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Entry tags:
But Blood Is Thicker, Sam/Dean, NC17 - Part Two
Title:But Blood Is Thicker
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:chomaisky
Pairing:Sam/Dean, minor Dean/OFC and Dean/OMC
Rating:NC17
Sam licks his lips, his mouth gone dry.
Dean replaces the cue stick, knocks back the drink in three gulps, and wipes his wet lips with his sleeve. He gestures toward the back door and the man nods, and Sam sees Dean smile before he turns on his heel and heads there, the young man close behind.
It’s only then that Sam becomes aware of eyes on him. Crowley is on the other side of the pool table, lounging against the bar.
“Hello, Moose,” Crowley says when Sam crosses the room, and his smile is so warm that Sam could almost believe Crowley was glad to see him.
“What the hell, Crowley? What are you doing to my brother?”
Crowley takes a sip of his beer and shrugs.
“What makes you think I’m doing anything to him? He asked for my help in finding Abaddon. I’m just doing as he asked.”
“And now he’s killing demons without a thought for the poor bastards who got themselves possessed—that’s not your doing?”
Crowley nods to the bartender, who puts another bottle of beer in front of him.
“Buy you a drink, big boy?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.
Sam scowls. “He’s gonna regret this when he’s himself again.”
Crowley smiles more broadly. “Maybe he is himself, Sam. Maybe this is just who your brother is meant to be.”
Sam reluctantly picks up the beer. He’s thirsty, and angry, and confused, and alcohol seems like a bad idea but he doesn’t really care right now. “What? A killer? Like Cain?”
Crowley shrugs. “More deadly than Cain, I’m betting.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re betting—you’ve been more than happy to facilitate this whole process, haven’t you? I saw you watching him, when the mark started to take hold. He’s just an animal to you—a means to an end.”
A look of annoyance crosses Crowley’s face before he schools it back to pleasantly smarmy. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I’m crushed you think that of me. You’re forgetting I’ve got all that warm, fuzzy human blood in me.”
Sam swigs his beer instead of answering. Whatever leftover humanity Crowley has in him, it’s not enough to keep him from being out for himself and no one else. Actually, he was probably that way when he was human.
“Besides,” Crowley continues, “you did as much to drive Dean to taking the mark as I did.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sam knows he shouldn’t have asked the second the words are out. It’s not like he doesn’t know the answer already.
“’You’re not my brother, Dean.’ ‘We can just be hunting partners, Dean.’ ‘It’s just business, Dean,’” Crowley singsongs. “You knew just how to break him, Sam. Take away the one thing he cares about, the one thing that’s always kept him human. You.”
“Fuck off,” Sam growls, and he really wants to smash Crowley in his taunting, simpering face.
“I have to hand it to you, Moose. You knew how to hit him where it hurts. Left him so full of self-loathing that he didn’t even ask what the mark would do to him. Didn’t care.”
“I said, fuck off.”
“I believe that’s what your brother’s doing,” Crowley quips. “Set him up with a tall, lanky young man with shaggy brown hair and he’s good to go these days.”
Sam freezes with his beer in the air and his tongue stuck in his throat.
“Oh, come on, Moose, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the way Big Brother looks at you. So much love, so much longing.”
Sam is staring, speechless.
Crowley smiles and preens. “Can’t say I blame him. You’re one prime piece of ass, Moose.”
“I—“
“Forcing Dean to admit it to himself is just another reason for him to believe he’s poison, of course. So it works out in my favor that you keep rejecting him.”
“I—I’m not rejecting him!” It’s not really what Sam wants to say, but it’s what he manages to get out.
“Aren’t you?” Crowley asks, and his eyebrow is raised again, all judgmental skepticism. “Isn’t that what you were doing every time you told him he wasn’t your brother?”
“I never said that!” It’s not fair; it’s not what Sam said—or it’s not what he meant, and goddammit, Dean should have known that. “I just wanted a fucking apology, is that too much to ask?”
Crowley shakes his head, and he looks genuinely sad for a moment.
“Oh Sam, you poor thing. Possessed all those many times, and then the one person you trust does it to you again. Tsk tsk tsk.”
That’s it. Sam’s had all he can take of Crowley’s faux sympathy. He turns toward the back door without answering.
“Careful you don’t get an eyeful,” Crowley calls after him. “Unless that’s what you want, of course.”
Sam doesn’t know what he wants, other than to get away from Crowley’s innuendo and his reptilian smile. He has the presence of mind to open the door quietly in spite of his rush to get away, slipping out into the alley. It’s dark, not a single artificial light, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust enough to see. Dean and the man are ten yards away. Ordinarily, Dean would have heard the door open and close, would have seen the sliver of light when it did, but he’s otherwise occupied. In fact, he has his eyes closed. He’s on his knees in the alley, and he’s got a mouthful of the stranger’s dick.
Sam has watched Dean with lots of women, mostly because Dean has never gone out of his way to hide. Maybe he’s even gone out of his way to make sure Sam catches a glimpse here and there. Truthfully, Sam has always assumed that Dean has hooked up with guys once in a while—there have been comments here and there, and a few close calls. Dean has probably -- rightly -- assumed the same about him. But Sam has never seen it. Until now.
The stranger is leaning against the cement wall, his shoulders back and his hips jutting out, his jeans pushed halfway down his thighs. Dean has one hand braced against the man’s hip, the other wrapped around the length he can’t take, though he’s giving it a fucking good try. Even in the moonlight, Sam can see how wet his brother’s lips are, slick with spit as he wraps them around the thick cock in his mouth, bobbing his head with what looks like enthusiasm.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the man says, and his voice is pitched low, echoing in the narrow alley. “Suck it, suck your little brother’s big dick.”
