborn to let it show.
Sam sighed. His devotation to Dean was the only reason he was still here. But
Bela was aware of that, she probably counted on it. "I will do what I can for
you, but if it's your life or his, you know who I'll pick." She nodded and Sam
went to fetch the two iron blades that were their only means of defense if it
came to actual combat. Iron was about as helpful as wood against Hellhounds,
but it wasn't like the hound would ignore him, just because Bela was the
intended victim. It would try to defend itself if Sam came for it.
He gave one of the blades to Bela and her hand curled around it with a
familiarity that spoke of practice. Sam approved. Maybe there was a chance for
them. Maybe.
Then the door gave and they both flinched. Sam had a moment to feel surprised
that he could see the hellhound too. There was probably more demon in him than
he wished to admit. As the hellhound prowled along the half circle of salt and
goofer dust they had sat around the door, Sam took the chance get a better look
at it. The hound was the size of a wolf and the shape of a Doberman, topped off
with glowing red eyes. Its whole body was enveloped by swirling shadows curling
away from it and evaporation at a certain point, but always forming anew.
The beast was growling and barking, baring its teeth at the barrier but the
circle held. Sam and Bela looked at each other with relief, thankful that luck
seemed to be on their side for once.
“That won't do.” Crowley stepped over the broken door with an annoyed
expression. He was again ridiculously overdressed for a stroll through the moor
in a dark red, double-breasted waistcoat with long tails, knickerbockers in the
same color and black boots. The hellhound lowered its head respectfully and
Crowley stroked its fur with a fond expression before turning to Bela.
He shook his head in deep disappointment. “I should have never accepted your
contract. I knew from the beginning that you were more trouble than you're
worth.”
Bela snorted and raised her knife,"Tough luck" she spat at him. Her upper-class
accent had turned into the kind of drawl that Sam had gotten used to on the
streets. It was learned, but not internalized. She'd grown up poor and had
adapted her appearance and accent to fit in.
"And you!" Crowley turned to Sam instead, raising his voice. "If I see you
never again, it will be too soon. What the fuck is it with Winchesters? You are
the like over excited puppies of disaster, appearing everywhere and poking your
nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Sam shrugged, because fair enough. Also, he found that puppy analogy a bit
much, considering that Crowley was the one with the actual hellhound. And what
the fuck was a Winchester anyway?
"All of this could have been avoided if you would have just stayed out of my
way." And with that, he clapped his hands once and a strong wind swept through
the hut, taking all the salt and Goofer dust with it and piling it in the outer
right corner of the room.
The hellhound jumped up and growled with renewed favor. Crowley smiled and gave
it a gentle slap on the flank. "Sick 'em, boy." It turned to Bela first, talons
leaving scratches in the wooden floorboards in its haste to get to her. Out of
nowhere, Dean sprinted towards it, drawing a molten sign in the air with his
fingers. The sign exploded and threw both Dean and the hound in opposing
directions. The beast landed on its paws, apparently unharmed, except for the
small whining sound it made, while Dean crashed into the south wall and
crumpled onto the floor, unmoving.
Sam hastened over but Crowley lifted his stretched out fingers towards him in a
"stay-put-gesture" and suddenly it was impossible for him to move. It was as
though the air itself chained him. He could still talk, though, and so he
rained abuse down on the demon for taking him out of the fight so early.
"Yeah, yeah, you're gonna burn my bones and tear my flesh off, nothing I've
haven't heard before, boy." The demon drawled while Bela fought valiantly with
the dog, keeping it at a distance with broad sweeps of her blade. "Look, I just
want my soul and after that, I'm gonna leave you and your little sweetheart
alone.”
Sam strained against his bonds, but Crowley's power held true. He renewed his
struggle as Dean moaned and made attempts to stand. His stance was unsteady but
after a glance at Sam, he still hurried to get to the woman and help her. To
Sam's chagrin, he just threw himself at the hellhound this time and without a
weapon no less. It was a brave move, but stupid, for he miscalculated because
he couldn't see his target, and what should have been a choke hold, turned into
an ineffective dive at it's back.
Fortunately, it still achieved his goal. The beast desisted from Bela and
instead now crouched low before Dean's sitting form, it's long teeth bared in a
snarl. Dean seemed not at all afraid, rather his eyes burned with unrelenting
intensity and as the hellhound charged, he made no sound.
From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw Bela stealing away through the ruined door
frame. She was satisfied with what little time to escape they would buy her in
this doomed endeavor. A cold fury seized him. They were willing to fight for
her and she would desert them just to save herself. Worse, she would desert
Dean when he was the one that wanted to help her in the first place. The woman
clearly was a cold blooded bitch, if he would ever see her again he'd be hard
pressed not to end her worthless life.
A pained whimper brought him back to the present. Dean was on his back,
desperately trying to push the snapping jaws of the hellhound away from his
throat. For the moment he succeed, but its claws were carving bloody gashes
into his chest, slicing through cloth and skin with equal ease.
Something in Sam broke at the sight of Dean's insides pulsing red. A glacial
current thrilled through him and abruptly he yelled "Ye eni", his tone echoing
with unwavering authority. It was familiar to him and yet not, like remnants of
a dream he had long since forgotten. Miraculously the beast stopped its assault
and reluctantly paced backward, the action accompanied by a puzzled whine.
The bonds holding him fell away and he repeated the words. Sam sensed the
duality in his voice, some of it, he recognized as his own conviction, but the
rest was undoubtedly other. The hellhound shambled towards him, sitting at his
feet, tongue lolling and tail wagging. It wasn't dangerous anymore, it was a
pet, harmless and entirely devoted to him. Sam released it with a gesture and
the mutt dashed out the door, never even sparing a glance for its original
owner.
When Sam turned to face the demon, Crowley raised his hands, palms out,
placating. “You are daddy's favorite right now, I get it.” And as he vanished,
Sam lost consciousness.
--oo--
When he came to, Dean was leaning on the wall a few feet away. The long, bloody
gashes on his chest were still sluggishly bleeding, the right side of his face
a mess of bruises and scrapes, his eye nearly swollen shut, and yet he was
still the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen. “Finally.” Dean's gentle
smile betrayed his rough tone. “How about next time you do the channeling
Lucifer thing before the hellhound actually mangles us?”
Sam got up with a fair bit of effort, his leg twitching with pain whenever he
put any weight on it, but he still managed to limp towards Dean. The other
never averted his gaze, though Sam must have looked like a newborn foal in his
pursuit, awkward and in way over his head.
At least he reached Dean and stepped closer, sliding one hand into Deans hair
and placing the other on his hip, confident enough that now there was nothing
more to separate them. Sam spoke under his breath, words meant to be cutting
and instead entirely fond: "How about you stop dangerous shit for people that
aren't worth it.” Then his lips found Deans and finally, the world was right
again.
Dean melted into the kiss, going lax against him and opening his mouth
greedily. Everything he could take, Sam took. His tongue sliding against
Dean's, mewling at the taste and the slick wetness of it. Dean hooked his leg
behind Sam's and pulled him closer, but with Sam's fucked up calf, it only made
him lose balance and he tumbled against Dean instead.
Both of them made pained noises and Dean huffed a small laugh. “Trust you to
get all horny when there's blood everywhere.”
Not dignifying that with an answer, Sam licked into Dean's mouth again, to shut
him up and because he wanted to. But his leg was starting to really twitch with
the effort of keeping him upright, so he pulled Dean towards the couch.
Sam sat down first, sighing involuntarily as the pain in his leg finally
lessened. Dean was still standing, his expression concerned, hands hanging at
his sides, unsure of what to do with them. "We could wait if it hurts too bad?"
"Get the fuck down here," Sam growled, because yeah, it hurt, but it wasn't the
worst he'd had. Also, he wasn't gonna pass on anything Dean had so offer, so
his leg would just have to deal.
A wicked smirk was his answer and Sam wondered how he still managed to do that
with all the bruises, but then Dean straddled his lap, knees pressing against
Sam's thighs on each side and he forgot to think. Because Dean was right there
and Sam grabbed his ass with more force than necessary, pulling him closer and
shoving his hips upward in the same motion.
Dean gasped and Sam tilted his head upwards, capturing his mouth again. This
time Dean was the aggressive one. He forced his tongue into Sam's mouth gliding
over his teeth, tasting every inch of him until Sam felt like he was going to
suffocate, but still unwilling to stop. Grinding down onto his lap and writhing
in search of more contact, Dean whined his frustration into Sam's mouth. They
both weren't getting enough friction through the cloth of their trousers.
