SPN: purgatorio (Sam/Dean, PG-13)
purgatorio
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Warnings: incest
Summary: The root of all deadly sins is love. A progression in three parts.
Word Count: 821
A/N: Thanks to sangre_fria for a wonderful beta job! The fic's structure is based on the terraces of Purgatory (from Dante's Purgatorio). Similarities with the text in question end there for the most part. Set S2-S3.
misdirected love
Thick, acrid haze of smoke in the air, moon a dull and faded crescent overhead, and Dean's spitting blood onto the filthy cement of a dark alleyway. The bar is lit up, neon letters flickering, and broken glass of old bottles crunches under his feet as he takes another step, ducking out of the way of the next swing with a low grunt. Swing, duck, dodge, the solid sound of a fist connecting with solid flesh, and bruises are already forming dark on both faces.
On the surface, it's just a hustle gone wrong, a man with no money to spare losing his cash for the night, letting too many beers fuel his resentment. “Take it outside, boys,” and they did, and Dean's fighting like a rabid dog let off its leash. He snarls, blood on his teeth, dripping down from a nose Sam will have to reset later, fists clenched hard enough to drive crescent moon impressions into his palms. He's not holding back, sway, duck, another punch, solid clip to the jaw, and the man curses, tries to back away. Dean won't let him.
Sam is hidden half out of sight, tucked into an alcove just far enough from the streetlight to cast him in shadow. He's just watching, watching and knowing what this is really about-an ordinary barfight, on the surface, but there's more to it than that. That wild animal snarl isn't because the man swore at Dean, called him a fucking punk and a son of a bitch, made sneering comments about his pretty mouth, took a swing at him. It isn't about that.
The man had flirted with Sam, and that is a line Dean will not let him cross, not without serious injury, at least. Another punch to the gut and the man goes down, and Dean stands over him, twisted features lit up by the murky gold of the streetlight. Dean cracks his knuckles and spits again, and some part of Sam thinks, “That's my brother.” He shouldn't be proud. Shouldn't love the rougher side of Dean, shouldn't love seeing him like this; Dean has never laid claim to Sam himself, so he has no right to keep others away, too, but it doesn't matter. Sam is Dean's, and no matter what they have or haven't done, Dean will not let another man cross into his territory.
deficient love
It's not that Dean doesn't care about himself. That's not why he made the deal; no matter what Sam may think, it's not self-loathing that led him down that road, not at the heart of it, at least.
It's just that he only has so much room in his heart, and his love for Sam fills it up, all the way to the corners. There is no room for anyone else.
He isn't the only casualty.
excessive love
“You went to Hell for me,” Sam says, over and over, like a mantra, and Dean can barely hear it over the screams still echoing in his ears. The backs of Sam's hands are burned, and he clutches Dean tight, kneeling on scorched grass and torn-up earth. Fire has ravaged the land in every direction Dean can see, matchsticks made of trees.
“You got me out,” Dean answers, soot staining his face, ash and burns and scars and blood, so much blood that he can barely see. “Sam, you got me out.”
“I had to,” Sam says, and he cups Dean's face in his hands and kisses him amid the ruins. He kisses Dean and tastes brimstone and ash bitter on his tongue, takes everything he can get, like a starving man, so greedy for it.
“What did you have to do?” Dean demands when he breaks the kiss, and Sam runs a hand through Dean's hair, palm turning black with soot. He presses it to Dean's chest, right over his heart, and says, “It doesn't matter. I've got you back.”
He pulls Dean in again, and behind them, the last of the scorched trees crashes to the ground, a thud that shakes the earth. Everything around them is dead, blackened, ruins of Illinois countryside lit by the pale midday sun.
They kiss, savior and saved, and they hold on white-knuckled tight to life, to each other, amid the devastation, letting Hell fade away into memory. Sam cups Dean's neck, steady thudding pulse and warm skin under his palm, covers white-ridged scars with his blackened fingers. Dean's heartbeat is strong, his breathing ragged, so alive, and Sam swallows against the lump in his throat as he leans in again.
Dean's hands twist tight in Sam's shirt, hard enough to tear, a savagery born of joy rather than anger or fear. Each kiss they share is prayer and penance both, and they will not let go.
