This was an idea that came to me when I first heard that the boys would be doing battle with faeries in episode 6.09, and that they would be dealing with 'real' faeries; the malign, spiteful creatures of ancient lore, not the revolting pink, sparkly things of popular culture.
Faerie lore is some of the darkest, most sinister lore there is, and is littered with stories of people being scared to death, fading away of a broken heart or simply losing their minds, and this was what I am looking to convey in this story - as well as just indulging my vulnerable Dean/protective Sam preference.
Tom Matthews, my OC who has previously been seen in my stories 'Dry' and 'Hair of the Dog' and subsequently in 'Man in the Mirror', all of which can be found at Fanfiction.net under my pen name (Dizzo), makes an appearance in this story. A word on Tom, for those who have not met him: Bobby describes him as an old friend, a Doctor who runs an 'off the books' clinic looking after hunters. He is short and plump with expressive dark brown eyes. In their first meeting when Dean was, once again in bad straights, Sam liked him and trusted him on sight.
This story contains details of a non-consensual sexual act in chapter 3. If this sort of thing troubles you or triggers you, PLEASE DO NOT READ!
Oh, and finally, although this story is not AU, it also bears no particular resenblance to canon, so Sam is not soulless.
I'll post a chapter a day (approximately), and there are 13 chapters.
So, without further ado ...
THE DARKEST REALM
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, OC
Spoilers/warnings: spoilers for 6.09, Clap Your Hands if you Believe
Word count: (13 chapters): 26,500
Disclaimer: I don't own them
Summary: when the faeries abducted Dean, and he fought his way back - what if they really - I mean, really - liked what they saw?
Sam let out a long sigh as he sat slumped on his bed and glanced at his watch; midnight. Even at this late hour, the sluggishly still air was thick with humidity and stiflingly warm. He felt like he could wring himself out.
What a night.
Every time he accompanied Dean out to a local bar, he came back remembering exactly why he hated accompanying Dean out to a local bar.
A whole evening of listening to deafening mullet rock music, drinking revolting gassy beer, keeping a weather eye on Dean to make sure his smart mouth didn't invite someone to wrap a pool cue round his neck, and politely fending off local airheads with the conversational skills of a doorknob had left him completely drained.
With a tired groan, he heaved himself up from his bed and hammered on the locked bathroom door. "Move it along dude, I need a pee."
A faint voice drifted over the hiss of the shower; "cork it, I'm busy."
Sam's head drooped and he gave the door one last exasperated thump before trudging back to the bed, squirming miserably as he sat.
When Dean eventually emerged from the bathroom through a cloud of scented steam, his face and chest still flushed a healthy pink from his hot shower, he was sporting the most annoying grin he could muster.
"Hey Sammy, bathroom's free," he announced innocently, towelling his damp hair.
Sam dashed past his brother without a word, slamming the door behind him and ignoring Dean's stifled chuckle as he watched him go.
Throwing his damp towel over the back of a chair, Dean pulled on a threadbare pair of grey sweatpants and briefly arranged his tousled hair with his fingertips before wearily stretching out on his bed. He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.
He cracked open an eye a few moments later as he heard the bathroom door open, and smiled. "Hey Sammy, better out than in huh?" he muttered casually.
Sam's eyes narrowed as he shucked his jeans and stepped into his sweatpants; "bite me," he grunted in return and wearily stomped over to his bed.
Perched on the edge of the bed he pulled off his socks, rolling them into a tight ball and launched them across the room to hit Dean squarely in the side of the face.
Dean's nose wrinkled in disgust, "oh gross dude;" he gingerly picked the balled socks off his bed by his fingertips and dropped them on the floor. He glanced across at his brother; "I hope your freakin' aim was good in there."
Sam grinned evilly, "guess you'll never know."
"Infant," grunted Dean, hoisting himself up onto his elbow and directing a loud belch in Sam's direction.
"Woah, that tasted a lot better on the way down."
Sam grimaced, and with a shake of the head he climbed into the bed, switching the wall light off and pulling the quilt up over his head in a manner that indicated the exchange was at an end.
Sitting in the darkness, Dean listened to Sam shifting in his bed as he searched for a comfortable position. He arched into a weary stretch, yawning widely as he scratched his armpit, then settled down into his own bed.
Sleep came quickly to both brothers.
Sam jerked awake with a start, at first unsure of what it was that woke him.
He sat blinking through the darkness for a moment, trembling slightly as he tried to shake a sense of unease that had gripped him when he snapped into wakefulness.
As his sleep-muzzed vision cleared, he saw the glowing numbers on the clock beside him; two thirty am.
A sense of calm descended over him and he scraped a hand over his face, slowly realising what had woken him. The thickly still moist air of the previous evening, had given way to a violent storm which raged above them, driving a howling wind that rattled the rotting window sashes. Sam got up and wandered dreamily across the room to look out at the swirling soup of murderous grey green clouds that tumbled slowly across the night sky.
