runedgirl | Fade To Black (Not While Your Hand’s In Mine) Ch 1/18

Title: Fade To Black (Not While Your Hand’s In Mine) Ch 1/18
Author: runedgirl
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/demon!Dean

Summary: The brother that Sam gets back isn’t the same, but Sam’s love is. Sam risks everything and leaves everyone he’s ever cared about behind in the desperate hope that the bond between him and Dean might just be strong enough to transcend what hell did to him.
Set post Season 3, seven months after Dean’s deal came due and written over the summer before it was AU, this story just kept writing itself and wouldn’t let go until it was an epic love story in every sense, eventually spanning five decades with enough twists and turns to make me dizzy.

Warning: Demons, thus violence and non-con situations

Beta: Big thanks to K for caring enough to make awesome suggestions *hugs*

AN: Not a WIP – story is finished with 18 chapters. Feedback is adored and promptly savored.

Chapter One
Sam has to hear about him for almost three months before he gets to set eyes on his brother again.

He doesn’t believe them at first, the rumors Bobby shares that hit him like a punch to the gut, make him double over with a mix of panic and revulsion and an incongruous spark of hope that he pushes away as ridiculous.

“Hunter over in Greenville claims there was a demon looked just like your brother,” Bobby says, not sparing Sam the details. “Tracked him to an all-night supermart, got inside just in time to get a good look before he disappeared out the back, but not in time to save the clerk bleedin’ out over the cash register. Says he moved like a big cat. Inhuman, too fast and too smooth, eyes as black as coal but the smile just the same.”

The stories keep coming, hunters’ grapevine reaching Bobby and Bobby reaching Sam. Funny, but Sam doesn’t even think to stop it, doesn’t say he doesn’t wanna hear it, that he can’t hear it without his stomach twisting into knots and roiling with acid. He’s been dead inside for four months, the cold weight of loss and failure eating him up from the inside until the only thing keeping him going is a pathetic attempt to keep trying to save someone who’s already dead. The pain and nausea are the first things he’s felt since that night, and Sam welcomes them as proof that he’s still alive even as he gags on the news.

Three months of rumors, and it feels like forever on top of the four months Dean was just gone, on top of the twelve hours Dean was torn apart and lying dead in Sam’s arms, wide open eyes emerald green and just as inanimate. Sam knows that was his first mistake, his weakness that night, his unwillingness to let his brother go. Sam needed some time, he’d told Bobby -- just a day, just twenty four hours to think, to look, to touch. To say goodbye. To hold his brother in his arms one last time and say I’m sorry

Maybe if Bobby hadn’t called to say he was on his way over. If Bobby hadn’t convinced Sam to take a shower to clear his head. Maybe if Sam hadn’t let Dean’s cold dead body out of his sight, all this wouldn’t have happened. Sam wouldn’t have come out of the shower determined to do what he needed to do, ready to help Bobby build the pyre – only to find the room empty. He never really knew whether to believe Bobby or not when the old man swore up and down that he didn’t do it, that he trusted Sam enough to do it himself when he was ready. The alternative, Sam thinks, is so much worse.

The first time a hunter confronts him and accuses him of letting this happen -- of bringing his brother back --Sam honestly doesn’t know if he’s had anything to do with it or not. Not like he hasn’t been trying, but there’s been no response to any of the spells he’s tried, any of the trances he’s sunk into for days on end to tap into the powers Ruby tauntingly offered him. The ones he refused until it was too late. The hunter describes the mess the demon who looks like Dean left behind in San Diego, and Sam wants desperately to believe he didn’t succeed, that this isn’t his doing.

By the third month and the tenth story, Sam doesn’t care. Only wants to see for himself, lay eyes on his brother the way he does in his dreams, every night, every hour. He thinks of Ruby, clinging to some humanity, eyes bouncing back between black and blue, and fights down the little spark of hope. He has to know.

“Can you find him, Bobby?” Sam’s pleading, but he doesn’t care. “Can you find him and not do the exorcism until I get there? I have to see him – have to know, Bobby. Please. I never got to say goodbye.”

It takes another month. A month of holding his breath, hoping another hunter doesn’t get there first and do what Sam’s always been trained to do. Hunt demons, kill demons. What Dean would do, if he were Dean. Second week of August, and Bobby’s call brings a flood of relief so sharp it almost knocks Sam off his feet, and a simultaneous rush of terror at what he’ll find when he gets to Lebanon, Pennsylvania – or not find.

* * *

The abandoned warehouse is four miles down a curving country road that sees only tractors and farm equipment, and those only occasionally, so it’s amazing that Bobby tracked him here, let alone cornered him. The Devil’s Trap is holding just fine though, no way Bobby would take any chances. It’s been holding the demon that looks like Dean for six hours when Sam slides open the heavy warehouse door, feeling like he’s been holding his breath the entire drive, pushing the Impala as hard as he dares. He wonders if she feels it too, the anticipation and dread of finding him again, the one they both miss.

