Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Warnings: hurt!Dean, powers!Sam, lots o’blood, and a touch of wincest.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically “All Hell Breaks Loose” parts 1 and 2.

Summary: Dean is taken as bait in a trap for his brother. Sam battles for what’s his and the aftermath will leave him forever changed.

Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: R for Wincest, language, horrific imagery

Beta’d by the most wonderful fortitudeisme, who is lovely to work with. Thank you very much, my dear.

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Heart Eater

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

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Chapter Three

Stepping away from the loft’s edge, Sam straightens to his full height. Outwardly, Sam’s actions are calm, calculating. The hot air beads his skin with sweat, but fury sears his insides. Every part of his essence screams and liquefies, erupting within him like a lava flow— his soul feels destroyed.

The rage-fueled pounding in his chest is cruel, thumping failure, failure. His own heart beats while Dean’s does not— cannot—

Ever since Cold Oak, Sam’s anger and frustration had deepened, maturing like a fine wine. All swagger and charm, Dean dismissed it, as if his life was unworthy of consideration, as if throwing it away for Sam was exactly what he was born to do. That callousness belittled Sam, who cherished Dean, kept him close like no other in his life.

He and Dean, helplessly entangled and complicated, danced around each other. Sam resigned himself to the sidestep, hoping that before the year was up he’d convince Dean to do something to save himself, to want to be saved. But it’s too late now. Sam had consoled himself with the notion of time, but now he doesn’t even have that.

Losing Dean is like losing half his heart, impossible to survive. Sam loves Dean, the feeling so big and full Sam thinks he can’t take it, and the loss of it— the loss of Dean— rends a gap so wide it is irreparable.

The former goddess takes an uncertain step away from him. The brazen smile she had worn so easily is gone now. Unblinking, Sam tracks her movements like an untamed animal.

“Sam,” she says, setting an edge to Dean’s voice. “It’s over now. Don’t let his death have been in vain.”

Black anger rises up in Sam, fast and dark, and the intensity shocks him. He moves without meaning to, but once he’s going he doesn’t stop, barreling towards her recklessly, a powerhouse of wrath.

Once again, he feels her attempts at restriction circling him. Her efforts no longer bind like rope, but gossamer web, and Sam easily breaks free. Slipping the darkness on like one wears a sweater, Sam feels almost comforted by the enigmatic power, a streak of gladness that he might find solace in the revenge this ability will grant him.

She scrabbles back, frantic, unnerved, as if she’s the one who is being attacked, and Sam realizes that she’s afraid of him.

She needs my heart, but she’s afraid to take it, Sam thinks. This was the reason for the subterfuge. She went after Dean first to weaken me. Dean is dead now because of it— because of me—

Despite having been a goddess, she is too afraid of Sam to go at him directly because, of all the things on this earth, she recognizes that Sam is the only one who can destroy her outright.

A surge of darkness swells inside him and Sam doesn’t fight it, lets it overtake him.

Sam doesn’t touch her, and yet she sails across the loft through the shadows, slams into the wall and stays there, pinned like a collected butterfly. Sam doesn’t know how he makes it happen, only that he’s hurting and wants to hurt her too.

He should be frightened of this power— he should be appalled, but he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s not thinking of anything at the moment because that requires Sam to process what has happened and he can’t quite cope with the idea that his brother is dead— your brother’s in hell. It’s a bit too big, too vast and endless for Sam to handle. He failed Dean before he ever really had the chance to try to save him.

“Please,” she implores, and now she’s begging for her life. In this moment, Sam can make her do anything.

“Bring him back,” Sam demands.

She shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says. “I don’t have the power to. Not yet—.”

Sam shakes her, throttling the words from her throat. It’s a final power play for his heart, but Sam knows that even if he let her claw through his chest and take it, she wouldn’t bring Dean back.

“Please,” she says again. “He’s not— not—.” She swallows thickly, trying to get a breath past Sam’s intangible grip. “Please,” she whispers.

