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Jul. 27th, 2006 01:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elohveedown in tin pan alley.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC. Hard R. Warnings for incest, language, dark!Dean, murder, oc!prostitution, and character death (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
la_folle_allure insists that "EXTREME HOT DUE TO EVIL!DEAN has to be a warning or you will be SUED"). Also, mad, mad love to her for the beta. ♥ Title from the Dire Straits.
And he takes you out in Vaudeville Valley, with his hand up smothering your screams
And he screws you down in Tin Pan Alley, in the city of a billion dreams
He's learned to appreciate the irony, if that's what it is, but he still doesn't find it particularly funny. He's not sure if that's a good thing or if it just means he's less depraved than he thought.Every time that Cash song comes on the radio driving through a southern state he feels
The first time he killed a man, Dean was twenty-seven in Reno.
At twenty-nine, he thinks he might never care.
::
Three months after John Winchester's death, Dean finds a grad school admissions packet at the bottom of Sam's bag. He checks it every day after, and still, the lines still stay blank. This is good, he tells himself. It's a good sign.
It means Sam isn't leaving yet. It means that maybe, just maybe, he sees something worth staying for.
::
So maybe the first time was really that guy, possessed, attacking Sam with Dad lying bleeding and broken twenty feet away. Maybe, but he doesn't think it really counts. Defense, he thinks, and the dead man wasn't entirely human and—
So if it doesn't count, then the first time, really, is in Nevada, and Sammy's application is due in two weeks.
The first time, he feels something pull at him inside. There's a gun in his hand and a dying, bleeding man no older than his brother slumped against the wall of the alley. Two bullet holes in the kid's chest and a stupid misunderstanding, but no motive to speak of. The worst kind of accident. There's blood on the street and he doesn't touch, because he's not fucking stupid; he doesn't need more evidence against him.
And he just walks away. Cold and numb, fingers curled around the gun so tight he could swear the metal bends under his hands. But he just walks away,praying hoping nobody heard the shots. He stops at a convenience store not too close to the scene, buys two six packs and goes back to the room. He takes a deep breath before he opens the door, and then gives Sammy his best smile, holds up the beers, says, "Wanna get drunk and fuck?" and the door clatters shut behind him.
::
Sam licks his way down Dean's throat, leaves the imprint of his teeth on Dean's shoulder. Outside, a car backfires and he nearly jerks out of his fucking skin. Sam lifts his head to smirk a little, tease him about being jumpy, and then he goes back to what he was doing.
Dean's last conscious thought before Sam drops to his knees at the edge of the bed and pulls Dean partway down with him, before he curls a hand around the back of his brother's neck and Sam bends his head, is that he's ruining his brother. Because Sam wants something Dean can't give him. Because Sam wants a picket fence and little twin girls with pigtails and fucking Lassie in the front yard, apple pie cooling on the windowsill to be snatched away by neighborly kids or pets like in cartoons.But the application's still blank, still waiting, he checked it this morning and Sam wants more than blood, circles of salt, cheap motels and celebratory blowjobs in dark alleys after Dean wins big at a game of cards.
Because he can still feel gun metal in his hand, and that doesn't bother him. Not in the least.
::
In late January, he feels his way through the door of an Arizona motel and holds himself steady with one hand on the jamb. Sam's lying atop the covers trying to be asleep, but he looks up when he hears the movement stop.
"Dean?"
"I killed a man tonight, Sammy," he answers, voice soft. It should be profound, but it just comes out as natural as the weather. He doesn't need to repeat it.
Sam pushes off the mattress and he's across the room in seconds. "What happened? How? Why? What—"
"Bar fight," he says. "He came at me with a cue, but I had a knife, and. Nobody saw it; the place was going to hell, everyone fighting. I, ah, I got out without anyone really seeing me."
"Jesus." Sam's hand hovers uncertainly over Dean's arm. "Are you—I mean, did you get hurt?"
It felt good. "No. No, I'm fine." He shakes his head. He forces a grin. "So, you were waitin' up for me?"
