Fic: Thirsty
Title: Thirsty
Prompt/Summary: Written for Sharp Teeth, from prompt: The cure for vampirism doesn't last forever. Dean recognizes the signs, but he's not going to drink human blood. He's not.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2700
Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from Supernatural.
Warnings: Graphic and disturbing imagery, horror
Author's Note: Beta'd by wave_obscura . She's awesome.But we all know this :P
This fic can almost get classified as wincest, which is pretty weird for me o_o I'm stepping out of my gen comfort zone!
Dean's gums begin to ache. Like, really ache. Ache isn't even the right word. They throb with the beat of his heart. Which may be slowing down. He's pretty sure it's always gone at this steady, slow beat. But not sure. Shouldn't his heart speed up when he's this anxious?
He tries to blow it off. Sam's soulless, and this whole situation has gone fubar. He's stressed, really.
Nothing to worry about.
He uses sensitive toothpaste and smears it over his gums. It dulls the throb, but it's always back again within a few hours. Whatever, he's had a trick knee for years. He can deal with pain.
He pushes it aside, using the fact that he and Sam are working for a demon as a focus point. It's humiliating, working for Crowley. But it has to be done. He can't spend much more time looking at this new, emotionally deformed version of Sam. It's too painful.
Dean lounges on his motel bed, skimming through suspicious articles on his laptop, while Sam sits at the small table, banging away at his own laptop. Now that Sam doesn't have to hide his lack of emotions from Dean, his face is a blank slate.
And he smells different.
Dean blinks. Where did that come from?
Sure, he was always conscious of Sam's natural scent. He grew up with him. Musk really. But he hated thinking of it like that, because it sounded super gay. Not that thinking about Sam's 'scent' was any less gay.
Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. He was way too tired.
And Sam smelled too much. He could smell him from across the room. It made his head throb along with his slow steady heart beat.
Dean gets up and opens the window. The muted sounds of traffic fills the room and a gust of cold air flows in carrying within other smells of city life, and subtly the slightest hint of copper. He lets his lungs fill and his stomach rumbles.
Dean glances back at Sam, focused entirely on his computer. “I'm going out for some grub. Want anything?”
Sam doesn't look up from his screen, just grunts a negative.
And that's fine with Dean. He'd rather not have a robot Sam with him as company anyway. He takes a quick piss, grabs his jacket, and heads off out the door.
It's a relief to be out of the motel room that's saturated in Sam musk. It's like he can finally think again. He didn't realize how hungry he was until now.
Dean shakes his head to himself. No, stop thinking about this. You're fine.
Stressed, yes. And yes, you did have a short experience as a vampire, but you were cured.
Your fine. Perfectly fine.
The sun is fading in the horizon, shadows run long across the pavement, creating puddles of darkness, but Dean doesn't have any trouble seeing into them.
But he's always had good night vision. Nothing to worry about.
He decides to leave the Impala and walk down the block to the pub.
When he enters, an explosion of noise and smells momentarily overwhelms him. His stomach clenches in hunger and his eyes quickly adjust to the darkness of the pub's interior.
He takes a seat at the bar, away from the other patrons, who crowd around a big wall mounted television, watching a football game. He's got no interest in entertaining conversation tonight, so he orders a beer and the first appetizing thing his eyes see on the menu.
Dean sips his beer and tries to ignore the hunger gnawing at his insides. The burger he gets fifteen minutes later looks great. It's juicy, has lots of onions, and tons of fries.
But he doesn't want it.
Dean takes a bite anyway. It's delicious and sauce drips down his fingers to his wrist. His stomach clenches and he forces the urge to vomit back and swallows beer down quickly. He puts down the burger and wipes his hands on his napkin, then wipes his mouth, thinking.
He should be able to eat this. But he can't.
Dean scowls at his burger.
This is so stupid. It's all in his head. Once he gets past this, things will settle down.
He forces himself to eat the rest of the burger and guzzle down his beer. It tastes wonderful going down, but twenty minutes later in the men's restroom. It tastes awful coming back up.
Dean rinses his mouth out at the sink and looks in the mirror. He's sweating profusely. He grabs some paper towel and wipes his face, but it doesn't do much good.
He's so goddamn hungry.
Outside the bathroom, it's like the pub has gotten more raucous, louder. It's really began to fill up with college students and young professionals, all crushed together to enjoy each other's company in a poorly ventilated box of a building. The sea of voices and pure noise wash over Dean and it hurts terribly. The smell of all these bodies together makes his gums quiver and fills his mouth with saliva.
