I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.
regala_electra

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fic: no soul to sell (SPN, Dean/Demon!Dean, Dean/Sam, R)

no soul to sell
Author: Regala Electra
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Other
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual Content, Violence, Language
Spoilers: S3, Dream a Little Dream
Word Count: 2,645
Summary: He dreams with his eyes open. Otherwise all this means is that Dean can’t keep the demon at bay.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to ignited for much assistance and concrit.


*



He is still dreaming.

Gotta be dreaming ‘cause if this is real, no, no fucking way—Dean shakes it off, ignores the prickling down his spine—says without a word coming out of his mouth, I’m still dreaming.

Because if he’s awake, then he’s—no.

He dreams with his eyes open. This is what he needs to believe. If he’s dreaming then it makes sense that when he blinks his eyes and tries to clear his field of vision that he’s still looking at the twisted reflection waiting him out. An easy smirk taunting him in the rearview mirror, it is himself but not himself at all, it is it.

(This is what you become.)

Near perfect doppelganger save for black eyes that stare into the darkness, shadows crawling over its face. Shit, that’s wrong, completely wrong—the shadows are crawling under the skin. It doesn’t have to blink, just keeps its shining eyes steady even as Dean narrowly misses a pothole.

Eyes narrow and focus on the back of Dean’s neck. Its mouth sets in an uneven line as it waits, nostrils flaring.

Fucking goddamn it makes Dean's skin crawl just looking at his cracked mirror image.

Best if Dean’s living in a waking dream, slight smacking start of a snore nearly knocks him straight back into reality as Sam tries to angle himself better in his seat, his hand curling into a fist and smacking the dashboard.

Doesn’t last long though.

“He missed me by a mile,” a voice says and it’s not Dean or Sam that says it.

I'm you,” the demon tells Dean, earlier, when Sam passes out in the car. It disappeared right quick and only now, with a flicker or a blink, popping in like an unwelcome guest, is it back like it never left in the first place.

It clears its throat, eating away at emptiness, at the quiet always there in the darkest hours, and Dean can’t wish away the demon no matter how hard he tries.

The air’s suffocating, hot, and Dean knows he’s sweating a little under the collar but there’s no fucking way he’s letting the demon notice it. Has to keep cool and stay sharp. And ignore the goddamn delusion waiting him out.

The demon's sitting backseat—like a bitch—and then it moves, beginning to lean forward. An elbow nearly pokes Sam in the face as it tucks its chin over the top of its forearm, leaning on top of the benchseat. Hard not to think of it as anything but it when the demon’s invading his space like this, fuck.

Its hand is curled into a fist close to Dean’s face, and there’s blood splattered and drying on shadowy skin. Dean can't smell it. But it’s real enough, goddamn, it’s real enough that he has to keep on reminding himself that hallucinations can't do jack.

He’s gotta figure out a way to keep the demon at bay. It’s all in his freakin’ head. No reason to flip out. Sure, he can’t shove this sonofabitch into some dark corner of his mind, lock it away in a box marked do not open when it should be easy, but that’s just him operating on not enough sleep, so now he’s seeing thing that aren’t here. Not here.

But the fucker’s here.

"You let me out with you," the demon says, deep voice hitting low. Answers the unspoken question. Maybe it didn't even speak. It can't speak if it's all in Dean's head. Gotta be, and maybe he can just stop this bastard cold.

I don’t believe in you.

“Dean, don’t sell yourself short. You might hate this but you can believe in so much,” the demon says, calmly, fingers uncurling and touching the edge of Dean’s collar. “Nervous?”

And Dean would say go fuck yourself but he doesn’t want to wake up Sam and explain how he’s talking to a fucking hallucination.

"I’m here thanks to you. And Sam, oh, Sam helped a lot, breaking me out of your mind. You can’t just push me back down. Like Bobby did before, with his sweet dead little wife he hacked to pieces. No, you can’t let me go. So when you woke up, I got to stay with you, Dean."

The demon moves quick—blink—or maybe it doesn’t at all.

Now it's crammed up in between Dean and Sam. Doesn't really fit, they're all a little too big for this, three to a seat. Dean can feel it, a twin body pressing against him, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, perfect mirroring of his body and Dean tries not to shudder, can't help the lurch in his stomach.

"Dean," the demon says, fuckin’ croons, and Dean hates the way it says his name. Just like how Dean says it, all cocky and self-satisfied. The demon’s keeping its madness in check for the moment but the body’s tense, hands pressing hard on its chest, bullet wound still oozing blood, brackish blood sluggishly peeking through fingers. "Dean, how long you think it's gonna take to turn you into this? No, don't answer. I can answer for the both of us. We’re going to break records. This is what you were meant to be."

