Archive of Our Own

They fly across the field, the long black coats neither could bear to leave behind billowing in their wake. Their legs churn effortlessly, helping them to put easy distance between themselves and their latest hunt.

The frustrated howls of the trapped rugaru echo across the flat land, furious at its impending doom. The smell of smoke is already thick on the air as the house starts to burn, the old Winchester smell of success.

Dean exults in their victory, even as he scans ahead, peripherally aware of the ground they are covering, the threats possible from either side if the creature had friends, and the possibility, always the possibility, that the Winchesters have been tracked down.

But he doesn’t want to think about that in any great detail now, as Sam turns to him with eyes wild and bright and full of joy. He just grins back at his brother, enjoying their shared success.

They’d been apart for four years. A mere blip in the lives of most vampires, Dean knows, but not to him. Sam was his everything, and life had lost all its savour in his brother’s absence.

But now - now they are the Winchester brothers, back together and feared - if not by Lycans then by other monsters. The real monsters, the ones that stalk and kill humans just for the sake of it, for fun, with limited intelligence and even less interest in using what little they have. The Winchester boys have found their calling, and Dean revels in it.

***

“Why are we doing this?”

“Well Sammy, if we don’t clear this up, the humans will find the bodies and they’ll freak and Dad will kill us.” Dean’s voice is flat with sarcasm and he knows he fully deserves the shove that sends him tumbling to the floor.

“Jackass. No, I mean why do we hunt lycans. We found the one that killed mom. Why are we still doing it?”

Sam’s voice grows more serious as he talks, and Dean is forced to pay attention despite the wood he’s hauling in for the bonfire.

“What do you mean, why? Lycans are evil, they’re a threat, Sammy. If we don’t kill them off they’ll get out of control.”

“Ok.” Sam’s response is quiet, and so unlike him that Dean knows this won’t be the end of the conversation. He just doesn’t know what else he can add.

***

By the time they got back to the motel, the superficial wounds they’d endured taking down the rugaru were long gone. Before coming out of the woods, they’d checked themselves for gore. “No use scaring the humans, Dean”, Sam had reminded him, patented bitch face in place, a streak of blood highlighting his pale cheekbone like the blusher that some of their more vain colleagues had adopted.

Dean had swiped it off and resisted the urge to lick it clean - who knew what germs rugaru blood held. Sam’s eyes had fastened on the smear on his fingers, eyes dilating dark, and Dean had known that they would be feeding tonight.

For now though, they busy themselves cleaning up the remnants of the hunt, taking part in mundane, quiet activities that experience has taught them will help to calm their jangled nerves. Sam, ever the researcher, situates himself behind his laptop screen to look for their next case, burying himself in detail.

They’ve been back together for a couple of months now, but the tension hasn’t quite eased off yet. Dean is still achingly careful around his brother, afraid that one misstep could cause Sam to flee again. So he doesn’t often get the chance to study Sam, to feast his eyes like he’d spent his whole life doing, before. Research might be Sam’s thing, but studying Sam is Dean’s.

Gun in hand for the sake of appearances, he settles down on the edge of the bed and looks his brother over . Sam’s hair is longer now than it used to be, almost reaching his shoulders in a college-boy cut their Dad would have hated. Though he’ll never admit it, Dean thinks it suits his brother, highlights the curve of his cheekbones and gives him a fey, otherwordly appearance uncommon in their kind. The dark hair and ashen skin though, that’s all vamp, and Sam is pale enough to almost blow their cover sometimes, unlike Dean himself. His multi-coloured eyes flicker as they criss-cross the screen, and Dean takes a moment to chide himself for being jealous of an inanimate object, to remind himself that Sam’s attention does not always have to be on him.

Sam had bulked up while they were apart, and as ever, Dean hopes that it was for the same reason he himself had lost weight - that his brother had been driven to mindless distraction to avoid thinking about what he’d left behind. For Dean, that had meant a reckless charge towards danger, heavy drinking and women he couldn’t even remember in the morning, let alone now, months later. He’d rarely bothered to feed, and it had showed. He suspects that for Sam, the head to his tail, it had meant immersing himself in research and giving in to the demands of his body through excessive exercise. Dean can appreciate that - Sam is stronger now, an even more effective fighter than he’d been before.

He vaguely remembers to act like he’s cleaning the gun before Sam realises, then focuses on his brother again. Sam’s forehead is pursed in a frown, which usually means he’s found something.

“What you got?” he asks.

“Couple of murders of humans up in Illinois. Backwoods towns close to each other. Looks suspicious and cops don’t have a clue.”

They’ve been trying to stay away from the bigger cities, with their established covens but rural Illinois should be safe enough.

“Ok, we’ll head out in the morning, but let’s hit up a bar tonight?” There’s a question in his voice; Sam isn’t always in the mood for kicking back, but he doesn’t think he’s read his brother wrong tonight.

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is loaded, and his eyes flick up to look at Dean. “Let’s go drinking.”

Their eyes lock, and Dean barely suppresses the shiver that goes through his body. He’s thirsty, for so many things.

***

“Why are we trying to kill them?” Sam’s voice is loud, strident; the exact tone that always sets off their father.

“They’re lycans.” John replies, curt and unwilling to engage.

“So? What have they done?”

“They’re lycans, Sam.” John turns around to face his younger son, hostility radiating from his tense shoulders. They’ve been fighting more and more recently, anger snapping between them at the littlest things, and Dean is always, always the one stuck in the middle.

“Come on, let’s just get this done,” he says, in an attempt to defuse the situation.

“No!” Sam exclaims at the same time his father loudly agrees. “No. I want to talk about this. I want the information you have, that tells me why I should kill something.”

“Because I said so,” John growls. “I have the info, you do what I say. That’s how it works.”

The two men are up in each other’s faces now, so close that little flecks of spit are landing on Sam’s face.

“The hell it is,” Sam shouts. He reaches out, about to shove John. Dean, who knows that would open up a can of worms the emotionally stunted Winchester men are not equipped to deal with, rapidly gets himself in between them.

“Come on, stop fucking fighting,” he says, barely able to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Sam, if you don’t want to come, then don’t. I’m sure we’ll be fine without you.”

Sam looks at him, eyes intense. There’s anger there, so much anger, but also hurt, and Dean can’t quite place why.

“I’m not letting you go without me.”

***

By the time they head out it’s late, full dark rather than the dusty twilight when they’d been hunting. There’s limited choice in the small town, a run down, diner-cum-drinking spot that looks like it caters to the older population, and further out, a rough-looking bar that has trouble written all over it. Dean’s plans for tonight are confirmed when Sam heads unerringly towards the latter.