He hurries to the bartender and shouts to be heard over all the noise. The man looks at Dean peculiarly but allows him to settle his tab quickly, and Dean is out the pub doors as fast as he can move.
He walks back to the motel in a quick pace, hands buried in his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk in front of him. The sky's completely darkened, but the air is still warm. Sweat slides down his spine. His scalp itches with moisture. Dean ignores it.
When he gets back to the motel, he finds Sam gone, which is just fine with him. A note is on top of the table, simply saying, 'out.'
Dean shrugs off his jacket. Kicks off his shoes. Sits on his bed. Gets up. Paces the room. Sits back down on the bed.
He pulls out his cell phone, goes through the contact list, and thinks he should call someone, but he doesn't really know who. This is probably all in his head, and he shouldn't bother anyone with his own paranoia.
All in his head.
Dean gets up and goes into the washroom. He flicks on the light and flinches violently at the bright lights that stutter on. He forces his eyes open and stares at his reflection.
He doesn't look any different. Maybe sweaty and nervous looking.
Dean leans over the counter and gets right up beside the mirror. He pulls up his lip and looks at his gums. They look normal, same shade of pink they've always been.
Dean lets out a sigh of relief, but then catches his eyes on something. His gums have a small flap loose. He pokes it with a finger and a small fang pops out.
Dean jerks back from the mirror, his reflection staring back at him in horror.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers to himself.
He leans back and looks again. Sure enough, there's a few small fangs beginning to grow in under the gums.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean repeats, louder.
He's suddenly, overwhelmingly angry. He grabs the first thing he can, a complimentary plastic cup still wrapped in plastic, and hurls it as hard as he can against his reflection and screams wordlessly. The cup bounces off the mirror harmlessly and clatters to the floor.
Dean backs away from the mirror until his back connects with the opposite wall and he slides down on to his knees, anger replaced with despair.
He had this beat. It was beat!
Dean clenches his eyes, feels moisture build.
Samuel had guaranteed this cure. He hadn't drank any blood! It should have worked.
“What went wrong?” Dean whispers to himself. He rubs a hand through his hair, allows his chest to shudder with emotion. He goes limp and drops further onto the bathroom floor.
Dean's becoming a vampire. For good this time, he's sure.
Dean knows for certain that he can't live like this. It's not a life anyways.
A sob escapes his lips and hot tears begin to run down his face.
He can't live like this. But he can't leave Sam. This Sam will survive without Dean, no problem. But the other Sam, the one stuck in Hell is counting on him to get him out.
He's still got a job to do. He needs to watch out for Sammy, and he can't do that when he's dead.
Dean lifts his head, resolute.
He's got to save Sam. He's got to hang around long enough to do that. After Sam's back, well, that will be that.
He can do this. He met those 'vegetarian' vampires before. He can do it too. Dean is nothing if not adaptable.
Decision made, Dean pulls himself upright. He pushes all his burning emotions down into his chest and looks at his reflection. He looks cool, calm. He gives himself a nod and exits the bathroom.
Dean boots up his laptop and looks up the closest slaughterhouse. The thought of sneaking in, killing an animal and drinking its blood should disgust him, and it does. But it also excites him.
Location picked, he gathers his knife set and takes the ice bucket from the motel room. He changes his clothes for older, worn ones, and leaves.
When he arrives at the slaughterhouse, he can smell the chicken inside. The feathers, feed, shit, and blood. His mouth waters.
He picks the lock easily and slips into the room filled with cage upon cage of chickens. It's pitch black in here, but Dean doesn't need light to see.
As if able to sense danger, the birds stir, and begin clucking nervously to each other.
Dean heads to the closest cage. The bird is weak, covered in shit, feathers missing in places and open sores on its skin. Dean has a pang of pity, knowing that these chicken suffer like this for people like him to eat cheap chicken at overpriced restaurants. At least he can remove it from its shitty life.
He opens the top of the wire cage, and grasps the bird by its neck. It shrieks and flaps its wings in panic and Dean quickly snaps its neck.
He then brings out his machete and beheads the bird. He holds the limp body over the bucket and the blood splatters in.
The smell is incredible. Dean's limbs shake with the effort to hold the bird steady over the bucket. When he can't control himself any longer, he pulls the neck to his mouth and sucks the blood out, gulping it down like he's starving.