“You think you can play with my heart this way?” Sam hisses. “It’s not yours to play with. And—,” he pauses, words catching in his tightening throat, “it’s not mine to give you.”

Incensed, and with the very cause of his anguish under his fingertips, Sam lets the power flow through him. The walls shake, the old boards rattling against each other. Flashes of Dean blink through his mind: running ahead of him, laughing, grin as bright as the sun, calloused hands gentle on the back of his neck, hazel eyes flushed with upset and worry, behind the wheel of the Impala lost in thought, blood-spattered but exhilarated, breathing softly from the next bed, intense focus devoted entirely to him—

Dean envelops Sam, surrounds him entirely, for there is no part of his life that is not measured against his brother. Without him, Sam feels hollowed out and empty, gutted.

A burst of energy courses through him, hot and driving, and the world goes white.

A second later, or maybe it’s an eternity, Sam opens his eyes, sees the remnants of the loft quaking above him, the boards splintered and dangling. Flecks of disintegrated wood and hashed bits of hay rain down from overhead. Somehow he’s on the ground level, lying on his back, staring up at the roof. The row of animal stalls, where Dean’s body cools, is to his right.

Can’t, Sam thinks. Can’t face it yet.

Sam turns his head and rolls onto his side, dirt beneath his cheek. It feels cold and wet against his skin and Sam realizes his eyes are tearing, silent drops tracking down his face, pooling along the earth.

Dazed, he sits himself up, his ears roaring. He feels strange, like he’s mixed Percocet with alcohol and the world wavers around him.

The creature is a few feet away, crumpled in an accumulation of her own blood. On hands and knees, Sam stumbles over to her, crawling over fractured wooden beams and twisted bits of metal, fragments of the destroyed loft floor.

Sam peers over her. Her eyes are open, dimmed, and she lies unmoving. At first Sam thinks she’s dead until breathless words leave her lips.

“I used to be a goddess, revered, feared… now you are the feared one.” She still has Dean’s voice, and though she’s no longer using it to get a rise out of him, it does anyway.

He doesn’t want to hear it, the defeated tone, the sound of Dean dying, yet he can’t turn away, devouring every word because it’s his last chance to hear his brother’s voice.

“No one will remember me,” she whimpers. “Save one.” Her dark eyes glitter, locking onto his, and she lifts her chin smugly. “There was always a wicked power lying dormant inside of you, but I unleashed it— Not the legacy I sought, but I will take it.”

Black blood leaks from her mouth, and out of her ears. Sam has crushed her without lifting a finger. “You will always remember what I did to you— how I changed you. You will keep me in your memory until the end of your days.”

Repulsed, Sam knows she is right. Vengeance did not mollify the deep sorrow crippling him, and he will never forget this goddess of old and how she took what he loved most from him. There’s one thing, though, that might soothe his torment over time.

“Give me back his voice,” Sam demands.

She smiles, mirthless. “Take it,” she says, licking her lips.

Sam leans over her, wrathful and contemptuous, and presses his mouth to hers. He’s forceful and unforgiving, thinking only of taking the last remains of his brother from her filthy clutches. There’s a moment of heat and discomfort as Dean’s voice passes from her to Sam. He’s not sure how it happens exactly, only that it’s his now. The she-creature stiffens against him, life seizing out of her. Sam pulls back, scrambling away from the body and spits the blood from his mouth.

The barn vibrates, shivering in time with his trembling body.

Feeling sick, Sam wraps his arms around his chest. His heart hurts. A guttural laugh escapes him— it’s Dean’s laugh— and Sam laughs even harder— he’s come undone.

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He’s being shaken awake, the tremors forceful enough to wake him with a start. No— Earthquake, Dean thinks, wondering if they are common to Texas.

Dust flies down around him. The old building groans, the sound of snapping wood bristles in his ears. Lifting his head from the floor, a tidal wave of agony crashes into him and Dean lets his skull drop back against the dirt with an audible thwap. It takes him a moment to remember what has happened, thoughts flittering around in his mind, but the pain pretty much tells a clear tale.