The words rip through Sam like he’s been electrocuted, goosebumps raising the hairs on his arms and his stomach flipping like he’s freefalling without a parachute. Jesus Christ. Crowley wasn’t bullshitting.
Dean moans, a strangled, desperate sound, and the stranger puts a hand on the back of his head and forces him down. It’s proprietary, demanding, and Dean chokes and goes with it, almost falling forward on his knees before he gets his balance.
“Pull off,” the stranger hisses, and Dean obeys, raises his head and waits, eyes wide and mouth open. “Gonna mess up that pretty face, make you dirty like you deserve,” the man says, and lets go. Globs of come splatter Dean’s cheek, catch on the stubble on his chin. Dean takes it all, his hand fumbling open his jeans and slipping inside to jerk himself off roughly.
Sam watches his face when he comes, twisted in pain-pleasure, eyes closed again and his face still dirty.
“Sammy,” he gasps, fist still working.
It’s entirely involuntary, the sound Sam makes then.
Dean’s eyes fly open and land on Sam.
“Sammy,” he says again, and it sounds just the same.
“The real Sammy?” the stranger asks incredulously, which gives Dean time to wipe his face with his sleeve and fasten his jeans. “Your actual brother?”
“Fuck off,” Sam says, and it comes out a growl. His insides are twisting so violently he thinks he might be sick, and his cock is so hard it’s painful.
“No problem,” the guy says, zipping up and heading back into the bar. “Uh, thanks.”
Dean is glaring.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sam? I told you I’d do this on my own. I don’t need your help.”
Sam is suddenly as furious as he is aroused.
“Oh, really? Because you’re doing just fine, slaughtering demons without even trying to save the people they possessed, following Crowley around like a puppy—giving blowjobs to strangers in back alleys—what the hell, Dean?”
Sam expects Dean to yell, throw a punch maybe. Instead he’s eerily calm.
“It’s none of your business, Sam.”
“Yes, it is my fucking business; you’re my fucking brother!”
Dean rolls his shoulders, wipes a bit of stickiness from his bottom lip. “No, I’m your business partner. Ex business partner. Your words, Sam.”
“You know I didn’t mean that!”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you meant it. Don’t try to take it back now, just because you don’t like what I’m doing.”
And with that, Dean brushes past him and heads back into the bar.
Sam takes a deep breath—a few deep breaths—and follows. To his shock, Dean and Crowley are already gone. By the time Sam bursts through the front door, the Impala’s tail lights are disappearing up the road, a cloud of dust billowing behind her.
“The sonofabitch left without me,” Sam says out loud. As bad as things have been between them, Sam didn’t expect Dean to leave without any further attempt at communication.
“I guess his deep and abiding love for his baby brother wasn’t quite as all-encompassing as the weird Brit said it was.”
The voice startles Sam out of his shock. He turns to find Dean’s most recent hook-up coming out of the bar behind him. As much as he doesn’t want to hear a single word this guy has to say, let alone look at him, Sam’s hunter instincts are stronger than his revulsion.
“What exactly did the weird Brit say?”
The guy smiles, and Sam has to admit he’s fairly good-looking. Not Dean’s type, as far as Sam ever knew, but yeah, easy on the eyes.
“Said that his ‘mate’ was in hopeless, pathological, fucked-up incestuous love with his little brother—you, apparently. Paid me $500 to make a move on him. Which is crazy, because, dude, did you see that guy? I woulda done him for nothing.”
Sam grimaces, and the other guy laughs.
“Oh, that’s right, of course you’ve seen that guy; you’re his baby brother. His Sammy. The dude told me to say it that way, if he asked my name.”
He regards Sam skeptically.
“You look pretty grown up to still be calling yourself Sammy.”
“It’s Sam.”
The guy smirks. “Whatever you say. Your brother’s a kinky fucker, but he’s pretty. I’ll play stand-in for you anytime.”
Sam absolutely does not let himself remember what he saw in the alley. Stick to business, he tells himself. “What else did he say?”
The stranger considers the question for a minute, then takes a step toward Sam. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You already got $500 and, from what I could see, a pretty spectacular blow job. Now you want more?”
The guy shrugs, grinning.
“Forget it,” Sam growls. Though the stranger is tall, Sam’s still taller. “How about what’s it worth to you not to get your face punched bloody?”
The man instantly throws up his hands. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble. Calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” All the rage of the past few months is coalescing in Sam’s belly, coiling there like hot coals. He clenches his fist, tells himself that this guy isn’t responsible for any of it, but all he can see is Dean’s face covered in spunk. His fists are clenched in the guy’s plaid shirt before he realizes he’s moved.
“What. Else. Did. He. Say.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything I can remember, just—let me go, okay?” There’s fear in the guy’s eyes, and Sam would be a liar if he said that wasn’t satisfying.
He forces his fists to unclench, takes a step back.
“He uh—he said the guy—Dean—liked it a bit rough, that he needed to do some—some penance, he called it. Told me to put him on his knees and call him dirty. Or—poison, he told me to say he was poison. I couldn’t remember, got kinda distracted, but yeah, that’s what he said."
The guy smooths his shirt down nervously. "I guess your brother doesn’t think much of himself or something.”
I’m poison, Sam. Anyone around me gets hurt.
“Anything else?” Sam asks, already looking past the man to the road where the Impala had disappeared.
“I don’t think so—look, I didn’t mean to get between you two or whatever. The British guy said Dean was hopelessly in love with you, so I thought—I just figured you weren’t down with the whole incest thing.”
“What?” Sam’s having trouble following what the stupid guy is saying, Dean’s words on the roadside that day still ringing in his ears. Poison. Dean thinks he’s poison.
