Supernatural story: Diamond Dogs
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-14 or light R?
Warnings: violence
Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Dean, werewolfism - one turns and takes the other down (interpret as you will) for dark_fest LJ comm
Notes: dauntdraws produces some lovely artwork. Two of them were in the back of my mind while writing this. They were drawn for other stories, but I took inspiration from them both: this (for a story called Highwayman) was the picture I had in my head for the woods in Sam's dream; and this (for Last Outpost of All That Is) was the way I saw Sam and Dean just before everything changes.
**********************
The moon hangs overhead, old and ghostly white, and the stars shine bright, pinholes punched through the fabric of black sky. The woods are a dark silhouette of twisted trees. On the forest floor around him, frost sparkles like diamonds, dripping over leaf and grass and dirt.
He’s so tired. His side hurts. He’s not alone, though. He feels the heat of a body beside him. He rolls, frozen leaves crunching beneath him, turning to see-
He wakes up.
“Sam?” The voice is gruff. Dean’s face is sleepy-swollen, eyes blinking down at him, hand curled warm and wide over his shoulder.
Sam’s lips feel numb. He stares through Dean. “It’s cold there.”
Dean yawns, rubs his eyes. He takes a closer look at Sam’s face. “Cold where?” He shakes Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up. It’s a dream.”
“The woods,” Sam says at last, eyes settling on Dean’s face, so familiar-full lips, the tips of his hair glowing, touched by the wide moon. Green eyes like crystals, clear and deep.
Sam knows this: in his dreams, the woods mean death.
He thinks maybe he should get up and get away, leave Dean behind, though he knows that leaving is the one unforgivable sin left between them. But something urgent picks at the back of his brain and won’t quit. He’s been fighting the urge to leave for days.
His side aches, sudden and raw. He presses a hand to it.
“The woods?” Dean repeats. His face clears. “That was weeks ago.”
Sam closes his eyes, brows scrunching together. He doesn’t understand, but he thinks-no, he knows-Dean is going to get hurt again.
Because I’ll hurt him. I’m the thing that always hurts him.
His eyes fly open. “Dean, something’s wrong with me.”
Dean gives him an impatient look. “You’re fine.”
But Sam sees the tension in his face, the fine tremor in Dean’s hands. “Something happened to me and you’re not telling me.” Sam swings himself out of bed. “I have to go.”
Dean sits up in bed. “What’re you talking about? It was a dream, Sam.” He gets out of bed and stands beside Sam as he dresses. “Apparently a hell of a dream.” He grabs Sam’s arm. “Listen to me. Nothing happened to you. We finished the job, we burned the bodies and we left. Cut and dried.”
Sam ignores him, pulling on a shirt.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Somewhere so you’ll be safe.”
“Stop. Just for a minute.” Dean sounds the same as he had another time, years ago. They’d been on a bridge. Dean had told him their dad said he might have to kill Sam. Dean had pleaded then, too.
He’d been so angry at Dean for keeping things from him. He’d felt betrayed, but he shouldn’t have. Dean kept secrets to protect Sam, and Sam kept secrets because that’s how he was, and because he was angry, and later on to keep the truth of his downfall away from Dean for as long as possible. It was the only peace Sam could offer him, and just as wrong-headed as all the other secrets and lies between them.
Dean eyes are narrowed. “You’re heading out alone because of a dream? I don’t think so. We stay together, Sam.”
“And we don’t lie. We don’t hide things. Not anymore.” Sam’s voice is even, his eyes hard on Dean’s.
Dean grabs Sam by the shoulder and pushes roughly, then follows with his body. The back of Sam’s head bangs into the wall by the door. Dean is pressed against him and Sam has to leave, go, go now.
“Something’s wrong,” Sam begs.
“Can’t let you, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, and then his mouth is on Sam’s, lips bruising, tongue opening him up.
Sam lets him in, can’t stop, and their lips slide together, hungry, warm, tongues touching, slipping in deeper. Sam grabs Dean’s ass and thrusts, grinds against him, feels the heaviness and hardness of Dean’s cock against his. Dean’s breath is harsh and fast, too fast against his cheek.