The bar is murky when they walk in, loud guitar music masking the inane drinking conversation of the local ‘alternative’ scene. Dean wrinkles his nose at the smell of warm beer, smoke and fries, and underlying those, urine. Not for the first time, he desperately misses city bars.

There’s a fair few people still there given the late hour, and he scans them quickly, alert first to danger and second to potential. He sees none of the first - a few blokes that probably think they’re hard but that either he or Sam could take out with one hand behind their back. But potential - oh yes, there’s two girls in the corner, dressed for a night out and probably older than they’d like to think they are. Dean has no interest in jailbait, either sexually or for the kind of trouble it could bring down on their heads, and these two women, in their late 20s, maybe even early 30s, are much more to his taste.

He nudges Sammy, inclining his head in the subtle, unspoken language between them that makes them such successful hunters. Sam smirks back, and the game is on. They situate themselves at the bar, and Dean grins over at the girls.

It only takes them a second to notice - after all, Sam and Dean are new to the bar and there’s no denying that with their long coats, dark clothes and Sam’s height and paleness, they give off a weird vibe. The girls are not the only ones who’ve taken notice of them walking in. They’re also, if Dean says it himself, hotter than any of the other men in here. The girls probably think they’ve hit the jackpot.

There’s a bit of eye-flirting for a while, Dean looking at the more confident of the two girls and her alternating between looking back and giggling with her friend. But sure enough, their drinks go down fast and within ten minutes of the Winchesters entering the bar, the two women are making their way towards them.

It doesn’t take them long to chat up the women. Kelly and Patty are, surprisingly given the amount they’ve drunk, funny and opinionated and easy to talk to, but they’re also two bored women stuck in small town life. Dean makes sure that a couple more drinks come their way, and knows that he’ll be able to get Kelly into bed at the end of the evening. She’s just his type, smiley and curvy with long, dark hair that will feel good against his skin, and he counts tonight as a huge win.

But truthfully, although he keeps half his attention on Kelly, flattering her, making her laugh and giving out casual touches to help build things between them, he’s much more interested in watching Sam.

They’ve only done this a few times since Sam came back, and each time Dean has found it fascinating. Before he’d left, Dean had never seen Sam with women; his brother either choosing to get his kicks privately, or, Dean suspected, not at all. So that first night (three months, 2 weeks and 2 days ago, not that Dean is counting), he’d been astonished to see that Sam had game; that when he chose to, he could charm women into bed with almost no effort. He uses an entirely different method to Dean, self-deprecating where Dean is all confidence, and Dean is enthralled by it.

He watches now as Patty says something to Sam that makes him duck his head, blushing. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and he peers back up at her, apparently unsure. Patty visibly melts and angles herself even more towards Sam, sitting so close she’s almost in his lap. He can’t blame her - he’s fully aware that Sam has used that look on him more than once in completely different circumstances, and it almost always gets Sam exactly what he wants. Sam slides a hand down her back, drawing her in closer, and says something directly into her ear that makes her shiver.

Dean tears his attention away from his little brother and refocuses on the girl next to him. Kelly’s almost finished her drink, and Dean maintains eye contact with her while he knocks his own back. He pushes his hand into all that hair and curls his fingers around her neck, pulling her towards him and into a kiss. Her mouth is soft against his and tastes of the sweet apple from her drink; the kiss swiftly deepens and soothes some of the rough edges left over from this evening’s hunt.

Kelly sighs against him, her hand moving up his leg with intent. Dean pulls away from her, just enough to look around, and he sees that things have progressed with Sam and Patty as well. She’s fully in Sam’s lap now, kissing him eagerly and somehow it just ramps Dean up further.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks Kelly, eyes fixed on her neck, where he can sense the blood pounding just under the surface.

“Hell yes,” is her quick response, and she practically pulls him out of his chair. Behind her, Dean can see that Sam and Patty have stopped kissing and Sam’s looking at him. He wonders how it’s going to work, this time.

The first time he and Sam had both hooked up on the same night, they’d taken it in turns to slip out into the grimy alleyway behind the bar, getting off quickly and drinking only a little from the girls they’d been with. Dean had kept his eyes on the side-door the entire time Sam had been gone and the whole episode had left him unsatisfied. The second time, Dean had driven them back to the motel, barely able to keep his eyes on the road as his brother had necked with his hook up in the back seat. Sam had stayed in the car that time, only coming back into the motel the next morning after both girls had left. He’d looked sated and sleek, having drunk his fill, and Dean had felt good too.

Last time. Well, Dean tries not to think about last time. They’d met girls who were housemates in a bar in Louisiana, and they’d all four stumbled back to the girls’ house after closing. He’d been able to hear his brother through the thin walls, hear the regular thumps of the bed and the girl’s moan as Sam had fed. He’d almost forgotten to drink himself that night, his mind was so dizzy.

So he doesn’t know what to expect tonight, as Sam’s eyes lock on his, sly and unnerving. Kelly’s grip tightens on his hand and she tugs him away. “My place is just around the corner.” Her eye meet his, merry. “Don’t worry, Patty will take good care of your little brother.”

Dean can’t understand why he suddenly feels so disappointed as they leave the bar.

***

“No.”

The statement is firm, and Dean knows that tone of voice: this is final. He trembles, internally; he might be unwilling to consciously predict what’s coming, but his subconscious knows well enough.

“What do you mean, no?” John turns slowly to look at Sam, hands tight around the duffel he’s holding. The dirty, faded walls seem to shrink and rush in on Dean, the already crowded motel room feeling smaller with the anger of the two large men in it.

“I mean no. I’m not hunting lycans just for the sake of it anymore. You either tell me why these specific lycans have to die, or I’m not doing it.”

“You’ll do it because I’m your father, and I say you will.”

If Dean thought he wouldn’t be seen, he’d bury his face in his hands - John couldn’t have done a better job pissing Sam off if he’d worked for weeks on that statement.

“No.” Sam seems to be trying to resist the urge to shout and stamp around like he usually does; seems to be struggling to sound reasonable. “I want to know why we should kill something before we do it. Have they killed other vampires? Have they killed humans? Are they abducting little children to cook and eat them?” Despite his apparent effort, Sam slides into sarcasm by the end.

“They’re lycans, and that’s enough. Not only that, the coven told us to kill them, and so we will.”

“The coven,” Sam sneers. “They’re so trustworthy and so always right. I should just take their word for everything.”

“They helped us to find the wolf that killed your mother. They deserve your respect.”

“No one deserves my respect until they’ve earnt it. And they’ll only get it when they show me exactly why I should keep killing lycans who are complete strangers to me.”

“And helping us to get our revenge isn’t enough to have earnt it? You‘re so goddamn ungrateful. And naive.”

