Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Content: AU, angst, death, violence, incest (implied)
Timeline: N/A
Word Count: 1400
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all associated characters do not belong to me and never have. I'm just borrowing them for my own sick and twisted purposes.
There's an intruder in the house.
Dean smiles, and Sam knows. He knows when Dean pulls his lips away to bare his white teeth in a grin so wide it's almost a grimace. He knows when he pushes the car a little harder than usual, when his laughter comes in a sharp bark at the answering snarl of the engine. When he stares at every nightclub and bar that they pass. When he plays his music too loud.
Dean's eyes are always hungry, but tonight's different, and Sam knows.
He knows which bar Dean will choose as soon as he spots the flickering, half-lit sign, and then Dean knows it too. He forgets to lock the car, but he always forgets to lock the car on these nights. That's why Sam makes sure to always remember.
Impossibly strong hands latch on to his wrists, and he only has a moment to be surprised before he's stumbling over his own feet. His body is moving, being swung, dragged, fast and hard, but it seems his legs didn't get the memo. When he comes full circle, and the grip on his arms releases, he barely gets them back under him in time to stay upright. They're still catching up with his order of kick, sending him stumbling backwards, when the body those hands belong to rushes forward from the dark.
Dean throws open the door and turns up the charm. All quick grins and easy words, he settles himself amongst the patrons gathered about the single pool table. He jokes loudly, unabashedly. There's something flirtatious in the winning grins and sly winks he shoots at the men and the women alike, but no one's bothered by it. Good looks and callused hands and the barest hint of a Kansas twang have always endeared Dean to strangers. That's no less true here than it was in Pittsburgh or Duluth, and they laugh when he laughs, smile when he smiles.
Sam is a giant shadow slipping in behind Dean through the open door. No one but the bartender notices when he chooses a stool and asks for a beer, and she forgets about him when Dean starts telling a story that's one part lies and two parts charisma.
Sam puts the bottle to his lips, but he doesn't drink.
Fingers latch on to the leg he swings up too slowly. He tries to wrench free but his ankle is caught in a grip he can't break, and he's unbalanced already when he's shoved. He backpedals, hops, knows he has to stay on his feet or it's over. It might be over already.
But it hasn't been that long since he last fought with his body for his life, and he hits back. First on instinct, and then with rage. He hammers down blows. Punches fly back and forth through the dark.
Two hours later Dean is knocking back tequila shots in a booth with two girls. The brunette is slithering up against his leg, but he has eyes only for the blonde, and he smirks as he licks salt off of her shoulder. She giggles and presses a thin slice of lime into his mouth. He closes his lips around her fingers to suck the juice from their tips. When they start to pass the lime between their mouths with their tongues, the dark-haired girl gives up and slinks away.
Sam ignores the interested look she shoots him. He waves the bartender down with a twenty dollar bill.
A fist connects with his jaw and he staggers. His face sets into something angry and predatory and he throws his foot out viciously, yanks up an arm to block the fist that swings toward his face in reply. But he misses the one that caves in his stomach, and his knees give beneath him.
It can't be more than ten minutes before Dean nudges the girl and glances at the door, and after a moment's hesitation she goes easily in the direction he points her. He slaps down a hundred down as they pass the register. He's eager and excited and he doesn't wait for the man behind the counter to bring him his change before he urges her outside.
They're well into the darkness of the parking lot when a hand clamps down over her mouth and the reek of chloroform floods her nose. The arm that wraps around her throat heaves her off her feet, muscles like steel cords pressing into her neck. The last thing she knows before consciousness falls away is the glimmer of Dean's teeth in the light of the bar's red neon sign.
The crook of an arm hooks beneath his jaw and he's off his feet, the room lurching sickly around him before his back connects with the hardwood floor, knocking the last of the air out of him. It's the best he can do to struggle for breath when a voice he'd know anywhere laughs, 'whoa, easy tiger.'
Sam gasps his name, and Dean smiles.
Sam pushes the tip of the knife into the hollow of her navel and watches as her blood slowly fills it. He presses gently and listens to her thin, wet gasp, runs his tongue over his lips. Her stomach is soft and the slide of the metal through her skin is easy. His fingers are warm and wet.
Deans fingers are dry and rough. They tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, and Sam sighs.
Sam throws him onto his back and there can be no mistake. He can hear his breathing and smell the combination of sweat and old leather and gasoline that has always followed Dean everywhere, and for a moment the relief makes his arms tremble with weakness. His brother is here, alive, solid beneath him. He hasn't been killed. He hasn't been caught.
But the he sees the look in Dean's eyes and the smile on his face, the pleased surprise at the strength that presses him into the floor, and he knows.
Dean can't be here. Dean doesn't belong here. Dean needs something Sam can't live with.
Dean takes the knife from Sam's hand when she convulses. The handle is sticky. It makes a gluey peeling sound as his fingers come away from it, and Dean scrubs it down with the hem of his shirt.
'What the hell are you doing here?' Sam asks. Dean grins that hungry grin, and Sam knows.
Her hair was blonde when they first spotted her at the bar four hours ago, but it isn't now. It's a congealing black halo around her head on the coverlet of the motel bed. The room is rank already, and Sam knows that in a few hours that faintly sweet smell of decay will turn cloying and thick.
Dean takes ahold of his chin with slick fingers and presses a kiss to his temple, murmuring his name against his skin.
Jessica says his name warily when she flicks on the light. Her hair spills over her shoulders in rippling golden waves, and her stomach is exposed in the dim glow.
The look on Dean's face is speculative, appraising, and when he starts to nod, Sam knows.
He knows, even as he moves to stand behind her shoulder and gives Dean that hard, warning look. He knows, when Dean smirks and rocks back on his heels. Jess doesn't know, but Sam does.
They soak the corpse in gasoline and Dean flicks his zippo to life. The dismantled smoke detector is in pieces by the sink, and he grins as the wallpaper starts to burn.
The room is filled with smoke and Jess is in the middle of it, and he fights Dean's hands where they drag at his shirt but she's already dead and Sam knows because he knew it would happen this way.
From the moment Dean smiled that too-wide smile, he knew.
Another town, a new motel. Dean watches the news for reports of their latest conquest, and Sam closes the bathroom door. He turns the water as hot as it will go and scrubs his skin red and raw.
Dean's always been good at fucked up, but lonely he's never done very well.
Inspired by this video: youtube [dot] com/watch?v=F2m03Z-Tx2k