|Auryon F. (auryon) wrote,|
@ 2008-12-10 02:28:00
|Current music:||"Cells" -- The Servant|
[SPN] The Gloaming (Part 1/2)
Title: The Gloaming (Part 1/2)
Pairing/Characters: Dean POV, Sam, Not-Sam
Rating: R (for swearing and …yeah)
Word Count: 2,939
Challenge: A 15_minute_fic prompt; see behind the cut.
Disclaimer: I own my new shirt, and my Ganesha statue. Dean and Sam are on their own.
A/N: …I, I have no excuse for this. It crept up on me and ate my brain while I was trying to sleep. I think I’m heading into that Special Hell. With that damn hand basket and everything.
Prompt: Word #48 -- slower
He didn’t count the minutes; as much as he’d like to, it would only make him more irritated.
Instead, he managed to swallow his impatience and tap his boot against the cool linoleum in time to Enter Sandman, which, honestly, didn’t help. But it was something else to think about while time passed.
The dusty air inside reeked of death; the slow kind that only hit you when you were eighty or something, and you were too old to care – more so, you’d welcome it. Dean growled absently in the back of his throat, the noise sounding eerily like the melody he was hearing in his head, and waited.
The evening had felt like an eternity in general, and Dean had no use for time that wasn’t well spent. This was the main reason that – though he complained about it loudly, and at every given opportunity – he didn’t mind researching for hunts. The information useless or not, came in handy eventually. Edison had a quote that had made mention of a similar thing, but Dean didn’t care to remember it. He shut his eyes tight.
The gag around his mouth prevented noise on his end, but he would have been loudly yelling the lyrics by this point if it could somehow make time move faster. Impatience was quickly turning into something akin to anxious agitation, but was more like hunger than Dean would have liked.
A hand rested itself on his inner thigh, and Dean opened his eyes, startled by the touch. He hadn’t heard a sound.
“If it makes you feel any better,” his brother’s – no, no it wasn’t Sammy – voice curled in the air, thick and twirling like living smoke. Dean felt nauseous at the comparison. “He won’t be back for a while.”
Dean, of course, said nothing. But his knuckles clenched so tightly, they turned white, nails biting into his palm. He wouldn’t be surprised to see blood.
“Technically, I’m talking to hear myself talk,” the thing continued, the hand moving farther up his leg than Dean would have ever even imagined, cranking up his urgent need to get the hell out of Dodge. “But since you can hear me, I’d like to think I’m entertaining you as well.”
His knee twitched out to his right, as if trying to shake off the thing currently inching closer to his crotch then he’d prefer anything that looked and walked like his brother to be. He didn’t say talk, because Sam had never been able to pull off the dark, sexy seduction thing very well; it wasn’t just him – Sam had said so.
Dork. Who actually admits to that?
“A few more minutes and it’ll kick in.” The voice was still smoky, and Dean had an idle thought that if Sam actually tried, he might have been as good at snagging chicks as Dean was. He’d never actually say better.
The muffled noises Dean then made were several attempts at profanity, with the question of what? mixed in.
“Well, if you can’t guess, then I won’t tell you,” Not-Sam left him then, edging closer to the window and looking out of it. It wasn’t furtive, it was planned, calculated. It wasn’t making Dean anymore comfortable. “But it’ll give us a hell of a time.”
Christ, the thing said ‘us’ not ‘you’ – Dean’s well-hidden panic escalated. His head was fuzzy enough as it was, and it hadn’t had time to clear up, despite the fact that he’d felt like he’d been officially awake for days.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. The gloaming outside made the room a deep blue sort of dark, and his eyes weren’t registering the shapes between shapes well enough anymore.
Could his little brother be any slower? He had expected at least a half-assed rescue attempt earlier – but now it better be Mission Impossible good to make up for the amount of time he’d spent being tied to this damn chair. Wasn’t being kidnapped usually Sammy’s shtick anyway?
Then things began to really move at a snail’s pace – except the snail had to be on a bad trip. The room warped like Dali had painted it, and Dean’s eyes started doing the shimmy. He refrained from being sick, only because the smell of vomit wasn’t something he was willing to endure at this point.
“What did you two think when you decided to hunt something like me?” Sam Thing’s voice was actually curious, in that haughty sort of way that reminded Dean of demons and their back-talk. But this thing, evil as it was, was no demon. He knew it wasn’t a demon because they had both thought it was at first, the evidence was obvious.
Too obvious; apparently, this thing had been masking itself as one for ages now. Dean mourned the fact that it wasn’t just some dumb creature of habit; that always made hunts a lot easier.
He couldn’t help the moan that hit and morphed through his gag. The room was churning like a blender, only in slow motion. Sweat beaded on his forehead and fell down his cheeks, and Dean suddenly wondered why the room was so goddamn hot.
“Did you really fall for the demon thing? I had heard that at least Sammy was smarter than that.” The hand was back, with a friend, and both were exploring Dean in a rather horribly exotic fashion. It made Dean weak, and the spinning room wasn’t helping matters.
