Dirges in the Dark (Dean, Sam) - Gen
Title: Dirges In The Dark
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen. Dean, Sam
Spoilers: TWT, mid S4
Word Count: ~1750
Warnings: A bit of language and a dash of violence
Summary: A hunt catches Dean off guard when he and Sam try to save a Seal. Written for a bondage & H/C prompt on the May 2009 SPN Kink Meme (for which I wrote gen, because I am lame.)







It was stupid, really. A year of battles with angels and demons and cataclysmic nightmare creatures and you'd think that would mean the beings of this world wouldn't be able to touch them anymore. Wouldn't be that big of a threat.

Staring into darkness, arms twined over with something rough like vines that cut into his skin and bound up them above his head, Dean had had plenty of time to rethink that philosophy. To change his mind about the dangers presented by the ordinary, the normal.

He still didn't know what the thing had been. He and Sam hadn't even been looking for a hunt, had focused instead on what could have been a seal in jeopardy, their attention on the grand scale and not on the fine print. That had been a mistake, one that had cost Dean a blow to the head that had knocked him down and a bite to his neck that had injected some sort of venom that made it impossible to move. He'd been hauled up over the creature's shoulder, vision blacking out as the thing had jostled and ran back towards its lair before he'd even known what hit him.

Sam was never going to let him hear the end of this. This meant teasing rights for years.

Dean was starting to come to the conclusion that he might not mind that so much if Sam would just show up already. His arms and shoulders ached from supporting his weight, forced apart so that the tension between his shoulder blades had begun to feel like a slow burning ball of fire, licking down his back and up his neck. There were other vines too, ones that looped down over his legs, across his chest, one even resting loosely against his neck, and he had to almost be grateful for them for taking some of the pressure off his arms and keeping that from turning from pure pain into outright agony.

They kept him from suffocating. Dean had been crucified before, in Hell. They'd used the traditional way so that blood loss wouldn't end things too quickly, so that instead he could feel the pressure build like a band across his chest as it became harder and harder to breathe, until there was no air left at all and his shoulders slipped from their sockets. This was nothing like that. This was much easier to deal with.

But it was dark and the venom hadn't fully worn off yet, leaving him unable to move more than his head and the tips of his fingers.

And Dean was alone. He'd rarely been alone in Hell, had always had some jeering face that he could focus on, something he could spit rage and defiance against. Here, there was nothing to distract him from the dark and what could be hiding in it. Nothing to distract him from his own thoughts.

He was pretty sure it had been at least a few hours since he'd woken up. Maybe more, but Dean's internal clock was running askew and the pain made it difficult to concentrate. The clock to his head might have been harder than he'd originally given it credit for as well, or maybe that was another effect of a the venom because everything felt a bit too hazy. It made his mind numb, made it harder to think.

Every so often, he could hear something skittering in the darkness. The creature, maybe, or something else entirely, who the fuck knew, and the worst part about it was that he knew it wasn't anything he actually wanted to see, but there was a twisted sort of comfort in the reminder that he wasn't alone. He hadn't been forgotten about.

He'd tried yelling, tried threatening and posturing, and when that had netted him zero response, had moved on to singing Zeppelin and the Stones and anything else that popped into his head.

Eventually, his voice had run down, throat worn out and mouth dry, and he'd had to quiet, straining for any sounds in the dark or for any glimmer of light.

Sam was going to laugh his fool head off when he came and Dean might just have to smack him one for it. When he came. Which had better be soon, if Sam knew what was good for him.

Dean rolled his neck, tried to release some of the tension in it, but it just sent another lick of fire up his muscles. He let his eyes fall shut, tired and aching and ready for this damn day to be over already.

He must have fallen into a troubled sleep because when he next opened his eyes, it was with the jerky realization that he wasn't alone anymore. There was something touching him, cold needle sharp claws pricking into his skin and trailing over his body and he yelled, twisted as best he could to dislodge it.

The creature made a chittering sort of noise at him that sounded disapproving.

"Yeah well, fuck you too, sweetheart," Dean hissed at it, trying to buck the thing off. It curled in tight around him and Christ, how many legs did the damn thing have? Something thin and narrow flicked out across his face and then there was the sharp press of teeth pressing into his shoulder, a white hot flash of pain that throbbed out from the bite.