Dean tries to step in. “Look,” he starts, standing up.

“Be quiet, Dean,” John snaps.

“Don’t talk to him like that!”

“I’ll talk to him however I Iike, because I’m in charge here. And you will do what I say, because I’m your father and I know best. And the coven says that we hunt these lycans so that’s what we do.” John’s normally pale face is flushed with rage, his chest heaving. He looks like the dangerous Death Dealer that he is.

Sam, in contrast, looks achingly young; slight and pale next to John’s bulk. But Dean knows that is deceiving; Sam is just as good at hunting down lycans as their father, and just as good at killing them when he needs to. And his youth hides a will of steel; Sam is not going to back down so easily.

“No.” he says again, back to the quiet tone he’d used at the beginning. “I won’t kill things just because anymore. I need more than that.”

“You either do what I say, or you leave.” The ultimatum rings out in the quiet room, dropping like a stone into the well of tension between the three men. Sam looks at Dean, his eyes pools of sadness. Dean knows that Sam wants something from him; it’s just not something he can give.

Sam turns back to John. “Then I’ll leave.”

“If you do, don’t come back. I’ve got no time for cowards.”

A visible shiver runs down Sam’s spine.

“You won’t see me again,” he says, and Dean’s heart breaks into shards.

***

Dean definitely does remember to feed this time, and he wakes late the next day feeling strong and well. Kelly is still sleepy and slightly disorientated from their night, and Dean kisses her again and again and again to make sure she forgets that anything unusual, anything inhuman, happened to her. He waits until dusk is falling to slip out of her house and back to the motel, knowing that he and Sam should pack up and be on their way tonight.

Sam is already back when Dean returns. He’s always been a little more immune to sunlight than Dean, able to cope with it in small bursts if he really needs to. He’s lying on his bed, bags packed and nose-deep in his laptop as usual.

“How was your night?” Dean asks, smirking.

“About as good as yours, I’d guess,” Sam responds, his eyes fixed on Dean’s neck. Kelly had liked to bite too, and Dean has the marks to show for it. Sam’s expression is oblique, and Dean can’t quite make out his thoughts, but Sam certainly doesn’t seem as jubilant as Dean feels.

“We heading out tonight?” Avoidance has always been their way, and Dean sees no reason to stop that now.

“Yeah. Illinois, here we come.”

***

They pull into Carthage, Illinois as the sun is rising two days later. Sam hurries out of the car to find them a room, and Dean looks around with interest while he waits. Its an old, old town, some of the buildings dating back as far as the civil war. Despite that, the morning sun shines off of houses which are well-maintained and clearly loved, and Dean braces himself for a town with a sense of civic pride. Those are often worse, he finds, as the locals tend to think that nothing bad could ever happen near their precious homes and are consequently almost obstructive in their resistance.

They’re soon settled into their room and Dean feels at peace in the familiar surroundings of an outdated, unclean no-name motel. Unlike most Death Dealers, their father had not been part of a coven and had roamed the small towns of the United States, trying to find the lycan who killed the love of his life. Sam and Dean had grown up aware that vampire high society existed, their father checking in every so often to find leads but rarely staying for long. Dean had only joined a proper coven and settled a bit in the last few years.

Sam never seems to be upset to find himself back in the crapholes they stay in, never seems to hanker for whatever he’d had in the years he and Dean were apart. Dean watches him so, so closely, terrified that his brother will leave again, but if Sam’s unhappy then he hides it well.

After sleeping off the long drive, they review the case. Four young men have gone missing over the past six weeks in Carthage and the surrounding towns. Only one body has been recovered, or at least, the grisly remains of it have, and the police are putting it down to animal attacks. Bears are native to the local area, if rare, and the Sheriff has assured the local press that animal patrol officers are on the case. Sam isn’t so sure though - the attacks are spread out over a relatively wide area of the state, and they’re so numerous.

“So what are you thinking?” Dean asks, after Sam has finished running through the research he’s gathered.

“Not sure. There’s a ton of options at this stage,” Sam points out. “We need to find some sign of the other bodies, ideally. Find out where the boys went missing, find out if they have anything in common.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Dean glances at the motel window, sees that clouds have pulled across the sky, and night is drawing in. “Let’s go talk to the Sheriff.”

***

They soon discover that part of the reason that the cases aren’t bigger news is because the Sheriff of Carthage is mid-feud with the Sheriff of Macomb, where two of the boys had gone missing, and neither wants to admit that there is an issue in their jurisdiction. The Sheriff is determined to brush the two deaths in his town off as animal attacks, not least (Dean thinks) because he has the intelligence of a small rodent and wouldn't be capable of looking into a piss up at a brewery.

“You mean you haven’t investigated?” he asks, incredulous, moving closer to the Sheriff with intent. The man looks nervously between the Winchesters, his fat throat gulping with nerves and his hands almost trembling at his sides.

“Well no,” he says slowly, eyes on Dean like a frightened animal. “Bad things just don’t happen here. Its gotta be an animal.”

“Bad things clearly are happening here,” Sam interjects, furious.

“Now boys-” the Sheriff starts, but Dean has lost what little patience he had. He slams the Sheriff back against the wall of his office, which creaks under the supernatural force being applied. The man immediately turns bright red, his airway viciously cut off. His eyes go wide and terrified, and their is the acrid smell of urine as he pisses himself.

“You are going to tell us every. Single. Thing. You know about those boys,” Dean enunciates carefully. “You are going to give us full and immediate access to their records, the mortuary and anything else that might be of use. You are going to order your Deputy to help us in any way you need, and you are going to stay out of my fucking way until this case is over, otherwise I can’t answer for what might happen to you. Capicse?”

The Sheriff nods frantically, face rapidly paling, and Dean drops him to the floor. He smiles as he realises that Sam, who is normally so respectful of human law enforcement, had done nothing to stop him. The Sheriff whimpers when he sees the smile, and Dean lets his mouth widen, his fangs show just a tiny little bit.

“Where are the records?”

***

Despite working through the night and into the next morning, neither Winchester can find anything to connect the four missing boys other than a vague sense that they’re all from the kind of families who might not miss them or feel able to kick up a stink. Their ages range between 19 and 25, they work completely different jobs, have different levels of education and don’t share the same bars, churches or other social networks. One is married, one is in a long-term relationship, one is single and one is a single father. They have no real acquaintances in common, and no criminal records. After more than 12 hours of solid research, Dean is willing to admit that these might be that rarest of cases: random attacks.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t a case though,” Sam insists, and Dean is fully ready to agree with him. Just because a monster is randomly stealing young men, doesn’t mean it isn’t a monster. There’s nothing yet to suggest anything human about the cases, and equally, nothing to suggest the men had all been wandering about near the lair of a pissed off bear.

