Work Text:
It’s such a pathetic attempt to avoid the inevitable that Dean almost turns around in disgust and leaves. He doesn’t want it to end like this—not with Sam already broken and hiding like a little kid who still thinks Daddy’s going to show up at the last minute and save him. He wants Sam on his feet when it happens, wants to force Sam down to his knees and see the break happen in his eyes.
He wants to taste the shift in his brother’s scent when Sam realizes that it’s over, that he’s been running and fighting and struggling futilely ever since he found Dean drained and drooling something else's blood in that abandoned warehouse.
He wants to savor that moment where Sam finally understands that it wasn’t ever going to end any other way.
But this ... this is like bagging a tight piece of ass at a bar, taking her home and then finding out her cunt is as well oiled as the Impala’s engine. It’s no fun when they’re already fucked out and can’t scream.
The craving has been growing steadily inside of Dean ever since he drained old yellow-eyes’ gift, though, and in the end even this disappointing finale is better than having to wait any longer. Besides, he’s sure he can still wring a few desperate screams out of Sam, as long as he puts a little effort into it.
Stepping out of the car, Dean eyes the horizon, calculating how much time he has before sunrise—it won’t kill him to get caught outside, but it’ll smart like hell. Then he takes off on an easy lope across the salt flats. Following Sam’s trail is harder now that he’s surrounded by an overpowering sea of bitter saline, but it isn’t impossible. Sam’s scent is too sweet for the salt, strong as it is, to completely obscure it. When Dean gets closer, he can hear his brother’s heartbeat pounding in front of him like a signal drum as well, leading him in.
It’s just a little after midnight when his eyes pick out a tiny blip on the horizon. He lifts his head higher, tasting the air, and the wind carries the warm, intoxicating scent of blood and brother and Sam back to him. The intensity of the desire that hits Dean takes him by surprise and he grunts, slowing as his fangs burst through his gums. They ache—his whole body aches with this new, ravenous hunger that goes deeper than his instinctive need for blood. This hunger gnaws through his bones; it twines through whatever twisted remnants of a soul his new life has left him.
Somehow, Dean makes himself slow further, dropping from a jog to a walk. He wants to savor this moment. He wants to roll the end of this hunt around in his mouth for a bit before the screaming starts and he gets too excited to control himself any longer.
Soon it will be him and Sam again, just like the old days. But first.
First.
Puzzlement flickers through Dean’s hunger as he gets closer. Sam must be able to see him coming by now, even with his pitiful, human eyes, but he doesn’t seem to be moving. He’s just sitting there, watching Dean approach. He’s unarmed and wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt and sitting there in the middle of the goddamned salt flats.
It has to be a trap.
Dean circles, warily, and scans the horizon for signs of Bobby—or maybe that Harvelle bitch. He can’t sense anyone else here, but he has to admit that such prolonged exposure to this much salt is fucking with his nose. And there’s always the possibility that they found some way to hide their presence—spell or amulet, maybe.
But there’s only Sam interrupting the bleakness. Only Sam’s tracks, faint and obscured by the wind, and the strewn metal canisters of water Sam must have brought in with him to keep from dehydrating. There’s only Sam twisting his head around in an effort to keep Dean in sight as Dean’s circuits shrink smaller and smaller, spiraling him in toward his goal.
And then, finally, Dean is standing right in front of his brother, looking down at him.
Sam’s hair is longer than ever: shaggy and soft looking in the moonlight. He’s been working out, arms and chest more muscular than Dean remembers—as though bench pressing a couple of hundred pounds is going to make Sam strong enough to fight Dean off. His face is weary, lined with stress and tension, but there’s no fear in his eyes as he looks up to return Dean’s gaze. Only a deep, aching sorrow that colors his scent and leaves Dean with an excited, shivery feeling in his groin.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says finally, enunciating carefully around his fangs. “Did you get the present I left you in Charlestown?”
“Bobby told me,” Sam answers. His voice is hoarse, rough with the emotions Dean’s busy rolling around in his mouth.
Dean frowns at his brother, mock disappointed. “You didn’t go see for yourself?” he asks as he takes another, appraising stroll around his brother’s body.
This time, Sam sits still, head facing forward and back stiff. When Dean reaches out and drags a single finger from one of his brother’s shoulders to the other, Sam shivers slightly but still doesn’t turn.