Sam’s not sure what he expects, but it isn’t this, not this rush of overwhelming love when he sees his brother’s face, the perfectly recognizable stance of his brother’s lean body, the slightly bowed legs and broad shoulders. Neither of them notice him, too engrossed in the dance they’ve been doing for so many hours that it’s exhausted them both. Bobby’s shaky on his feet, voice hoarse and desperate, though still determined. The cement floor beneath the demon is slick and wet, water running in small rivers across the slight slope of the warehouse, and for a moment Sam doesn’t understand. Then Bobby lifts the metal bucket he’s been holding, heaves it high enough to hit the demon squarely in the face, water plastering his hair over his forehead in dripping bangs and soaking through tee shirt and jeans. Holy water.

The demon roars then, wet hands clawing at his saturated clothes, trying frantically to get the strands of soaked hair out of his eyes. There’s steam rising from him all over, and the water hisses everywhere it sears bare flesh, knocking him to his knees and then all the way down, until he’s crouched on hands and knees on the wet concrete, his face – Dean’s face – a mask of twisted agony.

“Who are you?” Bobby’s yelling, “You sonofabitch, who are you? Tell me who you are and then get out of his body, goddammit, I can douse you all fucking night!”

Bobby turns to fill the bucket again while Sam watches frozen to the spot and the demon half turns to watch too, breathing hard but already his handsome face struggling to rearrange itself into a sneer as he faces down Bobby. “I told you, you fucker,” he pants, and even his long damp eyelashes are steaming. “You know who I am. You just don’t wanna fucking believe it.”

The demon ducks his head in an instinctive but futile attempt to avoid the holy water as Bobby raises the bucket again, and Sam catches a glimpse of his face when he does, the sneer melting into a grimace as the demon bites his lip, readying himself for the pain. It’s a Dean expression, a Dean gesture, and the familiarity of it hits Sam in the gut like he’s been punched.

“Don’t, Bobby,” Sam orders, crossing the distance between them and grabbing the handle of the bucket before it can be dumped. Some of the holy water sloshes over the top and splatters over the demon’s hunched back, and he hisses and scrambles as far away as the devil’s trap will allow.

“Sam?! What the hell are you doing? That’s not your brother, and you know it!”

Bobby tries to pull the bucket back, but Sam’s grip tightens and he yanks it back, pulling himself to his full height and closer to Bobby. “Bobby, just –

“Just what, Sam? This is why I didn’t wanna call you, just knew you’d take one look at that – that THING – and see Dean. And that’s not Dean, son, that’s a fucking demon.”

“I know, Bobby, just – just gimme a second, will ya? He’s not going anywhere. Just –

“Sammy,” the demon growls, still crouched on the concrete floor, damp clothes giving off occasional tendrils of steam. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t talk to him, Sam,” Bobby warns, but Sam’s already moving forward, drawn by the sound of his brother’s voice like the proverbial moth to the flame. He thinks maybe he’d happily fry himself in the lamplight if only he could feel the warmth for a little while. He’s been so cold.
Sam eyes the demon cautiously, emotions careening through him so quickly he can’t even get a hold on them. Mistrust, disgust, rage – warring with love, relief, need. The demon eyes him back, pulling himself to a sitting position on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him in wet denim. He moves like Dean, same languid grace, like a panther, dangerous and beautiful. His wet hair’s sticking up in spikes, his freckles stand out on his pale skin, and his eyes are gleaming black. Sam instinctively crouches, bringing them level.

“Who are you?” Sam whispers, struggling to keep his intellect engaged instead of being overcome by his emotions.

“You know who.” The demon’s lips part, full and still wet, and he licks over them, maybe to soothe the remaining sting of the holy water.

“Just because you’re in his body,” Sam starts, but the demon interrupts him, crawls suddenly to the edge of the magic keeping him trapped, as close to Sam as he can get.

“My body,” he corrects, and fuck if he really doesn’t look like a panther now, sinister on hands and knees and the long line of his spine curving sinuously as he moves. “And I’m not fucking giving it up.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bobby says from the other side, readying another bucket of holy water, and the demon hisses his displeasure but never takes his eyes from Sam’s.

“Mine,” he says again, and Sam can hear the determination in his voice, see it in the way his hands curl against the concrete, fisted and ready even as he knows he’s helpless to stop the torture. The Dean-ness of it knocks against Sam’s brain, clenches his heart in his chest. What if this is Dean? What if there’s something of his brother still in there, something he can maybe get to with time, something…

“Sam, get the fuck away from there,” Bobby orders, hand on Sam’s shoulder to pull him back. “You know demons lie, for godsakes boy, don’t forget everything you’ve ever known just because this sonofabitch looks like your brother!”

