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“Did it hurt?” Dean asked.
The girl with the awesome rack and the waist-length black hair blinked up at him from the bar, all doe-like confusion. “I’m sorry?” she said. There wasn’t anything but politeness in her voice, but her gaze was flicking over his chest, up to his mouth, back to his eyes. Even over the base pulsing through the club, Dean could hear the quicker beat of her heart. Yeah, he was in there.
“Did it hurt?” he repeated, leaning against the bar next to her and being careful to brush their shoulders together.
“Did what hurt?” the girl asked. She was obviously still confused, but leaning toward him anyway.
The view down her shirt would have been pretty interesting if Dean’s attention wasn’t already caught by the faint, thin trace of blue veins in her wrist. Taking her hand, he rubbed his thumb over the pulse point. A faint flush colored her skin: teasing promise of pleasure to come. He hadn’t even started yet and she was all but begging him to take her right here: pressed up against the edge of the bar with her legs around his waist while he lowered his mouth to that blushing, soft skin and drank. So willing. So desperate.
So pathetic.
It took pretty much all of the fun out of hunting, really, but Dean still had to eat, so he gave her the slow smile that always got them wet and whispered, “When you fell from heaven.”
The bitch laughed and leaned closer, hitting him even more strongly with that strawberry scent that had drawn her to him in the first place. Once he got her alone, once he really got to work on her, she was gonna go down like champagne.
Still, as he worked her out of her seat and onto the dance floor, Dean couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Picking up chicks had been easy before, but now it was fucking ridiculous how quickly they sprinted toward their own deaths. Fucking boring. Hence, the shitty lines. Dean was working his way through every one he had ever learned and hadn’t yet struck out once, even when he sauntered up to this petite brunette with legs up to her chin and said, “Nice legs, wanna fuck?”
Sam wasn’t going to come to him so easily, he knew. No, Sammy was going to be a challenge: was going to make Dean work for it. He was going to yell and protest and fight the inevitable right up to the moment Dean held him down and made taught him how to beg for it.
Fuck, he was getting hard just thinking about it.
The girl pressed herself up against him, bringing his thoughts back to the matter at hand, and his stomach rumbled. She ground into his erection: hands pawing at his ass as their hips moved in time to the beat of the synthetic pop pouring out of the club’s speakers. The musk of arousal rose around them, thick enough that Dean could almost taste the slick on his tongue.
He had been planning on a strict torture and feed tonight, but it seemed a shame to waste the lower, panting hunger coiled in his groin. Trailing his hands down to the girl’s waist, Dean gripped her tight and pulled her even closer. She made an encouraging, throaty noise, rolling her hips against him, and he ran his hands lower, from her short skirt down onto the bare flesh of her legs.
“You wearing anything under there?” he drawled, edging one hand between her thighs. Shivering, she stopped moving and spread her legs a little. Dean nudged her head to the side so that he could whisper in her ear. “You gonna let me fuck you right here? Right in the middle of all these people?”
Her hands fluttered up to clutch his biceps and she shuddered.
“Yeah,” Dean smirked. “You are.”
Still stoking the soft skin of her inner thighs, he lowered his head to nuzzle at her neck. That strawberry scent flared out, washing over him and leaving his gums pleasantly sore. Boring as they were, there was definitely something to be said for easy girls. Easing one hand higher, he found the bitch bare and hot, just as he had suspected, and went to work.
The press of humanity around them clung to the edges of Dean’s awareness like static—a blur of scent and warmth and blood—and he wasn’t paying enough attention to the fluctuations to notice the girl coming up behind him until she was actually sliding her hands around his waist. Startled, he pulled his fingers free from his strawberry-scented meal’s cunt and she flinched back, eyes fluttering open.
Torn between ripping the bitch behind him apart and yanking his dinner back against him where it belonged, Dean stood there unmoving. The angry, killing instinct running through him was too strong: if he gave in to either urge right now, he wasn’t going to stop until everything in the room was dead.
Not that he had a problem with that kind of thing in principle, but he was lying low right now: giving Sammy some time to stew after the whole Jo incident. Slaughtering the entire club might be fun, but it would also bring every hunter within a hundred mile radius running. Not the best way to stay off of his brother’s radar.
A chin came down to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “He’s with me, bitch,” the woman behind him purred. “So fuck off.”
