Smoke gets in my eyes (Dean/Azazel, Dean/Sam, Dean/others)
Ta-da! First mini-nano piece done! It is unbeta'd, non-ameripicked and not a happy fic - so please take all these things as warning and if any of them are going to bother you, please don’t read.
But I am all thrilled that it is done!
Smoke gets in my eyes
(Dean/Azazel Dean/Sam Dean/others, nc-17, 3900 words, au, mention of non-con and violence and parental incest and other not happy things)
The man with yellow eyes holds his hand as they leave the house. Sammy is crying and the fire is loud and scary but when Dean looks up at him, the man with yellow eyes gives him a nice smile and says, "You excited, Deano?"
Outside, the ground is rough under Dean's bare feet, and the man with yellow eyes scoops him up into his arms. He smells funny so Dean doesn't cuddle close but he twists his hand in the man's collar to hold on.
They walk down the road and Dean looks back at his house, all the windows lit up with fire. The fire trucks are coming; Dean can hear their noises.
"What about Sammy?" Dean says.
The man with yellow eyes smiles again and rubs Dean's back, his hand covering him from shoulder to shoulder. "You'll see him later. Promise. But you just forget all that for now."
:::
Dean's their favorite. Dean's their little black dress, the perfect outfit for any occasion. They all slip him on, pale flesh full of black smoke. He's used to feeling them inside, feels twitchy and weak without them to make him move.
Yellow-Eyes loves him best though. It's a kiss when his black smoke slides between Dean's slack, red lips. He stands Dean naked in front of a mirror, directs Dean to touch himself, touch the sin beneath the skin. Yellow-Eyes makes Dean's mouth filthy, writes pornography with every lowering of Dean's dark eyelashes. He sits in Dean's eyes while Dean writhes and gasps for him, and Dean's eyes only bleed to green as he comes.
Afterwards, he puts Dean on the bed, like Dean's a doll with poseable arms and legs. Dean waits, abandoned and flat as a half-erased sketch, while Yellow-Eyes picks up another meatsuit. He waits for Yellow-Eyes to have hot flesh to press against him. Waits for minutes, hours, days.
Yellow-Eyes kisses his shoulders, makes Dean tremble without knowing why. "How's that angel on your shoulder doing, sport?"
:::
Sometimes Dean wakes up. He doesn't realize he's sleeping until he's awake, and there's sticky blood on his hands and face, or a thick dick stuffed up his ass, or both. The picture snaps to perfect clarity and he's being fucked, held down and manhandled by something external for a change, and he panics and sobs and scrabbles, and then he's someplace else, watching blood drip like beads of colored oil from the blade of a knife. It's like vertigo, like being swung by the neck too fast for him to see the world going by.
"Yeah, like that, fuck me, split me open, please Daddy, fuck your little boy," his mouth says, the words sour and automatic as vomit. And at some point Dean doesn't notice, they become, "Bleed for me, bitch. Gonna make you scream for me."
Sometimes Dean wakes up, and it's just him. Just him in a bathroom, scrubbing dried come and lube from between his thighs, his hands trembling as the water he sloshes over his face comes back red.
:::
"What you don't realize, kid, is that you only have yourself to blame."
Dean's tongue worries the split in his lip, sweeping backwards and forwards over the soft, hot ache. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. The wind is cold, gray, and his nipples are pebbling under his paper-thin t-shirt. Cars slow down as they pass him but Dean doesn't look back at them.
"You know the story of Herod, don’t you? Same thing, 'cept Jesus wasn't as fucked in the head as you." A pause. "I kinda liked Jesus. Not like I like you - don't you worry, you're special to me, Deano - but I liked his style. I come not to bring peace, but a sword. Who wants peace when you can have a sword?"
It's days since Dean ate but he doesn't know if he's hungry. There's a 7/11 across the street. He doesn't have any money but he could lift something off the shelves real easy. That throbbing in his belly, is that hunger? He lifts up his t-shirt and sees bruises, purple and black like smears of make-up on his pale skin. Not hunger then.
"This guy, who's in times and places and shouldn't be, which means he's in bed with the angels, he says he's gonna kill you one day. It's a puzzler! What do you do? What do you do?" Another pause. Dean's cock twitches at a memory that isn't his. "I know what Herod did. Slaughter of the innocents. Overkill, excuse the pun. Good entertainment for a Saturday afternoon, sure, but overkill. Me though? What do I do? I adopt the guy. See? I'm a model citizen."
Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth, sucks hard, and it splits again. Blood reaches the back of his tongue, thin and coppery. The wind whistles in his ears. Lights from the passing cars fuzz up the edges of his vision. He feels dizzy and faint, knows it's only Yellow-Eyes inside him that's holding him up.
The snap of a truck door slamming shut makes him flinch. Alert again, Dean watches a man on the other side of the street. Older guy, dark beard, eyes the color of scorched paper. Dean watches him because Yellow-Eyes does.
The guy looks across at Dean and sees a two-bit whore slouched against a brick wall. He doesn't see Yellow-Eyes. He doesn't see Yellow-Eyes smiling.