“I didn’t realize,” the guy says. “That you felt the same way. Until I saw you in the alley, the way you were watching us. Him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says carefully, making the words measured.
The stranger has his hand on the door of the bar now, ready to go back in, probably to take refuge in the relative safety of the crowd.
“I know what I saw,” he says, braver now that Sam doesn’t have hands on him.
Sam turns to make his way across the parking lot, feeling sick with emotions he can’t disentangle. Everything is happening too fast, and there’s no time to figure it all out.
The guy calls after him, hanging out the open bar door.
“He doesn’t know, does he? You really should tell him.”
Sam keeps walking.
“You’re sick fuckers, you know that?” the guy yells, and the door slams shut.
Sam drives for twelve hours, trying to run away from his own feelings as much as he’s trying to catch up to Dean and Crowley. It doesn’t work.
* * *
Dean drives like the devil himself is on their heels, instead of the King of Hell riding shotgun.
“Big hurry all of a sudden,” Crowley points out.
Dean doesn’t answer.
“I have to admit, I didn’t expect Moose to show up. After all, he’s made it clear he’s done with being your brother. Guess he got a real show back there in the alley, didn’t he? If he wasn’t done with you before…”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean mutters, his foot even heavier on the gas.
“Fine, fine,” Crowley singsongs, fiddling with the radio. “But you have to admit, he looked good. Better than that cheap substitute you were on your knees for.”
“I said, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Dean’s face is red, half fury and half humiliation. Bad enough that Sam saw and heard what he did, but Crowley?
“Oh darling,” Crowley croons, “I’m the last one to judge. I’d get on my knees for your little brother in a second if only…”
Dean slams his foot on the brake. The Impala veers sideways, skidding across the road with a screech and sending dirt and gravel flying. They come to a stop on the shoulder, and Dean whirls on Crowley, his fist making satisfying contact with the demon’s constantly smirking mouth.
The force of the punch throws Crowley’s head back against the glass, and he ducks down after, covering his face with one hand.“Okay, okay, big boy, point made,” he concedes, but Dean barely hears him.
The mark is burning on his skin, sparks running up his arm, through his chest, energizing him so abruptly that he can’t not keep going. The only thing that saves Crowley from being pummeled into a bloody pulp is his ability to reach back and grab the door handle, tumbling both of them out of the car and onto the ground.
Dean’s attack sends him careening past Crowley and onto the grassy shoulder; he rolls easily, coming to his feet with the blade in his hand and murder in his eyes.
Crowley is no fool; he’s already disappeared.
Dean freezes, the blade upraised, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. His hand shakes with the need to sink the knife into flesh, to hurt, to kill, but there’s no target in sight. For a second, his gaze lands on his own reflection in the Impala’s window, and he almost hurls the blade at the glass in desperation.
Once before, he took out his rage on his Baby, and she bore it all without complaint, let him sink the crowbar into her steel until she was dented and broken, just like Dean felt. He promised her he’d never do that again, but it’s a near thing now.
When he finally drops the blade, he goes to his knees with it, trembling, body thrumming with the need to do something.
“’m sorry, baby,” he mumbles finally, and gets up. The Impala is dirty, covered with dust and grime. The smell of burning rubber is still in the air from the way he forced her to a stop and slid her across the road.
He turns before he gets into the car, looking back in the direction they’ve come. The road is empty. Just as well.
Crowley doesn’t reappear until the next day, at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Dean’s filling the car up when Crowley saunters over and climbs in the passenger door.
“Abaddon is close,” he says when Dean gets in. “If you don’t need sleep, we can make it in three days.”
“Fine,” Dean agrees. He can’t remember the last time he slept, or even the last time he was hungry for anything but whiskey. He eats because he knows he should, but the burn of the mark is so much stronger than any other urge—to sleep, or eat, or fuck. Even the urge to know that Sam is safe, to keep him close—the need that has given Dean direction his entire life—is fading. Sam doesn’t want him anyway; the mark is doing them both a favor.
He drives.
* * *
Sam realizes fairly quickly that Dean and Crowley have a big advantage: they’re not sleeping. In fact, he’s not sure they’re stopping for anything other than gas for the Impala and whatever alcohol and bad food Dean can pick up at the attached quick mart.
He stops for the night at the Somerton Motel when he can’t ignore the fact that he’s barely keeping the car on the road any longer.
It’s too quiet in the tiny room even with the television blaring some reality-show nonsense; Sam wishes there was someone he could call. Charlie’s off with Dorothy somewhere Sam hopes is more pleasant than here, Bobby’s gone, Kevin’s gone. Everyone’s gone. The longing hits him with unexpected force then, how much he wants his brother. Dean is the only person left in the world who knows him, who knows them. Sam has always been sure, no matter what happened, that Dean would always be there. Even when hurtful words have been hurled between them, even when Dean took refuge in a bottle instead of talking it out with Sam, even when Sam was addicted to demon blood and going down the wrong path with the right intentions, he never doubted that if he needed his brother, Dean would be there.
Now he’s not sure. Dean doesn’t think Sam wants him there. Now that he can’t explain, all the times he had the opportunity and didn’t say anything prickle under Sam’s skin. He had good reasons, he knows he did. He’s still angry, even now. He just never expected it to turn out like this.
There’s no way he’ll sleep despite his exhaustion, so he heads across the road to a little diner. He orders a more-or-less healthy meal and manages to say no to the coffee. There are four other people in the place, couples sitting in the high-backed booths, chatting about the warmer weather and the projected prices of corn this year. Sam sits at the counter.
“You look like you could use some conversation,” the waitress says when she refills his water glass.
Sam attempts a smile. She seems nice enough, too old to be hitting on him. “I’m usually on the road with my brother. Guess I’m not used to being alone.”