Sam tries to laugh, but it's uncertain. "You wish," he says.
Dean slides a hand up under Sam's shirt and says, "It's okay, Sammy." He kisses his throat, says in his ear, "C'mon, you wanna?" Sam groans softly, and tries to take a small step back, but Dean thumbs open the button of Sam's jeans and drops to his knees before his brother can protest.
Later, with his back to Sam's chest and his brother's hands on his hips and Sam's tongue over his shoulder and throat, his eyes flutter open and he catches sign of the blood under his nails and the grooves of his palm. Sam hits the right spot one more time, and he curses and shakes and comes, his brother tumbling after him.
::
He looks back, and he doesn't think he's changed that much. Same clothes, same face and body. He still takes his coffee black and likes the same music, drives the same car and fights the same way.
He still has the same old fucked up desires and needs, Sam and blood and the hunt, echoing through his veins and his heartbeat for an hour after he pulls the trigger and
He still wants the same things, but they've grown, somehow. Or maybe, he thinks, staring at the now-lifeless body of a girl he found hiding in a corner shaking with heroin withdrawal and too thin to survive the week anyway—maybe his focus has just become less focused.
It doesn't make it any better, but at least it makes sense that way.
::
He knows he's in trouble when he starts finding Sammy's replacements before his brother even leaves.
In Los Angeles, he shrugs on his jacket and says, "Goin' out," without looking Sam in the eye. Sam looks up from the laptop, smiles, and says, "You sure? We could...hang around here. I mean—"
Dean knows what he means. He shakes his head. "Gotta go earn us some money, Sammy." He smirks. "Ammo and lube cost money, remember?"
He doesn't go to the bar; he can always tell Sammy he lost or there wasn't anyone worth hustling, not that Sam will believe either, but.
He finds a street full of willing bodies instead—willing if you've got the cash, anyway, and at the very end there's this kid about Sam's height whose got big hands with long, thin fingers. He has Sam's mouth and his hair is lighter and shorter, but if Dean squints, in the right darkness, maybe he could almost convince himself.
Dean digs in his pocket and hands over a few crumpled twenties and they turn a few corners before finding a suitably empty, quiet spot. The kid rips open a condom with his teeth and says, "What do you want, baby, tell me what—"
He turns the hustler around, pushes him into a crumbling, dirty brick wall, twists one hand in the kid's hair and keeps the other hand flat against a broad back, and almost, almost—the sounds from the boy's throat are different, a little deeper, and when Dean finishes and pulls away, he turns away from the wall and smirks at him. "Who's Sammy?" he asks. "Who you lookin' for, baby?"
Dean's fist comes out of nowhere, a well-aimed swing that the hustler doesn't see coming. It catches him in the jaw and the boy falls. Dean swears. "Shut up. Shut up, just—fuck." He doesn't stop. He drops to the ground, broken glass cutting into his knees, and he keeps hitting until the boy stops moving. There's too much blood, slick over his hands.
Free-flowing blood from fresh wounds is slippery; it's only after, when it dries, that it starts to stick. Not many people seem to notice that.
Dean looks at his hands. They're dripping red like it's rib sauce at a fourth of July barbeque.
He'd once read, or heard, more likely, that you're almost three times as likely to get killed by someone who loves you. You always hurt the ones you love and all that, and the twisted thing is that in this perverse, bone-deep way, he loves Samso much enough that he's here, with his jeans still undone and a cheap hooker's blood on his hands. Because his brother wants and deservers more, better, and he can't get it like this, can't find it here.
Because he swears he felt the life bleed out of that kid and it doesn't bother him that he did, but it terrifies him that he liked it. He liked it.
He stands slowly, takes a few steps back, and he takes a deep breath to clear his head.
Sam and the motel are just a few blocks west. So Dean gets back into his car and drives east.
::
He picks a highway and goes. Hell with the speed limits, hell with reasonable. Everything blurs outside the windows and he's a few states away with the sun peeking over the horizon before his phone rings. He doesn't answer, and after the ninth time, Sam stops calling.