:::
She ditches Meg, her sharp little blonde, in favor of riding around in Dean's skin. Yellow-Eyes tells her to bring him back in good condition, he wants gas in the engine and no scratches in the paintwork.
Meg calls him little brother. Her favorite game for them to play involves finding some guy too drunk to think straight, getting him to stick his cock in Dean, waiting 'til he really gets going and then letting Dean come back to himself. She likes the ones who cry best, the ones who beg for forgiveness and scrape their fingers through their hair and curse through wobbling mouths, the ones who go away thinking they just raped some kid. There are the other ones, the ones who see tears on Dean's face, feel his fucked-out little body struggling beneath theirs, and don't stop. She finds those ones boring.
Dean doesn't sleep much with her inside him. She likes the company. She likes Dean present when she's slitting throats. She likes to hear what he thinks about the warmth of blood moving like fabric over his fingers, about the screaming and the quivering death throes.
Dean is pretty disappointing though. He doesn't have much to say.
:::
They're sitting by the side of a road. There's grass under him and it's wet with dew. Music is playing in Dean's ears and his body is moving in a feline sway to its rhythm.
Someone touches his shoulder and Dean jumps.
There's a boy there. He's tall and beautiful, with a mess of dark hair in his pretty eyes and a mouth that wants to smile.
"You need some help?" the guy says.
Help me.
Dean tries to recognize the voice.
"No, I'm good thanks," Meg says.
Help me.
It's not Meg saying it. Is the guy saying it? Dean looks at him again, sees the guy's gaze flitter away from his mouth, sees him flush, caught-out. No, the guy doesn't want Dean's help, unless it's his cock he's got a problem with.
Dean goes away for a while and when he comes back, he's in a bus station, and he's watching the guy again. The guy gets turned away from the desk, and he frowns, heaves his bag higher up on his shoulder. And when he sees Dean, he smiles. Dean doesn't remember how to make a nice smile so Meg does it for him.
The guy comes over. "Hey, you again," he says.
Please. Help me.
Dean doesn't know the voice but he doesn't panic; he's used to having passengers. They'll introduce themselves if they want Dean to know who they are. Until then, he'll carry them.
The guy's name is Sam. He mouths Dean's name back to himself when Dean tells him it, like Dean's given him a little piece of himself and Sam doesn't want to let it go. He shakes Dean's hand, swallows Dean's fingers up in his own, and it surprises Dean that he can get lost inside someone else. He wonders what it would be like to wrap himself up in Sam, to wear Sam like a blanket or bulletproof vest, to have something between him and the world for a change.
They let Sam leave eventually. He says his Dad needs him and he has to go. Even wanting to fuck Dean like he does, his thoughts so articulately expressing what he wants to do to Dean every time he looks at him, Sam goes.
Dean watches him walk out of the bus station, into the sunshine and color. Help me. It's his own voice he's hearing.
:::
Sam fucks him. No. Sam fucks Meg and Meg wakes Dean up for it.
"You don't wanna miss this," she says. "This is special, little brother."
Sam is huge and heavy on top of him, stretching Dean's body drum-tight with the thickness of his cock in him. But he's gentle, slow. It's sweet the way he watches Dean's face every time he fucks into him, like he's collecting every gasp and flutter. He's so careful the way he moves Dean that Dean wants to stroke the sweat-dark hair off his face and tell him it's okay, that he won't break, hasn't done so far. Instead, he spreads his legs a little wider for Sam, lets Sam get in deeper, and it's worth it for Sam's smile, for the small grateful noise he makes.
The sheets are creased and scratchy under Dean's back. The bed smells of unwashed bodies and stale alcohol. Water stains spread across the ceiling like stagnant clouds.
Dean would give up Meg and all the rest, would even give up Yellow-Eyes. He never wants anyone but Sam inside him again.
Sam mouths at Dean's lips, sloppy and tender, and it takes Dean a moment to understand that Sam wants to kiss him. He tilts his face up to Sam and they kiss. They kiss until Dean's mouth is slippery and hot. Sam bows his head, rubs his temple against Dean's cheek as he whines, low and breathy, spine arching as he pushes in deep and fills Dean up, leaving no room for anyone else.
:::
Dean wakes up on a street in Chicago. In the distance, he can hear the squeal of tires.
:::
Yellow-Eyes puts him on and Dean feels him straightening the cuffs, checking the fit. They look in the mirror, both studying Dean's reflection. Yellow-Eyes is curled up in the corner of Dean's mouth, perched on the cocky jut of Dean's hipbones.
"You met Sam. You like him? He's a good kid. Studies hard, trains hard. Knows his own mind. Had a good father."
Dean wonders what he looks like without a demon snug inside him, what the differences are. When he's alone, he doesn't look in the motel room mirrors, tries not to catch his reflection in store windows when he's on the street. He's afraid he'll look and he won't be there.
"It’s like an exchange program, you see. He raises one of my kids, and I'll raise one of his." Dean doesn't ask for details, explanation. If Yellow-Eyes wants him to understand, he'll make it real clear for him. "You and Sam, you're family. You belong to me, and so does he. We're one big happy family."
