Leave Me To My Sorrow
Jul. 30th, 2008 06:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grianchlochTitle: Leave Me To My Sorrow
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 for violence
Beta: The lovely Ms![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cocoajava of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
multinationbeta
Word Count: 1506
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.
Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH Very dark theme.
Notes: Wing!fic. A little surreal. Um, my muses always go in all directions when I'm traveling around, so I blame that for this dark fic. I rarely write anything quite this dark! There's a cookie for whoever gets where the title comes from :)
Summary: Both Dean and Sam dream of flying, until their dreams collide with terrible consequences.
Sometimes when Dean dreams, he dreams he’s flying.
High above the ground, free and unfettered he soars.
His wings are wide and strong and covered in white feathers. In his dreams, he’s so used to these extra limbs that he’s perfected their use, and flying has become instinctual, just like looking after Sam is.
The wings come in useful when Sam needs to be comforted too. Dean wraps the feathery appendages around Sam and hides them both from the world in a soft, warm cocoon. Dean never thinks of himself as an angel in these dreams. His soul is stained and worn in so many places that he knows heaven wouldn’t want him.
Sometimes when Sam dreams, he dreams of flying too.
Through ash filled skies that blaze dull and red.
His wings are smooth and flexible like supple leather with razor sharp claws on the tips. In his dreams, he can use these claws with a deadly precision and has sent more than one angel spiralling down to the shattered earth, the tendons of its wings sliced through.
The wings come in useful when he needs to protect Dean from the hoards of hell. Wrapped up in Sam’s wings, Sam’s power crackling in the air around them, nothing can touch his brother. Nothing would dare try. Sam always sees himself as a demon in these dreams, guiltily embracing the power that comes with the acceptance of his fate.
Recently, they’ve both been dreaming the wing dreams more and more. Neither tells the other, of course, neither notices the subtle hints. Dean flexing his back first thing in the morning, almost surprised that his wings don’t unfurl when he does so. Sam pausing before he drags on his favourite tee because it’ll never fit over his wings and he doesn’t want to ruin it.
Then one night, everything changes.
Dean soars high, finding himself in the middle of a battle. He flies through the blood red sky, his only thoughts of Sam. Is he safe?
Something hits him, spins him around and there is Sam, dark eyed and malevolent and beautiful, hanging in the sky as if he’d been born in the air, not on the ground like mortals are.
“If you can’t save him, you have to kill him.”
Dean shakes his head, not wanting to hear those words again, not wanting his father’s voice in his head. But Sam swoops towards him, deadly intent clear in his eyes, and Dean has no choice but to protect himself, a bone handled blade in his hand.
Sam is stronger, he’s had more practice at this. While Dean was enjoying the freedom of being airborne, the freedom to fly and float wherever he wanted to without responsibility, high above the darkness and anguish of his life, Sam was commanding armies, wreaking havoc and destruction wherever he flew. The darkness in Sam revelled in every kill, embraced his destiny like a lover and he lost himself in the power it gave him.
Dean, on the other hand, didn’t recognise the light in himself when his turn came. The memo about his own destiny must have gotten lost along the way. People like him didn’t have destinies. They watched nervously as others Sam were chosen, as others Sam teetered on the edge and they held on tight, not wanting to accept that love might not be enough to save them.
Dean fights for his life. His wings are bigger, stronger, even, but Sam is more skilled at this kind of battle and with a triumphant howl, a razor sharp claw slips past Dean’s defences and cuts deep into the meat of his shoulder, spilling blood and grazing bone and slicing through ligaments.
“Sammy!”
Dean cries out as he falls towards the earth, tumbling out of control, buffeted by the air that held him so safely until his brother took even that from him. Pain lances through his shoulder and terror grips his heart as in the seconds it takes him to fall, he watches the ground his death rise up to meet him.
A strong arm catches him inches before the impact would have killed him and Sam sets him down on the ground on his feet. Dean eyes him warily. He can feel the blood running down his back and knows he isn’t up to a fight on the ground, not with his broken wing pulling him down and blazing agony lancing through his body.
Sam takes a step forward, the tips of his wings fluttering almost nervously, and Dean drops to his knees as the blood loss takes its toll. The air around them is thick with the sound of leathery wings beating and the shouts and yells of triumph at the sight of another downed angel. Their leader always shares his kills, lets his army rip apart what he tears from the skies and too eager, one of the demons swoops down towards Dean, claws outstretched.
Sam’s head snaps up, and the errant demon combusts instantly. Ash falls lightly on Dean’s shoulders, and Sam stakes his claim, stalking towards Dean and kneeling beside him, wrapping him up in his wings.
“He’s mine!” His roar is dark and inhuman. The skies clear without another word, leaving them alone.
Dean despairs at the sound of Sam's voice. Blood from his wound pools around his knees and stains his wings and he shivers every time Sam moves and the leathery wings touch Dean’s softer ones.
Sam reaches down and raises Dean’s face to look into his eyes. Pain filled emeralds meet glittering gold and Sam’s face softens as he tastes victory.
So close, so close ...
“Join me. We’re supposed to be together, Dean. You know that.”
