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

  • Mood:

Fic: ashes to ashes, dead to dead (SPN, Sam/Dean, Dean/Pamela, R)

ashes to ashes, dead to dead
Author: Regala Electra
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Pamela
Spoilers: S4 Heaven and Hell
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, Sexual Content, Language
Summary: Dean's on a mission.
Word Count: 2,646
Author's Notes: My great thanks to ignited and memphis86 for the awesome beta-work. Feedback is always appreciated.


*



He will lead them out of Hell.



How could that be—I thought the dead were souls—




*




There's something Dean's keeping back. Holding Dean back. Back.

Get Back. Back. Away I say.

A pathetic comic scene of a lion tamer losing control catches his interest as he's channel-surfing. The scene's played for humor 'cause nobody wants to think about what's really happening. Gotta have your tragedy with a spoonful of belly laughs.

Lion's maw opening on the pathetic wooden legs. Lash of the whip halts nothing.

The cold swallows him whole and he remembers. More time spent dead than living.

He needs to get out of here.



*




Chattering calls of bets—no I said fifty...you got mine, yeah?…how much's the under— halt. The chattering of charred bones on pavement replace the voices.

(No one wins—house always wins.)


The agony of defeat. Gotta dust off the old bones and start up all over again. They see him walking past and the scent of fresh blood in the air turns their heads up, all easygoing, welcoming. Join us.

Calling him closer, come on man, as he walks past, begging him to try his luck.

Sam's waiting for him at the motel. His time's almost up.



*




You taking walks now?

No. Now I'm taking a shower.



*




The sizzle of charred flesh is easy to mask under the rush of water.

Sam knocks. Save some hot water for me.

He twists the knob too hard. The hinges scream as the window pushes out, air turning hazy in an instant. Cold air pockets form in the humid-hot. It leaves goosebumps on his flesh and he searches for the old wounds that aren't there. Tries to figure out where they used to be, the precise locations only. Guessing doesn't count.

In the haze he can walk out and pretend to be someone else. The mark of Castiel is distorted, unremarkable.



*


He's on a mission.

From?

God only knows.


*




Hollow-eyed seer has a vision of what Hell didn't burn out of him. Calls him up, calls him over and away he goes.

Goes too far and lets her use him. There's always a price.

She smiles as she fists his cock, her blindfold slipping. He does nothing to stop it. Doesn't touch her cheek and bring her towards him, sealing her in a kiss that'll let him ignore the damage taken for his sake.

He closes his eyes as he pulls the blindfold away. Lies to her. I want to see.

Pamela doesn't give a damn and keeps on going, ignores him when he says Inside you, I want to...inside you He spurts over her hands and she tongues the mess.

Blindfold revealing two empty holes—the eyes have to come out sometime—she says, You're pretty damn bitter.



*




You ever want him to join in, I'm game, she says, later, abusing the false comfort created between them. She misses the ashtray nestled on the rumpled bed sheets, cigarette glowing orange too close to the waiting ignition source. The ashes smear dark against the faded blue.

His fingertips trail a path down Pamela's side, doesn't dare get close to the Forever at the small of her back.

I'm fine, see? and she laughs at it, her little joke.

When she'd let him in, she'd been holding her cane, kept her distance. She'd twisted it in her hand, revealed the long blade. Held it steady in front of him.

Don't make a move or I might slice off a pound of flesh.

Then she laughed and welcomed Dean into her open arms, resting her weapon by the side of the door.

Don't start playing Jedi mind tricks with me.

Wouldn't dare fuck around in that mind of yours. Pamela touches the base of his skull. You're a lot older up here, Dean. Wisdom goes good and bad. Not looking to go crazy on top of being blind.



*




He rejoins Sam in a hunt already in progress, Bobby yelling at him across the junkyard hunt. Not hell hounds but close enough. Ghost dogs circling on no master's orders.

Jagged teeth a hair's breadth from him. Jaws don't forget what centuries of domestication tried to undo.

The only thing they've got going for them is running and getting caught in tight places, jammed up in the top junker of one of the many car heaps.

Hey it's man's best friend. Smiling at him.

The better to eat you with.


There. There. Now that wasn't so bad.

Nobody here but us monsters.


Takes Ruby coming to the rescue to save their bacon using another handy witch weapon she barely explains other than This'll work.

Dean shoves Sam off when he finally crawls out of the rust-bucket. Ignores how his left shoulder burns hot.

Ruby spits on the ground. These plans of yours are gonna kill me.

I'm sure there's another corpse you can ride if this one gets a little too knocked up.

