fic: through darkness we rise
title: through darkness we rise
rating: pg-13
pairing: dean/sam
warnings: uh, bloodplay, demon!winchesters? i suppose that can be a warning, heh.
summary: (i mean, really, not every demon is bad. some just like to have a little fun. ain't that right, sammy, you say, as he barges in the back entrance, all commanding attention and 'don't you daaaare look away from me now, look what you've gotten yourself into.')
notes: 1090 words. second-person pov again, with weird experiments in formatting. written for the spn_demons comment fic meme from the prompt: Dean was never "rescued" from Hell so he become a demon and comes back to find that while he was down, Sam drank himself to demonhood and now they're demons ~*together. originally posted here.
You can finally breathe. Finally, there are no hands and arms and bodies brushing against you, no competition pushing you out of the way as you scramble for footing, scramble for the way out of hell.
(arms, legs, wrapping around you, clawing, pulling at your skin, at your soul, come down with us, you'll love it in here with us, blood-stained fingers gripping bruises into non-existent skin.)
You can finally find Sam. Your only tether left after 40 years in hell, the only memory Alastair couldn't completely rip, poke, or burn out of your soul, that inherent, overwhelming feeling of need towards your brother.
(look at me, deano, wearing your brother's face. look at us, remember us, there's nothing else left, there's no other way out, do you remember, you'll never remember, become one of us and leave it all behind, they whispered.)
You can finally remember.
~
They say demons were once human and becoming a demon means you forget what that was like. You're not sure you ever really knew how to be human in the first place.
~
He tries to exorcise you the moment you step out of the shadows, doesn't even bother to chitchat. It hurts your feelings but you can't blame him; after all you're not wearing Dean Winchester's skin anymore, couldn't get comfortable in the hollow shell you'd left behind. Instead you've chosen a girl's body, small and not intimidating. You thought maybe it'd entice him into bed with you, get him to drink the ovaltine in your veins instead of Ruby's. You remember Ruby from hell, your own little pet to work with once Alastair gave you free rein, strung her up on your rack and let you punish her for disobeying Lilith. You were disappointed when she disappeared without a trace from your rack one day; you had so many techniques waiting in the wings to try. Now you want to punish her for what she's done to your brother, how she's twisted him into some entity for a purpose no one yet knows. You spent ten years honing your skills in hell, but you think there's probably a few tricks you haven't discovered yet.
~
"I need it," he begs you, pale, sweaty, and shaking. Ruby's knife - or rather your knife now - is in his hand, but there's no way you're letting it anywhere near your skin. You'll pass on the lightening bolt scars, thank you very much.
You hold out your hand. "Give it. It's only been two days."
"I need it," he repeats, quieter. He hands you the knife. There's two beds in the motel room in which you're staying; you lie down on the one already unmade from the night before. Sam's bloodlust makes you dizzy and unstable on your feet, a trait very unbecoming in a demon. Lying on the bed makes you feel less weak; you were always a pistol in the sack.
"Where?" you ask, already knowing the answer. He likes drinking from your neck, enjoys the thick steady flow and feeling your meatsuit's pulse thrum under his tongue.
"Wrist," he rasps instead. It's a switch from the usual, but it makes you warm and fuzzy inside - not happy of course, since you don't comprehend emotions that way any longer. But you like it when he drinks from your wrist; it means you can relax and watch his face as he drinks, watch as he turns from a quivering drug addict into the most powerful human you've ever met. Except he's not human, not really, not anymore.
~
You can't move. You feel like a damn fool, stepped into the bar with nothing but grace and nonchalance in your shoulders, and the moment you got in the door, you couldn't get any further. Bartender'd pulled out a gun and you'd laughed but then he'd followed through with a bottle of holy water and suddenly you weren't the one laughing anymore. Sam's a towering presence at your back but he can't walk through any more than you can at this point and if he tries you'll both be sitting ducks.
(back up quick, sammy, come in from behind and save the day. my hero, you say, and fake like you're blushing. sam just rolls his eyes, the asshole.)
You can't believe the nerve of some hunters these days. Just because the body you're in isn't yours, just because the blood on your hands isn't yours either, that doesn't mean you're the bad guy.
(i mean, really, not every demon is bad. some just like to have a little fun. ain't that right, sammy, you say, as he barges in the back entrance, all commanding attention and 'don't you daaaare look away from me now, look what you've gotten yourself into.')
You can't remember what it's like not to be proud of your little brother.
(it's not just exorcisms he can do now, not just demons he can throw around. the bartender loses his gun pretty quick, makes a futile toss of the holy water - watch out for that shit, sammy, it burns, you call out - he dodges it without a second thought then looks at you like you're the biggest idiot in the world, rolls his eyes and says, yeah i know dean, this isn't the first time i've had to save your ass, i'll probably be saving your ass until the end of time at this point, maybe next time you should look where you're going)
You can't believe you didn't see the bright red devil's trap painted on the dusty bar floor underneath your feet.
