audrarose

(Okay, so I lied about waiting to post until I'd finished both sections. *bg* Once this part started nearing 8000 words I figured it was substantial enough to stand on its own. So... more goth!boys. :D)

Title: Bitten (Venom series, Part 4/5)
Author: audrarose
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7600 or so.
Summary: Sam and Dean face the aftermath. With smut.
Warnings: Vampires? Italics? All-too-brief redemption? And, you know, incest.

Notes: Okay, so back when I got the bright idea to turn my one little vamp-y, goth-y snippety-thing into a larger piece I had no idea my RL was going to EXPLODE, but for what it's worth, here's part four, with one more (just one more, promise!) to come. Sequel to Beautiful, Broken, and Bound. You should probably read those stories first.

Hugs to sori1773 for the beta. And oh, yes -- heartfelt kisses to anyone who still cares what happens to these guys. *loves*



Bitten



Not happening, Sam thinks. None of this is happening. He grabs Dean and drags him through the open fire door into the harsh light of the alley, watches his hands shake as he turns Dean’s face away and looks at the bruises all along the curve of Dean’s throat, kiss-bites he made with his teeth and his lips. The angry blue bruises make him sick and make him ache but that’s nothing, nothing compared to the clawing panic he feels at the sight of the two tiny punctures, freshly made, marring the base of Dean’s neck.

“Oh, shit,” Sam whispers, “Oh, shit, why didn’t you tell me?” Sam’s breath is coming shallow and harsh, making him dizzy, because there’s blood. Lots of blood, Dean’s blood, wet against his fingertips and slicking down in a thin trail over his shoulder to pool dark and shiny in the hollow of his collarbone. Sam just stares at it and feels his breath spiral out, wonders if he’ll be able to take another.

“What is it? What are you talking about?” Dean looks angry now, angry and scared and like he might hit Sam if he doesn’t stop digging his fingers into Dean’s shoulders.

“Those – one of those things bit you, and you didn’t say anything!”

Dean looks confused but Sam just grips harder and tries to remember the details in Dad’s book. Pages of notes on vampires, the ways they kill and the ways they die; whole paragraphs on venom and blood-poison and how they turn the ones they want but not one fucking word on what to do if you’re bitten that Sam can remember. He shakes Dean hard.

“Did you drink?” It’s the only thing Sam can think to ask, the only thing that matters at this point, because if Dean didn’t drink, there might be a chance.

“The bastards bit me?” Dean asks, still trying to catch up, and the shocked outrage on Dean’s face makes Sam want to laugh or scream or hit him so he bends closer and tries to make Dean meet his eyes.

“Dean, this is pretty fucking important – did you drink?”

Dean touches the wound on his neck, rubs at it with the heel of his hand and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.

“I think I had a beer…”

“Not – oh, for god’s sake, Dean, blood! Did you drink any blood?”

Sam watches Dean’s face go pale behind the dark kohl on his face, and he looks like he feels a little sick.

“I don’t – I don’t know…” he says.

“You don’t know? What the hell does that mean?”

Dean looks up at Sam, furious now and breaking Sam’s grip on his shoulders, not even wincing when Sam’s jagged nails drag over his skin, leaving more wounds that Sam can take credit for.

“It means what I said -- I don’t know. I don’t remember!” He swipes his hand over his lips, smearing them with blood and Sam can almost see him forcing the fear down so he can think. “Just – just give me a minute…”

Sam rubs his eyes and tries to think, too, but it’s impossible, not when he feels like this. He’s been here before, felt this before, right after Jess died, remembers standing there in the street just like he is now with his nerves strung out to the jittery edge where everything goes bright and brilliant. If he stays here any longer he might just ride on the vibrations until he shatters.

“I remember the crowd,” Dean says, finally. “I remember leaving you on the dance floor. Then – fuck, I don’t know, I guess the next thing I remember is you –" Dean stops, everything stops, and there it is, right there between them.

Me, Sam thinks. You remember me.

kissing
touching, teasing, sucking –

sam, let me go –

God.

Sam is going to be sick. Dean looks away.

“I don’t know if I drank,” he says, and Sam can barely hear him. “Hell, I don’t even remember being bitten.” Subdued now, lost, like with the anger gone he’s got nothing to hold onto, and Sam feels something inside twist into knots.

It’s going to be okay, Sam starts to say, I’ll make it okay – he’s ready to lie to make Dean stop looking like this, but laughter behind him, low and speculative, closes his throat and sends a cold shiver across the nape of his neck.

When he turns there are three of them, slim gothlets in black and silver with studded lips and eyebrows, slipping out the door to stare at him, at Dean.

“Wannabes,” Sam says, just loud enough for Dean to hear.

“Acolytes,” Dean whispers, and Sam isn’t sure who Dean is talking to.

