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Track 2
“I thought you were worthy, Dean,” Cain said, visibly dismissing Sam from his consideration.
“I was wrong,” Dean admitted. “I’m not the right guy for the Mark. I can’t control it, not like you can.”
Cain frowned, and Dean didn’t think it was just his eyebrows that made him look like he could start throwing lightning bolts if he got angry. “You came to me as a supplicant for this, and now you’re asking me to take it away. I don’t think you know your own mind.”
“Not much there to know. I’m sorry I wasted your time, I am. Please—” The words got tangled up in him the way they always did.
“We don’t always get what we want,” Cain said, each word like a granite block as he rose to his feet. “Some of us never do. Leave now.”
“Hey—” Dean tried.
Cain backhanded him so hard that Dean bounced off the sink, nearly careening into Sam. Dean had been getting weaker and weaker, but mortal danger gave him enough charge to get to his feet, crouched and ready. He didn’t remember calling for it, but the Blade was in his hand. Not Cain’s, he thought with a savage, numbing joy. His teeth were bared and he was ready to tear Cain apart for denying him.
“You don’t get to have a happy ending,” Cain said, advancing until he was just out of range. “You don’t get to do what I couldn’t.”
The Blade in his hand, an enemy in front of him—Dean couldn’t resist. He lunged, turning it into a dive when Cain would’ve planted a foot right in his stomach. He lashed out as he passed, clipping Cain’s hip with the hand not holding the Blade. The kitchen was too small for any momentum; he reversed course and slid over the kitchen table just as Cain grabbed Sam, not even noticing the demon-killing knife Sam had stuck in his gut, and pitched Sam through the door to the living room.
Sam groaned and fell silent.
Calm settled into Dean like ice. His boot struck Cain’s knee as he brought the Blade around towards Cain’s neck. Cain bent backwards like his bones were made of Silly Putty, dodging the killing strike. His hand clamped around Dean’s elbow and it was like being run over by the Impala, a crushing shock.
They fell, and the Blade was trapped between them, the flat pressed between their bodies and the edge parallel between them. Cain’s weight was suffocating, crushing him into the pitted linoleum floor.
Dean saw a thousand years in the Pit in Cain’s eyes. Cain wanted to die, but if he couldn’t get that, his second prize was Dean, bleeding out in front of Sam, letting Sam see justice done at last. They were frozen in place, Cain’s hand twisting his wrist but Dean not yet giving way.
He could solve all their problems right now if he just let go. Cain hadn’t bothered anyone in a long time. With Dean out of the way, Cain could go back to his bees and his hope that someone worthy would eventually arrive.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice sounded like he was calling from all the way across a graveyard. “Get up! Fight, dammit!”
Time began to run again. Dean brought his knee up to strike at the vulnerable flesh of Cain’s inner thigh. Cain managed to lift off enough to avoid the worst of it, but that gave Dean the chance to force his hand up and around.
Using the Blade was always ecstasy. When it ripped through Cain’s clothes and tasted his flesh, every fiber in Dean’s body convulsed with lightning-strike pleasure, shoving the Blade’s teeth further in.
Dean slumped back, not even feeling his head hit the floor. Cain’s dead weight was on him, his hot blood soaking through Dean’s shirt and settling wetly on his skin. He’d come in his pants, which was even more embarrassing than it had been when he was fourteen. Cain’s eyes were grey in death, his mouth open like he had one more thing to say.
“Dean!” Sam was only a few inches away, scrabbling at Cain to flip him off. His hair was a wild halo around his head as he shoved Cain to the side one-handed, cradling his other arm close to his chest. “Dean.”
Dean blinked up at him. “I guess there’s no way out now,” he said, his ears still ringing. He didn’t need to look at his arm to know that the Mark was glowing, molten gold. He’d given Cain mercy, and he’d locked the chain around his own neck.
****
Objectively speaking, Sam had probably made the wrong call when he’d seen Dean go down under Cain and known, known, that Dean wasn’t going to fight back. Letting Dean sacrifice himself could’ve solved their biggest problem, and let him die human besides.
Objectivity could go fuck itself. Cain had already killed one brother too many.
And Dean had listened to Sam. That was good, because Dean self-evidently didn’t know how to take care of himself.
Even Sam’s fractured arm wasn’t all bad. It made Dean attentive and distracted him from his own situation.
The last time Sam had thought he was the one with all the insights, he’d been instrumental in releasing Lucifer from his cage. He’d learned a lot from that, and from subsequent events, when it turned out that Dean could be just as much of an asshole.
Nobody was infallible. Still, someone needed to be in charge, and it sure as shit wasn’t Dean. Or, sadly, Castiel. And Sam was never going to allow himself to be in a position to get possessed again. That made his options pretty obvious.
****
Just to make sure that things sucked uniformly, Cas told them that he was nearly certain that Hell’s doors were going to peel back like a can of anchovies when Dean went black-eyed again.
Thank fuck Sam’s broken arm didn’t stop him from finding a shtriga to get the worst of the need out of Dean. Cas came with him to babysit while Dean did the slaughtering. He wasn’t as invulnerable as he’d been as a demon, and he didn’t have little demonic minions to do the herding for him, but the shtriga’s preferred diet of little kids was more than enough incentive to replace all that. Then on the way back from the shtriga they found a standard murderous ghost, and while fire wasn’t quite as good as putting a bullet or a blade into a monster it also made the yawning pit inside him feel a little less wide. He wanted the First Blade back like he used to want to drink until the world stopped, but he was managing not to call it to himself. He didn’t know how long that self-restraint would last.
And when they were two hours out from the Bunker, Dean nearly got into a fight with the gas station attendant who’d sneered at how Cas had offered the Slim Jims to Dean, so proud of himself for finding Dean’s favorite flavor. Cas managed to pull him away before Dean punched the little shit’s head into a smear on the counter, but it was a near miss. Crowley had undersold the ‘need to kill’ part. At least while he was still human, it didn’t get better when it was fed. It just got bigger.
That was the last time they tried to placate the Mark’s need with blood.
When they returned, Sam hadn’t made any progress, or so he said. He seemed too calm for that. Dean made sloppy joes and Sam ate with the distracted intensity he got when his ginormous brain was so active he’d forgotten that he thought food was optional. Pressing Sam wouldn’t get him to talk if he wasn’t ready, and if they did get into an argument Dean wasn’t completely sure he could shut it down before punching started, so Dean just slammed the dirty dishes around instead like a resentful housewife. Which was another comparison that would have to stay completely confidential.
The next day, Cas left to investigate whether Crowley could be taken out before Dean died and rose again. He thought that the resulting chaos might help buy some time, and whoever replaced Crowley wouldn’t have the same hold on Dean. They hoped so, anyway. Maybe he could raise his own demon army and send it against the rest of Hell. That might be fun, even though the thought of being in charge of anything made him want to get in the Impala and drive until he fell off the edge of the continent.