“What’s the next step?” he muses aloud. “See the body?”

“Yeah. And check out where it was found…” Sam suggests.

“Oh great.” Dean is thrilled. “I just love hiking through the woods.”

The body tells them nothing they didn’t already know, and so Dean finds himself out in the woods with darkness fast approaching, his feet sinking into mud and bats brushing against his face. They reach the small clearing where the body was found, not far off a popular joggers path (there had been nothing to suggest that any of the young men had been runners, either) and Sam sets up the powerful flashlights and lanterns they’d dragged with them.

Once illuminated, they set to examining the clearing. There’s little left to see, a lot of evidence ruined by footprints from the Sheriff and his men. But just outside the clearing, Dean spots something that would make his heart stop beating (if it still did).

“Sam. Sam!” he hisses.

“What, Dean?” Sam sounds exasperated as Dean beckons him closer, but when he reaches his brother he swears.

“Well fuck.”

***

“Lycans. Fucking lycans.” Dean stormed around the motel room, his fury only eclipsed by his worry about the consequences of their discovery. “Fucking fucking fucking lycans.”

Sam sits on the bed, watching Dean pace with a look of immense frustration that suggests Dean will soon find himself tied to a chair.

“What the fuck do we do now?” Dean swears, and kicks the chair he might end up tied to across the room.

“Scram, I guess.” Sam sounds unconvinced, and Dean knows that his brother is thinking of the missing boys - he certainly is. Thing is, they can’t afford to stay here if lycans are killing off the local humans - it will only be a matter of time before other vampires hear about it and swoop down on the pack, and therefore find the Winchesters. And their brethren had been very clear when Dean had left the coven - the Winchesters were pariahs now, outside of vampire society, and outsiders couldn’t be trusted. Outsiders were, in fact, disobeying vampire law and subject to the consequences of that. There’s a reason that Sam and Dean have been trying to lay low.

“Yeah, we could leave. We should leave.” Dean’s response sounds weak even to his own ears, and he knows that Sam can hear it too. Sam can read Dean like no one else can.

“So where do we think the lycans are hiding out?” Sam asks, and that’s the end of any talk of them leaving town.

***

They spend the next two hours pouring over local maps to find possible sites. Nothing will be as good as asking around about new people in town, but it’s the middle of the night for humans and they’ve got to wait to do that. By dawn, they’ve come up with five potential sites to check out and they turn in to wait for dusk, content that they’ve done all they can for now.

When Dean wakes up again, he can still see hints of sunlight around the edges of the curtains where they don’t quite meet. As usual, Sam’s taken the bed nearest the window, in case of stray sunlight making its way into the room - his higher tolerance means that it will just smart rather than burn, as it does Dean. Not for the first time, Dean curses his freckled skin, wanting to be in the bed nearer to the windows and doors so that he can protect Sammy in case of danger.

He checks Sam over on auto-pilot, making sure his brother is safe and sleeping well. Sam appears to be deeply asleep, his pale face quiet and untroubled, making him look younger than he’s been for decades. He’s got the covers pushed down to his waist, because unlike most vampires, Sam often runs hot in his sleep - their Dad used to joke that Sam had to be different in every single way. His sleep shirt has twisted up and Dean can see the marble of his stomach, perfectly muscled and so smooth. He pokes at his own tummy, annoyed; he’s fit and healthy but he’s always been a little soft around the middle, and Sam used to tickle him there, before.

Sam’s eyelids flicker against his soft cheeks and Dean wonders what his brother is dreaming about. His own dreams centre on Sam, always have and he suspects, always will. The tone has changed over time, of course; from happy, inane everyday dreams before, to nightmares of Sam lying dead and alone somewhere when Sam had been gone. Now they’re all full of Sam smiling at Dean, beckoning for him to follow; Sam disappearing around corners and laughing, always just ahead of Dean. He knows it’s because he’s terrified Sam will leave him again but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting.

Shaking himself properly awake, Dean goes to shower. They’ve got a lot to do tonight.

***

It’s not long after that before his Dad is fatally wounded. It’s a fair fight, and despite his grief, Dean can’t bring himself to feel the same rage he’d felt about his mother. His father had chosen to become a Death Dealer, had been well aware of the risks.

At a loss for what to do with his life, he joins a team of Death Dealers. Alistair, his father’s old handler, welcomes him with open arms, and Dean throws himself into the work with blind faith.

***

They get lucky at the third spot they’d identified - if you could call it lucky, Dean thinks with a grimace. The small farm, supposedly abandoned and miles off any main road, is clearly inhabited, and not just by one or two people. There are four large cars pulled up in the driveway, one of them a mini-van; and all the lights in the house are on. He and Sam exchange a quick look: this is just their luck.

Rapidly shared hand signals have them quickly back away from the house and into the cover of some nearby trees.

“What the fuck do we do?” Sam whispers, urgency colouring his voice. “There’s loads of them!”

“Wait. Watch. See what happens and take our chance when it comes,” is Dean’s response. Being vampires might give them extra strength, and against ordinary monsters, that’s usually enough. But these are lycans, gathering in relatively large numbers; they’ll know to look out for attack.

“But they could be killing those boys right now.” Sam sounds distraught, and as ever, Dean bleeds for Sam’s empathy.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” he says, his hand gripping Sam’s shoulder. “There’s far too many of them.” Sam slumps against him, unable to argue. “Come on, let’s find somewhere to watch.”

They settle in between the roots of a tree, pressed back against the bark with the damp smell of moss suffocating around them. Their dark clothes do them huge favours at times like these, helping them to blend into the night. Sam pulls off his leather coat, as its bigger, and pulls it across both of them, tugging until it’s up to their noses. They wiggle about until they can both fit into the small depression while keeping hands on their weapons - neither of them want to be caught unawares. The Winchesters are famous among lycans after all, and not in a good way - any pack would be delighted to bring in their heads.

They’ve ended up with Dean pressed into Sam’s shoulder, his back almost fully against his brother’s chest. He can feel the almost-heat pouring from Sam; the muscles of his brother’s thigh twitching against his and Sam’s hair tickling at his neck. He glories in their closeness, at the suggestion that things are beginning to go back to normal between them; and at the same time he almost recoils from mess of feelings swirling in his brain. He keeps shifting, trying to distract himself and not think about Sam behind him, rather focus on the wolves in front of them; but it clearly annoys Sam, because suddenly his brother’s arm snakes firmly around his waist and pulls him back. “Stop fucking squirming,” Sam commands in the firmest whisper Dean has ever heard. “Driving me fucking nuts.”