“No ... no.” Dean stutters out, and one single tear escapes. “Not like this, Sammy.”
Sam’s face hardens.
“You’ll die without me, Dean.” Sam’s voice is seductive but there’s an edge to it that makes Dean’s skin crawl. “You’ve never been strong enough to make it on your own. Let me save you. Say yes and I’ll give you new wings, stronger ones, so you can fly again.”
Dean whimpers. He wants so badly to be able to fly away, to leave everything behind like he could before, to escape this hell, but he likes his own wings, broken and useless as they are. Soft and warm and strangely necessary, so much a part of him that he can't give them up, not for anything. Not even to live. He's dying; he can feel death tugging at him, pulling him under. He wants so badly to wrap Sam in his wings again, to save him like he's often done in his dreams, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that it's too late.
“No.” He whispers.
Sam’s confident expression slips from his face. Dean’s refusal isn’t something he’s bargained for because Dean has never been able to refuse him anything. Sam strokes Dean’s face, kissing him with a softness that Dean remembers well and he wishes he could accept Sam’s offer and stay with him, but he can’t.
Sam’s hand becomes a vice, taking hold of Dean’s chin and Dean knows he has seconds before Sam snaps his neck. He tenses in anticipation, almost too weak now to struggle or even object but before Sam can take the life from him, Sam yelps in surprise and his body jerks. Dean’s arm snakes around Sam’s waist holding them together. The knife that had sat, forgotten, in his hand, is now embedded deep in Sam’s chest. Blood covers the ornate hilt and Dean’s hand and drips down Sam's body to mingle with Dean’s on the ground.
Sam’s eyes are wide, his face close to Dean’s and he breathes his last words over Dean’s lips like a prayer.
“My fallen angel.”
Dean wakes with a start, a hand wrapped round the hilt of the knife he always sleeps with under his pillow. In the dim light of morning, he can see Sam’s eyes wide with shock and he can feel the blood pulsing out from where the knife is buried in Sam’s chest.
“No, no, Sammy, no ...” Dean tries to get up, to pull away, but Sam’s weight on his other arm is too much and he can't go anywhere.
Sam gazes over Dean’s shoulder and his eyes soften with recognition. Deans turns, following his gaze and his own eyes widen at the sight of white wings behind him. He flexes them and wraps them around Sam.
“My fallen angel.” Sam whispers and the light dies in his eyes.
Later, Dean stands by the bed gazing down at Sam’s body. His wings aren’t pure white anymore. The edges of them are stained crimson and Dean knows that he's too tainted now to follow his own destiny. Heaven won't want him, hell won’t take him and the only thing worth living for is lying dead on the bed.
Again.
Classroom Furniture
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 for violence
Beta: The lovely Ms
cocoajava of multinationbetaWord Count: 1506
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.
Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH Very dark theme.
Notes: Wing!fic. A little surreal. Um, my muses always go in all directions when I'm traveling around, so I blame that for this dark fic. I rarely write anything quite this dark! There's a cookie for whoever gets where the title comes from :)
Summary: Both Dean and Sam dream of flying, until their dreams collide with terrible consequences.
Sometimes when Dean dreams, he dreams he’s flying.
High above the ground, free and unfettered he soars.
His wings are wide and strong and covered in white feathers. In his dreams, he’s so used to these extra limbs that he’s perfected their use, and flying has become instinctual, just like looking after Sam is.
The wings come in useful when Sam needs to be comforted too. Dean wraps the feathery appendages around Sam and hides them both from the world in a soft, warm cocoon. Dean never thinks of himself as an angel in these dreams. His soul is stained and worn in so many places that he knows heaven wouldn’t want him.
Sometimes when Sam dreams, he dreams of flying too.
Through ash filled skies that blaze dull and red.
His wings are smooth and flexible like supple leather with razor sharp claws on the tips. In his dreams, he can use these claws with a deadly precision and has sent more than one angel spiralling down to the shattered earth, the tendons of its wings sliced through.
The wings come in useful when he needs to protect Dean from the hoards of hell. Wrapped up in Sam’s wings, Sam’s power crackling in the air around them, nothing can touch his brother. Nothing would dare try. Sam always sees himself as a demon in these dreams, guiltily embracing the power that comes with the acceptance of his fate.
Recently, they’ve both been dreaming the wing dreams more and more. Neither tells the other, of course, neither notices the subtle hints. Dean flexing his back first thing in the morning, almost surprised that his wings don’t unfurl when he does so. Sam pausing before he drags on his favourite tee because it’ll never fit over his wings and he doesn’t want to ruin it.
Then one night, everything changes.
Dean soars high, finding himself in the middle of a battle. He flies through the blood red sky, his only thoughts of Sam. Is he safe?
Something hits him, spins him around and there is Sam, dark eyed and malevolent and beautiful, hanging in the sky as if he’d been born in the air, not on the ground like mortals are.
“If you can’t save him, you have to kill him.”
Dean shakes his head, not wanting to hear those words again, not wanting his father’s voice in his head. But Sam swoops towards him, deadly intent clear in his eyes, and Dean has no choice but to protect himself, a bone handled blade in his hand.