It’s way more than he intended to say, but Ginny is friendly, and seems a little eager for conversation too.
“So why isn’t your brother with you?”
Ginny pours herself a cup of coffee and leans one elbow on the counter.
“We sort of had a fight, I guess.”
Ginny nods knowingly, takes a sip of her coffee. “Mm-hmm, I know what that’s like. I’ve got a big sister—always thinkin’ she can tell me what to do, that she knows best. Sometimes you just want to make your own decisions, y’know?”
Sam nods. “Yeah, I do. He’s like that, too.”
“Older brother?”
Sam nods again.
“Janie is nine years older than me, and I’m the baby, so I guess she still thinks of me that way. Even though I’m far from a baby now!”
Ginny laughs, and she has crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“Dean’s only four years older than me, but I think he’s always thought of me that way too. We grew up without a mom, and our dad… well, he wasn’t around much either.”
“Just the two of you, then? That had to be hard.”
“It was,” Sam agrees. He remembers lonely Christmas mornings with no presents, leaving schools and friends with no goodbyes. Dinners of grilled cheese on week-old bread and not much else, Dean standing on a chair to reach the stove and heat something up for them.
Ginny sips her coffee, lost in her own memories for a minute.
“So what was this fight about, that you had to split up over?”
It’s not as easy a question as Sam thinks. For months, he’s wanted desperately for Dean to understand why he’s so hurt and angry. Now that someone is really asking, the explanation doesn’t seem so simple.
“He made a big decision for me—something that turned out to be horrible. He let someone do something to me that he knew—he knew—I would never have wanted, something awful. Something that’s happened to me before, more than once, and I never—I never would have said yes to it, never!”
Ginny has put the cup of coffee down and is staring, wide-eyed. “Oh my god, that sounds awful. I’m so sorry. No wonder you didn’t want to be around him.”
Sam sighs, shaking his head. “I didn’t. For a long time, I really didn’t.”
“Well, I don’t blame you.”
It feels good to have someone understand, even if she doesn’t have a clue exactly what he’s talking about. It doesn’t matter though, really.
“I just wanted him to say he was sorry, you know? I just wanted him to get it—to get why what he did hurt so much. I still have nightmares about it, about the things that happened during that time, that I couldn’t stop…”
Ginny puts a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, sugar. I’ve had things happen too, things done to me that I didn’t want. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, that’s—thank you. And I’m sorry, too.”
Ginny refills Sam’s water for the third time, and brings him a slice of cherry pie that he didn’t order.
“On the house,” she smiles, and Sam swallows hard. “Oh, unless you don’t like pie?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. I just—Dean loves pie, especially cherry pie.”
“You really miss him,” Ginny says, and her voice is kind. “Do you forgive him, then, for what he did?”
Sam pokes his fork at the pie. Nothing seems that simple anymore. “I don’t know.”
Ginny nods, and turns to take another slice of pie from the case. She digs into it, scooping up a few cherries. Her lips are red-glossed after, and Sam thinks that’s probably closer to how she looked decades ago.
“Hard to forgive someone who hasn’t apologized,” she muses, licking her lips.
Sam takes a bite of his pie. It’s delicious, buttery crust and a tartness to the cherries underneath the gooey sweetness. Dean would love it.
“He did it to save my life.”
“Oh,” Ginny says, pausing with another forkful of pie half raised.
“But it cost someone else his life, someone I cared about. Maybe a lot of people.”
“Oh,” Ginny says again, her eyes a little wider. Sam wonders what she’s thinking, wishes he could explain more.
“I know he didn’t think that would happen, it wasn’t intentional, but…”
“But it still happened,” Ginny finishes.
Sam nods, scraping up a forkful of cherry filling.
“The thing is, I know Dean. He doesn’t want to be alone. He saved me for himself, as much as for me. So he wouldn’t be by himself here, in all of this.” Sam waves a hand, though Ginny couldn’t possibly guess what “all of this” really means.
Ginny finishes the last of her pie, and takes a sip of her cooling coffee.
“Well,” she says finally, “you never know the reason things happen. Maybe you’re here for a reason.”
Sam snorts. “I don’t really believe in all that destiny crap.”
Ginny shrugs. “Look, I’m far from the religious type. I’m just saying you don’t know. Maybe you’re gonna do something important. Maybe you’re meant to be here.”
Sam thinks about his dream, Dean brutal and bloody, somewhere up ahead.
“Maybe I’m meant to be with him.”
Ginny picks up the check she’d left on the table and slips it in her apron.
“Maybe you are,” she says, and to his raised eyebrows, “On the house. Maybe I’m just glad you’re still here, whoever you are.”
“Sam,” he says as he puts a five down for a tip. “And thank you.”
“Go get ‘im,” Ginny says, and smiles.
It’s easier said than done. There’s no way Sam can drive without sleep, so he lies down, belly full and strangely a little more settled than he’s felt in a long time. He sleeps for six hours.
Sam wakes up before dawn with his heart pounding, and the remnants of a nightmare slowly fading. It’s similar to the other one, but not the same. He can still hear the screams, inhuman and human both. He can still see his brother, the first blade held high and his eyes turned black as he wields it, hacking through human and demon alike with bloodthirsty abandon.
Sam sits up, shaking. The terrifying image is stuck in his head.
What’s even more terrifying is the realization that Sam doesn’t know what will happen to Dean if he gives himself over wholly to the mark. If he slays Abaddon and every other demon Crowley sets before him, who will he be afterwards? What will he be? Cain was the leader of the Knights of Hell—is that what Crowley wants with Dean?
Jesus Christ.
Sam’s showered and dressed and on the road as the sun is coming up, more desperate than ever to find his brother.