Because Dean seemed to be unwilling to do anything about it, except for shoving
against him with more agitation, Sam loosened the string that held his pants
together, and pulled the rough wool down, until Dean's cock finally sprang
free. Sam reached for it blindly, desperately, and when his fingers finally
embraced the hot skin, Dean tore free from the kiss and his head slumped back
with a drawn out moan.
Dean's dick was gorgeous, surrounded by dark blond curls it was smaller than
his own but thicker, slightly curved to the right and dusty pink. A drop of
precome glistened at the top and Sam ran his thumb over the moisture, feeling
it's slick glide as he massaged it into the skin. Dean made these blissed out
little whines every time Sam stroked up or down. It was really hard to
concentrate on keeping the movement firm and steady when Dean's neck was this
perfect, pale curve, right in front of his lips.
He really wanted to suck on Dean's skin, leave a mark, so everyone would know
who Dean had been with, would know that Dean was his. Instead, he bit down,
right over Dean's clavicle, a few inches higher than where the claw marks
started. Dean's body convulsed, and Sam felt his dick jerk hard, pulsing out
warm liquid all over his fingers. His teeth locked and for a few seconds, he
just followed the sadistic little whisper in his head that told him to bite
harder, to just dig his teeth into the soft skin until he felt satisfied.
Finally, his jaw released the abused skin and Dean fell forward, head resting
on Sam's shoulder. It was obvious that he was exhausted, but Sams pity was
limited, considering that he still hadn't finished. He couldn't help the little
wiggle he did, to bring Dean's stomach closer, to at least have something to
rub against. Dean, however, got up. His stance was a little bit wobbly and for
a horrifying second, Sam believed that he would just leave him like this. With
his hard on, sitting pants down on a sofa, in a ruined room with no front door.
Luckily, not even Dean was quite that sadistic, and he picked a blanket off of
the couch and placed it on the floor. He knelt down in front of Sam, head
slightly tilted and a challenging smirk that was the most alluring thing Sam
had ever seen on his lips. Sam was painfully hard and his dick twitched in
anticipation as Dean pulled his pants down so they pooled around his ankles.
Looking as his leg Dean shook his head. "That'll need stitches."
“Later, Dean.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but the strain was pretty
evident in his tone.
Flashing his brightest smile, it was pretty obvious that Dean loved to torture
him, but he at least put his hands on Sam. Dean's touches where light and
teasing, nearly driving Sam insane with need. There was never enough contact
and Sam had to hold on to his frayed self-control to keep from begging.
Especially because Dean looked at him like he wanted to devour him whole.
However, every man had a breaking point and Sam's was reached when Dean started
to lick his lips while staring at his cock, little innocent flicks of his
tongue like he wasn't even aware he was doing it.
“Oh my god. Please Dean, will you please just suck my dick.” The words were
wrapped up in a needy whine, but Sam was way beyond caring at this point.
Dean triumphant expression would have made him roll his eyes, but he really
didn't have the strength left. “Well, Sammy, I thought you'd never ask.”
And finally, finally, Dean's lips wrapped around the tip with a firm pressure.
It was almost too much to watch Dean slowly lower himself inch by inch, to feel
the burning hot wetness of his mouth. Then Dean's tongue pressed against him,
and when Sam's crown slipped over the soft ridges on his palate it tore a
hoarse cry out of him.
It wasn't the most technically proficient blowjob he'd ever gotten, but the
view and Dean's plain enjoyment made up for that. He experimented with depth
and pressure, tongue movement and suction, and kept up all the things that made
Sam go absolutely crazy.
Sam didn't notice his orgasm approaching, it was only once he was spurting down
Dean's throat that he realized he'd come, and of course it was too late by
then. The other man pulled off, coughing and spitting, all the while gurgling
insults that were obvious in their meaning but unintelligible in their
pronunciation. Sam couldn't care less. His release had made him pliant and
happy, molded fully to the backrest of the couch, whereas Dean wiped his mouth
harshly on the sleeve of his tunic, glaring daggers at him.
 
 
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter is the reason for the non-con warning. Feel free to skip
     it, if you don't want to read it.
A few days later, Dean fainted. He woke up when Sam had placed him in bed,
looking pale, dark circles around his eyes. “It was gonna happen, you saw it.”
Of course, Sam had seen it, right on his third day with Dean. He knew that this
would be the beginning of the end. He had tried to ignore it, tried to wish it
away, but his visions stayed true, they always did.
“I'm on borrowed time anyway. I should have perished with my family. My brother
was my first responsibility and I failed him.” Dean closed his eyes as though
he was too weak to keep them open.
"When was this?" Sam asked, desperate to keep Dean talking. The other man was
stubborn in regards to his brother. At times he would ramble on and on about
him and at others, he would refuse to talk at all for the next few days. Sam
was also genuinely curious about Dean's timeline. His account of the
reformation had been gripping and detailed enough to make Sam wonder.
"In the winter of 1683. I still hear his screams sometimes, still feel the heat
of the fire on my back and the cold of the snow underneath my feet," his words
were rough with sorrow but Sam's attention was focused on the date alone.
"That... that was two hundred years ago Dean, " a tremor shook through his
voice. Even when he had played with the thought he had never given it any
serious consideration. Could it really be true? To have such long a life and
carry all this pain alone for centuries. Sam's rational mind struggled with the
reality his heart had long since accepted.
Dean opened his eyes and looked at him with sad kindness. "Witches are often
cursed with an unnaturally long life." His hand found Sam's and grasped it for
support. His skin was as cold as though the November snow still fell around
him. "I should have gone back in and fetched him, but I was too scared. Dad
never outright said it, but I knew that he felt like it was my fault. Maybe it
was. I won't ever forgive myself for leaving him behind."
Sam had never seen Dean cry, he looked so fragile, so young. So like Jess. Sam
wiped the tears away and kissed his reddened cheeks softly. “I'm sure he
already forgave you.”
Dean had given up, but Sam wasn't ready to part with him yet, he had so many
questions still to ask. Regardless, Dean seemed to get weaker with every new
day that passed.
--oo--
Sam picked mushrooms in the woods and missed Dean's company immensely. He even
missed the endless questions, debating if he should speak the names and
properties of the plants for himself, but deciding against it. He wasn't quite
that desperate.
The air smelled faintly of smoke when he happened upon a lone rider. Sam
lowered his eyes and made way, better to avoid confrontation. And harder to
spit in his face that way.
Neighing, the horse came to a halt in front of him and Sam looked up. The man
had arrogant eyes, the kind that hinged entirely on the approval of his peers.
Sam had met many men like this one, preaching about the wrongness of stealing
while children starved next to them. Sam tasted iron on his tongue.
"You're with that witch, right? I've heard of you," the man said and dismounted
his horse. "They  didn't tell me you were so pretty, though.”
Sam felt paralyzed while the man approached him with certain steps. He wanted
to go back to Dean and prepare dinner. He wanted to be anywhere but where he
was right now.
 He stands in front of the boy, taller than him by only ten inches, but to him,
it must feel like an insurmountable distance. "You are the son a farmer, and
I'm the scion of the mayor, who would believe your word over mine?" The boy
cries, quietly, the tears leak out of his eyes and he tries his best to stay
quiet, so his parents won't come into the room and see him like this. His
clothes are ripped and his body blotched with bloody   bite marks    and
bruises. He looks taken, owned and his hopelessness is as seductive as his
innocence.
Suddenly, the man had both of his hands wrapped around Sam's neck. "You are on
my land now," he growled. "Which makes you a poacher. I could have you
branded." The man was breathing heavy, right into Sam's face. He was stroking
over Sam's lips with his thumb and Sam swallowed down bile at the unwanted
touch.
He could have defended himself easily, he was bigger and the man seemed like a
person who exercised for fun and not necessity. But he wore an expensive
looking velvet coat and together with Sam's vision that seemed like enough
evidence to convince him that he was dealing with Ballentree's mayor. Dean had
described him as harmless, all bark and no bite when they had spoken about him.
In villages like this, witches were in constant danger of persecution, one
wrong word to the wrong person could cost them their home and lives. So he
resolved to let it happen. It wasn't worth the fight, wasn't worth the danger
it would put both of them in.
He held still as the mayor turned him around, one hand clasped over Sam's mouth
and the other opening the knot that held his trousers in place. They pooled at
his feet and Sam felt the cold air on his thighs.
“I will make you scream.” The man hit his naked ass with the flat of his hand
and Sam gritted his teeth, the contact more shocking than truly painful.
