let me hear your voice tonight (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alexseanchai) wrote2010-09-27 01:45 pm
alexseanchai) wrote2010-09-27 01:45 pm
Entry tags:
somewhere in the sands of the desert (the cannot hear the falconer remix)
Title: somewhere in the sands of the desert (the cannot hear the falconer remix) for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kamikazeremix
Rating: PG-13
Original Story: somewhere in the sands of the desert bymerryish
Summary: Dean's got a box of Morton's and several cases of Pepsi; that'll keep him alive.
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Referenced anticipated character death and torture.
Word Count: 1050
Dean's a fucking Good Samaritan. Blow into town, do a good turn, and blow right back out, sometimes with a posse on his ass, because white-flight suburbs and black folks, first-century Judea and Samaritans, law-abiding towns and the Winchesters. Stupid and crazy choice of lifestyle. If he was a little less of a Boy Scout, trustworthy loyal helpful blah blah blah, he'd be Bela Talbot, only better-looking. But Dean just ain't that bright.
This may have something to do with why he's leaning against a stack of crates of Pepsi bottles, thirsty and with a hell of a headache.
Neither door's locked. Dean already checked. Not that it matters. There's something up against the back door, so it won't open more than half an inch, and one or another of the demons is keeping the inside door yanked shut except for a moment or two at irregular intervals: to check whether Dean's off guard, he suspects. Dean's got salt in a line across the back door and an arc around the inside door. No windows. A sink, if that's the word, since it's flat and square and two inches deep and the drain is level with the floor. The water doesn't come on, which sucks, because there's blood on the back of his head and he'd kind of like to get it off. He ran out of bullets while he was getting tossed around the store, fuck only knows what happened to his pocketknife, and he's got nothing else on him bar the usual paper clips clipped to his socks and razor blades sewn into his hems, none of which do him any good right now. No phone, of course. Dean hadn't left a note, either, figured he'd get gas and coffee and be back before Sam woke up, so Sam won't have any idea where to start looking.
On the bright side, the way Sam's been flipping out whenever Dean's out of his line of sight, Sam's already looking.
Pepsi is sugar and water and not a hell of a lot else. But water's better than dehydration and sugar's better than nothing. Dean pours some of the first bottle down the drain; it doesn't look blocked, which is good, because if it were, having to piss there would suck.
Molly, or whoever, thinks it's amusing to regale Dean with descriptions of what's waiting when they kick him downstairs. "Kinky," Dean says in retort to the description of a Judas cradle (without the pointy bit on top, it could be fun), and goes straight back to the exorcism. Molly skips out of range.
Yelps and curses startle Dean awake; neither voice is Sam's. Within seconds, an exorcism is rolling off his tongue. The demons scoot back in a hurry. Dean scoops the fallen salt back into the Pepsi-bottle wrapper, puts that back on top of the door where it can't help but fall on top of anyone opening it, and tries to go back to sleep.
Something's wrong, shut the light, heavy thoughts tonight, and they aren't of Snow White, dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragons' fire and of things that will bite...
Dean can't remember how long the longest of Sam's Tuesdays was, but however long that was, it's been longer than that since Dean saw Sam last. Dean bets himself a beer that it'll take a week to get Sam convinced again that he doesn't need to spend hours organizing the weapons box.
The second day of nothing but Pepsi, translating Latin in his head to see how much he can shorten an exorcism before it becomes ineffective, and "The sooner you're dead, the sooner we can coax Sam into the bosom of his loving family" is less fun than the first day.
Sam?
Dean listens, but it doesn't sound like Sam anymore. Probably just a customer. If Dean had any bullets left, but he doesn't, so not much point considering the idea.
Crunches are marginally less boring than staring at his watch and adding up the minutes since he saw Sam last and placing bets with himself about when Sam will show up.
Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear, how years ago in days of old when magic—exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis—fuck.
"—aisle five," calls the blond demon, waking Dean from another doze, and running footsteps and gunshots and screams and Sam.
Molly opens the door and pitches a six-pack at Dean, which he dodges, and another, which clobbers him in the face and knocks his head against the floor. His ears are still ringing (I don't know his name, but his face rings a bell) when Molly locks the door behind her. She flips open a pocketknife—his pocketknife, damn it—and telekinetes it straight at him. Or curved at him, since he ducks behind the Pepsi cases. "Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus," Dean rattles off, and this time she's caught, salt on one side, door on the other, "omnis satanica potestas," and he grabs his salt box, "omnis incursio infernalis," and flinging salt between her and the door isn't real graceful but it works. The rest of the exorcism is a breeze. Molly sans demon can't unlock the door fast enough.
Sam's in a small circle of salt, getting up off his knees. Best thing Dean's seen all week. Dean joins in on his exorcism, "facias libertate servire," and Sam turns, looking like he just got hit by a sack of bricks, or by Huey Lewis. "Te rogamus, audi nos," Dean finishes. "Which means 'fuck off and die' in Latin, you Satanic bastards."
Things blur for a moment, and then Dean has to talk Sam out of shooting Molly. The look on his face...
Sam's fucked up. They weren't even apart for seventy-two hours, when Sam had no reason to believe Dean was dead (also no reason to believe he was alive, but minor details), and Sam—of course this is a hundred percent pure Sam, but what happened to the Sammy who balked at killing people who deserved it and refused to hurt people who didn't?