Numbness pulsed out from the spot, stealing away the little ability he had regained to move, leaving him limp and breathless in his bindings. It stole away his ability to process events as well, made his mind fuzzy and restless, and even when the thing began to cut through his jacket and shirts to get at the skin underneath, he couldn't quite manage to care.

It hurt, the thing was slicing at his skin, pulling it up in what felt like neat, narrow strips, but he couldn't move, couldn't react to anything but the pain of it, until the world was made up entirely of the solid weight of the thing against him, its dry dusty smell overwhelming, the press of its sharp claws into his stomach and thighs and back, and the clatter of its teeth as it fed.

Light flared, brilliant and hot and Dean couldn't help but to wince at the burn of it. The creature didn't like it either, it screamed, a horrific, inhuman sound, and before launching itself from Dean, claws scrapping away at him as a final parting gift.

There were sounds, a struggle maybe, but Dean couldn't concentrate on them, couldn't even lift his head to see what it was. There was light in the lair for the first time, but darkness had begun to pool around the corners of his vision, a heat sweeping over his face that usually meant he was about to be down completely.

Something thudded to the ground and a few seconds later, a warm hand pressed against his cheek. A voice was calling to him, worried and anxious, and he tried to answer it in return but instead slipped completely away.


***


It was warm when he woke up. Dean blinked up at the ceiling, white and uneven, and tried to get his bearings.

“You with me?” Sam’s voice came from somewhere to his right and Dean craned his neck to try and see. A shock of white fire flashed like lightning with the attempt, made him grimace, and then Sam was there, close enough for Dean to see the worry in his eyes, one hand slipping under him to help support the motion. “Dude, just hold still, okay? You were suspended all night long, it’ll take some time for it to stop hurting.”

Dean licked dry lips. “You get it?”

Sam nodded, beginning to kneed his fingers into Dean’s skin and ow, fuck, that hurt, but heat was rising into his muscles with the touch, soothing the pain away.

“I think we’ll be holed up here for a few days though. You’ll need time to recover.”

Dean shook his head at that, ignoring the fiery twinge that resulted and dislodging Sam’s hand. “Places to go and people to see, Sammy,” he said gruffly. “I’m fine, I can rest in the car.”

Something dark flared in Sam’s eyes for a moment before flicking out again. Sam didn’t approve, that much was obvious, but there was something else there as well. Dean felt far too fucked up to even begin to try and figure it out.

His brother moved away for a moment, came back holding a syringe filled with a clear fluid. Dean groaned at the sight, but Sam didn’t hesitate, just slipped it into Dean’s neck before he could jerk away and dispatched it.

“The hell, Sam?” Dean asked through gritted teeth. Sam just shrugged.

“It’s just a muscle relaxant, Dean. If you want to get going that quickly, you’re going to need something to keep your shoulders from freezing up.”

Dean glowered at him, still not amused. “Yeah, well, next time ask, got it?”

Sam set the syringe down, offered Dean a small, half smile. “You had me worried, man. When I looked up and you were gone, I freaked. And then when I finally managed to find you and that … that thing was feeding off you, I just... Christ, Dean, you looked like you were dead. I thought… You weren’t even breathing when I cut you down and you wouldn’t wake up for hours.”

He trailed off, flushed and looked away. Dean felt a rush of guilt cut through his annoyance. Yeah, he could imagine what Sam might be feeling like right now. Had felt it himself on more than one occasion. He glanced away from his little brother, turned to look at the wall as quickly as his neck would allow. Which was much faster than it had been a few minutes ago, the relaxant that Sam had given him taking quick effect.

“I just want to make sure you’re going to be okay.” Sam said from his other side.

Dean scowled but he’d never been able to resist that particular tone. “All right, we can stay a bit longer if it'll keep you from whining about it. But no more than a day, Sammy, I swear.”

He couldn’t see it, but he knew Sam was grinning. “Three days. I’ve already paid for them.”

Cheeky little bastard. He’d pay for that once Dean could move again.

“Go back to sleep already, okay?” Sam said, and there was again the warm press of fingers on his skin, massaging away what tension the relaxant hadn’t quite managed to relieve. It hurt and felt good and Dean wanted to bitch about the presumption, but it was warm and light and Sam was there.

He slept instead.