Dean’s dinner widened her lust-hazed eyes and fear spiked through that strawberry scent of hers like a dollop of fresh cream. The persistent ache in Dean’s gums sharpened as his fangs started to slide out—fucking things were as bad as Pavlov’s dogs—and then she was turning, pushing herself through the crowd and away from him.
Damn it.
To make matters worse, from the look on the girl’s face just before she ran, Dean guessed that it wasn’t anything as harmless as a drunken, grabby slut draped over him. He wondered in an annoyed, contemptuous kind of way whether it was a hunter: whether that hunter could possibly be stupid enough to be waving a knife around in the middle of a crowded club. If it was a hunter, then the bloodbath Dean was trying to avoid was going to happen anyway. He’d incapacitate the bitch first, then make quick work of all the sheep before returning to take care of her properly. Leave her nailed to the wall with her own knife as an example to anyone else dumb enough to come after him.
Dean shifted his weight, readying himself to retrieve the blade from his boot so that he could gut her, and then a well-manicured hand trailed down the side of his face and made him pause. His nostrils flared a little as he took another sniff, and she wasn’t human. Or not just human, anyway. There was this weird quality to her smell—sort of like electricity—and Dean wasn’t sure whether it was a turn on or a deal breaker.
“Dean,” the thing that wasn’t a girl whispered in his ear. “We need to talk.”
She ground against him, one hand still stroking his face while the other landed on his stomach and started sliding lower. Dean’s good mood was gone, though—all those pretty thoughts of Sam covered in his own blood and begging to come home torn away and replaced with annoyance—and he wasn’t in the mood to be pawed just now, thanks. Jerking his head to one side, he grabbed the thing’s wrist in a bruising grip and spun to face her.
The thing’s body was girl-like enough: with breasts rising from the bodice of a halter top and curling, blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She looked like Jess, actually—close enough that they might have been sisters—and for the first time, Dean consciously understood that meant that she also looked like Mom. Amusement twitched through him. Sam really needed to deal with that Oedipal complex he was nursing.
Keeping the movement hidden between their bodies, he twisted the thing’s hand back to the point of breaking and growled, “That was my dinner.”
The thing smirked at him like he wasn’t a centimeter away from snapping her wrist and answered, “It’s about Sam.”
Dean couldn’t quite keep the growl down in his chest where it belonged. Sam was his, and unless this bitch was a messenger from his brother letting Dean know that he was ready, that he missed Dean, that he wanted to come home, then she had no business talking about him. And since Dean knew Sam—knew that it was gonna take a lot more convincing than he had already done to bring the kid around—he was pretty sure that this bitch was going to end the night wearing her intestines as necklaces.
But there was no reason not to be polite first.
Offering her a hard, insincere smile, Dean asked, “Who the fuck are you?”
“You mean you don’t recognize me?” the thing simpered, pursing her mouth into a pout. “I’m offended. Really, I am. I mean, I thought we had something there. You know, before you sent me to Hell.” She blinked and eyes that had been pale blue suddenly glittered beetle-black.
Okay, so demons smelled like lightning. Good to know. Filing the knowledge away for future reference, Dean grinned wider and tightened his grip. Now that he knew what she was, he recognized her: recognized the cocky way she was standing in her stolen body.
“Meg.”
“I used to be,” Meg agreed. She pressed closer, undulating her body against him, and Dean felt her wrist snap beneath his fingers. There was no accompanying twitch of pain in her eyes, and he wondered in an absent kind of way what it would be like to fuck her. He wondered how far would he have to take it to get her to scream.
“Mmm,” she purred as she cupped his hardening dick with her free hand. “Gotta say, Dean, I like you better dead.”
As interesting as the thought of fucking a demon was, though, Dean hadn’t ever been a slave to his body when he was alive and he wasn’t going to start letting it control him now. Without hesitation, he grabbed her other wrist, dragged it up and away from his cock, and broke that one as well.
“I want you touching me, I’ll let you know,” he told her. “Otherwise, hands off.”
Instead of looking discouraged, Meg seemed more interested than ever: face flushed and black eyes heated. “Oh yeah,” she breathed. “I definitely like you better like this.”
“In your dreams, bitch,” Dean snapped. Even if he was curious, he wasn’t going to fuck Meg, of all people. If he wanted a demon, he’d find one that hadn’t molested his brother in front of him. Who had actually been inside of his brother. And speaking of Sammy … “What the fuck do you want with Sam?”
Meg’s gaze dipped in a way that was almost coy and then she stepped back, drawing him after her. “Come over to the table,” she offered. “Have a drink with us. We’ll talk about old times.”
