An Offering For Sin - Part One
Title: An Offering For Sin
Author: Varkelton
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~33,500
Warnings aka Enticements aka Kinks: Blood-play, knife-play, violence, torture, D/s, mild breath-play, a little spanking, physical abuse, pain-kink, first-time sex, masturbation, orgasm denial, claiming, marking, rimming, barebacking, hurt/comfort, dub-con, non-con (outside POV), slash, and incest… oh yeah, and a healthy helping of angst. My favorite! Plus a couple more things I’m leaving off the list because they’re spoilery, and if you’re good with this list, you’ll be okay with them too. But if you really, really need to know, drop me an e-mail and I’ll be happy to discuss.
Disclaimer: Do you suppose if I asked sweetly, the boys would give themselves to me? Yeah, I know, not after they read my stories. Darn! Labor of love. No profit.
AN: Starts immediately at the end of Season Four (Lucifer Rising). It goes AU after that, although I have borrowed some of the plot elements and a little bit of dialog from the first part of Season Five, at least where I could. No spoilers for anything unaired.
Summary: The Angels’ plan to start the apocalypse is thwarted when Sam manages to shut the gate right after it opens, but it rapidly becomes apparent that there are no easy fixes to be found. Sam is still consumed with a need for blood that seems to be spiraling out of control, and Dean’s attempts to help his brother force him to relive experiences in hell that he’s been trying to forget since his return.
Artist: musingdarkly
It appears that I still have muses in this 'verse. If sufficiently inspired by comments ::panhandles shamelessly::, future stories will be listed at my journal in the Master Post. :)
Art by musingdarkly
Part One
“Sammy, let’s go,” Dean said gruffly, his gaze caught by the blinding light flaring up from the floor. He had a fist full of Sam’s jacket, and he jerked on it, making a motion towards the door. Sam stood his ground, refused to move at all; Dean glanced at him, not sure what was keeping him there. Sam had apologized, Dean had heard him, so it was damn time for Sam to start listening to him now.
Sam didn’t meet his eyes. “Dean?” he asked, and Dean could see the fear rooting his brother in place. “He’s coming.” Lucifer. Dean felt a flash of overwhelming panic, and he struggled to push it back. Panic wasn’t an affordable luxury right now, no matter how fucking understandable it might be. Sam’s fist clutched at him tighter, and the light continued to build, continued to get brighter; Dean squinted his eyes against it, wondering if they were both going to end up blind.
“Sam,” he yelled desperately, trying to get his brother’s attention. “It’s time to get the fuck out of here!”
“No, no…” Sam was muttering to himself, staring into the light as if it had all the answers, “She said it’s in me…”
Alarmed, Dean stepped forward to catch the sides of Sam’s face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet. “No, Sam! You have to stop listening to them. Nothing’s in you - nothing except the lies you let them fill your head with!” he yelled.
Sam’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispered, offering his broken apology once more, as if simple words should be enough to repair everything that had happened. Suddenly Dean flew across the room, Sam’s hard shove enough to throw him off his feet. He landed with a painful thud against the edge of the open doors. He spun around on the ground and threw an arm over his eyes, frantic to see what the hell Sam was doing.
Dean could just make out the outline of Sam’s body against the light. Dean watched, horrified, as Sam moved across the circle of blood, straining as if something were trying to hold him back, one arm thrust out to cut a path and the other up to shield his face against the light. His brother yelled in pain, and Dean called out, “Sammy!” The scream of denial was the only thing he could do, and Sam didn’t pause, never stopped though his muscles clearly strained against the power trying to keep him back.
As he met the light, his scream intensified, and Dean finally managed to move forward. Whatever he tried, the edge of blood was a physical wall he couldn’t cross. “Sammy!” he yelled again in agony, sure that Sam was going to die trying to do whatever the fuck he was trying to do. Sam met the fountain of light and fell forward, right into the center of the maelstrom; Dean screamed, launching his body against the invisible barrier, once and then again, but the force was solid and unforgiving.
A wail of sound erupted in the room, sharp and loud and overwhelming. Dean threw his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block it out. There was nothing he could do. The apocalypse was coming, and his brother had just thrown himself on the fucking altar. The cacophony continued to build, discordant sounds filling his head and blocking out all his thoughts; it felt like he might explode with it. He couldn’t even see Sam through the light anymore, and a helpless sob escaped him, lost and despairing. He forced his hands down to the cold stone beneath him, deliberately left himself open to the soul tearing noise, and it filled him up, whiting everything out, until he knew he was going to die, almost there… almost…
The noise cut off abruptly, and the silence was almost as shocking as the deafening screeches had been. Dean tensed, expecting to feel the searing pain of hooks in his skin, but, no… He opened his eyes and was greeted with the dimly lit, grimy stone of the church where he was sprawled awkwardly on the ground.
His head ached, and his eyes burned, but this certainly wasn’t the pain of hell.
Sammy?
He jerked himself up onto his knees, his eyes going immediately to the center of the circle where he’d last seen his brother.
Fuck. Sam was curled in its center, holding a tight fetal position and streaked with black grime, naked as the day he was born.
Dean scrambled forward, forgetting that he’d been barred from moving this way before. He grabbed for his brother, pulling him into his arms, and he let out a gasp of relief when he saw Sam’s chest moving; the weak pants of air told Dean in no uncertain terms that Sam was still alive.
He clutched his brother tightly against himself and denied any knowledge of wetness on his face. Sam was okay. Sam was okay… except, he wasn’t waking up. Sam was shivering in his arms, and his skin felt icy cold. Dean stripped off his jacket awkwardly, his arms full of Sam, and wrapped it around his brother. He looked around in confusion, but what he saw didn’t help. Lilith and Ruby were both… gone, black smudges where the bodies had lain, one a little inside the circle and the other at it’s edge. The blood that had formed the swirling design was nothing but long lines of black ash.
“Come on, Sammy, wake up for me…” he whispered, and pulled on his brother’s eyelids, pulling them back so he could see Sam’s eyes. They were rolled back in his head, the pupils completely blown. Other than the continuing violent tremors, Sam didn’t seem to respond. Dean needed to get his brother out of there, needed to get his brother warm. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but getting Sam to safety was all he really fucking cared about right now. He’d deal with everything else later.
“Castiel!” he yelled, wondering how he was going to get his monster-sized bother out of the building. He felt himself flinch at the carelessly formed word, monster. He shoved the lingering pain back. Not now. The angel’s name echoed around the room and faded away. Nothing happened.
He didn’t even know if the angel had survived; they were probably on their own again. He lifted his brother awkwardly from the floor and dragged him from the room. Sam’s feet were so filthy they left grey trails behind where they dragged against the stone. It was slow going. By the time they were halfway out, Sam’s shaking had increased, and he was moaning pathetically. Dean needed a break, anyway; he sank down to the floor of the narrow hallway to hold Sam against his body, trying to share his warmth.
“Dean?”
Dean’s heart lurched at the whispered name on his brother’s lips. His grip on Sam tightened just a little more. “Sammy? You awake?” he asked gently.
“Cold, so c… cold…” Sam curled his body around Dean’s.
“You’re gonna be fine, Sam,” he reassured, and then, because he couldn’t not ask, “What the hell happened back there?”
“Luci…” Sam panted out, his brief moment of lucidity already slipping away. “I shu’ tha… door…”
Sam’s eyes slipped shut once more, and Dean stared at him uncomprehendingly. Had his brother just seriously claimed to have stopped the devil? Even Sam couldn’t possibly be that strong.
Sam was back to being a dead weight. Dean forced himself back to his feet, dragging and pulling until they were outside. He looked around but they were in the middle of ass nowhere, and the only car present was Ruby’s fucking orange Mustang. At least the hell-bitch was dead. He allowed himself a grim moment of satisfaction. The knife had slipped into her skin easily, and for one satisfying moment, it had felt like he had his brother back at his side, like they used to be.
He dragged Sam to the side door and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened. He was vaguely disappointed when the keys weren’t dangling conveniently from the ignition.
He glanced anxiously down at Sam. The tremors were bad, and Sam’s breath was coming out fast and shallow; his brother was going into shock. They needed to get the hell out of here. Dean tipped Sam back against the car so he could strip his own shirt off. He added it as an extra layer over the jacket before laying Sam down and raising Sam’s dirty feet up to prop them against the side of the car.
It would have to do. He pulled out his knife and got to work hot-wiring the car. He stilled his thoughts to keep the panic at bay and his hands steady, but it still took way too long before he heard the purr of the engine.
By that point, Sam was muttering under his breath incoherently, and Dean was starting to wonder if a hospital wasn’t in their near future. He wasn’t sure what doctors would be able to do to treat his brother though; whatever was going on, Dean was damn sure it wasn’t natural.
Dean struggled to keep his eyes on the road, his brother’s unconscious state a serious distraction. The blasting heat from the car seemed to be helping, still, the quiet motel was a welcome sight when it came into view. Dean pulled the car into the lot, swung himself out of it and closed the door behind him. He almost collapsed in relief at the familiar feeling of safety the ugly building represented. He knew he was running on fumes, but he let himself indulge for a minute. He opened the passenger door, sank down to grip his brother tightly against him, and buried his face against Sam’s shoulder.
Everything was going to be alright. He just needed to get Sam warm.
Once they were in the room, he pulled Sam into the bathroom where his brain almost shut down on him. There was no shower, just one of those old freestanding tubs, dingy, with the porcelain worn thin in places. It was big though. He could make it work. He got himself moving again and slammed on the hot water to heat, before stripping out of his jeans and shoes. He added just enough cold to be bearable and put the stopper in. He let it fill for several anxious minutes before heaving Sam’s body over the edge and stepping in with him to keep Sam’s head clear of the water.
Dean sat at the back of the tub and pulled Sam between his legs. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s chest, pulling Sam into a tight embrace to add to the warmth. On the off chance that the friction would help, he let his hands trail anxiously over Sam’s skin. It was several moments before it occurred to him that the warm water might be more effective than just touch. He scooped it up with trembling hands to let it run over Sam’s chest. His brother’s body gradually relaxed against Dean’s, and Dean felt his own eyes grow heavy with exhaustion; the knowledge that the warm water was helping more than enough to get his own panic to ease back a bit.
Dean’s thoughts wandered, the heat and momentary calm soothing away the walls he’d been forcing around his memories since his return from hell. He remembered sitting together like this - Sam comforting Dean as he lay wrapped in misery, his body struggling to repair itself. It was habit now to clamp the memories down, and he didn’t let the thought go further; he just let the feelings of safety and contentment wrap around them both.
Sam’s body was heavy and warm against his by the time he turned the water off. Sam stirred a little at the absence of noise. Dean’s hands stilled their movement, but Sam didn’t tense up, so Dean didn’t make a move to get up.
“Dean?” his brother whispered. His voice was steadier than it had been, and Dean allowed himself a quiet moment to revel in the thought that things might be actually be working out. “What happened?”
“How ‘bout you tell me?”
The back of Sam’s head rocked a little where it was resting against Dean’s chest. “I don’t… I shut the door…” Sam’s reply was quiet and subdued.
“Yeah, you said that before, dude. What the hell does that even mean?”
“I could… I could feel all that power, and I… I kind of… twisted it back around on itself. I can’t really explain it,” Sam said, defensive pride dripping from his voice. Hubris, Dad would’ve called it.
The quiet mood slipped away, and Dean closed his eyes against the unwelcome anger welling up at the mention of Sam’s unholy powers. He managed to force out, “So… did Lucifer rise or not?”
“No, Dean,” Sam said forcefully. “I stopped him. I closed the door before he got out.”
It sounded too good to be true. “Dude, are you sure?”
“Yeah, Dean, I’m sure. I stopped it. I felt it.” Dean could hear the anger tingeing Sam’s voice, although his brother was clearly trying to hide it. Sam couldn’t keep stuff from him, he knew his brother too damn well.
Dean felt Sam suddenly stiffen in his arms, and he looked down, his brain suddenly reengaging in a rush. Sam’s dick was floating upright in the warm water, long enough to break the surface… Sam was hard. This Sam. The real Sam. Awkward… and it looked like they had apparently figured that out at approximately the same time.
Sam started struggling against Dean, and Dean let him go. Sam scrambled over the side of the tub like he was on fire and landed on the floor, pulling down a towel to cover himself as soon as he hit the linoleum. He could hear Sam mumbling a panicked, “Shit, shit, shit…” under his breath in a steady stream.
