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Title: To Have Never Parted (As Good Have Grown There Still)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "Dean/Sam or Dean&Sam, “Was I to have never parted from thy side? As good have grown there still a lifeless rib.” (Milton)" by [livejournal.com profile] tigriswolf for [livejournal.com profile] comment_fic. " 082-Romantic" for [livejournal.com profile] 100moods, challenge table here. "01-Rituals" for [livejournal.com profile] 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~405 words.
Rating: R for violence, sexuality, and language.
Warnings/Spoilers: AU. Apocalypse. Dark. Blood. Disturbing imagery. Power!kink. Romance (yes, I know, I'm twisted). Established relationship. Comment!fic. Plot. Graphic mentions of violence. Spoilers through Season 4.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: When Sam calls his brother back to life after far too many years in Hell, everything and nothing has changed.
Author's Notes: These are not the boys that you remember. I'm also pretty sure this and the piece below happen in the same universe.

No one came for him. No one until Sam. One hundred and twenty years he endured the torments of Hell, stepping down from the line of victims decades ago to take up a knife of his own and learn how to worship the screams.

When Sam came for him, it wasn't stomping through Hell with a hunter's fire blazing in his eyes and it wasn't as some Satan's pet or puppet. When Sam came for him, it was standing by his graveside, a hand outstretched with his eyes a searing white as Dean rose from the ground, the dirt trembling away from his unclothed body. His flesh smoldered with the symbols magick-branded into his remade chest.

"Sammy." You came for me. But I'm wrong now.

"Dean." I always will. And I don't care.

"How?" His nudity mattered not at all, but he took the offered clothes anyway: jeans, a tee, his scratched-up leather jacket. He never lost his brother's eyes, though, and didn't stop pondering the million dollar question.

"I ... harvested ... the grace of angels." Sam offered finally. "Their blood wasn't enough … though it paved the way." He looked down and then up again, regretless but aware of his path's trek from gray into the skeletons of shadows. "I tried the blood of demons first, but ... even Lilith couldn't call you up."

"Anyone left?" Dean's head tilted and he wondered vaguely if his eyes were black. "To kill, I mean." To bleed and not to save.

Sam arched an eyebrow, lips tipping toward a smirk. "Any minute now."

Dean grinned harshly through lips that felt perfect and new, like nothing he remembered. "Which side?"

"Do you care?" Sam murmured it against his brother's lips, an arm slung tight around Dean's waist. "Want me to save you something?"

Dean's kiss was a bloody, primal thing, but Sam hummed happily even as he lapped at both their shredded sticky mouths. "An angel, Sammy. … Yeah. Save me a girl with wings and I'll suck your dick with her blood in my mouth."

Sam laughed low and heavy, his joy a shining, dark, and vibrant thing filling up his brother's chest. "Damn. It's like you never left."

The lie tasted like truths gone mad, like sulfur smoke and stolen purity, like sweet choruses of screams. To them, though, joined at hip and hand again, the taste they sensed, alone, was 'together' ... Sam ... and Dean.

Title: Years Like Blood
Author: [livejournal.com profile] eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Alastair/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "Supernatural, Alastair/Dean, it was longer than forty years--but who's counting, right?" for [livejournal.com profile] tigriswolf at [livejournal.com profile] comment_fic.
Word Count: ~500 words.
Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexuality, and language.
Warnings/Spoilers: AU. TORTURE! Violence! Dark! Angst! Blood! Gore! Non-con! Highly disturbing imagery. Bondage. Manipulation. Weapons (knives). Established relationship (sorta). Comment!fic. Plot. Smut. Spoilers through Season 4.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: In Hell, Dean loses himself under the weight of years like blood.
Author's Notes: I'm pretty sure this and the piece above happen in the same universe, some very dark 'verse.

The demon's cock was dry and rough like the dead man's beard that he scratched across Dean's scarred and broken-open shoulders as they fucked. He didn't count the years anymore, let alone the days, the hours, the minutes. He didn't know how long he'd lain there, taking it, layers of blood caked and splashed down his front like an abstract painting. The eyes that stared at him were dead a while, always dead eventually, with something warm and unspeakable heaped between him and his victim's hollow body.

When she woke up screaming, her guts suddenly inside again, he flinched and hated himself for it.

"Tut tut tut, Deano." Alastair's voice slithered in his ear as the demon's blade snicked open once again. "Try it again, yeah?" Alastair slit him open for the hundred-millionth time, hot red welling from his neck to the crease of his ass, and the river of his own blood slicked the way for his perpetual rape.

Shaking with rage, Dean shouted hate-filled curses as he lifted his own arm and cut the woman's soul to shreds again, slow enough to make the screams feel like nothing, like water slipping past his mind. So when she died and lived again this time, he just stabbed and twisted into her deeper. Her tears and fresh wet screams were taken with control now, learned calm and learned joy, and he was grateful for the balm that her flailing sprayed over his dry, sewn-open eyes.

The dark blood that Alastair coated his lips with, his reward, tasted like power over pain and he drank greedily, eyes flashing curiously at the frightened man who suddenly replaced the tortured woman. "Alan, have you met my favorite, Dean? He's my favorite for good reason, you know."

Dean just formed his cracked and red-drenched lips into something that used to be a smile. Then he cut the new boy's stuttering tongue and let him babble, urgent, through the blood. "Funny." He wasn't sure whose voice it was, but he'd felt his own tongue move. There was laughter at his back, though, and a mirror of it in his chest, so he let his knife carve up a writhing human jack-o-lantern, fashioning a feeling for himself that was nothing that he could name. "Funny. Funny. Funny."

His sculpture even sang when it was finally lit up.

"Quite humorous, yes." The screaming stopped and Dean stopped smiling, a blistered hand shifting over his chain-stilled thigh. "And so … artistic." The demon's tongue teased the gouges in his shoulder, matching Dean's calculated breathing. "Very nice, Deano. I'm proud of you." His benefactor crooned and Dean's bloodied mouth hesitated its way toward a fitting empty grin. "Keep that up and you'll make apprentice in no time."

His stomach clenched and shook, but he ignored it, reveling, instead, in his toy's reviving gasp. It was a good day, a good month, a good year … like blood here … like blood. Unending.

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December 2016


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