glasslogic | Fortress Timestamp

title: Skin and Bones
author: glasslogic
wordcount: 4.5k
pairing: Sam/Dean, various other touchings and such
rating: R
warning: slash, consent issues of various

types. This story might not make much sense without having read the fic it's a missing scene from.
disclaimer: All material is owned by its respective copyright holders and no profit is being made from this story.
summary: Missing scenes from Fortress. Sam and Dean escape from the psycho-demon-killing cult in Arizona, but all is not well. Dean needs to find a new host before the clock runs out on Sam's life.
authors notes: This timestamp is brought to you by the grammatical talents and general awesomeness of vodou-blue, the friendship and encouragement of elusive_life_77, and the ability of caz2y5 to hang out online in the middle of the night and act interested in paragraphs she has already read twenty times.

Dedicated to heatherofnight

A most excellent writer, and without whom Fortress would never have existed past some idle scribbling in the cover of notebook -- however indirect and accidental her involvement *grins*

Stories In this Series

Fortress -- Skin and Bones -- Static -- The Things You Keep -- Requiem

Dean stared into the bathroom mirror, and his brother’s reflection stared back. The angles and planes of the face, brown hair that felt oddly long against his skin… all as familiar to him as his own. The soul that looked out of hazel eyes was familiar too, but it was the wrong soul.

In the wrong flesh.

He bent to splash water on his face. Sam was still shifting in uneasy sleep in the back of his mind, in that cramped little space where the host was shunted to when a demon took control. Alone in the bathroom with no one to see --for instance, crazy, demon-killing, psycho cultists-- Dean could have relented his grip a little and let that bright, singing presence unfurl enough to rise to true consciousness. Unlike in the cellar, here the struggle for control he wouldn’t be able to keep off his/their face wouldn’t risk Sam’s life. They could talk in the quiet of a shared mind and Sam would stop the restless stirring that was translating as nausea to Dean.

But sharing flesh so intimately, there were things an aware Sam might see in his brother that Dean could keep from a sleeping consciousness. Things he needed to keep secret. He swore under his breath as a particularly bad wave rolled over him. It was possible that he would have this kind of trouble with any human psychic, never having possessed one before, but he felt strongly that it was Sam’s demonically enhanced gifts causing the problem. And since those were part and parcel of the entire fiasco of their lives and circumstances, wishing things otherwise was as futile as wishing their parents had never met in the first place. Dean generally tried to save his wishing for things that could actually happen, like Sam settling down without Dean having to exert any more pressure against him. The more space he kept between them, the better, because the more containment he exercised, the more Sam was at risk. His sanity, if nothing else. Even if Dean wasn’t exactly what his brother believed him to be, all powers of Hell were corrupting to the material plane, and creatures of the material plane -- like Sam.

He closed his eyes and saw Sam’s face again as he stood just beyond the iron inlay of the demon trap that had held Dean captive. As he had slashed through the anti-possession charm on his chest and held out a steady hand, fingers cold with fear. Sam’s face was pale but there was resolve in his eyes. His plan had been insane, risky and completely stupid.

It was the only chance they’d had.

And now Dean was wearing his brother’s flesh in the middle of an armed religious compound that Sam had actually robbed, while the cultists who had captured them were doing their level best to destroy the demon they believed trapped in their midst. Thanks to Sam, though, all they had was Dean’s empty body. A body he fully intended to get back, but that was going to require some planning and was a concern for later.

The scent of blood reached his nose, causing his nostrils to flare. He pulled his shirt aside and examined the anti-possession charm on Sam’s chest. The slash Sam had drawn through the margin of it was still bleeding slowly. Dean ran a finger lightly over the cut, and when he pulled his hand away, the wound was gone. He let the shirt fall closed. Even though the skin was mended, the ward was still broken. Its repair would have to be the first thing they saw to once Sam was alone in his body again; too many of their enemies could exploit such a weakness.

But first things first.

He gathered the brown paper bag with Sam’s few possessions and the Holy Chalice from the bed and tucked it under his arm.