Dean didn’t want to talk about old times. Actually, what he wanted to do was rip her mouth apart until there was nothing but a bloody mess where his brother’s name had been. He was tempted to start taking her apart right here, and fuck the screaming sheep, but she had said ‘we.’ Which meant that there was more than one demonic son of a bitch in here thinking about Sam: wanting him. Better to go along with Meg until Dean found out how many there were and just what they wanted with his brother. Then he could tear them all apart. Make sure none of the cockroaches came crawling back to bother Sammy.
Besides, he was wearing a new leather jacket, and he didn’t want to get sulfur all over it. Stink’d never come out.
Meg’s table, predictably enough, was in a darkened corner of the club, and as far away from the speakers as possible. There were two men sitting with their backs to the wall, and even through the confusing swirl of scents in here he could smell them. Smelled that electric, burnt odor of lightning.
Dean stood by the table looking at them while Meg hopped into one of the empty seats. After a moment, one of the men—older, short hair, craggy face—smiled.
“Have a seat, Dean-o,” he offered.
“I’m good here, thanks.”
“I’m not here to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Dean snorted a short laugh. They could try to hurt him, if they wanted—hell, they could even try to kill him. Wasn’t gonna happen, though. He wasn’t standing because he was afraid: he was standing because he wasn’t a fucking idiot, and it was easier to fight on your feet. On the other hand, it was also easier to fight with a knife than with your bare hands, and Dean’s only weapon at the moment was tucked into his boot. Sitting down meant he had that much shorter a distance to reach for the blade.
Keeping his expression blank, Dean pulled out the fourth chair and sat down. Although he was pretty sure that the biggest threats in the club were sitting in a semi-circle in front of him, having his back to the rest of the room made the skin between his shoulder blades itch. Habit, mostly, although he supposed he was still a little twitchy from letting Meg get the drop on him.
Well, that sure as hell wasn’t happening again.
“There,” the craggy-faced demon said. “Now we’re all snug and cozy.”
Something about the way that the son of a bitch spoke struck Dean as familiar—inflection, maybe, or perhaps just the way that it curled its stolen lips around its words—but he couldn’t quite place it. Meeting the thing’s mocking gaze, he tried to hunt down the elusive, nagging memory. The craggy-faced demon’s lips twitched upward, like it knew what he was doing, and then it nodded to its companion.
The third demon—young, blond, and smirking—pushed a pint glass across the table toward Dean. From the glass, Dean caught a new smell: one that the demon-scent had hidden before.
Blood.
He looked down, tapped the side of the glass, and the liquid was too thin. Wasn’t the right color, either. Fuck, did it smell good, though.
“What is this?” he asked finally.
“Whiskey with a kick,” the craggy-faced demon answered.
Huh. Alcohol and blood in one, tasty package. Dean didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that before, but it was a pretty genius idea. His stomach gave a rumble as the drink’s scent rose to him again, and his gums ached, but he pushed the glass away with a sneer.
“Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna drink anything you give me. For all I know, that’s dead man’s blood in there.”
The craggy-faced demon shrugged, eyes sparkling with good humor. “Believe what you like, Dean-o, but he’s alive and kicking. Wrapped up all nice and pretty for you in your room.”
Which meant they knew where he was staying, which meant that they’d been watching him, which meant that Dean had gotten way too complacent. He’d been so busy checking his trail for hunters that he had never stopped to think about what other nasty things might want a piece of him. Dean hated being blindsided: made him feel … well, almost human again. Made him remember what it had been like to be alive and a failure.
“Meg said something about Sam,” he said flatly.
The way that the craggy-faced demon tilted its head told him that the subject change had been noted, but it didn’t fight him on it, and it didn’t try to offer him the drink again. Instead, it made a tsking sound and mused, “Ah yes, Sammy. Keeping tabs on him has gotten … interesting … lately.”
Hearing his brother’s name spoken in that soft, sibilant purr snapped everything into place suddenly and Dean’s fangs ripped through his gum line like knives through butter. His chest burned with the memory of pain, of being helpless, of losing, and all of his hard-won self-control fell away as his focus narrowed down to his rage and the son of a bitch sitting across from him. Dean started to lunge—gonna tear the bastard apart, gonna drink him down, taste the iron in his fucking blood—and then the demon’s eyes flared sickly yellow and he was glued to his seat.
