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runedgirlAuthor: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:leyla_lovely
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warnings: minor Dean/OFC, Dean/OMC, Sam/OFC, Sam/OMC, violence
Word Count: 34,000 (entire)
Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_bigbang
Link to incredible Art: Art Master Post
Sam doesn’t think about it much anymore. Sometimes he almost forgets he had a brother, just like they told him he would. Life is simple. You eat, you sleep, you fight when you have to, you fuck when you can, you take what you need, you amuse yourself when boredom threatens. Missing a human you loved is as much a waste of time as wishing you could see the sunrise, or walk down a postcard-perfect white sandy beach at noon. Sam just….doesn’t. He thinks sometimes that he had more preparation for the change than most, a year without a soul like boot camp for being a vampire.
He didn’t dream then, though, didn’t sleep. He wishes he didn’t need to now. Dreams are where the things he doesn’t think about come creeping in, memories awash in emotions he no longer feels when his eyes are open. Dean’s there, inevitably, when he closes his eyes.
But Dean’s nowhere else. Apparently Sam’s brilliant plan to discourage his brother’s pursuit worked like a charm. Either that or he’s dead….but Sam thinks he probably would have heard about that. Instead there’s nothing.
Until there is.
They’re in Texas when he hears his brother’s name again, quite unexpectedly. He’s been with Jake’s group for a while now. There are thirteen of them, one of the biggest nests around. Sam likes the anonymity of that, keeps to himself most of the time. He doesn’t really like most of them, but then he supposes that’s not a priority amongst vampires anyway. Jake’s not much for encouraging relationships in the group, for himself or anyone else, preferring to sate most of his appetites with humans. There are always a few chained in the basement of the spacious abandoned movie theater they’ve been living in. Sam can hear their screams from time to time, at least when they’re new. After a while they’re quiet, the life slowly bled and fucked out of them until they’re either dead or turned, depending on Jake’s assessment of whether they’ll look to him for revenge or protection after.
Jake’s holding court on a Friday evening, the rest gathered around, lounging on the few remaining velvet padded theater seats or sitting on the edge of the stage in front of the tattered red plush curtain. It’s fittingly decadent for a bunch of vampires, Sam thinks.
“That’s right,” Jake’s saying, alternately swigging from a bottle of whiskey and sipping from the oozing neck wound of the young man sitting beside him, hollow-eyed and collared. “One of the most infamous hunters of all time is a fucking regular at Red.”
Sam smirks a little, thinking about it. Red. The first, and still the most popular, blood bar in New Orleans. A place where, in a brilliant stroke of irony, humans pay to be snacked on by vampires and vampires pay to drink – blood, of course, but liquor too. Half of the lore about vampires that he dutifully memorized from Dad’s tutelage turned out to be wrong, Sam has realized over the past few months. Vampires fucking lovebooze, especially if it’s spiked with something a little more primal.
Sam’s never been to a blood bar, but they all know about Red.
“Dean Winchester, seriously?”
Sam stiffens in his seat in the back of the theater, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
Dean?
“The one and only,” Jake laughs, licking his red-stained lips. “Poetic justice right there, ain’t it? Hunter who killed so many vamps now lining up to get himself sucked dry and the life fucked outta him.”
“But why?” one of the younger vampires asks, and Sam’s stomach turns over.
Jake shrugs and tugs the human boy closer. “Humans, who knows why the fuck they do what they do? Though I can’t say I blame ‘em for wanting to get it like that – makes ‘em come like they’re dyin’ if you bite them through it, so hard they just about pass out with it.”
The boy beside him shudders as Jake palms the front of his filthy jeans and sucks at his throat. “This one’s a slut for it already, aren’t you, sweetheart?” The vampire smiles. Predatory, dangerous.
One of the other vampires laughs from the far side of the theater. “Yeah, I heard Winchester’s a huge bloodslut. There almost every weekend, givin’ it up to all takers. Word is he won’t last much longer.”
The vampire named Carla snorts from a few seats to Sam’s left. “They never do, once they get a taste for it. More addictive than coke for humans.”
She shrugs and props her feet up on the chair in front of her. “Most of ‘em only go there wanting to die anyway – may as well go out in a blaze of blood and come.”
On the stage, Jake’s tugging down the boy’s jeans, bending him over while the blood spills from his neck. “Winchester’s got a lot to atone for, I hear,” he says as he runs his hands over the boy’s back in a parody of tenderness. The theater is eerily silent.
“Yeah?” Carla asks finally, and Jake smiles his feral grin as he answers, sliding his eyes unerringly to Sam’s in the back row.
“Let his baby brother get turned,” Jake says.
* * *
Jake’s words are still ringing in his ears when Sam gets to the Big Easy. Much as it’s a stereotype thanks to Anne Rice, it’s true that the fangs love it here. Decadence seems second nature to all the inhabitants, not just the ones who are monsters. Everyone’s drunk on something: sex, booze, blood, what does it matter? Absinthe was never out of favor here, never mind illegal, and if it comes close to killing you, well, so do lots of things that are worth the risk. Even the orphanages are haunted, stories of devil’s pacts and dead babies buried in their crumbling walls under all that creeping wisteria. Away from Bourbon Street, the air is fragrant with sarsasparilla and lilac and magnolia; closer in, the smell of piss and beer and human sweat is just as pungent.
None of it makes an impression on the vampire Sam Winchester as he strides past the sprawling convention center towards the seedier side of the city, where local law enforcement pretends not to notice how many people disappear from the nightclubs tucked into the back alleys. Fucking Dean and his fucking martyr complex and his fucking need to lay himself down and sacrifice himself to atone for Sam’s death when Sam’s not even….well, whatever, he’s not totally dead. Sam’s only headed South because it’s not fair for Dean to blame this on him. If he wants to get himself killed, fine. But not thinking it’s some kind of freaky penance. Sam doesn’t need that shit. Stupid humans and their stupid, useless emotions.
It’s not like he cares, that’s not it all. He just doesn’t want Dean to…..fuck it, why is his brother so fucking stupid?
Sam’s gathered more information since Jake’s pointed comments made his goal of trying to forget his long-lost brother pretty much impossible, and none of it has made him any less angry. Dean stopped hunting the day Sam broke his leg. Bobby took him to the hospital, who kept him over protest strong enough to leave a paper trail at Eastern Medical Center, not entirely sure they wanted to take responsibility for someone who could cuss like that and looked ready to murder anyone and everyone just to get them to let him die in peace.
Dean first turned up at Red two months ago, talking shit about being a hunter for godsakes, trying to goad the biggest and baddest to sample just how tasty the blood of an idiot like that could be. He came close to getting his death wish that first night, never told them to stop and a few of them were too riled up to be paying attention. Only the well honed financial instincts of Red’s proprietor – who knew a cash cow when he saw one splayed out on one of his couches – saved Dean Winchester’s sorry ass that time.
Sam gets in with no problem. A flash of fangs, a 6’4” frame that was plenty imposing even before he was undead -- the human at the door takes one look and swings it open with an appreciative grin that says she hopes Sam will be sniffing after her before the sun comes up. She huffs when he just brushes past her, searching for a familiar scent.
Red is dark inside, all tacky crimson velvet couches and silk curtains draped along the windowless walls and tacked to the ceilings to balloon downward. A conscientiously artistic array of thick pillar candles lines the four bars, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the patrons leaning in and drinking there. Glasses thunk against the heavy oak bar, some red stained, some drained clear of vodka or whisky or whatever frou frou drink the humans are into these days. The place stinks of blood; rich, heavy, intoxicating. Near the bar, the scent is mixed with the bitter tang of alcohol. In the back, seeping into the velvet of the couches, the smell is mixed with sex, the promise of both making Sam’s mouth water and his fangs descend abruptly, throbbing with sudden need.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the bartender says, a hint of challenge in his tone.
“Haven’t been here before.”
Sam straightens to his full height, watches the other vampire’s eyes narrow, assessing.
“Vodka.”
“Heavy or straight up?” The bartender curls his lip upwards on one side, lets Sam see one needle sharp fang.
He hadn’t planned on indulging, but fuck it. Dean’s not here, and Sam is hungry.
“Heavy.” It comes out more a growl than a word, and the bartender hesitates for a second, the two of them facing off on opposite sides of the bar, eyes caught and fangs bared.
“Shit, that’s hot,” giggles the human propped against the bar beside them. “Like two alpha vamps fighting over who’s gonna get to make the kill or something.”
The smell of her hits Sam without warning, ripe and warm and ready. Eager. Blood and sex and life, pulsing with it everywhere. Sam’s mouth waters, the other vampire forgotten.
“Heavy vodka.” The glass slams down on the bar, pulling Sam’s attention from the girl and the other humans who’ve gathered around to get a look at the newcomer. He takes a gulp, lets the alcohol burn his throat before the familiar copper slides down after. He closes his eyes, lets the warmth spread out in all directions, alive in every hungry vein, pulsing in every artery. It makes his heart pound, his pulse quicken, his cock hard.
His hands are on the girl’s arms before he registers moving, her mouth open in a surprised ‘o’ as he bends her backwards easily, balancing her weight like she’s nothing.
“Yeah, c’mon,” she says, reaching up to pull him in, and he takes a moment to press his mouth to the swell of her breast before he sinks his teeth in, feels her spine bow even more with the pleasure, her fingers tangled in his hair, tearing at him, urging him on. The hot rush fills his mouth, runs down his throat, and he can feel it now, her wanting as intense as his own as she wraps her legs around his hips and rubs herself against him, wanton. He can taste it on her, the way it builds, the way it bursts through her, pleasure spiking higher with every pull of his mouth, every drop he takes pushing her higher and higher until she’s stiff and spasming under him and he drinks up the distinctive flavor of orgasm thick and sweet on his tongue. It shocks him every time, the way humans taste when they come, the way the primal mix of endorphins and adrenaline and hormones flood their blood, the flow into Sam’s mouth even more intense than coming himself. With a groan, he pulls his fangs from her breast when it’s over, leaves her limp and gasping on the bar as he staggers backwards, wiping his mouth.
The bartender checks her pulse, then eases her into one of the plush velvety couches beside the bar. “There ya go sweetheart,” he says, using his tongue to seal the still-dripping wounds in her flesh. “Sleep it off.”
He glares at Sam, narrowed eyes raking over the sticky red on his mouth, trailing over the hard line of his cock still straining at his jeans. “Careful -- you drain ‘em, you pay for ‘em,” he warns.
“Yeah, okay.” The need recedes slowly, goes from pounding urgency back to the ever-present gnawing hunger. Never satisfied, never enough. He’s used to it. “Another vodka.”
The bartender cocks an eyebrow as he refills Sam’s glass. “Could’ve fucked her too, y’know. That’s what they come here for, at least in the beginning.”
Sam downs it in one gulp, scans the room again as he turns to go.
“Not my type,” he says.