"The witch fuck you like this? I hope you at least use his damned cocksucker
lips," the mayor groaned, lips moving against Sam's neck and forced three
fingers into his mouth. He pressed the digits down against Sam's tongue, skin
salty and entirely too soft to pretend it was Dean's instead. Sam felt the
other's hard-on through the clothes, as close as it rested against him. "I
dreamt about these lips sometimes. He would look so good choking on my dick,
these fucking green eyes looking up at me, spit running down..."
It wasn't a conscious decision. He couldn't even explain how it had happened
afterwards, but he bit down as hard as he could. The flesh gave easily as his
canines ripped into it. Screaming, the mayor tore his ruined fingers away,
tumbling a few steps back. Sam turned to him and grinned, the greasy crimson
still clinging to his teeth.
The other man looked at him in betrayal and disbelief, as though it was truly
unimaginable for him that someone dared to resist him.
“If you want to keep your precious dick, I would recommend never going anywhere
near Dean's lips with it.” Sam spit the man's blood back at him, pulled his
pants back up with as much aplomb as he could muster and walked away.
 
August 7, 1885
Sam fell ill, and where Jess had always been with him, she was now absent. Most
of the time he wasn't aware of anything, a prisoner in his own head. He heard
only the whispering of the voices, felt only the maelstrom of the pull inside
of him. He was lucid for short periods of time, heard the doctors murmur about
insanity, heard himself screaming, ranting, raving, hateful words that weren't
his own. Sam struggled against the grip of his parents and the nurses, he
tasted vomit and blood and he felt a thousand fingernails scratching at his
skin, leaving long wet trails in their wake.
The last thing Sam remembered was Mrs. Wesson telling him that Jess had gone
away and that they saw no other way than to admit him to a mental hospital. It
was the last he ever heard of Jessica. He hoped with all his heart that she
would find happiness. He felt it strangely fitting that in destroying his
deepest friendship, he had also destroyed himself.
The doctor, Christopher Banning, diagnosed him with hysteria of the psycho-
sexual nature.
 Two minutes later, Dr. Banning was a nervous wreck, which was very
understandable, from what Sam remembered he had described torture methods in
graphic detail and then switched to another language entirely and tried to
strangle him. It was all very dramatic he supposed if only he could call forth
any emotion at all.
The constant ice water baths felt like they were freezing his brain, thoughts
felt exerting and stretched too long to bother with.
Then came the narcotics and he forgot what thoughts even were.
Life in the asylum followed one simple rule. Treat the crazies as bad as
possible, and they will struggle to get sane as fast as possible.
He was cleaned once a week with cold water from a hose, shackled to a tilted
wall. He slept wrapped in a straitjacket and tied to the bed with broad leather
strips. His hair was shorn and his mouth gagged. They fed him dried bread about
once every two days. At some days they would give him electric shocks, enough
to make him vomit or piss himself.
Sam never got better, whatever they tried. He was either violent or
unresponsive. The words he spoke where a different language and no one else
seemed to understand him. Sometimes he begged for help, or for Jessica or Peter
to come and save him. Sometimes he confessed every sordid thing he had ever
done, sometimes he told them of all the terrible things he would still do. His
mouth wasn't his own any longer, but it was still preferable to the emotional
numbness when he was alone in his body. There was no anger, or sadness, love or
happiness, everything was cold and dark.
At least when the other thing spoke through him he felt an echo of its
feelings, even if it was mostly greedy satisfaction and a vicious need to hurt.
A few months later Dr. Banning gave up and stuck a steel rod into Sam's brain,
to at least make him docile enough to deal with.
From then on he was a husk. A puppet with cut strings. He drifted, half alive,
half dead, nowhere, really. Eyes unseeing, body unfeeling and mind unthinking.
 
He washed his face when he arrived at their home. Since when did he start to
think about it as home anyway? The soup turned out alright if one considered
that his only cooking knowledge came from watching Dean preparing meals. And he
had to deal with the added difficulty of being permanently distracted because
his mind seemed to think that watching Dean's hands was more worthwhile than
learning how to cook. He had smaller hands than Sam, his fingers slimmer, more
delicate. Everything he did seemed efficient and he had this smooth
effortlessness to his movements. Like he had repeated every step a thousand
times already.
Sam sighed and threw some more parsley into the broth before bringing Dean a
bowl. Dean sat up with a grimace, but he ate a few spoons of stew without
complaint, before setting the dish aside.
“That's actually edible. Good job, Sammy.” The purple bruises under his eyes
didn't diminish his charm when he smiled. It was still painful to look at.
"Better remember that, for when I tell you what I did." Dean's expression
turned curious, eyes glowing in that particular way that showed real interest.
“I bit into the mayor's fingers,” Sam spoke, waiting for the laughter. When it
didn't come he followed with, “then I spit in his face.”
The expected laughter never came, instead, Dean snarled and grabbed his wrist
painfully tight. "What did he do to you?"
Sam grimaced and Dean softened his grip, but still held onto him. His eyes had
lost none of their intensity as they bore into Sam's. “Nothing really, I
interrupted him with the biting.”
He didn't tell Dean that he had spent an hour in the freezing river and he
still didn't feel clean. Or that he hadn't eaten because the urge to vomit was
so strong that he gagged on air. Or that he still tasted the saltiness of the
man's fingers in his mouth, still felt the nauseating touches on his skin.
It would only lead to Dean doing something stupid for him. They were in enough
trouble already. ”I'm more worried about the possibility that he will come back
for revenge. He has a lot of influence over the villagers, I don't want him to
attack us, but I just panicked, reacted without thinking.”
Dean pulled Sam's arm towards himself so that Sam was laying next to him on the
bed. The straw poked through the weak fabric of the mattress, and Sam shifted
closer to the warm body next to him. The older man spread the woolen blankets
over them both. “Stop apologizing, I would have killed him if I had been
there.” Dean stroked softly though Sam's wavy hair and Sam tried not to purr.
He really tried. ” Don't worry about it.”
They stayed like that until they fell asleep, Dean's fingers tangled in Sam's
hair and Sam's hand curled on Dean's hip.
--oo--
“You must eat.” Sam tried to force a spoon of the chicken broth into Dean's
unwilling mouth.
The other man waved it away. “I must do nothing but die.” Sam put the dish
aside with a long-suffering sigh, accepting defeat for now, though he would try
again later. He had bought a chicken in the village in hopes of seducing Dean
to eat at least a small portion of the nourishing broth, but he refused as he
did most days. The unnatural glow in his eyes was getting weaker by the day as
if extinguished by the dark circles beneath them. His body was too frail to
leave the bed or help any of the villagers that came. Not that there were many
of those anymore. They told of a personal grudge the mayor seemed to hold
against witches and Sam hung his head in shame. If he had only let the
disgusting bastard do as he wanted... but there was no use crying over it now.
“Have you thought about what happens when I'm gone?” Dean drew a weak breath.
“Will you go and search for that friend of yours or will you stay here and
continue my work?”
“I've not decided.” In truth, Sam couldn't bring himself to even think about
the possibility of Dean succumbing to the illness.
The other man nodded easily, as though he hadn't expected an answer anyway.
"Bring me the big book with the glyph on the side."
Sam turned to the shelf and found the largest of the volumes placed there. It
was even more heavy than it's size justified and bound in a dark red leather
embellished with gold accents at its spine. He nearly dropped it at the warm
pulse it sent through his fingertips, but finally placed in in Dean's waiting
hands.
“Of all the texts, of all the spells, this is the most cursed.” Dean's ashen
lips moved sluggishly.
“What is it?”
"The poetry of death. The day comes, when my little snake is crushed and beaten
and when his god deserts him completely, only then does he open it. And on that
day he will turn his back to all that's good and right and walk in the shadows
forever," Dean's voice was quiet, but steeled by the certainty of the vision.
Sam knew that tone well.
Their eyes locked and despite the ancient sorrow tarnishing their glow, those
green orbs were still the most precious, the most beautiful thing about Dean.
Sam was captured by them, by the depths of Dean's emotion, by the shine of his
spirit.
The frantic scream of an animal made them both flinch, tortured sounds
amplified by the vast nothingness of the moors.
"They become trapped," Dean sighed. "They struggle and sink deeper with each
panicked movement. One false step is all it takes."
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     I'm back. I have two jobs now and that kind of makes for no free
     time. I'm posting the last three chapters now, together, because hell
     knows when I'll have time again.
As was the case with most desperate people, Sam resolved to do something
foolish. He couldn't let Dean die before he had done everything in his power to
save him. And there were methods of doing so that didn't mean he had to succumb
to Lucifer. Other demons had more than enough magic to hold off death for a
time.
