mickeym | And Then There Were None, 1/1, NC-17, Sam/Dean

Title: And Then There Were None
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1200
Warnings: This was for the blindfold prompt, Sam can't stop himself from "scratching the wall". He starts remembering his time in Hell and begins losing his mind. Dean does whatever he can to make things easier for Sam, but in the end, he realizes the only way Sam can be at peace is if he dies. The story is a death story, but it's also a snuff fic. Also I guess it's dub-con, since Sam's not really lucid and able to consent.
Summary: You just had to scratch, didn't you, Sammy?
A/N: This was written for

blindfold_spn, and was my second and last fill. I've actually just done a lot of editing on it, and expanded it (by about five hundred words, oi). The prompt is up above, under the cut. This isn't a happy story, and unfortunately, I don't have any problem imagining that this could be one of the ways things could go for Sam and Dean :( If you do read it, I would love to hear what you think about it, since it's definitely a new direction for me.

It's getting worse.

What started as a slow slide downward is hurling along now at the speed of light, lucidity… sanity…rapidly disappearing. Disappeared. Dean sighs and strokes Sam's hair back from his face gently, fingers lingering over the planes and angles. He can feel the whisper of a 'pop' in Sam's jaw as his mouth works, his muttering nonsensical and endless.

"… get banged around…ganged on…gang-banged, everybody bend over, ramming cramming, cram Sam scram. Pick up a bone, hit the ball, soccer ball kicked and the goalie scores…scares…scarecrows pecking out my eyes, your eyes—"

His fingers work constantly, rubbing against each other, scrabbling and scratching. Dean has to restrain Sam more and more now, to keep him from hurting either of them. Sometimes Sam just sits and stares, rocking and muttering quietly, but some of Sam's fits resemble seizures, thrashing and hitting out, fingers curled into claws while he screams.

Dean's glad for the quiet and solitude out here in the middle of nowhere. For the privacy that allows his brother to shriek without fear of someone official coming to stick their nose in Winchester business.

"C'mon, take another drink, Sam." Dean holds the cup up to his brother's mouth patiently, trying to coax him into swallowing again. He's laced the juice with sedatives since he can't get Sam to swallow solids any longer. Even milkshakes choke his brother these days, and the long lines of Sam's body have passed from bulked up, to lean, to near-skeletal.

"Drink, think, shrink, I'm shrinking, shrieking, feeling. Feeling hurts, hates, eights, late. I'm late, I'm late for a very important date!" Sam laughs, a chilling sound that never fails to send shivers up and down Dean's spine. He tips the cup again, and Sam sputters and chokes, but finally gets some more juice down.

Later, Dean settles himself on their bed and pulls Sam against him, head in Dean's lap, so he can stroke the lank, thinning hair; trace his fingers over Sam's lips, his chin, his sharp-as-blades cheekbones.

"You just had to scratch, didn't you, Sammy?" He murmurs, listening to the rough gasps that pass for Sam's breathing. "Had to scratch, and then you couldn't leave it alone."

Even drugged into unconsciousness Sam isn't peaceful, or quiet, or still. He shifts and shivers, fingers moving restlessly against his palms, legs twitching. Sometimes he pauses mid-movement, his face smoothing out for a moment or two, and then it starts over again, pain and terror crawling across his features, tears leaking from behind closed lids.

Dean cries with him, sometimes, wiping the moisture away with rough, impatient hands before it falls on Sam.

~~~~~

Thing is, Dean really thought it would work. Well, it had worked for awhile; he'd just hoped they'd have longer. If he's being honest with himself, though, he can admit even the twenty years Death had said Sam might have, wouldn't have been long enough—and it's not been anywhere close to that. It was really grasping at straws, thinking the universe might cut them a break, because when had that ever happened? And now their days have come down to this: cuffs and sedatives, sippy cups of apple juice, and Sam losing what was left of his mind, dying in slow-motion.

Dean makes his preparations carefully. This isn't something he can screw up on. He won't relegate Sam to a life – if it can be called that – of never-ending terror and insanity, and going on without Sam isn't an option he can seriously consider. This, these preparations and plans, are for both of them. Hopefully Sam will forgive him in the hereafter, though Dean's not sure if he's hoping for forgiveness for taking Sam's life…or for not taking it sooner.

Sedation doesn't last long for Sam anymore, but sometimes, like now, he comes out of it lucid. It never lasts long, but Dean's grateful for even a few minutes of Sam smiling at him, eyes confused but calm, dimples peeking out.

"Whatcha doing?" Sam sounds mildly curious, but he rolls when Dean pushes gently, then back when Dean pulls, undressing him quickly and efficiently.

Without his clothes he looks like someone stretched his skin over a framework of bones, all sharp angles and knobs. He's still beautiful to Dean; he always will be.

"Just gonna clean you up, Sammy," he whispers, kissing chapped, bitten lips gently. He presses kisses to the purple-dark shadows beneath Sam's eyes, tasting salt from earlier tears. Beneath him Sam touches him, scratches at him, tugs and pulls. "Easy, Sammy. It's me. You know me."

"Dean."

"'S right." Dean kisses down Sam's body, his own eyes prickling with tears when he remembers how they used to do this. How he would quiver beneath Sam's lips, or Sam beneath his, love and sex and comfort all tangled up together. Sam doesn't get hard anymore; he hasn't in months. Maybe longer, Dean doesn't remember. It's okay, because sex isn't what this is about. Not anymore. "Love you so much, Sammy. So much." He mutters the words in between kisses and caresses, taking care to touch everywhere. To worship. One last time.

"Love." Sam sighs the word, then sighs again. "Love blood glove. Blood bath, bathe me in blood, leave me bloody. A bloody glove."

"Yeah." Dean strips his clothes off, then checks one last time that everything is where it's supposed to be. "Love and blood, story of our lives."

"Love blood." Sam purses his lips, and Dean leans in for a kiss. For a split second Sam's eyes clear again, lucidity washing over him, leaving his mouth soft and giving under Dean's. He opens his mouth and Dean tastes apple juice; remembers a lifetime of loving his brother, aching with need, with hunger, with the desire to protect and comfort. A lifetime of Sammy.

He shifts and the moment's gone, the lucidity bleeding from Sam's eyes, his face, leaving something feral in its wake.

Sam stares up when Dean settles over him, eyes wild and unseeing, mouth moving though no sound is coming out. He smiles the creepy smile, the one that usually precedes a torrent of verbal madness and draws in a breath. Dean wraps his hands around Sam's throat, fingers squeezing gently, then harder, tighter, his own breath catching when Sam's eyes go wide with panic, with fear. He bucks under Dean, skin soft and warm, and Dean hates that his body responds to it. To the pressure, the friction, all of it. He grinds down, cock pressing against Sam, painting his body with little trails of pre-come.

"Last time," he whispers, fingers beginning to ache as he squeezes, squeezes, tightens some more. Sam's still beneath him, body going lax after one last shocked spasm. "Last time here, but I'll see you again soon, Sammy. Real soon."

He hangs on as he thrusts, rocking fast and hard against his brother's body, throat crushing under his grip. He hears the death rattles, breath humming as it leaves Sam's body for the last time, as his own vision whites out and orgasm races through him.

Dean kisses his brother's slack mouth, and this time he tastes his tears there.

The gun is cool against his fingers when Dean picks it up.

~fin~

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

fufaraw

Words aren't adequate to the depth of horror and sadness this invokes. It's beautiful and horrible and more than half-likely. I both hate you and love you for going there. Well done.

From:

And Then There Were None, 1/1, NC-17, Sam/Dean

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