a house of fire
a house of fire | Gen | Adult
Supernatural/Firefly. NC-17.
~4600
Dean, Sam, et al. Slight Dean/Sam, Kaylee/Simon.
Set during the show, Firefly; spoilers for the entire series, and for the first season of Supernatural.
(Serenity. Circa 2517)
“Sam. Sammy? Gorram it, Sam, answer me.”
The dirt is red and dusty, clinging to the fabric of his pants as he kneels with his legs splayed open. Dean fucking hates Reavers- no good, son-of-a-bitch bastards.
He pushes himself off his elbows, rocking back onto his heels for balance. His fringe is too long and it tickles his forehead where it sweeps messily across his brow. He brushes it back with an audible sigh.
“Samuel Winchester I am not joking around here.”
Dean is starting to get a little hot under the collar, both metaphorically and in the quite literal sense. Fucking terraformed moons in the middle of nowhere but always too-fucking-close to a sun.
This whole situation was entirely Sam’s fault anyway; Dean had vetoed this idea right from the get go. Dean had quite convincingly established that this was a stupid plan, not that Sam had even listened- or paid attention in the slightest. Sammy. God fucking damnit, could this day not get any worse?
“You move one inch, and I will not hesitate putting a bullet through your pretty, pretty, head. Capiche?”
Okay, clearly Dean was wrong; in fact, the day could get worse. Like, perhaps, a fucking gun could be cocked at the small of his back by some redneck freak. Dean fucking hated Reavers and this entire fucking backwater moon, Goddamnit.
“Jayne, go fetch the doctor. Zoe, try and find ‘Sam’ will ya? I’ll take care of this one, he’s all pretty like.”
Dean slowly raises a hand to shield his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of his captors. The guy clicks his tongue in warning, and Dean pauses, his right side aching in soft protest.
“That is the third time you’ve referred to me as pretty in the last thirty seconds.” Dean murmurs, somewhat snidely. “I think I’mma start getting a complex if you keep it up much longer.”
He licks his chapped lips, tasting the metallic twang of blood. “You’re still gonna think I’m attractive if I let myself go after our courtship, right? It’s not just my insanely good looks you’re after?”
“True indeed. Though, honey, I’m pretty sure you just lost three pounds from that pesky bullet hole in your side. That, or the associated blood loss involved with such an extremist diet plan.”
The guy shifts so his legs are within the range of Dean's peripheral vision. He was wearing slacks. Dean smooths palms over his denim-clad thighs and sits up straighter. Prissy bitch.
Apparently there was no end to how his day could get worse, would the wonders never cease? Because now, aside from he whole ‘taken captive’ shtick, Dean was starting to feel mighty dizzy. Possibly from all the pretty talk but probably because of the aforementioned blood loss.
That part about getting the doctor was starting to sound mighty fine, as did finding Sam; although, entire truth be told, he hoped Sammy was holed up someplace where they couldn’t grab him. Dean had fucked a girl called ‘Jane’ once- or maybe it was ‘Layne’? She had great tits either way, but that didn’t mean he wanted her tying him up. Dean had never been one for bondage.
“He bleeds so they don’t- so he has a purpose. He burns on the cross for her, like her. He fears they don’t need him, not in the way he needs them.”
“River?”
Dean and the man speak at the same time. Under other circumstances, Dean would probably find that a little funny, but for now he’s just confused. Why the hell is River even here? And how the hell did River end up mixing with these types, anyhow?
“River, baby. Mei mei. What are you doing here? Where’s Simon? I can’t believe he actually got you out. Sam’s been missing you.” Dean crooned softly, hoping to lure her away from the vigilantes and over to Dean’s side.
“Wait. You know her? You know about the Academy?” The man moves to stand directly in front of Dean, crouching down a little. Dean can see he’s wearing a long brown coat. Maybe not such a pansy-ass then. He still can’t see River though.
“Know about the Academy?” Dean scoffs derisively, “How the hell do you think Simon knows about the Academy? Man, I was accepted along with Sam and River- even took the grand tour of the ‘facility’ before I declined the offer.”
“You were accepted into the Academy?” The man doesn’t seem quite able to grasp the concept. Then again, Dean is bleeding out all over some two-bit moon, and by no means do intellects find themselves often in that position.
“Yeah, and I know what you’re thinking. If Simon didn’t get accepted, what the rutting hell kind of hope did I have?”
“That’s mighty perceptive of you, boy,” the man says sarcastically. “Though, I’m sure even Jayne could’ve guessed at that.” He grumbles- in case Dean wasn’t tipped off earlier to the first statement being a ruse.
Dean really wants to meet this Jane girl though. She sounds like fun.
“Well for starters, Simon was already graduating Med. school when the Academy opened.” Dean smirks, happy to get one up over the smug prick. “And secondly, they look for aptitude in a variety of skills and the like. Despite my lack of potential regarding psychic ability, I had my uses.”
River moves to sit by his side, curling brown hair spilling from her shoulders onto Dean’s. She traces soft circles into the worn material of his tee shirt. “Winchester, D. has an exceptional talent for both theoretical and practical physics. Whilst obtaining his GED, Winchester, D. showed-”
“She has lucid periods?” Dean asks, surprise inflected upon the question. “She getting any better?”
“That depends on your definition of ‘better’,” the man pitches his voice low, “I think Simon has high hopes of that being the truth. The rest of us ain’t so convinced.”
Dean simply nods, his head feeling unreasonably heavy. He slumps forward, face planting into the earth. He feels himself start to slip away, one hand cupped protectively over his wound, blood congealing thickly over clenched fingers.
- - - - -
When Dean comes to, he’s lying on a cold bed, in an infirmary of sorts.
River is perched on a bench beside his head, fingers stroking softly through his hair. She’s crooning softly, little nonsense words that soothe more than they should. He’d once done the same for her, a long time ago.
“Hey Mei mei, is Sammy here?” He closes his eyes again, watching reddish light spill in through the fragile skin of his eyelids. He is so tired. Maybe now he can rest for a little while, for just a moment.
“The Cap’n and the others are out looking for him.” an unfamiliar voice answers. Dean’s head feels to heavy to lift, the inviting purplish haze of unconsciousness too enticing to pull entirely away from. He’ll get up in a moment.