Sam packed a small bag and snuck off, just as the night slowly crept over the
trees, shrouding the surrounding forest in darkness. He had left Dean sleeping
with a calming tea and slowly followed the dim moonlight away from the city,
towards the meadows. Finally, he reached the crossroad and though the paths
crossing were little more than dirt roads, they would work just fine for his
purposes. Luckily he'd brought candles and soon the flattened earth around him
was aglow. Soft light flickering in the breeze, painting shadows within the
shrubbery.
He sat down, digging a small hole in the middle of the crossing and lowering a
pouch into it. It's contents were graveyard dirt, the thighbone of a black cat
and a piece of paper on which he'd written his name. Sam covered the hole back
up with loose earth, remembering with some shame how he'd thought Bela foolish
for striking a deal. As soon as he rose, a woman stood on the road, seemingly
having appeared out of thin air. She was gorgeous in an unreal sense, her black
hair straight with a blue shimmer and her olive skin glowing from within.
"Sam," she said. Nothing else, just the amused twinkling of her blood red eyes.
"I want to make a deal." There was no use in sugar coating it. Sam was ready to
give his soul in trade for Dean's survival. However long a grace period he
would get in exchange was enough for him, his only requirement an extension on
his time with Dean.
"Crowley told us that you would come" She bit her lower lip and twisted the
maroon silk of her short dress between her fingers, in the dim light it looked
like her hands were coated in blood. "He also told us not to make a deal with
you unless we want to wear our innards on the outside permanently. Lucifer will
give you the strength you need to save Dean."
Sam should have suspected that and yet, somehow it came as a surprise. Of
course, Lucifer would make sure that this easy way out was closed off for him,
he would want Sam as desperate as he could get him.
"However," the demon stretched the word for emphasis and Sam perked up. "I
could never resist a good romance, and yours is truly one for the ages." She
smiled, genuinely happy, and for that moment she seemed almost human, despite
the color of her eyes.
"But there is the small matter of payment," she paused and continued only after
Sam looked at her questioningly. "Your soul isn't yours any longer." The demon
said, as though that was the most elemental of principles and Sam should have
really been familiar with it.
"But" she mused, "we could trade for a favor." Her elegant fingers smoothed
down her hair with a thoughtful tilt of her plump lips. "Surely you are a
powerful ally to have."
Sam doubted that statement purely based on his skill. He was a moderately
skilled witch, sure, but without Lucifers help he would have no doubt lost to
Crowley. Dean could probably go toe-to-toe with a mediocre demon and come out
on top, but he had two centuries (it was still weird to think about that) of
experience and a wealth of knowledge, that Sam with his twenty-four years
simply didn't.
The demon probably counted on Sam giving in at some point, demanding the debt
be repaid only once he shared Lucifer’s might. He had no idea why she thought
that the devil would even honor an agreement that had been made against his
explicit wishes when he would be the one controlling Sam by then.
"I'll give you one year to him." She placed both palms on her hips clearly
expecting him to argue. It would be naive to make this deal, Sam knew that.
Everyone, even Dean had told him that he would eventually, inevitably, give in.
This deal would only give him a temporary reprieve, one year of freedom from
his responsibilities, one more year to get to know Dean.
"When the year has passed, he will die. But resurrecting someone isn't at all
hard with Lucifer's Mojo, so you'll be fine." The demon curled her slim fingers
in a sensual come-hither and Sam followed, his steps heavy, but resolute. He'd
have to kiss her, to strike the deal. To make it binding.
When he stood in front of her, he noticed that she was exactly as tall as him.
Her eyes seemed to swallow the light around them, it grew darker, the closer he
leaned in. Sam's mouth was inches from hers and as she whispered, he felt the
warm moisture of her breath waft against his face. "Crowley said I shouldn't
tell you, but since I'm already disobeying as it is..." she gave an amused
chuckle.
The sparse light around them vanished completely, leaving Sam in opaque
darkness. At the same time, a warm spray of liquid settled on his features. Was
it raining? He panicked and tried to lean forward to kiss her, but his lips
never arrived on her's. This wasn't his idea of a joke, but demons were hardly
known for having an appropriate or even reasonable sense of humor. She had
probably never intended to make a deal with him in the first place.
Then the light returned, and even though it was just the candles flickering
back on, he was blinded by it. Blinking compulsively, he tried to adjust his
eyes, and slowly his vision returned. Looking down he realized that he was
sprinkled with red. In fact, his whole body was covered in a fine mist of blood
that soaked through his clothes and made them stick to his skin. Crowley stood
a few feet away, human eyes shifting to red with a blink.
The demon smiled slightly ruefully and flicked a speck of viscera off his
sapphire blue waistcoat. “Poor Mauve, she never knew when to shut up.”
Sam wiped his face with the corner of his shirt, but it still felt tacky. “Did
you just explode a demon in my face?” he asked and was proud to note that his
tone was perfectly even.
"No, Sam I wouldn't do that," Crowley said, looking around the crossing as
though he was bored. "I just exploded a meat suit in your face. The demon is
perfectly fine, she just needs to find a new vessel. Gives her time to think
about the value of silence."
He felt sorry for the human Crowley had killed so thoughtlessly, but the truth
of the matter was, that demons with stable "jobs" often stayed in the same
vessel for quite some time. The possessed body didn't age, but the rest of the
world did. And during a long career a demon could rack up many injuries, so
chances were, without the demon's spirit, the body would have failed anyway.
Crowley motioned to sit down and inexplicably there was an old fashioned
armchair, the padding thick and decorated with stylized red roses, right
beneath him, accompanied by a mahogany side table and a crystal tumbler filled
with an amber liquid. Sam guessed that it was whiskey. It would be nice to have
a chair too, Sam had been standing on the crossing for quite some time, but he
wasn't going to ask Crowley for any favors.
Sipping from the glass, Crowley cleared his throat and spoke, "The big bad
doesn't want me to tell you this, says it could be traumatic, (Sam had a
hysterical laughing fit on the inside. Lucifer was worried about traumatizing
him? Everything he had ever done to Sam was a fucking trauma and now suddenly
it was too much for him to handle?) but it might just up the stakes." He paused
deliberately, slowly exhaling and taking another sip before continuing, "Dean
is your brother."
His first reaction was immediate and all-consuming panic. There wasn't enough
space for Sam to breathe, he gasped for air, over and over again and yet none
of the oxygen made it anywhere near his brain. His thoughts were sluggish and
lightning fast in turns. It couldn't be true. No, not even the numbers added
up. This was just a demon doing what they did best, lying and deceiving.
"Bullshit" Sam gasped. "He's a few centuries too old for that."
"Good point." Crowley's smile made the hairs at the base of Sam's neck rise.
"Normally you would be right, but when it comes to prophecies and true vessels,
everything is a little more complicated. But I see that you need some more
convincing "
The demon finally conjured a chair for him, this one far more practical than
his own. No padding, just plain plywood. Demons were vengeful little bastards.
However, at this point, Sam was too agitated to accept the offer.
Let me tell you a story," Crowley slumped back into the cushions with a sigh.
He took another sip of the whiskey and smacked his lips. "In 1679 a woman named
Mary Cambell fell in love with John Winchester, a simple carpenter." Crowley
chuckled and propped his feet up on a stool that hadn't been there before. "You
couldn't make this shit up. Soon, she gave birth to a son she named Dean. He
was a representation of all that is right and faithful, and therefore the
archangel Michael's vessel for a war he would have to fight with his brother,
Lucifer. Consequently, her second son was destined to become the Antichrist,
and Lucifer's vessel for the apocalypse."
Sam didn't know how much of that he could believe but considering his past
experiences, however unlikely it seemed, it wasn't impossible.
"This was foretold by Deanna Campbell, who was Mary's mother and a powerful
seer. It's her that you inherited your visions from." Crowley continued,
"Naturally, Deanna brought her knowledge to her daughter, who, at this point,
was still pregnant with her second child, Samuel. Both heaven and hell were
aware of Mary's importance and therefore both were present and listened as
well. Soon after, the archangel Michael appeared before Mary, demanding the
life of her second son, to avoid all the bloodshed that an actual war would
bring.
The demon stopped for a moment and looked at Sam questioningly. "With me so
far?" Sam nodded and sat down on the dodgy chair. He had wondered who his real
parents might be and he wanted to memorize every detail of Crowley's words, but
all he could do was to take it all in, hoping that he could, at some point,
make sense of it. Not to mention that he still struggled with the possibility
that all of this happened two hundred years ago. He remembered his childhood in
the orphanage and there weren't any strange gaps in-between his recollection.
