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Words, Like Nature

Title: Words, Like Nature
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: "Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within." (Alfred, Lord Tennyson). Includes talk of Wincesty stuff. Written for the spnflashfic weaponry challenge.

Exorcism isn't about faith.

You don't have to believe in God -- any god, for that matter. You don't even have to believe that the ritual will work; as long as you do it properly, say the right words at the right time and in the right order, it'll work. It's not faith; it's the words themselves.

It's just the way of things; all creatures have something they're vulnerable against. Silver bullets kill a werewolf, fire kills a wendigo, salt and fire take care of ghosts. A handful of words gets rid of a demon.

Of course, any weapon can be used both ways.


The demon laughs, low and horrible. "This will kill him, you know. He's only alive because of me."

Sam doesn't falter, though there's a sharper edge to the words he speaks. The body is bruised, battered; he can't tell if the damage is enough to be fatal, the way it was with Meg, but it hardly matters. Life with a demon in control is worse than death.

The words of the exorcism slide like knives under the skin -- Sam knows, he's been there, felt it -- and the demon makes a strangled noise that isn't a scream.

"I can give you what you want," the demon says, panting, when it can.

Sam pauses in the too-familiar stream of Latin to glare. "No you can't."

"You want Dean," the demon says. Dean's face, more or less Dean's voice, and a smile that isn't Dean's. "I can give him to you." Before Sam can protest (you're not him, you can't ever be him), it says, "I can tell you all the things he's too chicken to say himself. All the things he wants to say to you. Do to you. Do with you."

Sam starts the ritual back up, starting a few words back so he doesn't miss any. Under it, the demon says, "He wants you. He'll never tell you that. He wants to kiss you, and that's only the start of it. He wants to lick you, fuck you, have you in every way possible."

Sam's voice shakes, but he keeps going, as steadily as possible.

"He'll never act on it," the demon says. "I can. I know you want it, because he knows you want it." A smirk, almost Dean's but not quite. "Shall I tell you some of the things he's thought about doing?"

He does.

Sam snarls out the last few words, and in the middle of a description that pretty much sounds like a porno script, Dean's head snaps back and the demon screams out of him, a stream of black filth that disappears from the air but not from Sam's memory.


"That fucking sucked," Dean muttered. He's pale against the hospital sheets, but he's alive, and he'll stay that way, and that's pretty much all Sam cares about.

Well, mostly.

"How much of it do you remember?" Dean shoots him a look, why the hell are you asking?, and Sam says, "When I -- when Meg -- there were times that I was allowed to be there, and times I wasn't. What do you remember?"

"Lots," Dean said curtly. "Whatcha getting at, Sam?"

He should drop it. He should. Easy to do, mumble nothing-I-was-just-wondering-that's-all. He should, he should. "The exorcism. What the demon said--"

"Demons lie, Sammy." Dean shrugs. "And no, I wasn't there."

For all that Dean can lie smoothly to other people, it never quite works against Sam. But Dean wields blithe denial as easily as a gun.

There are things Sam could say to fight back, to pull the truth out of Dean like splinters from under the skin. Was it a lie, Dean? Was it truth? If I asked, would you--

All he says is, "Okay," quiet, lying.


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