“Sam,” Dean said, standing up to let the water stream off of him and plaster his boxers against his legs, “Calm down.” Amusement at the situation filled him, and he had to choke back a laugh; Sam looked so flummoxed. “It’s probably just a reaction to… everything.”
Sam stilled on the floor and nodded tersely before trying to get up, but he was clearly still suffering the effects of what had happened, and couldn’t get his feet under himself enough to move.
Dean grabbed a towel and started drying himself off quickly. “Just calm down,” he said, concern filling him when he saw Sam’s shivering return. “Give me a second, and I’ll help you.”
Sam collapsed to the floor and wrapped his arms around himself, nodding unhappily. Dean got himself somewhat dry and slung the towel around his hips before stepping out of the tub and moving Sam to the nearest bed. Dean slipped out of his wet boxers and pulled on a pair of sweats before sliding under the covers to pull his shivering brother back into his arms.
Stiffening slightly, Sam rolled to face away within the confines of the embrace. “Why are you here?” he asked miserably.
Dean felt himself tense, anxiety curling in his stomach at the question. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said, Dean,” Sam replied, irritation making his fatigued voice sound stronger. Turning back to face Dean, he demanded, “Why the fuck are you here?”
“I would’ve thought that was clear from the message I left you.”
Sam went completely still, except for the uncontrolled spasms. “Get out.” His voice sounded cold, dead.
Suddenly uncomfortable with their close proximity, Dean let his brother go and sat up. “Sam, I’m not…” His thoughts were spinning. Somehow, in all the terror of the last couple of hours, he’d forgotten all the bad blood that stood between them, had somehow assumed it was back to how it always had been between them, that Sam would have found a way to forgive him. Like he’d forgiven Sam. “I’m not leaving you,” Dean said, his annoyance growing as he watched Sam’s eyes shift toward the door. “And you don’t have the strength to walk out on me right now.”
Sam curled deeper into the covers, unhappiness radiating from him, and Dean suddenly flashed back to a much younger Sam, to a Sam that had looked up to him, respected him. He ached for that.
“Please, Dean,” Sam begged. “Please. Just leave.”
“Did you get my message?” Dean asked.
There was a long pause before Sam hissed out, “Yes.”
“Then you know why I can’t do that.” He waited, expectantly. Sam continued to act like a spoiled little brat, settling into full-on bitch face. Dean shook his head, silently cussing Bobby out. He didn’t expect roses and pink ballerina dolls, but Sam could at least meet him half way. Hell, a quarter of the damn way.
Sam huddled in on himself, clutching the blankets for warmth. Dean stripped the blankets off the other bed and laid them over his brother. No, he wasn’t going to leave, but he needed some fucking air. “Look, I think maybe you need to eat. Sounds like you worked some serious mojo back there, and it probably took something out of you. I’m going to go get you some food, but I’ll be back soon, okay?”
Sam still didn’t bother to acknowledge him, so he pulled on a shirt and some shoes, grabbed his jacket and slammed the door on the way out.
~o0O0o~
Dean got back to find Sam hadn’t moved from where he’d been when Dean left, though the trembling was possibly a little worse. Concern wiped away the last of the anger Dean hadn’t been able to shake, and he moved directly to the bed and sat down on the edge. Sam didn’t really acknowledge him, even when Dean wiped long, messy bangs off his brother’s sweaty forehead. Sam was definitely running a fever, but Dean was pretty sure the sweat was a good sign. “Hey, Sammy, wake up. I brought you back a burger. You’ll want to eat it before it gets cold.”
When Sam didn’t react, Dean pulled the covers all the way back and shook his shoulder. “C’mon, dude, you need to eat,” he said a little louder. This was all just after effects from working that damn demon magic. Sam needed to eat to get his strength back. That’s all this was.
Sam was curling in on himself even more tightly. “Dean, ‘m cold,” Sam muttered miserably.
“Yeah, well, I’ll put the covers back when you eat something. Now sit up and take this.” Dean shook the bag next to Sam’s head, but all he got back was a mournful sounding groan.
“Sam,” Dean barked. “Sit the hell up. Don’t make me drag your ass off the bed.”
Sam looked up slowly and glared at him, but when Dean didn’t react, Sam’s bravado quickly slipped away, and he sank back into his dejected ball of misery. Sam’s voice sounded small and muffled against his arm, “I really don’t think I can eat that, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, try.” Dean said, refusing to back down.
Sam hefted a sigh, but he began slowly unfolding himself. Dean helped him make it all the way up to sitting. Halfway through the burger, Sam was flinging himself out of the bed to throw up on the carpet, and Dean let him go back to sleep after that in defeat.
~o0O0o~
Two days, two fucking days, and Sam hadn’t been able to keep a damn thing down. Even water was coming up almost as fast as he drank it. Dean was literally watching his brother waste away in front of him. Sam had been slipping in and out of consciousness for the last day. Even when he was awake, he was usually either confused or flat out hallucinating and shouting out words that made no sense at people who weren’t even there.
Dean’s presence did seem to calm him, at least. Dean had to admit that that right there was an indication he was handling all this better than he had at Bobby’s, but the steady decline was still continuing despite his vigil. Right now, Sam was lying on the bed, struggling to bring in enough air. Dean pulled his phone back out, his finger hovering over the nine button. He’d been ready to do it ten minutes ago, but the onset of yet another fucking seizure had distracted him. They probably wouldn’t be able to treat demon blood addiction, but they could at least do something about the dehydration. Of course they’d probably lock Sam up in some supper secret government program for study the first time he flew across the room…
“Dean,” Sam moaned from the bed. “Just kill me. God, just end this. I can’t do this anymore.”
Dean shoved the phone back in his pocket and sat on the bed next to his brother. He rubbed his fingers gently against Sam’s forehead, but Sam flinched away as if the touch was painful. Maybe it was. “Sam, you’re gonna get better. This is gonna pass.”
“No,” Sam gritted out through clenched teeth, before shifting weakly away from Dean. “You said it, Dean. I’m a monster… a vampire.”
Dean’s heart twisted, and he flushed uncomfortably. He couldn’t blame the monster comment on Sam’s disorientation. “Sam, I never said…”
“Yeah, Dean, you did, and I am… God, it’s all I can think about.” Dean reached out and pulled his brother into his arms. He’d been doing this a lot; Sam seemed to appreciate the warmth. Sam twisted in Dean’s arms, ran a tongue over the skin of Dean’s wrist, wet and warm and startling. Dean jerked his arm back. “Sam, what the fuck?”
“God, Dean,” Sam moaned miserably, writhing uncomfortably in Dean’s grip. “Just kill me now. I need it… I need blood… Oh, God, just kill me…”
Dean let his breath out slowly. This wasn’t the first time Sam had mumbled something about blood, but it was the first time he’d suggested taking Dean’s. “Sam, I’m not a demon. I don’t think my blood is going to help you.”
“You don’t know that. We could…” Sam whimpered out, pained, his voice small, “We could try…”
Sam pressed against Dean’s hip, burying his face there, innocent and childlike. Dean gripped Sam more tightly. He sat frozen, not sure what to do, his brain spinning in unproductive circles. What Sam wanted, what he was asking for… it was ludicrous. There was no way it could help. It was just Sam being delusional.
He felt Sam still, falling into unconsciousness once more. Dean felt panic wrap around his chest in a tight vise. This was really bad. Sam was dying. But Jesus, blood? He hadn’t even let his brain go there, but what if this was the only thing that could break Sam out of this downward spiral? And how long was it going to take to track a demon down and subdue it long enough to get it back here? Sam was so weak at this point that he probably wasn’t going to be able to defend himself against it. Even with his powers.
Sam’s breath was getting more labored, a rattling sound coming from his chest that seemed to steal Dean’s breath right along with it…
God, it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try at this point. And his blood wasn’t tainted. It was clean… maybe it’d work like methadone or something. If it didn’t work, there’d be nothing left but to risk the ambulance. Coming to a decision he quickly reached across the narrow gap between the beds and slipped the knife out from under his pillow, the blade flashing as it caught the light.
This was so fucking desperate.
“Sam.” He shook his brother firmly, and Sam jerked back, his eyes flicking half open. They widened when he saw the knife in Dean’s hand.
“Dean?” he whispered. Sam reached out to touch it tentatively, his hand shaking almost violently. Sam’s hand wrapped around Dean’s and pulled down, and Dean let him, until he realized Sam was pulling the knife toward his own neck. He pulled back violently, ripping his hand out of Sam’s grip easily. He flushed, wondering how they had grown so distant that Sam would ever think Dean would be okay with that.
“Not what I had in mind, Sammy,” he growled.
He shifted Sam awkwardly against his stomach, unsure how to proceed, and then wrapped his left arm around his brother. Sam’s already rapid breaths were coming out faster now as his eyes tracked on Dean’s hand. Dean brought the knife down against his own skin.
Not like he hadn’t done this before.
He ran the knife against the flesh of his forearm, sharp and fast, not too deep, but deep enough that his blood welled up bright and red against his skin.
Sam groaned, a pained exhalation of air, and pulled Dean’s bleeding arm against his mouth, his fingers digging into Dean’s bicep and wrist as if to keep Dean from running away. Pain flared up as Sam’s mouth pressed against the wound, his tongue playing with the cut edges of skin. He teased the skin farther apart to allow the blood to flow more freely; suddenly Dean was in the dark - demons covered him, licking and slurping against the hundreds of shallow cuts littering his body. Panic jolted through him, and he tried to pull away, but Sam was wrapped around his arm, cradling it close in a tight grip as he sucked at the wound in long deep pulls. Oh, God. Dean struggled to push the memories of hell away and made himself pull Sam in harder.
No matter how bad it got. He’d said it. He meant it.
Pushing Sam away had only brought them to this point. Dean’d fucked everything up, but if this worked, if Sam could get some strength back, maybe it would be enough. Even if it wasn’t enough to fix everything, at least it might be enough to get Sam through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. Lucifer was gone now. That changed everything.
Sam continued sucking hungrily at his skin, little desperate sounds of pleasure escaping him as he did it, and Dean pulled him in closer. Sam’s shivers eased as he continued to tongue at the slit in Dean’s arm, digging in with deft jabs, tearing at the skin to make the cut bigger, deeper. Dean could feel the blood sliding down his arm toward his wrist, and he closed his eyes as Sam followed it down with his tongue, licking along the skin, a soft lover’s caress slipping down until Sam’s head was somehow resting against Dean’s crotch, his body resting between Dean’s legs. The soft slick pull of skin into Sam’s warm mouth contrasted sharply against the sting of the cut and called back memories of things best left forgotten. Sam pressed close, his little movements grinding against Dean’s dick. A hopeless longing filled Dean and he pressed up, his dick responding, wanting more, even as his brain rebelled.
This was wrong.
He tried to pull away, but Sam gripped his arm tightly, hard enough to bruise, and bit down against the soft skin of Dean’s wrist, his teeth rough enough to tear.
Images from hell crashed through Dean once more, overwhelming, distracting…
Dean’s thrown into the wall so hard it knocks him out for a moment. When he comes to once more, he drags himself into the corner, curling into himself painfully. The bones in his hands are smashed and shattered, his body littered with bruises, but overall it’s been a mostly good day - for hell.
He flinches back when Alistair approaches. He doesn’t have to look up - the demon’s smell is distinctive, heavy and sickening like rotten flowers, so strong it makes Dean’s head ache. Alistair’s steps are loud, echoing in the otherwise total silence that makes Dean’s nightly prison. It’s how Dean keeps track of the passing of days. Six hundred and sixty-six nights spent healing from what they do to him in the daytime. It only ever takes one night to heal though, no matter what they do to him.
Alistair reaches him and crouches down, breath a whisper along Dean’s ear. He knows what’s coming, and he thinks he’ll probably go mad soon, and then it won’t matter what they ask him anymore. The demon reaches out a hand and runs it softly down the side of Dean’s face. Dean slams his head against the wall, once and again, lets the pain wash over him as he begins to climb inside of himself. Losing himself in the lyrics of songs he had long ago etched into his very bones.
The demon is talking to him, but he can’t make out the words, doesn’t want to know, until a single one, the most important one, makes it past his defenses.
Sammy…
Alistair has his chin gripped tightly between two boney fingers, face only inches from Dean’s. A cruel smile slithers across loathed features as Alistair’s hateful eyes finally lock with Dean’s. No one’s mentioned Sam since Dean arrived here, and that non-existence had been… comforting somehow.
“You could end this, Dean,” Alistair sing-songs. “Just do what I do. Let me teach you. You could end All. This. Pain. If you just give in to what you really are.”