Time to go.

~~~~~

Getting past the gates of the compound wasn’t hard. Sam was apparently a guest, and while the people guarding it seemed confused he was leaving, they made no attempt to keep him. Dean politely refused the offered ride and explained curtly that he needed to get back to his life. Too curt, probably, for dealing with people Sam had been socializing with for days, but Dean figured the shorter their interaction the fewer mistakes he could make that might give him away. They waved him on and he set to walking. Town was about five miles away.

Halfway there, another wave of nausea swept over Dean and the strength went out of his legs. He collapsed; kneeling with the hot sun beating down on his back and turned his awareness inward. This wasn’t just Sam struggling against his hold, there was something seriously wrong. Dean brushed over where his brother was sleeping first, but there was nothing unusual there and the anchors he had sunk into the flesh he wore were intact and humming with power. But the body was dying, something was wrong.

Dean tore through cells frantically, searching for the elusive something that was draining the life from his brother. The body’s death wouldn’t hamper Dean much, but Sam couldn’t exist within it. Draining...

Dean shifted his attention to the curse that wound through Sam’s life-force like a strangling vine. It worked on Sam like the moon shifted tides, pulling him in cycles of blood and power. Sam normally fed from him a couple of times a month, recharging the demonic essence as Lilith’s curse demanded. But the curse was meant for a small, regular portion of demonic power. An anchor to bind Sam to Ruby and through Ruby to Lilith and her plans to free Lucifer from his ancient prison. It wasn’t meant for a situation where the power source was actually living within Sam’s flesh, and with unlimited access to a demonic spirit, the drain was running unchecked. It wasn’t nausea from Sam’s warped psyche resisting his hold, it was the sensation of his own personal power being drawn out by the bottomless well of Sam’s hunger for it. And while the hunger might be bottomless, Sam’s ability to contain it wasn’t.

Dean withdrew all of his attention from the waking world to focus on the problem, and was only dimly aware of the sensation of rock and rough grass pressed against exposed skin as his borrowed body crumpled in a heap.

Several hours later, Dean climbed unsteadily to his feet, grateful that the scrub along the side of the road had hidden his limp form from passing motorists. There was some sunburn on the back of his hands, but cloth and hair seemed to have protected most of his body from damage. He had finally been able to reverse most of the drain. But every inch of ground had been a struggle, and maintaining the precarious balance he had established was going to be touch and go. He had to get out of Sam, and he had to do it fast, before things fell completely apart.

~~~~~

That evening found Dean slouched on a stool in a local bar. He had to find a place to hole up, a garage to stash his car in, and another puppet to control. Earlier, he had checked up on the Impala and made some... arrangements, for later. Now he was waiting for just the right person to come along and answer all of his needs.

Dean was dressed in the worn jeans Sam had been wearing when he busted Dean free, but had exchanged the green button-up for the patched t-shirt from the bag. The bloodstain from the slashed charm on Sam’s chest hadn’t been too obvious against the dark green, but Dean believed in stacking the deck and the t-shirt did more for Sam’s body than the button-up did. It wasn’t maybe the best outfit for picking someone up, but Dean was aware of the effect his brother’s face had on women and he was counting on the swell of muscles under thin cotton to make a persuasive argument.

He could feel the heat and presence of another standing behind him and was already turning his head when a low, hesitant voice spoke-up.

“Hey.”

Dean swept an appraising glance over the man who had stepped up beside him. Dark blond hair was gelled into spikes and the slacks and dress shirt were neatly pressed and probably cost more money that all of Dean and Sam’s clothes combined. He looked fit, muscle obvious even through the loose fabric, and was probably about the height of Dean’s natural body. There was a tension radiating from him that Dean interpreted as nerves, but the dilation of his pupils and the closeness of his stance said interest. A lot of interest.

The possibilities that had just opened up were vastly more to Dean’s preference. Women were just hinged all wrong for a comfortable long-term possession, and Dean was pretty sure that clearing up the mess with the cult wasn’t going to be fast.

He echoed the stranger’s smile, enjoying the freedom of not having to worry about mimicking his brother. “Hey.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” the stranger asked.

“You could.” Dean spread his legs a bit wider so that one knee pressed against the man’s thigh and leaned in, creating a sense of intimacy between them. The guy inhaled and a slight flush spread over his cheekbones. A little shy, a little desperate. Perfect. Probably someone who would be more comfortable out of the public eye. “Or we could go back to your place and see what you have on hand there.”

Blue eyes widened. “We can do that.”

“You live alone in a house?”

The man blinked, thrown a bit out of the spell Dean was weaving. “Does that matter?”