::
He didn't plan it. That makes it both easier and harder. Because he thinks that if he had, then maybe he would have known where he was running. But there are people, targets, everywhere. Plenty of them with a reason to die and he itches to find one that doesn't, really doesn't, just to see if it's different; if it'll hurt him in some way. Because accidents happen and maybe some peoplelike him are corrupt and the world would be better without them anyway.
He knows there are true innocents in the world. He knows, because he used to fight for them. But apathy can be dangerous, even more dangerous when—
Do crazy people know they're going crazy? He wants to find a doctor and ask. Is this what it feels like? Am I too far gone? I don't care, doc, that's it—I just don't give a damn.
In a Colorado town, there's a playground full of children right across from his motel. Their giggles and shrieks carry across the traffic-free street and in through his window, and his hands shake, and he feels a lead weight slam into his chest when he thinks, Sam. Sam's application was due a month ago. His hands shake so bad that he can't even strip the guns. He slams the window shut and takes a shower instead, makes the water as hot as he can stand and jerks off, hard and too fast, more pain than anything, and he doesn't think of his brother when he comes.
::
In Louisiana, a damp heat presses into his skin and his bones, curls lazy claws into flesh and muscle, squeezes at his chest, lungs.
When he closes his eyes, he can see theirs. Faces and terror-open mouths, whispers of pain and please. There's a bloody paper doll chain stretched from Reno to now; he sees them and he never knew their names. When he lies awake, unable to sleep, he invents their stories, gives him past and purpose. It doesn't help him feel sorry.
In morning, he looks in the mirror, his face like a child's basket of summer fruits: a raspberry smear of blood across his cheekbone and blueberry shadows under his eyes. He takes a ragged breath and turns away from the glass and thinks, I used to be somebody different. But he doesn't think he remembers.
::
In a piss-poor neighborhood, in a room more like a jail cell than anything else, Sam finds him. He should be more surprised.
Dean locks the door behind him, leans against the wood with closed eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Adrenaline's still racing through his veins, he feels high off something and he knows it's not entirely chemical; part of it is primal, traced back to before chemistry was anything but magic spilling into the dust and dirt. There's blood in his teeth, the skin of his knuckles split, and there's three bullets missing from the pistol in the waist of his jeans. Already, he feels restless. His ears are straining to hear the screams and growls and shots again, demonic or human, it doesn't really matter. It nags at him just out of earshot, like a song he can't get out of his head.
Out of the dark of the room, he feels hands the shape of home on his hip and chest and a mouth over his: wet, pliable, warm. He doesn't—doesn't have to—open his eyes. "Sammy," he whispers, when a forehead leans against his and his brother's hair, still too long, tickles his skin. "I left for a reason, you bastard—how did you find me?"
Sam traces the line of his jaw with one finger and tastes the blood of his split lip. Dean's always thought his brother's hands were beautiful. Not the way a girl's are, frail fingers and polished nails, but they’ve got broad palms, long fingers that could've belonged to a surgeon, a pianist, a professional goddamned finger painter. Hands that should have seen softer soaps, gentler times. Instead, there's calluses breaking elegant lines. In his sleep, they would curl around imaginary blades and triggers, stabbing and pulling and tensed until the dream demons were dead. Sam's left hand trails down Dean's belt, tugs at the leather until it comes undone with the soft jingle of a buckle. He touches the gun at Dean's hip, pulls it slowly away, fingertips brushing the bare skin in the gap between denim and shirt.
"Visions." It comes out as a murmur, like the afterthought of a whisper. His tongue dips into Dean's mouth, over his lower lip and teeth. "I thought," he tries, "I hoped that, that." He sighs. It's a small, almost insignificant sound: it isn't relieved or thankful; the sound is broken, wistful, but accepting. Dean hears it; in that moment, everything makes sense. It clicks, like the safety of the gun now pressed into his chest.
He's heard that sound too many times in his life. Hard metal presses through his shirt and into a bruise dip between his ribs, and Sam pulls back, steps away and into the tarnished yellow light filtering through the slats in the window blinds. He holds his gun arm steady. "Where's my brother?" he demands and Dean would swear at him and argue if it wasn't a good fucking question. "Who are you?"
