Fic: Both
Title: Both
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam and Dean
Warning(s): Not happy fare.
Notes: Inspired by this vid by secretlytodream. Written quickly to give me a break from the Christmas fic. Judge accordingly.
Summary: "Which wolf wins?" "The one you feed."
They carve the monster into sections, hauling the pieces to the four points of the compass marked out with iron stakes in the woods. Each pile is doused in oil, then lit with flames, John’s face filled with the satisfaction of a job well done, Dean’s face filled with the contentment of pleasing his father.
Sam is filled with the monster’s howls, the sick slide of the knife once it was dead, the thud of its carcass as he dropped the canvas-wrapped limbs at the iron stake.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the stories his father told him at night, from the journals and newspapers and books his father pores through. This is the way the world works.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, three months and six beers after Jessica’s death, how are you supposed to feel if you’re both?
:::
It hurts like nothing he’s felt before, but there’s relief, too, when the knife severs his spine. He sinks to his knees, head buzzing, and it hurts, it burns and freezes at once, but there’s satisfaction, too, rising in his chest with the blood.
Dean has a clammy hand on his face, is probably whispering reassurance, but Sam can’t hear over the buzzing in his ears, the sound of that first monster howling to the sky.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the order his father gave Dean, from the twisted lives of the other children who accepted the demon’s gifts.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, his lips numb and his eyelids dropping down, how can you love me when I’m both?
:::
The room swims around him, warping with the beat of the fan. He raises his head. To anyone looking, it would seem his eyes are fixed on the devil’s trap above him. Instead, he is baring his throat, presenting his most vulnerable point to whatever comes through the door.
He is sick and miserable and were the room less sparse his will to live would have already drained away with the rest of his blood. But perhaps this is best, to wait a little longer, to pay penance a bit more.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the biting words from his brother, from Dean’s horror at Sam’s mouth covered in red.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, shivers working through his limbs, what am I supposed to do when I’m both?
:::
He does it because it is necessary, because it is logical. They have trapped him in a cage, in a room with concrete walls, and he laughs because it feels right to be caged. Because people fear the beasts that roam free. He undoes his sleeve and sets his wrist to his teeth, suppressing the pain.
When they open the door, he remains crouched, feral, blood on his teeth. He smiles and thinks of that first monster, thinks maybe it howled because it knew it was right, that this was the way of the world.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the guarded way Dean looks at him, from the way he is glad of his lost soul.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, awake and aware during the long night, how can you sleep when I’m both?
:::
When he comes back from Hell, when he sees life again, when he can understand in a way he never could before-when he is whole-he can feel that part of his soul, the piece he could never look at before. He knows why he struggled with his existence, knows the part of him that chases the pain and why, knows all the times he put himself in danger and, sometimes, hesitated to pull Dean from it.
He sees it all, now, holds all the pieces of himself. It’s not that he’s a masochist. He’s not suicidal or crazy-it’s just that half of him wants to kill the other half. And he’s lasted this long and he won’t tell his brother, but his father knew it and so does he. He is quiet because he knows he’ll die howling.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the contrary desires churning within, from the way his existence is a paradox.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, even when Dean doesn’t want to hear, when Dean’s face is white and his hands tremble as they wipe away Sam’s blood, when it's the end and he finally knows why, it’s because I’m both.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam and Dean
Warning(s): Not happy fare.
Notes: Inspired by this vid by secretlytodream. Written quickly to give me a break from the Christmas fic. Judge accordingly.
Summary: "Which wolf wins?" "The one you feed."
They carve the monster into sections, hauling the pieces to the four points of the compass marked out with iron stakes in the woods. Each pile is doused in oil, then lit with flames, John’s face filled with the satisfaction of a job well done, Dean’s face filled with the contentment of pleasing his father.
Sam is filled with the monster’s howls, the sick slide of the knife once it was dead, the thud of its carcass as he dropped the canvas-wrapped limbs at the iron stake.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the stories his father told him at night, from the journals and newspapers and books his father pores through. This is the way the world works.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, three months and six beers after Jessica’s death, how are you supposed to feel if you’re both?
:::
It hurts like nothing he’s felt before, but there’s relief, too, when the knife severs his spine. He sinks to his knees, head buzzing, and it hurts, it burns and freezes at once, but there’s satisfaction, too, rising in his chest with the blood.
Dean has a clammy hand on his face, is probably whispering reassurance, but Sam can’t hear over the buzzing in his ears, the sound of that first monster howling to the sky.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the order his father gave Dean, from the twisted lives of the other children who accepted the demon’s gifts.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, his lips numb and his eyelids dropping down, how can you love me when I’m both?
:::
The room swims around him, warping with the beat of the fan. He raises his head. To anyone looking, it would seem his eyes are fixed on the devil’s trap above him. Instead, he is baring his throat, presenting his most vulnerable point to whatever comes through the door.
He is sick and miserable and were the room less sparse his will to live would have already drained away with the rest of his blood. But perhaps this is best, to wait a little longer, to pay penance a bit more.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the biting words from his brother, from Dean’s horror at Sam’s mouth covered in red.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, shivers working through his limbs, what am I supposed to do when I’m both?
:::
He does it because it is necessary, because it is logical. They have trapped him in a cage, in a room with concrete walls, and he laughs because it feels right to be caged. Because people fear the beasts that roam free. He undoes his sleeve and sets his wrist to his teeth, suppressing the pain.
When they open the door, he remains crouched, feral, blood on his teeth. He smiles and thinks of that first monster, thinks maybe it howled because it knew it was right, that this was the way of the world.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the guarded way Dean looks at him, from the way he is glad of his lost soul.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, awake and aware during the long night, how can you sleep when I’m both?
:::
When he comes back from Hell, when he sees life again, when he can understand in a way he never could before-when he is whole-he can feel that part of his soul, the piece he could never look at before. He knows why he struggled with his existence, knows the part of him that chases the pain and why, knows all the times he put himself in danger and, sometimes, hesitated to pull Dean from it.
He sees it all, now, holds all the pieces of himself. It’s not that he’s a masochist. He’s not suicidal or crazy-it’s just that half of him wants to kill the other half. And he’s lasted this long and he won’t tell his brother, but his father knew it and so does he. He is quiet because he knows he’ll die howling.
This is what is done to monsters. He has known this from his birth, from the contrary desires churning within, from the way his existence is a paradox.
Monsters are killed. Hunters are glad.
Dean, Sam whispers, even when Dean doesn’t want to hear, when Dean’s face is white and his hands tremble as they wipe away Sam’s blood, when it's the end and he finally knows why, it’s because I’m both.