Dean trapped the stranger’s gaze and let his smile take on an edge. “No, but I hate to be interrupted when things get... noisy. Houses are just so much more private.”

“Yeah.” The stranger swallowed. “Yeah, I live alone. I’m Nick Stevens.”

“Jimmie Page,” Dean lied easily, sliding off the seat and bending to re-tie a shoelace so that Nick could get the full benefit of Sam’s ass in the faded denim. He was definitely more flushed when Dean stood up again. “Give me directions?”

Nick swallowed and nodded.

~~~~~

Twenty minutes later, Dean was driving the Impala through a quiet suburban neighborhood. Cookie-cutter houses stood nearly square on identical lots, only the color and the occasional change in roofline setting them apart from each other. It was late enough that he didn’t see anyone on the street. The Impala would stand out in a neighborhood like this, but the houses had garages and Dean didn’t plan to leave her in sight long.

Nick’s house sat on a corner, as bland and impersonal as any of its neighbors. Dean brought the Impala rumbling to a halt against the curb and climbed out with a grimace. Sam had a point about being too tall for Dean’s preferred settings. He was going to have to stop bitching when Sam changed things around when it was his turn to drive, not that he would give Sam the heads-up, of course. Keeping his brother a little off balance was to everyone’s advantage in their current circumstances.

Dean ignored the doorbell and raised a hand to knock. His knuckles had barely grazed the wood when it was pulled open and fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling him inside. He was pushed against the wall none too gently as an eager mouth attacked his jawline.

Nick seemed very happy to see him.

“Did you think I wasn’t coming?” Dean asked, stifling his immediate impulse to shove Nick away. He didn’t like people touching Sam, and he didn’t like Sam touching other people. Partially, it was never really being sure who Lilith’s agents might be, but the rest of it was just possessiveness. Sam was his.

“Just glad you’re here.” Nick molded himself against Dean and ran a hand up his back, scratching lightly with short nails. Dean scanned what he could of the home from his position and was satisfied to see an orderly sort of place with no indications of other occupants. Nick had said there weren’t, but it was always good to get confirmation.

Dean turned his attention back to Nick. “You have a room with a mattress?”

Nick was only too eager to drag an unresisting Dean into the shadows of a bedroom lit only by a single lamp. Dean pulled Nick out of most of his clothes, trying to feign the right level of an interest he didn’t feel at all. Most of his attention was focused on easing free from Sam, loosening his hold so there would be no damage in the wake of his passage. It wasn’t a step demons usually bothered with, and Dean was slow with lack of practice. He leaned back on the bed while Nick kissed his way from the waistband of Sam’s jeans to his nipples, rolling the t-shirt up as he went. To Dean, Nick’s mouth was only a distant pressure as his senses dimmed with the disengagement. He let Nick unfasten Sam’s jeans, then stood to kick free of them. His grip on Sam’s body now was so tenuous that he could barely contain himself in the flesh. Nick frowned at Dean’s lack of arousal, but before he could comment, Dean pushed him back onto the mattress and distracted him with a kiss.

Nick’s mouth opened eagerly beneath the pressure of Dean’s lips; he gasped as Dean exhaled, slipping free of the prison of one body and into the equally-confining-but-less-problematic prison of another. Nick’s panicked mind was almost effortlessly easy to contain and it was the work of less than a second to quiet it to sleep. A real sleep, not the uneasy restlessness of Sam. He could have crushed it with even less effort.

Dean slid his new body free of his brother’s limp form, enjoying the solitude he felt in this flesh and how easy it was to possess. No struggle for power, no balance of energy. Just an empty vessel and his mastery. He sighed with relief and turned his head to see Sam, slack-jawed with unconsciousness. His temperature, breathing and heart-rate were good, and Dean didn’t detect anything but the patterns of deep sleep. Nothing as deep as the coma of possession, but he probably had a few hours before he had company again. He wouldn’t know about any damage until Sam woke up, but sleeping could only do him good to help recover from the intense strain of possession. Dean pulled the covers up over Sam’s naked body and redressed his new host.

It took Dean only about five minutes to move Nick’s car out of the garage and tuck the Impala away out of sight. Then he picked up Nick’s phone to place a call.

Forty-five minutes later, a squat-looking man in a sweat-stained shirt and jeans stood on the porch. He smelled like patchouli and carried a large black suitcase in one hand. A rusty-looking truck was out by the curb behind him, almost exactly where the Impala had been parked not an hour before. His eyes narrowed when Dean opened the door and motioned him inside.

“So where’s the guy I spoke with earlier?”

“In the bedroom. He’s the one that needs the ink done.”

“Why couldn’t we do this in the shop then?” the man demanded.

Dean looked impatient. “You’re being paid a crap-load of money to do the job. So do it and shut up.”