He wasn’t scared so much as numb. It was starting to hit him just how long a thousand years might be. He wasn’t built on that scale. Without Sam, he’d go out of his mind, not slowly. For all he knew, Abbadon had once been a garden-variety sinner herself, before millennia of overseeing suffering had carved her into her gleeful Joker-self.
Dean promised himself that he was going to stick with straight-up killing for as long as he could. Keeping them wriggling on the rack was for regular demons. It would be beneath him now.
Sam let himself be dragged into binge-watching Orphan Black in Dean’s room—Dean proclaimed that would’ve done any one of the clones and Sarah twice on Sundays (though secretly he thought that Alison was likely the wildest ride, once you got those yoga pants off), and Sam critiqued the science and the misunderstanding of patent law that underlay the entire season. It was a good night, though, shoulder to shoulder, Sam eating the popcorn Dean had dusted with parmesan while Dean tried to figure out if craft beer tasted like crap because he knew how expensive it was or whether that was only the taste of himself rotting from within.
The next morning he spent five minutes writhing on the floor of the shower before he could make himself get up and go make breakfast. Felt like he had rats in his belly, clawing their way through his stomach and his lungs and all the sloppy, drippy parts.
That night, he told Sam he didn’t think he was going to last much longer. Honesty fucking sucked.
****
Dean made noises about not wanting Sam to watch him die this time, but shut up pretty quick when he saw Sam’s face, which felt like a leather mask of itself.
“I want it to be in my own bed,” he said, by way of compromise. Sam was a little surprised Dean hadn’t picked the car, but he wasn’t going to argue.
Dean walked through the Devil’s Trap that now spread across the floor of his room without flinching. As a Knight, he hadn’t been bound, but Sam was sure that it was different to not feel it at all. Sam realized that he’d soon know that for himself, and pushed the thought away.
Sam looked around and narrowed his eyes. Something was different about Dean’s room. “Where’d all your decorations go?” he asked.
Dean gave him the #4 Sam-is-a-dumbass look. “I put the weapons in the third storage room on the right, in case you piss me off later.”
Sam hadn’t realized just how bare, how like his own room, Dean’s bedroom would be without all the blades and guns. Just a crate of records, a couple of crumpled-up shirts in a corner and the picture of the Winchesters circa 1983.
Which Dean picked up and thrust towards him. “Better take care of this, too,” he said.
Sam nodded and went to put it by his own mattress.
When he returned, Dean was coughing wetly. He raised his head from the trashcan, and his lips were bloody. He shrugged and didn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes.
“Does it hurt?” Sam asked, not because he expected the truth but because the nature of Dean’s lie in response would tell him something.
Sure enough, Dean plopped himself down on the bed and folded his arms over his stomach, staring at the blank ceiling. After a pause in which the bunker seemed to grow dimmer and cooler around them, he said, “’s different this time, because I know it’s coming. Feels sort of like the roadies are packing up after a big concert. Taking down the lights, folding the chairs, dumping out the beers.”
Sam nodded as if he understood. His own deaths had never taken long enough for him to notice anything but pain and chaos.
“You should get some rest,” he said, hating how much the words sounded like an excuse. “I’ll be—I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean told him nonchalantly. Sam only wished he could be sure.
Sam hurried, shifting from foot to foot as the microwave worked, nearly fumbling the bottle and not even bothering to cap it again. He didn’t feel the heat when he picked up the mug; he didn’t have time for pain.
Dean was, as promised, lying back on his pillows. His normal crow’s feet were obscured by the lines of pain around his eyes until he detected Sam and smoothed out his expression.
“Hey,” Sam said, kneeling by the bedside, “drink this.” He shaped Dean’s fingers around the mug with his good hand, helping Dean get it to his mouth. Dean huffed, but complied, and his face brightened when he saw the little marshmallows, half-melted into the hot cocoa.
Dean drank deeply, then pushed the mug away. He managed to swallow before being overtaken by another coughing fit. Sam helped him roll towards his side, and Sam didn’t look at the wadded-up tissue that joined many others of its kind in the wastebasket. “Finish your cocoa before it gets cold,” Sam ordered, his voice rough with tears. Dean complied, and the next few minutes were quiet except for the sound of Dean swallowing.
“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said softly as he tried to put the empty mug on his bedside table. When he nearly missed, his eyes widened in shocked realization and leapt up to Sam’s face.
“I can’t watch you suffer,” Sam said needlessly; Dean was already nodding.
“Real sorry it didn’t work out, you know.”
Sam did know: Dean would give up his death wish to stay with Sam, if he could.
“C’mere.” Dean waved his hand, gesturing Sam closer. Sam sat on the edge of the mattress as Dean slumped more and more horizontal, finally lying flat. Sam put his working hand out, spreading the fingers over Dean’s chest, and Dean brought his own hands up to cover Sam’s. Dean blinked, and then his eyes didn’t get past half-mast, and then they closed. Sam was the last thing he’d seen human, again.
Dean’s breath slowed, gaps between each inhale growing longer, each one winding Sam up tighter, his shoulders feeling like they were going to break free of his flesh. His other hand clenched so hard he could feel the old scar ache and the healing bone seemed to grate against itself. He was light-headed from inadvertently imitating Dean’s breathing pattern, interrupted by his own needs for air.
He’d watched Dean die so often. That this time was almost peaceful didn’t improve matters.
He felt the moment of Dean’s death. The room drained of some intangible energy, gone never to return again. Sam didn’t see a way out of this one.
Careful not to let the Blade touch his own skin, he unwrapped it from its shroud—this wasn’t a weapon that had a scabbard—and put it on Dean’s chest, then carefully moved Dean’s still-warm fingers to curl around the hilt, just like Dean had reported from his previous awakening.
Dean’s last reanimation had taken most of a day, but then Dean had been hurt very badly by Metatron, and maybe it got easier with practice. Sam only had to wait by his bedside for three hours before Dean’s eyes snapped open. Like any predator, Dean knew immediately that Sam was there, even though Sam couldn’t tell if his gaze was moving over Sam’s face any more.
“So,” Sam said. “Feeling better, I hope.”
Dean sat up, loose-limbed. “Sammy,” he drawled. “Don’t feel bad. You did your best.”
“Yeah,” Sam told him. “And now I’m gonna do my worst.”
“Hunh?” Dean’s nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed. “Sam—”
Sam grabbed his arm—not the one holding the Blade, since he still didn’t want to die at Dean’s hand—and flicked his own blade out so that it sliced Dean’s flesh just below the inner elbow. He’d prepared the knife just before he made the drugged cocoa.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want it,” Sam said, over Dean’s roar. “You and me. You don’t have to follow Crowley.”