Yellow-Eyes works Dean's bones like puppet-strings, backs him up against the wall, lifts him until Dean's toes are just brushing the carpet, rocking him gently with a noose's sway. It makes for a weird reflection, Dean hanging there like that, like he's caught in the rapture, naked and marked-up and dead-eyed. Yellow-Eyes slides Dean's arms up over his head, spreads his fingers out, arranges him like a specimen to be pinned.
"You happy, Deano? Are you?"
:::
"I know what you are," says Sam. Behind him, there's a cowering old guy in a baseball cap. "I can't believe I fell for it."
"Gotta say, I was expecting better," says Meg.
There are books against the walls, Dean notes. Help me. It's not a library though. There's a coffee cup on the table and a couch in the other room. Sam, help me. Last time he saw this many books it was in that professor's study and the books were all on fire. Sam's not a professor but maybe the old guy is. Please. Help me. Please. He doesn't look like a professor.
Meg's driving them backwards. Sam's a big guy, lanky with a promise of muscle, but Meg could break his neck with one hand. It'd be Dean's hand too.
And then she stops. She contracts inside of Dean, to a tiny point of cancerous black. On the ceiling, there's a drawing Dean doesn't recognize.
The older guy - Bobby, Sam calls him - ties Dean to a chair under the drawing and Meg doesn’t stop him. She’s quiet inside his head and Dean has no commands to follow, so he goes along with it. Sam watches him, jaw so tight his skull’s like painted bone.
"You're a demon," Sam says, and Dean's reduced to the nametag on luggage, detachable and arbitrary. "Where's my dad?"
"He died screaming!" Meg snarls. Sam's punch is good and solid, and it doesn't hurt Meg one little bit. Dean tongues at his teeth, just to see if any wobble.
"Careful!" says Bobby. At Sam's questioning look, he nods his head at Dean. "That's a demon possessing a human. Can't you tell?"
Possessed. It's a neat little word for what Dean is. He's a possession. Help me. Oh god, help me.
When Sam wrenches Meg out of Dean with his Latin, she claws Dean's throat raw as she tries to hang on. She scratches until he can taste more than blood, can taste bone. His neck snaps back to stare at her smoke crashing into the picture overhead.
And then it's silent and static and Dean's all empty inside.
"You're okay," Sam says. "Let me get your hands."
He just took on a demon, Yellow-Eyes' daughter, with nothing but a book, and he won. But he's trembling as he unties Dean's wrists.
Things start to bleed inside of Dean, wounds that have held together while Meg dragged his flesh from point to A to point B. Nothing fatal. Not that he remembers. Still enough that he feels soft and crushed inside like trampled flowers.
"Your name's Dean, right? You remember me? We… uh…" Sam flushes and ducks his head. He's adorable. One big happy family, that's what they are. "Do you know where my dad is, Dean? Please?"
:::
Dean knows Sam's dad. He doesn't realize it until he's looking down at the guy's body, tied spread-eagled on the dirty bed. He's the guy Yellow-Eyes likes to watch. He's a hunter. Sam's already taller than him. That's adorable too, Dean thinks.
He hangs back while Sam leans over his father. It's a family moment and Dean doesn't want to intrude. For a moment, he thinks he sees Sam crying, then he sees the bottle, understands that the tears are holy water. His skin itches and he backs up a step, bumping into the cheap fiberboard wall.
Something weaves between his ankles, playful at first, like a kitten wanting attention. Then it circles higher, twisting between his legs, nudging between his thighs, crawls up his chest. His eyes go heavy-lidded as he opens his mouth for it.
Yellow-Eyes licks his way inside, slow and insistent, and Dean's letting it happen while Sam and his dad are only a few steps away. They could just turn around and see the snake slithering down Dean's throat, just the black smoke tail flickering between his lips. They could turn around and see. Help me. Help me.
By the time Sam looks back over his shoulder at him, it's Yellow-Eyes he's looking at.
:::
"It's wrong, I know, I know, but I can't help having favorites. Every father, no matter what they say, has favorites. Like Sam. Like you. I just can't help it. I try to be fair, encourage all my kids to be all that they can be, but… you boys? I'm just so proud of you boys."
It's Dean who helps John into the cabin, while Sam opens up the trunk of the car. Yellow-Eyes likes having John rest his weight on him.
The cabin is made of splinters, held together by flaking verdigris-green paint. It smells of gasoline and material left wet too long.
Dean lays John down on the cot, cradles his head as he settles John on the punched-out pillows. It puts their faces close together and John's eyes travel over Dean's face like he's reading a map, figuring out where Dean comes from by the color of his eyes and the constellation shapes of his freckles.
"Who are you?" he mumbles.
Yellow-Eyes puts hooks in the corners of Dean's mouth and pulls until Dean is smiling.
"You know they say possession is nine tenths of the law, John-boy," Yellow-Eyes says, and he darts in to press a quick, dirty kiss to John's mouth. John grunts, starts to rise but Yellow-Eyes flattens him to the bed with one hand that doesn't even touch him. "Stay down. Won't be gone long. Just gotta go check on our other boy."