* * *
It’s weird that Dean barely thought of sex from the day he lost his little brother, like it would be sacrilege to partake of such a normal human pleasure when Sam was out there so inhuman. He’s never even considered it since the day Sam broke him. But once he’s had a taste of Red, it’s impossible not to think of it, not to want it. What else is there? No use looking for Sam, and there’s nothing he feels capable – or worthy – of hunting. No one he wants to see, or know. The only thing close to pleasure in the universe is within Red’s plaster-coated brick walls and on its tacky fake velvet couches.
There are always more men than women there, if you’re counting humans (and the vamps always are), but there are girls too. Runaways and addicts, boys and girls alike too young to be so used up, so ready to give up. Dean’s heart rate starts to kick up now as soon as he parks the Impala. It pounds against his ribcage as he walks the six blocks to the club, damping down the little voice in his head that keeps stubbornly telling him not to do this, to turn back.
Why? Why should I?
They know him now, swing the door open wide with gleaming sharp-toothed smiles and welcome him. He pauses as it shuts behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the dark as he takes in the grunts and groans and the smell of sex and blood thick in the air. Men and women and women and women and men and men writhe together, half naked bodies moving in sync, in some primal symbiotic dance, and Dean could almost believe it’s reciprocal -- mutual. That the vampires want him and need him. That they wouldn’t drink him dry in a heartbeat if they didn’t think the proprietor would kick them out for it. He knows it’s a lie, but it’s a good one. Dean’s always been good at self-deceit, after all.
He’s fascinated by them. Sam’s kind.
The way they move, like panthers, night hunters with their preternatural grace and speed and strength. He imagines how fast Sam must be now, how powerful. It’s fucked up that every time he feels the vampires’ bloodlust kick in and they forget to be gentle with him, that’s what gets him going the most. He remembers Sam’s long fingers, the big hands that sewed him up and held him up and kept him together most of his life. The way they twisted his flesh and shattered his bones like toothpicks that last time. He likes it when they dig their sharp nails into the meat of his thighs as they bite, the way they leave crescents on his hipbones when he fucks them. They’re not as strong as Sam is. But the look in their eyes when they want him is almost the same.
“Sammy,” he whimpers when he comes, “Do it.”
The vamps don’t care about gender, humans are humans, blood is blood, sex is sex. The first time Dean says yes to a tall, shaggy-haired male vampire, he comes before the guy even gets his fangs in, undone by the way his legs are spread wide in two big hands and a thick cock pushes inside him.
It’s one of the few times Dean attempts conversation after. He came so fast, the guy didn’t take as much blood as they usually do, so his brain’s still working – unfortunately.
“Do you remember? What it was like to be human?”
The vampire’s name is Rob. He looks about 25, slim and slightly effeminate, almost pretty. He turns and cocks an eyebrow at the human he just thoroughly enjoyed, in more ways than one.
“That was about 83 years ago, give or take,” he answers after a pause. “But sure, I remember. Weak….pathetic. Scared all the time.”
Rob reaches out and wraps a hand around Dean’s jaw, tugs him roughly forward so the vampire can kiss his swollen mouth and lick at the tiny punctures there.
“Not scared now,” he grins as he pulls back. “Not of fucking anything.”
Dean hopes Sam has that at least. No reason to be scared of the thing in the closet when the thing in the closet is you.
He thinks of Sam as he makes his way slowly back to the car, dizzy from alcohol and blood loss. Of course that first vamp lied. (Do all of them? Does Sam now?) He hasn’t stopped thinking about Sam. Still wakes up screaming, trying to run with his boots stuck in cement as blood drips down Sam’s throat and paints his lips crimson. Still thinks he glimpses mile long legs and broad shoulders and shaggy brown hair out of the corner of his eye at least three times a day.
In the beginning, he holds out as long as he can between visits. Even tries to leave town once. The Impala practically purrs when they get to the interstate, ready to be gone, back on the road. She whines and splutters when he turns her around with blurry eyes and gives in once more.
This is where he belongs. The closest he can get to being like his brother.
* * *
It’s another week before Sam can get back to Red. Two weeks before he’s there on the same night Dean is.
Sam can sense him when he’s still ten yards down the alley. Dean. Fuck, Dean. It’s all he can do to wait his turn to get through the door and not just toss the line of humans out of the way. He needs in.
“Hey, watch it, jesus,” a girl says as he pushes past her, shoving two others off to the right with one hand. A few men curse as the women stumble into them, high heeled shoes clattering against the pavement as they almost fall. The bouncer at the door takes one look at Sam’s clenched jaw and determined expression and swings the heavy door wide, waving Sam inside.
It shuts behind him with a metallic click, leaving Sam engulfed in the red-tinged darkness of the club, everything pulsing with the rhythm of some nondescript rock. Underneath the music a different beat thrums -- more primal, the heavy pound of blood and life, some beating slow and easy and unafraid, some jackhammering loud and fast with fear or lust or a heady mix of both. It’s so strong, Sam has to pause for a second, the same hunter instincts he relied on all his life now kicking in to push him towards the banquet of humans who are everywhere he turns. One brushes his arm, knocks his hip against Sam’s, the smell of the boy deep and musky, and when Sam turns he catches wide brown eyes darkened with want, a flirty glance and a quick toss of the head to show off a vulnerable stretch of throat. It’s tempting – it’s so fucking easy here, everyone on offer.
“Wanna dance?” the boy asks, and this close Sam can see the half-healed puncture wounds on his neck, smell the coppery tang of the blood just beneath.
“Sure, why not.” The boy’s body is warm and firm against his as Sam pulls him in, and he’s hard already, hips bumping against Sam’s in time to the music.
“Haven’t seen you here be – motherfuck!” The boy curses as Sam’s hands on his hips dig in painfully, and then the kid’s feet are off the floor as he’s tossed to the side like a ragdoll, taking two or three other couples to the floor with him. Sam steps over them without looking down, the heel of his boot catching someone’s hand, squeals of protest and pain behind him.
It doesn’t matter. Across the bar, silhouetted in the red lights and thick smoke -- is Dean.
Sam gets halfway across the room before it hits him, nearly doubling him over with the intensity, and he stops, nostrils flaring and mouth watering. Dean The smell of him is overpowering, the heavy masculine scent dark and rich and familiar. Family. Brother. Sam inches closer, drawing himself into the shadows when Dean turns, his gaze darting in Sam’s direction, eyes narrowing for a moment as his brow furrows in concentration. Two female vamps are with him, one on either side, their eyes roaming over him like he’s the juiciest steak they’ve ever seen, and fuck, Sam doesn’t blame them.
Dean’s gorgeous.
Of course, he’s always been gorgeous, and Sam’s always known it. There were plenty of nights before he left for Stanford that he wished he hadn’t. A few since he’d returned too. But Dean’s gorgeous now in an entirely different way. The grace with which he moves is familiar; the angles of his body are the same, but he’s thinner now, leaner in a way he wasn’t before. When he turns to lean into the woman on his left, there’s a sharpness to his shoulder blade underneath the tight black tee shirt, a glimpse of the knobs of his spine as he curls his body into her. His face is hollowed too, making his cheekbones prominent and his eyes stand out, dark green rimmed with sooty black. He looks young; vulnerable. The bartender refills his glass and he gulps it greedily. His fingers shake when he puts it back down.
Sam’s mouth is suddenly dry, and he takes a seat at the horseshoe bar across from the one his brother’s seated at, close enough for him to see and hear, but too far away to be detected by human senses in the dark.
“Vodka,” he says without looking up when the bartender approaches. “Heavy.”
Sam drains it in three swallows, lets the warmth of blood and alcohol soothe the intense hunger that’s bubbling up inside. God, he’s never wanted a human this badly. Never.
Across the room, one of the female vampires has her hand on his brother’s knee, pushing his legs apart. She runs the red-painted talons of her nails up his thigh and leans in for a kiss. Dean turns away at the last second and offers his neck instead, his head thrown back and the long line of his throat right there, right there for the taking. She laughs and runs the tip of one fang down the pale exposed flesh, over the curve of his adam’s apple, and Dean groans and says “Please, c’mon, do it.”
“Oh I’ll do it, baby,” she promises, her other hand sliding farther up his thigh to palm his erection, obvious in his worn-thin jeans. His hips buck up as she grips him through the denim, rubbing up and down while she teases him with her mouth.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he growls, trying to push her hand harder against his crotch and her fangs into his throat.
The other vampire is behind him now, leaning in to mouth at his shoulder, tugging his tee shirt to the side to expose more pale freckled skin. Dean doesn’t fight it, just leans back against her, his body pliant between them. “Please,” he says again, “C’mon, please.”
He’s begging. Dean’s begging them to sink their teeth into him and ravish him, tear him open and leave him drained. It’s a side of Dean that Sam’s never seen, never even imagined. Sam’s fangs ache to indulge, swallow the rich thick blood that he can fucking hear from across the room, the wild pounding of his brother’s heart, and damn, that blood is his to take, should be his, not theirs.
Across the room, the fangs are done teasing. The dark haired vamp tugs down Dean’s zipper and takes out his dick at the same time the red-haired one behind him sinks her fangs into the muscle-rich join of his neck and shoulder, and he arches backwards between them, mouth open in a silent scream. Sam gasps too, the heady scent of Dean’s blood intoxicating, calling to Sam, making his fangs throb and his cock harden painfully in his jeans. The red-haired vamp leans in to share the feast of willing flesh, taking Dean up on the offer of his bared throat, and Sam’s fine-tuned ears can hear the spurt of his brothers’ blood as she bites down on him, can almost taste the hot gush of it. Dean’s strung out between them as they suck it out of him, the dark haired one fisting his cock hard and fast until it’s slick and glistening, bitter scent mixing with the copper rich smell of his blood. His hips buck up and his spine bows as they pull his head back roughly, both of them gnawing at him, ruthless with the bloodlust, and Sam can smell it on him now, how much he wants to die.
Sam’s frozen on the barstool, glass still raised in one hand, head spinning with the way Dean looks, the hurt, punched out moans he’s making, strangled by the way his head’s tilted back so far it looks like they’re about to break his neck. And still he’s pumping his cock through the tight grip of the dark haired vamp’s fist, desperate. When he comes it seems to last forever, thick spurts running down over her fingers, creamy white against the blood red of her nails, sticky-slick as she keeps on pulling him, wringing drop after drop out of him. His eyes roll back as his body jerks wildly, spastic movements of his dangling arms making him look like a puppet with tangled strings, not even moaning anymore, maybe not even breathing. He groans when they finally pull their fangs out of him, and nearly falls off the barstool when the red-haired one steps backwards.
“Easy tiger,” she laughs, grabbing him under the arms and tugging him off the stool and onto one of the faux velvet couches lining the walls of the bar. His head lolls back as she tosses him onto it, and he sprawls with limbs splayed, one foot hanging off the side. Sam can see the whites of his eyes beneath the flutter of dark lashes, and now that he’s still, the circles bruised underneath and the gauntness of his cheekbones. He’s so pale he looks translucent. The rise and fall of his chest is strained, uneven.
“Mmm,” one vamp says to the other, licking her lips, stained crimson with Dean’s blood. “Hunters are just extra tasty, aren’t they?”