“Temper,” the yellow-eyed demon warned.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Dean growled. He was flashing his fangs for anyone to see, but he didn’t care. The hunters could come and take his head just as long as he got to rip this son of a bitch apart first.
Calm as ever, the yellow-eyed demon folded his hands on top of the table. “Now, I realize that you and I have had our differences in the past, but Meg’s out and I put Daddy in the ground, so I figure we’re about even.”
They weren’t, not even close, and Dean snarled, straining forward against the demon’s power. He hadn’t felt this strongly about anything since he last saw Sam, and somewhere at the back of his head he realized, in a distant sort of way, that he was enjoying himself.
God, he’d been bored.
“I asked Meg to bring you over so that I could make a business proposition concerning that brother of yours,” the demon announced. “After all, we’re both on the same side now, and I think we both want Sammy to realize his full potential. You’ve been working wonders on him in that respect, by the way, so thank you.”
“You really want to thank me, you can take your slutty daughter and cabana boy there and go back to Hell,” Dean suggested.
As if he hadn’t spoken, the demon continued, “Anywho, it’d be awful nifty if we could pool our resources. I could help bring Sam around, if you let me. Just think of it, Dean-o: you and Sammy, together again … the world at your feet and ready to bleed—”
“Oh, it’ll bleed, all right,” Dean promised. “But you first.”
This time the demon actually laughed, throwing its head back and making Dean’s vision pulse red with rage. He clenched his jaw shut so firmly that he could feel his muscles cramping.
“You’re determined, kid; I’ll give you that,” the demon chuckled. Reaching forward, it lifted the drink it had offered Dean and downed it in a single, slow swallow. Then it put the empty glass back down on the table, stood, and strolled around the table behind Dean. Clamping its hands down on its shoulders, it leaned close enough that the lightning demon scent drowned out everything else. Dean’s skin crawled to have the bastard so near.
“Now, I understand that you’re gonna need some time to adjust to the idea, so I’ll leave you to think it over for a few days. Head on back to your room and have a drink on us. Think of it as a signing bonus.”
Meg and the silent demon had risen as well now. Meg waggled her fingers at Dean as she strolled for the door, but the blond never so much as glanced at him on its way past. Being so completely and utterly ignored was humiliating enough that Dean swallowed the venomous retort he wanted to make and stared quietly at the wall instead.
“You’ve got a lot of potential, kid,” the yellow-eyed demon whispered in his ear. “Don’t fuck it up.” It squeezed his shoulders one final time in parting, and then it was gone.
Dean wasn’t going to go back to his motel room. Not when the bad guys had just as good as announced that they’d booby-trapped the place. He might have gotten pretty sloppy lately, but he wasn’t stupid. Fuck, he’d have to be some kind of retard to walk into a trap that obvious. Short bus all the way.
On the other hand, playing it smart was really fucking boring.
After almost five straight minutes of pacing in front of his room, he finally strolled around to the back and jimmied the bathroom window open. The rusted metal let out an explosively loud screech, but no one called out in response. Nothing blew up. When Dean scented the air inside, the enticing tang of blood hit him immediately: mouth-watering undercurrents of fear and pain.
There was no scent of explosives. Nothing metallic aside from what he recognized as his own blades and the bathroom faucets. That electric, demon-scent tainted the air, but it was faint enough that Dean could tell they hadn’t been here for a couple of hours at least.
Should be safe enough to take a closer look at his supposed present.
Gums aching, he pushed the window further open—another screech, this one accompanied by a shower of rust flakes—and then hauled himself up and through. On the other side, he dropped down in a low crouch and listened. Someone’s heart beating: light and rapid. Terrified. Someone struggling and whimpering softly beneath his breath.
Poor bastard might as well have been ringing the dinner bell.
Looks like that son of a bitch was on the level, Dean thought, but he eased his thin, tapered blade from his boot anyway. Just because old yellow-eyes had left a snack in Dean’s room—in Dean’s bed, if he was judging the noises right—didn’t mean that there wasn’t some hidden, nasty surprise just out of sight. He wouldn’t have put it past the bastard to have done something that he wouldn’t be able to scent or hear until it was too late: something like putting in an anonymous phone call to Sam or Bobby or Ellen and leaving them his room number.
Ellen, in particular, had been gunning for Dean ever since he had his fun with Jo, although really, he’d only done the lovesick bitch a favor. The second time he had to relocate to avoid getting a crossbow bolt through his side, he had gone so far as to send Ellen a letter telling her just that: just a friendly note describing how he’d given Jo everything she wanted before the end. For some reason, that seemed to have pissed her off more.