Part Three
Author:
runedgirlArtist:
chomaiskyPairing:Sam/Dean, minor Dean/OFC and Dean/OMC
Rating:NC17
Sam licks his lips, his mouth gone dry.
Dean replaces the cue stick, knocks back the drink in three gulps, and wipes his wet lips with his sleeve. He gestures toward the back door and the man nods, and Sam sees Dean smile before he turns on his heel and heads there, the young man close behind.
It’s only then that Sam becomes aware of eyes on him. Crowley is on the other side of the pool table, lounging against the bar.
“Hello, Moose,” Crowley says when Sam crosses the room, and his smile is so warm that Sam could almost believe Crowley was glad to see him.
“What the hell, Crowley? What are you doing to my brother?”
Crowley takes a sip of his beer and shrugs.
“What makes you think I’m doing anything to him? He asked for my help in finding Abaddon. I’m just doing as he asked.”
“And now he’s killing demons without a thought for the poor bastards who got themselves possessed—that’s not your doing?”
Crowley nods to the bartender, who puts another bottle of beer in front of him.
“Buy you a drink, big boy?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.
Sam scowls. “He’s gonna regret this when he’s himself again.”
Crowley smiles more broadly. “Maybe he is himself, Sam. Maybe this is just who your brother is meant to be.”
Sam reluctantly picks up the beer. He’s thirsty, and angry, and confused, and alcohol seems like a bad idea but he doesn’t really care right now. “What? A killer? Like Cain?”
Crowley shrugs. “More deadly than Cain, I’m betting.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re betting—you’ve been more than happy to facilitate this whole process, haven’t you? I saw you watching him, when the mark started to take hold. He’s just an animal to you—a means to an end.”
A look of annoyance crosses Crowley’s face before he schools it back to pleasantly smarmy. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I’m crushed you think that of me. You’re forgetting I’ve got all that warm, fuzzy human blood in me.”
Sam swigs his beer instead of answering. Whatever leftover humanity Crowley has in him, it’s not enough to keep him from being out for himself and no one else. Actually, he was probably that way when he was human.
“Besides,” Crowley continues, “you did as much to drive Dean to taking the mark as I did.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sam knows he shouldn’t have asked the second the words are out. It’s not like he doesn’t know the answer already.
“’You’re not my brother, Dean.’ ‘We can just be hunting partners, Dean.’ ‘It’s just business, Dean,’” Crowley singsongs. “You knew just how to break him, Sam. Take away the one thing he cares about, the one thing that’s always kept him human. You.”
“Fuck off,” Sam growls, and he really wants to smash Crowley in his taunting, simpering face.
“I have to hand it to you, Moose. You knew how to hit him where it hurts. Left him so full of self-loathing that he didn’t even ask what the mark would do to him. Didn’t care.”
“I said, fuck off.”
“I believe that’s what your brother’s doing,” Crowley quips. “Set him up with a tall, lanky young man with shaggy brown hair and he’s good to go these days.”
Sam freezes with his beer in the air and his tongue stuck in his throat.
“Oh, come on, Moose, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the way Big Brother looks at you. So much love, so much longing.”
Sam is staring, speechless.
Crowley smiles and preens. “Can’t say I blame him. You’re one prime piece of ass, Moose.”
“I—“
“Forcing Dean to admit it to himself is just another reason for him to believe he’s poison, of course. So it works out in my favor that you keep rejecting him.”
“I—I’m not rejecting him!” It’s not really what Sam wants to say, but it’s what he manages to get out.
“Aren’t you?” Crowley asks, and his eyebrow is raised again, all judgmental skepticism. “Isn’t that what you were doing every time you told him he wasn’t your brother?”
“I never said that!” It’s not fair; it’s not what Sam said—or it’s not what he meant, and goddammit, Dean should have known that. “I just wanted a fucking apology, is that too much to ask?”
Crowley shakes his head, and he looks genuinely sad for a moment.
“Oh Sam, you poor thing. Possessed all those many times, and then the one person you trust does it to you again. Tsk tsk tsk.”
That’s it. Sam’s had all he can take of Crowley’s faux sympathy. He turns toward the back door without answering.
“Careful you don’t get an eyeful,” Crowley calls after him. “Unless that’s what you want, of course.”
Sam doesn’t know what he wants, other than to get away from Crowley’s innuendo and his reptilian smile. He has the presence of mind to open the door quietly in spite of his rush to get away, slipping out into the alley. It’s dark, not a single artificial light, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust enough to see. Dean and the man are ten yards away. Ordinarily, Dean would have heard the door open and close, would have seen the sliver of light when it did, but he’s otherwise occupied. In fact, he has his eyes closed. He’s on his knees in the alley, and he’s got a mouthful of the stranger’s dick.
Sam has watched Dean with lots of women, mostly because Dean has never gone out of his way to hide. Maybe he’s even gone out of his way to make sure Sam catches a glimpse here and there. Truthfully, Sam has always assumed that Dean has hooked up with guys once in a while—there have been comments here and there, and a few close calls. Dean has probably -- rightly -- assumed the same about him. But Sam has never seen it. Until now.
The stranger is leaning against the cement wall, his shoulders back and his hips jutting out, his jeans pushed halfway down his thighs. Dean has one hand braced against the man’s hip, the other wrapped around the length he can’t take, though he’s giving it a fucking good try. Even in the moonlight, Sam can see how wet his brother’s lips are, slick with spit as he wraps them around the thick cock in his mouth, bobbing his head with what looks like enthusiasm.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the man says, and his voice is pitched low, echoing in the narrow alley. “Suck it, suck your little brother’s big dick.”