Another blink and the demon's made itself more human, eyes no longer black—Dean's eyes—and its arms are outstretched, has Dean and Sam (goddammit, Sam, just wake up and talk to me, it ain't as real when you're here keeping me distracted) in its grasp.

Dean keeps on driving. Pushes his foot down on the gas pedal and tries to choke down bile.

"Sammy's getting hard again," the demon informs Dean like it's so fucking important to know, whispering it like a secret. "You know what he's dreaming about?"

"No," Dean hisses. "And you don't fuckin' know either. All you got to go on is whatever you can pull outta my head."

"You're right, Dean. It would just be you wishing that Sam's dreaming about slobbering his spit all over your cock. Your little baby brother Sammy groaning as he keeps sucking you down 'til you can't even look at what he’s doing. 'Cause if you look, you're gonna just shoot straight down his throat and maybe he'll gag and have to pull away. Let your come dribble down his mouth."

Shifting in his seat to get that pressure off the front of his jeans would be a real nice fucking idea but he doesn't want to move any closer to the goddamn demon.

“Then when they come and rip your soul out and toss you down into hell, how long you think it’s gonna be before he comes tearing in after you?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“It’s what he was supposed to do. Sam can do anything once he puts his mind to it, isn’t that what you believe? What you know? Anything except for saving you. But you can’t be saved, Dean. Not how this is supposed to play out.”

Sam stirs, snuffling noise, rolling back into the demon’s side. The demon closes its eyes, a hard look setting on its face. But it lets out a sigh, a noise that Dean knows all too well, bone-deep satisfaction and Dean has never wanted more to kill anything more in his life.

“He’s going to be worse than you. No matter what you wanted or tried to stop, he’s going to become what he was always supposed to become. Not even Dad could have stopped it. Why not help him take the fall with you, Dean? That way, it’ll just be your fault. Just like everything else, right?”

Cocky bastard smiles something full and bright, which doesn’t do well at all when the eyes flare black again.

Dean slams on the brakes, jolting the demon out of its seat and it dissipates in black smoke, Sam jerking awake.

“Dean? What the hell was that?”

“Thought I saw somethin’,” Dean says, lying so easy it makes him wonder, little horror slotting in place—demons lie and yeah, so do humans, all too fucking well, and the separation between the two ain’t as wide as it should be.

“There’s nothing out there.”

“Maybe we should check in at the next motel,” Then because it’s always been his default, cracking a joke, he says, “Hey, with our luck, it’ll be a circus theme and you sleep in a nice clown bed.”

“Man, I’m too tired to care,” Sam answers, grouchy edge in his voice, yawning wide. “I could sleep for a week.”

“Do you… do you think it’s ‘cause you pulled a Krueger yourself? Pulling shit out of that psycho’s head?”

“What?” Sam’s already leaning back against the door, nudging around to find an angle that won’t cause a major crick in his neck; his jacket pulled off and rolled up as a makeshift pillow.

“Sam, don’t—please don’t—”

But Sam conks out in less than a minute and with it, the demon’s there. Or not there, not in the car at least. It’s standing in front of the Impala like the demon’s daring Dean to drive it over. Which Dean does because he’s a goddamn moron and the demon hitches a ride again, this time it’s returned to its familiar haunts, the backseat.

It’s a different show this time, now the demon’s mouth is splattered with blood, eyes gone human again.

“Shoulda just died here,” the demon tells Dean, slumping to the side. “Died in the back of the car and kept Dad from making the deal with old Yellow Eyes.”

But this one, oh Dean has an answer to that, “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m you,” the demon says, smooth as anything, sitting back up, mouth wiped clean and the only blood visible is from the bullet wound in its chest. “And we, we’re good at what we do. You want to know how fast you’ll break out of Hell? Oh, you’re gonna make all the demons proud, Dean.”

Swerves too hard into the parking lot of the motel and has Sam nearly thunking his head on the dashboard. It’s automatic: Dean’s arm flying out to stop Sam’s forward progression.

“Look at that,” the demon says, but it’s fading again, going back into the darkest parts of Dean’s head. “Maybe he’ll let you fuck him. ‘Thank you, Dean. You’re always there for me.’ His hero. Isn’t that what you pretend to be when you don’t want to face what you really are?”

“Sam,” Dean says, the word hard in his mouth as he tries to move a dry tongue around, little rasp in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“We’re gonna figure out a way to end this.”

And Dean lets Sam decide what he means by that.


*


Dean wakes to the memory of rocksalt burning his chest, kickback strong enough to send him through a goddamn wall.