And maybe they are just kids playing dress-up, Sam thinks, but there’s threat in the way they stand, the way they stare, and he starts to think that maybe it’s a bad idea to be hanging out in the alley behind the club, especially with Dean in nothing but leather pants and smeared eyeliner, looking like sex and secrets.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Sam asks them, growling it out and ignoring Dean’s flinch. More laughter, and a girl with hair that looks almost purple in the light over the doorway reaches out to brush Dean’s shoulder.

“He doesn’t want to share,” she tells the others, giggling, and they all shift closer, the girl and one hulking boy almost as tall as Sam and another one, whip-slim with white-blonde hair. The blonde touches the blood on Dean’s chin, drifts a fingertip over Dean’s lips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “You belong with us, now.” He leans forward, voice so low and intimate Sam can hardly hear him. “Don’t you want to play?”

Dean doesn’t move, just stands there looking sickly fascinated as the blonde boy touches him and the girl moves closer, leaning forward like she can’t resist Dean’s mouth, red and full from Sam’s rough kisses. Sam stares at painted nails stroking Dean’s skin and feels the blood rush behind his eyes. Mine, mine and he’s going to do something violent, needs to do something with the possessive rage that makes everything go red and he moves forward without thinking.

A rush of movement as Sam steps up and pulls Dean toward him, feeling cool, smooth skin beneath his fingers, his brother in his arms again, but the blond boy comes, too, arms wound around Dean’s neck. Somehow Sam’s holding both of them, too busy keeping them standing to react to large, rough hands on his waist as the big one moves behind him, harsh whisper against his ear, “Gonna fuck you, gorgeous, fuck you so hard…”.

“Get off me,” Sam says, shoving back hard but the hands on his waist are sliding forward, slipping under the waistband of his jeans, and the heavy weight of Dean in his arms is pushing him back against a hard chest and he’s starting to get the feeling that this could be really, really bad.

leave them

Sam hears it in his head, words like winter and they all freeze, somebody’s pornographic Halloween photo. Suddenly, weirdly, Sam is left holding Dean against his chest as the others back away, angry and excited. They are moving toward the mouth of the alley, toward dark figures fanned out beneath the streetlight fifty feet away, slim blades of black standing perfectly still, pale faces limned in shadow.

God, now what?, Sam wonders, until the one farthest away lifts his head slightly, dark hair falling back from glittering eyes and Sam jumps like he’s seen a sculpture move. A single voice this time, whispering like dry leaves.

come

Soft voice that Sam can feel, dragging across his mind with brutal, stunning power.

beautiful one

His heart stutters when he feels Dean step forward, starting to pull out of his arms and instinctively he tightens his grasp. No. He doesn’t even need to think about it, just shoves Dean behind him, feels him stumble but thank God, not move any closer.

“Get in the car,” he tells his brother. The dark head suddenly snaps up, sharp gaze burning into them from the end of the alley and there’s anger now, from all of them, but mostly from him, the only one who matters.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice sounds shaken, confused.

“They can’t have you,” he says, to Dean, to the still figures in the alley, to the dark one who radiates power and watches Dean so closely. “Get in the car.”

Dean doesn’t move so Sam turns and pushes his brother ahead of him. They have minutes. Maybe seconds. Rage like a rolling wave coming at them, threatening to pull them back with the undertow, too late too late too late and without thinking Sam simply… pushes back. A nudge with his mind and he feels the dark ones retreat in shock and fear – knows it isn’t going to last, but he and Dean are already moving and he’s starting the engine and throwing it into gear before Dean even has the door closed.

Only sound in the car is their harsh breathing over the strain of the engine, and after a few seconds he reaches into the back seat to grab a jacket, tossing it at his brother who’s shuddering with what Sam hopes to God is just cold.

**

Speed and darkness and it’s half an hour down the highway before he looks over at Dean, hunched into Sam’s old blue zip-up and leaning against the window, paper napkin pressed in a crumpled, sodden mass against his neck. All at once Sam is wildly, stupidly glad he grabbed his own jacket to give his brother. Pathetic and hopeless, probably, but god, if he can’t hold Dean, then wrapping him in Sam’s worn, overwashed cotton seems almost as good.

“What did you do back there?” Deans says, and Sam starts.

“Hey. I thought you were asleep.” He drives in silence for a second. “What do you mean?”

“You did something. They let us go.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, remembering voices in his head and what he did to shut them up. “I’m not sure,” he says, not wanting to talk about it.

“They were afraid of you.”

Sam glances over. “How do you know?”

“I heard them,” Dean says softly, looking down at the floorboards. “In the alley. I heard him. Calling me.” Dean takes a breath. “Never could hear them before.”

Before the bite.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Sam says, convincing himself. “That one – that one’s strong. Old, too. Really old, like centuries, I bet. He can probably make anyone hear him.”

Dean’s silence is worrying.

“I was going to go, Sam,” Dean says abruptly. “Go to him. I wanted to.”