Dean's going to hell. How is he supposed to protect Sam from what happens to him when Dean's not there?
kamikazeremixRating: PG-13
Original Story: somewhere in the sands of the desert by
merryishSummary: Dean's got a box of Morton's and several cases of Pepsi; that'll keep him alive.
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Referenced anticipated character death and torture.
Word Count: 1050
Dean's a fucking Good Samaritan. Blow into town, do a good turn, and blow right back out, sometimes with a posse on his ass, because white-flight suburbs and black folks, first-century Judea and Samaritans, law-abiding towns and the Winchesters. Stupid and crazy choice of lifestyle. If he was a little less of a Boy Scout, trustworthy loyal helpful blah blah blah, he'd be Bela Talbot, only better-looking. But Dean just ain't that bright.
This may have something to do with why he's leaning against a stack of crates of Pepsi bottles, thirsty and with a hell of a headache.
Neither door's locked. Dean already checked. Not that it matters. There's something up against the back door, so it won't open more than half an inch, and one or another of the demons is keeping the inside door yanked shut except for a moment or two at irregular intervals: to check whether Dean's off guard, he suspects. Dean's got salt in a line across the back door and an arc around the inside door. No windows. A sink, if that's the word, since it's flat and square and two inches deep and the drain is level with the floor. The water doesn't come on, which sucks, because there's blood on the back of his head and he'd kind of like to get it off. He ran out of bullets while he was getting tossed around the store, fuck only knows what happened to his pocketknife, and he's got nothing else on him bar the usual paper clips clipped to his socks and razor blades sewn into his hems, none of which do him any good right now. No phone, of course. Dean hadn't left a note, either, figured he'd get gas and coffee and be back before Sam woke up, so Sam won't have any idea where to start looking.
On the bright side, the way Sam's been flipping out whenever Dean's out of his line of sight, Sam's already looking.
Pepsi is sugar and water and not a hell of a lot else. But water's better than dehydration and sugar's better than nothing. Dean pours some of the first bottle down the drain; it doesn't look blocked, which is good, because if it were, having to piss there would suck.
Molly, or whoever, thinks it's amusing to regale Dean with descriptions of what's waiting when they kick him downstairs. "Kinky," Dean says in retort to the description of a Judas cradle (without the pointy bit on top, it could be fun), and goes straight back to the exorcism. Molly skips out of range.
Yelps and curses startle Dean awake; neither voice is Sam's. Within seconds, an exorcism is rolling off his tongue. The demons scoot back in a hurry. Dean scoops the fallen salt back into the Pepsi-bottle wrapper, puts that back on top of the door where it can't help but fall on top of anyone opening it, and tries to go back to sleep.
Something's wrong, shut the light, heavy thoughts tonight, and they aren't of Snow White, dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragons' fire and of things that will bite...
Dean can't remember how long the longest of Sam's Tuesdays was, but however long that was, it's been longer than that since Dean saw Sam last. Dean bets himself a beer that it'll take a week to get Sam convinced again that he doesn't need to spend hours organizing the weapons box.
The second day of nothing but Pepsi, translating Latin in his head to see how much he can shorten an exorcism before it becomes ineffective, and "The sooner you're dead, the sooner we can coax Sam into the bosom of his loving family" is less fun than the first day.
Sam?
Dean listens, but it doesn't sound like Sam anymore. Probably just a customer. If Dean had any bullets left, but he doesn't, so not much point considering the idea.
Crunches are marginally less boring than staring at his watch and adding up the minutes since he saw Sam last and placing bets with himself about when Sam will show up.
Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear, how years ago in days of old when magic—exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis—fuck.
"—aisle five," calls the blond demon, waking Dean from another doze, and running footsteps and gunshots and screams and Sam.
Molly opens the door and pitches a six-pack at Dean, which he dodges, and another, which clobbers him in the face and knocks his head against the floor. His ears are still ringing (I don't know his name, but his face rings a bell) when Molly locks the door behind her. She flips open a pocketknife—his pocketknife, damn it—and telekinetes it straight at him. Or curved at him, since he ducks behind the Pepsi cases. "Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus," Dean rattles off, and this time she's caught, salt on one side, door on the other, "omnis satanica potestas," and he grabs his salt box, "omnis incursio infernalis," and flinging salt between her and the door isn't real graceful but it works. The rest of the exorcism is a breeze. Molly sans demon can't unlock the door fast enough.
Sam's in a small circle of salt, getting up off his knees. Best thing Dean's seen all week. Dean joins in on his exorcism, "facias libertate servire," and Sam turns, looking like he just got hit by a sack of bricks, or by Huey Lewis. "Te rogamus, audi nos," Dean finishes. "Which means 'fuck off and die' in Latin, you Satanic bastards."
Things blur for a moment, and then Dean has to talk Sam out of shooting Molly. The look on his face...
Sam's fucked up. They weren't even apart for seventy-two hours, when Sam had no reason to believe Dean was dead (also no reason to believe he was alive, but minor details), and Sam—of course this is a hundred percent pure Sam, but what happened to the Sammy who balked at killing people who deserved it and refused to hurt people who didn't?
Dean's going to hell. How is he supposed to protect Sam from what happens to him when Dean's not there?