Suddenly he remembers Sam and there’s more than just the impending barn collapse to motivate him.

Get up, Dean, he thinks. Get up, get up!

Dean realizes that she was holding him down with some sort of power, but that’s gone now, and so Dean forces himself to rise to his feet. He tries to think about what it means now that he can move when he couldn’t before, but his mind can only focus on one thing at a time right now, and his attention is better spent on keeping himself upright. White specks swirl through his vision like fireflies. At least two of his ribs are broken and he can’t pull himself up straight. He’s lost an amazing amount of blood— even he can admit that. Dean wraps an arm around his chest and lurches toward the stall door.

The first thing he sees is Sam— thank God, Sammy!— on his knees, hunched over in defeat. Bathed in light from the open door, Sam casts a long silhouette.

The she-creature lies in his shadow, the life wrung out of her, crumpled, dead. Black blood pools around her body, nearly obscured by his shape.

Sammy, he tries to call, forgetting that his voice is gone. His brother doesn’t look up, doesn’t know he’s standing there. Dirt and flecks of debris roll away from him as if Sam is the epicenter of the storm.

The breath goes from his lungs when he realizes that Sam is the cause of the seismic wave. He has to get to his brother. Dean staggers towards Sam and it’s as if he’s walking against the polar force of a magnet.

A beam from the rafters shakes loose, clipping Dean’s shoulder as it falls to the ground. The glancing blow ripples a shockwave of pain through his injured chest. He sways, but doesn’t fall. Splinters flake down from the roof like hail, littering the ground with wood flecks. The barn is coming down. Though decrepit and rotted, its collapse would surely crush them.

Dean doesn’t know what has happened, only that his brother is distraught. He tries not to think about what shaking earth and telekinetic repulsion means for Sam. The only thought he allows himself is, Gotta get to Sam. It breaks his heart to see his brother this distressed.

Not having a voice is frustrating as hell. He’s never wanted to talk so badly in his life. Stop it, Sam, he thinks. Let me in.

But Sam doesn’t see him. Dean fights the flow, no easy feat in his condition, but the struggle is trivial when set against his brother’s pain. He falls to his knees and finds it easier to pull his way along the ground.

I’m coming, Sammy, Dean thinks. Hold onto yourself.

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The whole barn is shaking, the weathered boards trembling in their places. The paths of light vibrate, too, as if quaking with fear all around him. But Sam doesn’t notice this. He’s too grief-ravaged. There’s a hole torn in him, and he’s hemorrhaging vital parts of selfand sin, but Sam is unable to stop the darkness from pouring out even if he wanted to.

Dean. Sam can’t bring himself to face his brother’s body—

But then Dean is stumbling towards him. Sam’s vision eclipses and suddenly hands slide over his shoulders, travel down his arms and back up, fitting on either side of his face, forcibly turning him away.

Sam doesn’t understand. Dean’s heart is gone, ripped from his chest, how can he be standing before him now? But Sam looks into his eyes and knows it’s his brother— my Dean.

Dean is insistent, worried, his eyes always a darker, more intense shade when he worries. Sam thinks fleetingly how Dean’s eyes have a color just for him. For the moment, Sam ignores the question on Dean’s face and finds an answer of his own. Sam palms Dean’s cheek, lets his hand fall and slide gently over Dean’s chest, fingers finding the beat beneath blood soaked shirt and skin. Alive, very much alive.

Dean, Sam realizes and slowly his dark focus is entirely on his brother.

Dean’s more than a little worried now, but still, Sam can’t do anything except feel the sweet thrill of relief knowing that there’s time.

He looks frightened, Sam muses and Dean’s touching him, hands insistent. He can’t talk; his voice is still missing. Sam sags a little, twenty-four or not, Dean is still his safe haven. God, Dean— Dean.