The words rip through Sam like he’s been electrocuted, goosebumps raising the hairs on his arms and his stomach flipping like he’s freefalling without a parachute. Jesus Christ. Crowley wasn’t bullshitting.
Dean moans, a strangled, desperate sound, and the stranger puts a hand on the back of his head and forces him down. It’s proprietary, demanding, and Dean chokes and goes with it, almost falling forward on his knees before he gets his balance.
“Pull off,” the stranger hisses, and Dean obeys, raises his head and waits, eyes wide and mouth open. “Gonna mess up that pretty face, make you dirty like you deserve,” the man says, and lets go. Globs of come splatter Dean’s cheek, catch on the stubble on his chin. Dean takes it all, his hand fumbling open his jeans and slipping inside to jerk himself off roughly.
Sam watches his face when he comes, twisted in pain-pleasure, eyes closed again and his face still dirty.
“Sammy,” he gasps, fist still working.
It’s entirely involuntary, the sound Sam makes then.
Dean’s eyes fly open and land on Sam.
“Sammy,” he says again, and it sounds just the same.
“The real Sammy?” the stranger asks incredulously, which gives Dean time to wipe his face with his sleeve and fasten his jeans. “Your actual brother?”
“Fuck off,” Sam says, and it comes out a growl. His insides are twisting so violently he thinks he might be sick, and his cock is so hard it’s painful.
“No problem,” the guy says, zipping up and heading back into the bar. “Uh, thanks.”
Dean is glaring.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sam? I told you I’d do this on my own. I don’t need your help.”
Sam is suddenly as furious as he is aroused.
“Oh, really? Because you’re doing just fine, slaughtering demons without even trying to save the people they possessed, following Crowley around like a puppy—giving blowjobs to strangers in back alleys—what the hell, Dean?”
Sam expects Dean to yell, throw a punch maybe. Instead he’s eerily calm.
“It’s none of your business, Sam.”
“Yes, it is my fucking business; you’re my fucking brother!”
Dean rolls his shoulders, wipes a bit of stickiness from his bottom lip. “No, I’m your business partner. Ex business partner. Your words, Sam.”
“You know I didn’t mean that!”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you meant it. Don’t try to take it back now, just because you don’t like what I’m doing.”
And with that, Dean brushes past him and heads back into the bar.
Sam takes a deep breath—a few deep breaths—and follows. To his shock, Dean and Crowley are already gone. By the time Sam bursts through the front door, the Impala’s tail lights are disappearing up the road, a cloud of dust billowing behind her.
“The sonofabitch left without me,” Sam says out loud. As bad as things have been between them, Sam didn’t expect Dean to leave without any further attempt at communication.
“I guess his deep and abiding love for his baby brother wasn’t quite as all-encompassing as the weird Brit said it was.”
The voice startles Sam out of his shock. He turns to find Dean’s most recent hook-up coming out of the bar behind him. As much as he doesn’t want to hear a single word this guy has to say, let alone look at him, Sam’s hunter instincts are stronger than his revulsion.
“What exactly did the weird Brit say?”
The guy smiles, and Sam has to admit he’s fairly good-looking. Not Dean’s type, as far as Sam ever knew, but yeah, easy on the eyes.
“Said that his ‘mate’ was in hopeless, pathological, fucked-up incestuous love with his little brother—you, apparently. Paid me $500 to make a move on him. Which is crazy, because, dude, did you see that guy? I woulda done him for nothing.”
Sam grimaces, and the other guy laughs.
“Oh, that’s right, of course you’ve seen that guy; you’re his baby brother. His Sammy. The dude told me to say it that way, if he asked my name.”
He regards Sam skeptically.
“You look pretty grown up to still be calling yourself Sammy.”
“It’s Sam.”
The guy smirks. “Whatever you say. Your brother’s a kinky fucker, but he’s pretty. I’ll play stand-in for you anytime.”
Sam absolutely does not let himself remember what he saw in the alley. Stick to business, he tells himself. “What else did he say?”
The stranger considers the question for a minute, then takes a step toward Sam. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You already got $500 and, from what I could see, a pretty spectacular blow job. Now you want more?”
The guy shrugs, grinning.
“Forget it,” Sam growls. Though the stranger is tall, Sam’s still taller. “How about what’s it worth to you not to get your face punched bloody?”
The man instantly throws up his hands. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble. Calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” All the rage of the past few months is coalescing in Sam’s belly, coiling there like hot coals. He clenches his fist, tells himself that this guy isn’t responsible for any of it, but all he can see is Dean’s face covered in spunk. His fists are clenched in the guy’s plaid shirt before he realizes he’s moved.
“What. Else. Did. He. Say.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything I can remember, just—let me go, okay?” There’s fear in the guy’s eyes, and Sam would be a liar if he said that wasn’t satisfying.
He forces his fists to unclench, takes a step back.
“He uh—he said the guy—Dean—liked it a bit rough, that he needed to do some—some penance, he called it. Told me to put him on his knees and call him dirty. Or—poison, he told me to say he was poison. I couldn’t remember, got kinda distracted, but yeah, that’s what he said."
The guy smooths his shirt down nervously. "I guess your brother doesn’t think much of himself or something.”
I’m poison, Sam. Anyone around me gets hurt.
“Anything else?” Sam asks, already looking past the man to the road where the Impala had disappeared.
“I don’t think so—look, I didn’t mean to get between you two or whatever. The British guy said Dean was hopelessly in love with you, so I thought—I just figured you weren’t down with the whole incest thing.”
“What?” Sam’s having trouble following what the stupid guy is saying, Dean’s words on the roadside that day still ringing in his ears. Poison. Dean thinks he’s poison.