Dean lets himself lean into River’s touch for a long second.
“Send River, she’ll find him, they always could.” He shifts slightly, trying to raise a hand. “S’where is Simon?” Dean has so much to tell him, and no time at all to try.
The pain from his side shoots up until it fills his chest cavity. Dean can’t even breathe. His chest feels packed with lead weights, heavy and tight in equal measures. He vaguely recalls a lesson he learnt in school, about drowning on dry land: surrounded by air, and so much of it too. He gasps in air, trying to flood is lungs with the dry antiseptic laced oxygen. In a way, Dean has always been floundering around helplessly in the deep end. Maybe now it has finally caught up with him. A quiet groan spills from his lips like briny seawater, bitter and thick.
“Hush now, don’t make a sound. They’ll hear. They hear everything.” River says cryptically, and then wraps small hands around his neck. Her slim fingers are - unsurprisingly to Dean at least - stronger than they appear. He can’t breathe at all, can’t move- trapped. He’s going to die like this, on this cold stretcher, in this white room.
All in all, it isn’t the worst way to go: River’s long brown hair tickling his face, soft smell of her shampoo pooling . Sam will be fine, Simon will see to that.
Sam will be fine, of that Dean is sure.
He’s distantly aware of someone shouting in the background, muffled and too far away. Something metallic hits the floor with a crash, echoes with the tinkle of breaking glass.
River is softly singing over the white noise. Her voice is sweet and clear, shaping a song Dean can’t remember ever not knowing the words to.
“…Curtains blew, and then he appeared; he said ‘don’t be afraid’-” Dean reached up and covered her hand with his, lacing her trembling fingers with his own: pressed their intertwined fingers more firmly against his throat. “She had taken his hand, she had become what they are, c’mon baby don’t fear the Reaper.”
It isn’t a bad way to go, and he stops fighting, lets himself slip underneath the surface.
Sammy, he thinks, I’m sorry, I’m so gorram sorry. And sinks willingly into the black abyss.
- - - - -
The second time he comes to, he’s feeling a little better, and a lot more surprised.
There are a lot more people in the room, for one. And secondly, he is a lot less, well - dead - than expected.
Also his mouth tastes like ass.
No one notices him stirring at first, too busy wrapped in their own conversations. There are five people other than Dean and Sam in the small room, and four of them are strangers to Dean’s eyes. But, Sam, alive and looking relatively unharmed. Dean breathes a sigh of relief.
River, however, is noticeably absent.
A blond guy sitting in the chair next to Dean looks over after his hitched exhalation. “Welcome back to the land of the conscious, Sleeping Beauty. Or do you prefer Snow White?”
Dean coughs dryly. “Dude, I’m just hoping you weren’t the kiss that woke me. And, seriously, what’s with the excess of pretty, pretty, princess talk from y’all. You folks all sly or something?” He croaks.
Sam turns around at the sound of his voice, arm falling from where it had been bracing Simon’s chest against the wall. Simon’s expression is caught between understanding and frustration, his face pale and drawn.
“Dean,” Sam says quietly, and then three strides later he’s there, on the opposite side of Dean’s bed to Blondie. He reaches out a hand. “God, Dean.”
“Hey Sammy,” Dean pushes himself into a sitting position, ignoring the answering twinge of his injuries.
Sam stretches his hand out further, “God fucking damnit, you rutting gosa,” he snaps, and cuffs Dean upside the head. Hard. Which, okay, wasn’t exactly the gesture Dean had been expecting. Then again, they were Winchester men, and avoiding chick-flick moments was their family specialty. Still, you take a bullet for a guy, you kind of expect some sort of positive reparations for your actions.
“You ever put yourself in front of me like that again, you’ll gorram regret it.” Sam says, voice low and angry.
“Jesus, Dean, you could have been killed. And don’t even get me started on the whole River debacle. What were you even thinking? I oughta tear you a new one for even considering such a thing.”
Sam’s practically shouting by the end of his spiel, not to mention crying like a little girl. Ah, Dean thinks, there’s his Sammy.
Everyone in the room who isn’t them is staring fixatedly at the unfolding scene before their eyes. Even Simon, fingers still on the tray of his medical supplies, is captivated by the tableau. He should know better, Dean thinks.
Simon should know better.
Sam launches himself at Dean, a tornado of messy emotions and angry words. Someone tries to get a hand on to him, to restrain him, but he brushes it off and then he’s there. He’s wrapped around Dean, underneath his fingertips, all around him, Sam.
“I’m here.” Dean says soothingly, “I’m alright Sammy, it’s okay. Everything is okay. I’m here.”
“I thought you were dead,” Sam chokes out, “They said you were dead. That girl, she said that- That, River- She said. The human brain can survive at a level of functioning significant enough to maintain basic life processes for a time period of approximately-”
“Shh, Sammy, it’s okay. M’not dead, I’m right here.”
Sam nods, face tucked under Dean’s chin, cheeks wet and warm against Dean’s neck. Dean rubs a soothing hand down his back, traces the familiar knobs of his spine.
He catches Simon’s gaze over Sam’s unruly hair, and mouths ‘sedative’. Simon nods, and Dean brushes the slightly damp curls away from the side of Sam’s neck so Simon can make a clean injection. He doesn’t feel guilty about it at all.
He doesn’t even feel guilty at all.
When Sam is finally settled onto his own bed, Dean reluctantly turns his attention on the rest of the people in the room.
“What in the rutting hell just happened?”
“I could ask you the exact same thing.” The guy in the brown coat from earlier says. The Captain of the ship, Dean presumes, he has that air of authority about him. His face is familiar looking, the kind that brings about the recollections memories of long forgotten atrocities. His brow is slightly furrowed as he stares back at Dean, eyes hooded and dark. He looks tired and worn down. It’s almost wistful, the way his hands smooth over the metal of the ship’s interior. The touch is strangely reminiscent of a calming pat to soothe a spooked animal.
“You died, son.” Says another, who appears to be a shepherd. His wispy salt and pepper hair pulled back with a leather tie, skin wrinkled and creased. His voice has a slow cadence about it, but something akin to a lie was lurking underneath the calm surface.
