Fanfic - SPN: Come Home with Me (NC-17, Slash: Demon!John/Dean, implied D!J/Sam)
Title: Come Home with Me
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Demon!John/Dean Winchester, implied Demon!John/Sam Winchester
Prompt: "He wakes Sam every half hour" from ignipes's First Line Meme. "096-Touched" for 100moods, challenge table here. "033-Age Play" for 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~1000 words.
Rating: NC-17 for violence and sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: DEATH (implied)! ANGST! DARK! VIOLENCE! Non-con. Blood. Daddy!cest. Daddy!kink. Dream!fic. Implied age play. Slash. Plot. Graphic m/m sex. AU for and spoilers through "Devil's Trap." Present tense.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: In sleep they preview death and the pit that will become home.
Beta: trias_cube
Author's Notes: Another piece inspired by ignipes's First Line Meme, because apparently my muse wanted prompts this week. Disturbing would be the key word here. Please read with care.
LCD Televisions
He wakes Sam every half hour. They have to stay awake. They have. To stay. Awake. Can't let either of them get too deep into sleep. That's when the dreams come, when He comes … even though they both know that he's never really gone.
Dean closes his eyes, just for a minute, just for a second, but when they're open again, there's a man in the room, in some rented bedroom with Sammy's toy firetruck at his feet, and Dean freezes, the confusion overwhelming as he lays on the floor. The switch is thrown on his instincts as darkness begins to spread out like a swarm from the man's pores and he scrambles away. He turns to wake Sammy, shouting at the top of his lungs, but Sammy's not there, the wail of a child in the other room telling him exactly what he doesn't want to know. Then he's running, knowing it's not true but running anyway, and he pinches himself as he runs because he has to get out, has to get away, has to get to Sam. He knows no one can hear him when he's screaming in a dream. No one can hear him.
The hands that catch him try to shut him up, but he keeps on screaming even as he tries to get his head on straight. He tries to remember that it's only a dream, only a dream, and he works to swallow a distress that just keeps mounting, dilating his eyes and constricting his heart as his baby brother keeps wailing and he feels tears falling. 'No!' Struggling for Sammy isn't enough, though, won't save either of them, and even though he's screaming, he swears that he doesn't need saving, just Sammy. Please not Sammy. He's okay. He can do this. He's okay. A hand over his mouth means one less to roam, one less to feel tearing at the bottom half of his clothes, one less set of fingers shoving him open like his body is a stuck door, one less way to pound in pain like bent nails under unrelenting hammers.
He fights, but it doesn't really matter in his dreams. It doesn't ever seem to matter, won't ever matter, and his punishment comes due in a blaze pain. Hell stakes its claim, the feel of something impossibly thick breaching him, and he bites as he screams, his attacker uncaring that there's blood leaking from his palm into his victim's mouth. He can't see how he'll ever stop screaming, the blood on his tongue tasting of sulfur and anguish and gun oil and Dad.
But then his cheek is stinging and he feels empty and raw, blinking up at Sam who's yelling at him, pleading with him to wake up. 'Oh god please wake up!' They hear the chilling laughter just outside the bedroom door and jolt as the Demon wastes another blessed and precious bullet into the cabin's floorboards. More of their circle of salt slips into the cracks, forever lost.
"Two more and I'm coming in, boys. Two more and we'll get to play for real. … Don't you want to show your Daddy a good time?"
The silence lingers and it seems like he's gone for a moment, like the wind swept him away, but they know better. They know better. Dean grits his teeth, intent to curse, to charge in and- … Sam squeezes his shoulder like bruises can instill enough sense and self-preservation to keep his brother grounded and with him. That's not what really keeps Dean there, but he stays anyway, unwilling to let go while Sam's shaking a head so full of fear that it's leaking without end from the corners of his eyes.
Even when 'fine' is Sam's whispered refrain, Dean knows, he knows, that Sam's vision is clouded beyond the edge of sanity by brutal memories of a full night's sleep in this cabin-turned-cage. Dean just pulls him closer, crushing them together, and mouths 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', into Sam's hair as he rages, screaming again where no one can hear. He should've known, should've thought things through, should've just shut up that first night and laid down like Sam wanted him to, should've let the Demon show him whatever nightmares Sam had to see while his failing, stupid, worthless, nothing older brother sat awake and watched the fucking door like they could really build salvation on the end of his fist.
"De-ean … Samm-y …I know you're in there." The demon in their father calls to them like this is a child's game and he's closing in to tag them 'it'. "I'll give you boys another night to think things over, to let it all settle in. Don't worry, though. I'll be right here when you're ready to come home with me. … So go on and rest now, rest and I'll show you that new home of yours and all the pretty screaming yet to come."
The laughter echoes and it seems like the Demon's dark grin burns through the door. They just shake and try to keep thinking, keep plotting, keep staying awake and staying alive, but they're cut off now, from the guns and the salt and the water, from the phones and the door and the car. So, things don't feel like the dark before the dawn, like they're going to save the day or someone's going to save them. This all just seems like an ending in the making, all the heroes written out of the story too many sunless days ago to remember.
They're just little boys now, wide- and sleepy-eyed little boys huddled in a corner as their dad counts down to Judgment Day, as he says he's coming in, coming in to take them home. The veil is slipping away, their lives falling into the abyss of their dreams as Hell's drums beat in their ears, but they just hush each other and wipe eyes like the heat won't soon burn all their tears away. And when he comes, the salt spilling down into the underworld with the final shots of the spent Colt, they just seize each other, like if they can keep holding on, they'll be okay - it'll all be okay … even though they both know that they're going to die today.