Sam swallows. “But you didn’t. You’re here.” He looks over at Dean’s downcast profile. “Hey, it’s going to be –”

“Don’t fucking tell me everything’s going to be fine,” Dean says, suddenly harsh. “Remember who you’re talking to, here, okay? I know what these things do. They’re monsters, killers – and now maybe I’m going to be one of them –”

“Don’t over-react! We don’t know anything yet.” Sam can’t listen to this. Won’t.

Dean just looks out the window, passive the way Dean never is and that, more than anything else, makes Sam scared, makes him ask, “You okay?”

Dean stirs, pulls the sodden napkin from his neck and looks at it grimly. “Other than maybe bleeding to death? Or, you know… un-death?”

Sam glances over and sees blood well up where Dean’s pulled the paper away, tiny red tear-drops that swell before slipping down his neck. Sam reaches over and touches the skin below the wound like it’s fragile.

“That isn’t closing over,” he tells Dean softly. “Maybe I should stitch it.”

“It’s the venom,” Dean says, tiredly. “Makes the blood thin so they can drink easier. It’s not going to heal right away.” Sam feels Dean’s throat move as he swallows and then suddenly Dean laughs, short and harsh, and pushes Sam’s hand away. “I could probably use a band-aid, though.”

Sam ignores him and turns back to the road, runs a shaking hand through his hair and says, “Let’s think about this. We need to figure out what to do, Dean, because you know there’s nothing in that god-damned book --” He stops, wipes his lips. “We’re on our own.”

“Yeah, why change things now,” Dean says, and Sam probably shouldn’t be surprised at how bitter it sounds. He glances at Dean.

“So. Um. Do you feel… different?”

Dean crosses his arms and looks away, silent for a moment.

“I don’t want to bite you, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, finally.

“Okay, good,” Sam says, encouragingly. “That’s good. What about other stuff?”

“Like?”

“Like… the darkness – does it look any different?” He gets a raised brow at that, and he’s starting to get annoyed at Dean’s amused expression. “I don’t know, Dean! Can you smell colors, or hear the stars sing, or any of that other Anne Rice crap?”

Dean looks out the open window.

“No singing stars, but I’m pretty sure the streetlights are doing ‘Chain of Fools’.”

“Great. You’re a fucking riot, Dean. Glad you think this is funny.” Sam could shake him again but he can hear the fear behind the bravado, the sick terror that makes Dean’s eyes skate away and god, all he wants to do is take Dean somewhere safe and bright; spread him out on clean white sheets, kiss him until he comes.

But fuck. Like Dean will ever let Sam touch him again.

“They’ll pay,” Sam whispers brokenly. “I promise you.”

Dean seems really interested in the road ahead of them, staring hard at the dark pavement like he can see into the future, and Sam lets him think.

“Kill them all, you said,” Dean says, finally, voice way too quiet.

“Yeah. We will. I will. I swear it.”

Dean nods, like he didn’t expect anything less, and shifts to look at Sam with eyes dark and serious behind the smudged liner. “Good. Because if the Anne Rice crap starts… with me, you know what you need to do.”

Sam suddenly feels cold. “Dean –"

“No choice, Sammy,” Dean says, sounding way too calm even though Sam knows the pose has got to be total bullshit. “You know that just as much as I do.”

Sam is shaking his head, feels his jaw clenching.

“No. No way. Don’t you fucking ask me to do that, Dean!”

“You have to, Sam!” Raging back at him for just a second, and then his voice drops again. “You have to. I’m trusting you.” Dean’s voice is uneven and he’s not looking at Sam anymore so Sam barely catches the rest of what Dean says. “At least with this.”
Fuck.

The words hang there, painfully, and Dean looks away, like maybe he got lashed with that one, too, and Sam doesn’t think he can talk anymore.

No, he thinks.

Never. Never hurt you again.



***



Dean wakes up in a motel room with darkness that won’t last outside the windows. Face down on the bed where he’d fallen, shoes off, feet bare – Sam must have done that, and thrown the other blanket over him, too. Dean lifts his head and sees that Sam isn’t with him in the bed, isn’t in the other one, either, and until Dean hears the shower running he can’t think.

Didn’t leave, Sam wouldn’t leave – stupid, empty reassurances he gives himself as he surges up out of bed, because Dean doesn’t know what Sam won’t do anymore, so he pushes the door of the tiny bathroom open to see if Sam is still with him. Clothes all over the floor, mirror steamed over and the air heavy with heat Dean can almost breathe, and ohthankgod Sam – standing under the spray, arms folded against the tile and head buried against them. Relief and pain in equal portions so Dean lets himself look at Sam, all of him, instead of turning away like he would have two days ago.

So beautiful -- so strong and powerful now –- and he was so little, just little, Dean thinks, and wonders how he’ll ever make the two Sams come together in his mind. Sam’s hand against the tile is huge and for a second Dean can feel it closing over his hip, holding him still and he has to turn away.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice doesn’t sound right, rougher than usual. Dean doesn’t look at him, just reaches out to swipe a clean streak on the mirror and meet his own eyes, smeared with steam and cheap eye-shadow and he may as well be staring at a stranger. That can’t be him, that guy with blood on his throat and the marks from his brother’s teeth on his neck.