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Warnings: incest
Summary: The root of all deadly sins is love. A progression in three parts.
Word Count: 821
A/N: Thanks to sangre_fria for a wonderful beta job! The fic's structure is based on the terraces of Purgatory (from Dante's Purgatorio). Similarities with the text in question end there for the most part. Set S2-S3.
misdirected love
Thick, acrid haze of smoke in the air, moon a dull and faded crescent overhead, and Dean's spitting blood onto the filthy cement of a dark alleyway. The bar is lit up, neon letters flickering, and broken glass of old bottles crunches under his feet as he takes another step, ducking out of the way of the next swing with a low grunt. Swing, duck, dodge, the solid sound of a fist connecting with solid flesh, and bruises are already forming dark on both faces.
On the surface, it's just a hustle gone wrong, a man with no money to spare losing his cash for the night, letting too many beers fuel his resentment. “Take it outside, boys,” and they did, and Dean's fighting like a rabid dog let off its leash. He snarls, blood on his teeth, dripping down from a nose Sam will have to reset later, fists clenched hard enough to drive crescent moon impressions into his palms. He's not holding back, sway, duck, another punch, solid clip to the jaw, and the man curses, tries to back away. Dean won't let him.
Sam is hidden half out of sight, tucked into an alcove just far enough from the streetlight to cast him in shadow. He's just watching, watching and knowing what this is really about-an ordinary barfight, on the surface, but there's more to it than that. That wild animal snarl isn't because the man swore at Dean, called him a fucking punk and a son of a bitch, made sneering comments about his pretty mouth, took a swing at him. It isn't about that.
The man had flirted with Sam, and that is a line Dean will not let him cross, not without serious injury, at least. Another punch to the gut and the man goes down, and Dean stands over him, twisted features lit up by the murky gold of the streetlight. Dean cracks his knuckles and spits again, and some part of Sam thinks, “That's my brother.” He shouldn't be proud. Shouldn't love the rougher side of Dean, shouldn't love seeing him like this; Dean has never laid claim to Sam himself, so he has no right to keep others away, too, but it doesn't matter. Sam is Dean's, and no matter what they have or haven't done, Dean will not let another man cross into his territory.
deficient love
It's not that Dean doesn't care about himself. That's not why he made the deal; no matter what Sam may think, it's not self-loathing that led him down that road, not at the heart of it, at least.
It's just that he only has so much room in his heart, and his love for Sam fills it up, all the way to the corners. There is no room for anyone else.
He isn't the only casualty.
excessive love
“You went to Hell for me,” Sam says, over and over, like a mantra, and Dean can barely hear it over the screams still echoing in his ears. The backs of Sam's hands are burned, and he clutches Dean tight, kneeling on scorched grass and torn-up earth. Fire has ravaged the land in every direction Dean can see, matchsticks made of trees.
“You got me out,” Dean answers, soot staining his face, ash and burns and scars and blood, so much blood that he can barely see. “Sam, you got me out.”
“I had to,” Sam says, and he cups Dean's face in his hands and kisses him amid the ruins. He kisses Dean and tastes brimstone and ash bitter on his tongue, takes everything he can get, like a starving man, so greedy for it.
“What did you have to do?” Dean demands when he breaks the kiss, and Sam runs a hand through Dean's hair, palm turning black with soot. He presses it to Dean's chest, right over his heart, and says, “It doesn't matter. I've got you back.”
He pulls Dean in again, and behind them, the last of the scorched trees crashes to the ground, a thud that shakes the earth. Everything around them is dead, blackened, ruins of Illinois countryside lit by the pale midday sun.
They kiss, savior and saved, and they hold on white-knuckled tight to life, to each other, amid the devastation, letting Hell fade away into memory. Sam cups Dean's neck, steady thudding pulse and warm skin under his palm, covers white-ridged scars with his blackened fingers. Dean's heartbeat is strong, his breathing ragged, so alive, and Sam swallows against the lump in his throat as he leans in again.
Dean's hands twist tight in Sam's shirt, hard enough to tear, a savagery born of joy rather than anger or fear. Each kiss they share is prayer and penance both, and they will not let go.