Supernatural fanfic: Give Me Back The Berlin Wall

Title: Give Me Back The Berlin Wall
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 1400
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Warnings/enticements: Incest, dubious con, dark/adult themes

Summary: Love is not insanity. It is survival.

Author notes: Although this story was written for the Soul Overturned evil!Sam Fic/Vid/Art Challenge, it really is more about Dean than about Sam, evil or otherwise. The song that inspired the fic is The Future by Leonard Cohen, and the story title and the italicised verses at the beginning of each section are all direct quotations from the lyrics. Many thanks to my marvellous beta-reader virtualinsomnia who valiantly suffers through all the angst I throw at her, and without whom this story would be painful to read for all the wrong reasons.

Now also in Russian: Read the Russian translation by eva_lain  here or here.

 

( Give Me Back The Berlin Wall )

Dean never answers. He’s not crazy. 

 

Jess showed up once too, silhouetted in the doorway like the world’s sexiest hallucination, honey-blond hair falling in silky strands around her face. She was gorgeous, and Dean could really understand what Sam saw in her.

He almost touched her himself, kneeling on the floor, arms outstretched. His fingers brushed the hem of her white dress, a smell like sunshine filling the air, and Dean wanted it, ached for it, but she was there to take him away, and he wouldn’t go. 

Won’t go. Not without Sam.

 

***

your servant here, he has been told
to say it clear, to say it cold
it's over, it ain't going
any further

 

Every evening they come to see him. 

“Hello Dean,” notSam says. “I brought dinner. You should eat more.”

“Hello Sammy,” Dean says, and looks through the expensive shirt, through flesh and bone, so that Sam knows Dean’s talking to him and not anyone else. “Best not waste such a delicious meal then. Have to keep my strength up, don’t I?”

They sit down at the table.

“I could use you out there, Dean,” notSam tells him. “We’re brothers; half of everything is yours. All you need to do is take it.”

“This is actually pretty good. Guess they kept the gourmet chefs around, huh?” The steak is so tender even a plastic knife cuts through it like butter.

There’s a crash as the water pitcher hits the wall. “I’m offering you the world on a fucking plate, you stupid sonofabitch! The world!” Dean’s hand is suddenly pinned to the table, held immobile with enough force to make his bones grind.

NotSam hasn’t moved an inch.

“Remember Bobby’s cooking? You’d never think it to look at him, but that man sure knew his way around the kitchen.” Dean slowly reaches over with his left hand, extricates the fork from the numb fingers of his right and resumes eating.

“That one time we came back from a hunt – the male covenant in Jackson, you remember Sammy? – and every fucking joint in the country was closed because it was Christmas Day, and you said…” Dean grins as wide as he can, anything, everything, for his little brother. “… you said ‘Let’s go see if Bobby has a turkey big enough for us’ and so we went. I’ve never eaten that much in my life.”

NotSam is looking at his clenched fists and clearly not listening. It doesn’t matter though; Dean knows that Sam is.
 

 

***

give me absolute control
over every living soul
and lie beside me, baby
that's an order

 

Strong hands are pushing his head down, the white cotton cold like snow, his mouth split open across the bed. It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay. You’re not hurting me. The words soak into the pillow, muffled truths given freely.

He refuses the food on occasion for fear of poison, refuses to listen to the lies, refuses to give up, but he never refuses this.

There’s the blunt pressure of teeth at the back of his neck, and Dean arches into it, shuddering. The desperate, needy noises that escape unbidden are not all his, though the blood usually is. Pleasure like thorns tears through all the open places of him, and he is drifting away, inside out and weightless.

Sometimes Dean lets himself think about that first time in Des Moines, sometimes the rest stop just outside of Albany; the feel of hot leather sticking to his knees and the dashboard digging into his back, and Sam, slick and gasping under him as Dean grinds down again and again and—

Sometimes Dean lets himself come, the memories spilling from his mouth like holy water, so Sam knows what it is that’s brought him off.

 

***

I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
but love's the only engine of survival

 

NotSam doesn’t always stay the night, but Dean likes it when he does. He can talk to Sam then, without anyone else listening. Shh, shh. It’s going to be fine, I swear. Can touch him, palm skimming the lazy curve of a shoulder blade. Just hang in there, bro. Kiss the rise of bone, the long sweep of spine disappearing under the covers. For me, Sam. Please. Carefully, so as not to wake the other one, just a brush of lips against sleepy soft skin that smells so much like Sam that Dean is afraid he’ll forget the difference one day. I won’t ever. Not ever.

The mornings are always red and black, like volcanoes. A firestorm rides the world now; its epicentre, its living heart, beating right here in this room on the seventeenth floor of the last building standing.

“It’s me, Dean. It’s me!” The walls are shaking, and the air reeks of ozone. “You have to see it! You must know!”

But the years have melted Dean into hard glass, transparent and unbreakable, and the only thing he knows, the only thing he loves, is his brother, and whoever this is, it’s not him.

“See you tonight, Sammy,” Dean says, feet touching the base of the mirror. In the reflection a pair of hazel eyes catch his; one man, two men, three. Dean holds the gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The door slam vibrates through the floor and into the bones of his back. Dean curls up smoothly, his body falling into the rhythm like a lover, like a promise. One, he counts.

Two.

Three.

Fin.