"Dying, dead. I don't know." He sags against the closed door and says, "You gonna shoot me?"
Sam's fingers curl tighter around the gun and his eyes are too dark to read. "What are you?"
He laughs, then, but his voice cracks like telephone static, unused for this in months. Like old telegraph lines or scratched vinyl: a soft pop pop pop.
"Not what I used to be. You wouldn't listen if I tried—"
In the movies, there's always a hesitation of some sort. Because every second is a chance to turn the tables, a chance to make the ending last longer, make the audience shift to the edges of their seats and chew at their nails. But they weren't trained to make things more suspenseful when one brother held at gunpoint is fucking enough already. They grew up taught that hesitation is a bitch.
He laughs again, and it feels more normal now, but he can smell the blood on his clothes and hands, taste it heavy on his tongue. He licks his lips and says, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Sammyboy."
They were trained to get the job done quick and clean and Sam was always a better hunter than he'd ever admit: the moment when his jaw tightens and when he pulls the trigger are one and the same.
end.
Blame, more love, and a bit of meta: First of all, I blame the existence of this fic on Jensen Ackles, because he manages to still be so. effing. hot. even when he's being psychotic. I also blamela_folle_allure, because she had the chance to stop me and she didn't, yet I still somehow love her anyway. *tackles* Also, just as much love to moonlitroses for reading this first and finding good in it so that I wouldn't spontaneously combust. *SQUISH* I love you, twinnybella.
Unfortunately, part of this fic is also to blame on my possibly very twisted psyche. I came out of mid-season one ("Nightmare" in particular) thinking, there is no way Dean has never killed a man (by which I mean in the non-possessed, non-immediately-threatening-his-family man). And then I thought, okay, what if he hasn't yet? And then... this happened, whether I liked it or not.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC. Hard R. Warnings for incest, language, dark!Dean, murder, oc!prostitution, and character death (
la_folle_allure insists that "EXTREME HOT DUE TO EVIL!DEAN has to be a warning or you will be SUED"). Also, mad, mad love to her for the beta. ♥ Title from the Dire Straits.And he takes you out in Vaudeville Valley, with his hand up smothering your screams
And he screws you down in Tin Pan Alley, in the city of a billion dreams
He's learned to appreciate the irony, if that's what it is, but he still doesn't find it particularly funny. He's not sure if that's a good thing or if it just means he's less depraved than he thought.
The first time he killed a man, Dean was twenty-seven in Reno.
At twenty-nine, he thinks he might never care.
::
Three months after John Winchester's death, Dean finds a grad school admissions packet at the bottom of Sam's bag. He checks it every day after, and still, the lines still stay blank. This is good, he tells himself. It's a good sign.
It means Sam isn't leaving yet. It means that maybe, just maybe, he sees something worth staying for.
::
So maybe the first time was really that guy, possessed, attacking Sam with Dad lying bleeding and broken twenty feet away. Maybe, but he doesn't think it really counts. Defense, he thinks, and the dead man wasn't entirely human and—
So if it doesn't count, then the first time, really, is in Nevada, and Sammy's application is due in two weeks.
The first time, he feels something pull at him inside. There's a gun in his hand and a dying, bleeding man no older than his brother slumped against the wall of the alley. Two bullet holes in the kid's chest and a stupid misunderstanding, but no motive to speak of. The worst kind of accident. There's blood on the street and he doesn't touch, because he's not fucking stupid; he doesn't need more evidence against him.
And he just walks away. Cold and numb, fingers curled around the gun so tight he could swear the metal bends under his hands. But he just walks away,
::
Sam licks his way down Dean's throat, leaves the imprint of his teeth on Dean's shoulder. Outside, a car backfires and he nearly jerks out of his fucking skin. Sam lifts his head to smirk a little, tease him about being jumpy, and then he goes back to what he was doing.
