Author: Regala Electra
Warnings: Violence, Sexual Content
Spoilers: S3, AU
Summary: It has been too long since Sam has seen his sister. The aftermath of Sam's struggle to resurrect Dean has changed not only them but the world itself.
Word Count: 1,284
Author's Notes: For samescenes's prompt girl!Dean/Sam, sticky summers. Since I consider a hot summer to be the end of the world, this fic was the result. Major thanks to my lovely ignited for the beta.
He finds her proselytizing in Atlanta.
Hastily chopped hair sticks limply around her sunburned face and should make her look young but not with those eyes. The scars remain as hideous as ever, spider-work of a vicious creature. The web of raised lines makes a crude patchwork over her throat and shoulders, bright and angriest over her chest. The ruins remains of the tattoo over her breast are twisted black and red lines, inexplicably left to look as raw and as angry as when the fires attempted to consume her.
The humidity's raised welts bumpy and red against her bare arms, the only damage visible. Free of scars, sweetly feminine and distinctly strong, muscles flexing as she raises arms, inciting the rallying cry. Strapped to her waist and legs are the tools of her trade, knives and guns.
The good work indeed. Strapped tight to her side is the Colt. A god would tremble when seeing such power however he rejoices.
It has been too long since Sam has seen his sister.
Their anniversary is fast approaching; when it all changed. When the fire almost killed Dean barely two years ago, yes that was the moment. When Sam took the path that would save all that remains of his family, all that ever matters to him: Dean.
He is doing this for Dean.
Dean's acolytes, the holy warriors themselves, impure and human, are waiting for Sam. They are the bearers of weapons that will do nothing but the markings they wear on their flesh is a temporary barricade against the first wave of attack.
They are brave and desperate. They will not last long in this—what, a battle? No, this is petty sibling rivalry. A squabble, almost, for the price of the world's future.
The Colt has yet to be fired since that hot summer night. It’s been nearly two years ago since then. Their anniversary. Sam's birthday. Dean's resurrection.
"I love you, Sammy. I love you," Dean swore, a year after an unbearable absence and their flesh and spirits were weak as they submitted, finally, to each other. A year after death, with Dean risen from Hell itself, and in the arms of Sam. And as she lay there, she kissed Sam with a mouth tasting of bitter tears and she said, "But there's a better way. I'm sorry."
Dean's mouth, salty and wet, was the last thing Sam felt before they parted.
The Colt against his temple should not have been a surprise. It had been a necessary evil, for its magic could not be destroyed by any hand save one that was righteous and there was no such hand. Save God's.
The bullet was never fired. The fires came for them first. The fires that Sam could have stopped but he could not. He watched his sister, his protector, his only reason for this, burn.
You would not think of Dean as walking scar tissue, an undying creation of this brave new world where summer days blaze hellfire hot. Not think of her with the bright light of insanity in her eyes. When she speaks to rid the world of its benevolent protector, those who listen believe and carry out her mission, despite their fragility, despite the outright certainty of death.
Sam leaves his army to deal with the insurgents.
He flings arms wide open and gives Dean the chance for a clear shot. Dean doesn't take it. They draw nearer, circling and circling, for all the greater reasons they both claim that all this has been for, it is about them, forever linked and may the world burn for it.
Dean has already burned for it and Sam is not that far behind.
"There's only one way this is ending, Sammy. My way."
"Or our way. There could be that. It doesn't have to be like this."
It is as close as Sam would dare to beg Dean for forgiveness.
Sam isn’t shocked when Dean dismisses the offer, spitting on the ground. Waste not, want not. Dean wants nothing of Sam’s mercy.
They are mere inches from each other. Ridiculously close range if Dean shoots him. Close enough to touch.
It is a fleeting victory when Dean punches him. The standoff has been shattered with these mere touches and Sam reels back for the further attacks he knows Dean has been waiting to unleash.
Calling an earthquake is perhaps an unfair advantage but Dean is the one that taught Sam that in times of war not to play nice. There is nothing nice or kind when Dean slices at Sam viciously and spills the first blood, a long cut across his thigh that will scar. Not because Dean inflicted it but because Dean's knives are blessed. Only they are instruments of death only against one person, if Sam is still allowed to refer to himself as such.
And Dean dealt a glancing blow. She nearly smiles.
In Dean's eyes there is no flare of victory, only the calm coldness of the mercenary left to believe that the war is the only answer. Sam should pity this, but the battle rages on around them. They are the machinations creating the sounding cry of death, the inglorious victories, few and fleeting, as everything will again fall back into the tense anxiety of waiting for the next skirmish.
For the next time that Dean and Sam find each other again.
This time, found again, it is Dean who takes all that she lost in death, in the fire. She fucks Sam into the ground they have made, a graveyard of their sacrifices to each other.
She fucks him with the Colt still pressed tight against her bruised ribs, shirt ripped away to expose more skin. The scars stand out against the top of her breasts but the rest of her body is almost as perfect as it was the day before the Hellhound ripped her apart.
And her face may be twisted but it is twisted in denial, in hate that this is all they have left for each other to take.
Sam keeps a hand on her chest, over her heart, letting the ruined remains of the tattoo burn hot against his open palm.
Dean rubs her clit as she shoves herself down on Sam's cock, forcing herself to get off. Makes it seem like she's using Sam but her mouth parts gently in the curve of a smile and Sam takes the beautiful twisted offering as though it may be their last time together.
She won't let him come inside her. Sam cannot have Dean in that way. For all that humanity may think, she will not allow it. She could be their holy vessel of all that is left of this world still yearning to be burned into the new day of reckoning.
He spills sticky and hot against her belly and she stands up before he tries to bring her back towards him and walks away, naked and bruised. Completely damaged but perfectly Dean and nothing can change that.
This should end.
It should with Dean pulling the trigger. But it will not happen because that will kill Dean. And Sam has broken every law, natural and supernatural, to ensure that Dean will never die, so that Sam will always have Dean, by his side or across the battlefield.
In the morning, the humidity index will begin yet another impossible rise and Dean will cast off Sam's promises of a better world and fight, for as long as they both shall live.
This is the new glory of Sam’s work upon the world. A promise of forever. It is a vow that Sam shall never break.