Dean is so startled by the unexpected cuddling that he fails to respond, but he does stop moving. Despite the screaming in his brain that sounds a lot like their father, he couldn’t move from this position if he tried. Sammy is just so close.

He tilts his head carefully back to try and get a look at Sam’s face. Their eyes catch and Sam smiles at him, so softly, belying his irritable words. Time hesitates as they look at each other, Sam’s blood red mouth quirked at the corners into an almost-question, and Dean is almost about to answer.

A loud crash startles them both. The front door of the not-so-abandoned barn ricochets from the wall and lycans pour out, making for the cars.

The boys pull away from each other and watch in amazement as all four vehicles leave, just one lonely lycan standing watch at the door to see then go.

“I guess that’s our cue,” Dean says softly.

***

Everything's a blur. Alcohol and adrenalin pound through him. Dean’s conscious, vaguely, of lycan blood still staining his leather jacket, bits of his hair matted red. It doesn’t seem to matter to the girl sitting in his lap; she’s leaning into him without fear, winding her arms around his neck. Matt is across the table from them, cleaner than Dean but with bloodlust still visible in his eyes. He sees Dean looking and winks, lets his fangs descend a little and mimes drinking from the girl’s neck. Behind him, sitting calm and collected at the bar, Alistair smiles at Dean, proud and almost fond.

***

They’re still careful, of course. Dean would never do anything to put Sam in danger and it’s possible there are still others hiding out within the farm. But there’s no doubt that the odds have dramatically swung in their favour.

They abandon their tell-tale dark coats and move around to the back of the barn in just dark jeans and tshirts. Despite their pale skin, they blend in easily and their inherent abilities allow them to move silently. As they pass each window, Dean peers in, but they see no more lycans in any of the rooms until they get to the back door, which is rough and hanging off its hinges. The lack of security tells Dean that the lycans had never intended to be here long and not for the first time, he wonders what they’re doing here at all.

Easing the door open, he and Sam slide inside, guns out and backs to the wall. They find themselves in a dark kitchen, barely able to make out appliances that look like they haven’t been changed since the 50s. They pass through another similarly abandoned room, probably an old parlour, and make their way up the stairs, treading lightly to avoid the age-worn creaks.

Dim light seeps from underneath a doorway upstairs, and they can just make out a soft voice, although the words are unclear. A quick scan shows that the other upstairs rooms are empty so the Winchesters take position on either side of the doorway, guns extended. On the count of three, Dean kicks the door open with a crash.

The first thing he sees is the shape of the three missing boys, huddled together in the corner. He can’t see immediately if they are injured, but by the way they’re twitching in fear, it’s clear they’re alive. He swings around and finds himself facing the remaining lycan, backed against the wall with his hands up in the universal sign for surrender.

“It’s not what you think,” the lycan says desperately. “Don’t shoot. We’re trying to help them.” His eyes are wild but there’s no smell of blood in the room, so Dean hesitates. “Sammy,” he says, gesturing at the boys, and his brother moves across to them, his body language as unthreatening as he can make it given his size.

“They’re not hurt, Dean,” Sam confirms.

“See,” the lycan says. “We don’t want to hurt them. We’re trying to save them.” He’s trembling like a leaf and Dean is finding it very difficult to think of him as a threat.

“You’ve got three minutes to explain,” Dean says, voice tight. “Start talking.”

***

Dean swings his blade with savage efficiency. Guns are quicker, more reliable, but Alistair prefers machetes, so that’s what the team uses. Dean can’t help but like it, almost enjoy the way it brings everything so much closer, makes their hunts so much more perilous. There’s a connection between him and the lycans he kills now that wasn’t there before, when he and his Dad and… when he and his Dad were using guns; and it helps to fill some of the empty spaces inside him.

***

Dean’s right: the lycan, whose name is Greg, is the least threatening creature he’s ever come across. He’s actually trained as a dentist and tries to lead a normal life.

“We found out a while back that groups of vamps were stealing humans to be blood slaves,” he says, looking miserably between Sam and Dean. “We couldn’t let that happen, we had to try and put a stop to it.” Greg looks between the two brothers, and his legs seem to give out. He slides down the wall and cowers up at them. “I know it’s none of our business, but we - I - believe in civil rights. I go on pride marches. How could I let that happen?”

Dean looks at Sam, serious. They’ve both heard stories like this before, but had always dismissed them as vicious gossip: modern vampires are supposed to take their blood from willing donors.

“You know we’re vamps, right?” Sam says to the man, his voice hard. “What makes you think we’re not involved?”

“We’ve been watching them for months, we know them all. And besides, if you were one of them, you’d have killed me by now and taken the victims.”

Sam can’t seem to argue with that logic, so Dean takes over.

“So why steal this lot? And why did you kill the other one?” There are still questions here which don’t add up, and Dean is determined to get to the bottom of it as quickly as he can. Who knows when the other lycans will return, after all?

To his surprise, Greg keens as if in pain. “We didn’t kill that boy, the vamps did to make it look like us. They know we’re on to them and they want to make sure the police and people like you are thrown off the trail.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re holding three men in this shithole.” He gestures towards the victims with his gun, which Greg seems to take as a threat and he whines again.

“We identified their victims. They’ve been following men who no one will miss and then stealing them when the time is right. They’ve done it in other cities as well. So we stole them first while we took care of the problem. They’re safer here with us than out there.”

Dean is liking this less and less. “How many vamps are there around here?”

“Around 20,” Greg states. “Some of them are fairly senior.”

“You know any of their names?”

“A couple. Kristoff. Alistair.”

Sam and Dean look at each other in shock, and then Dean kicks the door so hard it falls off its hinges. “Fuck!”

Alistair had been their Dad’s boss, back in the day, and then Dean’s. When first Sam, and then Dean, had left, his rage had been incandescent, and he’s top of the list of vamps Dean had hoped never to see again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam said, eloquently. “What do we do?”

“Your buddies,” Dean said to Greg, trying to get his emotions back under control. “They gone to try and fight this out?”

Greg nods, unhappy. “We finally got confirmation of their lair tonight. My pack thought it would be the best way to put an end to this outpost of the blood trade.”

“You know they’re probably not coming back, right? Alistair’s one of the best there is.”

Greg’s face crumples, and Dean would feel for him if he had the time. He doesn’t, though; his mind is whirring, trying to work out the best course of action. Despite everything, he’s inclined to believe Greg - if the man is faking his distress, he’s the best actor Dean’s ever met. Rumours of blood-slaves have persisted for years amongst vampires, because despite being forbidden, with threat of heavy punishment, there are many traditional types who still think that forced blood carries kudos and even extra strength. Despite their many years of working together, Dean does not hold Alistair’s ethics in high regard, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find that his old boss was someone who thought it was perfectly fine to kidnap humans and keep them as slaves.

