Supernatural Fic: Tested by Fire
Title: Tested by Fire
Beta: sarari
Rating: PG-13
Summmary: The boy king needs his brother. Originally started as part of dreamlittleyo's Power of Precog Challenge. Dark.
You are special. Chosen. Once dead, always living.
You remember what he said. Before. The dead should stay dead. Well, nothing is as it should be anymore, is it?
Her pretty head is on the floor, the blond ringlets pooled and stained in the blood. The neck is all wrong, bent out of shape like a sad, broken toy. With a flick of the wrist, though, she's pretty again, pretty and perfect, except for the dead gray skin. You are tempted to call her back - she's not far - but you know she'll just scream and scream and scream until you snap her neck again. They always do.
His pendant, still on its leather thong, rests in the palm of your hand. You smear the mask with a little bit of the fresh blood, smooth and warm and salty. Little Ruby already laid down the chalk and iron for you, before you dispatched her for betrayal. Thinking she could control you. You! The heir-apparent, the boy-king, the child-god.
"You don't want to do this. Think of your father! Think of Dean!"
They gave their lives so that you might live. Your father, your brother, even that surrogate father whom you never wanted, who gave you the world and everyone in it. They died so that you might be here, back in Palo Alto, by the sea, where it began. Lose a lover, take one back. It’s all about exchange and balance.
Ellen has become tiresome lately. She was so useful when Caim had his sway over Jo, but even simple Caim could see the limitations there. Ellen, though, has such sweet memories, memories of things you could never touch, not even before. And she's so much more fun than Bobby. Bobby is so quiet now, always watching, always waiting. You need to keep the knives away from Bobby.
You step into the chalk circles, concentric and marked in Sumerian and Hebrew, the languages native now to your once American tongue. You smile and hang the necklace in the air, along with his jacket and his boots.
The tears on Bobby's cheeks are warm and wet, salty like blood, and Ellen is begging you, begging so sweet, but inside she's dying with such glorious sorrow. Your army is on the move, across the Rockies, sweeping the country with storm and wind and you can feel their glory and exhilaration. The world burns alive with fear and pain and exaltation and deliverance.
The moment has come. You know that he won’t mind the colour of your eyes, won’t be bothered by your irises, not when his are a sweet and endless black.
*
I touch your face, your hair, your neck. I am called before my time, risen before I fought, untried and untested before my king, my lord, my all. It is bright here and you shine like the unholy sun, spreading your glory to all that you touch.
“Doksa,” I murmur out loud, trying my voice. I like how deep it is and I think that after I use it, it might be smooth and warm, too. I hope that it is pleasing to you. “Lytrotis. Basilias. Eiste megalos basilias.”
I try to fall to my knees, to kneel before my king, but your hand is still on the leather around this body’s neck, the leather and bronze that called me up from the deep.
“Dean,” my king says to me. “Dean. Oh god, Dean.”
You lift me up and cup my cheeks in your hands, murmuring my name over and over again like a holy mantra. My name is beautiful in your mouth, on my lord’s tongue, beautiful and ancient and pure. I had heard stories of my king when I was below, tales of the golden son of the seven headed serpent. They said that he was the child of man and demon, that he glowed with his own golden light, that he was both powerful and magnanimous. They also said that there had been, once, men vile and proud enough to try to kill him, to hunt him.
There are three humans in the room, two living and bound and one broken upon the floor. The two living men, one male and one female, are dirty and smell of fear. I wonder if my king has brought me here for them or if they are for me. I will not ask, for I don’t know what I would do with them. I am yet untried; I had not spent long in the deep before the Great One summoned me. The female one is crying, but I do not understand how someone could weep in the glowing light of our deliverer.
“Dean,” you say again, in that voice of yours, and you lean close to me and rest your forehead on mine. Your eyes are golden and shining like the rest of you. I bask in the glory of the presence of my king and rest assured in the fact that you have called me to you. You hold me as though I am precious to you and murmur close to my mouth, breathing the words into this body, “You’re back. Oh, Dean, you’re finally here.”
My king leans forward. You press your lips to mine. You kiss me, kiss me and remind me of Sam, my Sammy, Sammy for whom I cried every moment in the Pit. You kiss me and hold my face in the way that only my Sammy ever did. I open my eyes again and see beyond the wonderous glow of my king, beyond your shining light and the awe of being in your presence.
“Sammy?”
You smile and hold me, my face cupped in your large hands. I am back; I am returned; you are whole. I stand before you, in my old blue plaid shirt and dirty jeans, just as I always had in your memories. You kiss me again, a benediction against my lips, to forget the Pit and Its torments, just as I would give you before.
“Dean?”
You pull your head away from me and hold me close; I won’t leave you now, not of my own volition. I am yours, lover and brother, your beloved and your all. You have brought Hell to Earth to have me by your side. What claim could another have on me, to speak my name?
You search the old man, his bearded face dirty in the dim room, bound and tied like a beast. There are still tears on his cheeks, flowing like twin rivers, but inside, he is different. He is no longer silent and dead, waiting like the husk to be cast into the fire. Your beloved has fixed him. That is my gift. But he lays no claim, it seems, has no desire to steal me away again. He merely desires to protect and defend. That is good and well; your subject ought to love me as they love and fear you.