Dean's last conscious thought before Sam drops to his knees at the edge of the bed and pulls Dean partway down with him, before he curls a hand around the back of his brother's neck and Sam bends his head, is that he's ruining his brother. Because Sam wants something Dean can't give him. Because Sam wants a picket fence and little twin girls with pigtails and fucking Lassie in the front yard, apple pie cooling on the windowsill to be snatched away by neighborly kids or pets like in cartoons.
Because he can still feel gun metal in his hand, and that doesn't bother him. Not in the least.
::
In late January, he feels his way through the door of an Arizona motel and holds himself steady with one hand on the jamb. Sam's lying atop the covers trying to be asleep, but he looks up when he hears the movement stop.
"Dean?"
"I killed a man tonight, Sammy," he answers, voice soft. It should be profound, but it just comes out as natural as the weather. He doesn't need to repeat it.
Sam pushes off the mattress and he's across the room in seconds. "What happened? How? Why? What—"
"Bar fight," he says. "He came at me with a cue, but I had a knife, and. Nobody saw it; the place was going to hell, everyone fighting. I, ah, I got out without anyone really seeing me."
"Jesus." Sam's hand hovers uncertainly over Dean's arm. "Are you—I mean, did you get hurt?"
Sam tries to laugh, but it's uncertain. "You wish," he says.
Dean slides a hand up under Sam's shirt and says, "It's okay, Sammy." He kisses his throat, says in his ear, "C'mon, you wanna?" Sam groans softly, and tries to take a small step back, but Dean thumbs open the button of Sam's jeans and drops to his knees before his brother can protest.
Later, with his back to Sam's chest and his brother's hands on his hips and Sam's tongue over his shoulder and throat, his eyes flutter open and he catches sign of the blood under his nails and the grooves of his palm. Sam hits the right spot one more time, and he curses and shakes and comes, his brother tumbling after him.
::
He looks back, and he doesn't think he's changed that much. Same clothes, same face and body. He still takes his coffee black and likes the same music, drives the same car and fights the same way.
He still wants the same things, but they've grown, somehow. Or maybe, he thinks, staring at the now-lifeless body of a girl he found hiding in a corner shaking with heroin withdrawal and too thin to survive the week anyway—maybe his focus has just become less focused.
It doesn't make it any better, but at least it makes sense that way.
::
He knows he's in trouble when he starts finding Sammy's replacements before his brother even leaves.
In Los Angeles, he shrugs on his jacket and says, "Goin' out," without looking Sam in the eye. Sam looks up from the laptop, smiles, and says, "You sure? We could...hang around here. I mean—"
Dean knows what he means. He shakes his head. "Gotta go earn us some money, Sammy." He smirks. "Ammo and lube cost money, remember?"
He doesn't go to the bar; he can always tell Sammy he lost or there wasn't anyone worth hustling, not that Sam will believe either, but.
He finds a street full of willing bodies instead—willing if you've got the cash, anyway, and at the very end there's this kid about Sam's height whose got big hands with long, thin fingers. He has Sam's mouth and his hair is lighter and shorter, but if Dean squints, in the right darkness, maybe he could almost convince himself.
Dean digs in his pocket and hands over a few crumpled twenties and they turn a few corners before finding a suitably empty, quiet spot. The kid rips open a condom with his teeth and says, "What do you want, baby, tell me what—"
He turns the hustler around, pushes him into a crumbling, dirty brick wall, twists one hand in the kid's hair and keeps the other hand flat against a broad back, and almost, almost—the sounds from the boy's throat are different, a little deeper, and when Dean finishes and pulls away, he turns away from the wall and smirks at him. "Who's Sammy?" he asks. "Who you lookin' for, baby?"
Dean's fist comes out of nowhere, a well-aimed swing that the hustler doesn't see coming. It catches him in the jaw and the boy falls. Dean swears. "Shut up. Shut up, just—fuck." He doesn't stop. He drops to the ground, broken glass cutting into his knees, and he keeps hitting until the boy stops moving. There's too much blood, slick over his hands.
