Fanfic - SPN: Fix (PG-13, Slash: Sam/Dean)
Title: Fix
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "774-Mystery Theatre" for museteasers. "039-Exhausted" for 100moods, challenge table here. "04-Biting" for 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~ 865 words.
Rating: PG-13 for mature themes.
Warnings/Spoilers: CHARACTER DEATH! Angst. Dark. Violence. Blood. Kink (biting, sort of). Established relationship. Wincest. Slash (minor). Plot. AUish, I suppose. No spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Bleed and beg and barter. It's the way of the fix.
Author's Notes: It's been a while and this may not be what you're looking for, a story with spoken word rhythms. Anyway … forgive me? Also? I am not caught up with the show, so please don't talk about any recent episodes in comments. Thank you.
Coupon Best Buy
The velvet of the front stage-right curtain was soft against his skin and he tried not to fall into it, to lean in and let it envelope him, let it keep his heat from evaporating in the cool darkness of the drafty theatre. God, he was tired. It wasn't time to rest yet, though. Maybe it wouldn't ever be. Time.
"Sam?" His own voice was worn and strange, sluggish in its slide over his tongue, but a feverish chuckle, like a lush on the bottle, echoed in response, stranger still. Much like the stranger who used to be Sam. "Sam. You have to- … You have to stop."
"Why? You gonna fix me? That it? You gonna be my … fix … again?"
Dean could almost hear the hungry panting in his brother's words and tried to fight his need to grip the handle of his machete tighter. If he gripped too hard now, he'd lose it, lose, and he couldn't afford- … The pounding flight of wide steps was on the stage then and his breath stopped, trained. There was a sniffing sound, a sniff and sigh. Four feet and just behind. Six feet tops. He couldn't change positions now, stuck, and his lack of breath wouldn't hide his scent, though his sweat seemed to have run dry hours ago. Days.
"You smell good, you know? Like- …" His brother sniffed again, more animal than man, inhaling the smell of him like it alone could feed the need that was throbbing on the inside. "Like … meat … and … sweets. Like- …"
Dean really could hear the panting now and he struggled not to cringe when he swore that he could feel it. It was just his nerves, his imagination, his guilt. Sam hadn't moved yet. He had time. He could- … He jerked at the heat of his brother crushing in against his back and started to turn, to swipe his weapon arm, cut and connect, his heel stomping down on a boot he'd forgotten was steel-toed. Texas '05. The side of his throat was torn wide, though, his mouth and body shouting in the middle of shifting, shouting from the pain shuttling up his arm at the crack and twist of small bones in his brother's grip.
It didn't matter if the knife fell, metal denting sturdy wooden planks. He'd never hold it again.
Shivering through the pain and the startling cold of heat leaving him, evacuating, fleeing the site of the attack, he tried to pull free. His left arm was locked to his side, though, locked like his body to Sam's, fully embraced. Not this. Not now. His vision blinked black, blacker than the dark of the room, and he wondered if- … He shook his head or … in his mind he shook his head. He had time. He could- … Sam's kiss, just under his ear, was sloppy with blood, blood that Sam's tongue traced as the food Dean had eaten - what? half a day? a day ago? three? - or maybe it was just the nothing in his stomach that jumped at the chance to make a messy getaway.
"Sam?" It was so soft, soft and weak and- … He tried again, ignoring the roll of something down his cheek. Not blood. Not yet. "Sam. You- … Sam. You can- … You have to stop." He didn't feel like he could stand anymore. The half-seen edges of the room swam and he wanted to be grateful for the brother at his back, but he wasn't. This was all wrong. All wrong.
"Can't, Dean. Gonna fix you."
No human comfort found its way into the brush of Sam's nose, the stroke of his mouth, as he nuzzled the patch of cloying blood above the skin that he'd shredded, but Dean could feel the gush and trickle of his life pushing out to stain his clothes and he wanted warm, wanted Sam, wanted Sam the way he'd been. His instincts warred to respond, switch-flicking as if he could choose. Sam or brute. Sam or fledgling. Sam or monster. Sam.
"You fixed me."
An involuntary shudder hit, nerves sparking something ill-fitting up his spine, and Dean's head flopped, weighted and sinking. He knew he couldn't lift it, broken and needing. Not that. Not that, though. Not that. Not him. He opened his mouth to speak, but it moved like his jaw was oiled with slowly cooling tar and all that slipped out was a groan, vision blinking black and blacker still. A moment whisked by before he realized that the pressure at his waist had switched sides, that there was skin, muscle, and bone bound up together and set against his lips, wet and dripping, a limb spilling what he'd lost, an offering, a command. He shook his head or … in his mind he shook his head.
It didn't matter, though, not the fight and not the silent 'no'. He'd never feel these tears again.
The bitter, salt, and copper tipping onto his tongue made him gag, but it was done. It was done. It was done and he was tired of always looking for the fix.
