Sixteen Days
Praise be the love wherein there is no possessor
and no possessed, but both surrender.
Praise be the nightmare, which reveals to us
that we have the power to create hell.
It's the middle of December, and Sam is tired of being alone.
Mid-December, and a storm is rolling in, nipping at the road-worn wheels of Sam's old car, trailing behind the black steel as if the vehicle is some harbinger of what's to come. But it's just a dark shadow against the white-washed world, cracking and crushing ice beneath its spinning tires, kicking up crystals like glittering stars.
The clock on the dash says 7:32, but Sam can't even tell if it's night or day. Everything is snow-stiffened and slow moving, impassive to Sam's pain and sitting almost still as the man roars past. Beams of false light are looming above in place of the sun, like sentinals standing guard until it is ready to reveal itself again, illuminating both vehicle and driver in an electric glow.
Going back was easy to do, once Sam decided to do it. Like standing on the summit of the earth and realizing that he could just jump. There's nothing here to stop him; nothing there to keep him from coming. The world isn't going to change just because Sam is hurting, and neither will his happiness make any difference. So he continues moving along, prey running from the winter storm, heading towards something even more dangerous.
Sam stumbles slightly when he gets out of the car, the frozen wind pushing him back, a warning now, and maybe it's been trying to help him all along. He has to knock twice on the motel door, a minute in between, because Dean is slow to answer. Even slower still to let Sam in, posing first in the doorway, lips curving up into a smile, until he finally moves to the side and allows the man entrance.
Dean's eyes are fixed on Sam's shoulders as he drifts into the room. The door shuts and the lock clicks in place, and Dean, of course, speaks first. "I gotta say, I'm surprised you came back."
Sam snorts a small laugh and turns back to Dean. "Are you really?"
Dean moves further into the room, saunters really. "I thought you were done for real this time," he says, putting his hands on the other man's shoulders. "It's been two weeks, Sammy."
"Sixteen days," Sam corrects, and he sounds so tired.
"Sixteen very long days," Dean coos, twining his hands behind Sam's neck, twisting a lock of hair around his finger. Dean pulls Sam's head forward but he leans back when Sam obliges, moving just out of reach and pouting. "You said you didn't want this anymore."
Sam grasps Dean's shirt in his fists, holds him tight so he can't pull back. "And you said you'd be gone."
"I lied," he responds cooly, and shrugs. "How else would you find me?"
Sam's stare is sharp, accusing. Why does he always have to be the one that comes crawling back? "You could have came for me."
Dean rolls Sam's shoulders in his palms, looking more somber than before. He needs him to understand. "You told me not to."
Sam nods, defeated, but can't pull away. Dean's just staring at him, silent, and his eyes are green now, so green, and so very beautiful. God, how could he? How could he think that a demon was beautiful?
But how could he not? Summer green eyes and lips like sin. Freckles across ivory skin like a warm blanket of speckled bronze. Mouth watering, amber-scented to try to cover the faint smell of sulphur. And Dean knows, he knows, and he bites his lip as he looks down, feigns modesty, but ends up looking more obscene than ever.
He casts his stare back up at Sam, kohl dark eyelashes fluttering gently, and takes the collar of Sam's jacket in his hands. "Come on," he says. The jacket is wet and cold with melted snow, and Dean strips it off of him. "You're freezing."
Dean leads Sam to the lone bed in the middle of the room and sits him down on it, parts the man's knees and sinks down on his own between them. He lifts one of Sam's feet, placing it on his thighs, and begins working to unknot the laces of his boot, slipping them out of untidy double bows.
It always surprises Sam how docile Dean could be, how devout and loyal, and a sudden warmth spreads through Sam's whole body because he figures that, as far as demons go, that's a lot like love.
And what would people think if they saw them now - the could-be boy king and his demon companion? Sam so dependent on the demon blood, on the demon himself. Dean so devoted that he keeps taking Sam back every time he decides to leave.
Dean told Sam a story about a throne once; about a gilded throne and a crown of jewels. About the power over Hell, the conquest of Earth, the victory over Heaven. Sam refused, but Dean still stayed.