I tilt my head up to see you better, my black eyes beautiful and deadly. “He knows me. Did you tell him my name?”
You stroke your thumb over my cheek and smile. “It’s Bobby.”
Bobby.
I have memories from before the Pit, from before I was condemned to the Deep. We all do, especially those of us who are young and have not yet fought for our place in the hierarchy. There is Hell and there is Before Hell, but they tell us not to think heavily on Before Hell. That will break you faster than the fires and fights and blood sports of below.
Bobby. A man with a dog, a weak imitation of the night-black hounds that howl below, begging for souls. A house of books. A hat. The smells of good food and home.
I look to the man who spoke my name, the name that my king used to call me from the Pit. He is dirty and his beard is long. He is bound next to the female, who is also unkempt and still weeping. I do not understand why my lord keeps such things in your presence or why you would give them my name.
“Are you giving me to him?” Is that why I was called? Have I failed him so much that I am to be given to a dirty human, that I cannot fight for my place as the others do?
I remember Sammy from Before. It seems right that Sammy be my king, my lord, the Great One. I remember that I fought for Sammy and that, in the end, I died for Sammy. I know that I disappointed Sammy, that I should not have died, not while you lived. But I had not thought I was so bad.
“Mine.”
The yellow light in the room flares bright with that word, showing your power, displaying his strength. Your hand tightens on my shoulder, no doubt leaving bruises on this body. You hold me close to you and I begin to understand the depths of the word. I am yours, your beloved, and you are mine. Sammy is the Anointed one, but, I remember from Before, you were given to me to protect and love and honour. It is right that you are my king and I belong to you, but you also belong to me.
“Then why are they here?”
You breathe and smile. I am your Dean. Disoriented, confused, and hellbound, but your Dean no less. Your army sweeps the land, a cloud of black smoke on the horizon, and Dean is at your side. You are invincible, unstoppable. The so-called hunters, such as were left in the end, are controlled and tormented by your presidents and generals.
“They are yours, if you want them.”
And I look at you, my eyes black and guileless. Your Dean, your beloved, your right hand, your brother. With me, nothing is impossible, not defeating death, not overcoming hell. I would never condemn you for what you have done, not as the others did. I understand the fires and pits of Hell. I know the torments of eternal fire.
“Mine?”
“Yours.” You smile gently at me, knowing that I am here forever. “The others may say you are… untested. Don’t you want to prove them wrong?”
Beta: sarari
Rating: PG-13
Summmary: The boy king needs his brother. Originally started as part of dreamlittleyo's Power of Precog Challenge. Dark.
You are special. Chosen. Once dead, always living.
You remember what he said. Before. The dead should stay dead. Well, nothing is as it should be anymore, is it?
Her pretty head is on the floor, the blond ringlets pooled and stained in the blood. The neck is all wrong, bent out of shape like a sad, broken toy. With a flick of the wrist, though, she's pretty again, pretty and perfect, except for the dead gray skin. You are tempted to call her back - she's not far - but you know she'll just scream and scream and scream until you snap her neck again. They always do.
His pendant, still on its leather thong, rests in the palm of your hand. You smear the mask with a little bit of the fresh blood, smooth and warm and salty. Little Ruby already laid down the chalk and iron for you, before you dispatched her for betrayal. Thinking she could control you. You! The heir-apparent, the boy-king, the child-god.
"You don't want to do this. Think of your father! Think of Dean!"
They gave their lives so that you might live. Your father, your brother, even that surrogate father whom you never wanted, who gave you the world and everyone in it. They died so that you might be here, back in Palo Alto, by the sea, where it began. Lose a lover, take one back. It’s all about exchange and balance.
Ellen has become tiresome lately. She was so useful when Caim had his sway over Jo, but even simple Caim could see the limitations there. Ellen, though, has such sweet memories, memories of things you could never touch, not even before. And she's so much more fun than Bobby. Bobby is so quiet now, always watching, always waiting. You need to keep the knives away from Bobby.
You step into the chalk circles, concentric and marked in Sumerian and Hebrew, the languages native now to your once American tongue. You smile and hang the necklace in the air, along with his jacket and his boots.
The tears on Bobby's cheeks are warm and wet, salty like blood, and Ellen is begging you, begging so sweet, but inside she's dying with such glorious sorrow. Your army is on the move, across the Rockies, sweeping the country with storm and wind and you can feel their glory and exhilaration. The world burns alive with fear and pain and exaltation and deliverance.
The moment has come. You know that he won’t mind the colour of your eyes, won’t be bothered by your irises, not when his are a sweet and endless black.
*
I touch your face, your hair, your neck. I am called before my time, risen before I fought, untried and untested before my king, my lord, my all. It is bright here and you shine like the unholy sun, spreading your glory to all that you touch.
“Doksa,” I murmur out loud, trying my voice. I like how deep it is and I think that after I use it, it might be smooth and warm, too. I hope that it is pleasing to you. “Lytrotis. Basilias. Eiste megalos basilias.”