Actually, now that he was thinking of it, Dean might just have to take Mama Harvelle for a ride one of these days: see how she stacked up against her daughter.
Dean grinned at the thought of stripping away all of the woman’s strength and pride until nothing was left but the slick fear at her core and rose from his crouch. Holding the knife in a deceptively loose grip, he stepped forward and into the darkened doorway, where he paused to admire the view.
His present had been stripped and tied spread-eagled to the bed with heavy, corded rope: hooded with a loose, black fabric that looked like velvet. Classy. Sweat glistened on the man’s firm muscles, which twitched as he struggled helplessly against the ropes. Although Dean normally preferred fare of a more feminine persuasion, even he had to admit that the demons’ gift was easy on the eyes. It was all that fear-scent, probably: curled thick and heavy in Dean’s mouth.
Despite the smell, though, the man’s cock was full and curving up toward his belly. When Dean drew in a deeper, slower breath, he caught what he had missed before: the faint, bitter undercurrent of drugged arousal. The demons must have ruffied the guy in order to prepare Dean’s present without damaging the wrapping.
The only mar on the otherwise perfect body, actually, was the thin, scabbed over cut on the man’s right forearm. Dean could tell from the subtle bouquet (spice of cloves, hint of apples) that this was where the demons had gotten the blood from: an alive and kicking donor, which meant that he could have safely accepted the drink back at the bar. More and more, it was looking as though the yellow-eyed demon actually wanted to play nice. Huh.
Edging further into the room, Dean noticed that his knives had been spread out on the bedside table. On a small, silver tray beside them was a folded card, an empty shot glass and an unopened bottle of Jack’s. He twirled his knife absently as he strolled over and picked up the card. Although he couldn’t tell what color ink the demons had used, the words inside were clear enough.
Enjoy, the demon had written in a scraggily scrawl. And below that: Consider my offer.
Dean’s upper lip pulled back into a snarl. That son of a bitch had messed around with his family—had messed around with Sam. It could grovel all it wanted, but Dean was still going to take it apart until there wasn’t anything left but a soot-stain on the fucking wall.
Letting out a humorless snort, he tossed the card to the floor.
“H-hello?” came a slurred, frightened voice to his left.
Dean glanced over at the man, who had gone still and tilted his head in Dean’s direction.
“I-is someone th-there?”
Dean trailed his eyes across the man’s skin, considering the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and then smiled. Just because he wasn’t going to sign on with the yellow-eyed son of a bitch didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the perks of being wooed in the meantime.
He considered his backup blade for a moment before putting it down on the nightstand. It would do in a pinch (that was the whole fucking point) but it wasn’t sturdy enough to do any real damage and it wasn’t sharp enough for more delicate work. There was no reason to use it when he had better tools at his disposal.
After all, you could sever an artery with a butter knife, but why bother when a switchblade would do the job with so much more finesse?
“P-please, if you—oh God—if you’re there, please, I need help, I need—”
“You need to shut the fuck up,” Dean announced, walking his fingertips over the tapered handle of a surgical scalpel.
Despite the fact that he had been calling out for someone, the man gasped in surprise at the sound of Dean’s voice. The black cloth hiding his face shifted in with his sudden breath. Out. In again. Dean transferred his attention back to the shining array in front of him.
“Please,” the man whispered. “Please, just let me go, I won’t call the cops, I promise, I—”
This time, Dean wrapped his hand around the man’s throat tightly enough to cut off the increasingly agitated words. There weren’t any other travelers at this end of the motel, and they were in a part of town where people would take notice of a few screams anyway, not if they knew what was good for them, but that didn’t mean he should push his luck. Not yet.
“What did I say about talking?” he drawled.
The man went as wild as he could, trying to shake Dean’s hand free and fighting with the ropes. Dean carefully tightened up his grip until his toy went limp and then uncurled his fingers again. There was already a ring of bruises forming on that defenseless skin—the promise of blood rising to the surface—but the man sucked in a deep breath and went into a coughing jag, so he wasn’t unconscious or dead. Good. Dean planned on getting as much enjoyment out of this as he could.
“Shh,” he soothed, running his hand along the man’s arm. Soft skin pebbled beneath his fingertips, and then there was the rougher brush of the scabbed cut on the man’s forearm. Dean adjusted his fingers and then dragged his thumb over the cut, driving a whimper from the man as it opened again.