He almost thinks that the best outcome would be for the vamps and lycans to wipe each other out - then Greg could return the victims to their homes and everyone could continue with their lives. But it’s so unlikely that will be the case - one side or the other will emerge victorious, or at least not completely destroyed, and then the Winchesters will have to deal with the fallout. Because despite everything - despite the fact that the worst case scenario he’s been dreading for the past few months has come to pass, despite the fact the he seems to find himself with more in common with his old enemies than his own kin, despite the danger that he and Sam are now in, he knows that he can’t walk away from this. He and Sam had made a commitment to save humans by hunting monsters, and this is as clear cut a case as any - humans are in danger, it's just that the monsters are now his own kind.

Sam is biting his lip, lost in thought, but Dean knows that the final decision on their plan of attack will rest with him - that's always been their way. “We need more info,” he finally decides. “We need to know what’s happening. Where’s the lair?”

***

Alistair’s team is one of the most highly prized in the United States, and that means that they get sent in to do the really difficult, high risk jobs. The ones that come up really bloody. That’s suited Dean down to the ground for the last few years, but there’s something about this job that’s different.

They’ve been sent to take out one of the bigger lycan strongholds, and that’s fine with Dean. Their intel suggests that a lot of high ranking, high risk lycans have their base there.

However, Dean’s rapidly realising that what’s not fine is that it’s also where a lot of lycans live with their young. And they’ve been told to kill every last one of them.

When it comes to the moment of truth, Dean can’t do it. He sees small lycans huddling together in the basement of the old plantation, and he can’t bring himself to kill creatures that are innocent, whose soft little teeth aren’t even capable of killing a human, let alone a vampire.

Needless to say, his decision does not go down well. Alistair wants them all dead, and in the ensuing melee, Dean finds himself standing alone against his team, shielding the lycan young with his own body. His team is too loyal to kill him, but it allows most of the young to escape.

Dean leaves that night, Alistair’s curses ringing in his ears. He goes to the only place he can think of: to find Sam.

***

They leave Greg with the young men after they’ve handed them all machetes. Greg is unsure (“I’m a dentist! I do the research!”) but after a quick run through on the fate in store for them if the vampires win, the three young men are more than happy to be briefed and armed. Dean doesn’t think any of them stand a chance against any team Alistair has put together, but at least they might die fighting rather than being doomed to a short life of intense misery.

Dean’s not keen to leave them with no form of transport away from the farm, but it's not like they have a spare car, and eventually he settles for making sure that they all understand exactly where they are and how to get to the nearest town. He and Sam jump back into the Impala and roar off into the night.

It takes about an hour to drive to the old warehouse where Alistair's team have set up base, and as they approach, they can already hear the sound of battle. Gunfire rings through the night, and underneath that, the shouts and groans of the injured. Dean knows that for now, the heavy gunfire means that the vamps are winning; but the sky is starting to pinken and their advantage will soon be gone.

He and Sam stop the car down the lane from the warehouse. They climb out and, without words, turn to face each other. Their drive had been quiet, neither wishing to delve into the emotions thrown up earlier that night. But there is no getting away from at least some of it: they are about to meet their old boss, and maybe even some of Dean’s old team again, with a death price hanging over their head. They might be about to fight their old allies, and they both know that will be a fight to the death. And while they were among the most successful Death Dealers, they’re also outnumbered and outgunned.

“So,” Sam says, and then stops.

“Spit it out, Sammy. Don’t got much time.”

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s typical no nonsense attitude. “Just - was gonna say - you only left for me, Dean. You sure you want to do this?”

Dean is suddenly furious. “I didn’t just do it for you, I did it because I disagreed with killing innocents. But I came to find you, Sammy, because I didn’t want to be alone anymore. And I’d do it a million times over.” Sam’s face melts, happiness shining through despite everything, and the fury is gone as soon as it came. “Maybe it's better to get this out of the way anyway. We had to face them some time. Might as well win now as win later.”

Sam grins. “True. Might as well win now.”

They’re both nervous as hell under the bravado, but it’ll do for now.

***

They walk into a bloodbath. The bodies are mostly lycans, but there’s the odd vampire lying about too. Blood runs down the walls in places, and the stench of it is thick on the air. Lycan blood has a particular earthy smell that is different to the copper of humans, and it brings sense memories of the world he left behind flooding into Dean.

They move through the warehouse with Dean in front, Sam pressed into his shoulder behind; Dean with his gun out and Sam wielding a machete, ready to face either side. Dean isn’t overly keen to use either, but they need to get to the bottom of this. The silence is absolute, apart from the occasional drip of blood to the floor.

The trail of bodies leads them deep into the warehouse, and it’s only when they start to approach the central office space that they hear anything. There’s shouting, and the banging of furniture being moved around, but it doesn’t sound like fighting. Sam cocks his head at Dean, confused.

There are two offices side by side, incongruous in the much bigger workspace around them. They sidle up to the first, quiet door, and throw it open. There’s little visible in the gloomy interior, but what they do see makes them both recoil. A young man is huddled on the floor, his wrists tied above his head to the radiator pipe. His achingly pale face tells his story all too easily: he’s being drained of blood, and fast. He’s filthy, and barely conscious, and his ribs are starting to show through his grimy t-shirt.

Sam hisses in fury, unable to keep quiet despite the danger they’re in. Dean is so angry that just for a second, his vision whites out and his hands shake. He collects himself quickly; they owe it to this young man to put a stop to this and make sure it never happens to anyone else.

The man finally notices them, but he’s so out of it that he barely reacts. Sam crosses the floor quickly and kneels beside him to speak into his ear. Dean can just barely make out his words, but is pleased to hear Sam reassuring the boy that they’ll be back soon. The kid just looks at Sam, hope long gone from his eyes, and Sam sighs. A couple of rapid hand signals and they are back on the move.

There is still noise in the office next door, and as they get closer Dean recognises Alistair’s sibilant whisper underneath the shouting they’d heard before. His heart sinks.

“How were we to know they’d come after us?” A voice Dean doesn’t know is shouting, joined by a second a moment later. “We thought they’d stay out of the fucking way.”

“You should have thought. You should have considered all options. Now we are at risk, and I’m going to have to take steps to prevent the council from becoming aware of us.” In contrast, Alistair’s voice is barely audible and all the more chilling for it. “You’ve proved yourselves completely useless.”