Dean tries to look back at John as they go but Yellow-Eyes is driving.
The curve of a broken bottle snaps underfoot as Dean moves back outside; Sam's head jerks up instantly from where he's leaning over the trunk. He relaxes when he sees Dean because he doesn’t see the demon stuffed up inside of him. Dean joins him at the open trunk, looks over the display of guns and blades. Their bodies are next to each other.
"Your dad's resting," says Dean. "I think he's gonna be okay."
Sam lets out a small huff of relief. He darts a shy little look up at Dean from under his stupid bangs, and Dean wants to tease him about needing a haircut and he wants to gather whole fistfuls of Sam's hair while he rides Sam's face.
"How about you?" Sam says. "How are you doing? Look, about Chicago-" Sam swallows. "I'm sorry. I never would'a done that to you if I'd known you weren't consenting."
He'd take it back, take it away from Dean. Because Chicago's just the name of a city to him, but to Dean it's the taste of Sam's mouth and the blunt press of his fingertips into Dean's hips and the rosy flush of his cheeks. It's the one time he was where he actually wanted to be.
"It's cool," Dean says, almost beneath his breath.
"I can't even imagine what you're going through, and you probably just wanna run screaming in the other direction, and I wouldn't blame you if you did that, but…" Another of Sam's shy little looks, this time a smile comes with it, "…I hope you stick around."
It could be a date. If he pretends he's not spread out for a demon, if he forgets Sam's dad - their dad - is pinned and gasping just the other side of the cabin wall, if he ignores the gun Sam's holding, it's a date. Dean is on a date. Sam's brought him to this cabin where only the moonlight ever comes, he's brought him here to flirt and kiss and fuck. It's just them and the moon and the damp veil of the night breeze on their skin.
So fucking romantic.
But it's the gun. The gun Sam is holding is what Yellow-Eyes wants. He's coiled so tight inside Dean's body that moving feels like metal grinding on metal.
"That gun," Yellow-Eyes says. "I've heard of it. Heard them talking about it. They're scared of it. Can it really kill demons?"
Sam glances down at the gun.
"Can I see it?" Yellow-Eyes says. Yellow-Eyes doesn't care that Sam looks at Dean like he's already half in love with him, which is stupid and impossible and so. fucking. romantic.
Sam's grip on the gun tightens. His face goes dark.
Yellow-Eyes keeps Dean's hand stretched out for it. "Just, the idea of actually being able to kill the bastards who did this to me…"
Sam isn't letting the gun go but his expression isn't so sure anymore.
This time, when Dean's sinking into Sam's space, he's aware of Sam as his own flesh. Sam is as much his flesh as the disconnected, badly behaved flesh that he calls his own but which demons possess. Sam's body is hard angles and heat. Only the gun between their chests keeps them from locking together.
Sam's lips fall open, and Dean doesn't know how many times he's done the same thing to accept the demons inside. More times than Sam's kissed someone, he's pretty sure. Sam's breath is hot on Dean's mouth, coming in quiet, eager little pants. Their mouths fit together prettily, fluttering and hesitant, like children.
Yellow-Eyes closes Dean's hand around the gun.
And that's it. This line terminates here. Final destination. Would all passengers please get the fuck off. Dean's awake, he's kissing Sam and he's aware of every single detail. Moon's so bright and the night's so cold and Sam's so fucking adorable. They're Yellow-Eyes's boys and he owns their flesh. Owns it right up until Dean takes it back.
This is the decision Dean makes for himself: he puts the muzzle of the gun under his chin and makes a hole in his flesh for him and Yellow-Eyes to fall out of together.
:::
Dean wakes in a hotel room. From the window, he can see a city skyline, children's building block shapes against wispy white clouds. He is at least a few stories from the ground. The room is pleasant but nothing special. It's clean and tidy and decorated with bland floral patterns in beige and pale pink.
Dean doesn't remember how he got here. It's a cold slice of unease in the otherwise placid atmosphere. His body doesn't hurt or ache, he's wearing clothes, and inside his head is the monotone hum of silence.
Tentatively, he moves, just a few steps from where he's standing in the middle of the room towards the bathroom door. The situation stays the same. Feeling braver, he goes into the bathroom. It's clean in here too, though the florals give way to a generic shell motif. Again, Dean waits in the doorway, but still nothing changes.
He approaches the mirror. His reflection is nothing but a misty dazzle. It's pearlescent and shifting. The many points of its starburst grow and shrink, giving the impression of a Christmas ornament spinning on the tree.
"Hello, Dean," the light says.
Dean doesn't answer.
"You did a wonderful thing in sacrificing your own life to destroy Azazel," the light tells him. "Because of you, your brother and father survived and went on to save a great many people."
His flesh survived. His flesh went out in the world and did good things.
"We want to reward you. We want to give you heaven on earth. We want the word 'demon' to become obsolete."
No more demons. No more carrying around their filth under his skin. No more opening up for them.