The blood was flowing freely. Sam wasn’t worried about wasting it. Once Dean was on board the supply would be unlimited.
Their panting breaths were loud in the silence of the bunker, almost in the same rhythm.
“You’d do that?” Sam was almost glad that Dean’s eyes were unreadable. He sounded … younger, almost like the kid Sam had left behind for Stanford a thousand years ago.
“I’m not letting you go,” he confirmed.
“Aw,” Dean said, a thin shell of mockery over the hope in his tone, “I didn’t know you cared.”
Sam had his fist in Dean’s shirt and Dean shoved up against the headboard before the last word was finished. “Don’t you ever joke about that. Not you, not now.”
Dean’s blood smeared across Sam’s skin, down his forearm. Dean’s fingers curled loosely around his wrist. “Okay,” Dean said, softly. He would’ve fought, as a human. Sam was almost sure he’d have preferred being interred in cement for millennia to Sam’s willing corruption. But that person wasn’t home any more, and this Dean was still enough to justify Sam’s plan.
(That’s junkie talk, Crowley’s voice whispered in his brain. Tell me, moose, are you sure this is all altruism on your part?)
Sam closed his eyes and bent his head to his task. Above him, Dean gasped and fell silent. After a few minutes, Sam felt Dean’s fingers in his hair, not pulling or stroking, just resting.
Dean had put down the Blade.
It took an embarrasingly long time for Sam to realize that he was ever-so-subtly humping Dean’s leg. Humiliated beyond belief, he pulled off, only to see Dean grinning lewdly and somehow also fondly at him.
Dean brushed Sam’s hair away from his eyes. “Hey,” he said, and Sam’s explanation about Ruby and Pavlovian associations died in his throat. Dean bit his lip, his lashes lowering flirtatiously. “I’m not complainin’,” Dean said. “But if you want me to do more than lie back and think of England you’re gonna have to stop now. I guess you’re just too much man for me.” The way he said it, though—Dean had a hundred ways to say ‘I love you’ and Sam hadn’t noticed most of them until they’d been long abandoned. This, this was a new one.
Sam closed his eyes and let Dean’s hand on the back of his neck drag him down.
****
In Dean’s partial defense, he didn’t delay very long after he started to feel the pull to go to Crowley before admitting it to Sam. They’d needed to know if it was still there, so they hadn’t laden him down with the charms Sam had used before. Putting them back on felt like a loss. And also like calamine lotion on bites, soothing an itch he didn’t dare scratch.
Sam summoned a demon and told it that until Crowley confirmed that he would leave Dean alone, Sam was going to kill every demon he found. Then he exorcised it. “And, I said, I can find a lot,” he explained over dinner (pork chops with apples and spinach; Sam had probably dropped ten pounds while Dean had been distracted by dying, so Dean wasn’t taking any chances). Dean hadn’t been happy to hear about this aspect of Sam’s plan, since he was pretty sure Crowley wouldn’t believe Sam’s ambitions were so small. Not when the Gates of Hell had just closed and then popped open again. But Dean hadn’t known about it until Sam had done it, which Dean guessed was one way to deal with the ‘not interfering with each other’s decisions’ vow, if it still applied when one of them wasn’t human.
They settled into a pattern. Sam fed; Sam went out and grabbed a demon or two to top off, then destroyed them, saving the hosts whenever possible. It wasn’t usually possible. (On the other hand, no pun intended, Sam’s broken arm wasn’t a problem any more, what with the supernatural boosters.) Those deaths were on Dean, for prying Hell open again, but he felt okay about that. In the long run, he trusted Sam over Crowley. Those poor suckers were part of the price that had to be paid to get there.
Sam was a lot grabbier now, and not just when they were fucking. He got pissed off more easily, and Dean had to stop watching Dr. Sexy because Sam threw a book through the TV when Dr. Sexy was just about to have a threesome with the rich, sexy husband and wife who might donate enough money to save the hospital, if they were happy enough. Dean had to read the forums the next day while Sam was working out to find out what had happened, and then he had to order a new TV. Getting fucked up against the wall had been fun, though.
A week in, they got hit by gremlins, about forty of them, who managed to break the Bunker door down and invade the main hall. These weren’t little Mogwai gremlins either, but scaly beasts out of Jim Henson’s worst nightmares. Sam didn’t even lift his hand. He closed his eyes and lifted his shoulders and all of them, except for the leader, just—popped. The room looked like there’d been a mudfight minus the hot chicks in bikinis. Dean grimaced, because guess who got to clean up all that shit, but he wasn’t going to get into it with Sam while the remaining gremlin was still there, filthy now and struck dumb by Sam’s show of force.
“This ain’t your fight, dude,” Dean advised. “I were you, I’d get my ass back underground and wait until the big boys are done fighting.”
The gremlin snarled—Dean was guessing this was another Crowley-subverted alpha, because it was bigger and scalier and in general gave off the impression of being more of a tank than a lizard. Oh well. Dean had given it a warning, which was more than he did for most. A glance at Sam confirmed Sam’s lack of objection to Dean getting a little practice in.
Given that it took Dean the better part of ten minutes to take it down and then required new brickwork to repair the Bunker, Dean thought it really had been an alpha.
****
Castiel returned on a Thursday. He hadn’t even asked to be present for Dean’s death and resurrection; there’d be no handprints for Dean this time. Sam jogged up to the door and added the special sigil that allowed him inside. He saw Castiel noting that it wasn’t there permanently, and he felt a little guilty, but not very.
After five minutes of staring at Sam, during which Castiel three times turned down Dean’s increasingly nervous offers of beer, the angel raised his head like a hawk spotting prey. “You’re drinking demon blood.”
Sam didn’t let his shoulders tense up. He’d known this was coming. “What did you think I was going to do?” Sam asked.
“Not this.” Castiel glowered at both of them. Dean had that hangdog look that Dad or Bobby could produce in him. “Dean, you must know the risks—”
“Hey,” Dean said, “Lucifer’s still in his cage. Long as that’s true, Sam’s time of the month is just gonna be month-long, that’s all. I’m not saying the ‘roid rage is awesome, but if anybody can beat Crowley at his game, you know it’s Sam.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, loose-limbed in jeans and flannel over his Metallica T-shirt, as relaxed as he’d been in years. Sam was warmed by his trust.
“To what end, Dean?” Castiel demanded, not mollified. “I had hoped you would choose Cain’s path. Withdraw from the world, avoid violence.”
“Love bees?” Sam suggested. What was it with supernatural creatures and bees, he wondered. “The endgame is simple. Lucifer wasn’t wrong about one thing: demons shouldn’t exist.”