The coppery tang is wonderful and explosive against his tongue. He feels like he's found the nectar of life, energy zinging through his body and he drinks the blood.
The flow slows and Dean squishes the body, trying to get more fluid like one would a tube of toothpaste. When there's nothing left, he drops the carcass. He feels better, but not completely satisfied. He moves to the next cage, and beheads this chicken as well, drinks all its blood, and it's a wonderful feeling. He had forgotten how happy overindulging in food could make him.
Finally satiated, Dean drops the second carcass, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He only then realizes his front is also covered in blood and feathers. He always was a messy eater.
Dean grins. He feels good. Great even. He doesn't know why he was worrying so much about this. This is going to be easy.
He leaves the ice bucket on the floor, an inch of blood still in there. He's not concerned. If he's hungry tomorrow night, he'll come back. Or maybe he'll try pig. He always loved bacon.
When Dean gets back to the hotel, he quietly enters the room, but is relieved to find Sam's still out. He pulls off his bloodied clothes and stuff them in a garbage bag, ties it tightly. He slips into the shower, watches the water turn red as it washes his sin away, and he grins.
He feels so good.
His enhanced hearing picks up the sound of Sam entering the motel room, and Dean quickly turns off the water and towels off. He wraps the towel around his waist and looks at himself in the fogged mirror.
He runs a hand over the glass and clears the condensation. His eyes stare back at him, dark and pleased. He checks his fangs, noticed that they've grown longer and now respond to his commands to extend and recede from his gums.
Once they're hidden away safely under his lips, he enters into the motel room, steam following him like a cloud.
Sam sits on his bed, back against the headboard. He glances at Dean and then back at his computer.
Dean launches himself on his own bed, making sure to give Sam a flash when his towel doesn't cover his excessive movements.
Sam winces and scowls. Dean laughs at his reaction. “Everyone has one, Sam. Nothing to be shy about.”
Sam rolls his eyes and doesn't comment.
Dean lies down on his bed, skin still moist and stares up at the ceiling. He allows a small smile to form on his lips. Life's good and he feels really good.
Living, heh. Dean lets out a little chuckle.
“Are you high?” Sam asks from his bed. Dean glances over at Sam to see him watching Dean intently. His eyes narrow. “What did you take?”
Dean lets out a little giggle, the thought absurd. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. “I'm fine, Sam. Just in a good mood.”
Sam shifts, breathes for a moment, and Dean lets his mind wander.
What had he been so worried about? This was great. He can take on the whole goddamn world! He knows without a doubt, that Sam's soul is as good as saved.
A hand presses against his forehead, and Dean startles. He blinks his eyes open to see Sam looking down at him with a calculating expression.
“You don't have a fever. But your pupils are huge. You're definitely high,” Sam says.
Although Sam's expression isn't remotely loving or brotherly, the hand on his head feels amazing and Dean misses the closeness with a sudden pang that catches his breath.
Sam should feel like this too. Once Sam gets his soul back. They'll be tighter than brothers, they'll be nest mates.
Dean really likes the idea of this.
He lets Sam's scent fill his nostrils, it's heady and slightly sweaty. He's been fucking someone tonight, Dean knows. Underneath the musk of sex and Sam, he can smell Sam's blood. It's coppery, rich, with a hint of sulfur, and he's never wanted something so much as he wants Sam's blood.
Faster than Sam can react, Dean grabs his wrist and pulls him down onto the bed, quickly wraps his arms and legs around Sam, immobilizing him. Sam struggles, but he's no match to Dean's vampire strength.
“Dean!” Sam barks, “What the hell are you doing?”
Dean nuzzles Sam's neck, inhales, and it's like the best the best hand job he's ever had. But this isn't about sex, this is about blood. He's hard, but that's okay. Sam will understand when he's like him.
“Relax, Sam. I know what I'm doing,” He murmurs into Sam's ear.
Sam's blood smells better than chicken blood. Possibly the best thing in the whole world. Dean allows his tongue slip against Sam's neck.
“Dean, you have to stop. You're under a spell. Let me go and I'll help you,” Sam grunts out and he tries to buck out of Dean's grasp.
Dean knows there's a reason he should stop. Or, at least there was a reason. But he can't remember it now, so it clearly wasn't important.
Not nearly as important as the throb of pulsing hot blood separated only by a small layer of skin between his mouth and it.
“Dean, don't!” Sam growls out.
