Fandom: Pairing: Supernatural: demon!Sam/evil!Dean
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Previous chapters: This is another peek into the Medlar!verse (see the medlarverse tag). If you don't care how they turned to the dark side, and what else they've been upto, you don't need to read the others to enjoy this one. (Medlar: a fruit that ripens by its own corruption.)
Spoilers: This 'verse goes AU after the end of S3/start of S4, but there's nothing specifically spoilery inside this post. Both can be read as standalones.
Title: Still Wanted
Words: 746 words
Warnings/Squicks: Incest, mention of canonical deaths, vague plotting of future evil-doings. *g*
Summary: Dean is pissed about Elvis and the FBI.
Notes: Written for demonlord_dean's comment_fic prompt: Supernatural, demon!Sam/evil!Dean, "Do you know how difficult it is to fake your own death? Only one man has pulled it off. Elvis!" (The X-Files).
Clad in nothing but grey sleep pants, Dean was stretched out across two seats on the over-stuffed penthouse sofa, trying in vain to find something – anything – worth watching. He stopped channel-surfing briefly on an episode of The X-Files, just in time to hear Mulder ask: "Do you know how difficult it is to fake your own death? Only one man has pulled it off. Elvis!"
"Ain't that the truth," he muttered, almost too quiet for Sam to hear, and then clicked the TV off and tossed the remote onto the coffee table, where it clunked and skittered to a halt next to his splayed bare feet.
Standing in front of the hotel suite's huge uncurtained windows, bottle of over-priced imported beer in hand, Sam surveyed the lights of Denver City that were spread out at his feet like handfuls of scattered gemstones and shards of shattered glass. White sleep pants hung to the points of his hips and a matching shirt hung open, framing his chest, the cuffs ending just a little too high above the points of his wrists.
At the sound of Dean's voice, he focused his attention onto the reflection in the glass, scanning the lushly appointed room until he spotted his brother. Only the crown of Dean's head and the ends of his propped-up feet were visible over the sofa back, all tousled hair and twiddling toes.
"You got a problem with Elvis you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"
One hand appeared over the back of the sofa, middle finger extended, and Sam laughed.
"Seriously, what's eating you? Either he died on the john or he faked it, and, dude, you have to want out real bad to fake a death like that."
Dean's toes disappeared as he wriggled his way to some form of almost verticality, twisting around to rest his arm on the sofa back and immediately dropping his chin into the ready cradle of his palm.
"I got Harley to hack into the FBI database for shits and giggles after breakfast, and do you know what I found? We're still on the FBI's 'Most Wanted' list; can you believe that? Oh, not the official list, the one they let Joe Public see. No, this is more of a 'We think they're dead, but we're not entirely sure, so we'll just keep their files tucked away in case we fucked up again, okay, y'all?' list."
Sam snorted at the over-emphasised twang in Dean's voice, but didn't interrupt.
"You got any idea how many times we've died? Not just paperwork died, but 'I think it's time to start digging a hole' died. Hell, I've lost count. In just the last couple of years, the cops have declared me dead after they killed that shapeshifter, and then turned right around and undeclared it when the Feds got involved. You ended up on the wrong end of soldier-boy's knife and spent a few days stinking up the joint 'til I dragged your sorry ass back to life. Then Henricksen gave us both a posthumous pass 'cause of that Lilith mess, and I ended up dead and buried in an unmarked grave for months! I spent a small eternity in Hell, Sammy, and to come back to find those bastards are still on our tail? That's not fair!"
A muscle along Dean's jaw-line twitched with barely suppressed anger; his pulse fluttered rapidly in the hollow at the base of his throat. This was the most alive Sam had seen him since his return from the Pit. It was one hell of a turn-on.
Sam set his beer down on a nearby table and prowled over to the sofa, his intent telegraphed by the roll of his hips and the gleam in his eye.
"First thing tomorrow, we'll take a road trip up to Langley and give those Federal assholes something more… urgent to think about."
Dean licked his lower lip and smirked, asking, even though he already knew the answer, "Why wait 'til tomorrow? It's only a couple of hundred miles away; I could have us there before sunset."
Sam's shirt hit the floor and his pants followed after, puddling around his ankles until he stepped out and up and over the sofa-back to land in a tangled heap in Dean's lap, naked, still slick and stretched out, ready for round three.
"You've got much more important things to take care of right now. The Feds can wait their turn."
Title: God's Fingers
Rating: PG-13 for violence on a grand scale.
Warnings/Squicks: Incest (implied), non-graphic mindless destructive violence, spitting in God's eye.
Summary: Dean would do anything to keep a smile on Sam's face.
Notes: Written for maerhys's comment_fic prompt: SPN, Sam/Dean, Orange Sky
They follow I-95 as it reaches up towards Boston before swinging out to the west to skim the edge of the metropolis. From a hundred miles away, they can see the sky turn marmalade orange and hazy shades of grey and green and purple as the city burns. Crepuscular rays – God's fingers, or so their mother used to say - spear through the chemical haze, the toxic smoke and ash, painting pink and golden highlights on the landscape of destruction.
The Harvard rejection letter had come first, but others had arrived from Penn and Yale in swift succession, leaving Sam ghost-grey and thin-lipped with teenaged stoicism. It was a long time ago – another lifetime – but Dean remembers, and exults.
This isn't one of the meticulously planned strikes that occupy a thousand gleeful brains from coast to coast. It's not the hopscotch 2-1 leap of a knight, or the slow, doomed crawl of a pawn across the game-board of life that Sam’s faithful army is carving into the world, one jagged square at a time.
It's a personal vendetta writ large against an angry sky; a lurid gob of spit in God's eye.
It's a gift, an offering - a tribute to the glory of Samuel, the Exalted One.
Dean would turn the whole Ivy League-beleaguered eastern seaboard into one huge flaming pyre if it would only keep that wide, delighted grin on Sam's face for just a little while longer.