I try to fall to my knees, to kneel before my king, but your hand is still on the leather around this body’s neck, the leather and bronze that called me up from the deep.
“Dean,” my king says to me. “Dean. Oh god, Dean.”
You lift me up and cup my cheeks in your hands, murmuring my name over and over again like a holy mantra. My name is beautiful in your mouth, on my lord’s tongue, beautiful and ancient and pure. I had heard stories of my king when I was below, tales of the golden son of the seven headed serpent. They said that he was the child of man and demon, that he glowed with his own golden light, that he was both powerful and magnanimous. They also said that there had been, once, men vile and proud enough to try to kill him, to hunt him.
There are three humans in the room, two living and bound and one broken upon the floor. The two living men, one male and one female, are dirty and smell of fear. I wonder if my king has brought me here for them or if they are for me. I will not ask, for I don’t know what I would do with them. I am yet untried; I had not spent long in the deep before the Great One summoned me. The female one is crying, but I do not understand how someone could weep in the glowing light of our deliverer.
“Dean,” you say again, in that voice of yours, and you lean close to me and rest your forehead on mine. Your eyes are golden and shining like the rest of you. I bask in the glory of the presence of my king and rest assured in the fact that you have called me to you. You hold me as though I am precious to you and murmur close to my mouth, breathing the words into this body, “You’re back. Oh, Dean, you’re finally here.”
My king leans forward. You press your lips to mine. You kiss me, kiss me and remind me of Sam, my Sammy, Sammy for whom I cried every moment in the Pit. You kiss me and hold my face in the way that only my Sammy ever did. I open my eyes again and see beyond the wonderous glow of my king, beyond your shining light and the awe of being in your presence.
“Sammy?”
You smile and hold me, my face cupped in your large hands. I am back; I am returned; you are whole. I stand before you, in my old blue plaid shirt and dirty jeans, just as I always had in your memories. You kiss me again, a benediction against my lips, to forget the Pit and Its torments, just as I would give you before.
“Dean?”
You pull your head away from me and hold me close; I won’t leave you now, not of my own volition. I am yours, lover and brother, your beloved and your all. You have brought Hell to Earth to have me by your side. What claim could another have on me, to speak my name?
You search the old man, his bearded face dirty in the dim room, bound and tied like a beast. There are still tears on his cheeks, flowing like twin rivers, but inside, he is different. He is no longer silent and dead, waiting like the husk to be cast into the fire. Your beloved has fixed him. That is my gift. But he lays no claim, it seems, has no desire to steal me away again. He merely desires to protect and defend. That is good and well; your subject ought to love me as they love and fear you.
I tilt my head up to see you better, my black eyes beautiful and deadly. “He knows me. Did you tell him my name?”
You stroke your thumb over my cheek and smile. “It’s Bobby.”
Bobby.
I have memories from before the Pit, from before I was condemned to the Deep. We all do, especially those of us who are young and have not yet fought for our place in the hierarchy. There is Hell and there is Before Hell, but they tell us not to think heavily on Before Hell. That will break you faster than the fires and fights and blood sports of below.
Bobby. A man with a dog, a weak imitation of the night-black hounds that howl below, begging for souls. A house of books. A hat. The smells of good food and home.
I look to the man who spoke my name, the name that my king used to call me from the Pit. He is dirty and his beard is long. He is bound next to the female, who is also unkempt and still weeping. I do not understand why my lord keeps such things in your presence or why you would give them my name.
“Are you giving me to him?” Is that why I was called? Have I failed him so much that I am to be given to a dirty human, that I cannot fight for my place as the others do?
I remember Sammy from Before. It seems right that Sammy be my king, my lord, the Great One. I remember that I fought for Sammy and that, in the end, I died for Sammy. I know that I disappointed Sammy, that I should not have died, not while you lived. But I had not thought I was so bad.
“Mine.”
The yellow light in the room flares bright with that word, showing your power, displaying his strength. Your hand tightens on my shoulder, no doubt leaving bruises on this body. You hold me close to you and I begin to understand the depths of the word. I am yours, your beloved, and you are mine. Sammy is the Anointed one, but, I remember from Before, you were given to me to protect and love and honour. It is right that you are my king and I belong to you, but you also belong to me.
“Then why are they here?”
You breathe and smile. I am your Dean. Disoriented, confused, and hellbound, but your Dean no less. Your army sweeps the land, a cloud of black smoke on the horizon, and Dean is at your side. You are invincible, unstoppable. The so-called hunters, such as were left in the end, are controlled and tormented by your presidents and generals.
“They are yours, if you want them.”
And I look at you, my eyes black and guileless. Your Dean, your beloved, your right hand, your brother. With me, nothing is impossible, not defeating death, not overcoming hell. I would never condemn you for what you have done, not as the others did. I understand the fires and pits of Hell. I know the torments of eternal fire.
“Mine?”
“Yours.” You smile gently at me, knowing that I am here forever. “The others may say you are… untested. Don’t you want to prove them wrong?”