Sure, the psych ward had stolen him a few months, but not enough to add up to
two centuries. How in the world had he managed to lose so many years worth of
memories?
Crowley clearly had no pity for his mental struggle. "Mary defied the Angel.
She believed that with enough love, Samuel could be just as good as Dean. To
prove her point, Mary convinced her first son that Samuel was a miracle, that
it was his responsibility to keep him on the right path and protect his little
brother."
That at least explained Dean's affection for the little boy he'd lost, their
easy familiarity and his own slightly obsessive feelings. Maybe they had both
sensed their past connection. But if this part added up, was the rest of the
story also true? Was Dean really his brother?
It truly was a testament to his fucked up mental state that all he felt was a
quiet kind of surrender. No disgust. No shame. Nothing had changed. His love
for Dean wouldn't be influenced by this or any other revelation, he still
wanted him any and every way he could get him.
Crowley nodded at something that didn't seem to exist outside of his own head,
whatever it was, it brought a true smile to his lips. "When Dean held Sam for
the first time, bloodied and wrinkly, right after birth, he didn't need to be
convinced anymore. Dean was sure that his brother was the most precious, most
perfect thing Dean would ever see. Yadda yadda yadda, devotion and eternal
soulmatry, you know the stuff." His hands waved through the air carelessly, as
to dispel the scene. Sam wanted him to elaborate, needed to hear everything,
everything Dean had done and felt, but the moment had already passed.
"Unfortunately, angels are vengeful creatures." Crowley shook his head in mock
disbelief. "Just imagine, angels, being the biggest assholes in a story with
Lucifer himself in it. They decided that Mary's sacrifice was indeed a small
one for humanity and so they lured John and Dean away and set fire to the house
with the mother and baby in it. Mary fought valiantly, but in the end, they
both burned. Yet her sacrifice wasn't in vain."
It was a strange feeling to get to know his true parents and them have them
both taken away almost immediately. They were phantoms, whispy, unsubstantial,
their motivations unclear and their deeds inexplicable to him. Had Mary really
believed that he could somehow avoid his destiny? Had she really loved him
enough to give her life for his? Why hadn't she made a deal with the demons?
Surely they would have helped if Sam was as important as everyone kept
insisting. Whatever stipulation they would have demanded would have been
preferable to her dying, so why hadn't she done it?
"Her dearest wish was that her boys would survive to see each other again. Her
sacrifice gave Dean a very long life, and for you, Sam, it meant that whenever
the angels got their wish and you were killed, on the date of your birthday,
your spirit was reborn. Another child, born into another family, with no
memories, so the angels could not find you. Only the purest traits of your
character reincarnated into another
person and you were free to find your brother anew."
Crowley shrugged. "That's what we assume anyway. It took us a few decades and
quite a few deaths and subsequent reincarnations on your part to be reasonably
sure. inexplicable isn't your first time meeting Lucifer, but it is your first
time finding Dean. And isn't it ironic that Mary's only wish is the thing that
ultimately sealed your fate? You were never closer to giving in than you are
now."
The demon took one last look at him and then vanished with all his conjured
furniture. Sam dropped ass first into the dust, but what had he expected? He
was aware that he should doubt the demon's words, but the truth rang in his
heart like a clear bell. Sad as it was to admit it, Sam's love for Jess had
been but a pale shadow of what he felt for Dean now. Their connection was
inexplicable and this theory, crazy though it might be, made the most sense.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter comes with a warning for a graphic abortion. Yeah. If
     you watched the episodes, you knew this was coming. You wouldn’t
     believe the kind of texts I went through for references. For anyone
     wondering, I am firmly pro choice but this might seem excessively
     negatively framed. That is because back then it was dangerous. Not
     that it necessarily isn't that now, but it got better. There is also
     another non con sex scene in here, because this is a horror series,
     after all.
The persistent rain of the next day brought an equally persistent knocking to
their door. Sam had hammered a few planks together, creating a makeshift door
that held the worst of the winds and water at bay, but it was neither secure
nor by any means airtight. He obviously had not inherited any carpentry
aptitude from his father. In fact, the door was wobbling precariously from the
knocking alone and Sam opened it before it had the chance to collapse. He found
a plump girl on the other side, her wheat colored hair hanging in steaks, eyes
puffy and red and Sam honestly couldn't tell if the wetness on her cheeks was
rain or tears. She was happy enough to follow him into the hut but seemed to
have lost her courage once she stood in front of the always burning hearth. The
girl sniffed every few seconds and her cloak seeped muddy puddles onto the
floor. She looked like the most miserable person on earth and Sam felt for her,
but he would have to clean the whole floor after she was gone, so his mood
wasn't at it's best.
"What do you want?" He asked, annoyed. Dean still refused to eat, and Sam was
out of ideas. He could only wait and watch the days unfold before him, bringing
him closer and closer to the day he dreaded. His visions showed him commanding
an army of twisted, shadow clad monsters, killing innocents, spilling their
blood easily. By far the most taxing were the ones where Dean was by his side,
sometimes laughing, his hands dipped in red, reveling in their shared power,
sometimes hungry, kneeling at Sam's side, lewd gestures and shameless seduction
while Sam's officers tried to ignore his behavior. They knew well what happened
if their eyes wandered. He wasn't sure if these visions were true ones, or if
Lucifer had somehow managed to exert his influence once again, but it kept him
on edge, his sleep short and fretful.
The girl sniffled again and her shoulders drooped even lower like she tried to
make herself disappear. "You aren't the witch." She said in a nagging tone, but
her croaking voice ruined the effect completely.
Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Looks like I'm the only witch you are going to
get, so you can take it or leave it."
She seemed to ponder that for a few seconds and Sam half hoped she would leave
when she pulled a pocket watch out from under her cloak and handed it to Sam.
It was an old thing, the glass was broken, the silver worn and scratched and
the hands didn't move.
It wasn't worth much, so Sam extended his hand once again, and she reluctantly
added a button, two copper shillings and a few kernels of maize to the watch.
She gazed at him pleadingly.
Dean would have probably kicked her out for offering so little payment, but
they had little enough people coming to them as it was, so Sam nodded and sat
down at the table without offering her a seat. He wouldn't kick her out just
for being poor, but he sure as hell wouldn't mind his manners for a farmers
daughter. "What do you want?" He repeated.
"I have a ..." She gestured towards her stomach and Sam sighed. The wide dress
disguised her silhouette, but there was a noticeable swell to her belly. He
remembered Dean telling him about a blond girl that came regularly, to have the
same procedure done every time.
"You could have come earlier. I could have given you a tea to get rid of it,"
Sam spoke, resigned "but when the baby is so big already, I have to get it out
another way." Sam had done the operation a few times, but never without Dean to
supervise. The older man was in no position to even leave the bed, however, so
Sam would have to make do with what he knew.
He fetched the oiled leather and put it on the floor for her to lie on. After
fetching Deans tools from the cupboard he put them into a pot of boiling water,
set the pot down on the floor and knelt down between her legs.
The girl was shivering, eyes overflowing with desperation and fear. Another
loud sob startled him as he washed his hands in a bowl with hot water and soap.
"Why did you let the boy fuck you then?" He asked, knowing that she was too
distressed to speak anyway. "You come here often enough to know that it makes
you pregnant, so why are you still stupid enough to let him?" The girl
continued to cry, but she stuttered something about love between her panicked
breaths.
Clearly, she didn't deserve his anger, but Sam was so tired of this. She should
know better. "Love is marriage and keeping the baby, raising it together and
making sure that it survives." He said. "Love isn't a quick fuck behind the
barn, and him running as soon as you show." Like he had any right to talk,
after what he had done. But she was ruining her life for a selfish boy. Sam had
been that that boy, exploiting her naivete, and abandoning her as soon as
things got complicated. He had done that, and it irked him that she was so
unwilling to fight for herself.
"Fucking isn't love. Get that into your stupid head, and maybe you'll find a
man worth your time." Hopefully, she would remember his words and think twice
before she let herself be used again. The problem now was that he needed her
calm and motionless, instead, she was trembling, half out of her mind with
shame and guilt and fear, because she knew the pain that would follow.
Sam contemplated anesthetizing her, but that would put an additional risk on
her health and the abortion would be hard enough on its own. The pain numbing
tea would have to be enough. Placing a hand on her cheek to ground her he began
reciting the Ave Maria and after a few minutes she joined him, words more
sobbed then spoken at first. Her voice gained strength with every repetition
and she relaxed into the prayer, let herself be calmed by it.