"It just requires one last service from you," says the light.
Dean lifts his chin, one eyebrow raised.
"Let me in."
~end
But I am all thrilled that it is done!
Smoke gets in my eyes
(Dean/Azazel Dean/Sam Dean/others, nc-17, 3900 words, au, mention of non-con and violence and parental incest and other not happy things)
The man with yellow eyes holds his hand as they leave the house. Sammy is crying and the fire is loud and scary but when Dean looks up at him, the man with yellow eyes gives him a nice smile and says, "You excited, Deano?"
Outside, the ground is rough under Dean's bare feet, and the man with yellow eyes scoops him up into his arms. He smells funny so Dean doesn't cuddle close but he twists his hand in the man's collar to hold on.
They walk down the road and Dean looks back at his house, all the windows lit up with fire. The fire trucks are coming; Dean can hear their noises.
"What about Sammy?" Dean says.
The man with yellow eyes smiles again and rubs Dean's back, his hand covering him from shoulder to shoulder. "You'll see him later. Promise. But you just forget all that for now."
:::
Dean's their favorite. Dean's their little black dress, the perfect outfit for any occasion. They all slip him on, pale flesh full of black smoke. He's used to feeling them inside, feels twitchy and weak without them to make him move.
Yellow-Eyes loves him best though. It's a kiss when his black smoke slides between Dean's slack, red lips. He stands Dean naked in front of a mirror, directs Dean to touch himself, touch the sin beneath the skin. Yellow-Eyes makes Dean's mouth filthy, writes pornography with every lowering of Dean's dark eyelashes. He sits in Dean's eyes while Dean writhes and gasps for him, and Dean's eyes only bleed to green as he comes.
Afterwards, he puts Dean on the bed, like Dean's a doll with poseable arms and legs. Dean waits, abandoned and flat as a half-erased sketch, while Yellow-Eyes picks up another meatsuit. He waits for Yellow-Eyes to have hot flesh to press against him. Waits for minutes, hours, days.
Yellow-Eyes kisses his shoulders, makes Dean tremble without knowing why. "How's that angel on your shoulder doing, sport?"
:::
Sometimes Dean wakes up. He doesn't realize he's sleeping until he's awake, and there's sticky blood on his hands and face, or a thick dick stuffed up his ass, or both. The picture snaps to perfect clarity and he's being fucked, held down and manhandled by something external for a change, and he panics and sobs and scrabbles, and then he's someplace else, watching blood drip like beads of colored oil from the blade of a knife. It's like vertigo, like being swung by the neck too fast for him to see the world going by.
"Yeah, like that, fuck me, split me open, please Daddy, fuck your little boy," his mouth says, the words sour and automatic as vomit. And at some point Dean doesn't notice, they become, "Bleed for me, bitch. Gonna make you scream for me."
Sometimes Dean wakes up, and it's just him. Just him in a bathroom, scrubbing dried come and lube from between his thighs, his hands trembling as the water he sloshes over his face comes back red.
:::
"What you don't realize, kid, is that you only have yourself to blame."
Dean's tongue worries the split in his lip, sweeping backwards and forwards over the soft, hot ache. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. The wind is cold, gray, and his nipples are pebbling under his paper-thin t-shirt. Cars slow down as they pass him but Dean doesn't look back at them.
"You know the story of Herod, don’t you? Same thing, 'cept Jesus wasn't as fucked in the head as you." A pause. "I kinda liked Jesus. Not like I like you - don't you worry, you're special to me, Deano - but I liked his style. I come not to bring peace, but a sword. Who wants peace when you can have a sword?"
It's days since Dean ate but he doesn't know if he's hungry. There's a 7/11 across the street. He doesn't have any money but he could lift something off the shelves real easy. That throbbing in his belly, is that hunger? He lifts up his t-shirt and sees bruises, purple and black like smears of make-up on his pale skin. Not hunger then.
"This guy, who's in times and places and shouldn't be, which means he's in bed with the angels, he says he's gonna kill you one day. It's a puzzler! What do you do? What do you do?" Another pause. Dean's cock twitches at a memory that isn't his. "I know what Herod did. Slaughter of the innocents. Overkill, excuse the pun. Good entertainment for a Saturday afternoon, sure, but overkill. Me though? What do I do? I adopt the guy. See? I'm a model citizen."
Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth, sucks hard, and it splits again. Blood reaches the back of his tongue, thin and coppery. The wind whistles in his ears. Lights from the passing cars fuzz up the edges of his vision. He feels dizzy and faint, knows it's only Yellow-Eyes inside him that's holding him up.
The snap of a truck door slamming shut makes him flinch. Alert again, Dean watches a man on the other side of the street. Older guy, dark beard, eyes the color of scorched paper. Dean watches him because Yellow-Eyes does.
The guy looks across at Dean and sees a two-bit whore slouched against a brick wall. He doesn't see Yellow-Eyes. He doesn't see Yellow-Eyes smiling.
:::
She ditches Meg, her sharp little blonde, in favor of riding around in Dean's skin. Yellow-Eyes tells her to bring him back in good condition, he wants gas in the engine and no scratches in the paintwork.