Dean immediately doesn’t trust him. Frankly, he had no need for men of the church. No need at all.
“The Doc. here had to revive you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Simon interjects, “You Winchesters are always getting yourselves shot up. Why exactly is that?”
“Genetic anomaly, I guess,” Dean deadpanned, “Or just lucky.” He felt for his wound. “How bad is it, Tam?”
“The bullet missed any viscera, though it did slightly rupture your spleen. I fused the damaged tissue with an organic collagen/protein-fusion mix, so it will be fully functional within a few hours. It should heal up without any problems but there will be a slight laser scar from the surgery. The main issue was the significant blood-loss sustained: your plasma showed traces of an anti-coagulant, which exacerbated the problem and your RBC’s were slightly sticky. We didn’t have enough stock O-pos, but Wash here is a universal donor.”
Dean nods at Simon, considering “You didn’t use cyto-complex B did you? It interferes badly with my MHC receptors, so I’ll have to pop an immuno-suppressant if that was the base protein.”
The room is deathly quiet, the silence broken only by soft scraping of metal as Simon fidgets with his tools. The others in the room are acting as if Dean is speaking another language. And perhaps to them, he is.
Simon shakes his head. “I ran your card Dean, Sam gave it to me.”
“Simon.” Dean says immediately “I had to- you have to understand- I meant it for the best.”
Simon fixes him with a hard look, eyes flashing with something that looks an awful lot like betrayal. “You’re twenty-”
“You died,” interrupts a girl from the doorway. She has her whole body pressed up against the metal frame, clinging to it like a lifeline. “Don’t that fuss you at all?”
Dean remembers her voice from the haze. “Like Simon said, ma’am, this surely wouldn’t be the first time I found myself in such a predicament.” He smirks. “Surely won’t be the last neither.”
“She was smothering you, and you-” the girl breaks off, twisting a strand of hair distractedly, “and you was letting her.” She lowers her voice even more. “You were helping her.”
She turns, spinning on her heels, and leaves.
All eyes in the room immediately snap back to Dean’s face. He stares at the clear tubing connecting him and the blond guy sitting next to him and steadfastly avoids their gazes. He watches instead as blood trickles down through the shunt in his vein.
Lend me courage, he thinks, let it seep into me and become my own.
“I’m tired,” Dean says, suddenly weary. “I’m just so very very tired.”
They slip silently from the room like ghosts after that. Even Simon backs away, looking haunted. The blond guy- Wash, they had called him - closes his eyes in a pathetic ruse of privacy for Dean.
Watch me, Dean thinks restlessly; keep your eyes on me so that I won’t disappear. Watch me so I won’t just fade away.
- - - - -
Simon wakes him up later, checking his vitals with a stoic grace that Dean never saw in his desperation to save Sam. Maybe Dean had never wanted to see it, because Simon had only ever been a patsy in Dean’s master plan, just the monetary means to an end.
He had planned to screw Simon over, and not even bat an eye at his betrayal. Until he met River, until she saved his life and slipped her hand through his, this girl that felt too much because she couldn’t not.
Dean felt the same at times, felt as if - maybe - it would be preferable to just feel nothing at all.
River had always been something of an enigma to him, a puzzle, fractured and messy, but in her entirety, still whole. A girl who hated anyone touching her, but who had crawled into Dean’s lap to lay her head against his thigh when he needed something to anchor him to this life. A girl, practically a child, who had offered comfort as Dean’s brother got experimented on, three rooms over; Sam’s screams loud enough to reverberate through steel walls. How she had any empathy left, after what they had done to them, Dean would never know.
“How is she? Honestly.” Dean asks, grabbing at Simon’s wrist with numb fingers.
“She didn’t mean to- you know - she just gets confused sometimes. She loves you, you know that.” Simon replies, sinking down into the chair.
“I know that Simon, if anyone else knows- ” Dean flicks his gaze over towards his sleeping brother. “I know.”
“How is he?”
“The same? Worse? Different?” Dean shrugs. His forehead creases with a frown. Mine, he thinks selfishly, he’s mine.
They don’t get to have him.
They all visit throughout the night. Dean gets to know them through snatches of conversation. Through the way they touch things, the questions they whisper. He gets to know them through the expressions that flit across their features, behind their eyes; like moths beating ineffectually against a glass cage.
They girl who ran away earlier comes first.
She stands behind Simon’s chair, like she needs something between her and Dean. Maybe she needs life between them, Dean considers, but then she brushes Simon’s hair with such open affection that maybe that isn’t it at all.
She flushes prettily when he catches her, mouth rounding into an excuse even as her body betrays her.
Dean waves a hand nonchalantly. “Just so that you know, I didn’t want to die.” He admits, “I just-”
She nods, seeing his confession for what it was, an equal standing between them. Dean doesn’t often feel the need to justify his actions to a complete stranger, and the girl seems to understand that.
“It’s Dean, right? I’m Kaylee.”
Dean nods. He doesn’t really know what else to do, or say. Usually he only talks to victims or suspects, and this girl is neither. She’s an innocent, and Dean doesn’t know how to deal with those, that’s Sam’s job. Sam was the one who could still believe in good, even when he had experienced so little of it himself.
Dean closes his eyes again. Wills himself to sleep. Wishes Sam was closer, so he could reach out and touch him. So he could press his cold fingers to Sam’s warm, beating, pulse. Wishes he could feel the tangible flutter of Sam’s blood, of his life, strong and resilient even under paper thin skin.
His second visitor is a companion. She doesn’t tell him that of course, but it is there, stated implicitly anyway. In the silk of her dress, the gold of her jewellery. In her assessing, calculating, gaze.
She’s very pretty, he’ll give her that. Almost ethereally gorgeous, smooth tanned skin and wide dark eyes. Her curly hair falls like a curtain across her face. Dean’s fingers itch.
“I heard he knows River.” She says somewhat coolly, looking over at Sam. “That they went to the Collective together?”
“The Academy. I met Simon when we were trying to get them out.” Dean corrects, though he’s almost sure it was a test. “I suppose he already told you that?”
She grins, one corner slightly more upturned than the other. It’s real, not the shiny plastic smile she threw him as she entered.
