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Entry tags:
Ages, Dean -- 24.1, Supernatural, NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Ages, Dean -24.1 (Click for 12, Click for 13, Click for 14, Click for 15, Click for 16, Click for 17, Click for 18, Click here for Sam 14, Click for 19, Click for 20, Click for Sam 16, Click here for 21, Click for Sam 17, Click for 22, Click here for Sam 18, Click here for 23, Click here for Sam 19, Click here for 23.5, Click here for 23.8.9, Click here for John, 49, Click here for 24, Click here for Sam, 19.8, Click here for John, 50)
Characters/Pairing: John, Sam/Dean, OFCs, mention of Dean/OFC, (overall story includes Sam/Dean, Dean/John)
Rating: NC-17 (thematic reasons)
Word Count: 2029
Summary: AU - Dean's POV. Dean wakes up to the reality that his son is gone, and tries to cope...without falling back on old habits...
A/Ns & Warnings: Overall this is story is very dark stuff. This particular installment continues that trend. There is cutting.
He wasn’t even a month into 24 when it all went to shit. He’d seen it coming, but didn’t feel it until it was too late. It. A demon. The demon. A fucking demon. He felt Sam first. Felt the alarm, felt him move, then it came up, out of the ground, out of the sidewalk.
Thick, black smoke suddenly around her, suddenly beside her, suddenly a demon, solid and whole and pretty fucking corporeal and Dean knew…he knew and he lunged, over the hood of the car, but it wasn’t enough…
His father tried, grabbed, pulled. Reuel nearly reached it, Sam fell under it as he threw himself at it and it disappeared. Disappeared with his son. Disappeared. He didn’t hear himself, didn’t feel the glass as it bit into his skin, didn’t hear Sam’s voice. He felt frozen, felt rage and fear and fury exploding through his skin and he felt his son, screaming for him.
His entire consciousness narrowed down to that sound…that sound that was in his gut, in his head….everything else went dark…black but for the red hot spot that was Daniel.
Sam. Something warm and familiar slipped in. Sam. Hurting. Sam. Then Sam pressed into him and Dean felt nothing.
There were voices. Soft, hushed, familiar. Dean groaned. The voices stopped, but Dean didn’t open his eyes. If he did, it would all be real…the terrible dream would become something more real than he could begin to handle.
Dean.
Sam, his hand on Dean’s forehead…his thoughts close. Need you to open your eyes. Dean groaned again, wondering when that had started. It was one thing to feel Sam’s presence and share visions…this was…different.
Worried…so worried….burning up. That wasn’t Sam. That was enough to get him to open his eyes, blinking at the sudden light, looking from Sam to his father and back again.
“Who’s burning up?” Dean asked with a voice that sounded like he’d swallowed glass.
“You.” Sam said softly.
Dean was in a bed…his bed. He was wrapped up in blankets and Sam was laying a cold washcloth on his head. Please be okay.
“I’m okay, Sam.” Dean whispered and Sam looked at him funny.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Dean let his eyes close. He wanted to go back into the cold, empty dark place.
“Dean, we need you to try to stay awake.” His father’s voice hurt, like sandpaper on dry skin.
“Can’t…sleep.”
Kaitlyn needs you.
Dean opened his eyes again, looking at Sam. “Where is she?”
Memory flooded back into him, memory and fear, sudden realization that his son was gone…it was real…it was horribly real. “Where is my wife?”
“Settle down Dean. She’s…in the hospital…she’s in a coma.”
Dean sat up, his vision swimming. He held his head as he tried to make the room stop, but everything was rattling and the bed was moving and as he sank back down to the pillow, Sam’s hand was on his head, his voice inside him. He isn’t ready.
Three days…three days…come on, you’re stronger than this.
He was pretty sure he wasn’t stronger than this…whatever this was, but he opened his eyes. The room didn’t spin. His father sat at the end of the bed. “Three days?” His voice still sounded wrecked, his throat felt like it had been ripped to shreds.
John didn’t respond, but moved closer his hand coming down on Dean’s face. He smiled fleetingly. “Fever broke.”
“Fever?” Dean struggled to sit up. His entire body ached, like he’d run a marathon without training. Tiny cuts dotted his arms and he felt more on his back and face.
John nodded and held out a glass of water. “You…nearly killed us all Dean. Sam had to put you down, hard. You…were burning up, rambling…” His father had small cuts on his face and hands too.
“Three days?”
John looked at him funny, but nodded. Dean shook his head. He was hearing things. Like he didn’t have enough other problems. He blinked as movement caught the corner of his eye. “Who’s here?”