“Dean, please.” He turns at that broken sound to look at Sam; Sam who’s cleaned the dark make-up from his face and used the cheap, disposable razor to scrape his skin smooth and perfect again, hair water-slick and pushed back for once so Dean can see the clean lines of his face. He can also see misery to match the grief in his brother’s voice and has to wonder if his own eyes look as hollow. Sam’s pain held up like a broken toy between them and God damn it if the only thing Dean wants to do is fix it, just like always, but – you did this to us, Sammy, he thinks fiercely. To me.

“Too late,” he says, too quiet for Sam to hear, maybe, but maybe not because it does something to Sam; he’s moving, faster than Dean can react, and suddenly Dean is stumbling forward as Sam drags him into the shower.

“God damn it, Sam, you’re getting me all wet –" Sputtering a little under water that isn’t hot enough, like Sam carries around his own heat and doesn’t need the help. Sam’s sodden jacket on his shoulders weighs a ton now and he shrugs it off, Sam’s hand the one that flings it onto the floor.

Sam’s hands are shaking when he closes them around Dean’s bare shoulders, and Dean should push him away but he can’t. So he lets Sam stand there with his trembling hands under water that’s doing nothing to heat up the chill that’s settled into Dean's body, that makes him shiver even before Sam leans forward to put his face in Dean’s hair.

Soft words he can barely hear, can’t understand and he turns his head automatically, lips brushing Sam’s ear by mistake to ask, “What was that?”

Sam shakes his head slightly, broken movement and again, “…hate me, now.”

Dean exhales sharply, and drops his head, breathes against the slick skin of Sam’s shoulder. God. Hate Sam? Angry with him, maybe. Hurt, oh yeah, for sure, but hating Sam never even occurred to him, isn’t even possible. Dean shifts back to rest his forehead against Sam’s and now Dean can see water tears? beading on his brother’s cheeks. “Oh, shit, Sam.”

Sam opens his eyes and lifts his head, so desperate and hopeful, searching for something in Dean’s face that Dean isn’t sure he can give.

“Close your eyes,” Sam says hoarsely, and Dean doesn’t have anything left inside that could object. Sam’s hands cup his jaw, turn his face into the cascading water and then there are soft fingers on his skin and the scent of motel soap making his nose twitch. Sam’s hands, just touching him, gentle across his forehead, gliding over his cheekbones, eyelids, the line of his jaw and beneath the curve of his lips.

“Sam,” he murmurs, his voice catching on the word because the tenderness in Sam’s touch is going to break him, completely and finally. “What are you doing?”

“Just… just getting this junk off your face,” Sam says helplessly, rubbing his thumbs softly over Dean’s eyelids, so gently that Dean can feel how his hands tremble. Sam’s big palms over his cheeks, his jaw, down the sides of his neck, carefully avoiding the wound that Dean can feel burning through his skin; the only warm place on his body, it feels like, except where Sam is touching him.

Dean opens his eyes when Sam brushes his hands over his shoulders, but Sam isn’t looking at him, just watching his own hands intently, seriously. Soft and tender, that touch drifting over him, with no purpose beyond comfort and care, and Dean’s throat starts to ache. He watches Sam’s hands slip down his chest, achingly gentle, slicking over bruises left by Sam’s teeth, brushing at them like he can wash them away. Dean can feel his muscles relax beneath Sam’s hands, tension washing away with sweat and spit and semen off his skin.

“Oh, God, Sam…”

Sam slips to his knees without looking up, and tugs at the waist of Dean’s pants, now soaking and ruined, working at the buttons with difficulty.

“I’m just – I just want this gone, all of it gone,” Sam says, and God, how Dean wants that, too, ruined leather and smeared make-up and poison in his blood, wants to make it all go away. Before Dean can answer Sam closes his arms around Dean’s legs and buries his head against Dean’s stomach. Dean’s been in enough churches to know penance when he sees it.

just let me touch you

He couldn’t then, not at the club with Sam on his knees before him, not even when Sam released his bonds; hands too numb, wrists too painful, but there’s no belt binding him now. Sam’s right here, so Dean just does it, runs his fingers into Sam’s soaking hair, over his shoulders and the back of his neck.

come to me

Echoes of that voice in Dean’s head, a sickening pull, and he wonders what he would have done if it told him to do things to Sam. He makes Sam look up at him, makes himself look back, holds Sam’s face hard and God, he’s never been able to handle his brother’s pain.

“Hey, look at me. It’s okay,” he tells his brother, smiling weakly, whispering words he’s said a thousand times in a thousand different ways whenever Sam was hurt or afraid or sad and Sam just breaks, shatters, surges up to hold Dean close. The only thing Dean can do is hold him back, big, warm body in his arms and he doesn’t think anything can stop him from putting his lips on Sam’s throat, his jaw, his cheek.