 

Supernatural fanfic: Give Me Back The Berlin Wall

Title: Give Me Back The Berlin Wall
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 1400
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Warnings/enticements: Incest, dubious con, dark/adult themes

Summary: Love is not insanity. It is survival.

Author notes: Although this story was written for the Soul Overturned evil!Sam Fic/Vid/Art Challenge, it really is more about Dean than about Sam, evil or otherwise. The song that inspired the fic is The Future by Leonard Cohen, and the story title and the italicised verses at the beginning of each section are all direct quotations from the lyrics. Many thanks to my marvellous beta-reader virtualinsomnia who valiantly suffers through all the angst I throw at her, and without whom this story would be painful to read for all the wrong reasons.

Now also in Russian: Read the Russian translation by eva_lain  here or here.

 

( Give Me Back The Berlin Wall )

Dean never answers. He’s not crazy. 

 

Jess showed up once too, silhouetted in the doorway like the world’s sexiest hallucination, honey-blond hair falling in silky strands around her face. She was gorgeous, and Dean could really understand what Sam saw in her.

He almost touched her himself, kneeling on the floor, arms outstretched. His fingers brushed the hem of her white dress, a smell like sunshine filling the air, and Dean wanted it, ached for it, but she was there to take him away, and he wouldn’t go. 

Won’t go. Not without Sam.

 

***

your servant here, he has been told
to say it clear, to say it cold
it's over, it ain't going
any further

 

Every evening they come to see him. 

“Hello Dean,” notSam says. “I brought dinner. You should eat more.”

“Hello Sammy,” Dean says, and looks through the expensive shirt, through flesh and bone, so that Sam knows Dean’s talking to him and not anyone else. “Best not waste such a delicious meal then. Have to keep my strength up, don’t I?”

They sit down at the table.

“I could use you out there, Dean,” notSam tells him. “We’re brothers; half of everything is yours. All you need to do is take it.”

“This is actually pretty good. Guess they kept the gourmet chefs around, huh?” The steak is so tender even a plastic knife cuts through it like butter.

There’s a crash as the water pitcher hits the wall. “I’m offering you the world on a fucking plate, you stupid sonofabitch! The world!” Dean’s hand is suddenly pinned to the table, held immobile with enough force to make his bones grind.

NotSam hasn’t moved an inch.

“Remember Bobby’s cooking? You’d never think it to look at him, but that man sure knew his way around the kitchen.” Dean slowly reaches over with his left hand, extricates the fork from the numb fingers of his right and resumes eating.

“That one time we came back from a hunt – the male covenant in Jackson, you remember Sammy? – and every fucking joint in the country was closed because it was Christmas Day, and you said…” Dean grins as wide as he can, anything, everything, for his little brother. “… you said ‘Let’s go see if Bobby has a turkey big enough for us’ and so we went. I’ve never eaten that much in my life.”

NotSam is looking at his clenched fists and clearly not listening. It doesn’t matter though; Dean knows that Sam is.
 

 

***

give me absolute control
over every living soul
and lie beside me, baby
that's an order

 

Strong hands are pushing his head down, the white cotton cold like snow, his mouth split open across the bed. It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay. You’re not hurting me. The words soak into the pillow, muffled truths given freely.

He refuses the food on occasion for fear of poison, refuses to listen to the lies, refuses to give up, but he never refuses this.

There’s the blunt pressure of teeth at the back of his neck, and Dean arches into it, shuddering. The desperate, needy noises that escape unbidden are not all his, though the blood usually is. Pleasure like thorns tears through all the open places of him, and he is drifting away, inside out and weightless.

Sometimes Dean lets himself think about that first time in Des Moines, sometimes the rest stop just outside of Albany; the feel of hot leather sticking to his knees and the dashboard digging into his back, and Sam, slick and gasping under him as Dean grinds down again and again and—

Sometimes Dean lets himself come, the memories spilling from his mouth like holy water, so Sam knows what it is that’s brought him off.

 

***

I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
but love's the only engine of survival

 

NotSam doesn’t always stay the night, but Dean likes it when he does. He can talk to Sam then, without anyone else listening. Shh, shh. It’s going to be fine, I swear. Can touch him, palm skimming the lazy curve of a shoulder blade. Just hang in there, bro. Kiss the rise of bone, the long sweep of spine disappearing under the covers. For me, Sam. Please. Carefully, so as not to wake the other one, just a brush of lips against sleepy soft skin that smells so much like Sam that Dean is afraid he’ll forget the difference one day. I won’t ever. Not ever.

The mornings are always red and black, like volcanoes. A firestorm rides the world now; its epicentre, its living heart, beating right here in this room on the seventeenth floor of the last building standing.

“It’s me, Dean. It’s me!” The walls are shaking, and the air reeks of ozone. “You have to see it! You must know!”

But the years have melted Dean into hard glass, transparent and unbreakable, and the only thing he knows, the only thing he loves, is his brother, and whoever this is, it’s not him.

“See you tonight, Sammy,” Dean says, feet touching the base of the mirror. In the reflection a pair of hazel eyes catch his; one man, two men, three. Dean holds the gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The door slam vibrates through the floor and into the bones of his back. Dean curls up smoothly, his body falling into the rhythm like a lover, like a promise. One, he counts.

Two.

Three.

Fin.