"Sixteen days," Dean repeats, shaking his head, like it hasn't quite sunk in yet. Like sixteen days is enough to incite the end of times. Like sixteen days is enough time for the world to dissolve into nothing. Too long for them to be apart, the king who could be and his disciple. And maybe the last days are upon them. The sky outside is falling, but tonight it's with ice and not fire, and that gives them both some sense of relief, though fleeting.
Dean tucks Sam's socks into his shoes and places them on the floor at the foot of the bed. "You haven't gone that long without blood since we started," he continues, then snaps his head up to look at Sam. "Or have you been -"
Sam looks away, jaw clenching, and Dean nods his head. "Okay. Okay, well that's good. That means we don't have to fill you all the way back up again."
The demon's hands are on Sam's knees, but his eyes have wandered away. Sam feel disloyal and weak and guilty as hell, but he needed it. He needed it so bad. It's never right when it's not with Dean, and Sam thinks the demon should know. After all this time, he should know, but he can never find the words to tell him.
"Dean -" he starts to say, but then there's a cheek on Sam's denim covered thigh, firm hands gripping his hips. Dean tilts his head and his lips graze the inseam of Sam's pants. A soft kiss, and one more, and then Dean's hot mouth is pressed against the cock trapped in Sam's jeans.
"Dean," Sam repeats, like that's all he can say. A soft refrain of Dean Dean Dean slipping past parted lips, urging the demon on. Sam palms the back of Dean's head and brings him closer, jerking up when he feels Dean's teeth through the wet denim.
Dean tilts his head up and his eyes are black as pitch and shining. No more of the faux angelic green that Sam loves so much, but the darkness that makes him ache, makes him want to claim. Dean lets his lids drift closed, the same as he does everytime he's aware that the demon inside of him is clawing its way to the surface, but Sam grabs his jaw and demands that he opens his eyes again.
And Dean is so obedient, so wanton and willing to do anything that Sam would ever ask of him, that he does it. He opens his eyes and sees Sam's staring down at him, amorous and tender, but still a little tired.
Sam guides Dean to his feet, a hand on the back of his head and the other under his jaw, and lays him down on the bed. So perfect, he wants to say with Dean spread out beneath him. Beautiful and Dean and all mine, but he can't. Not yet.
But he does bend down and press his lips against Dean's. He can't resist that temptation, never wants to. Gorgeous and pink, soft and pliant against his own. Sam's are winter chapped in comparison, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. His fingers are buried in Sam's damp hair, pulling him as close as he can get, opening his mouth and offering Sam anything and everything that he chooses to take. And Sam wants all of him.
He drags his lips down Dean's chin, across his jaw. Sam places a kiss on his neck and his skin is so warm, so supple that he has to sink his teeth into it. Not too hard, just enough for Dean to feel it and he does. God, he does. He arches and moans, grips Sam's hair by the roots in both fists, writhes underneath him, because he knows what's coming.
Sams sucks blood to the surface of Dean's throat like he can taste it through his skin, marking the pale flesh with soon to be purple bruises that Sam makes sure will last. He runs his fingertips down Dean's ribcage, over his hip, across his thigh, grasps behind his knee and pulls it up. There's a knife in Dean's boot, always, and Sam draws it free.
"Please, Sam. Please." And does Dean even know he's begging? So pretty, voice rough and wrecked already, ruined from just the promise of what's to come. Sam silences him with the blade against his throat, dragging the tip along his flesh, but not breaking the skin. "Sam," Dean whispers again, trembling with anticipation, lays out his arm beside him like an offering.
Sam cuts him then, a smooth slice below the inside of his elbow, and Dean almost sobs in relief. It's been so long. Too long. Sixteen days.
Sam's mouth attaches to the wound and the blood fills his body like nothing else could. It runs through his veins like the cold trying to stave off the heat or warmth trying to whisk away the cold. Human blood and demon mixing until it's only one, and Sam knows that one day he'll be more us than just himself.