Dean shivers. He knows that tone of voice from Alistair, and it doesn’t bode well. Sam recognises the danger, too, and presses closer into Dean’s back. They’re flattened against the sticky wall outside the office trying to gather as much information as possible before moving in. Their plan goes to shit though when the door slams open and a vampire that neither of them knows comes storming out, covered in blood.

Dean and Sam jump back, startled, before the vamp sees them. Time slows and Dean looks into the eyes of the vamp, who is just as surprised to see them.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, raising his gun.

“Who’s out there?” the other vampire shouts from within. Dean knows they only have a second to act, and he raises his gun, moving fast. The vampire’s head is swept from his shoulders before he’s even considered the consequences, as Sam takes matters into his own hands.

“Shit, Sammy,” he breathes. “Nice reflexes.”

There is a moment, a quiet space within the chaos they’re about to unleash, where they grin at each other, totally united and on the same page. Dean will reflect later that it’s a bit weird that they bond over blood, but ultimately he doesn’t care.

The lack of answer has a second, and then a third, vamp barrelling from the room. There is once again a brief moment of face-off between the four men, and Dean is about to start fighting when Alistair’s familiar voice stops him cold.

“Well, if it isn’t Dean. And Sam. My Winchesters. How nice to see you both.” The man that haunts Dean’s nightmares is silhouetted in the doorway, features hidden, but Dean would know him anywhere. Yet another unknown vampire is peering out behind him, putting the Winchesters at a distinct numerical disadvantage.

The first rent-a-vamp whips his head back towards Alistair, clearly terrified that he’d made another mistake, that he’d been about to kill one of Alistair’s friends. But the cruel, triumphant look on Alistair’s face is enough for him to realise that this is not good news for the Winchesters, and he grins at them, fangs lengthening.

“Boys,” Alistair drawls, “Have you come back to me? I thought I told you to stay away?”

“Not in a million years,” Sam spits out behind Dean. “We know what you’ve been up to.”

Alistair ignores him - he’d never been fond of Sam, had only put up with the younger Winchester to keep hold of Dean and their father.

“Yes, I told you to stay away on pain of death. I remember.” His creepy, soft voice is just as unpleasant as Dean remembers, and just as incongruous with the violence he perpetrates.

“Well we’re not back to see you specifically,” Dean says, resorting to the cockiness that has always served him so well. “We’re here to free the blood slaves we heard about. It just so happens to be you. Why am I not surprised.”

“Ah yes, those morals you boys kept banging on about.” Alistair’s tone is laced with disdain, and Dean feels his spine tense. “You were so sure you could take the moral high ground. You could save people. You could save humans.” The contempt is practically dripping from his voice by the end, and Dean can feel Sam vibrating with fury behind him.

“You’re damn right we can save humans.” Sam pushes forwards, and Dean tries to pull him back, tries to keep them standing together, but Sam is having none of it. “And we’re gonna save that boy you’ve kidnapped in that room, and then we’re gonna tell the coven what you’ve been up to. And then it’ll be you who’s fleeing on pain of death.”

Alistair looks at Sam, mouth curling. “You always did bore me, Samuel.” And then, before Dean can process what’s happening, he pulls out a gun and shoots.

Time is syrup-slow as the bullet heads towards Sammy. Dean pushes, but it’s too late to be fully effective, and the bullet ploughs into Sam, the recoil sending him thudding backward and almost putting both of them on the floor.

Dean roars with fury, and has the satisfaction of seeing a flash of concern cross Alistair’s supercilious face. Alistair, despite his affectation of disdain, knows exactly what the Winchesters are capable of. The rent-a-vamps look positively terrified - Dean is willing to bet that the Winchester legend hasn’t dimmed for their dramatic defection.

Standing, he snatches the machete from Sam’s limp hand and rushes forward, beheading one vamp in his first, fluent movement. The second makes a high pitched whimpering noise, barely putting up a fight before his head hits the ground.

Dean rounds on his main target, but Alistair, whose talents had always lain more in strategy and planning than the actual dirty work of fighting lycans, has fled across the warehouse and is most of the way out of the door. Dean curses, but knows that his priorities here, with his injured brother and the poor, imprisoned boy - both of whom are in desperate need of his help.

***

It takes Dean a minute to focus, to work out the best plan of action. Just a minute, but he berates himself for time lost.

Sam is his first priority. Always, and forever, but also because the kid in the other room has survived this far and is likely to make it through the next half an hour.

Dean drops to his knees beside his brother, and rips Sam’s shirt open. The bullet has hit Sam in the chest, and while vampires are significantly less susceptible to gunshot wounds than humans, the blood loss can cause trouble. The wound is leaking blood at an alarming rate and Dean grits his teeth when he sees how much blood Sam has already lost. It’s enough, clearly, to reduce Sam’s ability to heal; the hole in Sam’s chest is not closing at all. Staunching the wound with Sam’s ripped shirt has almost no effect; blood appears through the fabric almost immediately. Sam’s body is unusually cold, and gentle slaps to his face have no effect. Sam feels lifeless where he’s cradled in Dean’s arms, darkness closing around them. Dean knows, with startling clarity, that either both of them survive this moment or neither of them; there is no life for him without Sammy.

It only takes Dean a moment to decide. He slides behind Sam and props his brother against his chest, and then, bracing himself, he bites into his own wrist.

Blood pours out immediately, Dean’s sharp teeth making short work of his freckled skin. Holding his arm over Sam’s mouth, he lets his blood drip into his brother’s mouth. It takes a moment, red pattering over Sam’s pale lips, but then his brother’s tongue flickers out and laps at the drops. Dean presses his wrist closer, smearing blood over Sam’s mouth until it looks like lipstick. Sam stirs in his arms and murmurs, confused.

Dean’s never done this before, and he’s willing to bet that Sam never has either. While vampires are more than happy to feast from any willing human, feeding between vampires is intimate, something saved for lovers. Or emergencies.

And then pain lances through Dean as Sam latches on, his teeth slicing through Dean again. Fire burns through him as his little brother drinks, sucking his blood out faster than he thought possible. The blood pouring against his hand slows to a sluggish trickle, and then stops; and Dean watches, amazed, as the wound heals over. Sam starts to feel warm in his arms again, squirming against him, even as Dean’s own vision starts to blacken.

***

“Dean, Dean!”

Sam is shaking Dean urgently, and Dean can’t work out why. It isn’t evening yet, he needs to sleep some more.

“Dean!”

He blinks awake to find his little brother looming over him, so close that his dark hair tickles against Dean’s cheeks. Sam’s hands are on his face, his normally multi-coloured eyes blue with agitation.

“What?” Dean asks, annoyed to be woken.

“Oh my god, you’re such a fucking idiot,” Sam’s voice is barely above an exhale, and he steals any chance Dean had of understanding what the fuck was going on by leaning down even further and kissing Dean, soft and sweet.