A barely coherent fuck you escaped Dean’s obstructed lips, and his breathing grew harsh, ragged, like he’d been running for miles. He could already feel his face flushing, and he’d never thought he’d use the word ‘flush’ in reference to his own face. It was just so…girly.
“You, on the other hand, are far more fun than I had thought.” The big, warm hands slipped lower, teasing. “Then again, I thought you’d have resisted more. I am your brother – at the moment anyway. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you would fuck anything with legs, Dean.” A hot tongue ran up the inside of his collar bone, up his neck, and Dean couldn’t repress a shiver of pure want.
This was highly wrong, on about two million different levels. But sensations were sensations, and Dean wasn’t finding anything wrong about the feelings he was getting right now – which was all wrong in itself. He double checked his vision, and realized it was still being unreliable. That meant he was still under the influence of something. Dean didn’t feel any better knowing that.
“Do you think he knows?” The tone was sultry. Dean knew sultry – hell, he loved sultry. But not right now. Maybe. He wasn’t entirely sure. Dean made a desperate noise and tried to lean away from the fingers that were making him feel way too good to be right.
His brain wasn’t letting the situation go to far, and his imagination, though usually wild, reigned itself in for the moment. There were already images of the next few steps to this dance playing in his head; he didn’t need to add fuel to the fire. The lips on his neck were doing most of that for him anyway.
Half of him was already thinking about all the possible fun things he could do right now, like a switch turning on automatic. It was making things really difficult – understatement of the year.
So when Not-Sam moved around to his front, grinning like that cat from Alice in Wonderland - except with more grace and less crazy, Dean literally turned his eyes skyward and shut them, thinking about things like Margaret Thatcher naked, and the various demons they had fought, with the addition of the Shtriga in a thong.
Aside from mental scarring, the images did nothing to stem the heat and the need he was starting to feel in his bones. Dean really really hoped most of this was somehow drug-related.
The gag was finally removed, but now Dean didn’t have the ability to say anything lucid. The thing’s fingers dug into the waist of his jeans with its thumbs, tugged down just so and leaned forward, finally covering his lips with its own. Dean wasn’t exactly sure he could feel anything besides desire by now, so he did what any drug-addled, half-crazed abductee would do in this situation.
He kissed back, damn him, with all the ferocity and power he knew he was known for. The thing made a throaty growl that definitely sounded like pleasure, and held them together, locked in place for what felt like years.
The contact relieved some of the heat Dean had been feeling and his brain kicked back into gear again. It tried to, at least; allowing for a brief moment of sanity where he resumed tinkering with the bindings around his hands.
“Was that so bad?” It sounded condescending as it trailed its cold fingers across Dean’s collarbone. Dean hated that tone of voice more than anything. Sam never talked to him like he was an idiot – unless Dean being an idiot deliberately. In which case, he expected return fire.
The heat was already becoming persistent, and Dean could already feel the tendrils of control slipping away from him. He opened his mouth, smirked, and said with deliberate accuracy, “Sammy’s a better kisser.” Even though that might have been a lie.
A small bright flame of fury ignited in the thing’s eyes, and Dean felt the cool glow of smug satisfaction of being a righteous bastard surround him for a brief moment.
Then the explosion happened.
To Dean’s credit, he hadn’t been expecting it, which was why he manfully rolled, chair and all, facing away from the flying, flaming debris. The internal want for more of what had been going on recently intensified tenfold when the thing let him go; Dean had to pause and take a few seconds to regain control of his, well, everything. All of this while biding time to escape his bonds.
The explosion was close enough to him that his ears were ringing – he couldn’t hear anything except his own deep, heaving breaths. Dean’s vision trembled like a house of cards in high winds. His body was numb, hot, cold, and every other feeling Dean had ever had before in his life. Dean’s world was a cacophony of confusion and the need to fuck something. He wondered if this was a good time to hit his head on the nearby wooden table leg and slip into a self-induced coma.
Dean raised his neck, forcing himself to see the sadly non-hallucinatory image of two Sam Winchesters, staring each other down like a pair of territorial wolves. He idly thought this might be a Mexican Standoff – except he was utterly useless with anything sharp or gun-like, so maybe he didn’t count as the third person.
His Sammy was standing off across from where the explosion had occurred, and his face was a painting of fury. His mouth was moving, but Dean couldn’t hear – or wasn’t really paying attention to anything Sam was saying except the way his lips were moving and the interesting play of muscle under skin. The sudden invasion of the forbidden appreciation was immediately banished.
Anti-Sam was laughing, and Dean realized that the explosion hadn’t hurt the thing at all. It too was speaking, but Dean was most definitely not paying attention now. One of his hands had gotten loose, and he was basically home free. If only he could stop watching his brother.
Words cut in and out like a bad radio. Real Sam’s harsh desperation was evident, even through the anger; “What did … Dean…kill…Fae.”
The mocking lilt of Other Sam held its sway. But all Dean heard was Sam, his Sam, and the word that finally got Dean’s brain out of the gutter: Fae. The damn thing was Fae. As in fairy.