Sam takes Dean’s face between his large hands, brushing his cheeks with his thumbs. “You okay?” Sam asks, and its Dean’s gritty voice that comes out. Dean pulls back, startled, but Sam’s got him in his grip now. It’s a good thing too because the blood loss makes him sway and lose balance.

Sam has him, pulling Dean in close before he can fall, easing him down. Sam buries his face in his shoulder, presses hot tears into his shirt. I can’t take it, Sam thinks. God, I love you.

Dean is still looking at Sam with wide, concerned eyes. Sam can’t help it, puts his hand over the bloodstain on Dean’s chest again— his heart beats now, but in less than a year, it won’t.

“I thought you were dead,” Sam whispers, and again it’s in Dean’s voice. It’s bizarre to hear it come out of his mouth. Dean touches his face, then brushes his fingers over the bloody claw marks on Sam’s chest, asking without words.

Sam clears his throat, and with a concentrated effort he forces his own voice back up. “I’m okay,” Sam says. Now that Dean is in Sam’s grasp, the barn has conspicuously stopped shaking and the flow of darkness has ebbed.

Sam’s not convinced he is entirely okay. He’s pretty sure he just killed something without needing a weapon, but Dean’s the one bleeding all over the place. He still has his heart, Sam thinks. And so I still have mine.

Dean takes a fistful of Sam’s shirt, frustrated by his lack of voice. He’s not buying it. He knows something’s happened here in this barn, something that has changed Sam.

Sam sees him wince at the effort. Broken ribs, Sam thinks. Maybe a punctured lung. They need to get out of here. First things first, though— Dean needs his voice back. It’s a warm presence inside of him that Sam feels strangely in command of.

Smiling, Sam knows just how to return it, knows that his brother is going to have a fit.

“Dean, your voice,” Sam says softly, pausing until Dean’s hazel eyes are boring into his own. “I need to give your voice back the way that she took it.”

Dean leans back from him, shaking his head with a you gotta be kidding me look. Hurt and beyond worried, Dean is on the cusp of a major freak-out.

Sam runs his hands over Dean’s scalp, fingers carding through the short hair, and down around his face, cupping his jaw between two large palms. “Let me,” Sam says. “Just let me.”

His brother holds his gaze for a moment before nodding his head, accepting.

Sam leans close, forehead against Dean’s. He waits there. Sam feels his breath soft against his cheek, then noses closer, hovering just— Sam’s mouth rolls gently over Dean’s, kissing him hesitantly at first. As he works his jaw open, tasting blood in his mouth, is sure now his lungs have been punctured, Sam deepens the kiss. A surge of warmth, momentary pain, but Sam doesn’t stop kissing him, even though he knows his voice has been returned.

I’ve got to save you, Sam thinks, and it’s beyond strange to be kissing his brother while realizing there’s no life without him. They break to breathe, this close Sam hears the wheeze. It’s sinful, but a part of Sam yearns for the contact, the sweet taste of Dean’s mouth against his own, a display of love too long denied him.

They stay together, foreheads touching, sharing the same breath, when Sam is struck with such a strong notion— a terrible, wonderful idea— that he starts laughing, low and throaty, finds he can’t stop, knows he sounds insane. Maybe he is.

“Sam?” Dean says, testing his voice.

Sam leans in, laughs into another forceful kiss before breaking away, helping Dean to his feet.

Sam knows how to save Dean now, how to break the deal. He slings an arm around Dean’s waist, fingers fitting just above his hip, curling beneath his shirt to touch his warm skin. They both struggle to stand, but with Dean’s body flush against his side, Sam finds strength.

What’s more powerful than a demon? He muses as they stumble towards the open doorway. A God. Thinking— knowing— somehow he’ll have control over one, just like he did today.

Fin

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A/N: I hoped you liked it! This fic was a little bit of a stretch for me, but I really enjoyed writing it. Please don’t forget to check out the artwork.

At the time of this writing, I have thoughts on expanding this story!verse with a companion piece.

Thanks everybody! :)