Red Velvet Lines the Black Box (the Undead Remix)
Remix madness for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alexseanchai's Alone in a Darkened Room
Sam/Dean, explicit
Summary: If Sam's time on earth is no longer limited, there's no reason Dean's should be. AU, whose AU-ness starts to affect the episodes as aired mid 6x05, Live Free or Twihard.
Dean is more freaked out about the vampire thing than Sam thinks it deserves. Sam reminds him about Lenore and her little crew: proof positive (no pun intended) that being a vampire can be a lifestyle choice and not a deathdealing spree. Dean’s not convinced, but Sam figures a couple of visits to a blood bank will demonstrate the principle to him.
Sam worries when Dean runs for one last chat with Lisa—though Dean’s never been good at resisting temptation, he’ll want to kill himself if he drinks a Braeden and Sam’s not confident he can prevent that for long enough for Dean to adjust. But Sam grits his teeth and lets him go, because he’s not sure he can stop Dean without a lot of someone’s blood, and because Sam can use the time to do some provisioning of his own. Thank fuck, Dean returns freaked-out and seething with hunger, but not yet a killer of innocents.
The only hitch, it develops, is that Dean could change back, become mortal again, if he takes Samuel’s cure before drinking human blood. Sam’s not even really okay with Dean being vulnerable to stakes, fire, and decapitation; he is in no way going to accept Dean being human, not with an alternative. He remembers those months of Trickster’s Tuesdays perfectly, a blood-smeared catalog of all the ways there are for a mortal to die.
The Pit spat Sam’s body out different, see, and Sam sees an endless road in front of him now, one he doesn’t want to drive alone. While he was perfectly willing to sacrifice his life to save the world from Lucifer, now that he’s been recycled he’s not okay with watching Dean age and die—or die young, more likely; either way sucks—while Sam stays as unchanging as the light of some far-off star. In one brilliant moment in that stinking alleyway Sam saw his alternative, and he took it, and now Samuel is threatening to take it all back like another fucking rewind.
Dean has to drink blood before they kill his sire, or Sam’s simple plan will unravel as fast as he thought of it. (Okay, Sam knows that similar lore failed to pan out with Madison, who stayed wolfed despite the death of her maker, but she’d already tasted blood herself, if that mattered for werewolves too, and Samuel is right more often than he’s not. If Madison taught Sam anything, it was to plan for the very worst.)
When Samuel goes to grab his dead man’s blood for Dean’s raid on the vampire’s lair, Sam offers Dean a drink from his flask. Dean’s alcoholism is another thing Sam’s less than fond of, but he’s hopeful that vampirism will quell that thirst, and right now he’s grateful because Dean grabs it unquestioningly, pops the cap, and takes a gulp like it’s air and he’s drowning. Sam suspects that he’s terrified that it won’t taste right now that he’s a creature of the night—and sure enough, Dean stops after one swallow, his face eerily blank as he concentrates on the flavor.
“Hunh,” he says after a minute. “Tastes nearly as good as you smell. Been hiding the good stuff from me, Sammy.”
Sam smiles. “Thought you could use some enjoyment right now.”
Dean gulps the rest of the flask down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gasping. “Damn, that’s fine—what’s goin’ on?”
“What?” Sam asks, on guard again.
“Your heart, it—”
Sam curses his own eagerness. “I’m just—I just want—”
Dean’s eyes flicker away. Sam’s relieved: he’s obviously chalked Sam’s wobbliness up to Sam watching Dean’s throat work, which is part of that thing they don’t talk about (and that Chuck’s fangirls did more than enough talking about for them both). Sam’s got hopes on that front, too, but it’s not his primary concern right now.
So Sam lets Dean go into the lair alone, and Dean walks back out victorious, the other vampires’ blood in freckles and streaks over his skin, his clothes, sticky in his hair. Sam’s relaxed now, knowing he’s safe, and Dean’s fastidious enough to do some cleanup before they try Samuel’s cure. Samuel gives Sam an extra stinkeye for how he watches Dean while Dean’s washing up. Sam’s had it just about up to here with Samuel. While Sam’s here is farther up than most guys’, it does exist. He doesn’t regret letting Samuel go through the motions of his cure: Samuel could use the reminder to show a little humility.