Dean bucks against him, moans a slew of obscenities in Sam's ear, rubs their cocks together against too many layers. Dean can come from just this, has before, will again. Sam's mouth taking Dean inside of him with lips and teeth and tongue. Sam between his thighs, rocking against him until the whole room is reduced to nothing but white noise.
Sam pulls away, lips red and swollen, and Dean has to kiss him again, lick at the metallic taste of his own blood inside of Sam's mouth. Sam tugs at the neck of Dean's shirt, sending buttons flying muffled onto the motel carpet. He runs a hand down the demon's chest, smooth and pale and freckled like every other part of him, bends down and bites his nipple, leaving Dean breathless.
Sam has to move away so Dean can pull his shirt over his head, then rises up on his knees so he can unbutton his jeans. Dean sits up before Sam can even get his pants down, his knees bent and legs still spread around Sam's thighs, and takes Sam's cock in his hand. He's hard, so hard, and so thick, and Dean gives the head a soft kiss.
Sam can hardly stand it, those plump lips against his cock, those big black eyes looking up at him with something like reverence. His blood is thrumming in his veins, pounding in his ears, and he can't help but take Dean's face in his hands and slide into his mouth. Dean drops his arms to his side and lets Sam take control, relishes it, those big palms covering his cheeks, his hard cock heavy on his tongue. Sam is moaning above him. Dean, so good. Your mouth, fuck, just taking it. And the demon shivers because he lives for Sam's praise.
Dean is pulled off and pushed down, letting out a whimper that he doesn't even feel embarrassed about. Sam strips off the rest of his clothes, and then Dean's, grabs him by the back of his thighs and brings his knees up to his chest.
"Sixteen days," Sam says, laying down on his stomach. "You're the only thing I thought about for sixteen days."
Dean can't even answer, just lets out a ragged breath like he's been holding it in his lungs forever. He does cry out when Sam licks his hole, jerks and shakes and nearly comes on the spot. Sam just spreads him wider, no time for teasing, just his tongue pushing into Dean's ass to make sure he's wet and relaxed. He's all the way in, nose pressed tight against Dean's body, hands palming his ass to keep him open. Only and couple more licks and mouthfuls of spit, and Dean's hole is sopping and as loose as it's going to get, because Sam can't take it anymore.
Sam sits up and wraps Dean's legs around his hips, and Dean goes easily, moves whichever way Sam wants him because all he wants is Sam. And then the man's cock, so hard, so thick, is pushing against him, slowly opening him up, and all Dean can do is arch his back and take it. Sam feels so good inside of him. Too good, all sin and no retribution.
Sam is buried balls deep before he really starts to fuck Dean. He barely pulls out before he slams back in, shallow, staccato thrusts that leave Dean euphoric and gasping Sam Sam Sam with every stoke. He's stretched so wide, so impossibly full, filled to bursting with Sam and Sam filled with his demon blood.
It doesn't last long, and when Dean comes, it is cataclysmic. Sam doesn't even have to touch his cock, just bites Dean's earlobe and whispers, "Yeah, Dean, so good." Draws back and pushes in again. "So good and all mine."
And fuck the indeterminate end of times. Fuck the sixteen days spent apart, the length of time that felt apocalyptic. Fuck everything but this and now and Sam inside of Dean. All that matters is them two, together, sharing blood and come and life and whatever it happens to throw at them.
"You shouldn't have left," Dean lets himself say before he can even catch his breath. It's almost a whimper, it's entirely worship, it's pleading that's never passed his lips before he met Sam. "You shouldn't have left me again, and not for so long."
Sam holds on tighter to the demon, doesn't even pull out, just buries his face in Dean's neck and nothing, nothing could make him give this up. Not a throne nor a crown. Not hell nor heaven. Not even the promise of peace forever on earth. "Never again," he whispers. "I'm never leaving again. It's just you and me, Dean. Always."
Beyond the frosted windows there's a ghost white world where the sky is quickly crumbling, snowflakes descending like stars drifting from the heavens, and Sam would be fine if it just up and ended this way; if winter blanketed the earth in snow, smothering everything and leaving nothing but Dean and him together with only their touch to keep each other warm.