“Nobody.”
Dean shook his head again and pointed to the wall. “I can feel you. Show yourself.”
The four corners of the room shimmered and the fleeting images of men…of angels appeared before fading. John started. “Reuel said he would send someone to watch over you, I didn’t realize…”
“You can’t generally see them unless they use a host, like Jenny.” Dean said, rubbing at his forehead. “Kaitlyn?”
John shook his head. “Nothing new. Jenny’s been staying with her at the hospital.”
“Daniel?”
John looked away and Dean felt the fear wash through him. “We’ve been trying, Dean. Honestly. There’s nothing. No sign.”
Dean held up a hand to stop him, then scowled. “Sam?”
“Out…looking…working…the whole town is full of demon activity. Possessions and mysterious illnesses, people going insane. There’s a curfew…the whole city is on lock down from 2pm through 8am.”
Dean pushed himself to sitting against the headboard. He was incredibly weak, it reminded him of the first lucid morning of the withdrawal. “What’s going on?”
John shrugged. “If I were to guess, the first skirmishes of this war.”
Dean drank the water in the glass and set aside. “I want to see Kaitlyn.”
“We don’t have time, it’s already 1:30.” John set his hand on Dean’s leg. “Tomorrow morning, okay? Jenny and Reuel are watching over her. Sam should be home soon. You should eat, start getting your strength back.”
He stood. “Stay here, I’ll get you some lunch.”
Dean nodded and watched him leave, waiting until he knew he was downstairs before getting up and padding softly across the hall. The room was ridiculously soft and smelled of baby…from the soft blue walls to the stuffed animals on the shelves. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell. His son was gone.
The empty crib mocked him. He hadn’t seen…hadn’t felt it coming…hadn’t protected them. What the hell good were his so called gifts if they didn’t protect his family? His jaw twitched. His hands fisted. The shelves rattled in echo of his fury and he fought to control it before he brought the house down around their ears.
He felt him, long before he was in the room, long before he was slipping his arms around him and pulling him back against his long body, before his presence was wrapping around him and damping down the power. I’ve got you. Let me have it. Give it to me
“Sam…” His knees were weak as it flowed out of him and Sam just…absorbed it…the rattling stopped, and Dean sobbed as Sam gently held him. When the worst of it had passed, and Dean was standing on his own, Sam pulled his hands back. The loss ached and Dean wanted to pull him back, to wrap himself up in the familiar touch.
Sam’s hand touched his face, then dropped away. “We’ll find him Dean. Okay?”
Dean nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt raw, like the first day in the hospital after a black out. His hands shook as Sam walked him back to the bedroom. Their father was just coming up the stairs with a tray.
“I figured your throat would be pretty sore after the screaming, so I kept it simple. Soup and tea.”
He could feel them…they crowded the place. Dean couldn’t sleep, couldn’t feel past the numb and couldn’t escape them. Sam snored softly in the chair next to the bed, even though Dean had told him it was okay to sleep in the bed.
He got up and groaned at the ache in his muscles. He was grimy with sweat from the days and nights of the fever. It was 2 in the morning…but he wasn’t sleeping and he went to the bathroom, rather than waking Sam with his restlessness.
Dean blinked blearily in the harsh light as the tub filled with hot water. He pulled off his t-shirt and boxers, watching the water. He wasn’t aware of opening the drawer and pulling out the old handkerchief…not until it lay open on his palm, the knife winking up at him, an invitation…something to let him feel…something to cut through the numb.
He stared at it a long time, then slowly put it down on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror instead. Three days. It felt longer, like weeks. He swiped a hand over the course stubble before it fell on the knife again.
One quick cut.
There.
The blade rested against his thigh where his hand lay, natural as can be.
He closed his eyes, swaying a little on his feet with the need…with the fight to hold off…to hold on…
A large hand covered his and Dean’s mind flashed to the memory of his father, of begging his father to cut him. He groaned and Sam’s presence surrounded him, his body hot against Dean’s back. “Let me have it.” Sam whispered, and Dean wasn’t sure if he even said it out loud, because his lips were against Dean’s neck.
“Sam…please…” Please. His hand trembled as the fingers of Sam’s un-bandaged right hand moved, easing the knife from his hand.
“Shh…its okay.” His lips brushed Dean’s neck and he was hard instantly, his cock bumping against the cabinet as he gasped, turned, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s neck.
“No…Sam…I need…you…” Dean reached for Sam, cupping his hand to his groin, caressing against him.