“Maybe it takes time,” Samuel says after Dean chokes down the potion, and promptly spews it back up again.
They wait an hour, not talking. Samuel breaks first. “Maybe if you drink it again—”
Dean laughs. He’s staring at his guns, out there on the table where he started cleaning them, and Sam knows that he’s thinking about the sunrise.
“I think you should go now,” Sam says, gently. He understands why Samuel’s upset. One of his grandsons is a monster—and the other’s just been turned into a vampire. That’d be hard for anyone.
Despite his protests, Samuel is eventually packed up and ejected. Sam walks him to his truck and leans into the window as Samuel puts the keys into the ignition. “You come after him and I’ll kill you,” he points out. It’s at least fifty-fifty that Samuel will listen to him as long as he keeps Dean in line.
“Think about what you’re doing, Sam,” Samuel says, as close to pleading as Sam’s ever heard him.
Sam suppresses his smile. “Dean’s a hunter, just like me,” he reminds Samuel.
When he gets back into the motel room, Dean is sitting at the tiny desk, staring down at what Sam guesses is supposed to be another goodbye letter. Yeah, that didn’t work for him the first time around, either.
“I broke into a blood bank earlier,” Sam says. “There are packs in the cooler in the tub.”
Much as he hates to admit it, Sam couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that his blood was human enough to do the trick. He’d drunk more demon blood than Dean had drunk whiskey in that last year, plus there was the whole unkillable-now-that-he-was-back-from-Hell thing. So when he’d spiked Dean’s drink, he’d needed something more reliable, and while he was there it had made sense to pick up a couple of days’ supply.
When Dean gets tired of blood banks, there are plenty of human bad guys who’ll do just fine. But Sam’s not going to suggest that to Dean, not right now.
“I’m not—” Dean says, but his stomach chooses right then to rumble, and Sam can’t hide his snigger. Even as a vampire, Dean is still exactly himself, and Sam knows that he’s done the right thing.
Dean looks kind of like he wants to punch Sam, or maybe punch Sam while crying, but he chooses the better part of valor and goes to grab himself a drink. While Sam tears up the half-begun letter, he can hear the little sounds of pleasure Dean makes despite himself, swallowing. Then silence: Dean is probably looking at himself in the mirror.
The next thing Sam hears is the sound of Dean racking his Colt 1911 from the bathroom doorway. Sam spares a moment to be glad Dean doesn’t have the kill-anything Colt.
He stands and raises his hands, slowly, and makes no moves towards Dean.
“I knew you were too cheap to buy top shelf, Sammy,” Dean says. “And just now I thought, why the fuck does blood taste like whiskey? But I got it backwards, didn’t I?”
“I knew you’d figure it out,” Sam says, gentle.
The gun doesn’t waver. “Why?”
“Shoot me and find out,” Sam suggests. “Or—” he grabs for his own gun, and Dean’s still shellshocked enough that he doesn’t fire, not even when Sam puts a round through the back of his own left hand. The bullet embeds itself in the table and Sam gets a couple of extra splinters, but nothing too painful. Dean’s mouth drops open and his eyes go cartoon-wide while Sam’s hand heals up again like he’s made of Play-Doh instead of flesh.
“It’s been like this since I got back,” Sam explains. “I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but that’s how it is. And I’m done losing you, Dean.”
Dean lowers the gun. Sam holds his hand up, offering it for inspection. Also, the blood is still fresh.
Dean approaches like a stray dog offered a steak.
“You can,” Sam tells him.
Dean gives in all at once, like a house collapsing. He won’t meet Sam’s eyes, but he takes Sam’s hand in his, and then he groans and raises it to his mouth. His tongue sends a wicked thrill through Sam’s body, and knowing that Dean can hear his heart racing only improves the sensation. Dean’s teeth scrape against Sam’s skin, nothing like pain, and his face changes—not the externally beautiful man Sam’s known, but not something Sam will find it difficult to live with.
When Dean raises his head from Sam’s now-clean hand, it’s simple to pull him in. They’re in a clinch like something from the cover of a vampire romance, except Sam’s pretty sure the vampire’s supposed to be the taller one. Whatever, it’s easier for Dean to reach his neck this way anyhow.
