Kalliel (kalliel) wrote,

[Fic] Ex Libris - demon!Dean, Sam, S10, experimental (radical revision, mixed media, logical chaos)

Title: Ex Libris
Genre: gen, S10, experimental, hurt/comfort (Dean), feel bad fic
Characters: demon!Dean, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~600
Spoilers: None past 9x23.
Summary: Let's cure a demon.
Notes: Composed for my spnspiration experimental fanworks bingo prompts, "radical revision," "mixed media," and "logical chaos."

I was trying to decide what might constitute a radical revision, and this is what I came up with. I wrote all of the text for this on 2 June 2014, as part of an exercise in playing with demon!Dean and the various directions I might want to take him. I didn't do anything more with this text, because I figured it was the potentiality most likely to align with canon. And well, if that's the case, then I'd rather just take pleasure in watching it, rather than having to write it. XD

But I do still appreciate this as raw material, so I figured that hey, I have this bingo card. I should do something with it before it gets totally Kripke'd by S10!

"Logical chaos" comes into play because these are only short snippets from a fic that was never completed (in a traditional sense)--it's composed of scraps and afterthoughts and par-baked ideas. And "mixed media"... That one will become readily apparent beyond the cut!


[Original Text]Well, the rumors are true:  Sam Winchester doesn't fuck around.

"How do you feel?" Sam asks.

Dean looks at the crook of his elbow, mottled purple and riddled with puncture wounds.  "Like a drug addict."

"Uh huh--"  Sam's voice lilts up at the end, though Dean's not sure if Sam's angry or just distracted.  His hands swim back into view with a clean needle.  "Hey," he says, and pushes Dean's chest back upright with his palm.  Dean feels a reflexive pain there, and then he doesn't.

Sam clenches his fist a few times before drawing blood from his arm, which is in an equal state of Requiem for a Dream.  "How do you feel?" he repeats.  "Do you need more?"

But Dean's started to list forward again.


"Do we have to do this here?" Dean asks, even as he reaches for the syringe in Sam's hand.

Sam draws it back, carefully out of reach.  "Yeah, Dean. We're doing this here.  Right here, right now, no halftime.  Just lie back."

Lying down would be admitting defeat.

Dean wipes the rank sweat from his face and lies back.

He tries to breathe like a normal fucker.  But it's hard to forget that you didn't just drown in your own blood countable hours ago while also pretending that's not how you feel now.  Except it's Sam's blood.  Except you're a demon, and it's Sam's blood.

I like your bed.
Sams memory foam handprint.
Sam saving Dean from Hell, the way he's been trying to for years

Pick your poison.
Holy water.
Didn't work on Yellow-Eyes, Sam points out.  And I need to be sure.
Seriously? Dean repeats. Not only is he a demon, Sam thinks he's the king of Hell.
Pick your poison, Sam repeats.
Dean shrugs.  Fuck, all of it, then.

"Human Crowley cried."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Wept, actually."
"Yeah, well.  Human me is done and tired."

I'm not gonna lose you twice in one day. / Sam shakes his head.  That'd be a new low, even for us.
You already have.

"Dean, about what you said," says Sam.  

Dean's staring at the ceiling.  He'd never had occasion to notice before, but there's a devil's trap up there; painted off white against white.  Interspecies shagging must have been strictly off limits at Men of Letters summer camp.  But maybe it's his imagination, maybe there's nothing, maybe it's just a ghost, flash-seared into his field of vision.  

You're trapped, you're trapped, you're trapped.  And it's your tools and your training and your you that got you here.

Dean doesn't know what he said, or when he said it.  He's said a lot of things.  "Mmm?" he responds, and adds to the collection.

"Hey, stay with me."  Dean's body slides into the depression Sam makes when he sits down, and Sam slaps his shoulder twice.  "Give me your arm."

Dean turns his palm upward.

"No, the other one."



He can feel it burning now, with that renewed awareness.  His throat feels thick and clotted.  "Just give me the damn needle."

For a moment, the intensity drops from Sam, and he says, "Sorry, buddy.  You've lost your sharp object privileges."  


"You said, just before, you know. With Metatron.  You said--"

He doesn't know what he said.  His mind's racing, but he comes up blank.  Sue him; at the time, he'd kinda been preoccupied with something else.  But whatever he was, he has to make this right.  He feels, in his heart, that he has to make it right.  And he has that chance now.

"Yeah, about that," Dean says.  "I lied."

Also, if ever you need a cool background texture for something, apparently scanning the surface of your glass table works well!
Tags: fic: spn

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