Free-flowing blood from fresh wounds is slippery; it's only after, when it dries, that it starts to stick. Not many people seem to notice that.
Dean looks at his hands. They're dripping red like it's rib sauce at a fourth of July barbeque.
He'd once read, or heard, more likely, that you're almost three times as likely to get killed by someone who loves you. You always hurt the ones you love and all that, and the twisted thing is that in this perverse, bone-deep way, he loves Sam
Because he swears he felt the life bleed out of that kid and it doesn't bother him that he did, but it terrifies him that he liked it. He liked it.
He stands slowly, takes a few steps back, and he takes a deep breath to clear his head.
Sam and the motel are just a few blocks west. So Dean gets back into his car and drives east.
::
He picks a highway and goes. Hell with the speed limits, hell with reasonable. Everything blurs outside the windows and he's a few states away with the sun peeking over the horizon before his phone rings. He doesn't answer, and after the ninth time, Sam stops calling.
::
He didn't plan it. That makes it both easier and harder. Because he thinks that if he had, then maybe he would have known where he was running. But there are people, targets, everywhere. Plenty of them with a reason to die and he itches to find one that doesn't, really doesn't, just to see if it's different; if it'll hurt him in some way. Because accidents happen and maybe some people
He knows there are true innocents in the world. He knows, because he used to fight for them. But apathy can be dangerous, even more dangerous when—
Do crazy people know they're going crazy? He wants to find a doctor and ask. Is this what it feels like? Am I too far gone? I don't care, doc, that's it—I just don't give a damn.
In a Colorado town, there's a playground full of children right across from his motel. Their giggles and shrieks carry across the traffic-free street and in through his window, and his hands shake, and he feels a lead weight slam into his chest when he thinks, Sam. Sam's application was due a month ago. His hands shake so bad that he can't even strip the guns. He slams the window shut and takes a shower instead, makes the water as hot as he can stand and jerks off, hard and too fast, more pain than anything, and he doesn't think of his brother when he comes.
::
In Louisiana, a damp heat presses into his skin and his bones, curls lazy claws into flesh and muscle, squeezes at his chest, lungs.
When he closes his eyes, he can see theirs. Faces and terror-open mouths, whispers of pain and please. There's a bloody paper doll chain stretched from Reno to now; he sees them and he never knew their names. When he lies awake, unable to sleep, he invents their stories, gives him past and purpose. It doesn't help him feel sorry.
In morning, he looks in the mirror, his face like a child's basket of summer fruits: a raspberry smear of blood across his cheekbone and blueberry shadows under his eyes. He takes a ragged breath and turns away from the glass and thinks, I used to be somebody different. But he doesn't think he remembers.
::
In a piss-poor neighborhood, in a room more like a jail cell than anything else, Sam finds him. He should be more surprised.
Dean locks the door behind him, leans against the wood with closed eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Adrenaline's still racing through his veins, he feels high off something and he knows it's not entirely chemical; part of it is primal, traced back to before chemistry was anything but magic spilling into the dust and dirt. There's blood in his teeth, the skin of his knuckles split, and there's three bullets missing from the pistol in the waist of his jeans. Already, he feels restless. His ears are straining to hear the screams and growls and shots again, demonic or human, it doesn't really matter. It nags at him just out of earshot, like a song he can't get out of his head.
Out of the dark of the room, he feels hands the shape of home on his hip and chest and a mouth over his: wet, pliable, warm. He doesn't—doesn't have to—open his eyes. "Sammy," he whispers, when a forehead leans against his and his brother's hair, still too long, tickles his skin. "I left for a reason, you bastard—how did you find me?"
Sam traces the line of his jaw with one finger and tastes the blood of his split lip. Dean's always thought his brother's hands were beautiful. Not the way a girl's are, frail fingers and polished nails, but they’ve got broad palms, long fingers that could've belonged to a surgeon, a pianist, a professional goddamned finger painter. Hands that should have seen softer soaps, gentler times. Instead, there's calluses breaking elegant lines. In his sleep, they would curl around imaginary blades and triggers, stabbing and pulling and tensed until the dream demons were dead. Sam's left hand trails down Dean's belt, tugs at the leather until it comes undone with the soft jingle of a buckle. He touches the gun at Dean's hip, pulls it slowly away, fingertips brushing the bare skin in the gap between denim and shirt.