Afraid of me, Sam thinks, knows it because he knows Dean, and then he knows something else. Dean’s kept a secret. Let it grow from one full moon to the next, pressure of passing days creating a hard cold entity unto itself, diamond pressed from coal.
It doesn’t matter if he’s afraid, he won’t let me go.
“What happened last month in the woods?” Sam’s voice is raw. It feels difficult to push out of his throat, to curl around syllables and control.
Dean grows still. He doesn’t speak.
Sam wraps a hand around Dean’s jaw and looks into his face. “I think maybe I was attacked. My side hurts sometimes. It was bad, wasn’t it? I bet I bled and bled, huh, Dean? I bet you thought I’d die.”
Dean watches him, stubborn chin, mouth set, hard glint in his eyes.
“You shot them full of silver and burned them. You were there next to me on the ground afterward, right? Like in my dreams. And then you got me up and out of there.”
Dean shakes his head. “So that’s what you keep dreaming about? No wonder you haven’t been able to sleep.”
Sam thrusts his face into Dean’s. “The moon’s working in me, you stupid fuck, but you don’t care, do you? You made me watch you die and now you’re going to make me do this.”
There’s a moment of electric silence and then Dean turns his head, speaks into Sam’s ear. “I let you go once because I couldn’t stop you. I let you go again because I didn’t trust you. Biggest mistakes I ever made, Sammy.”
“You should have killed me years ago.” Sam laughs, angry and defeated. “Why does it always come down to that?”
Something’s wrong with his voice. It’s garbled and choked, like he’s poking holes through his throat and forcing the words through them. He drops his hands onto the wall behind him, fingers splayed and rigid. He digs in. Drywall crumbles beneath his touch.
He comes off the wall, pushes Dean aside, swipes the keys from the night table and slams outside. He runs to the Impala, panting deep noises from his chest, not realizing he’s making them. It’s dark but he sees just fine. He opens the trunk and finds exactly what he thinks he will.
The door to their room creaks as Dean opens it slowly, light spilling across the threshold. He stands just inside, hand on the knob. “I used up the silver last month.”
“Dean. You could have a real life. Please.” Sam’s eyes are wet. He can’t recognize his own voice anymore. His throat hurts.
“You're kidding yourself, Sam.” Dean tries one of his trademark smirks, failing utterly. His mouth trembles. “Besides, one got away. I can't have that. But we’ll find him.”
“And then what?” Sam yells, his voice breaking. Dean doesn’t answer. Sam wants to puke or cry or punch Dean or something else, something worse. Break him. Tear him up.
He walks to the doorway, shoves Dean inside and closes the door behind them. He towers over his brother, reaches out with a hand and pushes him again, hard, bears him down to the dirty brown carpet. He feels strong, as strong as Ruby's blood used to make him feel. His fingers curl into claws. He bares his teeth like a weapon, buries them in his brother’s shoulder.
Dean screams, body bowing off the ground.
“This feel like I'm kidding?" Sam speaks into the hole torn in Dean’s shoulder. Blood pumps against his lips. Dark, rich, red, alive, struggling, so alive. “You’re mine,” he whispers, then rips deeper into skin and flesh and bone.
Dean cries out again, fury and fear in his voice. “First thing I do,” he gasps, tears rolling down his face, features pulling taut in pain, “is kill the one I missed. The one that got to you first.”
I love you, too, Sam thinks, one last lucid, despairing thought. It fades away. It feels like dying.
He bites again and shakes his head, tearing the meat in his jaws. Blood gushes into Sam's mouth, Dean's taste in his throat. Dean's blood is everywhere. He wants to roll in it, cover himself with it, but something in him remembers that he doesn’t want to kill him.
He stops. Pulls back and watches Dean. Dean’s eyes are huge. He stares up at Sam, face wet with tears and sweat.
Dean closes his eyes and wraps his good arm around Sam, holds him tight.