The red-haired one grins in agreement. “If we’re lucky he’ll wake up enough to go again before the night’s over. I hear he’s got alotta stamina.”
“Did.” The bartender clears off the shot glasses and glances at Dean collapsed on the sofa. “Did have a lot of stamina. That was before he came in every other night gettin’ himself drained dry. Be lucky if he lasts out the month at this rate.”
The female vampires shrug. “Shame they can’t make humans a little more hardy.”
Sam orders another drink.
So his brother’s dying. It’s not really Sam’s business if Dean wants to die; he’s a grown man, he can decide, and besides, it’s been a long time since Sam actually cared. Dean’s just another human, something that smells good and tastes better. If he’s still shaking with want, it’s because he’s hungry, pure and simple.
He thinks about leaving. Tells himself he should. Just one more drink. A string of humans try to catch his eye, as Sam orders another. And another. His eyes drift back to Dean unerringly, unconscious on the couch across the room. Goddamn idiot.
He shoves a woman who puts her hand on his arm hard enough to make her fall off her barstool, and after that everyone leaves him alone. He watches from across the bar as two females and three males give up pints of blood for orgasms that seem intense enough to make their hearts give out even without the blood loss. They all beg for it; four will come back to beg again, one won’t.
“Goddammit,” the owner says when he finds the corpse on the couch nearest the door. “You make a mess here, you goddamn clean it up!” The body leaves a smudge of red along the floor as he drags it to the back room. A young vampire kneels to dip his finger in it, licks the tip when he thinks no one’s looking.
Sam’s five more drinks in when Dean finally starts to stir. He falls over the first time he tries to sit up, cursing under his breath as he struggles upright. He blinks muzzily in the dim red light, grimacing as he touches the puncture wounds on his neck. They’re still bleeding sluggishly, thin trails of red stark against the whiteness of his throat.
“Look who’s awake,” one of the vampires who bit him croons, settling herself next to Dean on the couch. She hands him a drink and he takes it too quickly, nearly drops it as he brings it to his lips with trembling hands, and coughs as he swallows. He looks wasted, only half conscious, but when she pushes him back against the sofa cushions he puts his hands on her waist and doesn’t turn away from her hungry mouth on his collarbone, her hungry hands stroking over his stomach, dipping down into his still-unfastened jeans.
“Yeah,” he says, little more than a growl, “Go ahead, yeah, please.”
Sam slams the glass down on the bar so hard it shakes the wood, and half a dozen patrons jump. Dean and the two vampires on the couch don’t notice, already gearing up for round two, and fuck, Sam’s gonna get to watch Dean die right now.
“Hey,” the bartender at the next bar says, “Cut it out girls, he’s out of commission for tonight.”
They both pull back with a hiss, fangs bared in anger. Splayed on his back, Dean moans and reaches out for them. “Please,” he says, “More.”
The bartender shakes his head, and the vamps abruptly get up. One of them grabs Dean by the hair as she stands up, yanking his head up roughly until he yelps. She lets go and he falls backwards, still murmuring “Please, please.”
“Humans,” she scowls as she walks away, “So fucking pathetic.”
And jesus, he is. Dean, the big brother Sam looked up to all his life, is pathetic. He looks about as dangerous as a fly, and as vulnerable as any victim they ever tried to save. Sam’s stomach lurches, half disgust and half rage. It’s more than he’s felt in over a year.
Sam has two more drinks before Dean manages to fumble his jeans up and get them zipped and buttoned. Another before he makes his way across the club to the door, weaving drunkenly and bouncing off more than one growling vampire and surly human. He falls once, rolls to the side clutching his wrist and nearly gets stepped on before he manages to crawl to relative safety and get to his feet again. It’s not until he’s outside and stumbling down the alley back to civilization that Sam realizes he’s limping. He remembers how loud the crack was that day in the warehouse when Sam broke the bone there.
Sam follows his brother down a series of alleys, onto a deserted street in what looks like the worst possible part of town. Dean stops when he gets to the big black car parked between street lights, splays his hands out on her roof and bows his head. Even from twenty yards back, Sam can smell the despair on him, the dark taint of self loathing, the death wish. Dean leans over and rests his forehead on the Impala’s roof, his face ghostly pale in the glow of the street lamps, and his mouth twists into a grimace. There are no tears, Sam would smell the salt, but Dean lays there for a long time, shoulders shaking every now and then, palms flat to the cool metal. When he finally gets up, it’s to open the back door and crawl into the back seat. Sam dares to get close enough a few minutes later, peering through the dirty back window. Dean’s curled up on the seat where they spent most of their childhood, huddled under the red and brown wool blanket they used to fight over because it was the warmest. He’s shivering anyway, from blood loss or fever or exhaustion or just from cold.
Sam watches for a long time, until Dean’s shoulders aren’t shaking so much anymore and his face is relaxed into a restless sleep. He looks like Dean when he was twelve and caught some kind of supernatural flu that nearly killed him, pale and flushed and trembling. Sam watched over him then, sitting up half the night to make sure Dean kept breathing, rubbing his back to try to warm him, Sam’s small hands going round and round, trying to soothe the shivers away.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s been stroking circles against the window until his palm squeaks against the glass, and he jerks his hand back.
If Dean wants to die, let him. After all, he let Sam.
* * *
The vampires cast him suspicious looks when Sam gets back, a few of the young ones badgering him with questions about Red. Did Sam get in? Was it as awesome as they say, like a living smorgasbord, humans splayed out like a banquet for the taking? Is he going back?
Sam mostly just glares.
“What’s with you recently?” Holly asks after Sam has kicked the offending refrigerator door in their makeshift ‘kitchen’ three times – it keeps refusing to stay closed, no matter how forcefully he slams it. They keep emergency supplies in there, blood bank bags and beers mostly.
“Nothing!”
Holly rolls her eyes. As fangs go, she’s not too bad. Not picky about who she eats, but she’s not stupid, and sometimes she’ll even sit down and watch the History Channel with Sam.
“Sure Sam, whatever you say. But you’ve been a pissy bitch ever since you came back from the Big Easy. Maybe you’ve got a taste for bloodslut now, huh? Better than your everyday bum in the back alley? That’s what you used to go for.”
Just the word makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up violently. Bloodslut, bloodslut, bloodslut. Your brother’s a bloodslut.
“My brother’s not a –
“Actually he’s probably just dead.” Jake’s voice cuts through Sam’s anger, cold and calculating.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jake snorts. “Oh, I think you do.”
“Wait,” Holly interrupts, and the rest of the group is listening now too, suspicious. “Are you saying all this pissiness is about some human?”
“No,” Sam growls.
“Yes,” Jake counters. “But not just any human, right, Sam?”
The other vampires gather closer, and Sam can feel his fangs lengthen, his fists clench ready for fighting.
“This bloodslut was your brother – the great Dean Winchester, vampire hunter. Isn’t that right?”
Holly whistles. “Wow Sam, didn’t know you had such a checkered past. So now both Winchester brothers are dead.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sam answers.
That night he climbs up the ancient marquee and sits on the giant ‘S’ that used to be the start of the Strand sign; it’s high enough that he can see over most of the dilapidated buildings, all the way past the city limits to where the roads open out into countryside. Those are the sort of roads they grew up on, him and Dean and Dad, miles upon miles of asphalt and a panorama of stars above. Flat on their backs on the generous back seat, they’d stare out the back window, up at the closest thing they had to television, Dean patiently pointing out Orion, the big dipper, Sirius. He remembers the warmth of Dean’s hip against his own, the painful bump of elbows and tangle of feet under the blankets, the flash of Dean’s teeth in the dark when he smiled.
He doesn’t even hear Holly make her way across the roof to straddle the A.
“Sorry about before.”
“Fuck!” Sam’s boots scrabble against the roof tiles as he almost loses his balance. “Don’t fucking creep up on me like that!”
Holly kicks a loose tile, watches it clatter to the ground and shatter on the sidewalk below. “I had a brother,” she says, and Sam freezes.
“Used to go watch him sometimes, after I got turned. Never got too close; didn’t want him to know, but…
“But?” Sam has no idea why he’s encouraging her.
“But I wanted to see him – I guess maybe I missed him.” She darts a furtive glance at Sam, assessing. “A little. We were close before I – really close. Don’t think he ever got over me dying, not really.”
“Sorry.” It seems like the right thing to say, if he remembers etiquette from his human days. It’s been a long time since he’s had to think about that.
Holly shrugs. “He’s been dead over a hundred years. But yeah, I remember.”
Sam nods, turning back to stare out over the star-strewn hills beyond the rundown little city.
“Point is,” Holly goes on, not looking in Sam’s direction. “Family’s still family, even when you’re…..I mean, we were blood. He’s blood.”
“So?” Sam can feel his pulse beat faster, the parody of life that keeps his heart pounding responding to the words, and Holly turns to meet his gaze, her green eyes narrowed.
“So maybe you should go back to New Orleans. Before it’s too late.”
* * *
Red on any given weekend is filled to capacity, bouncers turning away as many humans and vamps as they let in. On Fat Tuesday, the additional decadence packs the club to overflowing, quite literally. When Sam gets there, the line winds its way down the alley until it’s only a few blocks from Bourbon Street, where it mixes with the crowds of drunken revelers already dressed as frighteningly as any vampire. Humans with fang implants give tours of the French Quarter for twenty bucks while Sam walks by unnoticed, scowling. Fucking stupid humans. Fucking stupid Dean, who’s probably gone and gotten himself killed before Sam can…..do whatever it is Sam’s wanting to do. He’s not sure whether it’s to kill Dean himself or knock some sense into him or…..he’s really not sure.
He’s also not sure it isn’t too late. There’s so much blood and booze and sweat and semen in the air when he finally gets through the heavy door, Sam nearly chokes on it, everything mixed up and overwhelming. Sam makes the rounds three times, but there’s no sign of Dean, and yet…..it’s not clear, but there’s something…..maybe.
He tips the bartender extra when he orders his first drink. “Looking for someone,” he says, and the bartender smirks.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she purrs.
“Six foot, green eyes, short brown hair, freckles.”
The bartender cocks an eyebrow, gestures to the swarm of bodies all around them.
“Hunter,” Sam says.
She narrows her gaze, and then the corner of her mouth quirks. “Oh,” she says, “him. I think you might be too late, sweetheart. He’s lasted longer than most do. Was strung out enough to take off with Julian and a few of his gang to the backroom tonight. Don’t think any of ‘em had any intention of letting him outta there still breathing.”
The bartender hisses when Sam grabs her wrist. “Where?” he demands.
She gestures toward the far left, and throws the glass at him as Sam takes off in that direction.
The first door opens; the second Sam kicks down. Nobody pays the slightest bit of attention.
A burly male vampire – Julian, Sam supposes – is bent over Dean, who’s sprawled on a filthy bed, naked and unresisting. His eyes are closed, lashes fanned thick and black against white skin. Both arms are thrown wide, and he looks for all the world like he’s about to be crucified, his pale thin body littered with punctures and bites and bruises. Thin rivulets of red follow the visible lines of his ribs and drip onto the mattress, and blood smudges his cheek, his hip, even his ankles. His nipples are painted with it, slick and dark, and as Sam stares a female vamp bends to lick one tightened nub, and Dean whimpers. His cock is hard, leaking against his belly, angry red like the rest of him.
