Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.
Warnings: hurt!Dean, powers!Sam, lots o'blood, and a touch of wincest.
Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "All Hell Breaks Loose" parts 1 and 2.
Summary: Dean is taken as bait in a trap for his brother. Sam battles for what's his and the aftermath will leave him forever changed.
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for Wincest, language, horrific imagery
Beta'd by the most wonderful fortitudeisme, who is lovely to work with. Thank you very much, my dear.
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Heart Eater
By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)
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Chapter One
It's on a dusty, overgrown road, when Dean is taken. He's filling the Impala with gas and Sam is inside the station paying, probably asking for directions, even though they aren't lost, just because they're traveling on the loneliest godforsaken road in Texas, so lonely that the gas station attendant looked surprised when they pulled into the lot.
The air is dry and brittle, crackling as Dean stands there in the sun, thoughts wandering lazily, sluggish from the heat. Sensing something out there toying with the dirt, he has no idea that it's something he can't handle until it's already too late.
The wind in his ear and a pinprick along the back of his neck and the world suddenly tilts and goes black before he feels the smack of the earth.
Sam knows something's wrong when the gas continues to fill past thirty gallons on the cash register screen. The welcome bell jingles indifferently as Sam swings the door of the station open to see gasoline spilling all over the cracked asphalt. At first Sam thinks it's a trick of the heat, a mirage spreading liquid across the ground, but as he treads closer to the Impala the chemical smell of gas, and a tendril of the clear fuel meet his boots.
The driver's side door is ajar, and the keys are dangling in the ignition. His brother is nowhere in sight. Worry washes over him slowly but surely like the gas covering the pavement. The attendant's yelling at the mess, but Sam's not paying one bit of attention. Circling the car, he knows before his eyes confirm it.
Dean is gone— simply not there anymore— vanished like god damned Houdini.
Panic boils at his edges, just below the surface. Looking down the road, Sam sees nothing but short yellow grass on either side of the fractured blacktop. Dean would not leave him, especially not now. Sam knows this for sure. Still, his heart flutters, a hummingbird caged in his chest, at the abrupt absence of his brother.
It's too early for Dean to have been seized by the demon. There's still time, Sam thinks. His day isn't due yet, and he doesn't allow himself to dwell for more than a fleeting instant on the deal Dean made.
He sits behind the wheel of the Impala for a moment before turning the ignition and taking a right out of the parking lot. For no reason, he's compelled westward, like the needle on a broken compass, drawn towards his missing other half. And so he follows the pull.
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Eyes opening wide, Dean comes to all of a sudden, drawing in an audible breath. His head feels thick, still laden with sleep. It's dark, and miserably hot in the shade. Dean blinks, his focus sliding into place. Warm shafts of light escape through the slatted walls around him, striping his limbs with bands of sunlight. The stagnant scent of parched wood and untilled dirt fills his nostrils. The skin on his back burns, protesting abuse that Dean can't quite recall.
It takes a full moment of going over these sensory perceptions for his brain to catch up. A barn? Dean surmises. Where are we? And he struggles to remember, Texas. Just passing through. He can't remember anything beyond that, like what case they're currently working, or how he got to be lying flat on the ground in an old, dilapidated cowshed.
"Sam?" he asks, parched voice cracking on the single syllable.
Sluggishly, Dean registers that he can't move. Stretched out on his back, his arms are bound over his head by something he can't see or feel. There are short walls all around him, but the ceiling is high overhead and Dean realizes he's being held inside some sort of animal stall. Thin slits of sunlight continue to beam quietly through the gaps between the boards, blindingly brilliant in some places, and the whole building groans, held up by sheer fortitude.
Sammy, he thinks, turning as much as his fetters will allow. Simultaneous relief and panic fills him when he discovers Sam's not with him. Testing his bonds, he pulls and strains, trying to break free. After several minutes of fruitless struggling, realization comes— he'll have to wait for Sam to find him, wherever he is. Sam's safe, he tells himself, he has to be, hoping that his brother is just outside with the Impala, a smirk and an explanation on his lips, and not lying unconscious in the adjacent enclosure.
Taking inventory, Dean constructs that he's not hurt, not really. Whatever brought him to this place dragged him the whole way, he realizes, accounting for the tenderness on his back. He rolls his shoulders, trying to obtain relief.