“I’m being a paid a crap-load of money because I’m the only occult tattoo artist in five fucking counties. The house call is just because of my generous nature. Speaking of which...”

“You got two grand earlier, and you get the rest of it when the job’s done. Like you agreed.”

“Let me see it at least,” the man countered. “Nothing happens until I see the cash.”

“In the bedroom.”

Entering the room with the man on his heels, Dean flipped the overhead lights on. His expression was remote as he pulled the folded bills from the pocket of Sam’s jeans.

The tattoo artist barely glanced at it, though; he was eyeing Sam somewhat uneasily. “What’s wrong with him?”

Dean glanced at Sam, but he seemed just as before. “He’s sleeping.”

“I don’t work on unconscious people,” the man said flatly.

“Even ones who hired you for the work?” Dean flipped another couple of bills off the roll and raised a meaningful eyebrow.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Where’s the job?”

Dean tucked the money away and tugged the sheets down until Sam’s chest was bare. He traced a finger over the circle of the ward. “It’s been broken.”

The tattoo artist scowled up at the light fixture, then pulled a penlight from his case, shining it on the dark ink of the tattoo. After a moment, he stood back, but Dean didn’t miss the appreciative glance he raked over Sam’s bare skin. Dean resisted the impulse to kill him. He wasn’t lying about being the only occult tattoo artist in five counties and Dean couldn’t do the job himself. It required the right inks and the right spoken charms, and a degree of skill that only long practice could give.

“This wasn’t an accident.”

“Don’t think anybody said it was,” Dean shrugged.

“Your guy messing with demons?”

Dean’s smile was all teeth. “Not if you fix the ward. Sooner is better.”

The man shrugged and started digging things out of the kit. He was set up within ten minutes and wiping alcohol over Sam’s skin when he abruptly turned to face Dean, who had been leaning silently against the dresser. “Are you planning to stand there the entire time?”

“Yes.”

“Change of plans,” the man scowled. “I don’t work well with people breathing down my neck. You want the job done? You get the hell out.”

“You’re being paid an awful lot of money not to worry about what I’m doing.”

“This is precision, delicate work. It takes a lot of concentration, and if I do it wrong, you aren’t going to find out until there’s something alien looking out through your guy here’s eyes. You wanna risk it?”

Dean’s nostrils flared in irritation, but it was difficult to argue with that. “How long will this take?”

The tattoo artist shrugged. “Two hours. Maybe three.”

“Just to fix the ring?” Dean was skeptical.

“I can’t just ‘fix the ring’, you dumbass. I have to redo the entire circle, relay all the original work and then seal it up tight. It’s an extra pass to charm for rapid healing, but if I don’t, you risk the integrity of the ward to scabbing and distortion.” He shrugged.

“Do it,” Dean scowled. He remembered that pass from when he had gotten his own tattoo. It had taken almost as long as all of the other work combined and hurt like a bitch. But the argument had been the same and he had agreed then too. “I’ll be in the next room if you need anything.” Dean made no attempt to disguise the warning in his voice

The man waved, adjusting the bright light he had set up and leaning back over Sam to work.

In the living room, Dean spent the time slowly sorting through papers until he felt he had a good grasp of Nick Stevens’ situation. He sent an email to Nick’s employer explaining that he had to go out of town for a family emergency, and copied it to the few people Nick seemed to exchange any kind of regular email with. It might get Nick fired, but should stop anyone from showing up unexpectedly at the door. When Dean surfaced, almost two and a half hours had passed, and it occurred to him that it had been some time since he heard the buzz of the needle or the low chanting of the tattoo artist.

“Are you finished?” Dean called, walking towards the room.

The man’s voice sounded a little strained as he answered. “Yeah, uh, just give me a sec.”

Dean didn’t think so. He stepped silently into the room and narrowed his eyes. The blankets Dean had left pulled up to Sam’s waist were shoved aside and his brother was fully naked on the bed, but still unconscious and otherwise as Dean had left him. As he walked closer, the tattoo artist reached out and hastily drew the covers over Sam. He must have sensed something because he spun and came face to face with Dean. The man’s fly was unzipped and his shirt was only half tucked in, though Dean noted distantly that he had managed to get the button refastened.

“I thought we had a cash deal. Taking it out in trade?”

He could see the indecision in the man’s eyes, and the instant when he decided a lie would be futile. He gave a nervous shrug instead. “I was only looking. It’s a nice view, you know? I didn’t touch him.”

Dean didn’t really care about the man’s words, they were unimportant details at this point. He glanced at Sam’s chest. The ward looked as it always had, clean and dark and seamless. It was the work of an instant to extend his senses and feel the low-grade hum of a quality job. Despite what he had walked in on, Dean was deeply pleased with the man’s work. Pleased enough that when he reached out and snapped the man’s neck, he made sure it was painless.