Julian grabs both of Dean’s legs and forces them up and apart, and Sam can see how much they’ve used him already, fucked him swollen and sore and bled him nearly dry.
“Gonna take the rest of it now sweetheart, give you what you want,” Julian croons, lining his dick up and nodding to the other vamps. “Might as well finish him this time,” he orders, and all three of them swoon. Sam knows the lure of that, the taste of death better than anything. Dean tosses weakly on the mattress, turns his head to the side to expose the bloody mess that is his neck, and Sam realizes he’s not going to fight this.
Julian laughs, cruel and bitter and disparaging. He nods to the two vampires holding Dean by both wrists, and they snarl before sinking fangs deep into the tender flesh, stretching Dean’s arms out wide. He jerks and cries out at that, and the third vampire bends to his ravaged throat just as Julian lines up his cock and starts to push inside.
Something about the sight of that final act of possession hits Sam in the gut with such force that he’s moving forward before he plans it, catching Julian off guard, his attention still between Dean’s spread legs. He hisses and stumbles backwards, and the other three vampires pull back in surprise, Dean’s blood dripping from their fangs, staining their mouths and chins.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Julian demands, right before Sam slams him against the wall so hard the whole room shakes.
“Walk away,” Sam says, the words growled out on a harsh breath. “He’s mine.”
Julian opens his mouth to protest, and Sam raises himself to his full height, towering over the other vampire. “Mine.”
There’s a split second where Sam’s sure that Julian’s not going to give up that easily, then he drops his eyes in a gesture of reluctant submission. “Whatever,” he hisses, spitting blood where he bit his own lip when his head hit the wall. “Just a fuckin’ human, not worth it.”
Sam backs off, but his fists are still clenched and his heart’s pounding so hard it’s threatening to push right through his chest. “Get out,” he orders, and glares as Julian gathers his clothes and his followers and stalks out the broken door. It slams behind him, more wood shattering with the impact. Dean groans plaintively on the mattress, arms still outstretched and legs still spread obscenely. There are little pools of red beneath both wrists, a trickle running down the side of his neck.
Sam draws nearer to his brother, standing where Julian was a few moments ago. Dean Fuck. This close, the scent of him is maddening; the coppery richness of his blood, the bitter musk of his sex, the sickly sweet smell of near death. It’s everything a vampire dreams of, everything Sam wants. He’s trembling as he leans in, bends over Dean where he’s lying in wait, bleeding, wanting.
“Please,” Dean whimpers, barely able to voice the word. “Please, do it.”
Sam wants to. His blood is boiling, desire hot and unstoppable. He’s drowning in it, crazy for it -- his brother’s blood, his brother’s life. This is the Dean of his most compelling dreams, naked and bloodied and burning with need, and Sam’s blood burns in response, the need to take overwhelming.
Beneath him, Dean tosses his head restlessly, murmurs what sounds like a prayer.
“Let me die,” he pleads, and suddenly Sam wants to rip him apart limb from limb because jesuschrist Dean, what the hell is the matter with you, you have life for fucksake, you can live, you can be human, you can walk in the fucking sunshine for fucksake, and this is what you want?
He yanks Dean down the bed by both ankles, pressing his knees to his sides and spreading him wide, and Dean’s eyes snap open, a swimming sea of green as his lashes flutter wildly.
“Look at me,” Sam orders, holding Dean down and open and completely still. “Open your fucking eyes and look at me.”
Dean struggles to focus as his eyes roll back, and he moans again as Sam keeps saying it. “Look at me, Dean. You fucking look at me.”
Finally his gaze stabilizes, Dean’s bloodshot eyes bouncing from Sam’s hands holding his knees apart to Sam’s eyes pinning him to the bed, to Sam’s fangs where his lips curl back. Dean’s mouth falls open, and Sam can see him struggle to swallow.
“S-sam?” he finally manages, and Sam digs his fingers into the muscles of Dean’s calves, pressing his knees back even farther.
“That’s right,” he says, and nudges the head of his dick against Dean’s slick hole. “This what you want? This what you come here for, give it up for? Someone to suck you dry and fuck the life out of you?”
“Sammmm,” Dean groans, his eyes rolling back again.
“Is it?” Sam yells, and this time he pushes in, can’t not do it, sinking himself inside where Dean is slick and tight and heated, as deep as he can get. Dean moans drunkenly, and his dick jerks against his belly. “You so far gone that you want it even from me?”
Dean tosses his head back and forth on the mattress, his hands fisting the remnants of a sheet beneath him. “Please,” he gasps, and he manages to get his eyes open again, locks them on Sam with a fleeting moment of clarity. “Yes,” he grits out, coughing around the word.
“You stupid fucker,” Sam answers, but his body keeps fucking Dean, faster and deeper, and it’s good, god, it’s fucking better than anything. Dean jerks and stiffens, chasing his climax, and Sam has to taste then, has to share it; his cock, his teeth, all of him, sunk deep into his brother. Dean comes so hard it nearly brings Sam to his knees, the rush of pleasure rich and delicious pulsing in his blood, and Sam has to use every ounce of willpower he has to keep from drinking all of Dean down. He pulls his fangs out before his cock, lets the last throbs of pleasure ripple over them both as he follows Dean over the edge.
“Stupid fucker,” he’s still muttering after, running his tongue over the array of wounds splattered across Dean’s body, sealing each one with wet strokes and avid licks until his tongue is aching with the effort, and then just pressing his mouth there, almost-kisses to the damp skin as Dean’s heart beats sluggishly beneath his lips. Shallow and thready but there.
Still there.
* * *
Dean comes to staring up at the stars through the back window of the Impala. The red and brown wool blanket is pulled up to his chin. He’s shivering, per usual, but he can feel the slow thud of his heartbeat as it resolutely brings him back to life once again. Fuck.
The voice from the front seat makes him sit up so fast his head spins and he almost pukes.
“Nope, you’re not dead yet.”
“Fuck,” Dean curses, then freezes when he sees who’s looking back at him over the seats. “Sam?”
“The one and only.”
Dean’s eyes are so wide he looks like a cartoon. “Y-you – did you –
“Don’t look so shocked. Not like you’ve been a boy scout this past year, Dean.” Sam wipes a spot of dried blood from the corner of his mouth. Dean’s blood. His fangs tingle at the taste, ache for more. So does his dick. Shit, he’s never wanted anyone like he wants Dean. Probably that shouldn’t be a surprise.
Dean opens and closes his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He’s even paler than Sam.
“Eat this,” Sam orders, tossing a greasy fast food bag into the back seat. It lands on Dean’s stomach, and he groans like it weighs a ton.
“Can’t,” he whines, and that’s it -- Sam’s over the backseat in a fraction of a second, too quick for Dean’s senses to process properly. Sam has him pulled up to sitting, his back pressed to Sam’s chest and practically in Sam’s lap, before he can move to get away.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Dean protests, struggling weakly in Sam’s grasp, trying to get away. As if.
Sam reaches around Dean’s slight body with one hand to shove the unwrapped burger at his brother. Dean opens his mouth to protest and wham, in it goes. He sputters and spits, but Sam holds it steady and eventually Dean gives in and bites the damn thing.
“Good boy. That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” There’s an unfamiliar tug at the corners of Sam’s mouth as he asks. Dean is warm against him, alive.
“You gonna kill me?” Dean asks once his mouth isn’t full.
Sam laughs and lifts the burger to his brother’s lips again. “Why would I be making you eat McDonald’s if I was gonna do that?”
“Mmmno,” Dean mumbles, and Sam settles back into the Impala’s familiar leather, pulls Dean closer against him. He can feel Dean’s bones, not an ounce of spare flesh on him, little of the sinewy muscle his brother used to sport. Dean’s pliable, unresisting.
I’ve had you, he thinks, with a sudden twinge of desire. You let me.
“Just eat,” he orders, pushing away the image of Dean splayed out beneath him.
Still docile from weakness, amazingly Dean does.
After two Gatorades and a burger, Dean pushes the fries away. “Can’t,” he grumbles, batting at Sam’s hands. “’ll puke it up if you keep shovin’ things in there.”
He sounds so much like the stubborn asshole of a big brother Sam spent his life adoring and resenting simultaneously, that Sam relents, another smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, okay. Should be enough to keep you alive until tomorrow anyway.”
Sam disentangles himself from his brother then, suddenly too aware of the pounding of Dean’s heart, the swish of blood under Dean’s skin. How right Dean feels in his arms now. He gets out and takes a deep breath, staring up at the starry sky.
There’s a familiar creak, and Dean stumbles out too, barely keeping his footing as he shuts the car door and leans up against the Impala. He’s ghostly white, bruised. Broken. His green eyes shine in the moonlight, but the expression there is grief stricken, haunted. So full of pain it slips through the blankness Sam counts on, slithers inside and makes Sam’s heart catch in his chest.
He doesn’t plan what he does next.
“Sam,” Dean starts, and Sam turns on him, presses him back up against the car and fists both hands in Dean’s torn and bloodied tee shirt.
“Listen to me, Dean, cuz I’m only gonna offer this once.”
Dean blinks up at him, eyes wide as a child’s, full of longing and some other emotions Sam doesn’t want to recognize, doesn’t want to name, but they’re there, and he feels alive with it – more alive than he’s felt in over a year. His voice shakes when he speaks, so loud Dean flinches.
“Come find me, Dean. I won’t make it easy for you – I’ll use every trick in the book to stay hidden, stack my wits against yours and my vampire instincts against your human ones. But if you can – if you can find me, then I –
Dean’s mouth is open, gaping, and his eyes are glistening, wet and dark and wide with a crazy mix of fear and love and horror and hope. “Then what, Sam?” he asks, and his voice rumbles, deep and dark and making Sam want things, want to promise things, crazy things.
“Then I’ll give it up, I will,” he hears himself say, and Dean’s shaking now, Sam can feel the tremble in his arms, in his belly where he’s pressed up against Sam. “I’ll give it up and live like they do, like Lenore and her family.”
“Sammy,” Dean groans, and his arms come around Sam, a weird almost hug, and they’re stuck together, rocking against the car, and Sam’s not sure what this is, what he wants. What Dean wants.
“I’ll do it, Dean,” he promises, and Dean sobs against him, saying his name over and over, begging again. “I swear I will. But you’ve gotta find me, understand?”
He steps back enough to grab Dean’s chin and force his face up, lock their eyes. “You’ve gotta kick this fucking habit and be a hunter again, or you don’t have a prayer in hell of finding me.”
Dean shakes his head, and he’s trembling hard now, looks like he’s gonna fall down if Sam moves away far enough. But his eyes hold Sam’s, even as Sam takes another step backwards.
“Or you don’t have a prayer of saving me,” Sam says.
He waits for the first tear to overflow and trickle down Dean’s cheek before he turns and runs.
