The Shattering Point, Supernatural, PG-13
Today is totally supposed to be a NaNo day (and I have NaNo'd today)...but this thing has taken over my brain...There are two more pieces past this one that will get done sometime soonish....
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Shattering Point
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Sam)
Rating: PG-13 ish
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point, The Breaking Point, The Turning Point, The Point of Offering and The Melting Point. "The Balancing Point" was my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...this one is from Sam's POV
Warnings/Author's Notes: Angsty stuff, entirely emo...Suddenly know where this is going folks...turns out it kinda had a plot from the beginning,...I just didn't see it. Seems I got my angst muse back...and my dark one is sort of whispering her return...now if I could just find my porn muse!
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
He knows, long before they stop in the wee hours of the morning, cradles his head in anticipation of what is coming, of the pain. He squeezes his eyes closed as if that can stop the images, stop him from knowing, from seeing broken, mangled bodies and rivers of blood.
Dean’s hand is like ice on the back of his neck, soothing on the heat his skin has become. He murmurs to him, but Sam doesn’t hear him. He hears crying and screaming, voices of the dead, of the dying. He sees his father’s face, hears his voice though it isn’t his words. Sam leans forward more, his head against the dash, hands balled up in fists at his temples.
He wants to be out of the confining space, away from Dean’s gentle hands, because this isn’t meant to be gentle. It’s meant to hurt and he knows that now. The pain has a reason. The images have purpose. They aren’t meant to save anyone. He’s not meant to save anyone, least of all Dean. “Hellhound,” he manages to squeeze out, but he isn’t even sure if Dean hears him.
Icy hands touch his face, stroke his hands, coax him to his feet. Sam leans into the cool pillar that is Dean, lets him move them from the car into whatever place his brother has chosen for this to end. Dean presses the soft cloth of the blindfold into his hand and eases Sam onto the bed, but Sam has no words left to thank him for the kindness, only presses the cloth over his eyes and curls up tight to wait it out.
He doesn’t sleep so it isn’t a dream…the slow, lazy replay of memories and visions in a tapestry in his head. It always ends the same. There are plans in place, and no amount of hunting would derail them now.
He stirs, sitting up slowly and looking for Dean, for the comfort his brother’s presence could provide. He sat still and silent in the shadows, the shotgun still across his lap. Sam can feel the sigils on the windows. They press against him, not…uncomfortable…not yet…just…there.
“Dean?” His voice is cracked, uncertain. There is blood in the room, on the floor. Sam stands on shaking legs and crosses to his brother’s side, slipping to his knees.
His face is still, his eyes closed and for a moment Sam knew a fear altogether different than that of the future, of his role in things to come. Then Dean stirs, his hand combing through Sam’s hair. “Got him Sammy. Got you.”
Sam lays his head on Dean’s thigh, content for the moment. Then he remembers. “Dean?” He looked up and Dean’s head was shaking. “Please.” Sam gasped, though he didn’t know who or what he was asking.
“Too late, Sam. I was too late.” Dean’s eyes opened, their green bright in the gloom of the room.
Two little girls in matching denim jumpers. A mother and a father. Blood enough to bathe in. If he closes his eyes he can smell it.
He pulls free of Dean’s hand, turns and retches into the carpet. Dean’s voice is grating as he tries to comfort him, sooth him. Sam crawls away, but Dean’s icy skin finds his, cradles him, freezes him over like glass… Everything is wrong and he’s falling… “Please…please…”
Dean rocks them both on the floor, and Sam pleads…please let it end…leave me…save me…take me…and he shakes in his brother’s arms, as the sharp edge of the next vision shattered the glass, leaving Dean holding the quivering pieces of what remained.
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Shattering Point
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Sam)
Rating: PG-13 ish
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point, The Breaking Point, The Turning Point, The Point of Offering and The Melting Point. "The Balancing Point" was my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...this one is from Sam's POV
Warnings/Author's Notes: Angsty stuff, entirely emo...Suddenly know where this is going folks...turns out it kinda had a plot from the beginning,...I just didn't see it. Seems I got my angst muse back...and my dark one is sort of whispering her return...now if I could just find my porn muse!
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
He knows, long before they stop in the wee hours of the morning, cradles his head in anticipation of what is coming, of the pain. He squeezes his eyes closed as if that can stop the images, stop him from knowing, from seeing broken, mangled bodies and rivers of blood.
Dean’s hand is like ice on the back of his neck, soothing on the heat his skin has become. He murmurs to him, but Sam doesn’t hear him. He hears crying and screaming, voices of the dead, of the dying. He sees his father’s face, hears his voice though it isn’t his words. Sam leans forward more, his head against the dash, hands balled up in fists at his temples.
He wants to be out of the confining space, away from Dean’s gentle hands, because this isn’t meant to be gentle. It’s meant to hurt and he knows that now. The pain has a reason. The images have purpose. They aren’t meant to save anyone. He’s not meant to save anyone, least of all Dean. “Hellhound,” he manages to squeeze out, but he isn’t even sure if Dean hears him.
Icy hands touch his face, stroke his hands, coax him to his feet. Sam leans into the cool pillar that is Dean, lets him move them from the car into whatever place his brother has chosen for this to end. Dean presses the soft cloth of the blindfold into his hand and eases Sam onto the bed, but Sam has no words left to thank him for the kindness, only presses the cloth over his eyes and curls up tight to wait it out.
He doesn’t sleep so it isn’t a dream…the slow, lazy replay of memories and visions in a tapestry in his head. It always ends the same. There are plans in place, and no amount of hunting would derail them now.
He stirs, sitting up slowly and looking for Dean, for the comfort his brother’s presence could provide. He sat still and silent in the shadows, the shotgun still across his lap. Sam can feel the sigils on the windows. They press against him, not…uncomfortable…not yet…just…there.
“Dean?” His voice is cracked, uncertain. There is blood in the room, on the floor. Sam stands on shaking legs and crosses to his brother’s side, slipping to his knees.
His face is still, his eyes closed and for a moment Sam knew a fear altogether different than that of the future, of his role in things to come. Then Dean stirs, his hand combing through Sam’s hair. “Got him Sammy. Got you.”
Sam lays his head on Dean’s thigh, content for the moment. Then he remembers. “Dean?” He looked up and Dean’s head was shaking. “Please.” Sam gasped, though he didn’t know who or what he was asking.
“Too late, Sam. I was too late.” Dean’s eyes opened, their green bright in the gloom of the room.
Two little girls in matching denim jumpers. A mother and a father. Blood enough to bathe in. If he closes his eyes he can smell it.
He pulls free of Dean’s hand, turns and retches into the carpet. Dean’s voice is grating as he tries to comfort him, sooth him. Sam crawls away, but Dean’s icy skin finds his, cradles him, freezes him over like glass… Everything is wrong and he’s falling… “Please…please…”
Dean rocks them both on the floor, and Sam pleads…please let it end…leave me…save me…take me…and he shakes in his brother’s arms, as the sharp edge of the next vision shattered the glass, leaving Dean holding the quivering pieces of what remained.