Sam is stronger, he’s had more practice at this. While Dean was enjoying the freedom of being airborne, the freedom to fly and float wherever he wanted to without responsibility, high above the darkness and anguish of his life, Sam was commanding armies, wreaking havoc and destruction wherever he flew. The darkness in Sam revelled in every kill, embraced his destiny like a lover and he lost himself in the power it gave him.
Dean, on the other hand, didn’t recognise the light in himself when his turn came. The memo about his own destiny must have gotten lost along the way. People like him didn’t have destinies. They watched nervously as others Sam were chosen, as others Sam teetered on the edge and they held on tight, not wanting to accept that love might not be enough to save them.
Dean fights for his life. His wings are bigger, stronger, even, but Sam is more skilled at this kind of battle and with a triumphant howl, a razor sharp claw slips past Dean’s defences and cuts deep into the meat of his shoulder, spilling blood and grazing bone and slicing through ligaments.
“Sammy!”
Dean cries out as he falls towards the earth, tumbling out of control, buffeted by the air that held him so safely until his brother took even that from him. Pain lances through his shoulder and terror grips his heart as in the seconds it takes him to fall, he watches the ground his death rise up to meet him.
A strong arm catches him inches before the impact would have killed him and Sam sets him down on the ground on his feet. Dean eyes him warily. He can feel the blood running down his back and knows he isn’t up to a fight on the ground, not with his broken wing pulling him down and blazing agony lancing through his body.
Sam takes a step forward, the tips of his wings fluttering almost nervously, and Dean drops to his knees as the blood loss takes its toll. The air around them is thick with the sound of leathery wings beating and the shouts and yells of triumph at the sight of another downed angel. Their leader always shares his kills, lets his army rip apart what he tears from the skies and too eager, one of the demons swoops down towards Dean, claws outstretched.
Sam’s head snaps up, and the errant demon combusts instantly. Ash falls lightly on Dean’s shoulders, and Sam stakes his claim, stalking towards Dean and kneeling beside him, wrapping him up in his wings.
“He’s mine!” His roar is dark and inhuman. The skies clear without another word, leaving them alone.
Dean despairs at the sound of Sam's voice. Blood from his wound pools around his knees and stains his wings and he shivers every time Sam moves and the leathery wings touch Dean’s softer ones.
Sam reaches down and raises Dean’s face to look into his eyes. Pain filled emeralds meet glittering gold and Sam’s face softens as he tastes victory.
So close, so close ...
“Join me. We’re supposed to be together, Dean. You know that.”
“No ... no.” Dean stutters out, and one single tear escapes. “Not like this, Sammy.”
Sam’s face hardens.
“You’ll die without me, Dean.” Sam’s voice is seductive but there’s an edge to it that makes Dean’s skin crawl. “You’ve never been strong enough to make it on your own. Let me save you. Say yes and I’ll give you new wings, stronger ones, so you can fly again.”
Dean whimpers. He wants so badly to be able to fly away, to leave everything behind like he could before, to escape this hell, but he likes his own wings, broken and useless as they are. Soft and warm and strangely necessary, so much a part of him that he can't give them up, not for anything. Not even to live. He's dying; he can feel death tugging at him, pulling him under. He wants so badly to wrap Sam in his wings again, to save him like he's often done in his dreams, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that it's too late.
“No.” He whispers.
Sam’s confident expression slips from his face. Dean’s refusal isn’t something he’s bargained for because Dean has never been able to refuse him anything. Sam strokes Dean’s face, kissing him with a softness that Dean remembers well and he wishes he could accept Sam’s offer and stay with him, but he can’t.
Sam’s hand becomes a vice, taking hold of Dean’s chin and Dean knows he has seconds before Sam snaps his neck. He tenses in anticipation, almost too weak now to struggle or even object but before Sam can take the life from him, Sam yelps in surprise and his body jerks. Dean’s arm snakes around Sam’s waist holding them together. The knife that had sat, forgotten, in his hand, is now embedded deep in Sam’s chest. Blood covers the ornate hilt and Dean’s hand and drips down Sam's body to mingle with Dean’s on the ground.
Sam’s eyes are wide, his face close to Dean’s and he breathes his last words over Dean’s lips like a prayer.
“My fallen angel.”
Dean wakes with a start, a hand wrapped round the hilt of the knife he always sleeps with under his pillow. In the dim light of morning, he can see Sam’s eyes wide with shock and he can feel the blood pulsing out from where the knife is buried in Sam’s chest.
“No, no, Sammy, no ...” Dean tries to get up, to pull away, but Sam’s weight on his other arm is too much and he can't go anywhere.
Sam gazes over Dean’s shoulder and his eyes soften with recognition. Deans turns, following his gaze and his own eyes widen at the sight of white wings behind him. He flexes them and wraps them around Sam.
“My fallen angel.” Sam whispers and the light dies in his eyes.
Later, Dean stands by the bed gazing down at Sam’s body. His wings aren’t pure white anymore. The edges of them are stained crimson and Dean knows that he's too tainted now to follow his own destiny. Heaven won't want him, hell won’t take him and the only thing worth living for is lying dead on the bed.
Again.
Classroom Furniture