* * *
Part Three
runedgirlArtist:
leyla_lovelyRating: NC17
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warnings: minor Dean/OFC, Dean/OMC, Sam/OFC, Sam/OMC, violence
Word Count: 34,000 (entire)
Note: Written for
spn_j2_bigbangLink to incredible Art: Art Master Post
Sam doesn’t think about it much anymore. Sometimes he almost forgets he had a brother, just like they told him he would. Life is simple. You eat, you sleep, you fight when you have to, you fuck when you can, you take what you need, you amuse yourself when boredom threatens. Missing a human you loved is as much a waste of time as wishing you could see the sunrise, or walk down a postcard-perfect white sandy beach at noon. Sam just….doesn’t. He thinks sometimes that he had more preparation for the change than most, a year without a soul like boot camp for being a vampire.
He didn’t dream then, though, didn’t sleep. He wishes he didn’t need to now. Dreams are where the things he doesn’t think about come creeping in, memories awash in emotions he no longer feels when his eyes are open. Dean’s there, inevitably, when he closes his eyes.
But Dean’s nowhere else. Apparently Sam’s brilliant plan to discourage his brother’s pursuit worked like a charm. Either that or he’s dead….but Sam thinks he probably would have heard about that. Instead there’s nothing.
Until there is.
They’re in Texas when he hears his brother’s name again, quite unexpectedly. He’s been with Jake’s group for a while now. There are thirteen of them, one of the biggest nests around. Sam likes the anonymity of that, keeps to himself most of the time. He doesn’t really like most of them, but then he supposes that’s not a priority amongst vampires anyway. Jake’s not much for encouraging relationships in the group, for himself or anyone else, preferring to sate most of his appetites with humans. There are always a few chained in the basement of the spacious abandoned movie theater they’ve been living in. Sam can hear their screams from time to time, at least when they’re new. After a while they’re quiet, the life slowly bled and fucked out of them until they’re either dead or turned, depending on Jake’s assessment of whether they’ll look to him for revenge or protection after.
Jake’s holding court on a Friday evening, the rest gathered around, lounging on the few remaining velvet padded theater seats or sitting on the edge of the stage in front of the tattered red plush curtain. It’s fittingly decadent for a bunch of vampires, Sam thinks.
“That’s right,” Jake’s saying, alternately swigging from a bottle of whiskey and sipping from the oozing neck wound of the young man sitting beside him, hollow-eyed and collared. “One of the most infamous hunters of all time is a fucking regular at Red.”
Sam smirks a little, thinking about it. Red. The first, and still the most popular, blood bar in New Orleans. A place where, in a brilliant stroke of irony, humans pay to be snacked on by vampires and vampires pay to drink – blood, of course, but liquor too. Half of the lore about vampires that he dutifully memorized from Dad’s tutelage turned out to be wrong, Sam has realized over the past few months. Vampires fucking lovebooze, especially if it’s spiked with something a little more primal.
Sam’s never been to a blood bar, but they all know about Red.
“Dean Winchester, seriously?”
Sam stiffens in his seat in the back of the theater, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
Dean?
“The one and only,” Jake laughs, licking his red-stained lips. “Poetic justice right there, ain’t it? Hunter who killed so many vamps now lining up to get himself sucked dry and the life fucked outta him.”
“But why?” one of the younger vampires asks, and Sam’s stomach turns over.
Jake shrugs and tugs the human boy closer. “Humans, who knows why the fuck they do what they do? Though I can’t say I blame ‘em for wanting to get it like that – makes ‘em come like they’re dyin’ if you bite them through it, so hard they just about pass out with it.”
The boy beside him shudders as Jake palms the front of his filthy jeans and sucks at his throat. “This one’s a slut for it already, aren’t you, sweetheart?” The vampire smiles. Predatory, dangerous.
One of the other vampires laughs from the far side of the theater. “Yeah, I heard Winchester’s a huge bloodslut. There almost every weekend, givin’ it up to all takers. Word is he won’t last much longer.”
The vampire named Carla snorts from a few seats to Sam’s left. “They never do, once they get a taste for it. More addictive than coke for humans.”
She shrugs and props her feet up on the chair in front of her. “Most of ‘em only go there wanting to die anyway – may as well go out in a blaze of blood and come.”
On the stage, Jake’s tugging down the boy’s jeans, bending him over while the blood spills from his neck. “Winchester’s got a lot to atone for, I hear,” he says as he runs his hands over the boy’s back in a parody of tenderness. The theater is eerily silent.
“Yeah?” Carla asks finally, and Jake smiles his feral grin as he answers, sliding his eyes unerringly to Sam’s in the back row.
“Let his baby brother get turned,” Jake says.
* * *
Jake’s words are still ringing in his ears when Sam gets to the Big Easy. Much as it’s a stereotype thanks to Anne Rice, it’s true that the fangs love it here. Decadence seems second nature to all the inhabitants, not just the ones who are monsters. Everyone’s drunk on something: sex, booze, blood, what does it matter? Absinthe was never out of favor here, never mind illegal, and if it comes close to killing you, well, so do lots of things that are worth the risk. Even the orphanages are haunted, stories of devil’s pacts and dead babies buried in their crumbling walls under all that creeping wisteria. Away from Bourbon Street, the air is fragrant with sarsasparilla and lilac and magnolia; closer in, the smell of piss and beer and human sweat is just as pungent.
None of it makes an impression on the vampire Sam Winchester as he strides past the sprawling convention center towards the seedier side of the city, where local law enforcement pretends not to notice how many people disappear from the nightclubs tucked into the back alleys. Fucking Dean and his fucking martyr complex and his fucking need to lay himself down and sacrifice himself to atone for Sam’s death when Sam’s not even….well, whatever, he’s not totally dead. Sam’s only headed South because it’s not fair for Dean to blame this on him. If he wants to get himself killed, fine. But not thinking it’s some kind of freaky penance. Sam doesn’t need that shit. Stupid humans and their stupid, useless emotions.
It’s not like he cares, that’s not it all. He just doesn’t want Dean to…..fuck it, why is his brother so fucking stupid?
Sam’s gathered more information since Jake’s pointed comments made his goal of trying to forget his long-lost brother pretty much impossible, and none of it has made him any less angry. Dean stopped hunting the day Sam broke his leg. Bobby took him to the hospital, who kept him over protest strong enough to leave a paper trail at Eastern Medical Center, not entirely sure they wanted to take responsibility for someone who could cuss like that and looked ready to murder anyone and everyone just to get them to let him die in peace.
Dean first turned up at Red two months ago, talking shit about being a hunter for godsakes, trying to goad the biggest and baddest to sample just how tasty the blood of an idiot like that could be. He came close to getting his death wish that first night, never told them to stop and a few of them were too riled up to be paying attention. Only the well honed financial instincts of Red’s proprietor – who knew a cash cow when he saw one splayed out on one of his couches – saved Dean Winchester’s sorry ass that time.
Sam gets in with no problem. A flash of fangs, a 6’4” frame that was plenty imposing even before he was undead -- the human at the door takes one look and swings it open with an appreciative grin that says she hopes Sam will be sniffing after her before the sun comes up. She huffs when he just brushes past her, searching for a familiar scent.
Red is dark inside, all tacky crimson velvet couches and silk curtains draped along the windowless walls and tacked to the ceilings to balloon downward. A conscientiously artistic array of thick pillar candles lines the four bars, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the patrons leaning in and drinking there. Glasses thunk against the heavy oak bar, some red stained, some drained clear of vodka or whisky or whatever frou frou drink the humans are into these days. The place stinks of blood; rich, heavy, intoxicating. Near the bar, the scent is mixed with the bitter tang of alcohol. In the back, seeping into the velvet of the couches, the smell is mixed with sex, the promise of both making Sam’s mouth water and his fangs descend abruptly, throbbing with sudden need.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the bartender says, a hint of challenge in his tone.
“Haven’t been here before.”
Sam straightens to his full height, watches the other vampire’s eyes narrow, assessing.
“Vodka.”
“Heavy or straight up?” The bartender curls his lip upwards on one side, lets Sam see one needle sharp fang.
He hadn’t planned on indulging, but fuck it. Dean’s not here, and Sam is hungry.
“Heavy.” It comes out more a growl than a word, and the bartender hesitates for a second, the two of them facing off on opposite sides of the bar, eyes caught and fangs bared.
“Shit, that’s hot,” giggles the human propped against the bar beside them. “Like two alpha vamps fighting over who’s gonna get to make the kill or something.”
The smell of her hits Sam without warning, ripe and warm and ready. Eager. Blood and sex and life, pulsing with it everywhere. Sam’s mouth waters, the other vampire forgotten.
“Heavy vodka.” The glass slams down on the bar, pulling Sam’s attention from the girl and the other humans who’ve gathered around to get a look at the newcomer. He takes a gulp, lets the alcohol burn his throat before the familiar copper slides down after. He closes his eyes, lets the warmth spread out in all directions, alive in every hungry vein, pulsing in every artery. It makes his heart pound, his pulse quicken, his cock hard.
His hands are on the girl’s arms before he registers moving, her mouth open in a surprised ‘o’ as he bends her backwards easily, balancing her weight like she’s nothing.
“Yeah, c’mon,” she says, reaching up to pull him in, and he takes a moment to press his mouth to the swell of her breast before he sinks his teeth in, feels her spine bow even more with the pleasure, her fingers tangled in his hair, tearing at him, urging him on. The hot rush fills his mouth, runs down his throat, and he can feel it now, her wanting as intense as his own as she wraps her legs around his hips and rubs herself against him, wanton. He can taste it on her, the way it builds, the way it bursts through her, pleasure spiking higher with every pull of his mouth, every drop he takes pushing her higher and higher until she’s stiff and spasming under him and he drinks up the distinctive flavor of orgasm thick and sweet on his tongue. It shocks him every time, the way humans taste when they come, the way the primal mix of endorphins and adrenaline and hormones flood their blood, the flow into Sam’s mouth even more intense than coming himself. With a groan, he pulls his fangs from her breast when it’s over, leaves her limp and gasping on the bar as he staggers backwards, wiping his mouth.
The bartender checks her pulse, then eases her into one of the plush velvety couches beside the bar. “There ya go sweetheart,” he says, using his tongue to seal the still-dripping wounds in her flesh. “Sleep it off.”
He glares at Sam, narrowed eyes raking over the sticky red on his mouth, trailing over the hard line of his cock still straining at his jeans. “Careful -- you drain ‘em, you pay for ‘em,” he warns.
“Yeah, okay.” The need recedes slowly, goes from pounding urgency back to the ever-present gnawing hunger. Never satisfied, never enough. He’s used to it. “Another vodka.”
The bartender cocks an eyebrow as he refills Sam’s glass. “Could’ve fucked her too, y’know. That’s what they come here for, at least in the beginning.”
Sam downs it in one gulp, scans the room again as he turns to go.
“Not my type,” he says.