“I went through a lot of trouble to leave you that preview,” Dean announces as he begins to walk two fingers back toward the nape of Sam’s neck.
“Is that what you’re going to do to me?”
“Maybe,” Dean answers.
When Sam doesn’t respond to that, Dean crouches down and drapes himself over his brother’s back. This close, Sam’s scent overpowers that of the salt. This close, the smell of SamSammybrothermine is strong enough to make Dean’s head spin. He shuts his eyes and breathes it in more deeply, wrapping one arm around Sam’s body and pulling him close.
“Or maybe,” he purrs into his brother’s ear. “We can find something even more fun to do with you.”
Rocking his hips forward and rubbing himself against Sam’s warmth is instinctive, but the hand he pushes into his brother’s crotch is designed to get a reaction.
It works. Sam’s jerk forward is still more controlled than Dean would like—more distaste, less panic—but Dean can sense the creeping edge of fear in the way Sam’s breathing has gone shallow. Laughing, he hangs on tighter while nuzzling at his brother’s neck and playing his fingers over Sam’s belt buckle.
“You didn’t really think that hiding in the middle of the Salt Flats was going to save you, did you?” he asks.
“Works on demons,” Sam grunts, bringing his hands up and trying to push Dean off of him.
It’s amusing, Sam thinking Dean’s going to move before he’s good and ready. A little exciting, too. Maybe there’s still some fight left in his little brother yet.
“Newsflash, Sammy,” Dean says, letting one fang just graze his brother’s skin. “I’m not a demon.”
“Don’t call me that.” The words come quick and clipped, anger and sorrow tangled up with one another and making Dean seriously reconsider taking this back to the motel room that’s waiting for them.
If Sam keeps this up, he isn’t going to be able to wait that long.
“Sammy,” he purrs, and then allows himself a slow, savoring lick up the side of his brother’s throat. Sam is struggling through it, gets a hand on Dean’s hair and pulls hard. Dean moans low in the back of his throat as arousal floods him, wrapping himself more firmly around Sam and sealing his lips against the hot skin begging to be broken open.
Sam goes stone still.
Dean tries to bring himself back under control—he’s not gonna let the hunger drag him around like a leashed dog, damn it—but even without the added enticement of Sam’s struggles, it’s proving a difficult task. The hand he was using to toy with Sam’s belt comes up, slowly, to curl around his brother’s throat. He can feel Sam’s pulse now, beating wildly against his palm, and it would be so. fucking. easy. to just take what he wants—what he needs.
But Sam is special. Sam deserves more than just a quick rip and feed out in the middle of the desert.
Gradually, Dean comes back off the frenzied edge and rational thought creeps back in. He eases his mouth away from Sam’s throat—too much temptation there—and instead focuses on rubbing his fingers over the exposed skin, firmly enough that Sam can feel it and has difficulty swallowing.
“I want you to tell me about Jo,” he says. “Tell me what it was like when you were alone in there with her.”
“No,” Sam rasps. “You’re not going to get off on what you did to her.”
“Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but I already did. Twice.”
Sam goes even stiffer at that, tilting his face away from Dean’s. Dean can feel the rage and disgust in his brother’s twitching muscles and smiles.
“Aw, don’t be like that, baby. You know she meant nothing to me.”
“Fuck you.”
Dean chuckles, feeling in control of himself enough that he allows himself to nuzzle up beneath Sam’s jaw again. “Got more than that in mind for you,” he promises. “Nothing but the best for family.”
“Dean, please,” Sam starts, and Dean grips his throat tightly enough to shut him up. Not tightly enough to bruise, though. Not yet. That’ll come later, once Dean has Sam safely secured and can start to play.
“Little early to start begging, little brother,” he points out. “You want to save that for when we really get going.”
Only Dean can feel his control going tenuous and fragile again. If he doesn’t back off and get a breath of non-Sam-scented air right now, he really is going to jump the gun and ruin everything.
Releasing his brother, he stands and moves far enough away that he’s mostly smelling the salt. Not so far that he can’t hear Sam’s heart running rabbit-fast in his chest, though, and he keeps his eyes firmly locked on the prize. He watches Sam scramble to his feet, grabbing one of the metal water canisters at his feet as he does so. He eyes the trickle of sweat running down one side of Sam’s cheek. Licks his lips as Sam takes a swig from the bottle, throat working around the liquid as he swallows.