“He did indeed,” she admits, looking almost contrite. “I’m Inara. I rent one of the shuttles. I’m so sorry I missed your ‘big arrest’, I was away on business at the time.”
“Well you should be.” Dean replies, flirting a little. “It was indeed spectacular. I’ve always had a flair for dramatics, or so I’ve been told.”
“From that other guy over there? You two are close?”
“His name is Sam. He’s my brother.” Dean tells her. “He’s so decent, you would not believe.”
“How old is he?” She asks cautiously. Cautiously, like she thinks something is horribly wrong with him. Like she thinks the Academy has broken him.
“Nineteen,” Dean says, meticulously creasing the crisp white sheets. “He’s still just a baby, really.”
“And you’re such an old soul?”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Feels like it sometimes.”
He hears her move softly over to Sam’s side. “He’s lucky to have someone who cares about him so much.”
More like cursed, Dean thinks. And then he’s drifting again.
Wash comes back later, with his babe of a wife Zoe.
He slumps into the seat next to Dean’s bed with a smile and a loud exhalation.
“So we found your brother, right?” he says excitedly, eyebrows arched as if he’s waiting for Dean to continue the thought.
Dean rolls his eyes, shifting slightly until his gaze falls on Sammy. “I can see that.”
Zoe smirks.
“So we found your brother,” Wash repeats emphatically. “In your ship.”
Dean raises hopeful eyes, suddenly cognizant of Wash’s thought process. “Please, oh please, tell me you didn’t leave my baby down there.”
“A classic like that? A 67’ Impala class subshuttle? She’s in the hold.”
Dean drops his head back and sighs in relief. “I love you, you beautiful man, you.”
“Hold on there,” Zoe interrupts, slinging an arm around Wash’s chest and pulling him backwards until his head rests against her torso. “That’s my guy you’re talking about.”
“And what a guy.” Dean teases.
Zoe laughs, rubbing Wash’s shoulder. “I think he was just excited to drive one again, huh baby?” She lowers her voice to a conspiratal whisper. “Reminds him of his glory days.”
This time it’s Dean who smirks, ducking his head a little.
“What were y’all even doing down there anyway?” Zoe asks, all traces of mirth gone.
“Hunting.” Dean replies, ‘cause there was really no reason to lie. “That’s kind of what we do. Sammy and I. We, uh, hunt.”
“Hunt what exactly?” Wash asks, brow furrowed. “That moon was just a few settlements. Nothing of substance to shoot, no farming of any particular beast.”
“Well, that’s kind of the thing,” Dean explains. “Sammy and I, we don’t exactly hunt- well- game.”
“You mean to say?” Zoe says, one hand moving almost imperceptibly towards the holster at her hip.
Dean stared at his own clenched hands. “We kind of- and this is going to sound insane, but- we kind of hunt Reavers.”
“That is insane. For what possible reason would you do a thing like that? The things they do-” Wash broke off with a shudder. “Why?”
“Well,” Dean says, for lack of a better reason. “Someone has to.”
Wash is still pale when they leave, expression stuck on incredulous. From the blood depletion, Dean thinks. Hopes.
The Sheppard’s name is Book, and he surely lives by it. He brings his bible, and the hired help Jayne- who Dean discovers is actually a man.
“Your brother all crazy-like?” Jayne asks without preamble, “Seems to be.”
Dean’s a little shocked by the direct line of questioning, but he recovers quickly enough. “He just worries is all- we’ve had a few close calls of late. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
The Sheppard stares at him, fingers running restlessly over the leather-bound book, inadvertently tracing the embossed gold print.
“Boy,” he says, “Do you know Matthew 10-26?”
Dean has never really read the Bible. Not in its entirety. He’s scanned passages, maybe a sermon or two, quoted a few words over prone bodies on the field. But he has heard much of it: the words delivered in a low, dulcet tenor. Pastor Jim’s voice, a man Dean had idolized as a child, back when he had the boundless naivety to believe in a higher power.
Surprisingly enough, Dean does know the quote the Sheppard is referring to. “Whatever is now covered up will be uncovered, and every secret will be made known.”
The Sheppard doesn’t look shocked by Dean’s discourse. He looks as if it is a revelation, as if Dean is now comprehensible. He looks at Dean as if he is a puzzle, derelict maybe, but ultimately solvable. He looks at Dean the way Dean himself looks at River.
Dean just wonders if that passage was meant to be a threat.
“So if he’s not all psycho, he at least psychic?” Jayne says, pointing across the room with a knife. The tension snaps perceptibly.
“Sam’s a reader, he can pick up on emotions and the like. But he doesn’t have say, premonitions, like River. He just-”
“Yes,” the preacher presses. He looks at Dean as if he already knows the answer.
“It’s just, he has these dreams, right?” Dean continues slowly, still unsure if he should even be telling them this. The secret isn’t his to confess, not really. Sam should get to decide the informants, but Dean isn’t about to wake him just to ask.
“And sometimes - ” Dean pauses again, smooths a hand down his face. “… Sometimes they come true.”
To his surprise the next visitor is the Captain.
“Malcolm Reynolds,” he says cheerily. “Captain.”
“No,” Dean says drowsily. “I know you. You’re a sergeant, I remember.”
Reynolds gives him a strange look, startled. “You fought in the war? What are you, like maybe twenty now? You surely didn’t.”
“’M twenty-three dude, and a lot of people who fought in the war shouldn’t have. What else where we supposed to do? Sit at home listening to the screaming?” Dean set his jaw, memories swirling. “My Dad used to talk about you. You had a winter campaign together. On Lawrence.”
“You lived on Lawrence?” Reynolds asks, trailing off into a string of Chinese curses. “Who is he? Your father.”
What a loaded question. “His name,” Dean chokes out.
“Was John Winchester.” Sam finished for him, apparently awake and listening to the exchange. He rolled over to face them.
“Was? Winchester’s dead?”
“We don’t know.” Sam confesses sharply, “We haven’t seen that bastard in months.”
- - - - -
A/n:
Tennessee Williams once wrote: 'We all live in a house of fire. No fire department to call. No way out. Just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down… with us trapped, locked in it.'
The idea for this story basically stemmed from the idea that the course for Dean and Sam’s lives was inevitable. No change in the setting, time-frame or situation would have affected the eventual outcome.