“I didn’t realize,” the guy says. “That you felt the same way. Until I saw you in the alley, the way you were watching us. Him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says carefully, making the words measured.
The stranger has his hand on the door of the bar now, ready to go back in, probably to take refuge in the relative safety of the crowd.
“I know what I saw,” he says, braver now that Sam doesn’t have hands on him.
Sam turns to make his way across the parking lot, feeling sick with emotions he can’t disentangle. Everything is happening too fast, and there’s no time to figure it all out.
The guy calls after him, hanging out the open bar door.
“He doesn’t know, does he? You really should tell him.”
Sam keeps walking.
“You’re sick fuckers, you know that?” the guy yells, and the door slams shut.
Sam drives for twelve hours, trying to run away from his own feelings as much as he’s trying to catch up to Dean and Crowley. It doesn’t work.
* * *
Dean drives like the devil himself is on their heels, instead of the King of Hell riding shotgun.
“Big hurry all of a sudden,” Crowley points out.
Dean doesn’t answer.
“I have to admit, I didn’t expect Moose to show up. After all, he’s made it clear he’s done with being your brother. Guess he got a real show back there in the alley, didn’t he? If he wasn’t done with you before…”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean mutters, his foot even heavier on the gas.
“Fine, fine,” Crowley singsongs, fiddling with the radio. “But you have to admit, he looked good. Better than that cheap substitute you were on your knees for.”
“I said, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Dean’s face is red, half fury and half humiliation. Bad enough that Sam saw and heard what he did, but Crowley?
“Oh darling,” Crowley croons, “I’m the last one to judge. I’d get on my knees for your little brother in a second if only…”
Dean slams his foot on the brake. The Impala veers sideways, skidding across the road with a screech and sending dirt and gravel flying. They come to a stop on the shoulder, and Dean whirls on Crowley, his fist making satisfying contact with the demon’s constantly smirking mouth.
The force of the punch throws Crowley’s head back against the glass, and he ducks down after, covering his face with one hand.“Okay, okay, big boy, point made,” he concedes, but Dean barely hears him.
The mark is burning on his skin, sparks running up his arm, through his chest, energizing him so abruptly that he can’t not keep going. The only thing that saves Crowley from being pummeled into a bloody pulp is his ability to reach back and grab the door handle, tumbling both of them out of the car and onto the ground.
Dean’s attack sends him careening past Crowley and onto the grassy shoulder; he rolls easily, coming to his feet with the blade in his hand and murder in his eyes.
Crowley is no fool; he’s already disappeared.
Dean freezes, the blade upraised, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. His hand shakes with the need to sink the knife into flesh, to hurt, to kill, but there’s no target in sight. For a second, his gaze lands on his own reflection in the Impala’s window, and he almost hurls the blade at the glass in desperation.
Once before, he took out his rage on his Baby, and she bore it all without complaint, let him sink the crowbar into her steel until she was dented and broken, just like Dean felt. He promised her he’d never do that again, but it’s a near thing now.
When he finally drops the blade, he goes to his knees with it, trembling, body thrumming with the need to do something.
“’m sorry, baby,” he mumbles finally, and gets up. The Impala is dirty, covered with dust and grime. The smell of burning rubber is still in the air from the way he forced her to a stop and slid her across the road.
He turns before he gets into the car, looking back in the direction they’ve come. The road is empty. Just as well.
Crowley doesn’t reappear until the next day, at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Dean’s filling the car up when Crowley saunters over and climbs in the passenger door.
“Abaddon is close,” he says when Dean gets in. “If you don’t need sleep, we can make it in three days.”
“Fine,” Dean agrees. He can’t remember the last time he slept, or even the last time he was hungry for anything but whiskey. He eats because he knows he should, but the burn of the mark is so much stronger than any other urge—to sleep, or eat, or fuck. Even the urge to know that Sam is safe, to keep him close—the need that has given Dean direction his entire life—is fading. Sam doesn’t want him anyway; the mark is doing them both a favor.
He drives.
* * *
Sam realizes fairly quickly that Dean and Crowley have a big advantage: they’re not sleeping. In fact, he’s not sure they’re stopping for anything other than gas for the Impala and whatever alcohol and bad food Dean can pick up at the attached quick mart.
He stops for the night at the Somerton Motel when he can’t ignore the fact that he’s barely keeping the car on the road any longer.
It’s too quiet in the tiny room even with the television blaring some reality-show nonsense; Sam wishes there was someone he could call. Charlie’s off with Dorothy somewhere Sam hopes is more pleasant than here, Bobby’s gone, Kevin’s gone. Everyone’s gone. The longing hits him with unexpected force then, how much he wants his brother. Dean is the only person left in the world who knows him, who knows them. Sam has always been sure, no matter what happened, that Dean would always be there. Even when hurtful words have been hurled between them, even when Dean took refuge in a bottle instead of talking it out with Sam, even when Sam was addicted to demon blood and going down the wrong path with the right intentions, he never doubted that if he needed his brother, Dean would be there.
Now he’s not sure. Dean doesn’t think Sam wants him there. Now that he can’t explain, all the times he had the opportunity and didn’t say anything prickle under Sam’s skin. He had good reasons, he knows he did. He’s still angry, even now. He just never expected it to turn out like this.
There’s no way he’ll sleep despite his exhaustion, so he heads across the road to a little diner. He orders a more-or-less healthy meal and manages to say no to the coffee. There are four other people in the place, couples sitting in the high-backed booths, chatting about the warmer weather and the projected prices of corn this year. Sam sits at the counter.
“You look like you could use some conversation,” the waitress says when she refills his water glass.
Sam attempts a smile. She seems nice enough, too old to be hitting on him. “I’m usually on the road with my brother. Guess I’m not used to being alone.”