* * *
It’s weird that Dean barely thought of sex from the day he lost his little brother, like it would be sacrilege to partake of such a normal human pleasure when Sam was out there so inhuman. He’s never even considered it since the day Sam broke him. But once he’s had a taste of Red, it’s impossible not to think of it, not to want it. What else is there? No use looking for Sam, and there’s nothing he feels capable – or worthy – of hunting. No one he wants to see, or know. The only thing close to pleasure in the universe is within Red’s plaster-coated brick walls and on its tacky fake velvet couches.
There are always more men than women there, if you’re counting humans (and the vamps always are), but there are girls too. Runaways and addicts, boys and girls alike too young to be so used up, so ready to give up. Dean’s heart rate starts to kick up now as soon as he parks the Impala. It pounds against his ribcage as he walks the six blocks to the club, damping down the little voice in his head that keeps stubbornly telling him not to do this, to turn back.
Why? Why should I?
They know him now, swing the door open wide with gleaming sharp-toothed smiles and welcome him. He pauses as it shuts behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the dark as he takes in the grunts and groans and the smell of sex and blood thick in the air. Men and women and women and women and men and men writhe together, half naked bodies moving in sync, in some primal symbiotic dance, and Dean could almost believe it’s reciprocal -- mutual. That the vampires want him and need him. That they wouldn’t drink him dry in a heartbeat if they didn’t think the proprietor would kick them out for it. He knows it’s a lie, but it’s a good one. Dean’s always been good at self-deceit, after all.
He’s fascinated by them. Sam’s kind.
The way they move, like panthers, night hunters with their preternatural grace and speed and strength. He imagines how fast Sam must be now, how powerful. It’s fucked up that every time he feels the vampires’ bloodlust kick in and they forget to be gentle with him, that’s what gets him going the most. He remembers Sam’s long fingers, the big hands that sewed him up and held him up and kept him together most of his life. The way they twisted his flesh and shattered his bones like toothpicks that last time. He likes it when they dig their sharp nails into the meat of his thighs as they bite, the way they leave crescents on his hipbones when he fucks them. They’re not as strong as Sam is. But the look in their eyes when they want him is almost the same.
“Sammy,” he whimpers when he comes, “Do it.”
The vamps don’t care about gender, humans are humans, blood is blood, sex is sex. The first time Dean says yes to a tall, shaggy-haired male vampire, he comes before the guy even gets his fangs in, undone by the way his legs are spread wide in two big hands and a thick cock pushes inside him.
It’s one of the few times Dean attempts conversation after. He came so fast, the guy didn’t take as much blood as they usually do, so his brain’s still working – unfortunately.
“Do you remember? What it was like to be human?”
The vampire’s name is Rob. He looks about 25, slim and slightly effeminate, almost pretty. He turns and cocks an eyebrow at the human he just thoroughly enjoyed, in more ways than one.
“That was about 83 years ago, give or take,” he answers after a pause. “But sure, I remember. Weak….pathetic. Scared all the time.”
Rob reaches out and wraps a hand around Dean’s jaw, tugs him roughly forward so the vampire can kiss his swollen mouth and lick at the tiny punctures there.
“Not scared now,” he grins as he pulls back. “Not of fucking anything.”
Dean hopes Sam has that at least. No reason to be scared of the thing in the closet when the thing in the closet is you.
He thinks of Sam as he makes his way slowly back to the car, dizzy from alcohol and blood loss. Of course that first vamp lied. (Do all of them? Does Sam now?) He hasn’t stopped thinking about Sam. Still wakes up screaming, trying to run with his boots stuck in cement as blood drips down Sam’s throat and paints his lips crimson. Still thinks he glimpses mile long legs and broad shoulders and shaggy brown hair out of the corner of his eye at least three times a day.
In the beginning, he holds out as long as he can between visits. Even tries to leave town once. The Impala practically purrs when they get to the interstate, ready to be gone, back on the road. She whines and splutters when he turns her around with blurry eyes and gives in once more.
This is where he belongs. The closest he can get to being like his brother.
* * *
It’s another week before Sam can get back to Red. Two weeks before he’s there on the same night Dean is.
Sam can sense him when he’s still ten yards down the alley. Dean. Fuck, Dean. It’s all he can do to wait his turn to get through the door and not just toss the line of humans out of the way. He needs in.
“Hey, watch it, jesus,” a girl says as he pushes past her, shoving two others off to the right with one hand. A few men curse as the women stumble into them, high heeled shoes clattering against the pavement as they almost fall. The bouncer at the door takes one look at Sam’s clenched jaw and determined expression and swings the heavy door wide, waving Sam inside.
It shuts behind him with a metallic click, leaving Sam engulfed in the red-tinged darkness of the club, everything pulsing with the rhythm of some nondescript rock. Underneath the music a different beat thrums -- more primal, the heavy pound of blood and life, some beating slow and easy and unafraid, some jackhammering loud and fast with fear or lust or a heady mix of both. It’s so strong, Sam has to pause for a second, the same hunter instincts he relied on all his life now kicking in to push him towards the banquet of humans who are everywhere he turns. One brushes his arm, knocks his hip against Sam’s, the smell of the boy deep and musky, and when Sam turns he catches wide brown eyes darkened with want, a flirty glance and a quick toss of the head to show off a vulnerable stretch of throat. It’s tempting – it’s so fucking easy here, everyone on offer.
“Wanna dance?” the boy asks, and this close Sam can see the half-healed puncture wounds on his neck, smell the coppery tang of the blood just beneath.
“Sure, why not.” The boy’s body is warm and firm against his as Sam pulls him in, and he’s hard already, hips bumping against Sam’s in time to the music.
“Haven’t seen you here be – motherfuck!” The boy curses as Sam’s hands on his hips dig in painfully, and then the kid’s feet are off the floor as he’s tossed to the side like a ragdoll, taking two or three other couples to the floor with him. Sam steps over them without looking down, the heel of his boot catching someone’s hand, squeals of protest and pain behind him.
It doesn’t matter. Across the bar, silhouetted in the red lights and thick smoke -- is Dean.
Sam gets halfway across the room before it hits him, nearly doubling him over with the intensity, and he stops, nostrils flaring and mouth watering. Dean The smell of him is overpowering, the heavy masculine scent dark and rich and familiar. Family. Brother. Sam inches closer, drawing himself into the shadows when Dean turns, his gaze darting in Sam’s direction, eyes narrowing for a moment as his brow furrows in concentration. Two female vamps are with him, one on either side, their eyes roaming over him like he’s the juiciest steak they’ve ever seen, and fuck, Sam doesn’t blame them.
Dean’s gorgeous.
Of course, he’s always been gorgeous, and Sam’s always known it. There were plenty of nights before he left for Stanford that he wished he hadn’t. A few since he’d returned too. But Dean’s gorgeous now in an entirely different way. The grace with which he moves is familiar; the angles of his body are the same, but he’s thinner now, leaner in a way he wasn’t before. When he turns to lean into the woman on his left, there’s a sharpness to his shoulder blade underneath the tight black tee shirt, a glimpse of the knobs of his spine as he curls his body into her. His face is hollowed too, making his cheekbones prominent and his eyes stand out, dark green rimmed with sooty black. He looks young; vulnerable. The bartender refills his glass and he gulps it greedily. His fingers shake when he puts it back down.
Sam’s mouth is suddenly dry, and he takes a seat at the horseshoe bar across from the one his brother’s seated at, close enough for him to see and hear, but too far away to be detected by human senses in the dark.
“Vodka,” he says without looking up when the bartender approaches. “Heavy.”
Sam drains it in three swallows, lets the warmth of blood and alcohol soothe the intense hunger that’s bubbling up inside. God, he’s never wanted a human this badly. Never.
Across the room, one of the female vampires has her hand on his brother’s knee, pushing his legs apart. She runs the red-painted talons of her nails up his thigh and leans in for a kiss. Dean turns away at the last second and offers his neck instead, his head thrown back and the long line of his throat right there, right there for the taking. She laughs and runs the tip of one fang down the pale exposed flesh, over the curve of his adam’s apple, and Dean groans and says “Please, c’mon, do it.”
“Oh I’ll do it, baby,” she promises, her other hand sliding farther up his thigh to palm his erection, obvious in his worn-thin jeans. His hips buck up as she grips him through the denim, rubbing up and down while she teases him with her mouth.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he growls, trying to push her hand harder against his crotch and her fangs into his throat.
The other vampire is behind him now, leaning in to mouth at his shoulder, tugging his tee shirt to the side to expose more pale freckled skin. Dean doesn’t fight it, just leans back against her, his body pliant between them. “Please,” he says again, “C’mon, please.”
He’s begging. Dean’s begging them to sink their teeth into him and ravish him, tear him open and leave him drained. It’s a side of Dean that Sam’s never seen, never even imagined. Sam’s fangs ache to indulge, swallow the rich thick blood that he can fucking hear from across the room, the wild pounding of his brother’s heart, and damn, that blood is his to take, should be his, not theirs.
Across the room, the fangs are done teasing. The dark haired vamp tugs down Dean’s zipper and takes out his dick at the same time the red-haired one behind him sinks her fangs into the muscle-rich join of his neck and shoulder, and he arches backwards between them, mouth open in a silent scream. Sam gasps too, the heady scent of Dean’s blood intoxicating, calling to Sam, making his fangs throb and his cock harden painfully in his jeans. The red-haired vamp leans in to share the feast of willing flesh, taking Dean up on the offer of his bared throat, and Sam’s fine-tuned ears can hear the spurt of his brothers’ blood as she bites down on him, can almost taste the hot gush of it. Dean’s strung out between them as they suck it out of him, the dark haired one fisting his cock hard and fast until it’s slick and glistening, bitter scent mixing with the copper rich smell of his blood. His hips buck up and his spine bows as they pull his head back roughly, both of them gnawing at him, ruthless with the bloodlust, and Sam can smell it on him now, how much he wants to die.
Sam’s frozen on the barstool, glass still raised in one hand, head spinning with the way Dean looks, the hurt, punched out moans he’s making, strangled by the way his head’s tilted back so far it looks like they’re about to break his neck. And still he’s pumping his cock through the tight grip of the dark haired vamp’s fist, desperate. When he comes it seems to last forever, thick spurts running down over her fingers, creamy white against the blood red of her nails, sticky-slick as she keeps on pulling him, wringing drop after drop out of him. His eyes roll back as his body jerks wildly, spastic movements of his dangling arms making him look like a puppet with tangled strings, not even moaning anymore, maybe not even breathing. He groans when they finally pull their fangs out of him, and nearly falls off the barstool when the red-haired one steps backwards.
“Easy tiger,” she laughs, grabbing him under the arms and tugging him off the stool and onto one of the faux velvet couches lining the walls of the bar. His head lolls back as she tosses him onto it, and he sprawls with limbs splayed, one foot hanging off the side. Sam can see the whites of his eyes beneath the flutter of dark lashes, and now that he’s still, the circles bruised underneath and the gauntness of his cheekbones. He’s so pale he looks translucent. The rise and fall of his chest is strained, uneven.
“Mmm,” one vamp says to the other, licking her lips, stained crimson with Dean’s blood. “Hunters are just extra tasty, aren’t they?”