Meg calls him little brother. Her favorite game for them to play involves finding some guy too drunk to think straight, getting him to stick his cock in Dean, waiting 'til he really gets going and then letting Dean come back to himself. She likes the ones who cry best, the ones who beg for forgiveness and scrape their fingers through their hair and curse through wobbling mouths, the ones who go away thinking they just raped some kid. There are the other ones, the ones who see tears on Dean's face, feel his fucked-out little body struggling beneath theirs, and don't stop. She finds those ones boring.
Dean doesn't sleep much with her inside him. She likes the company. She likes Dean present when she's slitting throats. She likes to hear what he thinks about the warmth of blood moving like fabric over his fingers, about the screaming and the quivering death throes.
Dean is pretty disappointing though. He doesn't have much to say.
:::
They're sitting by the side of a road. There's grass under him and it's wet with dew. Music is playing in Dean's ears and his body is moving in a feline sway to its rhythm.
Someone touches his shoulder and Dean jumps.
There's a boy there. He's tall and beautiful, with a mess of dark hair in his pretty eyes and a mouth that wants to smile.
"You need some help?" the guy says.
Help me.
Dean tries to recognize the voice.
"No, I'm good thanks," Meg says.
Help me.
It's not Meg saying it. Is the guy saying it? Dean looks at him again, sees the guy's gaze flitter away from his mouth, sees him flush, caught-out. No, the guy doesn't want Dean's help, unless it's his cock he's got a problem with.
Dean goes away for a while and when he comes back, he's in a bus station, and he's watching the guy again. The guy gets turned away from the desk, and he frowns, heaves his bag higher up on his shoulder. And when he sees Dean, he smiles. Dean doesn't remember how to make a nice smile so Meg does it for him.
The guy comes over. "Hey, you again," he says.
Please. Help me.
Dean doesn't know the voice but he doesn't panic; he's used to having passengers. They'll introduce themselves if they want Dean to know who they are. Until then, he'll carry them.
The guy's name is Sam. He mouths Dean's name back to himself when Dean tells him it, like Dean's given him a little piece of himself and Sam doesn't want to let it go. He shakes Dean's hand, swallows Dean's fingers up in his own, and it surprises Dean that he can get lost inside someone else. He wonders what it would be like to wrap himself up in Sam, to wear Sam like a blanket or bulletproof vest, to have something between him and the world for a change.
They let Sam leave eventually. He says his Dad needs him and he has to go. Even wanting to fuck Dean like he does, his thoughts so articulately expressing what he wants to do to Dean every time he looks at him, Sam goes.
Dean watches him walk out of the bus station, into the sunshine and color. Help me. It's his own voice he's hearing.
:::
Sam fucks him. No. Sam fucks Meg and Meg wakes Dean up for it.
"You don't wanna miss this," she says. "This is special, little brother."
Sam is huge and heavy on top of him, stretching Dean's body drum-tight with the thickness of his cock in him. But he's gentle, slow. It's sweet the way he watches Dean's face every time he fucks into him, like he's collecting every gasp and flutter. He's so careful the way he moves Dean that Dean wants to stroke the sweat-dark hair off his face and tell him it's okay, that he won't break, hasn't done so far. Instead, he spreads his legs a little wider for Sam, lets Sam get in deeper, and it's worth it for Sam's smile, for the small grateful noise he makes.
The sheets are creased and scratchy under Dean's back. The bed smells of unwashed bodies and stale alcohol. Water stains spread across the ceiling like stagnant clouds.
Dean would give up Meg and all the rest, would even give up Yellow-Eyes. He never wants anyone but Sam inside him again.
Sam mouths at Dean's lips, sloppy and tender, and it takes Dean a moment to understand that Sam wants to kiss him. He tilts his face up to Sam and they kiss. They kiss until Dean's mouth is slippery and hot. Sam bows his head, rubs his temple against Dean's cheek as he whines, low and breathy, spine arching as he pushes in deep and fills Dean up, leaving no room for anyone else.
:::
Dean wakes up on a street in Chicago. In the distance, he can hear the squeal of tires.
:::
Yellow-Eyes puts him on and Dean feels him straightening the cuffs, checking the fit. They look in the mirror, both studying Dean's reflection. Yellow-Eyes is curled up in the corner of Dean's mouth, perched on the cocky jut of Dean's hipbones.
"You met Sam. You like him? He's a good kid. Studies hard, trains hard. Knows his own mind. Had a good father."
Dean wonders what he looks like without a demon snug inside him, what the differences are. When he's alone, he doesn't look in the motel room mirrors, tries not to catch his reflection in store windows when he's on the street. He's afraid he'll look and he won't be there.
"It’s like an exchange program, you see. He raises one of my kids, and I'll raise one of his." Dean doesn't ask for details, explanation. If Yellow-Eyes wants him to understand, he'll make it real clear for him. "You and Sam, you're family. You belong to me, and so does he. We're one big happy family."
