A Beginning To An End (Sam/Dean) NC-17

Title: A Beginning To An End
Author: rejeneration, but you can call me Jen
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for sex of the Wincest variety, language, etc.
Word Count: 5,610
Summary: Sam asks for something he never thought he'd bargain for.
Warning: AU. Through what we’ve seen of S3
A/N 1:: For moire2. A long, long, long time ago I offered her any prompt she wanted for her birthday present. This isn't quite it. But... it's for her, anyway. Love, sister. LOVE.
A/N 2: ULTIMATE love for dreamlittleyo. Thanks for the beta, baby! =D



Dean’s showing off, three girls crowded around him while he makes paper cranes or some shit. Sam tears the page right out of the book, rip so loud it raises a few heads, but Sam’s not paying attention. He stares down at it, thin sheet shaking in his hands. It’s so fucking simple it hurts.

+ || + || +

Seize the day and love conquers all, these are the words scratched into beige paint at a Culver County rest stop. There are other layers underneath, sea foam green peeking out of gunmetal gray, the past lurking in filthy crevasses behind the present. Feels like a million cryptic messages in a blinding stretch of road, waiting for him inside a million different rest stops.

Three hundred and twenty-three days, the backtrack hours, shadows hanging over his head.

There's a Subway outside the door. Five teenagers –the jock, the prep, the goth, the geek, the loser- all manning a long, silver counter. It’s a fucking John Hughes film out there while Sam takes a piss.

But he's not bitter, no. He’s just tired, feels it in his bones, barely capable of standing through the stream.

Months ago, all of this would have been different, a big ol’ fuckin' joke. Dean? Dean would have placed bets on which of those kids had spread themselves open, back against the Pepsi machine, sweaty hands, hysterical hearts, mouths gone dry with the promise of getting laid.

There'd be Dean, slapping a hand across Sam's chest on their way out of the can, a wink and a nod, nasty twist to a burning grin. But there's no one at Sam's side now, and Sam could really give a fuck about all of it - the laughter, the sex, the ground beneath his feet as the planet rolls. Only three hundred and twenty-three days and still a billion miles left to search.

Unfortunately, Sam doesn't have much choice in the matter. What he’s interested in, what he’s not. He thinks in Dean these days. Every inch of headspace tied up in Dean's jokes, and Dean's charms, and Dean's bawdy curiosities. Sam's a vessel, empty except for the ghost. Knew becoming Dean would be his only option after.

Three hundred and twenty-three days. Three hundred and twenty-three days since Sam went and short-changed the deal, lost his brother. Three hundred and twenty-three days, a single Tuesday in every week, no reset button on the clock. Three hundred and twenty-three, and unlike the last trip into Trickster territory, this nightmare's gonna end. It has to.

Sam's got a secret, an ace up his sleeve. All he needs is the poker face and the right hand to play it.

+ || + || +

Sam’s dreaming. At least he thinks he’s dreaming. When the face slides into view, there’s little to no doubt.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he says, sulfur shine to bright eyes and Sam’s forced back into summertime recollection, bucking from a sight he hasn't seen since the night his brother shot the fucker in the head. “Bet you wish you'd stuck with me after all, huh, champ? Now you’ve got Lilith out for your blood, Dean’s gone to Hell. Just you alone in this big, old, scary world.” Azazel heaves a heavy sigh, cynical delight wrinkling the haggard lines of his face. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t perfect. Had to break a few eggs along the way. Seriously, though, mommy dearest, little Jess? None of it could've been worth all this.”

Sam flexes a fist, questions the viability of ripping the bastard’s throat out in a dream.

“Aww, c’mon, Sammy, don’t be like that. You thought I was bad, but Lilith,” Azazel’s lips thin, peel over his teeth with a high-pitched whistle. “She’s the genuine article. Should have seen what she did to Jake.” It’s not like there’s any love lost there, but Sam thinks the shudder cutting through Azazel is real. “Coulda been my golden boy. Too bad there’s no take backs, huh, tiger? Ah well, maybe one day you’ll be able to forgive yourself,” Azazel shrugs. “Regret is wasted on the meek.”

Sam shoots up in bed. He’s still in their room, sweat trickling, body shaking, searching for the familiar. There’s no fire, no blood, no smell of char in the air. There’s only Dean in the other bed, shifting towards him, eyes opening so he can see his brother, make sure he’s okay.

“You all right?” On his side, Dean stretches out the arm from the shoulder he’s lying on. A swell rushes hot through Sam, crazy thought making him think maybe Dean’s reaching out, looking for Sam to take hold. Sam shoves it away, sinks into the mattress. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he whispers, swallows down the heaviness in his throat. “Go back to sleep.”

Dean does.

Sam doesn't.

+ || + || +

“You’re going to what??!” Sam’s never really noticed how bloodless Ruby’s lips thin when she’s annoyed. He’s noticing now. Arms crossed, hip thrust out, she’s fuming, and Sam doesn’t need the sarcasm or the black eyes flashing bloody-revenge. It had been his load of bricks to drop, after all, and it wasn’t like he’d offered her a choice.

“Look, I get it. Maybe it’s a one-way ticket. No guarantees. Complete reset. Frankly, I don’t care. You’ve been working an angle since day one, and save it,” Sam holds up a hand to put a cork in the pending tirade, “I said I don’t care. If you really want to end this, then you’ll meet me.” She’s still holding the piece of paper Sam gave her. It’s a wad in her clenched fist, but she’s still got it. “And if not, then you’re just one more demon I have to send back to Hell.”

“Sam,” Ruby grates through the vent of her teeth. “You can’t save him. Can. Not.”

“You know, there were mystics, spiritual healers that used to do this kind of thing. Shit, even modern day psychologists use the power of suggestion as a tool for conditioning. Sometimes,” Sam narrows his eyes, slips dangerously inside Ruby’s space, “sometimes I think this constant loop you’ve all got running is just that - programming. If I fail him, if he goes to Hell, you all win your prize. Champion for your army, right?”

Ruby sneers, mouth an ugly twist, “Yeah, because the Seven Highly Effective Habits for a Successful Demon Insurgence have been working out so well for us. Spare me the psychobabble, Sam. You can’t save him because you can’t.”

“Oh, yeah? Guess you’ll just have to watch me then.” Sam leaves and he doesn’t look back.

+ || + || +

Dean’s on the bed, Styrofoam container in one hand, burger in the other, tomato and onion slipping out of the bun in a mess of special sauce and ketchup. Dean tosses the sandwich into the box, tosses the box to the bed and licks down his wrist, paying absolutely no attention to what he’s doing. He’s got ketchup on his upper lip, completely fused to some docu-drama, ignoring the stack of napkins right in front of him. It’s disgusting, gross, totally Dean, and Sam has to slide off the bed, duck him for the bathroom, take a few breaths so he can pull himself together.

continuation...