Dean bites down and blood floods his mouth.
Prompt/Summary: Written for Sharp Teeth, from prompt: The cure for vampirism doesn't last forever. Dean recognizes the signs, but he's not going to drink human blood. He's not.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2700
Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from Supernatural.
Warnings: Graphic and disturbing imagery, horror
Author's Note: Beta'd by wave_obscura . She's awesome.But we all know this :P
This fic can almost get classified as wincest, which is pretty weird for me o_o I'm stepping out of my gen comfort zone!
Dean's gums begin to ache. Like, really ache. Ache isn't even the right word. They throb with the beat of his heart. Which may be slowing down. He's pretty sure it's always gone at this steady, slow beat. But not sure. Shouldn't his heart speed up when he's this anxious?
He tries to blow it off. Sam's soulless, and this whole situation has gone fubar. He's stressed, really.
Nothing to worry about.
He uses sensitive toothpaste and smears it over his gums. It dulls the throb, but it's always back again within a few hours. Whatever, he's had a trick knee for years. He can deal with pain.
He pushes it aside, using the fact that he and Sam are working for a demon as a focus point. It's humiliating, working for Crowley. But it has to be done. He can't spend much more time looking at this new, emotionally deformed version of Sam. It's too painful.
Dean lounges on his motel bed, skimming through suspicious articles on his laptop, while Sam sits at the small table, banging away at his own laptop. Now that Sam doesn't have to hide his lack of emotions from Dean, his face is a blank slate.
And he smells different.
Dean blinks. Where did that come from?
Sure, he was always conscious of Sam's natural scent. He grew up with him. Musk really. But he hated thinking of it like that, because it sounded super gay. Not that thinking about Sam's 'scent' was any less gay.
Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. He was way too tired.
And Sam smelled too much. He could smell him from across the room. It made his head throb along with his slow steady heart beat.
Dean gets up and opens the window. The muted sounds of traffic fills the room and a gust of cold air flows in carrying within other smells of city life, and subtly the slightest hint of copper. He lets his lungs fill and his stomach rumbles.
Dean glances back at Sam, focused entirely on his computer. “I'm going out for some grub. Want anything?”
Sam doesn't look up from his screen, just grunts a negative.
And that's fine with Dean. He'd rather not have a robot Sam with him as company anyway. He takes a quick piss, grabs his jacket, and heads off out the door.
It's a relief to be out of the motel room that's saturated in Sam musk. It's like he can finally think again. He didn't realize how hungry he was until now.
Dean shakes his head to himself. No, stop thinking about this. You're fine.
Stressed, yes. And yes, you did have a short experience as a vampire, but you were cured.
Your fine. Perfectly fine.
The sun is fading in the horizon, shadows run long across the pavement, creating puddles of darkness, but Dean doesn't have any trouble seeing into them.
But he's always had good night vision. Nothing to worry about.
He decides to leave the Impala and walk down the block to the pub.
When he enters, an explosion of noise and smells momentarily overwhelms him. His stomach clenches in hunger and his eyes quickly adjust to the darkness of the pub's interior.
He takes a seat at the bar, away from the other patrons, who crowd around a big wall mounted television, watching a football game. He's got no interest in entertaining conversation tonight, so he orders a beer and the first appetizing thing his eyes see on the menu.
Dean sips his beer and tries to ignore the hunger gnawing at his insides. The burger he gets fifteen minutes later looks great. It's juicy, has lots of onions, and tons of fries.
But he doesn't want it.
Dean takes a bite anyway. It's delicious and sauce drips down his fingers to his wrist. His stomach clenches and he forces the urge to vomit back and swallows beer down quickly. He puts down the burger and wipes his hands on his napkin, then wipes his mouth, thinking.
He should be able to eat this. But he can't.
Dean scowls at his burger.
This is so stupid. It's all in his head. Once he gets past this, things will settle down.
He forces himself to eat the rest of the burger and guzzle down his beer. It tastes wonderful going down, but twenty minutes later in the men's restroom. It tastes awful coming back up.
Dean rinses his mouth out at the sink and looks in the mirror. He's sweating profusely. He grabs some paper towel and wipes his face, but it doesn't do much good.
He's so goddamn hungry.
Outside the bathroom, it's like the pub has gotten more raucous, louder. It's really began to fill up with college students and young professionals, all crushed together to enjoy each other's company in a poorly ventilated box of a building. The sea of voices and pure noise wash over Dean and it hurts terribly. The smell of all these bodies together makes his gums quiver and fills his mouth with saliva.