Sam pulled back, just a little, just enough. “No…Dean…not like this…”
Need…Dean pushed the thought at him, pushed the crushing desire for something other than the numbing grief…Sam stepped back, his face a little stunned, but Dean only followed. Please. He pulled the hand with the knife back to his thigh. “Help me Sammy, please…make it better…make it hurt…”
He sobbed leaning forward into Sam, his head on his chest. He almost had the blade against his thigh…almost…almost….Sammy
He felt Sam shudder, felt Sam’s free hand on his cock, Sam’s lips on the top of his head. “Shh…Dean…I’ve got you…just…that’s it…” Dean’s free hand grabbed the back of Sam’s neck and held on, while his left hand fought with Sam’s to bring the blade to flesh…and Sam’s left hand jacked him off, slow and dry, the gauze dragging over his skin.
Almost…Dean groaned and thrust forward, dragging the knife across skin, drawing a thin jagged line and coming hard against Sam’s leg.
In unison, they dropped the knife, Dean backing up until his feet hit the edge of the tub and he sank into it, sloshing water on the floor. The water turned pink as the blood mingled and Dean shook. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry. I don’t – I didn’t want…”
Sam shook his head and came to turn the water off. He looked disgusted, but not angry. “Stop. You’ll wake Dad.” He retrieved the knife and held it up. “How old is this?”
Dean shook his head. He was cold…the water was steaming, but he was shivering. It was a lot more pink than it should have been. Dean looked down at his thigh. “Shit.”
Sam was back in a heart beat, reaching into the water with his still healing hand despite the heat. “Shit, Dean.” The cut was deep, deeper than he’d intended. “Come on, let’s get you out.”
Dean shivered as Sam helped him leverage up and out of the tub, bloody water running down his leg as Sam wrapped him in a towel and knelt to look at it. “I’m going to have to wake Dad. It needs stitches.”
“No…no, please?” Dean was embarrassed enough, as Sam pressed a washcloth against the wound and applied pressure.
“I can’t do it Dean.”
“I’m cold Sam.” Dean said, his eyes drooping. He just wanted to go to sleep…to hide…to…He sat up suddenly, reaching for Sam as the vision came. Sam crashed to his knees as their eyes met and they watched demons swarm from two holes in the ground, the two clans, racing to claim hosts, to possess and kill, burning and fighting, killing their enemies and anything else that got in the way…until the only thing between them was Sam and Dean.
Title: Ages, Dean -24.1 (Click for 12, Click for 13, Click for 14, Click for 15, Click for 16, Click for 17, Click for 18, Click here for Sam 14, Click for 19, Click for 20, Click for Sam 16, Click here for 21, Click for Sam 17, Click for 22, Click here for Sam 18, Click here for 23, Click here for Sam 19, Click here for 23.5, Click here for 23.8.9, Click here for John, 49, Click here for 24, Click here for Sam, 19.8, Click here for John, 50)
Characters/Pairing: John, Sam/Dean, OFCs, mention of Dean/OFC, (overall story includes Sam/Dean, Dean/John)
Rating: NC-17 (thematic reasons)
Word Count: 2029
Summary: AU - Dean's POV. Dean wakes up to the reality that his son is gone, and tries to cope...without falling back on old habits...
A/Ns & Warnings: Overall this is story is very dark stuff. This particular installment continues that trend. There is cutting.
He wasn’t even a month into 24 when it all went to shit. He’d seen it coming, but didn’t feel it until it was too late. It. A demon. The demon. A fucking demon. He felt Sam first. Felt the alarm, felt him move, then it came up, out of the ground, out of the sidewalk.
Thick, black smoke suddenly around her, suddenly beside her, suddenly a demon, solid and whole and pretty fucking corporeal and Dean knew…he knew and he lunged, over the hood of the car, but it wasn’t enough…
His father tried, grabbed, pulled. Reuel nearly reached it, Sam fell under it as he threw himself at it and it disappeared. Disappeared with his son. Disappeared. He didn’t hear himself, didn’t feel the glass as it bit into his skin, didn’t hear Sam’s voice. He felt frozen, felt rage and fear and fury exploding through his skin and he felt his son, screaming for him.
His entire consciousness narrowed down to that sound…that sound that was in his gut, in his head….everything else went dark…black but for the red hot spot that was Daniel.
Sam. Something warm and familiar slipped in. Sam. Hurting. Sam. Then Sam pressed into him and Dean felt nothing.
There were voices. Soft, hushed, familiar. Dean groaned. The voices stopped, but Dean didn’t open his eyes. If he did, it would all be real…the terrible dream would become something more real than he could begin to handle.
Dean.