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "774-Mystery Theatre" for museteasers. "039-Exhausted" for 100moods, challenge table here. "04-Biting" for 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~ 865 words.
Rating: PG-13 for mature themes.
Warnings/Spoilers: CHARACTER DEATH! Angst. Dark. Violence. Blood. Kink (biting, sort of). Established relationship. Wincest. Slash (minor). Plot. AUish, I suppose. No spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Bleed and beg and barter. It's the way of the fix.
Author's Notes: It's been a while and this may not be what you're looking for, a story with spoken word rhythms. Anyway … forgive me? Also? I am not caught up with the show, so please don't talk about any recent episodes in comments. Thank you.
Coupon Best Buy
The velvet of the front stage-right curtain was soft against his skin and he tried not to fall into it, to lean in and let it envelope him, let it keep his heat from evaporating in the cool darkness of the drafty theatre. God, he was tired. It wasn't time to rest yet, though. Maybe it wouldn't ever be. Time.
"Sam?" His own voice was worn and strange, sluggish in its slide over his tongue, but a feverish chuckle, like a lush on the bottle, echoed in response, stranger still. Much like the stranger who used to be Sam. "Sam. You have to- … You have to stop."
"Why? You gonna fix me? That it? You gonna be my … fix … again?"
Dean could almost hear the hungry panting in his brother's words and tried to fight his need to grip the handle of his machete tighter. If he gripped too hard now, he'd lose it, lose, and he couldn't afford- … The pounding flight of wide steps was on the stage then and his breath stopped, trained. There was a sniffing sound, a sniff and sigh. Four feet and just behind. Six feet tops. He couldn't change positions now, stuck, and his lack of breath wouldn't hide his scent, though his sweat seemed to have run dry hours ago. Days.
"You smell good, you know? Like- …" His brother sniffed again, more animal than man, inhaling the smell of him like it alone could feed the need that was throbbing on the inside. "Like … meat … and … sweets. Like- …"
Dean really could hear the panting now and he struggled not to cringe when he swore that he could feel it. It was just his nerves, his imagination, his guilt. Sam hadn't moved yet. He had time. He could- … He jerked at the heat of his brother crushing in against his back and started to turn, to swipe his weapon arm, cut and connect, his heel stomping down on a boot he'd forgotten was steel-toed. Texas '05. The side of his throat was torn wide, though, his mouth and body shouting in the middle of shifting, shouting from the pain shuttling up his arm at the crack and twist of small bones in his brother's grip.
It didn't matter if the knife fell, metal denting sturdy wooden planks. He'd never hold it again.
Shivering through the pain and the startling cold of heat leaving him, evacuating, fleeing the site of the attack, he tried to pull free. His left arm was locked to his side, though, locked like his body to Sam's, fully embraced. Not this. Not now. His vision blinked black, blacker than the dark of the room, and he wondered if- … He shook his head or … in his mind he shook his head. He had time. He could- … Sam's kiss, just under his ear, was sloppy with blood, blood that Sam's tongue traced as the food Dean had eaten - what? half a day? a day ago? three? - or maybe it was just the nothing in his stomach that jumped at the chance to make a messy getaway.
"Sam?" It was so soft, soft and weak and- … He tried again, ignoring the roll of something down his cheek. Not blood. Not yet. "Sam. You- … Sam. You can- … You have to stop." He didn't feel like he could stand anymore. The half-seen edges of the room swam and he wanted to be grateful for the brother at his back, but he wasn't. This was all wrong. All wrong.
"Can't, Dean. Gonna fix you."
No human comfort found its way into the brush of Sam's nose, the stroke of his mouth, as he nuzzled the patch of cloying blood above the skin that he'd shredded, but Dean could feel the gush and trickle of his life pushing out to stain his clothes and he wanted warm, wanted Sam, wanted Sam the way he'd been. His instincts warred to respond, switch-flicking as if he could choose. Sam or brute. Sam or fledgling. Sam or monster. Sam.
"You fixed me."
An involuntary shudder hit, nerves sparking something ill-fitting up his spine, and Dean's head flopped, weighted and sinking. He knew he couldn't lift it, broken and needing. Not that. Not that, though. Not that. Not him. He opened his mouth to speak, but it moved like his jaw was oiled with slowly cooling tar and all that slipped out was a groan, vision blinking black and blacker still. A moment whisked by before he realized that the pressure at his waist had switched sides, that there was skin, muscle, and bone bound up together and set against his lips, wet and dripping, a limb spilling what he'd lost, an offering, a command. He shook his head or … in his mind he shook his head.
It didn't matter, though, not the fight and not the silent 'no'. He'd never feel these tears again.
The bitter, salt, and copper tipping onto his tongue made him gag, but it was done. It was done. It was done and he was tired of always looking for the fix.