Dean shuts his eyes again, blocking out the sight of the demon and searching once more for the oblivion of his music. He must have imagined the name.
The sound of Alistair’ mocking laugh chases after him, refusing to leave him in peace. “I wouldn’t go away just yet, Dean,” Alistair taunts, and then grabs Dean’s broken hands, slamming them against the wall. Dean screams in agony. It isn’t the worst he’s received, but somehow, each new torment always feels worst in that moment. The demon keeps Dean’s hands pinned, keeps their hands clasped together until the pain recedes enough that Dean can focus on what’s happening around him.
His breaths are coming out sharp and fast in an effort to breathe through the pain. Alistair leans in until their lips are almost touching. “Sammy…” Alistair whispers, and Dean flinches back, the name undeniable now.
Dean scowls at the demon, refusing to acknowledge what’s been said. He won’t play into Alistair’s new game.
Alistair just grins, unfazed by Dean’s pathetic resistance. “Don’t slip away this time, Dean, or you’ll miss your surprise.” Alistair’s mouth slips around to the side of Dean’s head, his lips brushing seductively against Dean’s ear. “You didn’t answer my question. What d’you say, Dean? You wanna be my student?”
Dean stubbornly refuses to answer, and Alistair squeezes his hands once more, grinding the bones together until Dean can’t take it anymore. He screams out, “No!” in answer, but the denial doesn’t sound anywhere near as strong as he wants it to.
He climbs into the pain, lets the music chase him until he’s lost, and time becomes meaningless.
He’s not sure what pulls him from his oblivion this time, but he comes aware suddenly, awash in pain. Alistair must have really worked him over before he left because Dean’s whole body is in agony this time. Tears run unheeded down his face, his body’s uncontrollable reaction to this level of pain, and his breaths sob into the dirt beneath him. He just wants the pain to stop, wants everything to end. But he knows it won’t. Not ever.
“Forget the hearse ‘cause I never die, I got nine lives, cat’s eyes…” he sings into the dirt, followed by a long sob. It doesn’t matter, there’s nobody here to see his weakness, and he’s oblivious to the dirt that clings to his lips, to the dirt that turns to mud as he sucks hopeless gasps of dirty air into his lungs.
He can feel his broken body starting to knit itself back together, and it tears yet another scream out of him. “Cat’s eyes…” he gasps out when he can, but he can’t remember the words that come next, and oblivion stays just out of his reach as panic takes over.
He almost doesn’t feel the gentle hand against his face, almost doesn’t hear the soft shushing noise whispered against his ear, but the sound, the touch, is familiar in the way of distant memories of childhood and comfort and love.
“Dean.”
The voice is soft, warm, worried, and it rips through his heart, just as his desperate denial is ripped from his throat. It can’t be. Not here. Sam can’t be here. “No.”
Sam’s strong arms circle around him, picking him up gently and holding him through the pain. Dean’s not strong enough to push himself away, and he sobs against his brother through the long hours of the night, as his body slowly, painfully puts itself back together.
He’s actually fallen asleep when the door to his prison slams open and Alistair strides into the room. He jerks awake, knowing Sam was a dream, but his brother’s arms still hold him tightly, keeping him close. He can hear Alistair’s soft laughter in the background. The demon is never loud, never loses control. Dean puts the laughter out of his thoughts and allows himself to look into Sam’s face instead. “Sammy?” he whispers incredulously, waiting for his brother to disappear, hoping that this isn’t just an illusion and terrified that it’s not.
Moisture wells in Sam’s eyes, “I’m sorry, Dean. I couldn’t get you out. This was the best I could do.”
“What…” Dean begins before Alistair rips him from Sam’s arms. The demon is strong, too strong for Dean to fight, but knowing that doesn’t keep him from trying as he’s dragged back.
Sam jumps up and runs toward him, but an invisible force sends Sam flying into the back wall, and Dean can hear bones snap with the force of the blow. Sam collapses down to the ground, his body giving out, but he still manages to shout out to Dean as Dean is dragged from the room. “I’ll be here for you tonight, Dean, I promise. That was the deal I made. They don’t get to keep us apart!”
“No!” Dean cries out, his heart breaking as Alistair slams him against the rack in the middle of the room. He doesn’t even struggle as Alistair straps him down. Instead he searches out Alistair’s gaze, begging him silently to make this all a lie.
Alistair smirks at him, close-lipped, and wraps a skeletal hand around Dean’s throat, squeezing until Dean feels his eyes bulge out with the pressure. He searches for his empty-place, for the lyrics that seal the walls in place, but his panic for his brother keeps him present, keeps him here.
Alistair releases his grip and turns away, his tools clinking quietly together as he fusses over the table they rest on. “Please,” Dean croaks out, his voice nothing more than a soft rasp. “Please, tell me. What’s he doing here? How did he get here?”
Alistair turns around with a knife in his hand and begins calmly cutting through Dean’s shirt. The tearing noise is loud in the silence; Alistair doesn’t let Dean hear the screams of hell except when it suites his purpose. The demon snorts at a joke only he can hear. “Please,” Dean begs, “please, I need to know.”
Alistair’s hand stills against Dean’s stomach and his eyes go distant, as if lost in a fond memory. “It’s like your brother said, Dean. He made a deal. Now he’s here with you.”
“No, no,” Dean mutters. “It’s not true. It’s not real. You’re just making it seem like it’s Sam.”
Alistair slams the knife into Dean’s stomach and he screams out at the sudden, invasive pain.
“Dean!?”
He can hear Sam’s frantic shout through the closed door, and he forces himself to cut off his cry, biting his lip until it bleeds.
“Don’t need to use illusion to hurt you, Dean. You know that. Now, Sammy’s torture? He gets to listen you scream. Every day. From now on. Well, at least until I get bored. Good thing I don’t bore easily.” Alistair twists the knife, and Dean can’t help the brief cry that slips past his lips.
“Dean!” Sam’s cry sounds anguished behind the door, and he can hear pounding against it now.
“Please, it isn’t true,” he mutters, searching desperately for his lyrics, but Sam’s cries keep him grounded, his escape cut off. “Sammy never would have made a deal like that, how do I…”
Alistair’s knife plunges into Deans mouth, pining his tongue to his lower jaw, making it impossible for Dean to finish his question, to do anything but cry out wordlessly.
“Now, now, Dean,” Alistair tisks. “No more talking.”
Alistair abandons the knife there, leaving it in place as he calmly grabs another tool to continue his work. Over the rest of the day, Dean isn’t sure what’s louder - the screams Alistair continuously manages to wrest from him, or Sammy’s desperate cries for his release.
“Dean? Come on man, come back to me.”
Trapped, pinned down by a heavy weight and filled with a dull panic Dean started struggling.
“Dean!”
He shoved up hard, and the weight rolled away, leaving him gasping for breath.
“Dean?” Sam peered down at him, his face filled with concern.
What the… He struggled to get his breathing back under control. He was on a bed… Sam was next to him. Sam had been… it all came back in a rush, and he sat up quickly, pushing Sam away to look down at his arm. It was still bleeding, and he clamped a hand over the wound.
The movement drew Sam’s gaze, and he threw a guilt-filled look toward it before sliding out of the bed to move into the bathroom. He looked steadier than he had since they’d left the convent.
Sam was back a moment later, the first aid kit clutched in his hands. He sat back on the bed without comment, readying the supplies. He took Dean’s arm and gently probed at the cut. It was going to need stitches; that was obvious at a glance. Sam handed Dean the bottle of Jack they kept in the kit, and Dean tossed back a couple of long swallows before Sam got started.
~o0O0o~
Dean slammed the door of the Impala closed, and Sam flinched back with a pathetic moan. “Sorry…” Dean muttered; Sam’s large form, hunched over the dash and radiating misery, stilled any sarcastic barb Dean might have otherwise uttered. Sam still didn’t look good, but at least the tremors had largely vanished.
He threw the bag on the seat and dug out one of the bottles, nudging Sam with it. “Here.”
Sam swiveled his head to look at him, the side of his face resting heavily on his arms. His eyes grew, and he scowled at Dean. “Pedialyte? Dude, I’m not six,” he husked out.
Dean ignored him. “Drink it slow. You haven’t drunk anything since before… since before. If you can keep it down, I’ll let you have some yummy crackers.”
Sam scowled again, but he took the bottle, and Dean started the car. Dean kept a surreptitious eye on Sam to make sure he kept drinking, but he really couldn’t figure out what the hell to say, so the miles slipped by in silence. When Sam finally spoke again, it made Dean jump.
“Where’re we headed?”
“Figured we’d head back to Bobby’s, make sure he’s okay.” Dean replied.
Sam sat up slowly and shook his head. “Castiel.”
“What?”
“We should try to get in touch with Castiel.”
“Why?” Dean asked, suspicion suddenly flaring uncomfortably in his gut. “I thought you said you stopped Lucifer?”
“I did, but, dude, there’s still only one seal left. What if there’s another way to open it? Castiel can check with the other Angels and find out if there’s something we still need to do.” Sam leaned tiredly against the window, his brief surge of energy apparently leaving almost as soon as it had come. “I fucked up, Dean; I need to make sure there’s nothing else I can do to fix it before…”
“You fucked up all right.” The words slipped out before he could censor them, and he didn’t really mean them, except for how he really did. The anger was on a slow burn, easy to ignore, but it wasn’t gone.
Sam flinched back like he’d been struck, and Dean saw the hurt in Sam’s eyes before he nodded and turned away to look out the window. The silence dragged on between them, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to take back the harsh words. He fumbled the crackers out of the bag and tossed them at Sam. “You’re keeping the purple stuff down, eat some crackers.”
Sam stared at the package for a while, and Dean worried that Sam was going to try to continue the conversation Dean had opened the door to. He almost sighed out loud in relief when Sam simply muttered, “We should find Castiel,” and opened the package to fish out a cracker.
Dean watched Sam eat out of the corner of his eye for a moment. Sam was doing better. Dean really didn’t want to think about why, or what it meant. “Thing is,” Dean confessed, “Castiel probably isn’t going to be able to talk to the other angels.”
Sam shot him a surprised look, “How come?”
“He kinda destroyed some bridges getting me to you.” Sam only raised an eyebrow so Dean continued, “The angels, turns out they wanted the apocalypse as badly as the demons did. They seem to think starting a war will result in killing Lucifer, and be damned the consequences to humanity. They played us.”
“Shit,” Sam breathed out quietly.
“So I don’t know how much help Cas is actually going it be, even if we can find him… Left him at Chuck’s. The higher-ups were coming to stop us, and Cas spirited me away.”
There was a pause, and Dean cast a sidelong look at Sam, who was sitting next to him with a frown on his face. After a few moments Sam shook his head and asked, “Don’t you even want to know what happened to him?”
“I…” He pushed the anger down, trying to untangle his feelings. Cas had come through for him in the end. He’d made the decision to change. That counted for something. “Yeah, of course I do.”
“Besides, he still probably knows more than Bobby at this point, even if he is cut off. I really think we should try to find him first. Just in case.” Dean couldn’t make himself reply, and Sam added, “And Chuck’s a lot closer anyway.”
Dean scowled but then nodded his agreement despite his vague feeling of unease. Ruby was dead, it’s not like Sam had anything to lie to him about now.
~o0O0o~
The windows were all shattered out, and there was a hole in the wall at the edge of the house. It really didn’t look good. Dean looked over at Sam who was looking a little grey. His eyes were closed and his breaths were shallow and heavy. “Sam?” Dean asked quietly.
Sam jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath and looked at Dean wearily. “What?” he asked, his voice gravelly with fatigue.
“We’re here.”
Sam just grunted and rolled out of the car to stagger unsteadily to his feet. Dean watched him for a moment before getting out of the car himself. Maybe he should take Sam to a hotel and come back here on his own.
A loud shout from the house had Dean racing up the front steps and slamming against the door. It was locked but already damaged, so he backed up and landed a solid kick that sent it flying off its hinges. The inside of the place was even worse than the outside. Furniture was ripped to shreds and mixed with paper and broken knickknacks. Stuff was thrown everywhere, making walking treacherous, but the sounds of a struggle in the next room sent Dean leaping across that room and into the next. Chuck was on the ground with a stranger leaning over him, a bloody knife gripped tightly in a raised fist. There was blood splattered everywhere.
“Hey!” Dean shouted, and the man turned to look at him with pitch black eyes. It smiled, showing blood-stained teeth before black smoke began pouring out of the demon’s mouth. The man collapsed forward across Chuck as soon as the smoke was gone, and Dean rushed forward, dragging the dead weight of him off of the prophet.