He's picking a fight.

Dean, Sam hisses but the damage is done.

Later. Later. Makes his apology, half-assed. Ruby's been waiting to hear it; waiting for Dean to come up to her, out of earshot, because there's more more important things that need saying.

You think you would have ended up like me? She asks him, point-blank. The demon they'd turn you into wouldn't have been like me at all.

No. I wouldn't be mooning after Sam.

Right. Good one. You're just waiting for Sam to get the fucking clue already. You're not gonna push him on it, unless he really wants it. Right, Dean?

I'm not waiting for anything.

They did everything to me and I wouldn't break. Can you say that?

He pauses. Wishes he could drown in the forgetting.

I'd say it.

Why doesn't that surprise me. Of course you'd lie your ass off.



*



He started to favor the souls who reminded him of Sam. Proud and brave and desperate.

He would have died for them.

Instead he flayed them apart.



*



Intermission—a distraction is necessary to recharge his spirits.

Really. He's not looking get laid.



*




Pretty girls all in a row. Bartender pours shots spilling on shining manicured fingers the lighting glinting fire across tight shining shirts. They laugh and don't have a care in any world but their own.

They used to call it the green fairy, Sam tells him when Dean buys the girls a round of absinthe after listening to pretty, incoherent stories, a celebration of freedom, to being alive, they toast everything and anything. His world gets fuzzy under the influence.

By then they'd slammed a few round of tequila, no top shelf stuff, the kind that'll make tomorrow one to regret only it's now and there's no regretting now now is there?

He could have any of them and it would be no expectations from him. All he wants is warm pussy.

Wanders to shallow pretty, her eyes never drifting too far from the mirror behind the bar. She's the easiest one to pick off. Dean gives her full attention, expecting nothing in return. Makes a joke. Repeats a lie.

Takes her out back.

Does it under Sam's watch.

He realizes too late it's all wrong. Eyes flicking black as she stares at him, moaning his name sweetly. Demon Girl's unzipped his belt already. Grips his wrists tight. Her mouth twists, a flash of annoyance, when he tries breaking her hold.

She brings his hands to her delicate throat. Hot breath misting in the air. Alistair sent me.

She's a mission. A dare. But he doesn't have to dare.

Sam doesn't shoot the messenger but he does keep her from talking. Apparently the demon's not one of the nasty henchmen, a low-level type begging to be exorcised and oh yeah, Sam delivers.

The un-possessed girl comes to horrified start, runs back in the bar without a look back. She'll make her own story of what happened.

They have to get gone.

Dean doesn't give Sam a chance to object. Wipes the blood under Sam's nose with a napkin, phone number vanishing in the blood.

You want to get something? I could eat.

Are you okay?

Yeah. You gotta drive though. Too much tequila.




*




Fried chicken crunches in his mouth. Bones greasy in his hands.

Eat drink be merry. Two out of three ain't bad.



*




He has a hangover in the morning but there is work to do.

Don't need to have a brain when it comes to making bullets. Repetition and muscle memory keeps him going. He keeps doing it until he's done.



*



All his skills came back with him. Nameless horrors he earned the old-fashioned way.


sweatbloodtears
screams—
screams—
he is nothing


He is nothing without his training.

He is nothing. He wants nothing. His dreams should be nothing. Best he could hope for.



*




An angel waits for him after another battle is lost. Score one more broken seal for Lilith.

It never ceases to amaze me of you and your brother's foolishness. Sam Winchester aerated the soil of your grave site in anticipation of your return. Do you ever ask yourself the question of what would have happened had one of the stains decided to bargain with him? He'd let a monster crawl out of the earth. Pure selfish means. You Winchesters fight wrong. This war will be lost on your backs.

Uriel can do no harm. A forced oath stays the single strike needed to kill them both.

His fingers twitch where the sword should be. He remains ever ready to let fire fall from the sky. After all, he has his Grace to cleanse him after he destroys the innocent in the name of the greater good.

Dean's sarcastic response pisses him off. Good.

I look forward to when His orders change.



*




He has to pull himself together one piece of clothing at a time. Steals one of Sam's shirts, one he wore when he'd woken up from his dirt nap. Doesn't put it on. Stores it where Sam won't find it.

Hatches his plan in the middle of the night when he's sure Sam's not going to wake up ask him follow him stop him.

Fire can't purify a damn thing but he needs to watch the flames. He buries the ashes at the crossroads.



*



Sometimes he played the inquisitor.

Tear the truth out of screaming holes that were mouths once.