With an absent scratch of the head he wandered back to his bed, stopping to glance across at his brother and shook his head in wonderment. Dean lay flat on his belly, blissfully lost in the deepest of sleeps, hugging his pillow, and completely oblivious of the furious tempest.
The following morning, Sam was first to wake.
Sitting on the side of his bed he dopily blinked his way back into awareness, as he arched into a long and satisfying stretch.
Glancing back at the other bed, he noticed with amusement that Dean was still flat out; belly down, fast asleep. Nothing more than an unmoving lump under a rumpled quilt.
He shook his head with a wry grin; man, what the hell had Dean been drinking last night?
Standing up, he padded barefoot toward the bathroom, yelling over his shoulder as he went, "c'mon Sleepin' Beauty; your turn to make the coffee."
A leak, a shave and a shower later, Sam emerged from the bathroom to find Dean still buried under his quilt, signs of movement or life in general still noticeably absent.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam shrugged and filled the kettle; looked like he was making his own coffee then.
He stared intently at the unmoving lump as he spooned dusty brown granules into two mugs.
Still no response.
"Dean, c'mon man …" he raised his voice.
Spying his brother's bare foot hanging limply off the end of the bed, Sam stepped over and slapped the sole, "c'mon bro', up an' at 'em."
When there was still no acknowledgement, not even a twitch of the abused foot, a knot of concern gripped Sam's heart. With no hesitation or pretensions to decency, he strode over to the bed and yanked back the quilt, grasping his brother's bare shoulder.
He recoiled in horror at what he felt beneath his fingers.
Where Sam had been expecting to feel his brother's warm, perspiration-moistened skin, all he felt was cold; not 'turn the heating up, dude' cold, but unnaturally, lifelessly cold.
Sam felt a shocked cry escape his lips and he gathered Dean's unmoving body up into his arms.
"Dean, Dean, c'mon man … Dean, don't do this;" a tumbling, breathless cascade of meaningless words, as much for his own reassurance as for Dean's.
Dean's body was completely without warmth, the deathly chill permeating through Sam's thin T shirt as he frantically wrestled the limp form of his brother into a sitting position beside him.
"No no no no no no …" Sam shook his head, blinking back stinging tears as his mind refused to process what was happening.
He stared down into Dean's slack, expressionless face, straight into wide open green eyes.
Jerking in shock, Sam grasped the tiny movement like a drowning man grasping a piece of driftwood.
"Dean, look at me …" he gently patted Dean's cold face, tilting his chin so that he was facing Sam; "Dean, I'm here dude…" he mustered a shaky smile through the tears that streamed down his face.
Dean blinked again. His face remained impassively still, those glassy green eyes registering not the slightest acknowledgement towards the terrified man holding him in a despairing embrace.
Feeling Dean's strangely cool breath on his jaw; Sam reflected. Dean ate a massive burger with extra onions and garlic mayonnaise last night. His breath this morning should be evil enough to floor a cow at ten paces, but there was nothing; not even the faintest hint of any odour. It felt so very wrong.
As his frantic mind continued to race, he realised he could feel a strong even heartbeat through his arm which was wrapped around Dean's back. That had to be good, right?
What the hell was it? Had Dean had some kind of brain seizure in the night? Was this some kind of fit or breakdown? He was here in Sam's arms, but he sure as hell wasn't here at all.
He stared intently into those oddly glazed green eyes.
But suddenly it wasn't the eyes that drew Sam's attention, it was the skin around them.
Was he imagining it?
Rubbing his tired tear-blurred eyes, he looked down at his brother, frowning with confusion.
There was a definite, faint green tinge to Dean's skin.
Where previously Dean's skin had carried a healthy tawny sheen, now his complexion was a nauseously sickly pallor; bloodlessly grey, and tinged with a faint billious green.
Sam pulled Dean in closer, cradling his head in the crook of his neck, and rubbed his hand up and down the ridges of his brother's spine. "Oh God Dean," he sighed; "what's wrong with you?"
In a darkened bower, candlelight fluttered and shimmered, casting a dancing golden light over two tall figures that stood within the highly vaulted space. The faintest scents of honeysuckle and primrose drifted on the cool air.
Between them stood a cot, hung with the pelt of a white hind.
The unconsciously still body of a young man lay on the cot, curled on his side, within the soft folds of the pelt.
"I will make good use of it father," one of the figures whispered to the other.
She slowly knelt, leaning closely in toward her prize, and lightly rested a slender hand on his spiky scalp, closing her eyes in sensual bliss as she inhaled deeply of the sleeping man's faint musk. She traced a fingertip down his neck, lightly following the curve of his shoulder smiling as his smooth skin flickered beneath her touch.
The taller figure smiled; "if it pleases you my daughter, then it is yours to use as you will." He looked over the cot at his daughter; "this one is spirited, but even those that show reluctance at first soon bend to our ways. It is yours to tame."
"It is a fine specimen and will strengthen our bloodline. Make use of it before it fades away."