(want a beer, sammy grins, one fist gripping a bud light and the other one twisted in the bartender's hair. he takes a swig of it then slides it down the bar toward you; it stops about three inches from the end, and about six inches out of your reach because you're still suck inside a goddamn devils trap, sammy get me out of here already but he just lights up the room with his smile and you can't help but stare at him, can't help but realize how fucking attractive he is with his broad shoulders and dimpled cheeks, but the most attractive part, you think, is how when he gets all worked up like this, saving your stupid ass for the nine hundredth time, his eyes slide from that polished hazel that he inherited from your mother to the shiniest, smoothest, coal black you've ever seen - something he inherited from you.)
rating: pg-13
pairing: dean/sam
warnings: uh, bloodplay, demon!winchesters? i suppose that can be a warning, heh.
summary: (i mean, really, not every demon is bad. some just like to have a little fun. ain't that right, sammy, you say, as he barges in the back entrance, all commanding attention and 'don't you daaaare look away from me now, look what you've gotten yourself into.')
notes: 1090 words. second-person pov again, with weird experiments in formatting. written for the spn_demons comment fic meme from the prompt: Dean was never "rescued" from Hell so he become a demon and comes back to find that while he was down, Sam drank himself to demonhood and now they're demons ~*together. originally posted here.
You can finally breathe. Finally, there are no hands and arms and bodies brushing against you, no competition pushing you out of the way as you scramble for footing, scramble for the way out of hell.
(arms, legs, wrapping around you, clawing, pulling at your skin, at your soul, come down with us, you'll love it in here with us, blood-stained fingers gripping bruises into non-existent skin.)
You can finally find Sam. Your only tether left after 40 years in hell, the only memory Alastair couldn't completely rip, poke, or burn out of your soul, that inherent, overwhelming feeling of need towards your brother.
(look at me, deano, wearing your brother's face. look at us, remember us, there's nothing else left, there's no other way out, do you remember, you'll never remember, become one of us and leave it all behind, they whispered.)
You can finally remember.
~
They say demons were once human and becoming a demon means you forget what that was like. You're not sure you ever really knew how to be human in the first place.
~
He tries to exorcise you the moment you step out of the shadows, doesn't even bother to chitchat. It hurts your feelings but you can't blame him; after all you're not wearing Dean Winchester's skin anymore, couldn't get comfortable in the hollow shell you'd left behind. Instead you've chosen a girl's body, small and not intimidating. You thought maybe it'd entice him into bed with you, get him to drink the ovaltine in your veins instead of Ruby's. You remember Ruby from hell, your own little pet to work with once Alastair gave you free rein, strung her up on your rack and let you punish her for disobeying Lilith. You were disappointed when she disappeared without a trace from your rack one day; you had so many techniques waiting in the wings to try. Now you want to punish her for what she's done to your brother, how she's twisted him into some entity for a purpose no one yet knows. You spent ten years honing your skills in hell, but you think there's probably a few tricks you haven't discovered yet.
~
"I need it," he begs you, pale, sweaty, and shaking. Ruby's knife - or rather your knife now - is in his hand, but there's no way you're letting it anywhere near your skin. You'll pass on the lightening bolt scars, thank you very much.
You hold out your hand. "Give it. It's only been two days."
"I need it," he repeats, quieter. He hands you the knife. There's two beds in the motel room in which you're staying; you lie down on the one already unmade from the night before. Sam's bloodlust makes you dizzy and unstable on your feet, a trait very unbecoming in a demon. Lying on the bed makes you feel less weak; you were always a pistol in the sack.
"Where?" you ask, already knowing the answer. He likes drinking from your neck, enjoys the thick steady flow and feeling your meatsuit's pulse thrum under his tongue.
"Wrist," he rasps instead. It's a switch from the usual, but it makes you warm and fuzzy inside - not happy of course, since you don't comprehend emotions that way any longer. But you like it when he drinks from your wrist; it means you can relax and watch his face as he drinks, watch as he turns from a quivering drug addict into the most powerful human you've ever met. Except he's not human, not really, not anymore.
~
You can't move. You feel like a damn fool, stepped into the bar with nothing but grace and nonchalance in your shoulders, and the moment you got in the door, you couldn't get any further. Bartender'd pulled out a gun and you'd laughed but then he'd followed through with a bottle of holy water and suddenly you weren't the one laughing anymore. Sam's a towering presence at your back but he can't walk through any more than you can at this point and if he tries you'll both be sitting ducks.
(back up quick, sammy, come in from behind and save the day. my hero, you say, and fake like you're blushing. sam just rolls his eyes, the asshole.)
You can't believe the nerve of some hunters these days. Just because the body you're in isn't yours, just because the blood on your hands isn't yours either, that doesn't mean you're the bad guy.
(i mean, really, not every demon is bad. some just like to have a little fun. ain't that right, sammy, you say, as he barges in the back entrance, all commanding attention and 'don't you daaaare look away from me now, look what you've gotten yourself into.')
You can't remember what it's like not to be proud of your little brother.
(it's not just exorcisms he can do now, not just demons he can throw around. the bartender loses his gun pretty quick, makes a futile toss of the holy water - watch out for that shit, sammy, it burns, you call out - he dodges it without a second thought then looks at you like you're the biggest idiot in the world, rolls his eyes and says, yeah i know dean, this isn't the first time i've had to save your ass, i'll probably be saving your ass until the end of time at this point, maybe next time you should look where you're going)
You can't believe you didn't see the bright red devil's trap painted on the dusty bar floor underneath your feet.
(want a beer, sammy grins, one fist gripping a bud light and the other one twisted in the bartender's hair. he takes a swig of it then slides it down the bar toward you; it stops about three inches from the end, and about six inches out of your reach because you're still suck inside a goddamn devils trap, sammy get me out of here already but he just lights up the room with his smile and you can't help but stare at him, can't help but realize how fucking attractive he is with his broad shoulders and dimpled cheeks, but the most attractive part, you think, is how when he gets all worked up like this, saving your stupid ass for the nine hundredth time, his eyes slide from that polished hazel that he inherited from your mother to the shiniest, smoothest, coal black you've ever seen - something he inherited from you.)