“I just need to think, Bobby, that’s all. I need a little time to – to get my head around this. Okay? He’s not going anywhere, just – just give me some time.” Sam pauses, runs his hand through his long hair, catches in a tangle and yanks painfully. “Please.”

Bobby shakes his head, but puts the bucket down. He backs away, and Sam knows he should do the same. He stands shakily, but his feet feel pulled forward like they’re following the tug of a receding wave, slipping in wet sand, and Sam can’t stop staring. Dean’s hair is still spiked in the front, gold tipped the way it was the day the hellhounds came for him. His mouth quirks up at one corner, the gesture so familiar it makes Sam’s breath catch. It looks like Dean’s about to share a private joke, punch Sam’s shoulder with easy affection.

“Come closer, Sammy,” he says, and ohgod, Sam wants to.

Sam’s thighs are shaking with the need to move, fists clenched to fight it.

The demon cocks his head to the side, looks up at Sam like he’s trying to figure something out. “You look good, little brother,” he says finally, and Sam swallows hard at the last two words. “Not as good as me, of course.”

“Jerk.” The word’s out before he can stop it, like a Pavlovian response to his brother’s insult, like Sam’s been waiting for endless months just to be able to say it again.

The demon full-out grins. “Bitch,” he says, and Sam’s feet stumble forward without his permission. He wants to scream his brother’s name, plead for Dean to come back, beg for a miracle.

“C’mon Sam,” the demon purrs, “Been so long since I could look at you, hear your voice – you want that, don’t you?”

Sam would whimper, except Bobby’s there, but fuck, it hurts, to want something this bad. He’s close enough to see the way the muscles bunch beneath the tight black tee shirt stretched across the demon’s broad shoulders, the fine golden hairs on his forearms. The glint of his silver ring that used to pop the tops of beer bottles, one for Dean and one for Sam.

“Missed you, Sammy,” the demon whispers, words only for Sam, and Sam drops to his knees, feels the tears sting and his throat ache. He wants those arms around him, wants to feel his brother’s strength, his brother’s love.

“Dean,” he whispers back brokenly, and the demon starts, straightens suddenly like someone snapped their fingers and broke a spell.

The demon sits back on his haunches, still staring at Sam. “Hey Sammy,” he says, as though they were having a normal conversation. As though he hadn’t just lowered his voice, intimate and tender, and admitted missing Sam. As though Dean never died and went to hell and Sam never went through seven months of agony missing him. “You ever think about fucking me?”

Bobby starts so violently he kicks the bucket with one foot, knocks it three feet across the concrete with a screech.

Sam gapes.

“Like before, I mean? You ever think about fucking me? Cuz I did, Sam. I thought about it a lot. For a guy who wasn’t a demon, man, I was sure racking up a lot of points towards gettin’ myself to hell without any help from deals at the crossroads.” He smirks, almost a leer, runs his hands over the hard muscle at the front of his thighs. “I wouldn’t let myself believe it before – all oh no, Sammy would never, blah blah blah – but now that I don’t give a fuck about right and wrong and whatever, I think maybe. Maybe you’ve thought about it too. Huh, Sam? Thought about your big cock up this fine ass?”

Sam only finds enough voice to squeak out a “What?” before Bobby intervenes, ignores Sam’s request and douses the demon with the full bucket. He goes straight to the floor this time, curling up on himself with a scream and clutching his knees to his chest as though if he can make himself small enough, he can avoid the flood.

“Fuck, Bobby, I said wait! Can you just fucking wait?” Sam grabs the empty bucket and keeps it clenched in one fist this time, confused and embarrassed and furious.

“You wanna stand here and listen to that sick twisted crap from that sick twisted thing, you go right ahead,” Bobby shoots back, “But I don’t have to. Just don’t let the fucking thing out.” Sam can see Bobby’s fatigue as he goes, feet almost shuffling across the floor instead of Bobby’s usual hunter’s stride, and then they’re alone. Sam and the demon.

He comes back to himself more slowly this time, and the hunter part of Sam’s brain takes note that each time the demon endures the holy water, it weakens him more. He doesn’t get up, just turns his head to look at Sam from the floor, small shudders of pain running through him as the water evaporates slowly, and his mouth is clenched tight and miserable. Angry.

“Why did you ask me that?” Sam manages, and he can hear the misery in his own voice. Demons lie. But not always.

“Because I wanted to know,” the demon says, and the tone of his voice is so matter of fact, Sam’s hard pressed not to believe at least that one small admission.

“I’m not gonna answer,” Sam finally tells him.

The demon closes his black eyes, long wet lashes fanning down over his cheeks pink with the burn of the holy water and voice still hitching with pain as he takes away the only thing that makes him look like not-Dean and gives Sam an invitation to see what he wants to so desperately.

“You already did,” he says.

Chapter 2