Yellow-Eyes works Dean's bones like puppet-strings, backs him up against the wall, lifts him until Dean's toes are just brushing the carpet, rocking him gently with a noose's sway. It makes for a weird reflection, Dean hanging there like that, like he's caught in the rapture, naked and marked-up and dead-eyed. Yellow-Eyes slides Dean's arms up over his head, spreads his fingers out, arranges him like a specimen to be pinned.
"You happy, Deano? Are you?"
:::
"I know what you are," says Sam. Behind him, there's a cowering old guy in a baseball cap. "I can't believe I fell for it."
"Gotta say, I was expecting better," says Meg.
There are books against the walls, Dean notes. Help me. It's not a library though. There's a coffee cup on the table and a couch in the other room. Sam, help me. Last time he saw this many books it was in that professor's study and the books were all on fire. Sam's not a professor but maybe the old guy is. Please. Help me. Please. He doesn't look like a professor.
Meg's driving them backwards. Sam's a big guy, lanky with a promise of muscle, but Meg could break his neck with one hand. It'd be Dean's hand too.
And then she stops. She contracts inside of Dean, to a tiny point of cancerous black. On the ceiling, there's a drawing Dean doesn't recognize.
The older guy - Bobby, Sam calls him - ties Dean to a chair under the drawing and Meg doesn’t stop him. She’s quiet inside his head and Dean has no commands to follow, so he goes along with it. Sam watches him, jaw so tight his skull’s like painted bone.
"You're a demon," Sam says, and Dean's reduced to the nametag on luggage, detachable and arbitrary. "Where's my dad?"
"He died screaming!" Meg snarls. Sam's punch is good and solid, and it doesn't hurt Meg one little bit. Dean tongues at his teeth, just to see if any wobble.
"Careful!" says Bobby. At Sam's questioning look, he nods his head at Dean. "That's a demon possessing a human. Can't you tell?"
Possessed. It's a neat little word for what Dean is. He's a possession. Help me. Oh god, help me.
When Sam wrenches Meg out of Dean with his Latin, she claws Dean's throat raw as she tries to hang on. She scratches until he can taste more than blood, can taste bone. His neck snaps back to stare at her smoke crashing into the picture overhead.
And then it's silent and static and Dean's all empty inside.
"You're okay," Sam says. "Let me get your hands."
He just took on a demon, Yellow-Eyes' daughter, with nothing but a book, and he won. But he's trembling as he unties Dean's wrists.
Things start to bleed inside of Dean, wounds that have held together while Meg dragged his flesh from point to A to point B. Nothing fatal. Not that he remembers. Still enough that he feels soft and crushed inside like trampled flowers.
"Your name's Dean, right? You remember me? We… uh…" Sam flushes and ducks his head. He's adorable. One big happy family, that's what they are. "Do you know where my dad is, Dean? Please?"
:::
Dean knows Sam's dad. He doesn't realize it until he's looking down at the guy's body, tied spread-eagled on the dirty bed. He's the guy Yellow-Eyes likes to watch. He's a hunter. Sam's already taller than him. That's adorable too, Dean thinks.
He hangs back while Sam leans over his father. It's a family moment and Dean doesn't want to intrude. For a moment, he thinks he sees Sam crying, then he sees the bottle, understands that the tears are holy water. His skin itches and he backs up a step, bumping into the cheap fiberboard wall.
Something weaves between his ankles, playful at first, like a kitten wanting attention. Then it circles higher, twisting between his legs, nudging between his thighs, crawls up his chest. His eyes go heavy-lidded as he opens his mouth for it.
Yellow-Eyes licks his way inside, slow and insistent, and Dean's letting it happen while Sam and his dad are only a few steps away. They could just turn around and see the snake slithering down Dean's throat, just the black smoke tail flickering between his lips. They could turn around and see. Help me. Help me.
By the time Sam looks back over his shoulder at him, it's Yellow-Eyes he's looking at.
:::
"It's wrong, I know, I know, but I can't help having favorites. Every father, no matter what they say, has favorites. Like Sam. Like you. I just can't help it. I try to be fair, encourage all my kids to be all that they can be, but… you boys? I'm just so proud of you boys."
It's Dean who helps John into the cabin, while Sam opens up the trunk of the car. Yellow-Eyes likes having John rest his weight on him.
The cabin is made of splinters, held together by flaking verdigris-green paint. It smells of gasoline and material left wet too long.
Dean lays John down on the cot, cradles his head as he settles John on the punched-out pillows. It puts their faces close together and John's eyes travel over Dean's face like he's reading a map, figuring out where Dean comes from by the color of his eyes and the constellation shapes of his freckles.
"Who are you?" he mumbles.
Yellow-Eyes puts hooks in the corners of Dean's mouth and pulls until Dean is smiling.
"You know they say possession is nine tenths of the law, John-boy," Yellow-Eyes says, and he darts in to press a quick, dirty kiss to John's mouth. John grunts, starts to rise but Yellow-Eyes flattens him to the bed with one hand that doesn't even touch him. "Stay down. Won't be gone long. Just gotta go check on our other boy."