Chuck was a mess, multiple stab wounds decorated his body, most of them littering his arms and legs, but he had a couple good ones in his torso as well. Blood was pouring out of him, soaking into the carpet thickly, and Dean could tell there was no way the man was going to make it without divine intervention.
“Castiel!” he shouted, hoping the angel was still close. How could he have let this happen? And where the hell were the archangels?
“Not here,” Chuck husked out, blood and spittle clogging his throat and making him difficult to understand.
Chuck’s eyes rolled into to the back of his head and his body gave a couple of violent spasms before going so still, Dean wasn’t sure he was still alive. He grabbed Chuck’s face in one hand and gave it a little shake. Chuck’s eyes fluttered open slightly, and Dean asked, “Where? Where is he, Chuck?”
“He ran,” Chuck whispered into the still room, his voice barely there.
“He ran? Ran where?”
“Corpus,” Chuck got out before weak, gasping coughs shook his body. He was coughing up blood, and Dean turned his face gently so it spilled out onto the floor.
With one more heaving breath Chuck gasped out, “Queen… Bluff…” before his breath left him in a quiet sigh.
“Chuck?” he said, moving his fingers along Chuck’s neck, searching for a pulse.
Right behind him he heard a thud and he whirled around to find Sam collapsed against the wall, looking pale as death.
“What the hell, Sammy?” he asked.
“Dean?” Sam responded quietly, more than a little out of breath. “We need… to leave…”
Dean glanced back at Chuck. The man was dead; there was nothing they could do. He shook his head. “Yeah, Sam, okay.” He hauled his brother up and got them both out of there.
~o0O0o~
By the time Dean hit the next town, Sam was having trouble staying awake; his mad dash into Chuck’s place seemed to have stolen the last of his reserves. Dean pulled into the first motel he saw and got them a room. Sam sat on the bed, looking rather wretched, and waved him off absently when he offered the shower, so he took it for himself. The warm water didn’t do as much as he hoped for the tension that had settled deep in his muscles. He pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt before coming out to discover that Sam had barely moved; Sam’s head rested awkwardly against the headboard as he dozed.
There was a cheap, single-serving coffee maker in the room. Dean brewed some and then sat next to Sam on the bed, propped him up and waved the weak swill under his nose to get his attention. Sam struggled awake and finally managed to focus on Dean and take the coffee. He drank it down, not even seeming to notice the heat. Sam visibly shivered, and Dean felt the worry of the last few days creeping back.
Dean sighed, forcing himself not to back away, “What’s wrong, Sam?”
Sam stared into the cup like it held the answer to stopping the apocalypse. Dean rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder to get his attention, and Sam jerked back a little, startled. Dean could feel fine tremors running through Sam’s body, too subtle to see.
Sam looked up at Dean but couldn’t meet his gaze. Sam’s eyes moved away to stare at the wall morosely. “Maybe you should leave, Dean,” Sam said quietly.
“Why, you need something?”
Sam let out a long-suffering huff, and his gaze moved to the ceiling. “No. I mean, I think… we should maybe split up. Get some space from each other for a while.”
“Old ground, we’ve already talked about this,” Dean replied, irritated. “What’s going on with you?”
Sam’s lips thinned, stubborn Winchester pride decorating his features, and Dean was long past the time of putting up with that. He grabbed Sam’s face and forced their gazes to meet. “Just fucking tell me, Sam.” He let his hand drop back to Sam’s shoulder, but didn’t move his eyes away.
Dean watched Sam’s eyes fill with fear, watched Sam struggle silently to come to some decision. He sat still, determined to out-stubborn his brother. Sam’s eyes dropped down, and Dean leaned in close to catch Sam’s whispered words, “I don’t think it was enough, Dean. I think I need more.”
Dean felt tension creep up his back, knotting his already clenched muscles tighter. His brain refused to make sense of the quiet confession. “You just need time to recover. That’s all. You were really fucking sick for several days. You probably just need a happy meal, dude. I’ll go get one. Be back in a heartbeat.” He stood up, but a firm grip on his naked thigh stopped him from getting any distance. He looked down at Sam’s hand, surprised.
“I don’t need that. I need… blood. Back at Chuck’s place…” Dean jerked his gaze away from Sam’s hand, steeled himself against the instinct to move away. Sam’s face changed from miserable to determined as Dean watched. “I just need more,” Sam finally added. The words, so what are you going to do about it, didn’t need to be spoken.
Sam’s face was flushing red with shame, but he wasn’t backing down, and, shit, what was Dean supposed to do? Kill Sam? He couldn’t do it. Just let him die? Same thing as killing him. Let him drink someone else’s blood?
Sam’s hand on his thigh was making him feel twitchy. He stepped back and forced Sam to let him go before he turned to rummage through the weapons bag. He pulled a small knife and held it out, hilt first, to Sam. Sam’s eyes got large as he looked from the knife to Dean’s face and back again.
“Dean?” Sam breathed out, his voice small and pain-edged, but he still reached, tentatively, to take the knife. Sam’s gaze seemed to catch on the bandage that still covered Dean’s arm, and he sat unmoving, his eyes locked there.
“You aren’t hurting anyone this way, Sam,” Dean coaxed, trying not to think too hard about what Sam wanted to do. Needed to do. He just wanted it over with, so they could get some sleep.
“Yeah,” Sam whispered. He reached forward and caressed a finger lightly against the bandage on Dean’s arm, his brow furrowed deeply, and then pulled off the covering. The skin looked angry and red where the neat stitches held it together. Sam took hold of Dean’s hand and pulled, forcing Dean to lean over the bed. He brought Dean’s arm against his mouth to let his lips trail softly against the skin, and Dean felt himself shiver in response.
“This’ll take days to heal,” Sam murmured with a small shake of his head, his lips lingering against Dean. He let that arm go and traded it for the other one. He pulled it up against his mouth, letting his warm breath ghost lightly over the skin.
Dean suddenly wanted to tear his arm out of Sam’s grasp and get the hell out of the claustrophobic room. Instead, holding his breath in anticipation of what Sam was going to do next, he forced himself to sit down.
Sam’s tongue snaked out and ran wetly across the skin of Dean’s wrist. Dean gasped his breath out in surprise, but Sam didn’t stop. Sam licked over his skin, leaving behind trails of saliva; his warm breath felt cold and his tongue moved in a soft caress that raised goose bumps up and down his arm, making him shudder. It was suddenly far too hot in the small room, and Dean felt sweat break out across his forehead.
Sam sucked the wet patch of skin into his mouth and let his teeth and tongue tease against the skin as he gripped Dean’s arm tightly. “Fuck,” Dean muttered; the sound of his own voice startled him, and he started to pull back. Sam released the wrist he held and flashed angry, possessive eyes at Dean before pressing the flat of the knife against Dean’s lips.
“Don’t,” was all Sam said. He trailed the knife down Dean’s chin, the pressure light enough not to cut but sharp enough to scrape the skin and leave a burning sensation in its wake. It occurred to Dean to wonder if Sam might actually be dangerous only a moment before Sam tightened his grip against Dean’s arm. The fiery sting of the knife slid across the inside of Dean’s wrist. It wasn’t much of a cut, barely bled, but Sam pressed his tongue against it like it was something to savor.
Dean’s breath came out in short pants, and his dick came alive under the thin cloth of his boxers. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping Sam wouldn’t notice.
“Not here…” Sam murmured.
“What?” Dean said, trying to make sense of Sam’s sudden desire to leave the room.
“Not… too many cuts on your arms are gonna leave you vulnerable in a fight.”
Dean flushed. He’d been so fixated on Sam the last few days that he hadn’t even thought…
Sam’s hand was hard on Dean’s knee, pushing his legs apart. The knife dropped down, cutting through skin before Dean had time to process what Sam planned to do. “Sam…” he gasped out, his hand convulsing against the sheets, and Dean’s sudden, panicked desire to get away was thwarted only by Sam’s tight grasp on his shoulder and leg.
Bright, red blood welled up at the cut, and Sam dipped down to catch it, to lap it up, before a single drop had time to fall. Dean’s brain short-circuited; Sam’s mouth against his inner thigh was hotter than fuck, and he opened his legs and arched back, letting the sensation claim him. Sam’s cheek was so close he could feel it disturbing the thin material that separated their skin. Dean whimpered and barely managed to hold his hips still to keep from giving away the game completely. Dean looked down with blissed-out eyes. Sam had cut more deeply this time, and Dean could see his brother’s throat working as he sucked and swallowed the blood that was flowing out quickly.
Dean wasn’t sure how long they spent frozen together like that, but he was starting to feel light-headed when he brought a shaking hand up to run through Sam’s shaggy hair. He leaned over, wrapped himself around Sam and, careful not to dislodge his brother from his thigh, dropped a light kiss against the side of Sam’s head. God, Sammy, he thought, I missed this…
Dean’s thigh was burning; the pain grew each moment Sam suckled against it, biting and digging in with his tongue to keep the wound from closing. The room started to spin.
Dean relaxed into the pain, let it envelop him… trusted Sam to take care of him. The world went black.
~o0O0o~
Dean’s thigh throbbed, and he opened bleary eyes to peer at it. There was a neat, white bandage covering his newest wound. Sam had already taken care of it. Dean was toying with the idea of ripping the covering off to see how bad it was when Sam interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey, Dean, you up?” The voice was soft and across the room. Dean propped himself up to find Sam sitting at the table, the computer open in front of him. “Sixteen,” Sam stated cryptically.
“Beg your pardon?” Dean asked.
“Stitches, I had to put in sixteen stitches,” Sam replied, at least having the grace to look embarrassed. Dean flopped back down onto the bed, his eyes sliding shut. They should probably talk about what had happened, but Dean’s brain shied away. He just… couldn’t go there. It was really tempting to just let himself fall back to sleep. He almost felt hung-over.
“It’s a church in Texas.”
Dean forced his heavy lids back open a crack. “What is?” he grumbled.
“It’s… I think that’s what Chuck was trying to tell us. Where Castiel is. There’s a church in Corpus Christi that’s known as the Queen of the Bluff. The Corpus Christi Cathedral. It’s the best I can come up with from what Chuck said.”
Dean groaned softly; Sam was way too fucking wide-awake this morning. “Did you at least bring me coffee?” he muttered.
“Yeah, but that was a couple hours ago. It’s cold now. It seemed like you needed to sleep. It’s probably a three-day drive from here. We should get on the road.”
Dean wanted to throw something at Sam, but he was too damn tired to do it. He contented himself with the image of his pillow flying across the air and hitting Sam hard in the face.
“Dean? I really think we need to get moving.”
“Fuck. Bobby’s closer,” Dean mumbled into his pillow and then wondered if Sam could understand him when there was a long silence.
“I thought we agreed to find Castiel?” Sam finally asked.
Suddenly uncomfortable with the thought of talking to Bobby himself, Dean forced himself to roll into a sitting position on the side of the bed. Not that there was anything to be ashamed of. Bobby would understand about what they’d had to do… probably. But… His gaze landed briefly on his bandaged thigh before skittering away. “No. You’re right.”
Sam immediately shut the laptop and started packing up, but Dean couldn’t seem to find the energy to get up and help. He was starting to wonder if his blood was actually helping Sam, if there would ever be an end to this. If there wasn’t, then Sam needed him to find another solution.
Or Sam needed to find another solution. It’s not like everything had to come down to him to fix. This one was all Sam’s responsibility anyway. Hell, if Sam hadn’t managed to figure out at the last possible moment how to close the seal again, they would’ve had Armageddon on their hands.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t completely Sam’s fault, but the bulk of it sure as hell was. It’s not like Dean hadn’t tried to make his brother take another path.
He watched Sam move around the room with practiced efficiency, the strength of Sam’s body just barely contained, and Dean’s anger slowly bled away. His brother was beautiful.
Dean closed his eyes, blocking out the sight. He was just… tired. So much stuff left unsaid between them, so much hurt and betrayal that it was tempting to suggest a parting of ways, tempting to just say yes to Sam’s multiple suggestions that they do so. It would be so much easier… in some ways at least… but that was mostly selfishness on his part, and he knew it. He’d been coping with what had happened in hell for months now. His feelings weren’t real. He could bury them again.
By the time Dean felt up to driving, Sam had their stuff ready to go. They traveled through the day mostly in silence. He didn’t really want to acknowledge that, when Sam was okay that night, Dean was a little disappointed.