“None taken,” Dean said reproachfully, waggling his beer.
Sam ignored his brother. He might not need Castiel for this plan, but Castiel striving against him could throw some pretty large, winged spanners in the works.
“When we take over, we’re going to go through Hell until there’s no one left on the rack. I know we can’t cut off the supply of the damned. But we can make it … peaceful.”
“Better than rewind Heaven,” Dean muttered. Sam wasn’t so sure of that, but it was good if Dean thought so. If the peace had to come from the grave, well, Sam had wanted that so badly himself that he wasn’t going to deny any soul an ending.
Castiel listened expressionlessly, the way he always did. Honestly, he was the most likely of all of them to be convinced by reason. If Sam could sway him, then there’d be confirmation that the plan made sense.
After a nearly unbearable pause, Castiel moved closer, putting his hands on the back of a chair and leaning a bit on it. “Very well. ‘I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.’”
“Hunh?” and “When did you learn Macbeth?” they asked simultaneously.
“Metatron downloaded all of human literature into my head,” Castiel explained, if you could call that explaining. “I’m experimenting with cultural references.”
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Dean said, and took another swig. Sam wasn’t sure whether he meant the specific quote or the general practice.
“Great,” Sam said brightly. “Because we could really use your help keeping Crowley out of here until we’re ready.”
“I have been attempting to do so,” Castiel said. “I understand that the alphas are now working together in highly coordinated fashion. The angels are … nervous.”
Dean was already rifling through the fridge, the line of his back saying ‘told you so’ because he knew better than to say it to Sam’s face. “You can explain over dinner,” he said, muffled. “Burgers okay?”
Dinner was marginally less tense than it could’ve been, even when Sam put his hand high up on Dean’s thigh. Dean’s mouth thinned, but he didn’t wrench himself away until Castiel had already noticed. Showing off might’ve been a mistake, but Castiel was the friendliest angel they knew and he’d spin it for the others, Sam hoped. He just didn’t—Castiel needed to understand that Dean was his. Castiel could have all of Heaven instead; it was a fair trade.
****
Sam was in the library researching his next trip—Dean still didn’t like being cooped up in here, and Sam bringing back a couple of ghouls for Dean to dispatch last time hadn’t been satisfying either, especially since Sam had rented a trailer, not even caring what that did to the Impala’s suspension. Seriously, it was like the kid deliberately did it to piss him off. Or more likely to give him a repair project to occupy his time, after the ghouls and the latest season of Orange Is the New Black were ended.
Point being, Dean was about bored out of his infernal mind when Sam looked up from his computer and said, “Dean? Would you bring me that pencil?”
The pencil was probably twenty inches away from him on the table, and Dean was almost on the other side of the room, near the kitchen. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Somethin’ happen to your arms, Sammy?”
Sam’s face contracted into full bitchface. “Dean, I want you to bring me that pencil.”
Dean felt a tug, like there was a meathook in his chest again. Holy fuck, Sam was—
“No,” he said. He needed to fight as hard as he could. Crowley wasn’t going to die easy.
Sam’s eyes narrowed further, his lips pursing. Dean would’ve found it hilarious if he’d had the energy. He wasn’t going to let some punk-ass little brother boss him around. That went against the natural order. The tugging intensified, until he was jerked off of the table he’d been leaning against.
“No!” he said again, clenching his fists and snarling, feeling his eyes flicker black as he dropped the pretense. Being Sam’s bitch wasn’t much better than being Crowley’s, and now he was really struggling. One dragging step forward, then another.
Dean yowled, furious. Sam’s face was drawn, a trickle of blood flowing from his left nostril, and Dean wanted it everywhere. The Mark was supposed to make him strong, not put him on his knees for every wanna-be King of Hell.
Sam had his hand up now, pulling on nothing. “My brother,” he said, nearly breathless with effort. “Our blood. My Knight.”
Dean wasn’t too sure what happened next, except that he was pressed up against Sam—bastard was lucky he hadn’t put the pencil through his damned shoulder; Dean’s fist was closed so tight around it he could feel it splintering—and Sam was grinning, lips bloody and eyes wild.
“Sam.” Dean dropped the pencil and put his hands on Sam’s face. “Sammy.” He could feel his own smile stretching his face past the point of comfort.
“Say it,” Sam ordered.
Dean’s pride twitched. But he’d served far worse without wanting it—Alastair and Heaven and Crowley all—and despite their test-fight just now, this was what he’d hoped for. “’m your Knight,” he said. Then he kissed Sam’s bloody mouth, kissed him until Sam swung them around and shoved Dean down on the table, the better to reach his arm for a quick feed before the fuck.
Sam drained him until he was weak. But then Sam did all the work, letting Dean lie back and take it. Dean stared up at him, blinking only when he had to. He knew his eyes were mirrors. He didn’t think Sam could see his own eyes reflected now, tiny images going on to infinity inside each other, but Sam might not have noticed anyway, too busy with his biceps cording and his teeth gritted as he panted Dean’s name. Dean hitched his legs around Sam’s hips and let Sam shove him up and back. He felt so light that he might’ve just floated away without Sam’s cock to anchor him.
Afterwards, Sam collapsed on him, panting into his shoulder. Sam smelled just the same underneath the sweet metal and sulfur of their blood—like old books and hard fights. He was so heavy it was a good thing Dean didn’t much need to breathe, all muscle and golden skin and romance hero hair above him.
Dean idly bit at the line of his shoulder.
“Stoppit,” Sam mumbled, not like he meant it. “Gonna go grab a couple more demons, top off before we go after Crowley.” But he didn’t move.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, not as angry as he usually was about the prospect of Sam drinking alone. Right now, Sam would be about as superpower-safe as he could get without Dean at his side.
****
Sam had planned to drive out to Ohio, where there were signs indicating a large cluster of demons. But his last-minute check of the bunker’s security cameras showed that he wasn’t going to make it that far.
People—possessed humans, he had no doubt—were converging on the bunker like waves of fans on a rock concert. There must’ve been hundreds. They couldn’t get past the defenses, Sam was pretty sure, but they could definitely make going out for pizza difficult.
Of course they were all wearing black suits. And of course the only exception was the brown-suited dandy in the lead.
Evidently they’d managed to piss Crowley off.
Sam didn’t realize he was smiling until Dean whacked his shoulder and told him to cut it out, psycho, they needed to prep.
****
“Hey, Sam,” Dean said, as they headed up the stairs, past the wards that Sam had customized to keep all the other demons out. “You didn’t see Lucifer out there, did you?”
“What?” Sam sourfaced at him. “No.”
“Good,” Dean told him. “For a moment there I thought we were in trouble.”
Sam shook his head, his eyes soft in a way that was all Dean’s now, and opened the door.