Nothing left—no skin no bone no teeth no flesh—

—the screaming yes there was the screaming the screaming right until he—


Wakes up. It'll kill him all over again.




*




A trace Miracle resides in the ashes you buried. Very dangerous, Dean. To leave it somewhere, to bury it, you have to know what it will do. It will create a location where humans can touch the barriers of Heaven or Hell. Of their own volition and should they will it, the natural order could be thrown into utter chaos.

He knows.

Castiel bows his head. You are to lead us. What do you plan to gain by defying how things have been for four thousand years? We cannot defeat Lilith in this manner.

He does not answer.



*




He'd asked Ruby once how long it took to make a human into a demon.

There's a crash course when the teacher is willing. The student's flesh doesn't even have to be weak.



*




He can feel the twisting inside of him, the natural evolution taking course in his human body. The nightmare unleashed by Heaven granted through Hell's good graces. The savage machinations at work to undo the humanity he blindly thought could not be taken from him.



*




There must be another way.

Or so he keeps telling himself.




*




He wonders who will figure it out first. The seer or the demon on their good side? One of the angels, maybe. Sam.

Alistair is already ahead of the game.

Dean, meanwhile, is doing every-fucking-thing he can to cheat. Never been higher stakes than this and right now, he's feeling lucky.



*




You had so much potential.



*




If I die before I wake.


Dean, wake up. I heard you.

Feel of Sam's hand grounds him down. He takes his time adjusting to the darkness. Sam didn't bother turning on the light between their beds.

I'm fine.

Bed dips as Sam sits down and Dean's right leg hits a spring he'd missed before.

You're keeping something from me.

Leans up towards him. Guesses where Sam is in the shadows. The heaviness of his presence makes his shoulder sting like a motherfucker. Warning sign, stop sign. He obeys the law of the land. The alternate could be his undoing.

It's nothing.

Waits for the response. To see which Sam comes out of the dark. Rational, calm Sam or the angry, frustrated Sam. These roles have been played so often there's only a few choices.

Come out, come out. Wherever you are.


Sam exhales loudly and moves off the bed.

Don't—

What?

Don't ask me yet. I'll tell you. Everything. I swear, Sammy.

Sam buys his manipulation.



*



After all the torments he'd unleash there was nothing quite like killing 'em with kindness.



*




It's a long game. Long con. No special tricks in beating the game—keep your head down and don't fuck up—let the power players think they own your ass. Probably do anyway.

Only reason he's playing this close to the chest is 'cause scamming cards and pool hustling are nothing when the stakes are more than what he's ever gambled. His own life is worth nothing when it comes down to the wire.

This is for Sam.

For every damned soul he worked on turning towards the demonic side.

Time's winding down and there's only a few more seals to go. But at a crossroads there's a miracle with his name on it.

At the crossroads an army of the dead waits to be called.

U-turning and nearly t-boning a car isn't the best way to show he's not been bluffing all the time—only most of the time—but he holds Sam's hand when he tries taking the wheel.

There's something else we gotta do.

What?

Dean ignores the burning, focuses on the sick urge to turn his head and fucking do it already. Fuck waiting for Sam to get the goddamn clue. His shoulder will be marked in screaming red, come the morning, if he survives.

Maybe I got some friends in low places. Not friends. Dead folk who got unfinished business. No deal needs to be made. Already did it.

Dean, what did you do?

Now. Now he should do it.

Kiss. Kiss. Bang. Bang.


Can't do it. He hasn't gone native enough for it.

Haven't finished. Sam, there's no going back. We're gonna piss off both sides and the big man upstairs may toss me back into the pit.

That sounds insane. Sam squares himself, staring straight ahead. Dean leans back In his seat. Spares a glance at the rearview mirror. We're going to do this. Go after Lilith with our own army.

That's the plan.

It's not the plan.

War's a racket, he will tell Sam, when it's too late to change course.

He's looking to score big.



*




The deal:
Two surviving (key word: alive) Winchester siblings.
Human down to the bone.
No grace or curse, thanks.




*



Love the sin. Hate the sinner.

Damn the dead.

God save their souls.



*




Dean might be fucking stupid as all get out. He's only been out of Hell for less than a year.

But he's been dead for forty years.

The crossroads burns cold and chills hot. Miracle's working overtime and they're aching to crawl out of Hell.

Nothing is holding him back. Sam's by his side. He's ready.

Now.




end



Additional story note: "How could that be—I thought the dead were souls" as quoted from The Witch of Coos by Robert Frost.
Tags: dean/pamela, fic, spn fic, wincest
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 14 comments