Disclaimer:Don't own
Summary: Set after S5 finale. All Sam ever had to do was ask, Dean always knew who he'd choose.
Warnings: Some sex, character deaths, Sam/Dean if people want to see it that way, I see it as more of a brotherly/platonic bond than a romantic one.
In Death's Dream Kingdom
He burns his steak, Lisa's veggie burger, Ben's hotdog all gone up in smoke, charred black as a demon's eyes, the dark, curling sulfur of their souls. Lisa touches his shoulder and he laughs it off, adds a touch of macho pride, I'm an amateur baby, give me time to get into the game.
He gets a new hunk of meat for himself, rubs salt and pepper and seasoning into it with his bare hands, rubs and rubs the flavor in until his hands are smeared pink with cow's blood, raw and tender from the cold, stained with the stink of fresh flesh. He washes his hands in the kitchen sink, scrubs with neon yellow soap, and his skin burns a little when he lets the water run hot enough for steam to billow white around him.
This time nothing burns; the flames crackle light and the charcoal glows orange as the food sizzles.
They talk about having a baby, Lisa's fingers laced with his, their hands resting over his heart, on his bare chest. A baby; a little piece of Lisa and him. A little brother or sister for Ben she tells him, tickling his neck with her long hair as she leans over to kiss him, suck his lips starved and tingling.
Maybe He always says, distracting her with touches, with the hum of the television in the bedroom when he flicks it on, rolls onto his side to watch cop dramas he never thought were interesting. Now he watches them six nights a week.
Each time Lisa asks his gives the same answer, slides a condom over his dick.
He never says just how painful it is to be a big brother.
Lisa's thighs are sleek and powerful, trembling smooth as she rides him, pins him flat on his back with the weight of her body. She moves lazy and graceful and languid, water stretched too warm and too soft, waves and waves over and around him, her hips grinding dirty and swiveling, trapping him tight.
She whispers, sweat shimmering on her skin in beads; a necklace of transparent pearls draped around her neck.
"I love you. I love you. I'm so glad you came back."
"Me too." He kisses the softest part of her belly, the sweetest section where her abdomen nearly meets her thighs, rests his tongue there and mouths to her. "I'm so glad I came."
Lies are bitter biting things, sour tastes on this tongue.
He wants to tell her he's only here because of Sam, but Lisa starts to come and he works her through the rippling shock of her orgasm instead.
The pain wakes her, the searing stab of agony; the jolt of pain inside her. Inside her womb. Her womb is being ripped apart at the seams it feels like, the cradle that bore Ben and would have housed the first Winchester ruptures and splits, a fiery serpent deep at her core that consumes her alive.
She lies on the ceiling and watches the blood drip down and feels it well up inside her, her womb wrenched loose. The blood seeps down between her thighs too and oh god. She can't even scream, smells the blood bubbling in her and is helpless, feels the flames start in the most sacred part of her, the empty cavern of her womb, not an infant but something angry and deadly, a violent, twisted thing.
Her bones crack from the heat just as Dean opens his eyes below.
Ben pounds ineffectually at Dean's shoulders and screams, the flames licking high and impossibly higher. Ben sobs for his mother and Dean holds Ben against his chest, the ten year old boy too big for snuggling, not the baby he last held as he sat on the hood of the Impala.
He smells the smoke and the ashes and the flames, tastes the burnt chalky flavor of memories. His mother and Jess and Lisa all killed by blazing seeds implanted in their wombs, malignant creations of the devil. The frame of the house crumbles as the wood splinters, feeds the flames, the appetite of the past renewed, but Yellow Eyes long dead.
Lisa's sister in Tucson flies in to get Ben, leads him away by the hand, and Dean can't watch him go. He studies the generic beige color of the motel ceiling, a prickle of wrongness creeping up his spine, a shiver of the supernatural in his blood.
The lights flicker and the room goes very cold, so cold he feels dead, so cold he has to be dead or dying. It's a ghostly chill and the pit of his stomach drops just a bit, in fear and anticipation, relief fluttering on butterfly wings.
"Sammy?" Sam's still larger than life but he looks angry, god he's so angry, spirit restless and disturbed. The lights flicker on and explode in a shower of sparks and glass. "Don't make me kill you Sam, please don't make me have to kill you."
Sam only stares at him, icy fury and disappointment on his face. Six months of this empty solitude and Dean understands.
He's reminded of when Sam was three years old, clutching Dean around the waist and wailing, inconsolable at the prospect of going somewhere without his brother, to preschool where Dean wouldn't be taking care of him. Sam had cried and cried and finally Dean took Sam's chubby hand and put it over his heart, placed his palm over Sammy's and said as long as both our hearts are beating Sammy, I'm gonna be with you.
He understands.
"You didn't have to do that to Lisa, Sam." He swallows, smiling, slides his hand beneath his pillow, finds the weight of his gun. "All you had to do was ask."
The anger melts from Sam's face and he smiles back, vanishes at the sound of the gunshot.
In heaven, Dean and Sam sit on the hood of the Impala side by side and stare up at the stars.
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