END
(you could try the other path)
“I thought you were worthy, Dean,” Cain said, visibly dismissing Sam from his consideration.
“I was wrong,” Dean admitted. “I’m not the right guy for the Mark. I can’t control it, not like you can.”
Cain frowned, and Dean didn’t think it was just his eyebrows that made him look like he could start throwing lightning bolts if he got angry. “You came to me as a supplicant for this, and now you’re asking me to take it away. I don’t think you know your own mind.”
“Not much there to know. I’m sorry I wasted your time, I am. Please—” The words got tangled up in him the way they always did.
“We don’t always get what we want,” Cain said, each word like a granite block as he rose to his feet. “Some of us never do. Leave now.”
“Hey—” Dean tried.
Cain backhanded him so hard that Dean bounced off the sink, nearly careening into Sam. Dean had been getting weaker and weaker, but mortal danger gave him enough charge to get to his feet, crouched and ready. He didn’t remember calling for it, but the Blade was in his hand. Not Cain’s, he thought with a savage, numbing joy. His teeth were bared and he was ready to tear Cain apart for denying him.
“You don’t get to have a happy ending,” Cain said, advancing until he was just out of range. “You don’t get to do what I couldn’t.”
The Blade in his hand, an enemy in front of him—Dean couldn’t resist. He lunged, turning it into a dive when Cain would’ve planted a foot right in his stomach. He lashed out as he passed, clipping Cain’s hip with the hand not holding the Blade. The kitchen was too small for any momentum; he reversed course and slid over the kitchen table just as Cain grabbed Sam, not even noticing the demon-killing knife Sam had stuck in his gut, and pitched Sam through the door to the living room.
Sam groaned and fell silent.
Calm settled into Dean like ice. His boot struck Cain’s knee as he brought the Blade around towards Cain’s neck. Cain bent backwards like his bones were made of Silly Putty, dodging the killing strike. His hand clamped around Dean’s elbow and it was like being run over by the Impala, a crushing shock.
They fell, and the Blade was trapped between them, the flat pressed between their bodies and the edge parallel between them. Cain’s weight was suffocating, crushing him into the pitted linoleum floor.
Dean saw a thousand years in the Pit in Cain’s eyes. Cain wanted to die, but if he couldn’t get that, his second prize was Dean, bleeding out in front of Sam, letting Sam see justice done at last. They were frozen in place, Cain’s hand twisting his wrist but Dean not yet giving way.
He could solve all their problems right now if he just let go. Cain hadn’t bothered anyone in a long time. With Dean out of the way, Cain could go back to his bees and his hope that someone worthy would eventually arrive.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice sounded like he was calling from all the way across a graveyard. “Get up! Fight, dammit!”
Time began to run again. Dean brought his knee up to strike at the vulnerable flesh of Cain’s inner thigh. Cain managed to lift off enough to avoid the worst of it, but that gave Dean the chance to force his hand up and around.
Using the Blade was always ecstasy. When it ripped through Cain’s clothes and tasted his flesh, every fiber in Dean’s body convulsed with lightning-strike pleasure, shoving the Blade’s teeth further in.
Dean slumped back, not even feeling his head hit the floor. Cain’s dead weight was on him, his hot blood soaking through Dean’s shirt and settling wetly on his skin. He’d come in his pants, which was even more embarrassing than it had been when he was fourteen. Cain’s eyes were grey in death, his mouth open like he had one more thing to say.
“Dean!” Sam was only a few inches away, scrabbling at Cain to flip him off. His hair was a wild halo around his head as he shoved Cain to the side one-handed, cradling his other arm close to his chest. “Dean.”
Dean blinked up at him. “I guess there’s no way out now,” he said, his ears still ringing. He didn’t need to look at his arm to know that the Mark was glowing, molten gold. He’d given Cain mercy, and he’d locked the chain around his own neck.
****
Objectively speaking, Sam had probably made the wrong call when he’d seen Dean go down under Cain and known, known, that Dean wasn’t going to fight back. Letting Dean sacrifice himself could’ve solved their biggest problem, and let him die human besides.
Objectivity could go fuck itself. Cain had already killed one brother too many.
And Dean had listened to Sam. That was good, because Dean self-evidently didn’t know how to take care of himself.
Even Sam’s fractured arm wasn’t all bad. It made Dean attentive and distracted him from his own situation.
The last time Sam had thought he was the one with all the insights, he’d been instrumental in releasing Lucifer from his cage. He’d learned a lot from that, and from subsequent events, when it turned out that Dean could be just as much of an asshole.
Nobody was infallible. Still, someone needed to be in charge, and it sure as shit wasn’t Dean. Or, sadly, Castiel. And Sam was never going to allow himself to be in a position to get possessed again. That made his options pretty obvious.
****
Just to make sure that things sucked uniformly, Cas told them that he was nearly certain that Hell’s doors were going to peel back like a can of anchovies when Dean went black-eyed again.
Thank fuck Sam’s broken arm didn’t stop him from finding a shtriga to get the worst of the need out of Dean. Cas came with him to babysit while Dean did the slaughtering. He wasn’t as invulnerable as he’d been as a demon, and he didn’t have little demonic minions to do the herding for him, but the shtriga’s preferred diet of little kids was more than enough incentive to replace all that. Then on the way back from the shtriga they found a standard murderous ghost, and while fire wasn’t quite as good as putting a bullet or a blade into a monster it also made the yawning pit inside him feel a little less wide. He wanted the First Blade back like he used to want to drink until the world stopped, but he was managing not to call it to himself. He didn’t know how long that self-restraint would last.
And when they were two hours out from the Bunker, Dean nearly got into a fight with the gas station attendant who’d sneered at how Cas had offered the Slim Jims to Dean, so proud of himself for finding Dean’s favorite flavor. Cas managed to pull him away before Dean punched the little shit’s head into a smear on the counter, but it was a near miss. Crowley had undersold the ‘need to kill’ part. At least while he was still human, it didn’t get better when it was fed. It just got bigger.
That was the last time they tried to placate the Mark’s need with blood.
When they returned, Sam hadn’t made any progress, or so he said. He seemed too calm for that. Dean made sloppy joes and Sam ate with the distracted intensity he got when his ginormous brain was so active he’d forgotten that he thought food was optional. Pressing Sam wouldn’t get him to talk if he wasn’t ready, and if they did get into an argument Dean wasn’t completely sure he could shut it down before punching started, so Dean just slammed the dirty dishes around instead like a resentful housewife. Which was another comparison that would have to stay completely confidential.
The next day, Cas left to investigate whether Crowley could be taken out before Dean died and rose again. He thought that the resulting chaos might help buy some time, and whoever replaced Crowley wouldn’t have the same hold on Dean. They hoped so, anyway. Maybe he could raise his own demon army and send it against the rest of Hell. That might be fun, even though the thought of being in charge of anything made him want to get in the Impala and drive until he fell off the edge of the continent.