Sam, his hand on Dean’s forehead…his thoughts close. Need you to open your eyes. Dean groaned again, wondering when that had started. It was one thing to feel Sam’s presence and share visions…this was…different.
Worried…so worried….burning up. That wasn’t Sam. That was enough to get him to open his eyes, blinking at the sudden light, looking from Sam to his father and back again.
“Who’s burning up?” Dean asked with a voice that sounded like he’d swallowed glass.
“You.” Sam said softly.
Dean was in a bed…his bed. He was wrapped up in blankets and Sam was laying a cold washcloth on his head. Please be okay.
“I’m okay, Sam.” Dean whispered and Sam looked at him funny.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Dean let his eyes close. He wanted to go back into the cold, empty dark place.
“Dean, we need you to try to stay awake.” His father’s voice hurt, like sandpaper on dry skin.
“Can’t…sleep.”
Kaitlyn needs you.
Dean opened his eyes again, looking at Sam. “Where is she?”
Memory flooded back into him, memory and fear, sudden realization that his son was gone…it was real…it was horribly real. “Where is my wife?”
“Settle down Dean. She’s…in the hospital…she’s in a coma.”
Dean sat up, his vision swimming. He held his head as he tried to make the room stop, but everything was rattling and the bed was moving and as he sank back down to the pillow, Sam’s hand was on his head, his voice inside him. He isn’t ready.
Three days…three days…come on, you’re stronger than this.
He was pretty sure he wasn’t stronger than this…whatever this was, but he opened his eyes. The room didn’t spin. His father sat at the end of the bed. “Three days?” His voice still sounded wrecked, his throat felt like it had been ripped to shreds.
John didn’t respond, but moved closer his hand coming down on Dean’s face. He smiled fleetingly. “Fever broke.”
“Fever?” Dean struggled to sit up. His entire body ached, like he’d run a marathon without training. Tiny cuts dotted his arms and he felt more on his back and face.
John nodded and held out a glass of water. “You…nearly killed us all Dean. Sam had to put you down, hard. You…were burning up, rambling…” His father had small cuts on his face and hands too.
“Three days?”
John looked at him funny, but nodded. Dean shook his head. He was hearing things. Like he didn’t have enough other problems. He blinked as movement caught the corner of his eye. “Who’s here?”
“Nobody.”
Dean shook his head again and pointed to the wall. “I can feel you. Show yourself.”
The four corners of the room shimmered and the fleeting images of men…of angels appeared before fading. John started. “Reuel said he would send someone to watch over you, I didn’t realize…”
“You can’t generally see them unless they use a host, like Jenny.” Dean said, rubbing at his forehead. “Kaitlyn?”
John shook his head. “Nothing new. Jenny’s been staying with her at the hospital.”
“Daniel?”
John looked away and Dean felt the fear wash through him. “We’ve been trying, Dean. Honestly. There’s nothing. No sign.”
Dean held up a hand to stop him, then scowled. “Sam?”
“Out…looking…working…the whole town is full of demon activity. Possessions and mysterious illnesses, people going insane. There’s a curfew…the whole city is on lock down from 2pm through 8am.”
Dean pushed himself to sitting against the headboard. He was incredibly weak, it reminded him of the first lucid morning of the withdrawal. “What’s going on?”
John shrugged. “If I were to guess, the first skirmishes of this war.”
Dean drank the water in the glass and set aside. “I want to see Kaitlyn.”
“We don’t have time, it’s already 1:30.” John set his hand on Dean’s leg. “Tomorrow morning, okay? Jenny and Reuel are watching over her. Sam should be home soon. You should eat, start getting your strength back.”
He stood. “Stay here, I’ll get you some lunch.”
Dean nodded and watched him leave, waiting until he knew he was downstairs before getting up and padding softly across the hall. The room was ridiculously soft and smelled of baby…from the soft blue walls to the stuffed animals on the shelves. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell. His son was gone.
The empty crib mocked him. He hadn’t seen…hadn’t felt it coming…hadn’t protected them. What the hell good were his so called gifts if they didn’t protect his family? His jaw twitched. His hands fisted. The shelves rattled in echo of his fury and he fought to control it before he brought the house down around their ears.
He felt him, long before he was in the room, long before he was slipping his arms around him and pulling him back against his long body, before his presence was wrapping around him and damping down the power. I’ve got you. Let me have it. Give it to me
“Sam…” His knees were weak as it flowed out of him and Sam just…absorbed it…the rattling stopped, and Dean sobbed as Sam gently held him. When the worst of it had passed, and Dean was standing on his own, Sam pulled his hands back. The loss ached and Dean wanted to pull him back, to wrap himself up in the familiar touch.
