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blackbeardsbows · 2 years

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Felt it in my Fist, in my Feet, in the Hollows of my Eyelids

Written for Suptober22 Day 4 - Wicked and also Horrornatural22 Week 1 - Graveyard, Wrath, Teeth

Rating: E

Dean whump, soul + grace bond, Handprint Lore, trans-dimensional fuckery, world-shifting first times

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“Sam, I swear to god, keep your elbows over there.”

“I can’t help it, Dean,” Sam said, stabbing his shovel into the ground for emphasis. “Dig faster, we’ll be done sooner.”

Dean shot Sam an irritated look, wiping sweat from his brow. It left a dirty streak across his forehead.

“We should have hit something by now.”

“Then we’ll hit something soon, won’t we,” Sam said, and forced his shovel into the dirt hard. It chipped against something solid.

The ground quivered and shifted beneath them and they both flailed to keep their footing.

“What the hell was that?”

“Uh, I probably just hit a tree root.”

“Do you see any trees nearby?”

“Doesn’t mean there weren’t any before, Dean.”

“Whatever, Sam. Don’t hit it again.”

Dean sank his shovel back into the soil, grunting when it struck something solid and skewed sideways. The ground shook again, and this time it didn’t stop. The dirt began to loosen and roil, sucking at their boots.

“Dean!”

“Shit! Go go go!”

Sam hauled up out of the grave, his shovel tipping over and immediately succumbing to the tumultuous earth. Dean couldn’t get a good footing, struggling to pull his legs free and only sinking deeper. Something sharp dug into his calf and Dean yelled, throwing his arms up towards Sam in a panic.

“Sam!”

Sam clasped Dean’s arms tight and heaved. The dirt wall of the graveside began to crack under his feet. Below, Dean sank up to the knees in the angry soil — and then abruptly came free, kicking up onto the grass next to Sam in a mad scramble.

They watched as the last of the dirt trickled through two arced rows of long, pointed teeth. Slimy flesh contracted and pulsed, unseen jaws shifted and a tongue flexed lazily, and then there was nothing but a wide-open mouth at the bottom of the hole, where there was supposed to be a pine box full of musty bones.

They stared.

“Sam, tell me you see it too.”

“I see it,” Sam said, reedy.

The tongue lifted and they scrambled backward fast, their shoes kicking several dirt clods into the open grave. The ground juddered as the mouth thrashed and screeched its offense, dry and grating. Sam grabbed Dean under the arm, yanking him up to run as plumes of dust coughed into the night air.

They tumbled for shelter behind an eroding monument and Dean hissed, clutching at his leg. He twisted the ripped denim of his jeans until it lined up with a bleeding gash in his calf.

“Shit. Son of a—”

“Quiet!”

Silence descended like a mist.

They peered around the monument. Yards away, dust was settling around the open grave, a few last trails of dirt landsliding down from the exhumed piles on the grass. Dean nudged Sam’s shoulder.

“Go look.”

“You go look!”

“Sam, I’m injured.”

“Coward.”

Keeping low, Sam crept over to the gravesite, pulling his gun from his waistband and clicking off the safety. He kept it aimed and at the ready as he approached, craning to see into the hole.

He lowered the gun.

“It’s gone,” he called back.

“What?” Dean tried to stand but sank back against the headstone with a groan through gritted teeth. Little flashes of light danced in front of his eyes. The pain was worsening by the moment, rising sharp and hot and overwhelming as his adrenaline waned. He could feel blood soaking into his sock.

“Shit.” He fumbled to remove his belt, wrestling against it when it got stuck in the loops. His breath sounded too loud in his ears.

“Dean?” Sam came back around the headstone and fell to his knees, dropping his gun in the dewy grass. Blood was oozing dark and hot past the tear in Dean’s jeans, glistening as black as tar in the moonlight.

“Jesus, Dean, this looks bad,” Sam said, freeing Dean’s belt with one tug and starting to wrap it around Dean’s thigh.

“Told you,” Dean ground out, pressing his shoulder blades against the gritty headstone at his back. His vision was wavering, shadowed around the edges. Sam yanked on the belt, tightening down the makeshift tourniquet as hard as he could. Dean growled and bunched his hand in Sam’s jacket, the darkness surging and almost dragging him under. He fought against it, clawing to remain conscious while Sam scooped Dean under the shoulders and knees to pick him up.

“We need to wash that out and stitch it up now. Come on.”

Sam heaved Dean up from the cold, wet grass, took one step, and froze.

Someone was standing by the open grave.

“Cas?”

Continued on Ao3

~ 6k words

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#Handprint Lore #excellent left shoulder content #spn #destiel #deanie bean #badass cas #suptober day 4 #ao3 #fanfiction #fanfic #sr

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