“You want this? You and me… like this?” Sam pulls away just a little, just enough to lean his face into Dean’s so their lips almost brush. So hopeful, so afraid Dean’s going to push him away that Dean simply slides his hands into Sam’s hair and pulls him close enough to kiss.

“Yeah… yeah, Sam, want you… just kiss me, okay?”

Oh, God. Sam.

Sam’s mouth is desperate and sweet and hungry, tasting him, the tip of his tongue an unconscious tease when he licks over Dean’s lips, strokes inside Dean’s mouth. Dean hears himself moan, tries to chase down that tongue – God, he wants to suck on it, taste Sam back, but Sam’s turned his face away to touch his lips to Dean’s wrist.

Grief on Sam’s face as he kisses the deep, red marks ringing Dean’s arm, soft swipes of his tongue like he can heal them.

“Don’t, Sam. It’s okay,” Dean tells him again, because Sam’s bleak remorse hurts, and Dean pulls him closer to murmur mindless words of comfort against Sam’s temple, to whimper when Sam shifts restlessly and begins mouthing his neck. Nothing close to biting, nothing that could ever mark, just soft kisses over the places Sam’s hands have washed clean.

It’s sweet and drugging, turning him boneless, but Dean flinches when Sam nears the raw wound on his neck, now closing at last but still angry and throbbing, stealing all the heat in Dean’s body. If he thinks about it too much he’s afraid he can feel his blood beginning to freeze and that makes him shudder but Sam just holds him closer, skirting the bite to kiss over Dean’s collarbone, nuzzle into the other side of his neck with a soft whimper that makes Dean dizzy. Big hands molding his shoulder blades, sliding down his ribs and digging into muscle, sending waves of bliss up his spine.

“Yeah, Sam… God, that’s good…”

Dean needs this, doesn’t care the fuck why, or for how long he’s wanted it and never admitted it to himself, none of that matters – Sam matters, just Sam.

And Sam needs this, too, maybe -- impatient hands tugging at the buttons on Dean’s pants again, pulling hard and frustrated until Dean’s almost surprised when he feels the material part. Has to laugh, then, because those pants are never coming off, already tight and now soaking wet, they’re like part of Dean’s body.

“Had to pull me in before I could get undressed, huh?” Dean says; it makes Sam almost-grin, and Dean wonders how long it will be before he sees anything like a smile on Sam’s face again.

“Wouldn’t have come in here with me if I’d waited,” Sam mutters, and then he’s soaping his hands again and Dean snorts.

“Not going to work, Sam,” he says. “It’s not like I have a ring stuck on my… unnnhhh…” Forgets what he was going to say as slick hands slide down into the gap in his pants, slippery grope that’s way too brief before Sam’s soapy fingers are moving over his hips and beneath the leather, slipping down over his ass. Warm, strong hands cupping him, squeezing him, pulling him close to Sam’s hips. Sam’s cock.

“See? I can improvise,” Sam whispers. “When I’m motivated.”

“I take it back,” Dean gasps against Sam’s ear as Sam’s hands plunge lower, peeling the leather down his hips. “It’s a fucking great idea.”

“Got a lot of them,” Sam says, gliding a soapy hand between, from the sensitive skin behind his balls to the base of Dean’s back and Dean thinks he might be seeing stars. Tries to find Sam’s mouth to show him just what he thinks of Sam’s brilliant ideas but Sam’s sliding down to his knees again, turning Dean to brace his hands against the wall so Sam can pull the soaked leather the rest of the way off Dean’s legs. Oh, God, so good to get the sodden leather away from his skin, and when he’s finally free of the heavy material he gets Sam’s hands again, slick and gentle, smoothing over his calves and thighs, washing Dean’s abraded skin, and how can he be so hard just from Sam’s hands on his legs?

The press of Sam’s teeth on the curve of his ass makes him jump, makes him laugh and he’s about to say, “Watch it there, Sammy,” but then oh fuck, Sam’s mouth -- Sam’s mouth – melting heat, right at the center of him, tongue so fucking hot Dean’s going to dissolve right there, just melt down the drain, and he feels his knees start to give. Has to lean into the tile just to keep upright and fuck, Sam’s amazing at this, freaking gifted, finding a liquid rhythm that’s shorting out Dean’s brain.

“Sam… Sam, I’m gonna come…” And it’s true – he could, just from this, just from Sam’s tongue on him, and it’s embarrassing but it makes Sam moan, and then Dean feels Sam kiss the small of his back and heat from Sam’s tongue dragging slowly up his spine as Sam stands. He gets Sam’s strong arms around his waist, pulling him close and Sam’s smooth, wet chest against his back; Sam’s lips mouthing kisses into the nape of his neck and Sam’s hard, leaking cock pressed against his hip – completely surrounded by Sam and heat and falling water and Dean realizes that this is the first time they’ve ever been completely skin to skin, absolutely nothing between them. Closes his eyes and shakes his head, just feeling this.