He wasn’t scared so much as numb. It was starting to hit him just how long a thousand years might be. He wasn’t built on that scale. Without Sam, he’d go out of his mind, not slowly. For all he knew, Abbadon had once been a garden-variety sinner herself, before millennia of overseeing suffering had carved her into her gleeful Joker-self.
Dean promised himself that he was going to stick with straight-up killing for as long as he could. Keeping them wriggling on the rack was for regular demons. It would be beneath him now.
Sam let himself be dragged into binge-watching Orphan Black in Dean’s room—Dean proclaimed that would’ve done any one of the clones and Sarah twice on Sundays (though secretly he thought that Alison was likely the wildest ride, once you got those yoga pants off), and Sam critiqued the science and the misunderstanding of patent law that underlay the entire season. It was a good night, though, shoulder to shoulder, Sam eating the popcorn Dean had dusted with parmesan while Dean tried to figure out if craft beer tasted like crap because he knew how expensive it was or whether that was only the taste of himself rotting from within.
The next morning he spent five minutes writhing on the floor of the shower before he could make himself get up and go make breakfast. Felt like he had rats in his belly, clawing their way through his stomach and his lungs and all the sloppy, drippy parts.
That night, he told Sam he didn’t think he was going to last much longer. Honesty fucking sucked.
****
Dean made noises about not wanting Sam to watch him die this time, but shut up pretty quick when he saw Sam’s face, which felt like a leather mask of itself.
“I want it to be in my own bed,” he said, by way of compromise. Sam was a little surprised Dean hadn’t picked the car, but he wasn’t going to argue.
Dean walked through the Devil’s Trap that now spread across the floor of his room without flinching. As a Knight, he hadn’t been bound, but Sam was sure that it was different to not feel it at all. Sam realized that he’d soon know that for himself, and pushed the thought away.
Sam looked around and narrowed his eyes. Something was different about Dean’s room. “Where’d all your decorations go?” he asked.
Dean gave him the #4 Sam-is-a-dumbass look. “I put the weapons in the third storage room on the right, in case you piss me off later.”
Sam hadn’t realized just how bare, how like his own room, Dean’s bedroom would be without all the blades and guns. Just a crate of records, a couple of crumpled-up shirts in a corner and the picture of the Winchesters circa 1983.
Which Dean picked up and thrust towards him. “Better take care of this, too,” he said.
Sam nodded and went to put it by his own mattress.
When he returned, Dean was coughing wetly. He raised his head from the trashcan, and his lips were bloody. He shrugged and didn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes.
“Does it hurt?” Sam asked, not because he expected the truth but because the nature of Dean’s lie in response would tell him something.
Sure enough, Dean plopped himself down on the bed and folded his arms over his stomach, staring at the blank ceiling. After a pause in which the bunker seemed to grow dimmer and cooler around them, he said, “’s different this time, because I know it’s coming. Feels sort of like the roadies are packing up after a big concert. Taking down the lights, folding the chairs, dumping out the beers.”
Sam nodded as if he understood. His own deaths had never taken long enough for him to notice anything but pain and chaos.
“You should get some rest,” he said, hating how much the words sounded like an excuse. “I’ll be—I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean told him nonchalantly. Sam only wished he could be sure.
Sam hurried, shifting from foot to foot as the microwave worked, nearly fumbling the bottle and not even bothering to cap it again. He didn’t feel the heat when he picked up the mug; he didn’t have time for pain.
Dean was, as promised, lying back on his pillows. His normal crow’s feet were obscured by the lines of pain around his eyes until he detected Sam and smoothed out his expression.
“Hey,” Sam said, kneeling by the bedside, “drink this.” He shaped Dean’s fingers around the mug with his good hand, helping Dean get it to his mouth. Dean huffed, but complied, and his face brightened when he saw the little marshmallows, half-melted into the hot cocoa.
Dean drank deeply, then pushed the mug away. He managed to swallow before being overtaken by another coughing fit. Sam helped him roll towards his side, and Sam didn’t look at the wadded-up tissue that joined many others of its kind in the wastebasket. “Finish your cocoa before it gets cold,” Sam ordered, his voice rough with tears. Dean complied, and the next few minutes were quiet except for the sound of Dean swallowing.
“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said softly as he tried to put the empty mug on his bedside table. When he nearly missed, his eyes widened in shocked realization and leapt up to Sam’s face.
“I can’t watch you suffer,” Sam said needlessly; Dean was already nodding.
“Real sorry it didn’t work out, you know.”
Sam did know: Dean would give up his death wish to stay with Sam, if he could.
“C’mere.” Dean waved his hand, gesturing Sam closer. Sam sat on the edge of the mattress as Dean slumped more and more horizontal, finally lying flat. Sam put his working hand out, spreading the fingers over Dean’s chest, and Dean brought his own hands up to cover Sam’s. Dean blinked, and then his eyes didn’t get past half-mast, and then they closed. Sam was the last thing he’d seen human, again.
Dean’s breath slowed, gaps between each inhale growing longer, each one winding Sam up tighter, his shoulders feeling like they were going to break free of his flesh. His other hand clenched so hard he could feel the old scar ache and the healing bone seemed to grate against itself. He was light-headed from inadvertently imitating Dean’s breathing pattern, interrupted by his own needs for air.
He’d watched Dean die so often. That this time was almost peaceful didn’t improve matters.
He felt the moment of Dean’s death. The room drained of some intangible energy, gone never to return again. Sam didn’t see a way out of this one.
Careful not to let the Blade touch his own skin, he unwrapped it from its shroud—this wasn’t a weapon that had a scabbard—and put it on Dean’s chest, then carefully moved Dean’s still-warm fingers to curl around the hilt, just like Dean had reported from his previous awakening.
Dean’s last reanimation had taken most of a day, but then Dean had been hurt very badly by Metatron, and maybe it got easier with practice. Sam only had to wait by his bedside for three hours before Dean’s eyes snapped open. Like any predator, Dean knew immediately that Sam was there, even though Sam couldn’t tell if his gaze was moving over Sam’s face any more.
“So,” Sam said. “Feeling better, I hope.”
Dean sat up, loose-limbed. “Sammy,” he drawled. “Don’t feel bad. You did your best.”
“Yeah,” Sam told him. “And now I’m gonna do my worst.”
“Hunh?” Dean’s nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed. “Sam—”
Sam grabbed his arm—not the one holding the Blade, since he still didn’t want to die at Dean’s hand—and flicked his own blade out so that it sliced Dean’s flesh just below the inner elbow. He’d prepared the knife just before he made the drugged cocoa.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want it,” Sam said, over Dean’s roar. “You and me. You don’t have to follow Crowley.”