Sam’s hand touched his face, then dropped away. “We’ll find him Dean. Okay?”
Dean nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt raw, like the first day in the hospital after a black out. His hands shook as Sam walked him back to the bedroom. Their father was just coming up the stairs with a tray.
“I figured your throat would be pretty sore after the screaming, so I kept it simple. Soup and tea.”
He could feel them…they crowded the place. Dean couldn’t sleep, couldn’t feel past the numb and couldn’t escape them. Sam snored softly in the chair next to the bed, even though Dean had told him it was okay to sleep in the bed.
He got up and groaned at the ache in his muscles. He was grimy with sweat from the days and nights of the fever. It was 2 in the morning…but he wasn’t sleeping and he went to the bathroom, rather than waking Sam with his restlessness.
Dean blinked blearily in the harsh light as the tub filled with hot water. He pulled off his t-shirt and boxers, watching the water. He wasn’t aware of opening the drawer and pulling out the old handkerchief…not until it lay open on his palm, the knife winking up at him, an invitation…something to let him feel…something to cut through the numb.
He stared at it a long time, then slowly put it down on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror instead. Three days. It felt longer, like weeks. He swiped a hand over the course stubble before it fell on the knife again.
One quick cut.
There.
The blade rested against his thigh where his hand lay, natural as can be.
He closed his eyes, swaying a little on his feet with the need…with the fight to hold off…to hold on…
A large hand covered his and Dean’s mind flashed to the memory of his father, of begging his father to cut him. He groaned and Sam’s presence surrounded him, his body hot against Dean’s back. “Let me have it.” Sam whispered, and Dean wasn’t sure if he even said it out loud, because his lips were against Dean’s neck.
“Sam…please…” Please. His hand trembled as the fingers of Sam’s un-bandaged right hand moved, easing the knife from his hand.
“Shh…its okay.” His lips brushed Dean’s neck and he was hard instantly, his cock bumping against the cabinet as he gasped, turned, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s neck.
“No…Sam…I need…you…” Dean reached for Sam, cupping his hand to his groin, caressing against him.
Sam pulled back, just a little, just enough. “No…Dean…not like this…”
Need…Dean pushed the thought at him, pushed the crushing desire for something other than the numbing grief…Sam stepped back, his face a little stunned, but Dean only followed. Please. He pulled the hand with the knife back to his thigh. “Help me Sammy, please…make it better…make it hurt…”
He sobbed leaning forward into Sam, his head on his chest. He almost had the blade against his thigh…almost…almost….Sammy
He felt Sam shudder, felt Sam’s free hand on his cock, Sam’s lips on the top of his head. “Shh…Dean…I’ve got you…just…that’s it…” Dean’s free hand grabbed the back of Sam’s neck and held on, while his left hand fought with Sam’s to bring the blade to flesh…and Sam’s left hand jacked him off, slow and dry, the gauze dragging over his skin.
Almost…Dean groaned and thrust forward, dragging the knife across skin, drawing a thin jagged line and coming hard against Sam’s leg.
In unison, they dropped the knife, Dean backing up until his feet hit the edge of the tub and he sank into it, sloshing water on the floor. The water turned pink as the blood mingled and Dean shook. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry. I don’t – I didn’t want…”
Sam shook his head and came to turn the water off. He looked disgusted, but not angry. “Stop. You’ll wake Dad.” He retrieved the knife and held it up. “How old is this?”
Dean shook his head. He was cold…the water was steaming, but he was shivering. It was a lot more pink than it should have been. Dean looked down at his thigh. “Shit.”
Sam was back in a heart beat, reaching into the water with his still healing hand despite the heat. “Shit, Dean.” The cut was deep, deeper than he’d intended. “Come on, let’s get you out.”
Dean shivered as Sam helped him leverage up and out of the tub, bloody water running down his leg as Sam wrapped him in a towel and knelt to look at it. “I’m going to have to wake Dad. It needs stitches.”
“No…no, please?” Dean was embarrassed enough, as Sam pressed a washcloth against the wound and applied pressure.
“I can’t do it Dean.”
“I’m cold Sam.” Dean said, his eyes drooping. He just wanted to go to sleep…to hide…to…He sat up suddenly, reaching for Sam as the vision came. Sam crashed to his knees as their eyes met and they watched demons swarm from two holes in the ground, the two clans, racing to claim hosts, to possess and kill, burning and fighting, killing their enemies and anything else that got in the way…until the only thing between them was Sam and Dean.