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Demon!John/Dean Winchester, implied Demon!John/Sam Winchester
Prompt: "He wakes Sam every half hour" from ignipes's First Line Meme. "096-Touched" for 100moods, challenge table here. "033-Age Play" for 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~1000 words.
Rating: NC-17 for violence and sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: DEATH (implied)! ANGST! DARK! VIOLENCE! Non-con. Blood. Daddy!cest. Daddy!kink. Dream!fic. Implied age play. Slash. Plot. Graphic m/m sex. AU for and spoilers through "Devil's Trap." Present tense.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: In sleep they preview death and the pit that will become home.
Beta: trias_cube
Author's Notes: Another piece inspired by ignipes's First Line Meme, because apparently my muse wanted prompts this week. Disturbing would be the key word here. Please read with care.
LCD Televisions
He wakes Sam every half hour. They have to stay awake. They have. To stay. Awake. Can't let either of them get too deep into sleep. That's when the dreams come, when He comes … even though they both know that he's never really gone.
Dean closes his eyes, just for a minute, just for a second, but when they're open again, there's a man in the room, in some rented bedroom with Sammy's toy firetruck at his feet, and Dean freezes, the confusion overwhelming as he lays on the floor. The switch is thrown on his instincts as darkness begins to spread out like a swarm from the man's pores and he scrambles away. He turns to wake Sammy, shouting at the top of his lungs, but Sammy's not there, the wail of a child in the other room telling him exactly what he doesn't want to know. Then he's running, knowing it's not true but running anyway, and he pinches himself as he runs because he has to get out, has to get away, has to get to Sam. He knows no one can hear him when he's screaming in a dream. No one can hear him.
The hands that catch him try to shut him up, but he keeps on screaming even as he tries to get his head on straight. He tries to remember that it's only a dream, only a dream, and he works to swallow a distress that just keeps mounting, dilating his eyes and constricting his heart as his baby brother keeps wailing and he feels tears falling. 'No!' Struggling for Sammy isn't enough, though, won't save either of them, and even though he's screaming, he swears that he doesn't need saving, just Sammy. Please not Sammy. He's okay. He can do this. He's okay. A hand over his mouth means one less to roam, one less to feel tearing at the bottom half of his clothes, one less set of fingers shoving him open like his body is a stuck door, one less way to pound in pain like bent nails under unrelenting hammers.
He fights, but it doesn't really matter in his dreams. It doesn't ever seem to matter, won't ever matter, and his punishment comes due in a blaze pain. Hell stakes its claim, the feel of something impossibly thick breaching him, and he bites as he screams, his attacker uncaring that there's blood leaking from his palm into his victim's mouth. He can't see how he'll ever stop screaming, the blood on his tongue tasting of sulfur and anguish and gun oil and Dad.
But then his cheek is stinging and he feels empty and raw, blinking up at Sam who's yelling at him, pleading with him to wake up. 'Oh god please wake up!' They hear the chilling laughter just outside the bedroom door and jolt as the Demon wastes another blessed and precious bullet into the cabin's floorboards. More of their circle of salt slips into the cracks, forever lost.
"Two more and I'm coming in, boys. Two more and we'll get to play for real. … Don't you want to show your Daddy a good time?"
The silence lingers and it seems like he's gone for a moment, like the wind swept him away, but they know better. They know better. Dean grits his teeth, intent to curse, to charge in and- … Sam squeezes his shoulder like bruises can instill enough sense and self-preservation to keep his brother grounded and with him. That's not what really keeps Dean there, but he stays anyway, unwilling to let go while Sam's shaking a head so full of fear that it's leaking without end from the corners of his eyes.
Even when 'fine' is Sam's whispered refrain, Dean knows, he knows, that Sam's vision is clouded beyond the edge of sanity by brutal memories of a full night's sleep in this cabin-turned-cage. Dean just pulls him closer, crushing them together, and mouths 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', into Sam's hair as he rages, screaming again where no one can hear. He should've known, should've thought things through, should've just shut up that first night and laid down like Sam wanted him to, should've let the Demon show him whatever nightmares Sam had to see while his failing, stupid, worthless, nothing older brother sat awake and watched the fucking door like they could really build salvation on the end of his fist.
"De-ean … Samm-y …I know you're in there." The demon in their father calls to them like this is a child's game and he's closing in to tag them 'it'. "I'll give you boys another night to think things over, to let it all settle in. Don't worry, though. I'll be right here when you're ready to come home with me. … So go on and rest now, rest and I'll show you that new home of yours and all the pretty screaming yet to come."
The laughter echoes and it seems like the Demon's dark grin burns through the door. They just shake and try to keep thinking, keep plotting, keep staying awake and staying alive, but they're cut off now, from the guns and the salt and the water, from the phones and the door and the car. So, things don't feel like the dark before the dawn, like they're going to save the day or someone's going to save them. This all just seems like an ending in the making, all the heroes written out of the story too many sunless days ago to remember.
They're just little boys now, wide- and sleepy-eyed little boys huddled in a corner as their dad counts down to Judgment Day, as he says he's coming in, coming in to take them home. The veil is slipping away, their lives falling into the abyss of their dreams as Hell's drums beat in their ears, but they just hush each other and wipe eyes like the heat won't soon burn all their tears away. And when he comes, the salt spilling down into the underworld with the final shots of the spent Colt, they just seize each other, like if they can keep holding on, they'll be okay - it'll all be okay … even though they both know that they're going to die today.