But he’s lying down and the only thing pressing down on him is the demon, straddling Dean’s chest, pinning Dean’s wrists over his head.

“Sense memory,” he tells Dean. “I pulled it out of your head. You never forgot Sam shooting you in the chest. Poor Sam. Your little brother has a lot of anger welling up inside of him, doesn’t he? And that pain, oh, all that pain you’re holding onto. Dean, that’s not healthy.”

What’s not healthy is that Dean can feel the goddamn weight of the demon’s body, the hitch of its jeans against Dean’s chest, covered with only a threadbare t-shirt.

“Want to feel it again?”

“Wha—” but the noise dies midway through, a breath dragging out of his lungs, and Dean’s choked off when he gets hit all over again, the wound fresh and raw.

“How many times can you take this, Dean? Or, how about the feeling when you got yourself electrocuted? It’s all in your head so it can’t hurt that much. Isn’t that what you’ve been thinking?”

“I swear to God—”

“Swear,” the demon tells him, its face too close now, scentless body stretching over him, hard and strong, too strong, lips brushing whisper-close over Dean’s cheek, making a slow path to the edge of Dean’s ear before jetting back across to Dean’s lips, “swear to me. To us.”

The demon’s tongue is sticky and wet inside of Dean’s mouth and Dean’s sure that if there was a taste, it would be of pennies, that sharp tang of blood, and salt. Dean closes his eyes, tries to will away the kiss and worse, his reaction to it. It: the kiss or the demon?

God, don’t make him answer that.

When Dean opens his eyes, the demon’s up and away, leaning over Sam now, grasping Sam’s face in its hands. Before Dean can say anything, its tongue flicks over, touches the tip of Sam’s nose, slow roll over the bridge of his nose, forehead, presses a final parting kiss like a blow, Sam murmuring nonsense at the touch.

“You could be dreaming now, Dean,” the demon says. “Try and see if you can fly. Or if you can get up at all.”

Dean would stand, would stand up and strangle the motherfucker if he could but he’s stuck and the demon cocks his head to the side and smiles.

“You fucking—”

“Oh,” the demon says, softly, so damn careful. Pads back over to Dean’s bed, looking down on him. “Let’s not say anything we’ll regret in the morning. You never let your personal demons go. It’s why I’m still here.”

The demon kneels by Dean’s side, its fingers settle like a manacle around Dean’s left wrist and then the demon squeezes. “I promise you, I’ll always be here.”

Dean can’t close his eyes, can’t wish it away when the demon’s mouthing the front of Dean’s boxers, tempting Dean and Dean’s a sucker for this kind of temptation, can’t even stop it by being grossed out as all fuck. He knows this is wrong but he can feel the warmth, the gentle reassurance and he’s always sought comfort in sex, shoulda know better, worse than a bullet to the heart, and the demon’s fuckin’ murmuring now, soothing and Dean can’t buck it off. Can’t do anything.

‘Cause it’s all just in his head and he’s lost what little sanity he has.

And then he blinks again and finds that things have changed again. For the worse, if it matters.

He can move now.

Dean’s pulled his dick out of his boxers, desperate half-hearted jerks as he tries not to look over at Sam and avoids the demon staring at him, sitting now at the edge of the bed, its jeans unzipped but it’s not doing anything else, face blank and its hands slack on the bedsheet.

“All you have to do is ask and Sam will fuck you, Dean. It’s as easy as that.”

No time for a smartass answer, not when the image comes to him, and with that thought, Dean comes, his eyes shut closed. When his breathing steadies, he listens and hears only Sam’s breathing.

But there’s a voice in his head, still talking.

Next time you come, better say my name, Dean.

Dean doesn’t need to answer to his own unnamed demon, because the demon might look like and one day become Dean (or Dean might become it), it’s not him. He can’t let it happen and so long as he keeps on lying to himself, keeps on being so goddamn stubborn that he’ll fight a done deal, then it don’t matter that there’s no name to the monster rattling inside his head.

The demon answers Dean’s disbelief, the bitter edge of laugh clouding its voice when it responds, “You’ll name me, Dean. I’ll always be here for you, Dean. Watching over you.”

Keeping me safe?

Dean doesn’t need to see the demon to know that it’s smirking at him again.

“Something like that.”

end


additional story note: The demon licking Sam's face was wholly inspired by Harvey (a la Farscape fame) doing the same action to an unconscious Aeryn in the episode Die Me Dichotomy and the last conversation between Dean and the demon is from the conversation between John Crichton and Harvey in Won't Get Fooled Again
Tags: dean/other, fic, spn fic, wincest
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