Okay, screw the plan. Dean can have a little taste right here. Just a small one.
He moves in again, reaching, and Sam takes a quick, shuffling step backwards, dropping the canister. It’s futile, and to show his brother just how futile, Dean uses a burst of energy to get behind his brother—faster than he knows Sam’s eyes can follow—and then grabs Sam’s shoulder and jerks him around. He’s going to watch the dread and horror seep into his brother’s expression as he realizes what’s about to happen.
“Time to go, Sammy,” he says, getting a good grip on his brother’s hair and holding him still. “Got us a room waiting at a Motel 6. And you don’t need to worry about keeping quiet, because I already took care of the neighbors.”
Sam’s eyes flicker—more disgust and guilt and anger—and it makes Dean more excited. Maybe he’ll play with Sam in one of the other rooms first. A little pre-gaming before they get to the foreplay. After all, Sam’s going to have to get used to being covered in someone else’s blood.
“First, though,” Dean continues with a considering tilt of his head. “I think I deserve a little taste for putting up with your shit.”
Sam really starts struggling now, thrashing his head around and getting a hand beneath Dean’s jaw and pushing, trying to force him away, but of course it’s as useless as all of his other attempts to stop Dean have been. Dean lets him try for a moment anyway, because the panic is going to make Sam’s blood that much sweeter.
And then, between one blink and the next, Sam changes. Instead of trying to get away, Sam is grabbing Dean’s face with both hands and pulling him closer. He’s mashing their mouths together—Dean’s lips part automatically: he’s hungry, and Sam smells so fucking good, and he’s been waiting so long. Then Sam starts grinding against him, and suddenly Dean isn’t sure which is stronger—his need to feed or the urge to fuck.
He’s just starting to realize this doesn’t have to be a one or the other kind of thing when Sam opens up for him. Something cold and wet and definitely not Sam’s tongue immediately floods Dean’s mouth. Something that tastes a lot like ...
Oh, fuck.
Dean chokes, jerking his head out of his brother’s hands and trying to spit the blood—a dead man’s, and Sam put it in his fucking mouth, what a stupid, rookie thing to fucking do—and in his sudden panic feels it trickle down his throat instead. It’s like swallowing arsenic-laced acid. The burn fills Dean faster than he thought was possible, leaving sickness in its wake, and when Sam releases him a second later, Dean collapses on the ground in a limp heap.
He watches through half-lidded, bleary eyes as Sam spits the rest of the dead man’s blood out of his mouth with a grimace. Watches his brother dig another canister out of the ground—this one actually filled with water, looks like—and use it to wash the taste away, still spitting and sputtering and swearing. Dean thinks that Sam might be crying too, but that might just be his mind playing tricks on him as the dead man’s blood does its nasty trick and pulls him snarling into the dark.
He wakes up chained to a chair.
Even before Dean opens his eyes, his lips curl with disgusted scorn—Sam should know better than this, after all. He had Dean at his mercy, unconscious and helpless. He should have cut off Dean’s fucking head and ended it.
Looks like, despite all Dean’s best efforts, that sappy, sentimental streak is just as strong as ever.
His sneer turns to a grimace as his hunger registers: dead man’s blood really takes it out of him, and he needs something a little fresher to rid himself of the lingering weakness weighing down his limbs. It’s ridiculous, not being able to snap the metal chains holding him in place with a single jerk of his body. Fucking annoying, too, with such delicious, tantalizing scents filling the room.
After giving himself a few moments to filter through the smells, he smirks and says, “I expected as much from Sammy, but you? I actually had a little more respect for you than this, Bobby.”
When he opens his eyes, he finds the hunter in question leaning against the wall by the door—in a cabin somewhere isolated: maybe even the cabin. Dean can certainly smell old blood here: might be his own. Might be Dad’s. The scent is too faded to tell. He can smell Sam, though—hears his brother’s heart speed at the sound of his voice. A moment later, there’s the thunder of footfalls on floorboards and Sam hurries into the room.
“Dean,” he says, choking out the word like he’s relieved.