Part Two
Author: Varkelton
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~33,500
Warnings aka Enticements aka Kinks: Blood-play, knife-play, violence, torture, D/s, mild breath-play, a little spanking, physical abuse, pain-kink, first-time sex, masturbation, orgasm denial, claiming, marking, rimming, barebacking, hurt/comfort, dub-con, non-con (outside POV), slash, and incest… oh yeah, and a healthy helping of angst. My favorite! Plus a couple more things I’m leaving off the list because they’re spoilery, and if you’re good with this list, you’ll be okay with them too. But if you really, really need to know, drop me an e-mail and I’ll be happy to discuss.
Disclaimer: Do you suppose if I asked sweetly, the boys would give themselves to me? Yeah, I know, not after they read my stories. Darn! Labor of love. No profit.
AN: Starts immediately at the end of Season Four (Lucifer Rising). It goes AU after that, although I have borrowed some of the plot elements and a little bit of dialog from the first part of Season Five, at least where I could. No spoilers for anything unaired.
Summary: The Angels’ plan to start the apocalypse is thwarted when Sam manages to shut the gate right after it opens, but it rapidly becomes apparent that there are no easy fixes to be found. Sam is still consumed with a need for blood that seems to be spiraling out of control, and Dean’s attempts to help his brother force him to relive experiences in hell that he’s been trying to forget since his return.
Artist: musingdarkly
It appears that I still have muses in this 'verse. If sufficiently inspired by comments ::panhandles shamelessly::, future stories will be listed at my journal in the Master Post. :)
Art by musingdarkly
- The LORD was pleased
to crush him in infirmity.
If he gives his life as an offering for sin,
he shall see his descendants in a long life,
and the will of the LORD shall be accomplished through him.
Because of his affliction
he shall see the light in fullness
of days;
through his suffering, my servant shall justify many,
and their guilt he shall bear.
- ~Isaiah 53:10-11
Part One
“Sammy, let’s go,” Dean said gruffly, his gaze caught by the blinding light flaring up from the floor. He had a fist full of Sam’s jacket, and he jerked on it, making a motion towards the door. Sam stood his ground, refused to move at all; Dean glanced at him, not sure what was keeping him there. Sam had apologized, Dean had heard him, so it was damn time for Sam to start listening to him now.
Sam didn’t meet his eyes. “Dean?” he asked, and Dean could see the fear rooting his brother in place. “He’s coming.” Lucifer. Dean felt a flash of overwhelming panic, and he struggled to push it back. Panic wasn’t an affordable luxury right now, no matter how fucking understandable it might be. Sam’s fist clutched at him tighter, and the light continued to build, continued to get brighter; Dean squinted his eyes against it, wondering if they were both going to end up blind.
“Sam,” he yelled desperately, trying to get his brother’s attention. “It’s time to get the fuck out of here!”
“No, no…” Sam was muttering to himself, staring into the light as if it had all the answers, “She said it’s in me…”
Alarmed, Dean stepped forward to catch the sides of Sam’s face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet. “No, Sam! You have to stop listening to them. Nothing’s in you - nothing except the lies you let them fill your head with!” he yelled.
Sam’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispered, offering his broken apology once more, as if simple words should be enough to repair everything that had happened. Suddenly Dean flew across the room, Sam’s hard shove enough to throw him off his feet. He landed with a painful thud against the edge of the open doors. He spun around on the ground and threw an arm over his eyes, frantic to see what the hell Sam was doing.
Dean could just make out the outline of Sam’s body against the light. Dean watched, horrified, as Sam moved across the circle of blood, straining as if something were trying to hold him back, one arm thrust out to cut a path and the other up to shield his face against the light. His brother yelled in pain, and Dean called out, “Sammy!” The scream of denial was the only thing he could do, and Sam didn’t pause, never stopped though his muscles clearly strained against the power trying to keep him back.
As he met the light, his scream intensified, and Dean finally managed to move forward. Whatever he tried, the edge of blood was a physical wall he couldn’t cross. “Sammy!” he yelled again in agony, sure that Sam was going to die trying to do whatever the fuck he was trying to do. Sam met the fountain of light and fell forward, right into the center of the maelstrom; Dean screamed, launching his body against the invisible barrier, once and then again, but the force was solid and unforgiving.
A wail of sound erupted in the room, sharp and loud and overwhelming. Dean threw his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block it out. There was nothing he could do. The apocalypse was coming, and his brother had just thrown himself on the fucking altar. The cacophony continued to build, discordant sounds filling his head and blocking out all his thoughts; it felt like he might explode with it. He couldn’t even see Sam through the light anymore, and a helpless sob escaped him, lost and despairing. He forced his hands down to the cold stone beneath him, deliberately left himself open to the soul tearing noise, and it filled him up, whiting everything out, until he knew he was going to die, almost there… almost…
The noise cut off abruptly, and the silence was almost as shocking as the deafening screeches had been. Dean tensed, expecting to feel the searing pain of hooks in his skin, but, no… He opened his eyes and was greeted with the dimly lit, grimy stone of the church where he was sprawled awkwardly on the ground.
His head ached, and his eyes burned, but this certainly wasn’t the pain of hell.
Sammy?
He jerked himself up onto his knees, his eyes going immediately to the center of the circle where he’d last seen his brother.
Fuck. Sam was curled in its center, holding a tight fetal position and streaked with black grime, naked as the day he was born.
Dean scrambled forward, forgetting that he’d been barred from moving this way before. He grabbed for his brother, pulling him into his arms, and he let out a gasp of relief when he saw Sam’s chest moving; the weak pants of air told Dean in no uncertain terms that Sam was still alive.
He clutched his brother tightly against himself and denied any knowledge of wetness on his face. Sam was okay. Sam was okay… except, he wasn’t waking up. Sam was shivering in his arms, and his skin felt icy cold. Dean stripped off his jacket awkwardly, his arms full of Sam, and wrapped it around his brother. He looked around in confusion, but what he saw didn’t help. Lilith and Ruby were both… gone, black smudges where the bodies had lain, one a little inside the circle and the other at it’s edge. The blood that had formed the swirling design was nothing but long lines of black ash.
“Come on, Sammy, wake up for me…” he whispered, and pulled on his brother’s eyelids, pulling them back so he could see Sam’s eyes. They were rolled back in his head, the pupils completely blown. Other than the continuing violent tremors, Sam didn’t seem to respond. Dean needed to get his brother out of there, needed to get his brother warm. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but getting Sam to safety was all he really fucking cared about right now. He’d deal with everything else later.
“Castiel!” he yelled, wondering how he was going to get his monster-sized bother out of the building. He felt himself flinch at the carelessly formed word, monster. He shoved the lingering pain back. Not now. The angel’s name echoed around the room and faded away. Nothing happened.
He didn’t even know if the angel had survived; they were probably on their own again. He lifted his brother awkwardly from the floor and dragged him from the room. Sam’s feet were so filthy they left grey trails behind where they dragged against the stone. It was slow going. By the time they were halfway out, Sam’s shaking had increased, and he was moaning pathetically. Dean needed a break, anyway; he sank down to the floor of the narrow hallway to hold Sam against his body, trying to share his warmth.
“Dean?”
Dean’s heart lurched at the whispered name on his brother’s lips. His grip on Sam tightened just a little more. “Sammy? You awake?” he asked gently.
“Cold, so c… cold…” Sam curled his body around Dean’s.
“You’re gonna be fine, Sam,” he reassured, and then, because he couldn’t not ask, “What the hell happened back there?”
“Luci…” Sam panted out, his brief moment of lucidity already slipping away. “I shu’ tha… door…”
Sam’s eyes slipped shut once more, and Dean stared at him uncomprehendingly. Had his brother just seriously claimed to have stopped the devil? Even Sam couldn’t possibly be that strong.
Sam was back to being a dead weight. Dean forced himself back to his feet, dragging and pulling until they were outside. He looked around but they were in the middle of ass nowhere, and the only car present was Ruby’s fucking orange Mustang. At least the hell-bitch was dead. He allowed himself a grim moment of satisfaction. The knife had slipped into her skin easily, and for one satisfying moment, it had felt like he had his brother back at his side, like they used to be.
He dragged Sam to the side door and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened. He was vaguely disappointed when the keys weren’t dangling conveniently from the ignition.
He glanced anxiously down at Sam. The tremors were bad, and Sam’s breath was coming out fast and shallow; his brother was going into shock. They needed to get the hell out of here. Dean tipped Sam back against the car so he could strip his own shirt off. He added it as an extra layer over the jacket before laying Sam down and raising Sam’s dirty feet up to prop them against the side of the car.
It would have to do. He pulled out his knife and got to work hot-wiring the car. He stilled his thoughts to keep the panic at bay and his hands steady, but it still took way too long before he heard the purr of the engine.
By that point, Sam was muttering under his breath incoherently, and Dean was starting to wonder if a hospital wasn’t in their near future. He wasn’t sure what doctors would be able to do to treat his brother though; whatever was going on, Dean was damn sure it wasn’t natural.
Dean struggled to keep his eyes on the road, his brother’s unconscious state a serious distraction. The blasting heat from the car seemed to be helping, still, the quiet motel was a welcome sight when it came into view. Dean pulled the car into the lot, swung himself out of it and closed the door behind him. He almost collapsed in relief at the familiar feeling of safety the ugly building represented. He knew he was running on fumes, but he let himself indulge for a minute. He opened the passenger door, sank down to grip his brother tightly against him, and buried his face against Sam’s shoulder.
Everything was going to be alright. He just needed to get Sam warm.
Once they were in the room, he pulled Sam into the bathroom where his brain almost shut down on him. There was no shower, just one of those old freestanding tubs, dingy, with the porcelain worn thin in places. It was big though. He could make it work. He got himself moving again and slammed on the hot water to heat, before stripping out of his jeans and shoes. He added just enough cold to be bearable and put the stopper in. He let it fill for several anxious minutes before heaving Sam’s body over the edge and stepping in with him to keep Sam’s head clear of the water.
Dean sat at the back of the tub and pulled Sam between his legs. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s chest, pulling Sam into a tight embrace to add to the warmth. On the off chance that the friction would help, he let his hands trail anxiously over Sam’s skin. It was several moments before it occurred to him that the warm water might be more effective than just touch. He scooped it up with trembling hands to let it run over Sam’s chest. His brother’s body gradually relaxed against Dean’s, and Dean felt his own eyes grow heavy with exhaustion; the knowledge that the warm water was helping more than enough to get his own panic to ease back a bit.
Dean’s thoughts wandered, the heat and momentary calm soothing away the walls he’d been forcing around his memories since his return from hell. He remembered sitting together like this - Sam comforting Dean as he lay wrapped in misery, his body struggling to repair itself. It was habit now to clamp the memories down, and he didn’t let the thought go further; he just let the feelings of safety and contentment wrap around them both.
Sam’s body was heavy and warm against his by the time he turned the water off. Sam stirred a little at the absence of noise. Dean’s hands stilled their movement, but Sam didn’t tense up, so Dean didn’t make a move to get up.
“Dean?” his brother whispered. His voice was steadier than it had been, and Dean allowed himself a quiet moment to revel in the thought that things might be actually be working out. “What happened?”
“How ‘bout you tell me?”
The back of Sam’s head rocked a little where it was resting against Dean’s chest. “I don’t… I shut the door…” Sam’s reply was quiet and subdued.
“Yeah, you said that before, dude. What the hell does that even mean?”
“I could… I could feel all that power, and I… I kind of… twisted it back around on itself. I can’t really explain it,” Sam said, defensive pride dripping from his voice. Hubris, Dad would’ve called it.
The quiet mood slipped away, and Dean closed his eyes against the unwelcome anger welling up at the mention of Sam’s unholy powers. He managed to force out, “So… did Lucifer rise or not?”
“No, Dean,” Sam said forcefully. “I stopped him. I closed the door before he got out.”
It sounded too good to be true. “Dude, are you sure?”
“Yeah, Dean, I’m sure. I stopped it. I felt it.” Dean could hear the anger tingeing Sam’s voice, although his brother was clearly trying to hide it. Sam couldn’t keep stuff from him, he knew his brother too damn well.
Dean felt Sam suddenly stiffen in his arms, and he looked down, his brain suddenly reengaging in a rush. Sam’s dick was floating upright in the warm water, long enough to break the surface… Sam was hard. This Sam. The real Sam. Awkward… and it looked like they had apparently figured that out at approximately the same time.
Sam started struggling against Dean, and Dean let him go. Sam scrambled over the side of the tub like he was on fire and landed on the floor, pulling down a towel to cover himself as soon as he hit the linoleum. He could hear Sam mumbling a panicked, “Shit, shit, shit…” under his breath in a steady stream.