The blood was flowing freely. Sam wasn’t worried about wasting it. Once Dean was on board the supply would be unlimited.
Their panting breaths were loud in the silence of the bunker, almost in the same rhythm.
“You’d do that?” Sam was almost glad that Dean’s eyes were unreadable. He sounded … younger, almost like the kid Sam had left behind for Stanford a thousand years ago.
“I’m not letting you go,” he confirmed.
“Aw,” Dean said, a thin shell of mockery over the hope in his tone, “I didn’t know you cared.”
Sam had his fist in Dean’s shirt and Dean shoved up against the headboard before the last word was finished. “Don’t you ever joke about that. Not you, not now.”
Dean’s blood smeared across Sam’s skin, down his forearm. Dean’s fingers curled loosely around his wrist. “Okay,” Dean said, softly. He would’ve fought, as a human. Sam was almost sure he’d have preferred being interred in cement for millennia to Sam’s willing corruption. But that person wasn’t home any more, and this Dean was still enough to justify Sam’s plan.
(That’s junkie talk, Crowley’s voice whispered in his brain. Tell me, moose, are you sure this is all altruism on your part?)
Sam closed his eyes and bent his head to his task. Above him, Dean gasped and fell silent. After a few minutes, Sam felt Dean’s fingers in his hair, not pulling or stroking, just resting.
Dean had put down the Blade.
It took an embarrasingly long time for Sam to realize that he was ever-so-subtly humping Dean’s leg. Humiliated beyond belief, he pulled off, only to see Dean grinning lewdly and somehow also fondly at him.
Dean brushed Sam’s hair away from his eyes. “Hey,” he said, and Sam’s explanation about Ruby and Pavlovian associations died in his throat. Dean bit his lip, his lashes lowering flirtatiously. “I’m not complainin’,” Dean said. “But if you want me to do more than lie back and think of England you’re gonna have to stop now. I guess you’re just too much man for me.” The way he said it, though—Dean had a hundred ways to say ‘I love you’ and Sam hadn’t noticed most of them until they’d been long abandoned. This, this was a new one.
Sam closed his eyes and let Dean’s hand on the back of his neck drag him down.
****
In Dean’s partial defense, he didn’t delay very long after he started to feel the pull to go to Crowley before admitting it to Sam. They’d needed to know if it was still there, so they hadn’t laden him down with the charms Sam had used before. Putting them back on felt like a loss. And also like calamine lotion on bites, soothing an itch he didn’t dare scratch.
Sam summoned a demon and told it that until Crowley confirmed that he would leave Dean alone, Sam was going to kill every demon he found. Then he exorcised it. “And, I said, I can find a lot,” he explained over dinner (pork chops with apples and spinach; Sam had probably dropped ten pounds while Dean had been distracted by dying, so Dean wasn’t taking any chances). Dean hadn’t been happy to hear about this aspect of Sam’s plan, since he was pretty sure Crowley wouldn’t believe Sam’s ambitions were so small. Not when the Gates of Hell had just closed and then popped open again. But Dean hadn’t known about it until Sam had done it, which Dean guessed was one way to deal with the ‘not interfering with each other’s decisions’ vow, if it still applied when one of them wasn’t human.
They settled into a pattern. Sam fed; Sam went out and grabbed a demon or two to top off, then destroyed them, saving the hosts whenever possible. It wasn’t usually possible. (On the other hand, no pun intended, Sam’s broken arm wasn’t a problem any more, what with the supernatural boosters.) Those deaths were on Dean, for prying Hell open again, but he felt okay about that. In the long run, he trusted Sam over Crowley. Those poor suckers were part of the price that had to be paid to get there.
Sam was a lot grabbier now, and not just when they were fucking. He got pissed off more easily, and Dean had to stop watching Dr. Sexy because Sam threw a book through the TV when Dr. Sexy was just about to have a threesome with the rich, sexy husband and wife who might donate enough money to save the hospital, if they were happy enough. Dean had to read the forums the next day while Sam was working out to find out what had happened, and then he had to order a new TV. Getting fucked up against the wall had been fun, though.
A week in, they got hit by gremlins, about forty of them, who managed to break the Bunker door down and invade the main hall. These weren’t little Mogwai gremlins either, but scaly beasts out of Jim Henson’s worst nightmares. Sam didn’t even lift his hand. He closed his eyes and lifted his shoulders and all of them, except for the leader, just—popped. The room looked like there’d been a mudfight minus the hot chicks in bikinis. Dean grimaced, because guess who got to clean up all that shit, but he wasn’t going to get into it with Sam while the remaining gremlin was still there, filthy now and struck dumb by Sam’s show of force.
“This ain’t your fight, dude,” Dean advised. “I were you, I’d get my ass back underground and wait until the big boys are done fighting.”
The gremlin snarled—Dean was guessing this was another Crowley-subverted alpha, because it was bigger and scalier and in general gave off the impression of being more of a tank than a lizard. Oh well. Dean had given it a warning, which was more than he did for most. A glance at Sam confirmed Sam’s lack of objection to Dean getting a little practice in.
Given that it took Dean the better part of ten minutes to take it down and then required new brickwork to repair the Bunker, Dean thought it really had been an alpha.
****
Castiel returned on a Thursday. He hadn’t even asked to be present for Dean’s death and resurrection; there’d be no handprints for Dean this time. Sam jogged up to the door and added the special sigil that allowed him inside. He saw Castiel noting that it wasn’t there permanently, and he felt a little guilty, but not very.
After five minutes of staring at Sam, during which Castiel three times turned down Dean’s increasingly nervous offers of beer, the angel raised his head like a hawk spotting prey. “You’re drinking demon blood.”
Sam didn’t let his shoulders tense up. He’d known this was coming. “What did you think I was going to do?” Sam asked.
“Not this.” Castiel glowered at both of them. Dean had that hangdog look that Dad or Bobby could produce in him. “Dean, you must know the risks—”
“Hey,” Dean said, “Lucifer’s still in his cage. Long as that’s true, Sam’s time of the month is just gonna be month-long, that’s all. I’m not saying the ‘roid rage is awesome, but if anybody can beat Crowley at his game, you know it’s Sam.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, loose-limbed in jeans and flannel over his Metallica T-shirt, as relaxed as he’d been in years. Sam was warmed by his trust.
“To what end, Dean?” Castiel demanded, not mollified. “I had hoped you would choose Cain’s path. Withdraw from the world, avoid violence.”
“Love bees?” Sam suggested. What was it with supernatural creatures and bees, he wondered. “The endgame is simple. Lucifer wasn’t wrong about one thing: demons shouldn’t exist.”