Oh, now it was on. Nothing that was related to the goddamn Lucky Charms leprechaun was going to have the pleasure of winning a battle against Dean motherfuckin’ Winchester.
Dean’s hands, sweaty from the conflicting urge to either strangle the two Sams or jump their collective bones, made short work of the rope around his ankles. He collapsed when the gunshots started, instinct taking over as he crawled closer to the conflict, determination and lust simultaneously dancing in his eyes.
He could hear everything, but it all sounded like it was being broadcasted underwater.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know why you’re so upset, it was just a joke,” Sam-Who-Was-Not-Sam sounded almost pouty.
“I’ll ask again.” Two shots rang out. “Where. Is. My. Brother.”
There was a long pause. Obviously, something about the last few shots had made the Fae rethink its plan. “Dear Sammy, he’s behind the couch.”
Dean felt the whole thing was anticlimactic. “Sadly, the little fairy’s right,” his voice hitched on his own short needy gasps. He hated how breathy it made him sound, even though his voice was ultimately more gravel-like than anything. “Can I kill it?”
Sammy, the real one, looked like he might collapse with relief. “Dean? Can you stand? Are you hurt?”
Hoo boy; Sam’s mother hen mode was in full force. That didn’t surprise him. “I’m,” he gulped, stopping midway. Sam had touched his arm as he was helping him up – that was a perfectly normal gesture of worry between the brothers. And Dean needed to kiss him for it.
Damn, he felt like he was fourteen again. In the bad way. “I just wanna kill it Sammy,” he groaned. He was trying to make this nightmare end. “Do you have anything that works?”
“And what makes you think I’ll just let you kill me?” Pseudo-Sam’s voice was whiny, on a level that would’ve made Dean’s ears bleed if they weren’t already doing so.
Sam Winchester’s expression immediately changed from worried puppy face to angry puppy face. His narrowed eyes trained on the creature that was his temporary doppelganger. “Cold iron, salt, holy water, and St. John’s Wort,” was all he said. He raised the sawed-off in a calm yet threatening manner. “Shot at you at point blank rage.”
Then, kindly, Sammy handed Dean the gun.
Despite the conflicting signals shooting off in his head, Dean knew that, despite how yummy the thing was to him at the moment, it was a) not human, and b) Not Sam.
A second later, Dean cocked his weapon of choice, and aimed steady. “Give me the cure, and I won’t kill you,” he decided after a moment, voice still raw with hunger.
He forgot his Sam was within listening range. “Did it poison you?” Sam practically yelped – which would have been funny if Dean didn’t feel like sexing up his own brother, despite his brain’s desperate reminders not to.
“No,” he growled, gathering all of his self-control before the thing could mock them some more. “So what do you say? Gimme the cure, or I give you a facial the hard way.”
The thing laughed, and if Dean looked with a more scrutinizing eye (which he couldn’t, really, with the room swimming like that), he could see the differences that were starting to appear. Eyes slanted, looking more cat-like as the moments passed. There seemed to be something entirely alien about it; arms more slender, with a figure that embodied androgynous. It sounded like chimes. Dean’s desire lurched for no real reason, and he once more reined it back in. “Avoiding the truth, Dean?” There was an echo to its voice that hadn’t been there before.
“What did you do to him?” Sam asked all righteous indignation and fear. Confusion was written all over his face.
“It’s hardly damning, considering the other things he’s done,” the Sam-creature insisted, brown shaggy hair shimmering. Dean had a feeling it knew it was getting away, even if he couldn’t tell how, exactly.
Dean snarled something harsh and irritated, words jumbled behind his own inarticulate need to be back to normal, back in control, both of which were highly ironic. He raised the gun, one hand gripping it in a sweaty embrace, and hoped to hell Sam couldn’t see his hands tremble.
The thing’s cat-eyes glimmered like sun-lit snow and sparks. “It wears off eventually.” By now, even its skin shone ephemerally.
Dean dropped the gun, limply holding it to his side. “How long.” It wasn’t a question. “How long until it stops?”
Sam probably felt left out of the conversation, but honestly, Dean didn’t really care.
“Who knows,” it answered, and Dean could see the lines that formed its outline start to fade slightly. The smile stayed as the rest started to vanish. “Maybe until Dean gets what he wants.”
It was gone in seconds.
There was a moment of incredulity on Dean’s part, quickly followed by incoherent mutterings of rage and something hard. He let the gun slip through his fingers, and heard it clunk on the wooden floor. His hands shook, trembling more fiercely then ever. And damn, why was everything conspiring against him by connecting every action, sound, and feeling to kinky sex with his brother?
“Sammy?” His voice barely managed to sound reasonable. He kept wanting to not talk, and just do, but alas. Dean wasn’t that kind of girl.
“Dean?” And there was Sam, to his left, touching him again, holy crap, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to halt the slight buck of his hips. He hoped Sam didn’t notice, but it was long shot. Instead, Dean pulled out the look he only reserved for special occasions; it was a desperate, helpless kind of look he saw a kitten use once. It always worked on Sam.
“We have kind of a problem.”