“What is it?” Sam asks, voice shaky, teeth on Dean’s ear and small thrusts against Dean’s hip, rubbing the head of his cock lightly over Dean’s skin.

“We -- we fit,” Dean says, sounding surprised, and he feels Sam smile against his neck, kiss him some more. Sam’s hands smoothing down over his abdomen, not stopping until they’re slicking over his cock, closing around him and oh, yeah, Dean thinks he could happily spend eternity fucking Sam’s hands.

“Are you – oh, fuck, are you watching us?”

Breathless question and no way he can answer that, no way he can do anything but moan at this point, moan and try not to come like a cannon. Sam’s hands are too good, Sam is too good, squeezing and stroking, long, soapy fingers curling over him like the best porn Dean’s ever seen. Sam’s making noise, too, helpless gasps and he’s rubbing his own cock over Dean’s ass like he’s going to die if he can’t get more friction. Dean takes pity, reaches back and grabs at Sam’s narrow hips, pulling him up close and hard.

Smooth, slick slide against his skin and “Oh… Jesus, Dean –“ Orgasm taking Sam by surprise it seems, shuddering cock and hot spurts pumping over Dean’s back, Sam seizing against him beneath the pounding water, losing any kind of rhythm at all on Dean’s cock but that’s okay because Dean turns and pushes Sam into the tile.

Kisses him hungrily, touches him everywhere -- gorgeous mouth and gorgeous body and all his, his to touch and taste, hard muscle and smooth skin and blood rushing hot and sweet beneath. Gorgeous ass Dean can’t get enough of touching, Sam pliant and melting beneath his fingers, turning to the wall and just letting him, letting Dean sink deep inside, turning everything into heat and pulse and blinding pleasure, and if this kills him, burns him into nothing, it will be so fucking worth it.


Afterward, Sam barely gives him time to dry off. Rough towel over his skin and they’re both still damp when Sam drags him into bed, pulls him close so they can tangle together in cool, soap-scented sheets where everything is Sam and skin and shared breath. Sam holds him like Dean is going to slip away and that’s fine with Dean because he can hold on, too. Fuck, maybe this time it will work.

“We’ll sleep for a few hours,” Sam tells him. “Then head up toward Stanford.”

“Stanford?” Dean manages to ask, ends up mostly yawning instead.

Sam’s quiet for a second. “When I was at school I took a class on the occult. Easy A, you know?” Sam adds defensively when Dean raises his eyebrows. “But – I was surprised. We’re not the only ones who have experience with this stuff.”

Dean leans back to look at him, feels himself start to grin. “Did a little moonlighting up at college, Sam? And here I thought you wanted to get away from it all.”

Sam shifts, rubs his cheek against the pillow. “Look, Dad’s book’s for shit at this point. We need some outside help, and there’s someone at school who I think we can talk to about this.”

This. Meaning his brother.

Lestat.

Dean closes his eyes.

“Okay, Stanford, fine. Whatever. If I haven’t developed a sun allergy by then.” Because Dean can feel it coming -- dawn, pressing against the windows behind the thick curtains, against his eyelids.

“Yeah, well, then you can ride in the trunk.” Brittle laughter in Sam’s voice and Dean has to smile a little, too, has to lean into him a little more.

“This doesn’t fucking scare you?” Dean asks, quietly so he sounds calmer than he feels.

“Yeah, sure it does,” Sam says, sounding matter-of-fact. “When has that ever mattered? Still doesn’t.” Grown-up Sam voice Dean hasn’t heard before, and maybe now he can make Sam understand.

“Sam. I think we should come up with some kind of a plan – you know, just in case --.””

Sam isn’t fooled by his reasonable tone and cuts him off with a hard kiss.

“Don’t say it. Don’t ask me again. That’s never happening.”

Dean sighs and leans his forehead into Sam’s shoulder. He’s too God-damned tired to fight. Too tired to think about how wrong it is that they’ve already driven 300 miles away from the things they need to kill, that they’re planning to hide. To think about why neither of them has even once suggested calling Dad. Maybe for once he can be the kind of guy who doesn’t argue.

And who lets his brother kiss him until he falls asleep.

Jesus.

“This is so fucked up, Sammy.”

Soft lips on his, softer whisper right before he drops off to the slow beat of Sam’s heart.

“I don’t care.”




The smell of scrambled eggs cooking is going to make Dean sick. No place should serve breakfast at night, even if he did just wake up and the orange of the sky outside the diner windows could be dawn if he pretends. The light makes his eyes hurt.

“Completely useless crap,” Sam says, listlessly flipping through Dad’s book. He grabs his thick coffee mug and looks at Dean over the edge before he drinks. “You’re not eating. Aren’t you hungry?”

Dean looks down at his plate. “I don’t eat… waffles.”