"Visions." It comes out as a murmur, like the afterthought of a whisper. His tongue dips into Dean's mouth, over his lower lip and teeth. "I thought," he tries, "I hoped that, that." He sighs. It's a small, almost insignificant sound: it isn't relieved or thankful; the sound is broken, wistful, but accepting. Dean hears it; in that moment, everything makes sense. It clicks, like the safety of the gun now pressed into his chest.
He's heard that sound too many times in his life. Hard metal presses through his shirt and into a bruise dip between his ribs, and Sam pulls back, steps away and into the tarnished yellow light filtering through the slats in the window blinds. He holds his gun arm steady. "Where's my brother?" he demands and Dean would swear at him and argue if it wasn't a good fucking question. "Who are you?"
"Dying, dead. I don't know." He sags against the closed door and says, "You gonna shoot me?"
Sam's fingers curl tighter around the gun and his eyes are too dark to read. "What are you?"
He laughs, then, but his voice cracks like telephone static, unused for this in months. Like old telegraph lines or scratched vinyl: a soft pop pop pop.
"Not what I used to be. You wouldn't listen if I tried—"
In the movies, there's always a hesitation of some sort. Because every second is a chance to turn the tables, a chance to make the ending last longer, make the audience shift to the edges of their seats and chew at their nails. But they weren't trained to make things more suspenseful when one brother held at gunpoint is fucking enough already. They grew up taught that hesitation is a bitch.
He laughs again, and it feels more normal now, but he can smell the blood on his clothes and hands, taste it heavy on his tongue. He licks his lips and says, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Sammyboy."
They were trained to get the job done quick and clean and Sam was always a better hunter than he'd ever admit: the moment when his jaw tightens and when he pulls the trigger are one and the same.
end.
Blame, more love, and a bit of meta: First of all, I blame the existence of this fic on Jensen Ackles, because he manages to still be so. effing. hot. even when he's being psychotic. I also blame
la_folle_allure, because she had the chance to stop me and she didn't, yet I still somehow love her anyway. *tackles* Also, just as much love to moonlitroses for reading this first and finding good in it so that I wouldn't spontaneously combust. *SQUISH* I love you, twinnybella.Unfortunately, part of this fic is also to blame on my possibly very twisted psyche. I came out of mid-season one ("Nightmare" in particular) thinking, there is no way Dean has never killed a man (by which I mean in the non-possessed, non-immediately-threatening-his-family man). And then I thought, okay, what if he hasn't yet? And then... this happened, whether I liked it or not.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 06:06 am (UTC)that should definitely positively not be as hot/amazing as it is, but it so is...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 01:29 pm (UTC)Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 06:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 01:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 06:27 am (UTC)I'm in love.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 01:31 pm (UTC)Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. :O)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 08:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 01:33 pm (UTC)Thank you! :O)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 09:47 am (UTC)So yes, I loved this. So hot & dirty & tragic.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 01:34 pm (UTC)Thank you! I'm glad you liked it!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 10:46 am (UTC)Well done.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 01:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 03:07 pm (UTC)Dirty, bloody and bordering on psycotic. Perfect!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 03:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 05:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 06:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 09:48 pm (UTC)But, I'll probably never look at Dean the same after reading this.
Oh Dean. Oh Sammy. T_T
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 10:17 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked the story otherwise. Thank you for the review. :O)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 09:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-27 10:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 09:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 04:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-13 10:36 pm (UTC)and sam! and the ending! brilliant and wonderful.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-13 11:30 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 12:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 06:53 pm (UTC)Yes, it's twisted and darkdarkdark, but I love how you've written the brothers here. It's tragic, but true to the characters. If Dean went off the deep end (if he's not already drowning), I think it would probably be something much like this.
Beautiful.
~D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 07:03 pm (UTC)