Dean’s only able to make the tiniest sound of protest, and it’s swallowed up easily by Sam’s mouth. Not hearing, or not caring, Sam deepens the kiss, his fangs coming out to nip at Dean’s lips; and Dean decides that protesting is overrated anyway. Everything feels so good, better than any of the girls he’d ever been with; better than all the girls combined together. Sam’s lips are soft and beloved, and feel just right against his.

The kiss deepens, Sam pushing Dean back and almost climbing onto him, and Dean is suddenly forced to remember that he’d just passed out when his vision starts to waver again.

He pushes back on his brother’s chest, forcing their lips apart. Sam looks like a hurt puppy, but Dean is happy to realise that he looks healthy, with no sign of the blood loss that he’d experienced a short while before. Sam peers intently at him and then ostentatiously removes his hands from Dean and stands up.

“Sorry Dean,” he says, his voice tiny. “Sorry. I’ll-”

Dean is on his feet before he can think, wobbling dangerously. He grabs Sam and pulls him in, and it’s only half to keep himself upright. “No sorrys,” he says fiercely. “I just needed a moment.” His body chooses that moment to back him up as his knees buckle, and only Sam’s quick reflexes keep him from hitting the floor. Sam must have drunk way more of his blood than he’d thought. He touches Sam’s face. “The kissing was fine.” The wink that follows takes way more effort than should be possible, but it’s worth it for the look of relief and outright joy on Sam’s face.

“Come on. Gotta help that poor kid.”

***

They soon establish that the young man is from a few states over. He’d been imprisoned for a while, longer than he was able to really account for, and he’d outlived several other blood slaves during that time.

“I guess I was just really resilient,” he tells the Winchesters, eyes down. He still doesn’t entirely trust them, which is totally understandable, Dean thinks. He wouldn’t trust any vampires either if he’d been imprisoned by Alistair and his rent-a-vamps. “The others kept on dying and I survived. Why did I make it?” He looks haunted, and Dean knows that there’s going to be a lifetime of therapy ahead for the poor kid.

“Some humans are just built better for drinking blood,” Sam tells him softly. “There’s nothing you can do about it, and nothing you could have done to save the others.” Sam always knows just what to say, Dean thinks, aware that while he means well, comforting speeches just get muddled when they come out of his mouth.

“We’re gonna make sure you get home safe,” he says instead, preferring the practical approach.

The boy’s lip trembles, but he smiles weakly at Dean. “That’d be good.”

***

In the end, they call the boy’s uncle, who comes to collect him from a safe location down the road. Dean is very aware that there is a lot of clean up to do, and that he and Sam have decisions to make about Alistair as well. The coven will want to know about Alistair’s actions - but the coven had also told Dean, and Sam by extension, to stay the hell away. There’s also the issue of Greg and the group of rescued young men waiting for them at the lycan’s hideout.

Ultimately the decision about Alistair is made for them. As they are hauling lycan and vampire bodies out to a huge bonfire, a sleek black car pulls up at the warehouse. Several vampires get out, large firearms tucked against their sides. Kraven is the last to get out of the car, and the other vampires form a protective grouping around him.

Dean sighs. If Alistair was top of the list of vampires he’d never wanted to see again, Kraven was in the top five - not because he was scary or intimidating, but because he was such a piece of shit.

The group proceeded towards the warehouse in tight formation. “Winchester.” Kraven looks again. “Winchesters.”

“Kraven.” Dean snorts internally at the ridiculousness of the situation, at the powerplay and at Kraven’s constant need to be reassured of his own importance, but he restrains himself from acting on his thoughts. They are on thin ice here.

“What happened here?” Kraven’s face is as impassive as ever; it’s impossible to tell what he already knows. Dean glances at Sam and it seems they are on the same page; the truth is their best option. With an internal sigh, he launches into the story.

***

They really do escape by the skin of their teeth. Kraven barely believes them, and is worried about the story getting back to the rest of the coven before he can deal with it. It takes all Dean’s guile to convince him not to kill Greg just to make sure; and Dean tries not to think about what would happen to the other victims. But they do make it out, with dire warnings that they’ve been exiled and they’re to keep their fangs out of vampire business in future. They’re only too happy to oblige.

They collect Greg and the three frightened boys from the farm; Greg’s despair when he learns about the loss of his friends makes Dean’s heart burn. “They were my whole pack, my family,” he says wildly before sinking to the floor, shuddering; arms wrapped around his head. Dean never thought he’d feel sympathy for a lycan, not after what happened to their mom; but Greg is so clearly a good guy, someone who was only trying to help others, and he’s lost everything. Dean’s mind flashes to the thought of losing Sam, but he can’t even begin to comprehend the pain and he pushes the thought away.

Sam takes the lycan to one side and talks to him quietly while Dean deals with the victims; he can’t hear what Sam is saying, but it’s enough to get Greg to function long enough to leave the farm and call friends to pick him up, and they take the other boys as well.

The Winchesters are silent on the ride back. Dean is shaken by the experience of Greg’s grief, and that’s before he even begins to think about what had happened before that.

His lips are still tingling with the press of Sam’s mouth to his, and it feels like every time he thinks about it he flushes up to his hairline. Sam is sprawled in the seat next to him, and Dean is trying to keep his eyes on the road, but he can’t help but constantly peek over at his beautiful little brother, running his eyes over the long legs, strong arms, broad shoulders he’s never let himself think about before now. His gaze catches on the tip-tilt of Sam’s nose, and he is mortified to find himself thinking about pressing a kiss there.

“See something you like?” Sam’s voice is lazy, amused, and Dean’s not quite sure how to respond. But fuck it, he thinks, looks at what’s just happened to Greg. He could lose Sam at any time, he almost did today, and it’s not worth wasting his life being worried about this.

“Yes.” His voice is low, almost rough, and it’s Sam’s turn now to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

The rest of the journey back to the motel is equally untalkative, but a different quiet now, tension rushing through Dean’s muscles.

As they pull up in front of their room, Sam sits up straighter. Dean puts the car into park and turns fully to look at his brother.

It only takes a second before Sam throws himself into Dean’s arms, his hands on Dean’s face. His little brother pulls his mouth towards his and this time, the kiss is incandescent. Every nerve in Dean’s body goes off at once and he surges towards his brother. Sam pulls back. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost you, Dean.”

“You won’t,” Dean says, all false confidence. As the big brother, he knows its his job to provide reassurance. Sam’s smile is sad, but it doesn’t stop him from twining their hands together and tugging.

“Come on,” Sam says. “Let’s go inside. I wanna make your knees buckle again.”