Supernatural/Firefly. NC-17.
~4600
Dean, Sam, et al. Slight Dean/Sam, Kaylee/Simon.
Set during the show, Firefly; spoilers for the entire series, and for the first season of Supernatural.
(Serenity. Circa 2517)
“Sam. Sammy? Gorram it, Sam, answer me.”
The dirt is red and dusty, clinging to the fabric of his pants as he kneels with his legs splayed open. Dean fucking hates Reavers- no good, son-of-a-bitch bastards.
He pushes himself off his elbows, rocking back onto his heels for balance. His fringe is too long and it tickles his forehead where it sweeps messily across his brow. He brushes it back with an audible sigh.
“Samuel Winchester I am not joking around here.”
Dean is starting to get a little hot under the collar, both metaphorically and in the quite literal sense. Fucking terraformed moons in the middle of nowhere but always too-fucking-close to a sun.
This whole situation was entirely Sam’s fault anyway; Dean had vetoed this idea right from the get go. Dean had quite convincingly established that this was a stupid plan, not that Sam had even listened- or paid attention in the slightest. Sammy. God fucking damnit, could this day not get any worse?
“You move one inch, and I will not hesitate putting a bullet through your pretty, pretty, head. Capiche?”
Okay, clearly Dean was wrong; in fact, the day could get worse. Like, perhaps, a fucking gun could be cocked at the small of his back by some redneck freak. Dean fucking hated Reavers and this entire fucking backwater moon, Goddamnit.
“Jayne, go fetch the doctor. Zoe, try and find ‘Sam’ will ya? I’ll take care of this one, he’s all pretty like.”
Dean slowly raises a hand to shield his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of his captors. The guy clicks his tongue in warning, and Dean pauses, his right side aching in soft protest.
“That is the third time you’ve referred to me as pretty in the last thirty seconds.” Dean murmurs, somewhat snidely. “I think I’mma start getting a complex if you keep it up much longer.”
He licks his chapped lips, tasting the metallic twang of blood. “You’re still gonna think I’m attractive if I let myself go after our courtship, right? It’s not just my insanely good looks you’re after?”
“True indeed. Though, honey, I’m pretty sure you just lost three pounds from that pesky bullet hole in your side. That, or the associated blood loss involved with such an extremist diet plan.”
The guy shifts so his legs are within the range of Dean's peripheral vision. He was wearing slacks. Dean smooths palms over his denim-clad thighs and sits up straighter. Prissy bitch.
Apparently there was no end to how his day could get worse, would the wonders never cease? Because now, aside from he whole ‘taken captive’ shtick, Dean was starting to feel mighty dizzy. Possibly from all the pretty talk but probably because of the aforementioned blood loss.
That part about getting the doctor was starting to sound mighty fine, as did finding Sam; although, entire truth be told, he hoped Sammy was holed up someplace where they couldn’t grab him. Dean had fucked a girl called ‘Jane’ once- or maybe it was ‘Layne’? She had great tits either way, but that didn’t mean he wanted her tying him up. Dean had never been one for bondage.
“He bleeds so they don’t- so he has a purpose. He burns on the cross for her, like her. He fears they don’t need him, not in the way he needs them.”
“River?”
Dean and the man speak at the same time. Under other circumstances, Dean would probably find that a little funny, but for now he’s just confused. Why the hell is River even here? And how the hell did River end up mixing with these types, anyhow?
“River, baby. Mei mei. What are you doing here? Where’s Simon? I can’t believe he actually got you out. Sam’s been missing you.” Dean crooned softly, hoping to lure her away from the vigilantes and over to Dean’s side.
“Wait. You know her? You know about the Academy?” The man moves to stand directly in front of Dean, crouching down a little. Dean can see he’s wearing a long brown coat. Maybe not such a pansy-ass then. He still can’t see River though.
“Know about the Academy?” Dean scoffs derisively, “How the hell do you think Simon knows about the Academy? Man, I was accepted along with Sam and River- even took the grand tour of the ‘facility’ before I declined the offer.”
“You were accepted into the Academy?” The man doesn’t seem quite able to grasp the concept. Then again, Dean is bleeding out all over some two-bit moon, and by no means do intellects find themselves often in that position.
“Yeah, and I know what you’re thinking. If Simon didn’t get accepted, what the rutting hell kind of hope did I have?”
“That’s mighty perceptive of you, boy,” the man says sarcastically. “Though, I’m sure even Jayne could’ve guessed at that.” He grumbles- in case Dean wasn’t tipped off earlier to the first statement being a ruse.
Dean really wants to meet this Jane girl though. She sounds like fun.
“Well for starters, Simon was already graduating Med. school when the Academy opened.” Dean smirks, happy to get one up over the smug prick. “And secondly, they look for aptitude in a variety of skills and the like. Despite my lack of potential regarding psychic ability, I had my uses.”
River moves to sit by his side, curling brown hair spilling from her shoulders onto Dean’s. She traces soft circles into the worn material of his tee shirt. “Winchester, D. has an exceptional talent for both theoretical and practical physics. Whilst obtaining his GED, Winchester, D. showed-”
“She has lucid periods?” Dean asks, surprise inflected upon the question. “She getting any better?”
“That depends on your definition of ‘better’,” the man pitches his voice low, “I think Simon has high hopes of that being the truth. The rest of us ain’t so convinced.”
Dean simply nods, his head feeling unreasonably heavy. He slumps forward, face planting into the earth. He feels himself start to slip away, one hand cupped protectively over his wound, blood congealing thickly over clenched fingers.
- - - - -
When Dean comes to, he’s lying on a cold bed, in an infirmary of sorts.
River is perched on a bench beside his head, fingers stroking softly through his hair. She’s crooning softly, little nonsense words that soothe more than they should. He’d once done the same for her, a long time ago.
“Hey Mei mei, is Sammy here?” He closes his eyes again, watching reddish light spill in through the fragile skin of his eyelids. He is so tired. Maybe now he can rest for a little while, for just a moment.
“The Cap’n and the others are out looking for him.” an unfamiliar voice answers. Dean’s head feels to heavy to lift, the inviting purplish haze of unconsciousness too enticing to pull entirely away from. He’ll get up in a moment.