Despite a second, stronger flare of scorn, Dean finds himself flattered by the concern. Once he’s taught Sam a few lessons in practicality and self-preservation, the kid will make a perfect partner.
Vampires may mate for life, but Dean personally doesn’t see the attraction of bothering to look for anyone else. Not when he already has Sam.
Or, well, he almost has Sam. He just needs to get out of this chair.
As Dean looks up at his brother, his mind worries at the problem. He sure as hell can’t break loose in his weakened state. Either he’s going to need to get some fresh blood in him or he’s going to need to get Sam to unlock the chains.
As he glances around the room, looking for anything that might offer a bolt of inspiration, Dean realizes that Sam and Bobby are both watching him expectantly. A little warily. Like they don’t know what to expect.
It’s interesting enough to catch his attention, and he scents the air again, this time looking past the scents of old blood and fresh food. There, beneath the more tantalizing, distracting smells, he finds the dry curl of chalk. The mellower coating of wax and the faintest hint of sulfur.
Ritual.
As understanding hits Dean, he starts to laugh and only just manages to catch himself at the last moment, dropping his head and turning the sound into a sob. His chest shakes against the chains as he picks over his actions since he woke up, double-checking to make sure he hasn’t done anything incriminating. He hasn’t, he doesn’t think. What he said to Bobby is iffy, but only if the hunters know what to look for. And now that he knows what part he’s supposed to be playing, they’ll forget any unease they may have quickly enough.
“Oh god,” he gasps as he forces tears from his eyes—difficult, but having Sam waiting just out of reach is an excellent motivator. “Jo. All those p-people. Oh, fuck, Sammy. Kill me. Please. Before I—you gotta kill me, man.”
Sam makes a choked, broken noise and takes a single step forward before pulling up again. With his head still bowed and his face out of sight, Dean doesn’t bother hiding his annoyed snarl.
“Wait,” Bobby says, and when Dean chances a quick glance he sees that the man has a hand on Sam’s arm and is holding him back.
With an inward growl, Dean redoubles his sobs. What the fuck is the old fool doing here, anyway? He isn’t family, doesn’t belong to Dean. He’s food, pure and simple, and later Dean’s going to make him pay for interfering like this. Once he has Sam back, they’ll both make him pay.
“Bobby,” Sam gasps out, his voice pleading.
“Wait, damn it. If that’s Dean, he’s still gonna be Dean tomorrow morning.”
Aw, crap. Dean does not want to be stuck in this chair all night. This calls for a change of plans.
Jerking against the chains, Dean snaps his head back with a pained gasp and has the satisfaction of hearing Sam’s pulse speed. He can smell anxiety on the air, and fear, and if it isn’t precisely the kind of fear he wants—Sam isn’t afraid of him, but for him—it still makes Dean’s mouth water. It’s a struggle to keep his fangs retracted into his gums instead of out and ready to feed the way they should be.
“It burns!” he yells. “Sammy! Oh fuck, Sammy, please!”
“He’s hurt,” Sam says, trying to get close again. Bobby, the interfering son of a bitch, just hangs onto his arm more firmly.
“Whatever it is,” the man says, shouting to be heard over Dean’s screams and pleas, “If it’s anything, it ain’t gonna kill him. You know that, Sam.”
“We can’t just leave him there!” Sam insists. “At least—let me try some of the pig’s blood.”
Dean almost gives himself away at that—fucking disgusting, the thought of letting Sam pour that swill down his throat—and then catches himself at the last moment. At the very least, it might wash away the lingering effects of the dead man’s blood and leave him strong enough to snap the chains.
“Tomorrow,” Bobby repeats firmly. “Now come on. He ain’t going anywhere for tonight and you need to get some sleep before you collapse.”
“But I—”
“And no more of this ‘I’ll sleep when I have my brother back’ crap. You aren’t thinking straight right now, kid. Get some shut eye and then we’ll talk about letting him up in the morning.”
Dean goes into high gear at that, whining and whimpering and generally acting as pathetic as he knows how. He even borrows a couple of moves from some of his more entertaining dinner dates: a gasp here, a pleading sob there. He’s pretty convincing—he knows from Sam’s sad, hurt scent—but his brother still allows Bobby to lead him out of the room and down the hall.