“D-don’t h-hurt me,” he begged. “P-please, God.”
“I’m not going to hurt you anymore than I have to,” Dean promised, and then lifted his fingers to his lips. His present tasted just as good as it smelled: crisp and spiced. Go down nice and smooth with some of the whiskey old yellow-eyes left.
“Wh-what do you want?”
“I’m bored, sweetheart,” Dean answered as he climbed onto the bed and straddled the man’s chest. “You and me, we’re going to have a little fun.”
His toy’s heart was thundering now: rabbit fast and deafeningly loud. Fear and pain and arousal mingled in the air before sliding down Dean’s throat like ambrosia and leaving his belly warm. Fuck, this was better than sex.
“Don’t don’t don’t,” the man whispered, jerking beneath him.
Dean could feel him trying futilely to get his legs shut: didn’t need any of his brother’s powers to figure out why the man was so afraid. Amused, he leaned forward, ignoring the strain in his lower back in favor of nuzzling the man’s face through the cloth.
“Don’t worry, pretty,” he taunted. “I’m gonna make sure you love every second of it.”
The man went nuts at that, struggling and begging, and Dean rode it out. His dinner was working himself up into a full panic: spiking his blood with that glorious flavor. Dude was going to taste fucking delicious by the time Dean was ready to eat. He waited patiently until the man’s struggles had begun to weaken again—you couldn’t rush perfection—and then smiled widely enough that his teeth were clearly visible. It was dark in the room, but not so dark that the man wouldn’t be able to see just what was going to end him. Not so dark that Dean wouldn’t get to ride the thrill of that moment, when this sorry fuck realized that there really were things that went bump in the night.
He pulled the cloth off of his dinner in one, swift motion and then froze.
Soft, puppy dog eyes. Ridiculous tumble of brown hair. Ski slope nose. Angular jaw. Glitter of moisture on arching cheekbones.
Sammy, Dean thought, stunned, but he already knew that it wasn’t his brother. This man—kid, really—looked like Sam, but he didn’t smell right. Also, now that Dean was taking a second look, this guy was too young. Maybe nineteen at most. Maybe.
“Oh my God,” the kid said faintly.
It took Dean a few seconds to remember that he was still flashing fang, and then he slowly shut his mouth. Christ on a stick, where had the yellow-eyed bastard found this kid? More importantly, where could Dean get more?
“What’s your name?” he rasped.
The kid gaped at him, shocked into muteness after all of his pleading. Dean gripped the kid’s hair (soft and thick and damp with sweat) and used it to jerk his head back far enough to elicit a pained whimper.
“Name,” he repeated.
“T-Toby. T-Toby Kennerton. P-please, don’t—”
“I’m Dean,” Dean told him. Curving his lips up into a smile, he loosened his grip and then stroked his hand through the kid’s hair.
Toby cut his eyes to one side and swallowed thickly. As Dean watched the kid’s Adam’s apple bob, had to reconsider his conclusion that this wasn’t a trap. After all, he hadn’t even gotten started yet and he was already having trouble thinking straight. It was difficult to think of anything beyond sinking his fangs into that soft, vulnerable flesh and easing the ravenous hunger for SamSammySam that was hollowing him out.
Dean was going to be hours at this. He was going to take his sweet time indulging in the fantasy: was going to taste every inch of this kid’s body. He was going to possess Toby every way he could think of, and then he was gonna invent a couple more for good measure.
If Ellen or Bobby or Sam came for him now, they’d be able to take his head easily because, once he got started, he wasn’t going to be able to stop. And despite the danger, there was no question in his mind, none at all, whether or not he was going to get started. He might not be able to have Sam—not yet, anyway—but he could at least have the illusion of satisfaction.
“This can happen two ways,” Dean announced, trailing his hand down to rub his thumb along the carotid artery in Toby’s throat. “You can be a good boy and cooperate, or you can refuse and I can just take what I want anyway.”
The kid went white. “I’m not—I’m not g-gay. Please, I don’t—”
Dean interrupted him with a laugh. “Oh, I’m not either,” he promised. “This isn’t about sex.”
That got him the kid’s eyes again. “I-it’s not?”
“Nope.” Dean swung up off of the kid and padded across the room to turn on the lights. He hesitated by the switch for a few minutes, squinting into the sudden flare of illumination, and then headed back toward the bed. Toby looked even better like this, all soft-edged with a golden glow, so familiar, and Dean’s chest ached with want.