Dean lets himself lean into River’s touch for a long second.
“Send River, she’ll find him, they always could.” He shifts slightly, trying to raise a hand. “S’where is Simon?” Dean has so much to tell him, and no time at all to try.
The pain from his side shoots up until it fills his chest cavity. Dean can’t even breathe. His chest feels packed with lead weights, heavy and tight in equal measures. He vaguely recalls a lesson he learnt in school, about drowning on dry land: surrounded by air, and so much of it too. He gasps in air, trying to flood is lungs with the dry antiseptic laced oxygen. In a way, Dean has always been floundering around helplessly in the deep end. Maybe now it has finally caught up with him. A quiet groan spills from his lips like briny seawater, bitter and thick.
“Hush now, don’t make a sound. They’ll hear. They hear everything.” River says cryptically, and then wraps small hands around his neck. Her slim fingers are - unsurprisingly to Dean at least - stronger than they appear. He can’t breathe at all, can’t move- trapped. He’s going to die like this, on this cold stretcher, in this white room.
All in all, it isn’t the worst way to go: River’s long brown hair tickling his face, soft smell of her shampoo pooling . Sam will be fine, Simon will see to that.
Sam will be fine, of that Dean is sure.
He’s distantly aware of someone shouting in the background, muffled and too far away. Something metallic hits the floor with a crash, echoes with the tinkle of breaking glass.
River is softly singing over the white noise. Her voice is sweet and clear, shaping a song Dean can’t remember ever not knowing the words to.
“…Curtains blew, and then he appeared; he said ‘don’t be afraid’-” Dean reached up and covered her hand with his, lacing her trembling fingers with his own: pressed their intertwined fingers more firmly against his throat. “She had taken his hand, she had become what they are, c’mon baby don’t fear the Reaper.”
It isn’t a bad way to go, and he stops fighting, lets himself slip underneath the surface.
Sammy, he thinks, I’m sorry, I’m so gorram sorry. And sinks willingly into the black abyss.
- - - - -
The second time he comes to, he’s feeling a little better, and a lot more surprised.
There are a lot more people in the room, for one. And secondly, he is a lot less, well - dead - than expected.
Also his mouth tastes like ass.
No one notices him stirring at first, too busy wrapped in their own conversations. There are five people other than Dean and Sam in the small room, and four of them are strangers to Dean’s eyes. But, Sam, alive and looking relatively unharmed. Dean breathes a sigh of relief.
River, however, is noticeably absent.
A blond guy sitting in the chair next to Dean looks over after his hitched exhalation. “Welcome back to the land of the conscious, Sleeping Beauty. Or do you prefer Snow White?”
Dean coughs dryly. “Dude, I’m just hoping you weren’t the kiss that woke me. And, seriously, what’s with the excess of pretty, pretty, princess talk from y’all. You folks all sly or something?” He croaks.
Sam turns around at the sound of his voice, arm falling from where it had been bracing Simon’s chest against the wall. Simon’s expression is caught between understanding and frustration, his face pale and drawn.
“Dean,” Sam says quietly, and then three strides later he’s there, on the opposite side of Dean’s bed to Blondie. He reaches out a hand. “God, Dean.”
“Hey Sammy,” Dean pushes himself into a sitting position, ignoring the answering twinge of his injuries.
Sam stretches his hand out further, “God fucking damnit, you rutting gosa,” he snaps, and cuffs Dean upside the head. Hard. Which, okay, wasn’t exactly the gesture Dean had been expecting. Then again, they were Winchester men, and avoiding chick-flick moments was their family specialty. Still, you take a bullet for a guy, you kind of expect some sort of positive reparations for your actions.
“You ever put yourself in front of me like that again, you’ll gorram regret it.” Sam says, voice low and angry.
“Jesus, Dean, you could have been killed. And don’t even get me started on the whole River debacle. What were you even thinking? I oughta tear you a new one for even considering such a thing.”
Sam’s practically shouting by the end of his spiel, not to mention crying like a little girl. Ah, Dean thinks, there’s his Sammy.
Everyone in the room who isn’t them is staring fixatedly at the unfolding scene before their eyes. Even Simon, fingers still on the tray of his medical supplies, is captivated by the tableau. He should know better, Dean thinks.
Simon should know better.
Sam launches himself at Dean, a tornado of messy emotions and angry words. Someone tries to get a hand on to him, to restrain him, but he brushes it off and then he’s there. He’s wrapped around Dean, underneath his fingertips, all around him, Sam.
“I’m here.” Dean says soothingly, “I’m alright Sammy, it’s okay. Everything is okay. I’m here.”
“I thought you were dead,” Sam chokes out, “They said you were dead. That girl, she said that- That, River- She said. The human brain can survive at a level of functioning significant enough to maintain basic life processes for a time period of approximately-”
“Shh, Sammy, it’s okay. M’not dead, I’m right here.”
Sam nods, face tucked under Dean’s chin, cheeks wet and warm against Dean’s neck. Dean rubs a soothing hand down his back, traces the familiar knobs of his spine.
He catches Simon’s gaze over Sam’s unruly hair, and mouths ‘sedative’. Simon nods, and Dean brushes the slightly damp curls away from the side of Sam’s neck so Simon can make a clean injection. He doesn’t feel guilty about it at all.
He doesn’t even feel guilty at all.
When Sam is finally settled onto his own bed, Dean reluctantly turns his attention on the rest of the people in the room.
“What in the rutting hell just happened?”
“I could ask you the exact same thing.” The guy in the brown coat from earlier says. The Captain of the ship, Dean presumes, he has that air of authority about him. His face is familiar looking, the kind that brings about the recollections memories of long forgotten atrocities. His brow is slightly furrowed as he stares back at Dean, eyes hooded and dark. He looks tired and worn down. It’s almost wistful, the way his hands smooth over the metal of the ship’s interior. The touch is strangely reminiscent of a calming pat to soothe a spooked animal.
“You died, son.” Says another, who appears to be a shepherd. His wispy salt and pepper hair pulled back with a leather tie, skin wrinkled and creased. His voice has a slow cadence about it, but something akin to a lie was lurking underneath the calm surface.
Dean immediately doesn’t trust him. Frankly, he had no need for men of the church. No need at all.