Dean keeps up the act for a while—if he stops as soon as he’s by himself, they’ll know for sure something’s up—but eventually lets his yells trickle off into silence. If he knows his brother, Sam’ll be even more alarmed by the new quiet. And then he’ll creep into the room and come over to cheek to see if Dean’s okay.
Then.
Then they can play.
When the door opens again three hours later, it isn’t Sam who comes back. It’s Bobby. And he’s carrying a machete.
“Bobby,” Dean pants, dropping his head back and rolling his eyes in what he hopes is an unfocused way. “Bobby, please. Feels—fucking feels like my skin’s on fire. Please, can you just—you don’t even have to come over, but can you just throw some cold water on me?”
Bobby squints at him for a long moment before shaking his head and saying, “You’re good. You’re really good. But you know what? I don’t believe a word of it.”
Dean debates continuing to play the sheep and then, with a disgruntled sigh, thinks, Fuck it. The old bastard is clearly too determined to be swayed: his heartbeat steady and sure. His scent has the iron tang of resolution. And if this is the end, Dean’s going to take it on his feet, damn it.
Lifting his head, he quirks one side of his mouth up far enough to reveal a flash of fang. “How’d you know?”
“The way you looked at me when you first opened your eyes,” Bobby answers.
Dean shrugs as best as he’s able, eyeing the machete that’s going to end him. It’s clean and sharp, well-cared-for just like all of Bobby’s weapons. It’ll do the trick in a moment.
“Oops,” Dean says unapologetically. Then, as a thought occurs to him, he lets his head fall back and grins widely. “Sammy’s never going to forgive you.”
It isn’t the ending he was hoping for, but there’s a measure of comfort and happiness at knowing Sam will be left alone and friendless. After all, if Dean can’t have him, he doesn’t want anyone else touching what’s his.
“I know,” Bobby agrees. There are tears in his eyes, but he tightens his hand on the machete’s handle as he steps closer. “But someone has to put you down.”
“Give my best to Ellen when you see her again, would you?” Dean stalls as he makes one final attempt to break his hands free from the chains. “I kept meaning to visit, but you know how it is: places to go, people to eat.”
“Go ahead,” Bobby chokes out. “Keep talking. You’re just making this easier.”
“I was good, you know,” Dean continues, twisting his wrists harshly behind his back. “They all begged for it at the end. Even Jo. Actually, especially Jo. She was a great feed.” He tilts his head, eyeing the gleam of light on the machete blade as Bobby hoists it higher. “Lousy fuck, though. All that crying and begging me to stop.”
“Bobby.”
Dean hasn’t been startled all that often since he was reborn, but he’s startled now: was concentrating too much on the machete and his own futile attempts to get free to notice Sam coming into the room. When he looks over now, he sees that his brother has a gun out, both hands wrapped around the hilt and the business end pointed in Bobby’s direction. Sam smells like desperation, and despite the gravity of the situation, Dean’s gums ache with hunger.
He watches as Sam’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. As Sam shifts his hold on the gun and says, “Step away from him and put the machete down.”
“It didn’t work, Sam,” Bobby says, not listening. “That ain’t your brother in there.”
The broken, twisted smile that flickers across Sam’s face is fascinating. “I know. I heard him. But if you don’t do what I said right now, I’m going to shoot you.”
“Might as well shoot him anyway, Sammy,” Dean points out, shifting his gaze so that he can smirk up at Bobby. “Because when I get loose, he’s first on my list.”
The flicker of fear in Bobby’s eyes at that announcement almost makes up for the indignity of almost getting killed while chained to a motherfucking chair. “Sam—”
“Get out, Bobby. If you run now—” Sam’s voice cracks, but his hands don’t waver on the gun. “—you have time to get away. Hell, you might even be able to get some reinforcements and get back here before he leaves. Dean’s going to take his time, aren’t you, Dean?”
Dean can’t help straining forward at that, mouth watering and groin flushing with excited heat. Sam can’t honestly be offering what he seems to be, but oh God, just the thought of it is enough to make Dean hard. He stares at the artery in his brother’s throat, made more prominent as Sam swallows, and pictures all of the lovely, beautiful games they can play. He doesn’t have his tools here, and the cabin is likely not well equipped, but they can improvise. Sam’s inspiring enough to ignite Dean’s creativity.