“So what’s it gonna be?” he asked as he stripped off his jacket and shirt. After all, bloodstains never came out, and there was no point in ruining a perfectly decent outfit.
“I-I’ll c-cooperate. Just d-don’t h-hurt me.”
That wasn’t actually in the cards, but there was no reason to completely demoralize the kid just yet. Dean ruffled Toby’s hair in approval and then, grinning, retrieved his scalpel from the nightstand. The kid’s eyes widened as he took in the blade, and when he noticed the rest of the array a moment later, his fear-scent gave a sharp jump. Dean had to hand it to him, though: he didn’t cry out or struggle when Dean approached him again. Didn’t move at all while Dean sliced through first the ropes around his wrists and then moved onto his ankles.
“You can sit up,” Dean told him, but Toby didn’t actually move until Dean had backed away to a safe distance. Then he slowly inched up to sit with his back against the headboard. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he watched Dean with wide, anxious eyes.
Dean watched right back, noting the worn, chafed skin around the kid’s wrists and ankles where the ropes had been. He wondered whether he could finish what the kid had started with just his thumb. Wondered whether, if he wrapped one hand around Toby’s wrist and rubbed, he could tear the flesh open and drench both their fingers in blood.
Resisting the urge to shudder, Dean tossed the scalpel aside and nodded at the array of knives on the nightstand. “Pick one.”
The kid’s eyes darted to the blades and then back again. He licked his lips. “What?”
“Pick. One,” Dean repeated. “If you can get past me to the door, you’re free to go.”
Toby’s heart gave an audible stutter as he glanced past Dean toward the aforementioned exit and then his mouth thinned. Tears trembled in his eyes. “I’m naked,” he whispered.
It was sort of cute, but Dean didn’t want cute right now. He wanted the illusion.
“You’d rather be naked in here with me than naked out there?” he asked, raising one eyebrow. For good measure, he also trailed one hand over his lower stomach and down to his crotch. Felt his dick hot and hard at the thought of getting to have this, of the games he was going to play, of the message he was going to leave for his brother here: thoughts of pain and pleasure and, above all else, blood.
The kid blinked with a skittish twitch and then slowly and carefully reached toward the knives. He was obviously expecting some sort of trick. Dean watched him fumble among the knives and couldn’t help cataloguing the differences.
If Sam were here, he wouldn’t have needed any prompting. He would have selected the kukri to the far left of the array and leaped off the bed. If Sam were here, he would have sprinted across the room to Dean and tried to take his head off.
Then again, if Sam were here, Dean never would have been stupid enough to cut him loose in the first place.
When Toby finally edged off the bed, he was clutching Dean’s largest hunting knife in his right hand. He stumbled a little—disoriented from the drugs, maybe, or weak from his struggles—and his cock moved in a ridiculous little bob. Despite his obvious fear, he flushed: embarrassed.
Dean had to admit that the whole roofie thing was a little tacky. Almost an insult, actually, now that he thought about it. Fucking demons had drugged the kid up like Dean didn’t have what it took to make him enjoy every minute of his death. Now he was going to have to wait for the drugs to wear off before getting down to business or he’d never be able to respect himself in the morning.
What a fucking hassle.
Then Toby was running at him—no finesse or skill at all—and Dean didn’t have time to sulk. He stepped forward to meet the kid, catching his wrist with one hand and pinching down on the nerve endings. The blade immediately dropped from Toby’s nerveless fingers and hit the carpet. Dean kicked it and sent it skittering away to the far side of the room.
In return, Toby hauled back and punched him. Dean let the kid connect, which didn’t hurt at all (dude punched like a girl), and then caught that hand as well. He held Toby there for a moment, close enough that Dean’s entire body was wreathed in that heady scent, and then shoved him backwards.
“Try again.”
Whatever other failings Toby had, lack of perseverance wasn’t one of them. He had to have seen that it was useless almost from the start, but he made almost twenty tries for the door before finally giving up and sinking down on the floor beside the now-empty nightstand. Burying his head in his hands, he started to cry.
Toby’s regular speaking voice was too high, but he sounded like Sam now, and this time Dean couldn’t resist a shiver. Tilting his head back, he let the sound of the kid’s terror wash over him. He submerged himself in the illusion for several minutes—Sam at his feet, Sam broken and ready to bleed, ready to be reforged into Dean’s missing half—and then he shook the fantasy free. His gait was a little unsteady as he stalked closer to his prey, but Toby still had his face hidden so it didn’t matter.