“The Doc. here had to revive you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Simon interjects, “You Winchesters are always getting yourselves shot up. Why exactly is that?”
“Genetic anomaly, I guess,” Dean deadpanned, “Or just lucky.” He felt for his wound. “How bad is it, Tam?”
“The bullet missed any viscera, though it did slightly rupture your spleen. I fused the damaged tissue with an organic collagen/protein-fusion mix, so it will be fully functional within a few hours. It should heal up without any problems but there will be a slight laser scar from the surgery. The main issue was the significant blood-loss sustained: your plasma showed traces of an anti-coagulant, which exacerbated the problem and your RBC’s were slightly sticky. We didn’t have enough stock O-pos, but Wash here is a universal donor.”
Dean nods at Simon, considering “You didn’t use cyto-complex B did you? It interferes badly with my MHC receptors, so I’ll have to pop an immuno-suppressant if that was the base protein.”
The room is deathly quiet, the silence broken only by soft scraping of metal as Simon fidgets with his tools. The others in the room are acting as if Dean is speaking another language. And perhaps to them, he is.
Simon shakes his head. “I ran your card Dean, Sam gave it to me.”
“Simon.” Dean says immediately “I had to- you have to understand- I meant it for the best.”
Simon fixes him with a hard look, eyes flashing with something that looks an awful lot like betrayal. “You’re twenty-”
“You died,” interrupts a girl from the doorway. She has her whole body pressed up against the metal frame, clinging to it like a lifeline. “Don’t that fuss you at all?”
Dean remembers her voice from the haze. “Like Simon said, ma’am, this surely wouldn’t be the first time I found myself in such a predicament.” He smirks. “Surely won’t be the last neither.”
“She was smothering you, and you-” the girl breaks off, twisting a strand of hair distractedly, “and you was letting her.” She lowers her voice even more. “You were helping her.”
She turns, spinning on her heels, and leaves.
All eyes in the room immediately snap back to Dean’s face. He stares at the clear tubing connecting him and the blond guy sitting next to him and steadfastly avoids their gazes. He watches instead as blood trickles down through the shunt in his vein.
Lend me courage, he thinks, let it seep into me and become my own.
“I’m tired,” Dean says, suddenly weary. “I’m just so very very tired.”
They slip silently from the room like ghosts after that. Even Simon backs away, looking haunted. The blond guy- Wash, they had called him - closes his eyes in a pathetic ruse of privacy for Dean.
Watch me, Dean thinks restlessly; keep your eyes on me so that I won’t disappear. Watch me so I won’t just fade away.
- - - - -
Simon wakes him up later, checking his vitals with a stoic grace that Dean never saw in his desperation to save Sam. Maybe Dean had never wanted to see it, because Simon had only ever been a patsy in Dean’s master plan, just the monetary means to an end.
He had planned to screw Simon over, and not even bat an eye at his betrayal. Until he met River, until she saved his life and slipped her hand through his, this girl that felt too much because she couldn’t not.
Dean felt the same at times, felt as if - maybe - it would be preferable to just feel nothing at all.
River had always been something of an enigma to him, a puzzle, fractured and messy, but in her entirety, still whole. A girl who hated anyone touching her, but who had crawled into Dean’s lap to lay her head against his thigh when he needed something to anchor him to this life. A girl, practically a child, who had offered comfort as Dean’s brother got experimented on, three rooms over; Sam’s screams loud enough to reverberate through steel walls. How she had any empathy left, after what they had done to them, Dean would never know.
“How is she? Honestly.” Dean asks, grabbing at Simon’s wrist with numb fingers.
“She didn’t mean to- you know - she just gets confused sometimes. She loves you, you know that.” Simon replies, sinking down into the chair.
“I know that Simon, if anyone else knows- ” Dean flicks his gaze over towards his sleeping brother. “I know.”
“How is he?”
“The same? Worse? Different?” Dean shrugs. His forehead creases with a frown. Mine, he thinks selfishly, he’s mine.
They don’t get to have him.
They all visit throughout the night. Dean gets to know them through snatches of conversation. Through the way they touch things, the questions they whisper. He gets to know them through the expressions that flit across their features, behind their eyes; like moths beating ineffectually against a glass cage.
They girl who ran away earlier comes first.
She stands behind Simon’s chair, like she needs something between her and Dean. Maybe she needs life between them, Dean considers, but then she brushes Simon’s hair with such open affection that maybe that isn’t it at all.
She flushes prettily when he catches her, mouth rounding into an excuse even as her body betrays her.
Dean waves a hand nonchalantly. “Just so that you know, I didn’t want to die.” He admits, “I just-”
She nods, seeing his confession for what it was, an equal standing between them. Dean doesn’t often feel the need to justify his actions to a complete stranger, and the girl seems to understand that.
“It’s Dean, right? I’m Kaylee.”
Dean nods. He doesn’t really know what else to do, or say. Usually he only talks to victims or suspects, and this girl is neither. She’s an innocent, and Dean doesn’t know how to deal with those, that’s Sam’s job. Sam was the one who could still believe in good, even when he had experienced so little of it himself.
Dean closes his eyes again. Wills himself to sleep. Wishes Sam was closer, so he could reach out and touch him. So he could press his cold fingers to Sam’s warm, beating, pulse. Wishes he could feel the tangible flutter of Sam’s blood, of his life, strong and resilient even under paper thin skin.
His second visitor is a companion. She doesn’t tell him that of course, but it is there, stated implicitly anyway. In the silk of her dress, the gold of her jewellery. In her assessing, calculating, gaze.
She’s very pretty, he’ll give her that. Almost ethereally gorgeous, smooth tanned skin and wide dark eyes. Her curly hair falls like a curtain across her face. Dean’s fingers itch.
“I heard he knows River.” She says somewhat coolly, looking over at Sam. “That they went to the Collective together?”
“The Academy. I met Simon when we were trying to get them out.” Dean corrects, though he’s almost sure it was a test. “I suppose he already told you that?”
She grins, one corner slightly more upturned than the other. It’s real, not the shiny plastic smile she threw him as she entered.
“He did indeed,” she admits, looking almost contrite. “I’m Inara. I rent one of the shuttles. I’m so sorry I missed your ‘big arrest’, I was away on business at the time.”