The red-haired one grins in agreement. “If we’re lucky he’ll wake up enough to go again before the night’s over. I hear he’s got alotta stamina.”
“Did.” The bartender clears off the shot glasses and glances at Dean collapsed on the sofa. “Did have a lot of stamina. That was before he came in every other night gettin’ himself drained dry. Be lucky if he lasts out the month at this rate.”
The female vampires shrug. “Shame they can’t make humans a little more hardy.”
Sam orders another drink.
So his brother’s dying. It’s not really Sam’s business if Dean wants to die; he’s a grown man, he can decide, and besides, it’s been a long time since Sam actually cared. Dean’s just another human, something that smells good and tastes better. If he’s still shaking with want, it’s because he’s hungry, pure and simple.
He thinks about leaving. Tells himself he should. Just one more drink. A string of humans try to catch his eye, as Sam orders another. And another. His eyes drift back to Dean unerringly, unconscious on the couch across the room. Goddamn idiot.
He shoves a woman who puts her hand on his arm hard enough to make her fall off her barstool, and after that everyone leaves him alone. He watches from across the bar as two females and three males give up pints of blood for orgasms that seem intense enough to make their hearts give out even without the blood loss. They all beg for it; four will come back to beg again, one won’t.
“Goddammit,” the owner says when he finds the corpse on the couch nearest the door. “You make a mess here, you goddamn clean it up!” The body leaves a smudge of red along the floor as he drags it to the back room. A young vampire kneels to dip his finger in it, licks the tip when he thinks no one’s looking.
Sam’s five more drinks in when Dean finally starts to stir. He falls over the first time he tries to sit up, cursing under his breath as he struggles upright. He blinks muzzily in the dim red light, grimacing as he touches the puncture wounds on his neck. They’re still bleeding sluggishly, thin trails of red stark against the whiteness of his throat.
“Look who’s awake,” one of the vampires who bit him croons, settling herself next to Dean on the couch. She hands him a drink and he takes it too quickly, nearly drops it as he brings it to his lips with trembling hands, and coughs as he swallows. He looks wasted, only half conscious, but when she pushes him back against the sofa cushions he puts his hands on her waist and doesn’t turn away from her hungry mouth on his collarbone, her hungry hands stroking over his stomach, dipping down into his still-unfastened jeans.
“Yeah,” he says, little more than a growl, “Go ahead, yeah, please.”
Sam slams the glass down on the bar so hard it shakes the wood, and half a dozen patrons jump. Dean and the two vampires on the couch don’t notice, already gearing up for round two, and fuck, Sam’s gonna get to watch Dean die right now.
“Hey,” the bartender at the next bar says, “Cut it out girls, he’s out of commission for tonight.”
They both pull back with a hiss, fangs bared in anger. Splayed on his back, Dean moans and reaches out for them. “Please,” he says, “More.”
The bartender shakes his head, and the vamps abruptly get up. One of them grabs Dean by the hair as she stands up, yanking his head up roughly until he yelps. She lets go and he falls backwards, still murmuring “Please, please.”
“Humans,” she scowls as she walks away, “So fucking pathetic.”
And jesus, he is. Dean, the big brother Sam looked up to all his life, is pathetic. He looks about as dangerous as a fly, and as vulnerable as any victim they ever tried to save. Sam’s stomach lurches, half disgust and half rage. It’s more than he’s felt in over a year.
Sam has two more drinks before Dean manages to fumble his jeans up and get them zipped and buttoned. Another before he makes his way across the club to the door, weaving drunkenly and bouncing off more than one growling vampire and surly human. He falls once, rolls to the side clutching his wrist and nearly gets stepped on before he manages to crawl to relative safety and get to his feet again. It’s not until he’s outside and stumbling down the alley back to civilization that Sam realizes he’s limping. He remembers how loud the crack was that day in the warehouse when Sam broke the bone there.
Sam follows his brother down a series of alleys, onto a deserted street in what looks like the worst possible part of town. Dean stops when he gets to the big black car parked between street lights, splays his hands out on her roof and bows his head. Even from twenty yards back, Sam can smell the despair on him, the dark taint of self loathing, the death wish. Dean leans over and rests his forehead on the Impala’s roof, his face ghostly pale in the glow of the street lamps, and his mouth twists into a grimace. There are no tears, Sam would smell the salt, but Dean lays there for a long time, shoulders shaking every now and then, palms flat to the cool metal. When he finally gets up, it’s to open the back door and crawl into the back seat. Sam dares to get close enough a few minutes later, peering through the dirty back window. Dean’s curled up on the seat where they spent most of their childhood, huddled under the red and brown wool blanket they used to fight over because it was the warmest. He’s shivering anyway, from blood loss or fever or exhaustion or just from cold.
Sam watches for a long time, until Dean’s shoulders aren’t shaking so much anymore and his face is relaxed into a restless sleep. He looks like Dean when he was twelve and caught some kind of supernatural flu that nearly killed him, pale and flushed and trembling. Sam watched over him then, sitting up half the night to make sure Dean kept breathing, rubbing his back to try to warm him, Sam’s small hands going round and round, trying to soothe the shivers away.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s been stroking circles against the window until his palm squeaks against the glass, and he jerks his hand back.
If Dean wants to die, let him. After all, he let Sam.
* * *
The vampires cast him suspicious looks when Sam gets back, a few of the young ones badgering him with questions about Red. Did Sam get in? Was it as awesome as they say, like a living smorgasbord, humans splayed out like a banquet for the taking? Is he going back?
Sam mostly just glares.
“What’s with you recently?” Holly asks after Sam has kicked the offending refrigerator door in their makeshift ‘kitchen’ three times – it keeps refusing to stay closed, no matter how forcefully he slams it. They keep emergency supplies in there, blood bank bags and beers mostly.
“Nothing!”
Holly rolls her eyes. As fangs go, she’s not too bad. Not picky about who she eats, but she’s not stupid, and sometimes she’ll even sit down and watch the History Channel with Sam.
“Sure Sam, whatever you say. But you’ve been a pissy bitch ever since you came back from the Big Easy. Maybe you’ve got a taste for bloodslut now, huh? Better than your everyday bum in the back alley? That’s what you used to go for.”
Just the word makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up violently. Bloodslut, bloodslut, bloodslut. Your brother’s a bloodslut.
“My brother’s not a –
“Actually he’s probably just dead.” Jake’s voice cuts through Sam’s anger, cold and calculating.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jake snorts. “Oh, I think you do.”
“Wait,” Holly interrupts, and the rest of the group is listening now too, suspicious. “Are you saying all this pissiness is about some human?”
“No,” Sam growls.
“Yes,” Jake counters. “But not just any human, right, Sam?”
The other vampires gather closer, and Sam can feel his fangs lengthen, his fists clench ready for fighting.
“This bloodslut was your brother – the great Dean Winchester, vampire hunter. Isn’t that right?”
Holly whistles. “Wow Sam, didn’t know you had such a checkered past. So now both Winchester brothers are dead.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sam answers.
That night he climbs up the ancient marquee and sits on the giant ‘S’ that used to be the start of the Strand sign; it’s high enough that he can see over most of the dilapidated buildings, all the way past the city limits to where the roads open out into countryside. Those are the sort of roads they grew up on, him and Dean and Dad, miles upon miles of asphalt and a panorama of stars above. Flat on their backs on the generous back seat, they’d stare out the back window, up at the closest thing they had to television, Dean patiently pointing out Orion, the big dipper, Sirius. He remembers the warmth of Dean’s hip against his own, the painful bump of elbows and tangle of feet under the blankets, the flash of Dean’s teeth in the dark when he smiled.
He doesn’t even hear Holly make her way across the roof to straddle the A.
“Sorry about before.”
“Fuck!” Sam’s boots scrabble against the roof tiles as he almost loses his balance. “Don’t fucking creep up on me like that!”
Holly kicks a loose tile, watches it clatter to the ground and shatter on the sidewalk below. “I had a brother,” she says, and Sam freezes.
“Used to go watch him sometimes, after I got turned. Never got too close; didn’t want him to know, but…
“But?” Sam has no idea why he’s encouraging her.
“But I wanted to see him – I guess maybe I missed him.” She darts a furtive glance at Sam, assessing. “A little. We were close before I – really close. Don’t think he ever got over me dying, not really.”
“Sorry.” It seems like the right thing to say, if he remembers etiquette from his human days. It’s been a long time since he’s had to think about that.
Holly shrugs. “He’s been dead over a hundred years. But yeah, I remember.”
Sam nods, turning back to stare out over the star-strewn hills beyond the rundown little city.
“Point is,” Holly goes on, not looking in Sam’s direction. “Family’s still family, even when you’re…..I mean, we were blood. He’s blood.”
“So?” Sam can feel his pulse beat faster, the parody of life that keeps his heart pounding responding to the words, and Holly turns to meet his gaze, her green eyes narrowed.
“So maybe you should go back to New Orleans. Before it’s too late.”
* * *
Red on any given weekend is filled to capacity, bouncers turning away as many humans and vamps as they let in. On Fat Tuesday, the additional decadence packs the club to overflowing, quite literally. When Sam gets there, the line winds its way down the alley until it’s only a few blocks from Bourbon Street, where it mixes with the crowds of drunken revelers already dressed as frighteningly as any vampire. Humans with fang implants give tours of the French Quarter for twenty bucks while Sam walks by unnoticed, scowling. Fucking stupid humans. Fucking stupid Dean, who’s probably gone and gotten himself killed before Sam can…..do whatever it is Sam’s wanting to do. He’s not sure whether it’s to kill Dean himself or knock some sense into him or…..he’s really not sure.
He’s also not sure it isn’t too late. There’s so much blood and booze and sweat and semen in the air when he finally gets through the heavy door, Sam nearly chokes on it, everything mixed up and overwhelming. Sam makes the rounds three times, but there’s no sign of Dean, and yet…..it’s not clear, but there’s something…..maybe.
He tips the bartender extra when he orders his first drink. “Looking for someone,” he says, and the bartender smirks.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she purrs.
“Six foot, green eyes, short brown hair, freckles.”
The bartender cocks an eyebrow, gestures to the swarm of bodies all around them.
“Hunter,” Sam says.
She narrows her gaze, and then the corner of her mouth quirks. “Oh,” she says, “him. I think you might be too late, sweetheart. He’s lasted longer than most do. Was strung out enough to take off with Julian and a few of his gang to the backroom tonight. Don’t think any of ‘em had any intention of letting him outta there still breathing.”
The bartender hisses when Sam grabs her wrist. “Where?” he demands.
She gestures toward the far left, and throws the glass at him as Sam takes off in that direction.
The first door opens; the second Sam kicks down. Nobody pays the slightest bit of attention.
A burly male vampire – Julian, Sam supposes – is bent over Dean, who’s sprawled on a filthy bed, naked and unresisting. His eyes are closed, lashes fanned thick and black against white skin. Both arms are thrown wide, and he looks for all the world like he’s about to be crucified, his pale thin body littered with punctures and bites and bruises. Thin rivulets of red follow the visible lines of his ribs and drip onto the mattress, and blood smudges his cheek, his hip, even his ankles. His nipples are painted with it, slick and dark, and as Sam stares a female vamp bends to lick one tightened nub, and Dean whimpers. His cock is hard, leaking against his belly, angry red like the rest of him.