“Okay, for the record? The vampire jokes are going to get old fast. And that movie sucked.” Sam stirs at his eggs. “Just eat something.”

“Coffee, hon?” Dean jumps, thinks he should probably answer the woman standing next to their table but he’s studying her hand instead, holding the coffee-pot out to him with the tendons in her arm distended, pale trace of veins on the inside of her wrist and if he listens close he thinks he can hear the soft rush of blood through them.

Oh, hell.

“You want coffee?” she asks again, then turns to Sam. “Is he okay?”

“Fine,” Sam says, trying out a smile. “He’s fine. Coffee would be great.”

Dean watches her fill their cups and walk away and feels Sam bump his leg beneath the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam asks, and Dean can’t blame him for being irritated, blames himself for making Sam look so grim and worried, even before he knows about Dean’s new fascination with strangers’ circulatory systems. Dean decides not to share.

“Look, I’m sorry it was hard to wake me up, okay? I know you wanted to get on the road hours ago but we’ll just have to make up the time tonight.” Dean brushes his calf against Sam’s leg in apology. Wishes they were somewhere else so he could do more than that.

“Hard to wake you up?” Sam says, staring at him blankly. “I tried for four hours, Dean. I didn’t know what to do! It was like you were in a coma or --.”

“Dead?” Dean asks, remembering opening his eyes to see Sam, panicked and pale, slamming his cell phone shut and rushing toward the bed in relief, dropping to his knees and putting one hand in Dean’s hair. Dean can still feel Sam’s hand gripping tight, can still feel pressure in his chest slowly easing away with the sun’s descent behind the curtains.

“No.” Sam says, stubborn set to his mouth and moving his leg closer to Dean’s, an unconsciously protective gesture to match his words. “That stuff in your blood is making you tired. That’s all.”

“I was waiting for the freaking sun to set, you mean.”

Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Even if that’s true, you didn’t wake up trying to rip my throat out, either. I’m going to take that as a good sign.”

“I look different,” Dean says, feeling sullen, remembering the unfamiliar face in the mirror, turning away before he could really get a good look.

Sam looks up briefly, glimpse of dark eyes under the soft fringe of his hair and then his gaze skates away. “No, you don’t.”

“Everyone’s staring at me.”

“They’re not –“ Sam rubs his mouth and lowers his voice. “They’re not staring. Now will you eat something so we can get on the road before your fan club starts trying to track you down?”

Dean looks down at his plate and feels his stomach heave, once, horribly, and drops his fork onto the plate.

“Yeah, about that,” Dean says, trying to get his nausea under control, trying to ignore the thud of pain in his chest at what he’s about to say. “I’m thinking… maybe we should split up.”

Sam seems at a loss. “What the fuck are you talking about? Where would you go?”

“Away. Somewhere else.” Dean gestures at the window, vaguely indicating the rest of the country where Sam is not. “I can drop you at Stanford –.”

“Why?” Sam interrupts, and he’s starting to sound angry and frightened.

“Well, I don’t know, Sam, maybe because any second now I might turn into a blood-sucking monster?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, not this again –“ Dean puts up a hand.

“We’ve already established that you’re not going to put a stake through my heart. Fine, you can’t kill me, I get that. But how do I know…” Has to get his voice under control before he can continue, “How do I know I’m not going to try to hurt you?” Worst thing Dean can imagine, nagging fear that grips his throat and he can’t even look at Sam when he says it.

“You won’t.” Stubborn glare.

“Really. You know this.”

“I know this,” Sam assures him. “You wouldn’t. You’d never hurt me.”

So unshakably certain and Dean rubs his hands over his face tiredly. “I really want to believe that, dude, but we don’t know what I’ll be capable of…”

Sam isn’t listening, shaking his head and stabbing at the eggs on his plate with recrimination.

“You and Dad, you’re both so god-damned –”

“Dad?” Dean says, looking up. “That’s who you were talking to earlier?” Sam immediately looks hunted.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Sam says, sounding chagrined. “No matter what I did. I didn’t know what to do, so…”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, trying not to feel betrayed.

“No, Dean, I freaked out and –."

“Called Dad. I got that part.” He tries to take a sip of coffee – it’s a little better than the food, but not much. “We should have done it right away, probably.” He stares down into his mug. “So what did he say?”

Sam looks lost for a second, wounded, and Dean doesn't want to hear. "Not much more than we read in the book," Sam mutters. "It all depends on whether or not you have venom in your blood."

Dean counts seconds in time with the pulse in Sam's throat. "I'd say that's a yes."

come to me

Soft whisper, sense of empty arms waiting for him, and Dean shakes his head.

"Dad's going to contact some hunter in Ojai -- expert in vampire lore," Sam is saying. "Maybe between him and my professor we can get some answers." Sam doesn't sound too hopeful.

"What else did he say?" Dean still doesn't want to hear, but asks anyway.

Sam shakes his head, but he's always been a rotten liar where their father is concerned.

