Rating: R (language, violence)
Length: under 30K total; this chapter, 994 words
Spoilers: through the end of Season Four
Summary: What if Sam and Dean knew one crucial piece of information about the future before Dean's deal came due? Would it have changed everything, or would the end result have been the same? AU version of Season Four, written for spn_30snapshots .
Master table is here. Prompt for this chapter: weeks.
When Dean woke up, he thought for one heart-stopping moment that he was back in Hell. He was flat on his back, unable to move, and the thing looming over him with a knife was wearing his brother's face, twisted in a hateful sneer.
Then the third person in the room registered: Nick, the FBI agent Sam had been palling around with almost since arriving in this podunk town. Dean's foggy brain started putting two and two together, and he didn't like at all what he was coming up with.
"Sam," he said urgently, willing his eyes to focus in the dim light of the room, lit only by the lamp near the door. "Sam, come on, you're stronger than this."
In response, Sam leaned closer, one knee on the bed and one hand splayed out over Dean's chest, pinning him down. His other hand held the knife he usually carried at his waist, held up so that the lamplight glinted off of it. Dean couldn't hold back a shudder, and Sam's mouth widened in a dark smile. For a moment, his eyes looked so black that Dean thought he was possessed, but then he turned his head slightly and Dean realized it was just a trick of the light.
Not that that made the current situation much better.
Starting to struggle, Dean realized with horror that he actually couldn't move. He was bound in place as securely as if with ropes, but there was nothing around his wrists or ankles. What the hell? "Sam, come on," he pleaded.
His brother leaned closer, still not saying a word, fever-bright eyes boring into Dean's. Then he deliberately lowered the knife until Dean could feel its sharp edge kissing his throat, right over his pulse point.
Dean held his breath and looked up. Seeing the familiar, beloved features of his little brother leering at him so tauntingly was more terrifying than feeling the razor-sharp blade at his throat. "Sam," he tried once more, this time a whisper. "Come on, man, fight it."
"There's nothing to fight," Nick spoke up, moving into Dean's field of vision. He laid a careful hand on Sam's shoulder, and the look the younger man gave him in reply made Dean's eyes widen. It was the same need for approval he'd seen on Sam's face a hundred times before, but always aimed at him or Dad. Never at a stranger.
He glared at Nick. "Guess you figured there wasn't much point trying to seduce Sammy in your usual mode, huh?"
"Sam needs a big brother," Nick replied with a casual shrug.
Dean's gut churned. He was about to become another one of the siren's victims, and the only thing keeping him from closing his eyes and just giving in was the thought of what it would do to Sam once he found out what he'd done.
Nick leaned closer, one hand reaching out to gently tug on Sam's wrist. "Give it to me, Sam," he said, and Sam instantly obeyed, sitting back on his heels on the side of the bed and letting go of the knife.
Before Dean could take advantage, Nick's other hand closed over his jaw and forced his mouth open. "Sam's here to kill you, you know. But I thought I should at least make it a fair fight."
With that, he opened his mouth. Dean had just enough time to see what looked like a snake's fangs before a jet of liquid shot out of Nick's mouth and over his own lips. He tried to pull away, but a trickle of the liquid slid into his mouth, and revulsion and dread curled together in his gut.
After a long moment, Dean realized he could move again, and he slowly sat up as Nick backed away. "Go to it," the other man said. "For me."
He looked at Sam, who was calmly staring back at him from a few feet away. "You freak," Dean spat out. "You were holding me down, weren't you?"
"You didn't even know I could! You've had your head buried so far in a bottle these past few weeks, I could be doing fucking anything with these powers, and you wouldn't even know."
"Should have known you'd go dark side," Dean retorted, rising onto his knees, feeling fury thunder through his veins. "Should have known you couldn't handle it." For weeks, he'd ignored Sam practicing something he didn't really want to know about or face, and now it looked like he should have been keeping an eye on the little bitch all along.
"Oh, I can handle it, all right." Sam's lip curled. "Wanna see?"
Dean was already diving for his pillow and the gun underneath it, but before his hands could close around the weapon, he was flying backwards, landing with a thump against the wall.
It was an all-too-familiar position, feet dangling as he hung spread-eagled, but it wasn't a demon restraining him this time. It was his little brother.
Dean glared as Sam approached, twirling the knife between his fingers and smirking. "So much for a fair fight," Sam taunted. "You're hopeless, Dean. Completely worthless."
"At least I don't have demon blood in me," Dean spat back.
"No, and it's too bad for you." Sam raised the knife. "'Cause it's the only thing that could save you."
The voice registered as out of place, but it wasn't until Sam let out a sharp cry and clapped a hand to his suddenly-bloody shoulder that Dean registered it as Bobby. The older man was turning towards Nick, raising the bronze dagger dripping with Sam's blood, and Dean managed a "No!" just as Bobby threw the blade.
Moments later, Dean crashed to the ground, Sam slumping down along with him. They stared at each other, dazed.
How are we going to fix this? Dean thought, and from the bleak expression on Sam's face, he was thinking the same thing.
I've got nothing.