Needing to always be in constant movement, when Dean finds himself unable to take action it agitates him. He tugs restlessly on the restraints again, and his thoughts begin to roam given that his body cannot.
Memory is a tricky thing— while he lies there, he remembers snapshots— endlessly rolling fields of straw-colored grass— the Impala doing her best against the heat— Sam's scathing looks and moody sighing— Damn near everything irritates him these days, whiney little bitch. Since making the deal with the crossroads demon, Dean could do no right by his brother. Everything he says and does is now framed by the deal and the impending certainty of everlasting hellfire. Dean doesn't want to talk about it, and so Sam finds tormented meaning in any word, whether voiced aloud or not, that Dean grants him.
Living in the now, Dean only sees the present moment, can only stand to process what's happening right in front of him. But Sam's eyes are far-reaching. They travel down many different paths at once, and foresee any number of futures in an instant. This kind of scope is crushing as Sam holds everything Dean does as if for the last time, as if a goodbye— and he can't stand it, can't stand the weight of it. Sensing subtle changes in his brother— anger, helplessness, frustration, sorrow— mood shifts so slight, Dean wonders if maybe he's the one losing it. Deep down, though, Dean knows it's his brother who is coming undone.
He's not sorry, and he never will be. Not even when the Hellhounds come baying at his door will he regret selling his soul for Sam. He gets now why his father made the deal he did little over a year ago. Like father, like son. It was a selfish decision born of love and soul-rending grief.
Something moves in the darkness, swirling up from dust. Dean squints, trying to discern what's happening. A figure undulates in the shadows, taking slow and rhythmic steps, a deliberate, practiced movement. A thin shaft of light illuminates its face— a woman, curved and supple, long hair cascading down around her shoulders. She is adorned with many bracelets and a necklace of wide, gold-plated slabs beset with turquoise that clatter gently as she moves. But something is not quite right with her. Skin graying and peeling, and eyes sharp as steel, she stands before him with a timeworn presence unbefitting her youthful steps.
Definitely not human, Dean thinks.
"You are awake," she says, coming to a stop at his feet. Dean looks up at her, into the eyes of a predator, and he knows he's in big trouble. "That's too bad for you," she says.
"Listen sister, not that I don't appreciate the whole bondage thing, but this is kinky even for me." He smiles impishly, as if it's all a big joke and he's not really, really uneasy about the whole situation.
Her lips tug up at the corners, an amused smirk, but she doesn't reply.
"You might as well let me go because whatever you want from me 'ain't happening," he says, still going for amiable but commanding.
Her smirk only grows wider. "You are not what I want," she says, letting her words hang for a moment. "I want him," and her eyes are so chilling, so knowing, that there's no question who she means— Sammy— or of her sinister intentions for him. Then she smiles, and it's the scariest thing he's seen in a while.
"There's no way I'm helping you, bitch," Dean asserts. "You won't lay one finger on Sam."
"Such a mouth on you," she says. "But not for long. Before this day is out, you will dare not cast your eyes upon me, let alone speak in my presence." She crouches down beside him, looking up and down the length of his body. "What's left of you, anyway," she amends.
Defiant, angry, and scared, Dean struggles again, knowing that no amount of fighting will free him from his phantom restraints. She strokes the back of her fingers along his cheek, down his throat and across his chest, admiring his lovely form, appraising him as if he is a prize thoroughbred. Her touch sickens him, but all he can do is brace himself against her hold.
"I was much stronger once," she says. "Able to crush men with a single glance." She looks at him, searching for the fear her eyes should inspire, but Dean sets his jaw and stares obstinately back at her.
"Those days are gone now," she admits with a soft sigh, "but I have just enough strength left for this." Shifting her legs, she straddles him, a solid weight on his chest.
In another circumstance, with his arms tied and a woman astride him, he might find the occurrence highly arousing to say the least, but this instance turns his stomach. It's a violation that will only get worse. Dean feels her nails through his shirt as she drags her fingers along his chest. Her sharp fingertips are stained black as if dipped into pools of ink. Dean knows it's not ink that paints her nails black, but a much more vital fluid that has decayed to an ebony lacquer.
"I've waited centuries, knowing one day the right time would come," she says. "But, oh, how like a God your brother is— I felt his power from far away. Like a beacon, it called to me. He's not even aware of the power he bears, is he?"
Curling on top of him at the thought of the power Sam will bring her, she slides back, seating herself atop his hips and pressing her thighs around his waist. "He will restore me to my former glory, and I shall reclaim my kingdom."
Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean distracts himself by trying to figure out what the hell she is. Not a demon, or a succubus, something worse— an ancient power— He feels her hands stretch broad across his stomach and then smooth up over his torso.
"This how you get your kicks, sweetheart?" Dean growls, angry at his helplessness.
Her face is lined with stripes of light and her eyes glint with smoldering indignation. "You will be silent in my presence," she commands, a thinly veiled warning in her words.
"Don't bet on it, sister," he says. "Sam'll hear my warnings a mile away."
Her eyes light up approvingly and she says, "That is what I am counting on."
A thrill of terror straightens Dean's spine, and he pushes back against the ground desperately, praying it will swallow him up and spare both him and Sam from whatever this creature has in store.
"You are his weakness," she says, leaning low, folding her hands over Dean's heart and resting her chin on top. "He will come for you, and I shall be waiting."
She pushes herself up over him, breasts pressing against his chest, her body flush with his, mouth hovering close above his lips. "Scream for me now," she says.
Dean knows if he does, if he makes even the slightest sound, Sam is lost. Steeling himself, mouth pressed to a tight line, Dean glares at her insolently.
"What's the matter, my dear? Now you don't want to play?" She sits up, pleasure on her face as her right hand draws circles over his chest. Suddenly, she seems more feral than human-like. Setting her fingers along his ribcage, counting the bones playfully, she claws him. Her nails surpass the trivial layer of shirt and find the warm flesh beneath, digging in deep.
Clenching his jaw, Dean bites down on his tongue to keep from moaning. A slew of curse words rise up in him, but the thought of Sam under her hands keeps him silent.
Slowly, she picks him open, working his blood between her fingers.
"You will speak," she says. "They always used to and so will you now."
Talons dig further, twisting between his rib bones. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, taking short pain-filled breaths. She burrows her fingers deeper still, and Dean feels his own blood flowing down his skin, but he will not give her satisfaction.
"You will regret your silence," she says. She leans lower, lips nearly touching his. Her fingers press into his side and Dean hears the sickening sound of one of his own ribs snapping in half.
Pain transcends all of his other senses; he can't help it and cries out. Rushing down, she kisses him, her jaw working his mouth open. Then she pushes, digging inside Dean's chest once again, and crushes another rib. Dean screams into her mouth.
There's a dizzying surge of warmth, and then she pulls away from him, the blood on her lips forming a grisly smile. "If you do not bleed to death," she says her voice suddenly lower and deeper, "then I will come back for your heart."
Her changed voice cuts straight through his haze of pain, and Dean gapes at her.
She laughs and sickness roils up inside him because it's his laugh coming from her mouth.
"After I take your brother's heart, of course," she says in his voice.
Dean tries to yell at her, but she has completely stolen his voice, and with it she will steal Sam's heart.
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The dirt pops and hisses under the Impala's tires, the road stretching along the earth, a weathered scar across its surface. The trail is easy to pick up, as if it is a timeworn path that Sam followed his whole life (in a way, it is). Sam knows it's a trap as he pulls the Impala to a stop in front of a dilapidated farm. But it's not like he's not going to go in.
If Sam really stops to think about it, he realizes he's furious with Dean. How could he do it? Sam fumes as he exits the Impala, slamming the car door. After everything with Dad and he just— just— Rage prickles at his flesh, his vision starts to shimmer, and Sam forcibly smoothes it back with a deep breath. He's fed up with Dean, and pissed off, and frustrated, and so damn worried about him that he can't think straight. God, where is he? This is— this might be all the time I have with him. If anything's happened to him, I'll just— just—
A profound feeling of foreboding settles thickly around him like a sandstorm blanketing the desert. Whatever has happened to his brother, Sam knows it's nothing good.
Surveying the barn before him, he understands he is meant to enter. Sitting there holding it's breath, the old structure is just barely hanging on, with it's shriveled and splintered beams warping into a lazy lean. If Sam has even the slightest doubt that Dean is in there, it is quashed when he sees Dean's amulet glittering in the dusty dirt road. He picks it up and brushes the grit off gently before folding it into his pocket.
He doesn't know what could have taken his brother so quickly and quietly and he thinks that maybe he should be more worried about that than he is. Right now the only thing that is important to Sam is getting his brother back. Any minute apart in this final year of brotherhood is a wasted minute.