~~~~~

Dean put the shovel in the garage to good use in the backyard, digging a hole far deeper and faster than any human could have managed. It took a few tries to find a way around the rock shelf, but finally he managed fifteen feet and tossed in the corpse and all of its belongings. He had been half planning to kill the tattoo artist anyway; it was dangerous to leave anyone alive who would remember seeing Sam while they were laying low. The man’s own actions had made the decision easy.

Getting everything filled in and tamped down took a lot less time than digging the hole had. The dark scar in the yard was a little obvious, but if he stuck some bushes in the ground, it wouldn’t look like a grave. He still had to take the truck out and find a body of water to sink it in; he could find some bushes to transplant while he was out. Make sure everything was neat and plausible before Sam woke up. It would have been simplicity itself to lock the corpse into the vehicle and dispose of them together, but he couldn’t absolutely guarantee he wouldn’t be pulled over on the way for some odd reason, and he was in a strictly low-risk mode.

The night was passing quickly. Dean checked on Sam one last time, to make sure the tattoo artist had been telling the truth about not touching him, and to make sure he was still deeply asleep. Then he locked the house up and went out to finish the job.

It was fifteen miles before had finally found a secluded spot to discard the truck into a watery grave, and he felt lucky he had only had to go that far. Returning on foot, he detoured to uproot some low, ornamental bushes. He planted them in the backyard on top of the body and cleaned the shovel with the meticulous care for tools drilled into him by his father. Then he went inside to shower and put his filthy clothes in the wash.

~~~~~~~

Sam worked through his breakfast slowly. The emotional confrontation he had gone through with Dean after waking up had settled out into a comfortable quiet in the kitchen. His brother had turned his attention back to his paper, leaving Sam to gaze absently out the bay window overlooking the the backyard. It was better than watching Dean. Seeing his brother’s mannerisms in someone else’s body was making his head hurt. If he didn’t look at him, he could pretend it was a perfectly normal morning. Because he had spent a lot of time in his life eating cereal in the breakfast nook of a suburban kitchen. His brother, the demon, sitting across the table from him in a borrowed body was almost less strange.

Sam sighed and resisted the desire to sink his nails into the tattoo on his chest. It looked like it had been healed for months, but because of the magic settling in, it felt like there were ants crawling under his skin. Walking in a scratchy, little circle that if he could just rub... But rubbing led to scratching, and scratching led to broken ward lines. Dean hadn’t been clear about what he had gone through to get the anti-possession charm repaired, but had indicated to Sam that he was highly uninterested in having to do it again. Sam was glad he’d been able to miss the re-inking. Even after all he had done and been through in his life, he still didn’t like needles.

He shook his head and paid more attention to the window, trying to distract himself from the maddening sensation.

Sam frowned. “Why would someone plant bushes in the middle of their yard?”

Dean glanced up over his paper. Borrowed blue eyes shifted to the window briefly, then back to Sam. “You developing a keen interest in gardening?”

“No, but it’s--”

“Who the hell knows why anyone does anything, Sam? It’s his yard-- he can plant what he wants.”

Sam thought about starting an argument just for the conversation, but a yawn took him by surprise. “I think I’m going back to bed; I’m still exhausted.”

“Sleep is good for you.” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Keep your fingers off that tat.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Be good while I’m sleeping.”

The smile his brother gave him raised the hair on the back of Sam’s neck.

“I’m always good, Sam. Don’t you know that by now?”

Fortress Masterpost

Static (Fortress Sequel) Masterpost