Hands, Eyes, Hearts - A Collection of Supernatural Drabbles

9 // Sam (Boy King)

Black were the nights while he was gone.

Black are the wings that carried his savior.

Black on black are the souls that are writhing,

and black are the eyes that behold them now.

"I shouldn't be so surprised, I guess," Sam says, tracing a fingertip along the rim of a delicate goblet. He sounds a little shell-shocked. Distant. "There was never a less accurate tenet than 'what's dead should stay dead', not for us."

"You wanted me down below?" Dean asks, before he can help himself. "You wanted me on the racks?" He's getting tired of holding himself so tense, but he can't relax. Not even for an instant. Sam is so quick. He killed that angel, the one that grabbed Dean's hand and hauled him upward so quickly that Dean's eyes stung — and he was able to pin Dean a good percentage before the deal was up. Now?

Dean doesn't know if he'll survive this.

"You were good at what you did, when you decided to do it," Sam says lightly, like they're not talking about Dean torturing lost souls. "I never got any complaints."

This statement boggles Dean's mind, and he blinks before deciding he doesn't even want to go there. "I've always been a killer," he says.

"You weren't killing down there."

"It still fits."

"You know what?" Sam gives a little laugh. "I don't want to argue with you. I'm just glad to see you." The beaming grin he turns on Dean is so familiar, framed with his baby brother's dimples, that Dean aches to see it set beneath a pair of black eyes. "I missed you, Dean," Sam says softly. He moves nearer, like he wants to hug Dean, like it's all fine.

It's not fine. Not any of it.

Dean acts like he's inspecting something on a nearby credenza, picking it up so he doesn't have to see the flash of disappointment on Sam's face and oh, God, what is this thing? It's spiky and cold. He quickly puts it down.

He feels like he's been torn in two, like he'll never be able to make sense of what's happened, and he's warring with himself. He knows how he feels about demons, and Hell. His time in the deep downstairs didn't change that. He knows how he feels about his brother, too, so. How in all that's fucking holy is he supposed to rationalize the two?

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean turns to face him. There's a humid quality to the air, but it's not from the actual atmosphere, which in fact is so cold that the tip of Dean's nose is starting to feel numb. With a stumble to the steady beat of his heart, Dean realizes that what he's feeling is power building all around them.

When he meets Sam's eyes, they're hazel again, but the mood of the room hasn't changed for the better.

"Why are you avoiding me?" Sam asks. He sounds like a little kid again, like he did before Dean shattered the illusion and told him monsters were real. "I'm still me."

"You're not," Dean says shortly. He can't help it. Ultimately, this is what he was raised to do. He had to do it to Dad, he had to do it to Sam once before, and he's gonna do it again and again, however many times it takes. "I know my family," he says, his voice gruff, "and they ain't got black eyes."

"Neither do I," Sam says, jaw clenching briefly.

"You wanna use that power you're ramping up, and tell me again?"

Dean gets obstinate when he's outmanned. He supposes it's a character flaw; it's served him far worse than better. He likes to think, though, that it's part of what makes him adorable.

He squashes down the part of him that always tells him he's a bloodstained sack of shit.

Sam huffs, closes his eyes and turns away, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's always done to give him patience when Dean is being unreasonable. They're standing in Hell, Sam is ruling Hell, and Dean is being unreasonable.

"I wanted you to see things the way I see them," Sam says after a minute. Dean still sees him in profile, those sharp angles ever lengthening. Sam will never be done growing. "I wanted to show you."

Dean tenses all over, and it aches. He was already so tense. Now, it's anticipation. That's worse. Prickles all over his skin; nobody's getting laid at the end of this night, no scratch for that itch.

Sam turns, his eyes flooding black again, this time over a little pained curl of a snarl to his lip.

Like he has no choice but to do this.

"I guess those pretty greens of yours will always be blind, huh?"

Sam brings up a hand, waves it almost nonchalantly. Dean goes flying back and strikes the wall with such force that it steals his breath and squeezes a whimper from his throat.

With inhuman speed, Sam is there, those long, strong fingers of his closing gently around Dean's throat. His callused thumb caresses Dean's artery. Dean can't move, there's a gag of power holding down his voice, and he grunts like a missing evolutionary link trying to tell Sam he doesn't have to do this, he can be saved, even though Dean doesn't know if he believes it.

His eyes skip over every inch of Sam's face.

"You've shown me so much." Sam sounds like he might cry, the burr of his voice growing thick behind a regretful smile. "I guess it's only fair that I'm the last thing you see."

Sam's eyes stay hazel as his thumb and fingers begin to press in.