“Well you should be.” Dean replies, flirting a little. “It was indeed spectacular. I’ve always had a flair for dramatics, or so I’ve been told.”
“From that other guy over there? You two are close?”
“His name is Sam. He’s my brother.” Dean tells her. “He’s so decent, you would not believe.”
“How old is he?” She asks cautiously. Cautiously, like she thinks something is horribly wrong with him. Like she thinks the Academy has broken him.
“Nineteen,” Dean says, meticulously creasing the crisp white sheets. “He’s still just a baby, really.”
“And you’re such an old soul?”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Feels like it sometimes.”
He hears her move softly over to Sam’s side. “He’s lucky to have someone who cares about him so much.”
More like cursed, Dean thinks. And then he’s drifting again.
Wash comes back later, with his babe of a wife Zoe.
He slumps into the seat next to Dean’s bed with a smile and a loud exhalation.
“So we found your brother, right?” he says excitedly, eyebrows arched as if he’s waiting for Dean to continue the thought.
Dean rolls his eyes, shifting slightly until his gaze falls on Sammy. “I can see that.”
Zoe smirks.
“So we found your brother,” Wash repeats emphatically. “In your ship.”
Dean raises hopeful eyes, suddenly cognizant of Wash’s thought process. “Please, oh please, tell me you didn’t leave my baby down there.”
“A classic like that? A 67’ Impala class subshuttle? She’s in the hold.”
Dean drops his head back and sighs in relief. “I love you, you beautiful man, you.”
“Hold on there,” Zoe interrupts, slinging an arm around Wash’s chest and pulling him backwards until his head rests against her torso. “That’s my guy you’re talking about.”
“And what a guy.” Dean teases.
Zoe laughs, rubbing Wash’s shoulder. “I think he was just excited to drive one again, huh baby?” She lowers her voice to a conspiratal whisper. “Reminds him of his glory days.”
This time it’s Dean who smirks, ducking his head a little.
“What were y’all even doing down there anyway?” Zoe asks, all traces of mirth gone.
“Hunting.” Dean replies, ‘cause there was really no reason to lie. “That’s kind of what we do. Sammy and I. We, uh, hunt.”
“Hunt what exactly?” Wash asks, brow furrowed. “That moon was just a few settlements. Nothing of substance to shoot, no farming of any particular beast.”
“Well, that’s kind of the thing,” Dean explains. “Sammy and I, we don’t exactly hunt- well- game.”
“You mean to say?” Zoe says, one hand moving almost imperceptibly towards the holster at her hip.
Dean stared at his own clenched hands. “We kind of- and this is going to sound insane, but- we kind of hunt Reavers.”
“That is insane. For what possible reason would you do a thing like that? The things they do-” Wash broke off with a shudder. “Why?”
“Well,” Dean says, for lack of a better reason. “Someone has to.”
Wash is still pale when they leave, expression stuck on incredulous. From the blood depletion, Dean thinks. Hopes.
The Sheppard’s name is Book, and he surely lives by it. He brings his bible, and the hired help Jayne- who Dean discovers is actually a man.
“Your brother all crazy-like?” Jayne asks without preamble, “Seems to be.”
Dean’s a little shocked by the direct line of questioning, but he recovers quickly enough. “He just worries is all- we’ve had a few close calls of late. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
The Sheppard stares at him, fingers running restlessly over the leather-bound book, inadvertently tracing the embossed gold print.
“Boy,” he says, “Do you know Matthew 10-26?”
Dean has never really read the Bible. Not in its entirety. He’s scanned passages, maybe a sermon or two, quoted a few words over prone bodies on the field. But he has heard much of it: the words delivered in a low, dulcet tenor. Pastor Jim’s voice, a man Dean had idolized as a child, back when he had the boundless naivety to believe in a higher power.
Surprisingly enough, Dean does know the quote the Sheppard is referring to. “Whatever is now covered up will be uncovered, and every secret will be made known.”
The Sheppard doesn’t look shocked by Dean’s discourse. He looks as if it is a revelation, as if Dean is now comprehensible. He looks at Dean as if he is a puzzle, derelict maybe, but ultimately solvable. He looks at Dean the way Dean himself looks at River.
Dean just wonders if that passage was meant to be a threat.
“So if he’s not all psycho, he at least psychic?” Jayne says, pointing across the room with a knife. The tension snaps perceptibly.
“Sam’s a reader, he can pick up on emotions and the like. But he doesn’t have say, premonitions, like River. He just-”
“Yes,” the preacher presses. He looks at Dean as if he already knows the answer.
“It’s just, he has these dreams, right?” Dean continues slowly, still unsure if he should even be telling them this. The secret isn’t his to confess, not really. Sam should get to decide the informants, but Dean isn’t about to wake him just to ask.
“And sometimes - ” Dean pauses again, smooths a hand down his face. “… Sometimes they come true.”
To his surprise the next visitor is the Captain.
“Malcolm Reynolds,” he says cheerily. “Captain.”
“No,” Dean says drowsily. “I know you. You’re a sergeant, I remember.”
Reynolds gives him a strange look, startled. “You fought in the war? What are you, like maybe twenty now? You surely didn’t.”
“’M twenty-three dude, and a lot of people who fought in the war shouldn’t have. What else where we supposed to do? Sit at home listening to the screaming?” Dean set his jaw, memories swirling. “My Dad used to talk about you. You had a winter campaign together. On Lawrence.”
“You lived on Lawrence?” Reynolds asks, trailing off into a string of Chinese curses. “Who is he? Your father.”
What a loaded question. “His name,” Dean chokes out.
“Was John Winchester.” Sam finished for him, apparently awake and listening to the exchange. He rolled over to face them.
“Was? Winchester’s dead?”
“We don’t know.” Sam confesses sharply, “We haven’t seen that bastard in months.”
- - - - -
A/n:
Tennessee Williams once wrote: 'We all live in a house of fire. No fire department to call. No way out. Just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down… with us trapped, locked in it.'
The idea for this story basically stemmed from the idea that the course for Dean and Sam’s lives was inevitable. No change in the setting, time-frame or situation would have affected the eventual outcome.