“Sam,” Dean said, standing up to let the water stream off of him and plaster his boxers against his legs, “Calm down.” Amusement at the situation filled him, and he had to choke back a laugh; Sam looked so flummoxed. “It’s probably just a reaction to… everything.”
Sam stilled on the floor and nodded tersely before trying to get up, but he was clearly still suffering the effects of what had happened, and couldn’t get his feet under himself enough to move.
Dean grabbed a towel and started drying himself off quickly. “Just calm down,” he said, concern filling him when he saw Sam’s shivering return. “Give me a second, and I’ll help you.”
Sam collapsed to the floor and wrapped his arms around himself, nodding unhappily. Dean got himself somewhat dry and slung the towel around his hips before stepping out of the tub and moving Sam to the nearest bed. Dean slipped out of his wet boxers and pulled on a pair of sweats before sliding under the covers to pull his shivering brother back into his arms.
Stiffening slightly, Sam rolled to face away within the confines of the embrace. “Why are you here?” he asked miserably.
Dean felt himself tense, anxiety curling in his stomach at the question. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said, Dean,” Sam replied, irritation making his fatigued voice sound stronger. Turning back to face Dean, he demanded, “Why the fuck are you here?”
“I would’ve thought that was clear from the message I left you.”
Sam went completely still, except for the uncontrolled spasms. “Get out.” His voice sounded cold, dead.
Suddenly uncomfortable with their close proximity, Dean let his brother go and sat up. “Sam, I’m not…” His thoughts were spinning. Somehow, in all the terror of the last couple of hours, he’d forgotten all the bad blood that stood between them, had somehow assumed it was back to how it always had been between them, that Sam would have found a way to forgive him. Like he’d forgiven Sam. “I’m not leaving you,” Dean said, his annoyance growing as he watched Sam’s eyes shift toward the door. “And you don’t have the strength to walk out on me right now.”
Sam curled deeper into the covers, unhappiness radiating from him, and Dean suddenly flashed back to a much younger Sam, to a Sam that had looked up to him, respected him. He ached for that.
“Please, Dean,” Sam begged. “Please. Just leave.”
“Did you get my message?” Dean asked.
There was a long pause before Sam hissed out, “Yes.”
“Then you know why I can’t do that.” He waited, expectantly. Sam continued to act like a spoiled little brat, settling into full-on bitch face. Dean shook his head, silently cussing Bobby out. He didn’t expect roses and pink ballerina dolls, but Sam could at least meet him half way. Hell, a quarter of the damn way.
Sam huddled in on himself, clutching the blankets for warmth. Dean stripped the blankets off the other bed and laid them over his brother. No, he wasn’t going to leave, but he needed some fucking air. “Look, I think maybe you need to eat. Sounds like you worked some serious mojo back there, and it probably took something out of you. I’m going to go get you some food, but I’ll be back soon, okay?”
Sam still didn’t bother to acknowledge him, so he pulled on a shirt and some shoes, grabbed his jacket and slammed the door on the way out.
~o0O0o~
Dean got back to find Sam hadn’t moved from where he’d been when Dean left, though the trembling was possibly a little worse. Concern wiped away the last of the anger Dean hadn’t been able to shake, and he moved directly to the bed and sat down on the edge. Sam didn’t really acknowledge him, even when Dean wiped long, messy bangs off his brother’s sweaty forehead. Sam was definitely running a fever, but Dean was pretty sure the sweat was a good sign. “Hey, Sammy, wake up. I brought you back a burger. You’ll want to eat it before it gets cold.”
When Sam didn’t react, Dean pulled the covers all the way back and shook his shoulder. “C’mon, dude, you need to eat,” he said a little louder. This was all just after effects from working that damn demon magic. Sam needed to eat to get his strength back. That’s all this was.
Sam was curling in on himself even more tightly. “Dean, ‘m cold,” Sam muttered miserably.
“Yeah, well, I’ll put the covers back when you eat something. Now sit up and take this.” Dean shook the bag next to Sam’s head, but all he got back was a mournful sounding groan.
“Sam,” Dean barked. “Sit the hell up. Don’t make me drag your ass off the bed.”
Sam looked up slowly and glared at him, but when Dean didn’t react, Sam’s bravado quickly slipped away, and he sank back into his dejected ball of misery. Sam’s voice sounded small and muffled against his arm, “I really don’t think I can eat that, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, try.” Dean said, refusing to back down.
Sam hefted a sigh, but he began slowly unfolding himself. Dean helped him make it all the way up to sitting. Halfway through the burger, Sam was flinging himself out of the bed to throw up on the carpet, and Dean let him go back to sleep after that in defeat.
~o0O0o~
Two days, two fucking days, and Sam hadn’t been able to keep a damn thing down. Even water was coming up almost as fast as he drank it. Dean was literally watching his brother waste away in front of him. Sam had been slipping in and out of consciousness for the last day. Even when he was awake, he was usually either confused or flat out hallucinating and shouting out words that made no sense at people who weren’t even there.
Dean’s presence did seem to calm him, at least. Dean had to admit that that right there was an indication he was handling all this better than he had at Bobby’s, but the steady decline was still continuing despite his vigil. Right now, Sam was lying on the bed, struggling to bring in enough air. Dean pulled his phone back out, his finger hovering over the nine button. He’d been ready to do it ten minutes ago, but the onset of yet another fucking seizure had distracted him. They probably wouldn’t be able to treat demon blood addiction, but they could at least do something about the dehydration. Of course they’d probably lock Sam up in some supper secret government program for study the first time he flew across the room…
“Dean,” Sam moaned from the bed. “Just kill me. God, just end this. I can’t do this anymore.”
Dean shoved the phone back in his pocket and sat on the bed next to his brother. He rubbed his fingers gently against Sam’s forehead, but Sam flinched away as if the touch was painful. Maybe it was. “Sam, you’re gonna get better. This is gonna pass.”
“No,” Sam gritted out through clenched teeth, before shifting weakly away from Dean. “You said it, Dean. I’m a monster… a vampire.”
Dean’s heart twisted, and he flushed uncomfortably. He couldn’t blame the monster comment on Sam’s disorientation. “Sam, I never said…”
“Yeah, Dean, you did, and I am… God, it’s all I can think about.” Dean reached out and pulled his brother into his arms. He’d been doing this a lot; Sam seemed to appreciate the warmth. Sam twisted in Dean’s arms, ran a tongue over the skin of Dean’s wrist, wet and warm and startling. Dean jerked his arm back. “Sam, what the fuck?”
“God, Dean,” Sam moaned miserably, writhing uncomfortably in Dean’s grip. “Just kill me now. I need it… I need blood… Oh, God, just kill me…”
Dean let his breath out slowly. This wasn’t the first time Sam had mumbled something about blood, but it was the first time he’d suggested taking Dean’s. “Sam, I’m not a demon. I don’t think my blood is going to help you.”
“You don’t know that. We could…” Sam whimpered out, pained, his voice small, “We could try…”
Sam pressed against Dean’s hip, burying his face there, innocent and childlike. Dean gripped Sam more tightly. He sat frozen, not sure what to do, his brain spinning in unproductive circles. What Sam wanted, what he was asking for… it was ludicrous. There was no way it could help. It was just Sam being delusional.
He felt Sam still, falling into unconsciousness once more. Dean felt panic wrap around his chest in a tight vise. This was really bad. Sam was dying. But Jesus, blood? He hadn’t even let his brain go there, but what if this was the only thing that could break Sam out of this downward spiral? And how long was it going to take to track a demon down and subdue it long enough to get it back here? Sam was so weak at this point that he probably wasn’t going to be able to defend himself against it. Even with his powers.
Sam’s breath was getting more labored, a rattling sound coming from his chest that seemed to steal Dean’s breath right along with it…
God, it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try at this point. And his blood wasn’t tainted. It was clean… maybe it’d work like methadone or something. If it didn’t work, there’d be nothing left but to risk the ambulance. Coming to a decision he quickly reached across the narrow gap between the beds and slipped the knife out from under his pillow, the blade flashing as it caught the light.
This was so fucking desperate.
“Sam.” He shook his brother firmly, and Sam jerked back, his eyes flicking half open. They widened when he saw the knife in Dean’s hand.
“Dean?” he whispered. Sam reached out to touch it tentatively, his hand shaking almost violently. Sam’s hand wrapped around Dean’s and pulled down, and Dean let him, until he realized Sam was pulling the knife toward his own neck. He pulled back violently, ripping his hand out of Sam’s grip easily. He flushed, wondering how they had grown so distant that Sam would ever think Dean would be okay with that.
“Not what I had in mind, Sammy,” he growled.
He shifted Sam awkwardly against his stomach, unsure how to proceed, and then wrapped his left arm around his brother. Sam’s already rapid breaths were coming out faster now as his eyes tracked on Dean’s hand. Dean brought the knife down against his own skin.
Not like he hadn’t done this before.
He ran the knife against the flesh of his forearm, sharp and fast, not too deep, but deep enough that his blood welled up bright and red against his skin.
Sam groaned, a pained exhalation of air, and pulled Dean’s bleeding arm against his mouth, his fingers digging into Dean’s bicep and wrist as if to keep Dean from running away. Pain flared up as Sam’s mouth pressed against the wound, his tongue playing with the cut edges of skin. He teased the skin farther apart to allow the blood to flow more freely; suddenly Dean was in the dark - demons covered him, licking and slurping against the hundreds of shallow cuts littering his body. Panic jolted through him, and he tried to pull away, but Sam was wrapped around his arm, cradling it close in a tight grip as he sucked at the wound in long deep pulls. Oh, God. Dean struggled to push the memories of hell away and made himself pull Sam in harder.
No matter how bad it got. He’d said it. He meant it.
Pushing Sam away had only brought them to this point. Dean’d fucked everything up, but if this worked, if Sam could get some strength back, maybe it would be enough. Even if it wasn’t enough to fix everything, at least it might be enough to get Sam through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. Lucifer was gone now. That changed everything.
Sam continued sucking hungrily at his skin, little desperate sounds of pleasure escaping him as he did it, and Dean pulled him in closer. Sam’s shivers eased as he continued to tongue at the slit in Dean’s arm, digging in with deft jabs, tearing at the skin to make the cut bigger, deeper. Dean could feel the blood sliding down his arm toward his wrist, and he closed his eyes as Sam followed it down with his tongue, licking along the skin, a soft lover’s caress slipping down until Sam’s head was somehow resting against Dean’s crotch, his body resting between Dean’s legs. The soft slick pull of skin into Sam’s warm mouth contrasted sharply against the sting of the cut and called back memories of things best left forgotten. Sam pressed close, his little movements grinding against Dean’s dick. A hopeless longing filled Dean and he pressed up, his dick responding, wanting more, even as his brain rebelled.
This was wrong.
He tried to pull away, but Sam gripped his arm tightly, hard enough to bruise, and bit down against the soft skin of Dean’s wrist, his teeth rough enough to tear.
Images from hell crashed through Dean once more, overwhelming, distracting…
Dean’s thrown into the wall so hard it knocks him out for a moment. When he comes to once more, he drags himself into the corner, curling into himself painfully. The bones in his hands are smashed and shattered, his body littered with bruises, but overall it’s been a mostly good day - for hell.
He flinches back when Alistair approaches. He doesn’t have to look up - the demon’s smell is distinctive, heavy and sickening like rotten flowers, so strong it makes Dean’s head ache. Alistair’s steps are loud, echoing in the otherwise total silence that makes Dean’s nightly prison. It’s how Dean keeps track of the passing of days. Six hundred and sixty-six nights spent healing from what they do to him in the daytime. It only ever takes one night to heal though, no matter what they do to him.
Alistair reaches him and crouches down, breath a whisper along Dean’s ear. He knows what’s coming, and he thinks he’ll probably go mad soon, and then it won’t matter what they ask him anymore. The demon reaches out a hand and runs it softly down the side of Dean’s face. Dean slams his head against the wall, once and again, lets the pain wash over him as he begins to climb inside of himself. Losing himself in the lyrics of songs he had long ago etched into his very bones.
The demon is talking to him, but he can’t make out the words, doesn’t want to know, until a single one, the most important one, makes it past his defenses.
Sammy…
Alistair has his chin gripped tightly between two boney fingers, face only inches from Dean’s. A cruel smile slithers across loathed features as Alistair’s hateful eyes finally lock with Dean’s. No one’s mentioned Sam since Dean arrived here, and that non-existence had been… comforting somehow.