It’s way more than he intended to say, but Ginny is friendly, and seems a little eager for conversation too.
“So why isn’t your brother with you?”
Ginny pours herself a cup of coffee and leans one elbow on the counter.
“We sort of had a fight, I guess.”
Ginny nods knowingly, takes a sip of her coffee. “Mm-hmm, I know what that’s like. I’ve got a big sister—always thinkin’ she can tell me what to do, that she knows best. Sometimes you just want to make your own decisions, y’know?”
Sam nods. “Yeah, I do. He’s like that, too.”
“Older brother?”
Sam nods again.
“Janie is nine years older than me, and I’m the baby, so I guess she still thinks of me that way. Even though I’m far from a baby now!”
Ginny laughs, and she has crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“Dean’s only four years older than me, but I think he’s always thought of me that way too. We grew up without a mom, and our dad… well, he wasn’t around much either.”
“Just the two of you, then? That had to be hard.”
“It was,” Sam agrees. He remembers lonely Christmas mornings with no presents, leaving schools and friends with no goodbyes. Dinners of grilled cheese on week-old bread and not much else, Dean standing on a chair to reach the stove and heat something up for them.
Ginny sips her coffee, lost in her own memories for a minute.
“So what was this fight about, that you had to split up over?”
It’s not as easy a question as Sam thinks. For months, he’s wanted desperately for Dean to understand why he’s so hurt and angry. Now that someone is really asking, the explanation doesn’t seem so simple.
“He made a big decision for me—something that turned out to be horrible. He let someone do something to me that he knew—he knew—I would never have wanted, something awful. Something that’s happened to me before, more than once, and I never—I never would have said yes to it, never!”
Ginny has put the cup of coffee down and is staring, wide-eyed. “Oh my god, that sounds awful. I’m so sorry. No wonder you didn’t want to be around him.”
Sam sighs, shaking his head. “I didn’t. For a long time, I really didn’t.”
“Well, I don’t blame you.”
It feels good to have someone understand, even if she doesn’t have a clue exactly what he’s talking about. It doesn’t matter though, really.
“I just wanted him to say he was sorry, you know? I just wanted him to get it—to get why what he did hurt so much. I still have nightmares about it, about the things that happened during that time, that I couldn’t stop…”
Ginny puts a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, sugar. I’ve had things happen too, things done to me that I didn’t want. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, that’s—thank you. And I’m sorry, too.”
Ginny refills Sam’s water for the third time, and brings him a slice of cherry pie that he didn’t order.
“On the house,” she smiles, and Sam swallows hard. “Oh, unless you don’t like pie?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. I just—Dean loves pie, especially cherry pie.”
“You really miss him,” Ginny says, and her voice is kind. “Do you forgive him, then, for what he did?”
Sam pokes his fork at the pie. Nothing seems that simple anymore. “I don’t know.”
Ginny nods, and turns to take another slice of pie from the case. She digs into it, scooping up a few cherries. Her lips are red-glossed after, and Sam thinks that’s probably closer to how she looked decades ago.
“Hard to forgive someone who hasn’t apologized,” she muses, licking her lips.
Sam takes a bite of his pie. It’s delicious, buttery crust and a tartness to the cherries underneath the gooey sweetness. Dean would love it.
“He did it to save my life.”
“Oh,” Ginny says, pausing with another forkful of pie half raised.
“But it cost someone else his life, someone I cared about. Maybe a lot of people.”
“Oh,” Ginny says again, her eyes a little wider. Sam wonders what she’s thinking, wishes he could explain more.
“I know he didn’t think that would happen, it wasn’t intentional, but…”
“But it still happened,” Ginny finishes.
Sam nods, scraping up a forkful of cherry filling.
“The thing is, I know Dean. He doesn’t want to be alone. He saved me for himself, as much as for me. So he wouldn’t be by himself here, in all of this.” Sam waves a hand, though Ginny couldn’t possibly guess what “all of this” really means.
Ginny finishes the last of her pie, and takes a sip of her cooling coffee.
“Well,” she says finally, “you never know the reason things happen. Maybe you’re here for a reason.”
Sam snorts. “I don’t really believe in all that destiny crap.”
Ginny shrugs. “Look, I’m far from the religious type. I’m just saying you don’t know. Maybe you’re gonna do something important. Maybe you’re meant to be here.”
Sam thinks about his dream, Dean brutal and bloody, somewhere up ahead.
“Maybe I’m meant to be with him.”
Ginny picks up the check she’d left on the table and slips it in her apron.
“Maybe you are,” she says, and to his raised eyebrows, “On the house. Maybe I’m just glad you’re still here, whoever you are.”
“Sam,” he says as he puts a five down for a tip. “And thank you.”
“Go get ‘im,” Ginny says, and smiles.
It’s easier said than done. There’s no way Sam can drive without sleep, so he lies down, belly full and strangely a little more settled than he’s felt in a long time. He sleeps for six hours.
Sam wakes up before dawn with his heart pounding, and the remnants of a nightmare slowly fading. It’s similar to the other one, but not the same. He can still hear the screams, inhuman and human both. He can still see his brother, the first blade held high and his eyes turned black as he wields it, hacking through human and demon alike with bloodthirsty abandon.
Sam sits up, shaking. The terrifying image is stuck in his head.
What’s even more terrifying is the realization that Sam doesn’t know what will happen to Dean if he gives himself over wholly to the mark. If he slays Abaddon and every other demon Crowley sets before him, who will he be afterwards? What will he be? Cain was the leader of the Knights of Hell—is that what Crowley wants with Dean?
Jesus Christ.
Sam’s showered and dressed and on the road as the sun is coming up, more desperate than ever to find his brother.
Part Three