"God forgives all." he told her, and even though he saw the depth of
desperation in her eyes, the light in them was evidence enough that she still
believed it.
He cleaned his hands again and began the procedure, inserting a rubber catheter
into her cervix to irritate the uterus. That would lead to early contractions,
which would then hopefully result in a miscarriage. At least that was the
science behind it. What he was actually doing was poking around in the insides
of a girl with an instrument that was as easily wielded as a cooked noodle. He
had no idea what he was doing. Dean had showed him where to press with his
fingers from the outside to locate the catheter and direct it to the right
position but through the skin, everything just felt squishy and soft. He was
pretty sure he wouldn't even find her stomach this way, let alone her womb.
That night, when he had cleaned everything up, he let her sleep on the sofa and
he took the floor. He stayed with her through the cramps and the pain, the
bleeding, the screaming, and crying. At dawn, she left the hut with more tea,
as it would take a few weeks for her to be completely free of pain. She was
freed from the public disapproval and financial liability of birthing an
illegitimate child, and Sam had a pocket watch to sell for some food that Dean
would hopefully actually eat. He hadn't done this for her, his thinking wasn't
so warped that he could make himself believe in the goodness of his actions,
either, but maybe he had made things a little better for her. And if not, maybe
he had made them better for himself.
 
January_9,_1886
One day he found Sir Nicolas in his bedroom, sitting at his desk like he
belonged there. Hallucinations were nothing new, he had learned that the best
way to deal with them was to do nothing at all. Ignored, they eventually went
away. He instead focused on his own body, a thing he knew was real. He was
dressed in a white nightshirt, his limbs littered with bruises and scrapes. His
figure was gaunt and weak, arms bound to the iron headboard, as thin as they
had been when he was still a child. Sam couldn't even remember the last time he
was lucid enough to notice such things.
Rationally, he knew that Jess father wasn't there. Sam hadn't seen the real
Nick since the day that Sam couldn't bring himself to remember. But he seemed
solid somehow, didn't have the airy silhouette of the delusions Sam was used
to.
He wore the same elegant suit he had worn that day, his face was just as
boyishly handsome, a smirk curving his lips, blond hair falling into his pitch
black eyes. The eyes were new.
"Who are you?" Sam asked.
The creature licked its lips, breaking the illusion of familiarity completely.
"You know my name, you always knew it, Sammy."
Sam didn't like it when people called him that. The nickname stirred something
in him, something special. It left his soul raw and his heart open."The Fallen
One, Deceiver, Bringer of Light and Prince of Darkness." He hissed, voice shaky
despite his anger as he wasn't used to speaking any longer. There was no one to
talk to.
"Since you are so very forthcoming, I shall give you a name of my own, Boy
King." The creature was sitting in his bed now, without any movement Sam's eyes
could have observed. "I've always wanted to meet you. It's so nice that you
finally decided to let me in."
Sam struggled to sit up. "I haven't decided anything."
Lucifer smirked. "Oh, but you did. You sought me out. You let all of this
happen." He stroked through Sam's shoulder length hair, tracing the scar the
lobotomy had left him with. When did his hair grow back?
He remembered them shaving his head like it had been yesterday. He'd screamed
and protested, they had to cuff him to a chair so he'd sit still. He felt every
pass of the blunt scissors that torn his hair more then they'd cut it. Then the
rasping sound of the blade as it slithered over his bare scalp. Back then it
had felt as though his appearance was the only thing that still belonged to
him. The other might have taken his mouth, his thoughts, his body, but it
couldn't alter the shape of it. The hair had been his own, but that too had
been taken.
Violently yanking his hair, Lucifer brought him back to the present."Attention
now, boy. You would have done anything to get rid of the emptiness, to be
yourself again." He raised his arms with a self-satisfied expression, (as
though the asshole expected him to applaud) and then lowered his head demurely
(even though Sam had made very sure not to clap his hands). "Well, here you
are, all of you, with a little something extra."
"Stay away," Sam whispered, jerking away from the hand that was slowly sliding
down his chest.
Lucifer pulled the nightshirt up, exposing Sam's cock and stomach but leaving
his chest covered. "You want me here. If you didn't, I'd be gone. You know what
we could be together. Raining fire and raising sea, death, destruction and
unending torment. You were never one to resist temptation easily. You could
have refused the Captain but you just had to be adored. Didn't you?"
Sam felt fingers trailing over his cock, massaging his balls, squeezing his
crown, spreading pearly precome all over. Heat slammed into his stomach sudden
and irresistible. It had been so long since he had felt arousal since he had
felt anything. He savored every nuance, every touch, every spark of warmth.
When he was fully hard, the Devil tugged his hand away with a mean grin. Bereft
of any stimulation Sam lay there, shivering. His dick resting on his stomach,
twitching pathetically.
He couldn't control the helpless whimpers and moans tumbling from his lips, or
the desperate little thrusts of his hips. The Devil looked straight at him,
challenging and Sam knew what he had to do.
"I need it," he begged, "please."
Finally, Lucifer smiled and bowed, taking Sam's cock into his mouth. He felt a
forked tongue licking at the swollen vein on the underside and then he was
swallowed down into the velvety slick of his throat. Lucifer made no move to
stop him from slamming upward into the tight heat. There was no choking, no
saliva running down his chin, no labored breaths. Just his black eyes gazing at
Sam daring him to get lost in them.
He heard the door open and felt a strong sense of Deja-vu. Mrs. Wessons face
shortly flickered, turning into Jess' doll like visage. The pain still etched
into it, as all consuming as it had been on that day.
Sam saw himself through his adoptive mother's eyes. His nightshirt barely
covering his concave stomach, ribs, and hipbones protruding like they were
trying to escape the confinement of his skin. The rest of him naked, hands at
the headboard, gripping so tight that his knuckles turned colorless. Muscles
violently straining, mindlessly fucking up into an invisible mouth. He was
growling, his pupils gone, eyes completely white and sweat running down his
temples.
Nothing human was left in him at that moment, he wasn't himself anymore. The
Devil had taken him, and Sam was all but gone. No regret shot through him, no
guilt. It was easier now, it was darker but easier.
There was but a moment of shock in Mrs. Wesson's gaze and then she fell over.
Eyes still wide and mouth open, strings of saliva dripping onto the carpet.
Sam didn't know in the aftermath if she had really died from shock or if this
was just another morbid present from Lucifer, but her death was his fault in
both cases. His adoptive father had little love left for him, and Sam didn't
resent him for it. He packed a suitcase with clothes and what little money he
had saved and went to the city in search of answers.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     I'm still not satisfied with this story. But I tried and for now, I
     can't make it better than this. I hope that some of you still found
     some enjoyment in reading it.
The next evening came with howling winds. Sam had helped Dean onto the chair
after he'd made it more comfortable with a few pillows. These days Dean was
either indulgent towards his attentions, or he would shut down completely,
refusing to let Sam help. It was always a fight with him. Today, at least, he
sat down peacefully. He even let Sam drape a blanket over his knees, as the
weather had turned freezing in the last few days. Still, Deans mood had been
rotten lately and Sam pretended not to know the reason. "When will you leave?"
"After" Sam replied vaguely.
Dean coughed loudly. The coughing had gotten worse as well. "The people here
need you, they need a cutwife. You aren't safe in New York. Here at least you
know your enemy and he won't surprise you."
"I won't leave." He spoke gently, but surely. "Just accept that I will stay
here for as long as you do."
"Won't be for that much longer, anyway." Dean sank deeper into the chair and
Sam tried not to let his irritation show. What was it with Dean and his
careless disregard for his own life? It always seemed like he didn't value his
life as he did everyone else's. Sam was so sick of it. Dean meant everything to
him, and it was jarring to think that Dean would throw it all away, sacrifice
himself for others in a heartbeat.
The faint neighing of a horse drifted through the air and Sam and Dean traded a
concerned look. Not many people in the village had horses and even less had the
luxury to use them for transportation and not to tend the fields.
Sam rushed to the window. The dirt road to their hut was alight with numerous
glowing spots, and for a moment he thought of fireflies, even though he knew
from his visions that the lights were torches. The villagers carried pitchforks
and axes, and as they marched forward, Sam saw that their faces were marred
with anger and hatred, teeth bared like rabid dogs. They were a pack, a single
mind, the aggressive members edging the rest on until they were all ready to
escalate at the slightest provocation.
He had tried to convince Dean to flee, but the other man had declined as Sam
knew he would. So he eased Dean to his feet and supported him with his
strength. Dean straightened and let go of Sam's arm when they stepped through
the door and into the night, nothing but his pride to support his reluctant
steps.