“You could end this, Dean,” Alistair sing-songs. “Just do what I do. Let me teach you. You could end All. This. Pain. If you just give in to what you really are.”
Dean shuts his eyes again, blocking out the sight of the demon and searching once more for the oblivion of his music. He must have imagined the name.
The sound of Alistair’ mocking laugh chases after him, refusing to leave him in peace. “I wouldn’t go away just yet, Dean,” Alistair taunts, and then grabs Dean’s broken hands, slamming them against the wall. Dean screams in agony. It isn’t the worst he’s received, but somehow, each new torment always feels worst in that moment. The demon keeps Dean’s hands pinned, keeps their hands clasped together until the pain recedes enough that Dean can focus on what’s happening around him.
His breaths are coming out sharp and fast in an effort to breathe through the pain. Alistair leans in until their lips are almost touching. “Sammy…” Alistair whispers, and Dean flinches back, the name undeniable now.
Dean scowls at the demon, refusing to acknowledge what’s been said. He won’t play into Alistair’s new game.
Alistair just grins, unfazed by Dean’s pathetic resistance. “Don’t slip away this time, Dean, or you’ll miss your surprise.” Alistair’s mouth slips around to the side of Dean’s head, his lips brushing seductively against Dean’s ear. “You didn’t answer my question. What d’you say, Dean? You wanna be my student?”
Dean stubbornly refuses to answer, and Alistair squeezes his hands once more, grinding the bones together until Dean can’t take it anymore. He screams out, “No!” in answer, but the denial doesn’t sound anywhere near as strong as he wants it to.
He climbs into the pain, lets the music chase him until he’s lost, and time becomes meaningless.
He’s not sure what pulls him from his oblivion this time, but he comes aware suddenly, awash in pain. Alistair must have really worked him over before he left because Dean’s whole body is in agony this time. Tears run unheeded down his face, his body’s uncontrollable reaction to this level of pain, and his breaths sob into the dirt beneath him. He just wants the pain to stop, wants everything to end. But he knows it won’t. Not ever.
“Forget the hearse ‘cause I never die, I got nine lives, cat’s eyes…” he sings into the dirt, followed by a long sob. It doesn’t matter, there’s nobody here to see his weakness, and he’s oblivious to the dirt that clings to his lips, to the dirt that turns to mud as he sucks hopeless gasps of dirty air into his lungs.
He can feel his broken body starting to knit itself back together, and it tears yet another scream out of him. “Cat’s eyes…” he gasps out when he can, but he can’t remember the words that come next, and oblivion stays just out of his reach as panic takes over.
He almost doesn’t feel the gentle hand against his face, almost doesn’t hear the soft shushing noise whispered against his ear, but the sound, the touch, is familiar in the way of distant memories of childhood and comfort and love.
“Dean.”
The voice is soft, warm, worried, and it rips through his heart, just as his desperate denial is ripped from his throat. It can’t be. Not here. Sam can’t be here. “No.”
Sam’s strong arms circle around him, picking him up gently and holding him through the pain. Dean’s not strong enough to push himself away, and he sobs against his brother through the long hours of the night, as his body slowly, painfully puts itself back together.
He’s actually fallen asleep when the door to his prison slams open and Alistair strides into the room. He jerks awake, knowing Sam was a dream, but his brother’s arms still hold him tightly, keeping him close. He can hear Alistair’s soft laughter in the background. The demon is never loud, never loses control. Dean puts the laughter out of his thoughts and allows himself to look into Sam’s face instead. “Sammy?” he whispers incredulously, waiting for his brother to disappear, hoping that this isn’t just an illusion and terrified that it’s not.
Moisture wells in Sam’s eyes, “I’m sorry, Dean. I couldn’t get you out. This was the best I could do.”
“What…” Dean begins before Alistair rips him from Sam’s arms. The demon is strong, too strong for Dean to fight, but knowing that doesn’t keep him from trying as he’s dragged back.
Sam jumps up and runs toward him, but an invisible force sends Sam flying into the back wall, and Dean can hear bones snap with the force of the blow. Sam collapses down to the ground, his body giving out, but he still manages to shout out to Dean as Dean is dragged from the room. “I’ll be here for you tonight, Dean, I promise. That was the deal I made. They don’t get to keep us apart!”
“No!” Dean cries out, his heart breaking as Alistair slams him against the rack in the middle of the room. He doesn’t even struggle as Alistair straps him down. Instead he searches out Alistair’s gaze, begging him silently to make this all a lie.
Alistair smirks at him, close-lipped, and wraps a skeletal hand around Dean’s throat, squeezing until Dean feels his eyes bulge out with the pressure. He searches for his empty-place, for the lyrics that seal the walls in place, but his panic for his brother keeps him present, keeps him here.
Alistair releases his grip and turns away, his tools clinking quietly together as he fusses over the table they rest on. “Please,” Dean croaks out, his voice nothing more than a soft rasp. “Please, tell me. What’s he doing here? How did he get here?”
Alistair turns around with a knife in his hand and begins calmly cutting through Dean’s shirt. The tearing noise is loud in the silence; Alistair doesn’t let Dean hear the screams of hell except when it suites his purpose. The demon snorts at a joke only he can hear. “Please,” Dean begs, “please, I need to know.”
Alistair’s hand stills against Dean’s stomach and his eyes go distant, as if lost in a fond memory. “It’s like your brother said, Dean. He made a deal. Now he’s here with you.”
“No, no,” Dean mutters. “It’s not true. It’s not real. You’re just making it seem like it’s Sam.”
Alistair slams the knife into Dean’s stomach and he screams out at the sudden, invasive pain.
“Dean!?”
He can hear Sam’s frantic shout through the closed door, and he forces himself to cut off his cry, biting his lip until it bleeds.
“Don’t need to use illusion to hurt you, Dean. You know that. Now, Sammy’s torture? He gets to listen you scream. Every day. From now on. Well, at least until I get bored. Good thing I don’t bore easily.” Alistair twists the knife, and Dean can’t help the brief cry that slips past his lips.
“Dean!” Sam’s cry sounds anguished behind the door, and he can hear pounding against it now.
“Please, it isn’t true,” he mutters, searching desperately for his lyrics, but Sam’s cries keep him grounded, his escape cut off. “Sammy never would have made a deal like that, how do I…”
Alistair’s knife plunges into Deans mouth, pining his tongue to his lower jaw, making it impossible for Dean to finish his question, to do anything but cry out wordlessly.
“Now, now, Dean,” Alistair tisks. “No more talking.”
Alistair abandons the knife there, leaving it in place as he calmly grabs another tool to continue his work. Over the rest of the day, Dean isn’t sure what’s louder - the screams Alistair continuously manages to wrest from him, or Sammy’s desperate cries for his release.
“Dean? Come on man, come back to me.”
Trapped, pinned down by a heavy weight and filled with a dull panic Dean started struggling.
“Dean!”
He shoved up hard, and the weight rolled away, leaving him gasping for breath.
“Dean?” Sam peered down at him, his face filled with concern.
What the… He struggled to get his breathing back under control. He was on a bed… Sam was next to him. Sam had been… it all came back in a rush, and he sat up quickly, pushing Sam away to look down at his arm. It was still bleeding, and he clamped a hand over the wound.
The movement drew Sam’s gaze, and he threw a guilt-filled look toward it before sliding out of the bed to move into the bathroom. He looked steadier than he had since they’d left the convent.
Sam was back a moment later, the first aid kit clutched in his hands. He sat back on the bed without comment, readying the supplies. He took Dean’s arm and gently probed at the cut. It was going to need stitches; that was obvious at a glance. Sam handed Dean the bottle of Jack they kept in the kit, and Dean tossed back a couple of long swallows before Sam got started.
~o0O0o~
Dean slammed the door of the Impala closed, and Sam flinched back with a pathetic moan. “Sorry…” Dean muttered; Sam’s large form, hunched over the dash and radiating misery, stilled any sarcastic barb Dean might have otherwise uttered. Sam still didn’t look good, but at least the tremors had largely vanished.
He threw the bag on the seat and dug out one of the bottles, nudging Sam with it. “Here.”
Sam swiveled his head to look at him, the side of his face resting heavily on his arms. His eyes grew, and he scowled at Dean. “Pedialyte? Dude, I’m not six,” he husked out.
Dean ignored him. “Drink it slow. You haven’t drunk anything since before… since before. If you can keep it down, I’ll let you have some yummy crackers.”
Sam scowled again, but he took the bottle, and Dean started the car. Dean kept a surreptitious eye on Sam to make sure he kept drinking, but he really couldn’t figure out what the hell to say, so the miles slipped by in silence. When Sam finally spoke again, it made Dean jump.
“Where’re we headed?”
“Figured we’d head back to Bobby’s, make sure he’s okay.” Dean replied.
Sam sat up slowly and shook his head. “Castiel.”
“What?”
“We should try to get in touch with Castiel.”
“Why?” Dean asked, suspicion suddenly flaring uncomfortably in his gut. “I thought you said you stopped Lucifer?”
“I did, but, dude, there’s still only one seal left. What if there’s another way to open it? Castiel can check with the other Angels and find out if there’s something we still need to do.” Sam leaned tiredly against the window, his brief surge of energy apparently leaving almost as soon as it had come. “I fucked up, Dean; I need to make sure there’s nothing else I can do to fix it before…”
“You fucked up all right.” The words slipped out before he could censor them, and he didn’t really mean them, except for how he really did. The anger was on a slow burn, easy to ignore, but it wasn’t gone.
Sam flinched back like he’d been struck, and Dean saw the hurt in Sam’s eyes before he nodded and turned away to look out the window. The silence dragged on between them, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to take back the harsh words. He fumbled the crackers out of the bag and tossed them at Sam. “You’re keeping the purple stuff down, eat some crackers.”
Sam stared at the package for a while, and Dean worried that Sam was going to try to continue the conversation Dean had opened the door to. He almost sighed out loud in relief when Sam simply muttered, “We should find Castiel,” and opened the package to fish out a cracker.
Dean watched Sam eat out of the corner of his eye for a moment. Sam was doing better. Dean really didn’t want to think about why, or what it meant. “Thing is,” Dean confessed, “Castiel probably isn’t going to be able to talk to the other angels.”
Sam shot him a surprised look, “How come?”
“He kinda destroyed some bridges getting me to you.” Sam only raised an eyebrow so Dean continued, “The angels, turns out they wanted the apocalypse as badly as the demons did. They seem to think starting a war will result in killing Lucifer, and be damned the consequences to humanity. They played us.”
“Shit,” Sam breathed out quietly.
“So I don’t know how much help Cas is actually going it be, even if we can find him… Left him at Chuck’s. The higher-ups were coming to stop us, and Cas spirited me away.”
There was a pause, and Dean cast a sidelong look at Sam, who was sitting next to him with a frown on his face. After a few moments Sam shook his head and asked, “Don’t you even want to know what happened to him?”
“I…” He pushed the anger down, trying to untangle his feelings. Cas had come through for him in the end. He’d made the decision to change. That counted for something. “Yeah, of course I do.”
“Besides, he still probably knows more than Bobby at this point, even if he is cut off. I really think we should try to find him first. Just in case.” Dean couldn’t make himself reply, and Sam added, “And Chuck’s a lot closer anyway.”
Dean scowled but then nodded his agreement despite his vague feeling of unease. Ruby was dead, it’s not like Sam had anything to lie to him about now.
~o0O0o~
The windows were all shattered out, and there was a hole in the wall at the edge of the house. It really didn’t look good. Dean looked over at Sam who was looking a little grey. His eyes were closed and his breaths were shallow and heavy. “Sam?” Dean asked quietly.
Sam jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath and looked at Dean wearily. “What?” he asked, his voice gravelly with fatigue.
“We’re here.”
Sam just grunted and rolled out of the car to stagger unsteadily to his feet. Dean watched him for a moment before getting out of the car himself. Maybe he should take Sam to a hotel and come back here on his own.
A loud shout from the house had Dean racing up the front steps and slamming against the door. It was locked but already damaged, so he backed up and landed a solid kick that sent it flying off its hinges. The inside of the place was even worse than the outside. Furniture was ripped to shreds and mixed with paper and broken knickknacks. Stuff was thrown everywhere, making walking treacherous, but the sounds of a struggle in the next room sent Dean leaping across that room and into the next. Chuck was on the ground with a stranger leaning over him, a bloody knife gripped tightly in a raised fist. There was blood splattered everywhere.
“Hey!” Dean shouted, and the man turned to look at him with pitch black eyes. It smiled, showing blood-stained teeth before black smoke began pouring out of the demon’s mouth. The man collapsed forward across Chuck as soon as the smoke was gone, and Dean rushed forward, dragging the dead weight of him off of the prophet.