Julian grabs both of Dean’s legs and forces them up and apart, and Sam can see how much they’ve used him already, fucked him swollen and sore and bled him nearly dry.
“Gonna take the rest of it now sweetheart, give you what you want,” Julian croons, lining his dick up and nodding to the other vamps. “Might as well finish him this time,” he orders, and all three of them swoon. Sam knows the lure of that, the taste of death better than anything. Dean tosses weakly on the mattress, turns his head to the side to expose the bloody mess that is his neck, and Sam realizes he’s not going to fight this.
Julian laughs, cruel and bitter and disparaging. He nods to the two vampires holding Dean by both wrists, and they snarl before sinking fangs deep into the tender flesh, stretching Dean’s arms out wide. He jerks and cries out at that, and the third vampire bends to his ravaged throat just as Julian lines up his cock and starts to push inside.
Something about the sight of that final act of possession hits Sam in the gut with such force that he’s moving forward before he plans it, catching Julian off guard, his attention still between Dean’s spread legs. He hisses and stumbles backwards, and the other three vampires pull back in surprise, Dean’s blood dripping from their fangs, staining their mouths and chins.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Julian demands, right before Sam slams him against the wall so hard the whole room shakes.
“Walk away,” Sam says, the words growled out on a harsh breath. “He’s mine.”
Julian opens his mouth to protest, and Sam raises himself to his full height, towering over the other vampire. “Mine.”
There’s a split second where Sam’s sure that Julian’s not going to give up that easily, then he drops his eyes in a gesture of reluctant submission. “Whatever,” he hisses, spitting blood where he bit his own lip when his head hit the wall. “Just a fuckin’ human, not worth it.”
Sam backs off, but his fists are still clenched and his heart’s pounding so hard it’s threatening to push right through his chest. “Get out,” he orders, and glares as Julian gathers his clothes and his followers and stalks out the broken door. It slams behind him, more wood shattering with the impact. Dean groans plaintively on the mattress, arms still outstretched and legs still spread obscenely. There are little pools of red beneath both wrists, a trickle running down the side of his neck.
Sam draws nearer to his brother, standing where Julian was a few moments ago. Dean Fuck. This close, the scent of him is maddening; the coppery richness of his blood, the bitter musk of his sex, the sickly sweet smell of near death. It’s everything a vampire dreams of, everything Sam wants. He’s trembling as he leans in, bends over Dean where he’s lying in wait, bleeding, wanting.
“Please,” Dean whimpers, barely able to voice the word. “Please, do it.”
Sam wants to. His blood is boiling, desire hot and unstoppable. He’s drowning in it, crazy for it -- his brother’s blood, his brother’s life. This is the Dean of his most compelling dreams, naked and bloodied and burning with need, and Sam’s blood burns in response, the need to take overwhelming.
Beneath him, Dean tosses his head restlessly, murmurs what sounds like a prayer.
“Let me die,” he pleads, and suddenly Sam wants to rip him apart limb from limb because jesuschrist Dean, what the hell is the matter with you, you have life for fucksake, you can live, you can be human, you can walk in the fucking sunshine for fucksake, and this is what you want?
He yanks Dean down the bed by both ankles, pressing his knees to his sides and spreading him wide, and Dean’s eyes snap open, a swimming sea of green as his lashes flutter wildly.
“Look at me,” Sam orders, holding Dean down and open and completely still. “Open your fucking eyes and look at me.”
Dean struggles to focus as his eyes roll back, and he moans again as Sam keeps saying it. “Look at me, Dean. You fucking look at me.”
Finally his gaze stabilizes, Dean’s bloodshot eyes bouncing from Sam’s hands holding his knees apart to Sam’s eyes pinning him to the bed, to Sam’s fangs where his lips curl back. Dean’s mouth falls open, and Sam can see him struggle to swallow.
“S-sam?” he finally manages, and Sam digs his fingers into the muscles of Dean’s calves, pressing his knees back even farther.
“That’s right,” he says, and nudges the head of his dick against Dean’s slick hole. “This what you want? This what you come here for, give it up for? Someone to suck you dry and fuck the life out of you?”
“Sammmm,” Dean groans, his eyes rolling back again.
“Is it?” Sam yells, and this time he pushes in, can’t not do it, sinking himself inside where Dean is slick and tight and heated, as deep as he can get. Dean moans drunkenly, and his dick jerks against his belly. “You so far gone that you want it even from me?”
Dean tosses his head back and forth on the mattress, his hands fisting the remnants of a sheet beneath him. “Please,” he gasps, and he manages to get his eyes open again, locks them on Sam with a fleeting moment of clarity. “Yes,” he grits out, coughing around the word.
“You stupid fucker,” Sam answers, but his body keeps fucking Dean, faster and deeper, and it’s good, god, it’s fucking better than anything. Dean jerks and stiffens, chasing his climax, and Sam has to taste then, has to share it; his cock, his teeth, all of him, sunk deep into his brother. Dean comes so hard it nearly brings Sam to his knees, the rush of pleasure rich and delicious pulsing in his blood, and Sam has to use every ounce of willpower he has to keep from drinking all of Dean down. He pulls his fangs out before his cock, lets the last throbs of pleasure ripple over them both as he follows Dean over the edge.
“Stupid fucker,” he’s still muttering after, running his tongue over the array of wounds splattered across Dean’s body, sealing each one with wet strokes and avid licks until his tongue is aching with the effort, and then just pressing his mouth there, almost-kisses to the damp skin as Dean’s heart beats sluggishly beneath his lips. Shallow and thready but there.
Still there.
* * *
Dean comes to staring up at the stars through the back window of the Impala. The red and brown wool blanket is pulled up to his chin. He’s shivering, per usual, but he can feel the slow thud of his heartbeat as it resolutely brings him back to life once again. Fuck.
The voice from the front seat makes him sit up so fast his head spins and he almost pukes.
“Nope, you’re not dead yet.”
“Fuck,” Dean curses, then freezes when he sees who’s looking back at him over the seats. “Sam?”
“The one and only.”
Dean’s eyes are so wide he looks like a cartoon. “Y-you – did you –
“Don’t look so shocked. Not like you’ve been a boy scout this past year, Dean.” Sam wipes a spot of dried blood from the corner of his mouth. Dean’s blood. His fangs tingle at the taste, ache for more. So does his dick. Shit, he’s never wanted anyone like he wants Dean. Probably that shouldn’t be a surprise.
Dean opens and closes his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He’s even paler than Sam.
“Eat this,” Sam orders, tossing a greasy fast food bag into the back seat. It lands on Dean’s stomach, and he groans like it weighs a ton.
“Can’t,” he whines, and that’s it -- Sam’s over the backseat in a fraction of a second, too quick for Dean’s senses to process properly. Sam has him pulled up to sitting, his back pressed to Sam’s chest and practically in Sam’s lap, before he can move to get away.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Dean protests, struggling weakly in Sam’s grasp, trying to get away. As if.
Sam reaches around Dean’s slight body with one hand to shove the unwrapped burger at his brother. Dean opens his mouth to protest and wham, in it goes. He sputters and spits, but Sam holds it steady and eventually Dean gives in and bites the damn thing.
“Good boy. That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” There’s an unfamiliar tug at the corners of Sam’s mouth as he asks. Dean is warm against him, alive.
“You gonna kill me?” Dean asks once his mouth isn’t full.
Sam laughs and lifts the burger to his brother’s lips again. “Why would I be making you eat McDonald’s if I was gonna do that?”
“Mmmno,” Dean mumbles, and Sam settles back into the Impala’s familiar leather, pulls Dean closer against him. He can feel Dean’s bones, not an ounce of spare flesh on him, little of the sinewy muscle his brother used to sport. Dean’s pliable, unresisting.
I’ve had you, he thinks, with a sudden twinge of desire. You let me.
“Just eat,” he orders, pushing away the image of Dean splayed out beneath him.
Still docile from weakness, amazingly Dean does.
After two Gatorades and a burger, Dean pushes the fries away. “Can’t,” he grumbles, batting at Sam’s hands. “’ll puke it up if you keep shovin’ things in there.”
He sounds so much like the stubborn asshole of a big brother Sam spent his life adoring and resenting simultaneously, that Sam relents, another smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, okay. Should be enough to keep you alive until tomorrow anyway.”
Sam disentangles himself from his brother then, suddenly too aware of the pounding of Dean’s heart, the swish of blood under Dean’s skin. How right Dean feels in his arms now. He gets out and takes a deep breath, staring up at the starry sky.
There’s a familiar creak, and Dean stumbles out too, barely keeping his footing as he shuts the car door and leans up against the Impala. He’s ghostly white, bruised. Broken. His green eyes shine in the moonlight, but the expression there is grief stricken, haunted. So full of pain it slips through the blankness Sam counts on, slithers inside and makes Sam’s heart catch in his chest.
He doesn’t plan what he does next.
“Sam,” Dean starts, and Sam turns on him, presses him back up against the car and fists both hands in Dean’s torn and bloodied tee shirt.
“Listen to me, Dean, cuz I’m only gonna offer this once.”
Dean blinks up at him, eyes wide as a child’s, full of longing and some other emotions Sam doesn’t want to recognize, doesn’t want to name, but they’re there, and he feels alive with it – more alive than he’s felt in over a year. His voice shakes when he speaks, so loud Dean flinches.
“Come find me, Dean. I won’t make it easy for you – I’ll use every trick in the book to stay hidden, stack my wits against yours and my vampire instincts against your human ones. But if you can – if you can find me, then I –
Dean’s mouth is open, gaping, and his eyes are glistening, wet and dark and wide with a crazy mix of fear and love and horror and hope. “Then what, Sam?” he asks, and his voice rumbles, deep and dark and making Sam want things, want to promise things, crazy things.
“Then I’ll give it up, I will,” he hears himself say, and Dean’s shaking now, Sam can feel the tremble in his arms, in his belly where he’s pressed up against Sam. “I’ll give it up and live like they do, like Lenore and her family.”
“Sammy,” Dean groans, and his arms come around Sam, a weird almost hug, and they’re stuck together, rocking against the car, and Sam’s not sure what this is, what he wants. What Dean wants.
“I’ll do it, Dean,” he promises, and Dean sobs against him, saying his name over and over, begging again. “I swear I will. But you’ve gotta find me, understand?”
He steps back enough to grab Dean’s chin and force his face up, lock their eyes. “You’ve gotta kick this fucking habit and be a hunter again, or you don’t have a prayer in hell of finding me.”
Dean shakes his head, and he’s trembling hard now, looks like he’s gonna fall down if Sam moves away far enough. But his eyes hold Sam’s, even as Sam takes another step backwards.
“Or you don’t have a prayer of saving me,” Sam says.
He waits for the first tear to overflow and trickle down Dean’s cheek before he turns and runs.
* * *
Part Three