“None taken,” Dean said reproachfully, waggling his beer.
Sam ignored his brother. He might not need Castiel for this plan, but Castiel striving against him could throw some pretty large, winged spanners in the works.
“When we take over, we’re going to go through Hell until there’s no one left on the rack. I know we can’t cut off the supply of the damned. But we can make it … peaceful.”
“Better than rewind Heaven,” Dean muttered. Sam wasn’t so sure of that, but it was good if Dean thought so. If the peace had to come from the grave, well, Sam had wanted that so badly himself that he wasn’t going to deny any soul an ending.
Castiel listened expressionlessly, the way he always did. Honestly, he was the most likely of all of them to be convinced by reason. If Sam could sway him, then there’d be confirmation that the plan made sense.
After a nearly unbearable pause, Castiel moved closer, putting his hands on the back of a chair and leaning a bit on it. “Very well. ‘I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.’”
“Hunh?” and “When did you learn Macbeth?” they asked simultaneously.
“Metatron downloaded all of human literature into my head,” Castiel explained, if you could call that explaining. “I’m experimenting with cultural references.”
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Dean said, and took another swig. Sam wasn’t sure whether he meant the specific quote or the general practice.
“Great,” Sam said brightly. “Because we could really use your help keeping Crowley out of here until we’re ready.”
“I have been attempting to do so,” Castiel said. “I understand that the alphas are now working together in highly coordinated fashion. The angels are … nervous.”
Dean was already rifling through the fridge, the line of his back saying ‘told you so’ because he knew better than to say it to Sam’s face. “You can explain over dinner,” he said, muffled. “Burgers okay?”
Dinner was marginally less tense than it could’ve been, even when Sam put his hand high up on Dean’s thigh. Dean’s mouth thinned, but he didn’t wrench himself away until Castiel had already noticed. Showing off might’ve been a mistake, but Castiel was the friendliest angel they knew and he’d spin it for the others, Sam hoped. He just didn’t—Castiel needed to understand that Dean was his. Castiel could have all of Heaven instead; it was a fair trade.
****
Sam was in the library researching his next trip—Dean still didn’t like being cooped up in here, and Sam bringing back a couple of ghouls for Dean to dispatch last time hadn’t been satisfying either, especially since Sam had rented a trailer, not even caring what that did to the Impala’s suspension. Seriously, it was like the kid deliberately did it to piss him off. Or more likely to give him a repair project to occupy his time, after the ghouls and the latest season of Orange Is the New Black were ended.
Point being, Dean was about bored out of his infernal mind when Sam looked up from his computer and said, “Dean? Would you bring me that pencil?”
The pencil was probably twenty inches away from him on the table, and Dean was almost on the other side of the room, near the kitchen. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Somethin’ happen to your arms, Sammy?”
Sam’s face contracted into full bitchface. “Dean, I want you to bring me that pencil.”
Dean felt a tug, like there was a meathook in his chest again. Holy fuck, Sam was—
“No,” he said. He needed to fight as hard as he could. Crowley wasn’t going to die easy.
Sam’s eyes narrowed further, his lips pursing. Dean would’ve found it hilarious if he’d had the energy. He wasn’t going to let some punk-ass little brother boss him around. That went against the natural order. The tugging intensified, until he was jerked off of the table he’d been leaning against.
“No!” he said again, clenching his fists and snarling, feeling his eyes flicker black as he dropped the pretense. Being Sam’s bitch wasn’t much better than being Crowley’s, and now he was really struggling. One dragging step forward, then another.
Dean yowled, furious. Sam’s face was drawn, a trickle of blood flowing from his left nostril, and Dean wanted it everywhere. The Mark was supposed to make him strong, not put him on his knees for every wanna-be King of Hell.
Sam had his hand up now, pulling on nothing. “My brother,” he said, nearly breathless with effort. “Our blood. My Knight.”
Dean wasn’t too sure what happened next, except that he was pressed up against Sam—bastard was lucky he hadn’t put the pencil through his damned shoulder; Dean’s fist was closed so tight around it he could feel it splintering—and Sam was grinning, lips bloody and eyes wild.
“Sam.” Dean dropped the pencil and put his hands on Sam’s face. “Sammy.” He could feel his own smile stretching his face past the point of comfort.
“Say it,” Sam ordered.
Dean’s pride twitched. But he’d served far worse without wanting it—Alastair and Heaven and Crowley all—and despite their test-fight just now, this was what he’d hoped for. “’m your Knight,” he said. Then he kissed Sam’s bloody mouth, kissed him until Sam swung them around and shoved Dean down on the table, the better to reach his arm for a quick feed before the fuck.
Sam drained him until he was weak. But then Sam did all the work, letting Dean lie back and take it. Dean stared up at him, blinking only when he had to. He knew his eyes were mirrors. He didn’t think Sam could see his own eyes reflected now, tiny images going on to infinity inside each other, but Sam might not have noticed anyway, too busy with his biceps cording and his teeth gritted as he panted Dean’s name. Dean hitched his legs around Sam’s hips and let Sam shove him up and back. He felt so light that he might’ve just floated away without Sam’s cock to anchor him.
Afterwards, Sam collapsed on him, panting into his shoulder. Sam smelled just the same underneath the sweet metal and sulfur of their blood—like old books and hard fights. He was so heavy it was a good thing Dean didn’t much need to breathe, all muscle and golden skin and romance hero hair above him.
Dean idly bit at the line of his shoulder.
“Stoppit,” Sam mumbled, not like he meant it. “Gonna go grab a couple more demons, top off before we go after Crowley.” But he didn’t move.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, not as angry as he usually was about the prospect of Sam drinking alone. Right now, Sam would be about as superpower-safe as he could get without Dean at his side.
****
Sam had planned to drive out to Ohio, where there were signs indicating a large cluster of demons. But his last-minute check of the bunker’s security cameras showed that he wasn’t going to make it that far.
People—possessed humans, he had no doubt—were converging on the bunker like waves of fans on a rock concert. There must’ve been hundreds. They couldn’t get past the defenses, Sam was pretty sure, but they could definitely make going out for pizza difficult.
Of course they were all wearing black suits. And of course the only exception was the brown-suited dandy in the lead.
Evidently they’d managed to piss Crowley off.
Sam didn’t realize he was smiling until Dean whacked his shoulder and told him to cut it out, psycho, they needed to prep.
****
“Hey, Sam,” Dean said, as they headed up the stairs, past the wards that Sam had customized to keep all the other demons out. “You didn’t see Lucifer out there, did you?”
“What?” Sam sourfaced at him. “No.”
“Good,” Dean told him. “For a moment there I thought we were in trouble.”
Sam shook his head, his eyes soft in a way that was all Dean’s now, and opened the door.
END
(you could try the other path)
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