The lynch mob surrounded the hut, people they knew, people they had helped. Sam
swallowed bitter bile at their hypocrisy. The mayor was also present, though he
was on horseback where most of the villagers had come by foot.
The priest of the village, an old man with receding hairline, stepped forward
and spoke: "As cited in Leviticus, a man or a woman who is a medium or a
necromancer, shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones,
their blood shall be upon them."
Dean chuckled dryly and for a moment, he almost seemed like his old self, his
voice certainly was as cocky as it had always been. "As Leviticus also cites:
And the man that committeth adultery with another man's wife, even he that
committeth adultery with his neighbor's wife, the adulterer and the adulteress
shall surely be put to death." He paused, as though for dramatic effect, but
Sam heard his breath wheezing. "Which means that you and the baker's wife
should be careful with these accusations."
The priest opened his mouth, outraged, but no words actually managed to leave
his lips. The whispers in the crowd grew louder, some obviously took the
silence as an admission of guilt. Sam thought that maybe this was their
opening, but the mayor shushed the crowd with a sharp gesture. "We have
resolved you to be guilty of witchcraft and to be in league with your master,
the devil." The other villagers muttered their agreement, while a few
individuals added their own grievances.
"You seduced my husband!" cried a woman with bright red hair, "He left me after
he visited you." In truth, the man had come to them with the vague intention to
get rid of his wife. One too many sermons had apparently turned her into a
religious zealot. Her husband very much disliked that he was now only allowed
to fuck her for procreation. They already had six kids. But in the end, he
couldn't stomach the bloodshed. Dean had advised him to just leave her and
begin anew in a different city.
"You made the crops fail and you cursed my cow," the accusation came from a
gaunt older farmer and was complete nonsense. Many of the people from the
village paid for the witches services in food. A bad harvest affected everyone
and there was no profit to be gained from it.
"You killed my granny," yelled a boy and granted, that one was true. His sister
had wanted the woman dead because the matriarch of the family was very old
fashioned and had wanted to arrange her marriage to the cruel, but wealthy
smiths apprentice.
 
"Burn the witch." The shout came from the plump blond girl, the one who Sam had
helped only a few days ago, it was quickly picked up by the crowd and soon they
were all screaming for blood.
The boy who had asked Dean for cough medicine for his younger sibling threw a
stone at them and it was like he had opened the floodgates. The villagers
rushed forward, hitting everything in their reach, spitting at them and
screaming for justice. Two grabbed Dean and dragged him to the tree, where they
tied him to the gnarled branch with a rope around his neck. He balanced on the
tips of his toes, face distorted with pain. It was clear that he needed all of
his strength to keep himself from screaming, he wouldn't give them the
satisfaction of knowing that they hurt him.
Sam fought and screeched but he was restrained by three other villagers. He was
kept there, numbly witnessing one of the farmers emptying a bucket of oil over
Dean's head. Some people continued throwing stones at him and Dean's lip
already oozed blood that mixed with the oil and ran down his chin.
The green eyes bore into him and Sam's cheeks were wet with helpless tears. In
the corner of his vision, he noticed the mayor elegantly demounting his horse.
The man sauntered over to Dean and wiped the blood off his lips with his thumb.
The touch was rough, indenting Dean's lips and smearing a streak of crimson
across his cheek. Dean tried to twist away but the small movement seemed to
pain him even more.
It renewed Sams struggle. One of the men let go of his arm and punched him in
the stomach for his trouble, he barely felt the pain. But however much he
writhed and cursed, their hold on him stayed secure.
The mayor stepped away from Dean and joined the blond girl, offering her a
burning torch, whispering into her ear. Sam felt true hopelessness, faced with
a situation he could not change. There was nothing for him to do here. No way
to help his brother, no way to influence any of the proceedings. Powerful
spells needed time, curses too. He could do the same thing Dean had done with
the hellhound, work something small with his own blood, but he'd have to bleed
himself dry to incapacitate them, and even then it would likely not be enough
to stop every single one of them.
Sam was so focused on the girl that he could pinpoint the exact moment when her
resolution failed her. Their eyes met and her expression turned hostile, her
pale mouth pinched in disgust. She gripped the wooden handle of the torch
tightly.
He loathed her then, that silly little girl, too stupid to make up her own
mind, too cowardly to face reality. Burning witches did not negate the fact
that she had sought help from them. It didn't eradicate her guilt. But this
wasn't her fault. The mayor could have picked anyone else and chances where
they would have followed his orders as well. Even if she had resisted, she was
one of many and not strong enough to change anything. The others would have
been willing in her place.
The girl moved towards Dean, her steps hesitant, steadied in their purpose only
by the flaming instrument in her hand, by the people around, urging her on. He
knew what was coming. He had seen it in a thousand nightmares since that first
vision.
When the fire met the oil it hissed like an angry cat. The flames devoured Dean
hungrily, though his brother didn't scream even as the flames shrouded his body
in light.
In that moment Sam realized that he couldn't, in fact, survive this. Dean was
the one dying but Sam screamed like it was him burning. It just burst out of
him this desperate, keening sound, that hurt so much the world went blurry on
the edges, and yet it was nothing compared to the sheer agony of living without
his brother. There was nothing for him here without Dean. No point in living.
No point in fighting.
It was time for him to act. He had relied on everyone else to solve his
problems, Dean, Lucifer, even Crowley and it had landed him in this mess. There
was no other choice now. The path ahead was clear and straightforward,
something about that felt liberating.
"I give in," he whispered, the words raw and painful in his throat.
Everything stopped.
A pulsing brightness stabbed through Sam's eyes, creating blind spots in his
vision.
When he was able to see again, he found himself in the lobby of the Wesson's
estate. In front of him an exact picture of the present. The crooked roof of
the hut, the chanting villagers and Dean's flaming silhouette, everything was
pictured in precise brush strokes.
"Nice of you to finally join me." The voice was deep and pleasant and he turned
to find Sir Nicolas sitting in a red velvet lounge chair to his right. He
hadn't aged a day, his expression still seemed like it could dissolve into
laughter at any point. Sam sat down in the chair next to him. He looked around,
the high ceilings and windows, the cream colored tapestries, everything was
exactly as he remembered.
He felt at home in a way. Comfortable. "I need you to save him." He said,
marveling at the determination in his voice. Sam had never been so sure of
anything. This was his way now and he would walk it with his head held high. "I
will do everything you want, rule hell with you, lead your armies, burn the
world to the ground if I have to. But I want Dean with me."
The Devil nodded benevolently at the burning figure in the center of the
painting. "You are indeed allowed to have a consort as Boy King. Traditionally
it would be a demon, but a strong witch such as him wouldn't be disadvantageous
to your status."
Sam wouldn't have cared if he had been forbidden from taking a consort, he
would have found some other way to keep Dean in his reach. Yet he felt like he
could breathe for the first time since the flames devoured his brother like
they had his mother once upon a time.
"He will fight you, though." the Devil added with a soft laugh. "Every step of
the way."
Sam nodded, he counted on that. Submission without resistance was worthless.
Especially with Dean, there would be a whole lot of pleasurable fighting to be
had until he finally surrendered.
"I also want Azazel to pay for what he did." He added. The demon had
demonstrated arrogance bordering on stupidity in assuming that he could touch
Dean without repercussions. Sam would find a way to remove the ugly pentagram
from Dean's skin. His brother would bear no mark but Sam's own.
Maybe Dean would even help him to bring the meddling demon to heel. Sam had a
feeling that his brother would be excellent at torturing if he used his keen
insight into the human psyche. Revenge was a great incentive to overcome his
squeamishness for suffering.
Lucifer's black eyes were blinking at him, strangely bird-like in their
mercilessness. "You will have enough power to make Azazel regret everything he
ever did. And a bit of healthy competition never hurt anyone." The Devil
laughed and it sounded hollow. "Keeps the boys on their toes."
He nodded absent-mindedly and spoke, "You'll do.", as though he was thinking of
something else already. Regardless, his tone was approving and for a second Sam
let himself feel pride at that.
As they both stood, Sir Nicolas' shell melted away like wax, and Sam caught a
glance of impenetrable blackness behind the human vessel, millions of soulless,
crazed red eyes, all of them open and forever watching. The void ripped open,
revealing lipless mouths with bloodied, canine teeth. Sam shrunk back. "You
know what to do." The creature said and everything turned dark.
--00--
Sam awoke with a start. It was morning, the watery sunlight barely enough to
illuminate the room. Dean was in bed, still sleeping, his chest raising only a
little with his light breaths. His hair was mussed and Sam stroked through it,
smoothing the ashen strands back. The older man mumbled something
unintelligible but he didn't wake.