“Don’t do this, Sam,” Bobby tries. “There’s no reason to throw your life away after his. Dean wouldn’t want that for you and you know it.”
“No, Bobby,” Sam corrects with a slight shake of his head. “I’m all he wants.”
Bobby hesitates for a moment longer and then, reluctantly, starts for the door.
“And don’t think you’ll be able to come back in here and play knight in shining armor,” Sam says, keeping the gun trained on the man. “Because I dismantled all the guns and buried the bullets.”
Bobby stiffens at that, opening his mouth to say something else—to try to convince Sam he’s being an idiot, likely enough—and Sam cocks the gun. It’s an unnecessary gesture with that model, but Dean guesses it proves Sam’s point well enough because Bobby shuts his mouth again, eyes wet but determined, and then hurries out the door. Dean can hear the man running before he’s gone more than a few steps, and a moment later the front door opens and then slams shut again.
“He’ll be back as soon as he finds a better weapon,” Dean points out, watching with interest as Sam lowers his hands. His brother is shaking now that Bobby’s gone, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sags back against the wall. He covers his face a moment later, like Dean won’t know they’re there if Sam’s hands are in the way.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers as he sinks down the wall to sit on the floor. “Oh god, Dean, I’m so sorry.”
“Dude, you just saved my life,” Dean points out. “I mean, yeah, stupid move on your part, but not really something to apologize for.”
“Yeah, it is,” Sam argues, shaking his head as he drops the hand still clutching the gun on the floor. He’s still crying as he looks over at Dean, and there’s a sharp, sweet scent on the air. Despair mixed with resignation.
Dean’s starting to think he might actually have been serious about the offer.
His stomach rumbles as he shifts in the chair. He knows his cock is an obvious bulge in his jeans because Sam glances down at it disinterestedly before pushing back to his feet again. Dean watches as Sam leaves the gun where it is and takes halting, unsteady steps toward him.
“That’s right,” Dean encourages, keeping his voice low and soothing. “Just come on over here and unlock the chains. I’ll take it from there.”
Sam passes him, moving out of sight, and then there’s a rustle of cloth as he crouches behind the chair. Dean moans as his brother’s fingers brush his wrist. He has to clench his own fingers into a fist to keep from grasping back blindly. Then there’s a tiny, unimportant click and Dean surges forward.
The chains fall away easily, light as cobwebs, and he uses the eager adrenaline racing through him to turn and kick the chair out of the way. He has Sam shoved up against the cabin wall in a heartbeat; Sam’s body limp and unresisting where it’s pressed against his.
“Sammy,” he breathes, scenting the corner of his brother’s jaw.
Sam swallows, eyes focused on the other side of the room, and doesn’t answer.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dean whispers. He lets one fang just graze his brother’s cheek—just enough to bead a few drops of blood so that he has a little more energy for this—and then holds Sam in place as he laps at the cut. When he’s done, he offers Sam an appreciative moan and nuzzles against the side of his brother’s face.
“You’re thinking I’m going to get carried away,” he whispers with a teasing nip at Sam’s ear. “Spend too much time playing and still be here when the cavalry gets back. You’re thinking Bobby will take care of us both—the brothers Winchester, going out together in one, bloody mess.”
The way Sam shakes where he’s pinned to the wall tells Dean he’s right, and he slides his hand over his brother’s cheek before getting a good, strong grip on Sam’s hair.
“I’ve got an alternate proposal for you. How about we move this to somewhere a little more private and spend some time catching up?” He rubs his hard cock against Sam’s soft groin and thrills at the surge of fear that gets him from his brother. “You’re gonna be a work of art, Sammy,” he promises, holding Sam still as he begins, belatedly, to struggle. “And then, once you’re begging for it and I’m ready, I’m going to make you a new man, so to speak. We can kill Bobby together. You’ll like that.”
“No,” Sam breathes. “Dean, no.”
“No one likes a party pooper, Sammy,” Dean announces, and then knocks his brother’s head back into the wall—hard enough to leave him unconscious, but not so hard he’ll wake up with more than a bad headache. He doesn’t want to damage his prize this early in the game, after all.
Dean catches Sam’s body in his arms as it sags and then, bending himself, hooks an arm around the back of his brother’s knees and lifts him.
This is going to be fun.