He hurries to the bartender and shouts to be heard over all the noise. The man looks at Dean peculiarly but allows him to settle his tab quickly, and Dean is out the pub doors as fast as he can move.
He walks back to the motel in a quick pace, hands buried in his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk in front of him. The sky's completely darkened, but the air is still warm. Sweat slides down his spine. His scalp itches with moisture. Dean ignores it.
When he gets back to the motel, he finds Sam gone, which is just fine with him. A note is on top of the table, simply saying, 'out.'
Dean shrugs off his jacket. Kicks off his shoes. Sits on his bed. Gets up. Paces the room. Sits back down on the bed.
He pulls out his cell phone, goes through the contact list, and thinks he should call someone, but he doesn't really know who. This is probably all in his head, and he shouldn't bother anyone with his own paranoia.
All in his head.
Dean gets up and goes into the washroom. He flicks on the light and flinches violently at the bright lights that stutter on. He forces his eyes open and stares at his reflection.
He doesn't look any different. Maybe sweaty and nervous looking.
Dean leans over the counter and gets right up beside the mirror. He pulls up his lip and looks at his gums. They look normal, same shade of pink they've always been.
Dean lets out a sigh of relief, but then catches his eyes on something. His gums have a small flap loose. He pokes it with a finger and a small fang pops out.
Dean jerks back from the mirror, his reflection staring back at him in horror.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers to himself.
He leans back and looks again. Sure enough, there's a few small fangs beginning to grow in under the gums.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean repeats, louder.
He's suddenly, overwhelmingly angry. He grabs the first thing he can, a complimentary plastic cup still wrapped in plastic, and hurls it as hard as he can against his reflection and screams wordlessly. The cup bounces off the mirror harmlessly and clatters to the floor.
Dean backs away from the mirror until his back connects with the opposite wall and he slides down on to his knees, anger replaced with despair.
He had this beat. It was beat!
Dean clenches his eyes, feels moisture build.
Samuel had guaranteed this cure. He hadn't drank any blood! It should have worked.
“What went wrong?” Dean whispers to himself. He rubs a hand through his hair, allows his chest to shudder with emotion. He goes limp and drops further onto the bathroom floor.
Dean's becoming a vampire. For good this time, he's sure.
Dean knows for certain that he can't live like this. It's not a life anyways.
A sob escapes his lips and hot tears begin to run down his face.
He can't live like this. But he can't leave Sam. This Sam will survive without Dean, no problem. But the other Sam, the one stuck in Hell is counting on him to get him out.
He's still got a job to do. He needs to watch out for Sammy, and he can't do that when he's dead.
Dean lifts his head, resolute.
He's got to save Sam. He's got to hang around long enough to do that. After Sam's back, well, that will be that.
He can do this. He met those 'vegetarian' vampires before. He can do it too. Dean is nothing if not adaptable.
Decision made, Dean pulls himself upright. He pushes all his burning emotions down into his chest and looks at his reflection. He looks cool, calm. He gives himself a nod and exits the bathroom.
Dean boots up his laptop and looks up the closest slaughterhouse. The thought of sneaking in, killing an animal and drinking its blood should disgust him, and it does. But it also excites him.
Location picked, he gathers his knife set and takes the ice bucket from the motel room. He changes his clothes for older, worn ones, and leaves.
When he arrives at the slaughterhouse, he can smell the chicken inside. The feathers, feed, shit, and blood. His mouth waters.
He picks the lock easily and slips into the room filled with cage upon cage of chickens. It's pitch black in here, but Dean doesn't need light to see.
As if able to sense danger, the birds stir, and begin clucking nervously to each other.
Dean heads to the closest cage. The bird is weak, covered in shit, feathers missing in places and open sores on its skin. Dean has a pang of pity, knowing that these chicken suffer like this for people like him to eat cheap chicken at overpriced restaurants. At least he can remove it from its shitty life.
He opens the top of the wire cage, and grasps the bird by its neck. It shrieks and flaps its wings in panic and Dean quickly snaps its neck.
He then brings out his machete and beheads the bird. He holds the limp body over the bucket and the blood splatters in.
The smell is incredible. Dean's limbs shake with the effort to hold the bird steady over the bucket. When he can't control himself any longer, he pulls the neck to his mouth and sucks the blood out, gulping it down like he's starving.