“I’m going to kill you,” Dean announced, coming to a stop before the kid. The declaration made Toby flinch. “But first you’re going to beg me for it. You’re going to tell me you love me, and you’re going to beg to come home.”
Those demands were probably a little bit off the deep end, but Dean figured he had left sanity more than a few turns back anyway. Besides, this wasn’t really any worse than letting some bar slut call him Daddy while he spanked her. Harmless, really.
When the kid’s head came up, there were still tears streaming from his eyes. His mouth was twisted in a bitter grimace. “You weren’t ever gonna let me go, were you?” he choked out.
Dean considered lying—mostly out of habit—and then admitted, “No.”
Toby was off the ground in a flash, lashing out like a cornered mongrel and screaming, “you fucking bastard!” at the top of his lungs. He actually landed a good hit on Dean’s cheek, momentarily smearing his vision with white, and then Dean had the kid up against the wall by the throat.
Toby’s body quivered with rage and horror and fear. His skin was flushed with blood. His throat worked against Dean’s palm. When Dean glanced down hopefully, he found that the kid’s cock had finally started to wilt. It wasn’t at ground zero yet, but half-mast was going to have to be good enough because he just couldn’t wait anymore.
Yanking the kid away from the wall, Dean walked him back toward the bed and tossed him down. Toby immediately tried to scramble off the other side of the mattress, but his reflexes were pitifully slow, even for a human. Nonchalantly, Dean reached out with one hand and grabbed the kid by the ankle. He had Toby back in position—flipped on his back beneath Dean—before the kid even knew what was happening.
“No!” Toby shouted, squirming as he registered the confining weight of Dean’s body.
Ignoring the feeble movements, Dean lowered his head and bit into the smooth flesh of the kid’s left breast. Toby cried out, jerking in surprise and pain, but Dean was more concerned with the blood flooding his mouth. The kid tasted just as crisp and delicious as Dean had imagined he would, and he couldn’t quite stop himself from moaning around his mouthful of skin. Toby let out a despairing little noise at the sound and Dean pulled off, licking his lips.
He had been careful not too bite too deeply: just sinking his fangs in far enough that a trickle of blood would flow out across the kid’s soft, warm skin. Such a beautiful sight, even without the scars that should have been there: scars that had been etched into Sam’s body by Dean’s own incompetence. Well, he’d just have to paint over them with new marks: of ownership this time, rather than failure.
Ducking his head again, he chased the red lines with his tongue. Toby’s muscles twitched at the sensation. He tangled his hands in Dean’s hair in an effort to pull him off. Dean took a second to shake the kid’s hands free before biting down again.
This time, one of his fangs grazed Toby’s nipple and the kid screamed. The scream was ragged enough that it sounded like someone was yanking the kid's intestines out through his ass, but Dean could tell from his scent that he was more panicked than hurt. When Dean didn’t let up, Toby went wild: shoving at his shoulders and sobbing.
Dean instinctively let his muscles go limp, leaving his body heavy and immovable. Retracting his fangs, he grimaced in annoyance. The kid’s pitiful attempts to fight him had been amusing before, but he was done with foreplay.
Shifting one hand from where it was curled around Toby’s waist, Dean reached down between the kid’s legs. He found what he wanted without any real trouble—Dean may not have been gay, but he also wasn’t a fucking moron—and an answering tremor ran through Toby’s entire body. The kid made a wet, choked noise, and when Dean glanced up he found that Toby had turned his head to the side.
The kid's eyes were shut. His face was twisted up in an agonized expression. He still smelled more frightened than hurt, though. More importantly, he was still: docile the way Dean wanted him.
“Good boy,” Dean murmured, approving. His shoulders bunched and moved as he worked.
“Stop,” Toby groaned. “Please.” But he was already arching into Dean: begging for it with his body if not yet with his mouth.
“Say, ‘Dean, I love you’,” Dean told him, bearing down harder. “Say, ‘Dean, I want to come home.’”
“F-fuck yo—ngh!” The kid’s eyes went wide as Dean twisted his wrist. His body twitched.
Dean smirked. “Let’s try that again …”
It took a little bit of effort on Dean’s part, but eventually, he got what he wanted. Eventually, the kid’s cries ran red and bled together into pleas for more. Eventually, he clung shamelessly to Dean and begged the way Dean asked him to.
Soon, Sammy, Dean thought, and drank deep.