The book was where it had always been. As Sam grasped it, he felt the same
current he'd felt before. A connection of kindred minds. It felt right to hold
it, the solid weight a welcome anchor for his straying thoughts. The warm
leather like living skin, a hand holding his own.
He opened the volume and the paper whispered quietly as if excited to share its
power. Tendrils of some last remaining part of purity drifted away. For a
moment he felt the loss intensely, felt the dark space where previously had
always been a light. Then the symbols on the pages curled and slithered into
that empty void, and though that place wasn't as warm, wasn't as bright as
before, the knowledge filled it up like water a cave.
Sam stood and for a moment was surprised that nothing was different. It felt
like the sky should have crashed down to earth and shattered into a thousand
icy blue shards, to match how fundamentally changed Sam felt. He heard the wood
creaking as it absorbed the damp air. He saw the warm shadow his brother's
eyelashes painted onto his cheek and smelt the rotting odor that was the moor
surrounding everything, clinging to his skin like a cloak. Everything was the
same as it had always been.
It was too easy to find the right ingredients in Dean's well-stocked supplies.
He could have summoned a small demon army if that had been his goal. As it was,
he took five of the white candles, a silver bowl, burned some of the dried
herbs and used the ash to draw the runes he needed on the wooden floorboards in
front of the fireplace. He placed the candles and put the bowl in the middle of
the pentagram. A few drops of his blood were enough to lure the demon to him.
He could have just called Crowley by name and the demon would have appeared by
his side. No one could refuse him now. But really, where would be the fun in
that? It was far better to summon him, just so he could feel the discomfort of
being ripped out of his current dimension and thrown into this one. Crowley's
pose was self-assured as he flickered into being, his head slightly crooked,
appearing as though he was merely curious about the summons. The spectacle was
only belied by his state of undress. He wasn't wearing more than knickers and
bright green knee socks, and it was the hardest thing Sam ever had to do, not
to laugh.
"I see you finally stopped dragging your heels." The forced relaxation in his
stance wasn't convincing. Sam knew just how much effort it took for the demon
to stand upright without jittering. He was above Crowley in the hierarchy now.
The man before him might not be scared yet, but there was a certain
apprehension in the way his shoulders drew tight.
They both knew that Crowley was trapped like a mouse in a cup. The mouse could
pretend to take it all in good humor, that its little feet weren't trembling,
that it could get out of the cup if it wanted, somehow, really, it had to be
easy. But in the back of its little head, it just knew that it was fucked.
"So nice to meet you again, Sammy, my boy." Sam broke a few of his bones with
the snip of a finger, just because he could. The only way to ever keep demons
in line was to take drastic measures at even the slightest provocations. You
gave them an inch and they would take the whole mile. There was nothing else to
do in hell but to challenge the current power structure. If word got out that
he was a pushover he'd find himself with a blade in his back before long.
Crowley betrayed nothing, no movement or emotion, only the tightening around
his eyes was evidence that anything had happened at all.
"You know, the innocent human in here is screaming right now. He has a family,
wife and two sons. Well, one son. Naturally, I had to show him that I was
serious about him being on board with the whole takeover thing." The demon
didn't seem too regretful about that.
Sam meanwhile had no idea why he was being told such bullshit. He didn't want
to know, and if he did, he could have fucking seen it. The visions were
instantaneous now, what he wanted to see, he saw. Naturally, the future could
still change with the choices people made, clairvoyance was never foolproof,
but he had the closest possible thing to it. Shrugging, he snapped his fingers
a few more times.
Crowley laughed. It sounded like it always did with demons. Slightly wrong,
like they had read a manual on how to laugh, maybe practiced in front of a
mirror but never actually done it when they weren't alone. "If you could see
yourself now, you would bemoan your humanity. Or, more accurately, Dean would.
Cause you always were one screwed up little cupcake, weren't you?"
Dean's name captured his attention and he zeroed in on dark eyes that shone
with mirth. His brother's name sounded revolting on someone else's lips,
however small a piece of ownership it actually represented. Dean was Sam's and
that included his body, his soul, his spirit and everything that made him.
Everyone else would have to get used to not using his name because it fucking
irritated Sam to no end that others even dared to speak of his beloved. Maybe
he could somehow convince Dean to go by "unholy consort" or something. That
would go over so well.
He wanted to keep his brother in the deepest hole in the loneliest place. No
one would ever get to touch him, or speak to him, or think of him ever again.
No one would even know that he existed. It scared him, this obsessive thing
that curled thorny claws around his heart, that felt so painful and so right at
the same time.
An involuntary growl escaped his braced teeth, and Crowley raised an eyebrow at
his jealous display. "You two are the most desperately codependent people I
have ever met. Dean with his fucking martyr complex and your inability to
realize that there are more important things than your brother." The demon
sighed, fluttering his lashes in an overly romantic fashion. "It's almost
poetic in its destruction. You are like fires, feeding off each other, burning
everything else."
Sam was already zoning out, mentally going over the list of all the other
demons he could have summoned that would have done the job faster and with less
talking. He came up with roughly zero better choices and sighed. Crowley was
still monologuing at this point so Sam pondered on dinner. There was still some
turkey meat left, maybe he could pair that with cooked potatoes, and carrots.
He crooked his neck and fractured Crowley's in one move. The demon
instinctively tried to escape the excruciating pain by leaving the vessel
behind and finding that he couldn't. Sam could dole out pain like it was his
job now. He supposed it technically was. Condensing fifty years of hell in the
tender care of their best and brightest into one single impulse was easy for
him. But actually using it on Crowley would have fried his brain. Sam needed to
be patient.
"I see that my insight is wasted on you." A slight hesitation in the words, a
few breaths taken too harshly were the only indication of the intense hurt the
demon had to still experience in the aftermath. He took pain well, Sam had to
give him that. "How can I please you, oh mighty Antichrist?"
Sam nodded slowly, accepting the title, however mocking it was spoken. "Deal
with the mayor. And turn the village into a sanctuary for all witches, seers
and otherwise magically gifted beings."
"Go with the utopian solution, why don't you. What about burning those narrow-
minded fuckers to the ground?" Crowley was slowly rising in Sam's estimation,
but it wasn't enough to tolerate that kind of snark from an underling.
"Did I say you couldn't erase their pathetic little existences in the most
painful way that your, admittedly limited, brain capacity can imagine?" One
small gesture sent a jolt through the demon that dropped him to his knees. Sam
was aiming for the feel of holy water for spinal fluid, and Crowley's bulging
eyes and cramped posture certainly spoke of success. "No, I did not. Learn to
listen."
Tipping his non-existent hat with trembling fingers, the demon threw him a
resentful glance that wasn't all that impressive coming from a man kneeling
half naked on the floor. Sam decided that he had enough of him and vanished the
demon with a thought.
Sam returned to Dean's bed and sat by his brother's side. He hoped that Dean
was amendable to the new state of things. There was no way that he'd be pleased
to be sure, the best Sam could hope for was a stalemate for now.
Dean would challenge him, but he wasn't the pure heavenly vessel he'd been when
they were both children. He was tainted by the blood magic, the curses and the
symbols etched into his ribs. And Sam was a magnet for tainted.
If he whispered a name, its keeper would writhe and slither towards him. If he
howled, werewolves would flock to him like sheep. If he gave an order, all
manner of dark creatures would crawl out of their hiding spots to be his
faithful servants.
Dean would struggle at first, too, and Sam was willing to make allowances for
that. Spare a few lives. Guarantee the safety of a couple humans, or whoever
else Dean was fond of. Stop a few demons from pillaging and raping the
innocent. These were all rather minor allowances for him, but for Dean, it
would turn an intolerable situation into a bearable one. His brother would get
used to his new reality and Sam had all the time in the world to wait.
End Notes
     So, this is my first ever wincest thingy. It happened because I
     dreamed the scene in the forest where they pick flowers with Vanessa
     as Sam and Dean as the cutwife. If Twilight thought me anything, it's
     that sexually charged dreams make for stories with consent issues.
     Anyway, I started to write this in August of 2015, so I'm probably
     the slowest writer in existence. But this is finished, it only needs
     some minor editing. I will hopefully post twice a week.
     If you find anything that you think I should add to the tags, please
     tell me. Title is from Placebo “I'll be yours”
     I'm mrsuial at tumblr, if you want to squee at me about wincest.
     Kudos are hugs for my soul and comments are food for my mind, both
     are appreciated.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!