The coppery tang is wonderful and explosive against his tongue. He feels like he's found the nectar of life, energy zinging through his body and he drinks the blood.
The flow slows and Dean squishes the body, trying to get more fluid like one would a tube of toothpaste. When there's nothing left, he drops the carcass. He feels better, but not completely satisfied. He moves to the next cage, and beheads this chicken as well, drinks all its blood, and it's a wonderful feeling. He had forgotten how happy overindulging in food could make him.
Finally satiated, Dean drops the second carcass, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He only then realizes his front is also covered in blood and feathers. He always was a messy eater.
Dean grins. He feels good. Great even. He doesn't know why he was worrying so much about this. This is going to be easy.
He leaves the ice bucket on the floor, an inch of blood still in there. He's not concerned. If he's hungry tomorrow night, he'll come back. Or maybe he'll try pig. He always loved bacon.
When Dean gets back to the hotel, he quietly enters the room, but is relieved to find Sam's still out. He pulls off his bloodied clothes and stuff them in a garbage bag, ties it tightly. He slips into the shower, watches the water turn red as it washes his sin away, and he grins.
He feels so good.
His enhanced hearing picks up the sound of Sam entering the motel room, and Dean quickly turns off the water and towels off. He wraps the towel around his waist and looks at himself in the fogged mirror.
He runs a hand over the glass and clears the condensation. His eyes stare back at him, dark and pleased. He checks his fangs, noticed that they've grown longer and now respond to his commands to extend and recede from his gums.
Once they're hidden away safely under his lips, he enters into the motel room, steam following him like a cloud.
Sam sits on his bed, back against the headboard. He glances at Dean and then back at his computer.
Dean launches himself on his own bed, making sure to give Sam a flash when his towel doesn't cover his excessive movements.
Sam winces and scowls. Dean laughs at his reaction. “Everyone has one, Sam. Nothing to be shy about.”
Sam rolls his eyes and doesn't comment.
Dean lies down on his bed, skin still moist and stares up at the ceiling. He allows a small smile to form on his lips. Life's good and he feels really good.
Living, heh. Dean lets out a little chuckle.
“Are you high?” Sam asks from his bed. Dean glances over at Sam to see him watching Dean intently. His eyes narrow. “What did you take?”
Dean lets out a little giggle, the thought absurd. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. “I'm fine, Sam. Just in a good mood.”
Sam shifts, breathes for a moment, and Dean lets his mind wander.
What had he been so worried about? This was great. He can take on the whole goddamn world! He knows without a doubt, that Sam's soul is as good as saved.
A hand presses against his forehead, and Dean startles. He blinks his eyes open to see Sam looking down at him with a calculating expression.
“You don't have a fever. But your pupils are huge. You're definitely high,” Sam says.
Although Sam's expression isn't remotely loving or brotherly, the hand on his head feels amazing and Dean misses the closeness with a sudden pang that catches his breath.
Sam should feel like this too. Once Sam gets his soul back. They'll be tighter than brothers, they'll be nest mates.
Dean really likes the idea of this.
He lets Sam's scent fill his nostrils, it's heady and slightly sweaty. He's been fucking someone tonight, Dean knows. Underneath the musk of sex and Sam, he can smell Sam's blood. It's coppery, rich, with a hint of sulfur, and he's never wanted something so much as he wants Sam's blood.
Faster than Sam can react, Dean grabs his wrist and pulls him down onto the bed, quickly wraps his arms and legs around Sam, immobilizing him. Sam struggles, but he's no match to Dean's vampire strength.
“Dean!” Sam barks, “What the hell are you doing?”
Dean nuzzles Sam's neck, inhales, and it's like the best the best hand job he's ever had. But this isn't about sex, this is about blood. He's hard, but that's okay. Sam will understand when he's like him.
“Relax, Sam. I know what I'm doing,” He murmurs into Sam's ear.
Sam's blood smells better than chicken blood. Possibly the best thing in the whole world. Dean allows his tongue slip against Sam's neck.
“Dean, you have to stop. You're under a spell. Let me go and I'll help you,” Sam grunts out and he tries to buck out of Dean's grasp.
Dean knows there's a reason he should stop. Or, at least there was a reason. But he can't remember it now, so it clearly wasn't important.
Not nearly as important as the throb of pulsing hot blood separated only by a small layer of skin between his mouth and it.
“Dean, don't!” Sam growls out.
Dean bites down and blood floods his mouth.