Dean tries to look back at John as they go but Yellow-Eyes is driving.
The curve of a broken bottle snaps underfoot as Dean moves back outside; Sam's head jerks up instantly from where he's leaning over the trunk. He relaxes when he sees Dean because he doesn’t see the demon stuffed up inside of him. Dean joins him at the open trunk, looks over the display of guns and blades. Their bodies are next to each other.
"Your dad's resting," says Dean. "I think he's gonna be okay."
Sam lets out a small huff of relief. He darts a shy little look up at Dean from under his stupid bangs, and Dean wants to tease him about needing a haircut and he wants to gather whole fistfuls of Sam's hair while he rides Sam's face.
"How about you?" Sam says. "How are you doing? Look, about Chicago-" Sam swallows. "I'm sorry. I never would'a done that to you if I'd known you weren't consenting."
He'd take it back, take it away from Dean. Because Chicago's just the name of a city to him, but to Dean it's the taste of Sam's mouth and the blunt press of his fingertips into Dean's hips and the rosy flush of his cheeks. It's the one time he was where he actually wanted to be.
"It's cool," Dean says, almost beneath his breath.
"I can't even imagine what you're going through, and you probably just wanna run screaming in the other direction, and I wouldn't blame you if you did that, but…" Another of Sam's shy little looks, this time a smile comes with it, "…I hope you stick around."
It could be a date. If he pretends he's not spread out for a demon, if he forgets Sam's dad - their dad - is pinned and gasping just the other side of the cabin wall, if he ignores the gun Sam's holding, it's a date. Dean is on a date. Sam's brought him to this cabin where only the moonlight ever comes, he's brought him here to flirt and kiss and fuck. It's just them and the moon and the damp veil of the night breeze on their skin.
So fucking romantic.
But it's the gun. The gun Sam is holding is what Yellow-Eyes wants. He's coiled so tight inside Dean's body that moving feels like metal grinding on metal.
"That gun," Yellow-Eyes says. "I've heard of it. Heard them talking about it. They're scared of it. Can it really kill demons?"
Sam glances down at the gun.
"Can I see it?" Yellow-Eyes says. Yellow-Eyes doesn't care that Sam looks at Dean like he's already half in love with him, which is stupid and impossible and so. fucking. romantic.
Sam's grip on the gun tightens. His face goes dark.
Yellow-Eyes keeps Dean's hand stretched out for it. "Just, the idea of actually being able to kill the bastards who did this to me…"
Sam isn't letting the gun go but his expression isn't so sure anymore.
This time, when Dean's sinking into Sam's space, he's aware of Sam as his own flesh. Sam is as much his flesh as the disconnected, badly behaved flesh that he calls his own but which demons possess. Sam's body is hard angles and heat. Only the gun between their chests keeps them from locking together.
Sam's lips fall open, and Dean doesn't know how many times he's done the same thing to accept the demons inside. More times than Sam's kissed someone, he's pretty sure. Sam's breath is hot on Dean's mouth, coming in quiet, eager little pants. Their mouths fit together prettily, fluttering and hesitant, like children.
Yellow-Eyes closes Dean's hand around the gun.
And that's it. This line terminates here. Final destination. Would all passengers please get the fuck off. Dean's awake, he's kissing Sam and he's aware of every single detail. Moon's so bright and the night's so cold and Sam's so fucking adorable. They're Yellow-Eyes's boys and he owns their flesh. Owns it right up until Dean takes it back.
This is the decision Dean makes for himself: he puts the muzzle of the gun under his chin and makes a hole in his flesh for him and Yellow-Eyes to fall out of together.
:::
Dean wakes in a hotel room. From the window, he can see a city skyline, children's building block shapes against wispy white clouds. He is at least a few stories from the ground. The room is pleasant but nothing special. It's clean and tidy and decorated with bland floral patterns in beige and pale pink.
Dean doesn't remember how he got here. It's a cold slice of unease in the otherwise placid atmosphere. His body doesn't hurt or ache, he's wearing clothes, and inside his head is the monotone hum of silence.
Tentatively, he moves, just a few steps from where he's standing in the middle of the room towards the bathroom door. The situation stays the same. Feeling braver, he goes into the bathroom. It's clean in here too, though the florals give way to a generic shell motif. Again, Dean waits in the doorway, but still nothing changes.
He approaches the mirror. His reflection is nothing but a misty dazzle. It's pearlescent and shifting. The many points of its starburst grow and shrink, giving the impression of a Christmas ornament spinning on the tree.
"Hello, Dean," the light says.
Dean doesn't answer.
"You did a wonderful thing in sacrificing your own life to destroy Azazel," the light tells him. "Because of you, your brother and father survived and went on to save a great many people."
His flesh survived. His flesh went out in the world and did good things.
"We want to reward you. We want to give you heaven on earth. We want the word 'demon' to become obsolete."
No more demons. No more carrying around their filth under his skin. No more opening up for them.
"It just requires one last service from you," says the light.
Dean lifts his chin, one eyebrow raised.
"Let me in."
~end