Rating: PG-14 or light R?
Warnings: violence
Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Dean, werewolfism - one turns and takes the other down (interpret as you will) for dark_fest LJ comm
Notes: dauntdraws produces some lovely artwork. Two of them were in the back of my mind while writing this. They were drawn for other stories, but I took inspiration from them both: this (for a story called Highwayman) was the picture I had in my head for the woods in Sam's dream; and this (for Last Outpost of All That Is) was the way I saw Sam and Dean just before everything changes.
**********************
The moon hangs overhead, old and ghostly white, and the stars shine bright, pinholes punched through the fabric of black sky. The woods are a dark silhouette of twisted trees. On the forest floor around him, frost sparkles like diamonds, dripping over leaf and grass and dirt.
He’s so tired. His side hurts. He’s not alone, though. He feels the heat of a body beside him. He rolls, frozen leaves crunching beneath him, turning to see-
He wakes up.
“Sam?” The voice is gruff. Dean’s face is sleepy-swollen, eyes blinking down at him, hand curled warm and wide over his shoulder.
Sam’s lips feel numb. He stares through Dean. “It’s cold there.”
Dean yawns, rubs his eyes. He takes a closer look at Sam’s face. “Cold where?” He shakes Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up. It’s a dream.”
“The woods,” Sam says at last, eyes settling on Dean’s face, so familiar-full lips, the tips of his hair glowing, touched by the wide moon. Green eyes like crystals, clear and deep.
Sam knows this: in his dreams, the woods mean death.
He thinks maybe he should get up and get away, leave Dean behind, though he knows that leaving is the one unforgivable sin left between them. But something urgent picks at the back of his brain and won’t quit. He’s been fighting the urge to leave for days.
His side aches, sudden and raw. He presses a hand to it.
“The woods?” Dean repeats. His face clears. “That was weeks ago.”
Sam closes his eyes, brows scrunching together. He doesn’t understand, but he thinks-no, he knows-Dean is going to get hurt again.
Because I’ll hurt him. I’m the thing that always hurts him.
His eyes fly open. “Dean, something’s wrong with me.”
Dean gives him an impatient look. “You’re fine.”
But Sam sees the tension in his face, the fine tremor in Dean’s hands. “Something happened to me and you’re not telling me.” Sam swings himself out of bed. “I have to go.”
Dean sits up in bed. “What’re you talking about? It was a dream, Sam.” He gets out of bed and stands beside Sam as he dresses. “Apparently a hell of a dream.” He grabs Sam’s arm. “Listen to me. Nothing happened to you. We finished the job, we burned the bodies and we left. Cut and dried.”
Sam ignores him, pulling on a shirt.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Somewhere so you’ll be safe.”
“Stop. Just for a minute.” Dean sounds the same as he had another time, years ago. They’d been on a bridge. Dean had told him their dad said he might have to kill Sam. Dean had pleaded then, too.
He’d been so angry at Dean for keeping things from him. He’d felt betrayed, but he shouldn’t have. Dean kept secrets to protect Sam, and Sam kept secrets because that’s how he was, and because he was angry, and later on to keep the truth of his downfall away from Dean for as long as possible. It was the only peace Sam could offer him, and just as wrong-headed as all the other secrets and lies between them.
Dean eyes are narrowed. “You’re heading out alone because of a dream? I don’t think so. We stay together, Sam.”
“And we don’t lie. We don’t hide things. Not anymore.” Sam’s voice is even, his eyes hard on Dean’s.
Dean grabs Sam by the shoulder and pushes roughly, then follows with his body. The back of Sam’s head bangs into the wall by the door. Dean is pressed against him and Sam has to leave, go, go now.
“Something’s wrong,” Sam begs.
“Can’t let you, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, and then his mouth is on Sam’s, lips bruising, tongue opening him up.
Sam lets him in, can’t stop, and their lips slide together, hungry, warm, tongues touching, slipping in deeper. Sam grabs Dean’s ass and thrusts, grinds against him, feels the heaviness and hardness of Dean’s cock against his. Dean’s breath is harsh and fast, too fast against his cheek.