Chuck was a mess, multiple stab wounds decorated his body, most of them littering his arms and legs, but he had a couple good ones in his torso as well. Blood was pouring out of him, soaking into the carpet thickly, and Dean could tell there was no way the man was going to make it without divine intervention.
“Castiel!” he shouted, hoping the angel was still close. How could he have let this happen? And where the hell were the archangels?
“Not here,” Chuck husked out, blood and spittle clogging his throat and making him difficult to understand.
Chuck’s eyes rolled into to the back of his head and his body gave a couple of violent spasms before going so still, Dean wasn’t sure he was still alive. He grabbed Chuck’s face in one hand and gave it a little shake. Chuck’s eyes fluttered open slightly, and Dean asked, “Where? Where is he, Chuck?”
“He ran,” Chuck whispered into the still room, his voice barely there.
“He ran? Ran where?”
“Corpus,” Chuck got out before weak, gasping coughs shook his body. He was coughing up blood, and Dean turned his face gently so it spilled out onto the floor.
With one more heaving breath Chuck gasped out, “Queen… Bluff…” before his breath left him in a quiet sigh.
“Chuck?” he said, moving his fingers along Chuck’s neck, searching for a pulse.
Right behind him he heard a thud and he whirled around to find Sam collapsed against the wall, looking pale as death.
“What the hell, Sammy?” he asked.
“Dean?” Sam responded quietly, more than a little out of breath. “We need… to leave…”
Dean glanced back at Chuck. The man was dead; there was nothing they could do. He shook his head. “Yeah, Sam, okay.” He hauled his brother up and got them both out of there.
~o0O0o~
By the time Dean hit the next town, Sam was having trouble staying awake; his mad dash into Chuck’s place seemed to have stolen the last of his reserves. Dean pulled into the first motel he saw and got them a room. Sam sat on the bed, looking rather wretched, and waved him off absently when he offered the shower, so he took it for himself. The warm water didn’t do as much as he hoped for the tension that had settled deep in his muscles. He pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt before coming out to discover that Sam had barely moved; Sam’s head rested awkwardly against the headboard as he dozed.
There was a cheap, single-serving coffee maker in the room. Dean brewed some and then sat next to Sam on the bed, propped him up and waved the weak swill under his nose to get his attention. Sam struggled awake and finally managed to focus on Dean and take the coffee. He drank it down, not even seeming to notice the heat. Sam visibly shivered, and Dean felt the worry of the last few days creeping back.
Dean sighed, forcing himself not to back away, “What’s wrong, Sam?”
Sam stared into the cup like it held the answer to stopping the apocalypse. Dean rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder to get his attention, and Sam jerked back a little, startled. Dean could feel fine tremors running through Sam’s body, too subtle to see.
Sam looked up at Dean but couldn’t meet his gaze. Sam’s eyes moved away to stare at the wall morosely. “Maybe you should leave, Dean,” Sam said quietly.
“Why, you need something?”
Sam let out a long-suffering huff, and his gaze moved to the ceiling. “No. I mean, I think… we should maybe split up. Get some space from each other for a while.”
“Old ground, we’ve already talked about this,” Dean replied, irritated. “What’s going on with you?”
Sam’s lips thinned, stubborn Winchester pride decorating his features, and Dean was long past the time of putting up with that. He grabbed Sam’s face and forced their gazes to meet. “Just fucking tell me, Sam.” He let his hand drop back to Sam’s shoulder, but didn’t move his eyes away.
Dean watched Sam’s eyes fill with fear, watched Sam struggle silently to come to some decision. He sat still, determined to out-stubborn his brother. Sam’s eyes dropped down, and Dean leaned in close to catch Sam’s whispered words, “I don’t think it was enough, Dean. I think I need more.”
Dean felt tension creep up his back, knotting his already clenched muscles tighter. His brain refused to make sense of the quiet confession. “You just need time to recover. That’s all. You were really fucking sick for several days. You probably just need a happy meal, dude. I’ll go get one. Be back in a heartbeat.” He stood up, but a firm grip on his naked thigh stopped him from getting any distance. He looked down at Sam’s hand, surprised.
“I don’t need that. I need… blood. Back at Chuck’s place…” Dean jerked his gaze away from Sam’s hand, steeled himself against the instinct to move away. Sam’s face changed from miserable to determined as Dean watched. “I just need more,” Sam finally added. The words, so what are you going to do about it, didn’t need to be spoken.
Sam’s face was flushing red with shame, but he wasn’t backing down, and, shit, what was Dean supposed to do? Kill Sam? He couldn’t do it. Just let him die? Same thing as killing him. Let him drink someone else’s blood?
Sam’s hand on his thigh was making him feel twitchy. He stepped back and forced Sam to let him go before he turned to rummage through the weapons bag. He pulled a small knife and held it out, hilt first, to Sam. Sam’s eyes got large as he looked from the knife to Dean’s face and back again.
“Dean?” Sam breathed out, his voice small and pain-edged, but he still reached, tentatively, to take the knife. Sam’s gaze seemed to catch on the bandage that still covered Dean’s arm, and he sat unmoving, his eyes locked there.
“You aren’t hurting anyone this way, Sam,” Dean coaxed, trying not to think too hard about what Sam wanted to do. Needed to do. He just wanted it over with, so they could get some sleep.
“Yeah,” Sam whispered. He reached forward and caressed a finger lightly against the bandage on Dean’s arm, his brow furrowed deeply, and then pulled off the covering. The skin looked angry and red where the neat stitches held it together. Sam took hold of Dean’s hand and pulled, forcing Dean to lean over the bed. He brought Dean’s arm against his mouth to let his lips trail softly against the skin, and Dean felt himself shiver in response.
“This’ll take days to heal,” Sam murmured with a small shake of his head, his lips lingering against Dean. He let that arm go and traded it for the other one. He pulled it up against his mouth, letting his warm breath ghost lightly over the skin.
Dean suddenly wanted to tear his arm out of Sam’s grasp and get the hell out of the claustrophobic room. Instead, holding his breath in anticipation of what Sam was going to do next, he forced himself to sit down.
Sam’s tongue snaked out and ran wetly across the skin of Dean’s wrist. Dean gasped his breath out in surprise, but Sam didn’t stop. Sam licked over his skin, leaving behind trails of saliva; his warm breath felt cold and his tongue moved in a soft caress that raised goose bumps up and down his arm, making him shudder. It was suddenly far too hot in the small room, and Dean felt sweat break out across his forehead.
Sam sucked the wet patch of skin into his mouth and let his teeth and tongue tease against the skin as he gripped Dean’s arm tightly. “Fuck,” Dean muttered; the sound of his own voice startled him, and he started to pull back. Sam released the wrist he held and flashed angry, possessive eyes at Dean before pressing the flat of the knife against Dean’s lips.
“Don’t,” was all Sam said. He trailed the knife down Dean’s chin, the pressure light enough not to cut but sharp enough to scrape the skin and leave a burning sensation in its wake. It occurred to Dean to wonder if Sam might actually be dangerous only a moment before Sam tightened his grip against Dean’s arm. The fiery sting of the knife slid across the inside of Dean’s wrist. It wasn’t much of a cut, barely bled, but Sam pressed his tongue against it like it was something to savor.
Dean’s breath came out in short pants, and his dick came alive under the thin cloth of his boxers. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping Sam wouldn’t notice.
“Not here…” Sam murmured.
“What?” Dean said, trying to make sense of Sam’s sudden desire to leave the room.
“Not… too many cuts on your arms are gonna leave you vulnerable in a fight.”
Dean flushed. He’d been so fixated on Sam the last few days that he hadn’t even thought…
Sam’s hand was hard on Dean’s knee, pushing his legs apart. The knife dropped down, cutting through skin before Dean had time to process what Sam planned to do. “Sam…” he gasped out, his hand convulsing against the sheets, and Dean’s sudden, panicked desire to get away was thwarted only by Sam’s tight grasp on his shoulder and leg.
Bright, red blood welled up at the cut, and Sam dipped down to catch it, to lap it up, before a single drop had time to fall. Dean’s brain short-circuited; Sam’s mouth against his inner thigh was hotter than fuck, and he opened his legs and arched back, letting the sensation claim him. Sam’s cheek was so close he could feel it disturbing the thin material that separated their skin. Dean whimpered and barely managed to hold his hips still to keep from giving away the game completely. Dean looked down with blissed-out eyes. Sam had cut more deeply this time, and Dean could see his brother’s throat working as he sucked and swallowed the blood that was flowing out quickly.
Dean wasn’t sure how long they spent frozen together like that, but he was starting to feel light-headed when he brought a shaking hand up to run through Sam’s shaggy hair. He leaned over, wrapped himself around Sam and, careful not to dislodge his brother from his thigh, dropped a light kiss against the side of Sam’s head. God, Sammy, he thought, I missed this…
Dean’s thigh was burning; the pain grew each moment Sam suckled against it, biting and digging in with his tongue to keep the wound from closing. The room started to spin.
Dean relaxed into the pain, let it envelop him… trusted Sam to take care of him. The world went black.
~o0O0o~
Dean’s thigh throbbed, and he opened bleary eyes to peer at it. There was a neat, white bandage covering his newest wound. Sam had already taken care of it. Dean was toying with the idea of ripping the covering off to see how bad it was when Sam interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey, Dean, you up?” The voice was soft and across the room. Dean propped himself up to find Sam sitting at the table, the computer open in front of him. “Sixteen,” Sam stated cryptically.
“Beg your pardon?” Dean asked.
“Stitches, I had to put in sixteen stitches,” Sam replied, at least having the grace to look embarrassed. Dean flopped back down onto the bed, his eyes sliding shut. They should probably talk about what had happened, but Dean’s brain shied away. He just… couldn’t go there. It was really tempting to just let himself fall back to sleep. He almost felt hung-over.
“It’s a church in Texas.”
Dean forced his heavy lids back open a crack. “What is?” he grumbled.
“It’s… I think that’s what Chuck was trying to tell us. Where Castiel is. There’s a church in Corpus Christi that’s known as the Queen of the Bluff. The Corpus Christi Cathedral. It’s the best I can come up with from what Chuck said.”
Dean groaned softly; Sam was way too fucking wide-awake this morning. “Did you at least bring me coffee?” he muttered.
“Yeah, but that was a couple hours ago. It’s cold now. It seemed like you needed to sleep. It’s probably a three-day drive from here. We should get on the road.”
Dean wanted to throw something at Sam, but he was too damn tired to do it. He contented himself with the image of his pillow flying across the air and hitting Sam hard in the face.
“Dean? I really think we need to get moving.”
“Fuck. Bobby’s closer,” Dean mumbled into his pillow and then wondered if Sam could understand him when there was a long silence.
“I thought we agreed to find Castiel?” Sam finally asked.
Suddenly uncomfortable with the thought of talking to Bobby himself, Dean forced himself to roll into a sitting position on the side of the bed. Not that there was anything to be ashamed of. Bobby would understand about what they’d had to do… probably. But… His gaze landed briefly on his bandaged thigh before skittering away. “No. You’re right.”
Sam immediately shut the laptop and started packing up, but Dean couldn’t seem to find the energy to get up and help. He was starting to wonder if his blood was actually helping Sam, if there would ever be an end to this. If there wasn’t, then Sam needed him to find another solution.
Or Sam needed to find another solution. It’s not like everything had to come down to him to fix. This one was all Sam’s responsibility anyway. Hell, if Sam hadn’t managed to figure out at the last possible moment how to close the seal again, they would’ve had Armageddon on their hands.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t completely Sam’s fault, but the bulk of it sure as hell was. It’s not like Dean hadn’t tried to make his brother take another path.
He watched Sam move around the room with practiced efficiency, the strength of Sam’s body just barely contained, and Dean’s anger slowly bled away. His brother was beautiful.
Dean closed his eyes, blocking out the sight. He was just… tired. So much stuff left unsaid between them, so much hurt and betrayal that it was tempting to suggest a parting of ways, tempting to just say yes to Sam’s multiple suggestions that they do so. It would be so much easier… in some ways at least… but that was mostly selfishness on his part, and he knew it. He’d been coping with what had happened in hell for months now. His feelings weren’t real. He could bury them again.
By the time Dean felt up to driving, Sam had their stuff ready to go. They traveled through the day mostly in silence. He didn’t really want to acknowledge that, when Sam was okay that night, Dean was a little disappointed.
Part Two