“He told you the same thing I did, didn’t he? He told you to get away from me.”

“And I told him the same thing I’m telling you -- that’s not fucking happening.” Sam’s looking murderous now, and Dean takes a breath.

"But he’s right. He’s afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

“He's wrong. You’d never hurt me,” Sam says again, grasping Dean’s hand hard, right across the table like they're not in the middle of a truck stop. Sam looks at him and there’s so much trust there, such earnest, unshaking faith that Dean has to swallow before he can talk.

“No,” he says softly, trying to ignore the feel of the pulse in Sam’s wrist. “I won't.” He makes it a promise, a vow to Sam and to himself and he lets himself hang onto Sam until the thought of holding hands with his brother in a diner outweighs his need for Sam’s reassurance.

“So we go to Stanford,” Sam says when Dean lets go, flipping Dad’s notebook closed and standing up. “I’ll go put some gas in the car.”

“Then what?” Dean asks. “After Stanford?”

And then Sam goes still and there’s silence all around, it seems.

It's just a flicker, a glimpse, but for a second it isn’t his brother Dean sees – there’s something more, something bright and blinding and not-Sam behind his brother’s face and all Dean can do is stare.

“They’re afraid of me,” Sam says quietly, carefully. “They should be.” He looks down at the check. “You got this?”

Dean just nods. Clears his throat.

“I -- I'm going to hit the john. I’ll catch up.”

He gives a shaky smile that miraculously Sam buys, so Dean waits until Sam’s out the door before he stumbles to his feet, lurching toward the back of the diner. The bathroom is starkly bright, cheerfully mocking the stuttering pound of his heart as Dean leans over the sink to splash water on his face, looks up dripping water into his collar.

Just Sam, he tells himself, but he doesn't believe it. He saw something behind his brother's face, something Sam can't even see, and then he's almost laughing. It just keeps getting better and better -- Sam isn't Sam, or he's more than Sam, or some fucking thing, but Dean can't really talk because he's probably just one good hickey away from becoming one of the undead. He’s actually feeling shakily relieved to see his own reflection until he really gets a good look at himself.

What the fuck.

Dean tries to breathe. He’s gotten used to looking at his face in pieces; hair combed, teeth brushed, skin shaved close, but never at his whole face if he could help it. He stopped looking a long time ago, once he realized that his father watched him closer than he watched Sam, pushed him harder, protective and ashamed at the same time of his son who looked like an advertisement for sex. So much easier to cut his hair short so he could run one hand through it and be done, easier to shave in the shower and brush his teeth while keeping his eyes fixed on the water swirling down the sink.

waiting for you

But now he has to look, trying to recognize a face as pale as the white t-shirt he’s wearing, the bones beneath more defined, refined somehow, with the only color coming from eyes green and glittering in the fluorescent light and lips deep red like he’s wearing more of that stupid gloss.

And suddenly it’s as clear as that stranger's reflection in the mirror, clear as the beacon of light inside his brother and the voices inside his head; Dean can see where all this is going. Sam thinks it’s his fault; that he started this mess with that first kiss in the club but Dean knows better – they’ve been heading toward this ever since fate took everything else away and left them with only each other. Left him nothing but Sam -- his responsibility and his tormentor, his brother and his savior and the God-damned love of his life.

want you

There’s something other in Sam, yeah, but no denying it now, there’s something in him, too; something cold and growing that can hear the whispers of the night-creatures calling to him from hundreds of miles away, if he listens. Something that can see what they see when they look at Sam. He stares into the mirror.

beautiful one

And yeah, he’d stopped looking at himself, but that never once stopped him from using it, taking advantage of the things people wanted to do to him to make them do things for him instead. Drinks in bars when he was broke and safe places for him and Sam to sleep even when he wasn’t; cigarettes and gas money, a jump for the car battery. Using his looks got him fed and got him laid and he learned that no one ever questioned the false name on his credit cards when he smiled. He took care of himself and took care of Sam and he can still do that, will always do that, no matter what’s happening to him now.

Kill them all, Sam said. In pain and blood and fire. Dean grins fiercely at his reflection, runs his tongue over his teeth, careful not to cut himself.

It’s a place to start.

Too easy to slip out the back of the diner, stick to the shadows and avoid the brightly lit station where Sam is pumping gas. Stops to look at him one more time, look for that bright light hidden behind Sam's easy slouch. Stay safe, he thinks.

Easier still to find what he’s looking for, three girls on their way back to UCLA, stopped for bottled water and candy bars. He stops just outside their range of vision and just listens; laughter, conversation, music on the radio. Three separate heartbeats.

They go still when he walks up to them, instantly wary of strangers in parking lots, miles from home, but he hunches his shoulders, hands in his pockets, and stops a good six feet away.

“You need something?” The driver asks, too polite to tell him to fuck off. He turns his face up into the light and smiles.

“Actually… I could use a ride.”

End part 4



Conclusion: Benediction