Afraid of me, Sam thinks, knows it because he knows Dean, and then he knows something else. Dean’s kept a secret. Let it grow from one full moon to the next, pressure of passing days creating a hard cold entity unto itself, diamond pressed from coal.
It doesn’t matter if he’s afraid, he won’t let me go.
“What happened last month in the woods?” Sam’s voice is raw. It feels difficult to push out of his throat, to curl around syllables and control.
Dean grows still. He doesn’t speak.
Sam wraps a hand around Dean’s jaw and looks into his face. “I think maybe I was attacked. My side hurts sometimes. It was bad, wasn’t it? I bet I bled and bled, huh, Dean? I bet you thought I’d die.”
Dean watches him, stubborn chin, mouth set, hard glint in his eyes.
“You shot them full of silver and burned them. You were there next to me on the ground afterward, right? Like in my dreams. And then you got me up and out of there.”
Dean shakes his head. “So that’s what you keep dreaming about? No wonder you haven’t been able to sleep.”
Sam thrusts his face into Dean’s. “The moon’s working in me, you stupid fuck, but you don’t care, do you? You made me watch you die and now you’re going to make me do this.”
There’s a moment of electric silence and then Dean turns his head, speaks into Sam’s ear. “I let you go once because I couldn’t stop you. I let you go again because I didn’t trust you. Biggest mistakes I ever made, Sammy.”
“You should have killed me years ago.” Sam laughs, angry and defeated. “Why does it always come down to that?”
Something’s wrong with his voice. It’s garbled and choked, like he’s poking holes through his throat and forcing the words through them. He drops his hands onto the wall behind him, fingers splayed and rigid. He digs in. Drywall crumbles beneath his touch.
He comes off the wall, pushes Dean aside, swipes the keys from the night table and slams outside. He runs to the Impala, panting deep noises from his chest, not realizing he’s making them. It’s dark but he sees just fine. He opens the trunk and finds exactly what he thinks he will.
The door to their room creaks as Dean opens it slowly, light spilling across the threshold. He stands just inside, hand on the knob. “I used up the silver last month.”
“Dean. You could have a real life. Please.” Sam’s eyes are wet. He can’t recognize his own voice anymore. His throat hurts.
“You're kidding yourself, Sam.” Dean tries one of his trademark smirks, failing utterly. His mouth trembles. “Besides, one got away. I can't have that. But we’ll find him.”
“And then what?” Sam yells, his voice breaking. Dean doesn’t answer. Sam wants to puke or cry or punch Dean or something else, something worse. Break him. Tear him up.
He walks to the doorway, shoves Dean inside and closes the door behind them. He towers over his brother, reaches out with a hand and pushes him again, hard, bears him down to the dirty brown carpet. He feels strong, as strong as Ruby's blood used to make him feel. His fingers curl into claws. He bares his teeth like a weapon, buries them in his brother’s shoulder.
Dean screams, body bowing off the ground.
“This feel like I'm kidding?" Sam speaks into the hole torn in Dean’s shoulder. Blood pumps against his lips. Dark, rich, red, alive, struggling, so alive. “You’re mine,” he whispers, then rips deeper into skin and flesh and bone.
Dean cries out again, fury and fear in his voice. “First thing I do,” he gasps, tears rolling down his face, features pulling taut in pain, “is kill the one I missed. The one that got to you first.”
I love you, too, Sam thinks, one last lucid, despairing thought. It fades away. It feels like dying.
He bites again and shakes his head, tearing the meat in his jaws. Blood gushes into Sam's mouth, Dean's taste in his throat. Dean's blood is everywhere. He wants to roll in it, cover himself with it, but something in him remembers that he doesn’t want to kill him.
He stops. Pulls back and watches Dean. Dean’s eyes are huge. He stares up at Sam, face wet with tears and sweat.
Dean closes his eyes and wraps his good arm around Sam, holds him tight.