The barn door yawns open as Sam approaches, inviting him into the darkened interior. It pushes open the rest of the way with little effort, swinging with a loud groan upon rusty hinges. The gaping door cuts a sharp path of light across the dirt floor, Sam's form carving out an elongated shadow as he looms at the entrance. Thick and smelling of stale wood and earth, the heat stagnates inside the barn. Sam's features pinch as the unpleasant aroma hits him.
The dirt crackles under his boots, and his sun-bright eyes are eclipsed by the darkness as he enters. Dean would be furious, he muses, walking into a trap so ill prepared. But there's a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and a flask of holy water a solid weight in his jacket pocket, and Sam hopes it will be enough.
Walking slowly, one hand dragging along the wall, Sam waits for his eyes to adjust. Corroded machine parts decay just off the path, and he stumbles over them, his arms pin-wheeling for balance. He doesn't quite fall over, managing to right himself, but any chance at stealth is now lost and so Sam calls out for his brother.
"Dean?" Sam asks cautiously. Time ticks away, seconds squandered like salt spilled in the sea. This is ridiculous, Sam thinks impatiently. He should just stride in there, find his brother, kill whatever's taken him, and haul Dean's ass back to the Impala for a proper kicking. But a lifetime of hunting means he knows that it will not be so simple.
There is a faint groaning from somewhere— Sam listens and waits. When the sound is not repeated Sam ventures further into the barn, scanning for signs of movement. There are several animal stalls on the left and a ladder leading up to the hayloft on the right. Moving towards the stalls, Sam reaches for the rough wooden door. It doesn't budge, even though Sam cannot see a lock holding it shut.
It's a horrible, throaty gasp that causes Sam to spin around, heart tightening in his chest.
"Sammy?" Broken and pain-filled, there's no denying that voice.
Sam looks around frantically, sees no sign of his brother. "Where are you?" Sam asks, eyes blind-frantic. Head tilted, he listens carefully, and hears only ragged breathing, choking—
"Dean!" Sam shouts, striding across the empty barn, turning circles around himself, as if Dean would materialize in front of him if he added, There's no place like home, to the action.
"M'here," Dean says, swallowing thickly. There's blood in his voice, Sam realizes with alarm.
"Where?" Sam asks, listening again, trying to gauge direction. "I can't tell where your voice is coming from." Dean is maddeningly silent. "Talk to me," Sam directs. He moves back towards the stalls where he first heard his brother.
"Don't know wha'happin' Sammy," Dean slurs. Walking slowly, Sam tries to follow as best he can, but Dean sounds faint.
"Are you hurt?" Sam prods, knowing the answer already. "Tell me what you remember," he says, using Dean's voice as a compass.
"Hurry, Sam," Dean whispers. "…'fore it comes back."
"Dean, concentrate. Where are you?" Sam asks again, frustrated.
"Up—," Dean replies, "in the loft."
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It is his own voice that rouses him. He hears the pathetic way she uses it to call his brother's name, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand when Sam's voice replies.
His voice will lead his brother right to her— Sam won't know it's a trap until it's too late. Dean struggles against his bonds, his throat working to produce a sound that will never come. He did not trade his soul so that Sam could be food for some crazy goddess-wannabe. Stupid bitch.
Fighting the tether that holds him is a huge mistake. The wound in his chest bleeds. He feels sick as warm wetness flows from the gouge over his broken ribs. Dizziness overtakes him and he tastes blood. Sam's voice swims in his skull, the worried tone and urgency carving out a hollow in his heart. No, Sammy, don't listen.
He fights harder than he ever has before, struggling to stay awake, but there's only so much will power can do over a failing body. Hot air presses upon him, suffocating in its thickness.
I'm sorry, Sam, he thinks as he loses consciousness. So sorry.
To be continued…
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Author's note: I originally conceived this idea over a year ago after the Season 2 finale and have held onto it ever since. Even though it's been Kripke'd, I loved the concept and vowed to see it through. I hope you guys like it— please let me know!
I want to remind one more time that this is a Wincest story. Up to this point I have only written gen fic, and so I don't want folks to be surprised as the chapters progress. It's mild, but it's there.
This story is complete (only three chapters) and I will post once a week. Oh, and if you haven't checked out my LJ you are missing out on story art— I've done illustrations for each chapter. Thanks for reading. See you next chapter! :)
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