Dean’s as noisy drinking as he is fucking (Sam’s pretty sure that Dean’s sex noises weren’t even deliberate taunting, because there have definitely been times Dean didn’t know he was being overheard), so greedy for it Sam doesn’t even mind the sting of Dean’s teeth tearing him open again and again, unable to get more than a couple of sucks in before the wound closes each time. Having his blood sucked makes him shivery, leaning into Dean’s unbending strength not from any physiological need but for the connection. Dean’s pressed up against him from knees to chest, and they’re both hard (Sam wonders for a moment about his blood volume and pressure, but mystic shit is mystic so he doesn’t worry for very long), so when Dean transitions from sucking to licking up the underside of Sam’s jaw Sam is pleased but not entirely surprised.
They’re a while just kissing, Dean’s mouth faintly metallic, not much stronger than the way Sam’s had been back when he’d been feeding from Ruby. Dean’s stubble scrapes against Sam’s skin, and he almost wishes he could still get a burn to show off later, but it feels good.
Dean pulls back, his eyes like open ocean. “Fucked up,” he pants, but Sam’s got his hands cupped around Dean’s shoulders to keep him from going far and he just stares at Dean, letting Dean see everything: that inconceivably long future, the irrelevance of anything but the two of them, how Sam’s mind will drift as far from human as his body without Dean there to keep him on target, how Sam’s wanted this for years and how all his reasons why not have been scoured off by the sandstorm of their lives.
Dean shudders, but he leans up again, and this time his teeth tear at Sam’s lip so that he can feed while they kiss. They share blood—Sam thinks how they’re the last of their kind, and now the first, needing no one else. “I’ll never leave you,” Sam tells him, hugging Dean close even when their mouths part. Dean is trembling, warm and solid and no longer fragile in Sam’s arms. Dean kisses him again, and each kiss is Dean’s promise in return.
After Dean’s had his fill, Sam lets Dean push him onto the bed. Dean’s face is back to normal as he wrestles his shirt off—he’s softer than Sam from a year of honest work, and Sam has no idea if that will ever change, now. He’s broader than he was at twenty when Sam started looking at him wrong, but no less desirable. Sam follows Dean’s cues, strips off his own shirt and kicks off his jeans and shorts.
Sam’s just a tiny bit nervous when Dean licks his way down to Sam’s cock, because those teeth are sharp and Dean might not have full control over them yet, but Dean spends only long enough to get Sam good and wet before crawling back up so he can ride Sam.
He’s human-hot around Sam, which Sam wasn’t quite expecting, and he’s tight enough that Sam lets him set the pace. Dean leans forward and runs his nails down Sam’s chest, his expression intent. He never would have done this before, not when he thought there was a way out for himself or for Sam. There were years Sam wouldn’t have wanted it. Now, though, the prospect of decades, centuries, stretching out in front of him, Sam can’t imagine living without someone who understands Sam all the way through, and Dean isn’t going to make him.
He opens his mouth—for all his complaining, Dean would secretly treasure any kind of declaration from Sam—but Dean lifts up and surges down just right, and Sam’s words turn into gasps. Dean’s thighs flex and tense, the strong muscles working under Sam’s hands, and Dean speeds up his pace until there’s nothing in the world but the two of them.
Sam wraps one hand around Dean’s cock and another around his hip, sleek unscarred skin over bone. Dean moves faster, grunting with effort, as Sam’s hips stutter up. Dean comes all over Sam’s chest just as Sam loses it, the orgasm like a thermite bomb.
When Sam’s head clears, Dean is lying on his stomach next to him, his arm thrown over Sam’s chest. There are the faintest pink streaks dried on his cheeks.
“You okay?” Sam asks, for form’s sake. Dean needs to be encouraged to drain his emotional reservoirs every so often even under ordinary circumstances, and there’s been a storm surge in the past day.
“I’m a vampire,” Dean says, which is a fair point.
“Having regrets about this?” Sam can deal with the inevitable angst. But with the haze of sex fading, he knows he needs to worry that Dean will decide that he’s unworthy of living forever. Undead isn’t the same as immortal, which means that Sam is going to have to be extraordinarily careful until Dean gets used to the new normal.
Dean raises his head and shakes it decisively. “You know better, Sam,” he says, and if his tone is faintly mocking, that’s better than a lot of the alternatives. “Vampires mate for life.”
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