Dean froze as the plastic sheet flapped open. Instead of Sam stepping out of the shadows, there was a beautiful woman in a floor-length black dress. Amara. The Darkness. Dean needed to keep reminding himself that was all she was to him. The enemy, nothing more.
But that didn't stop him from standing there like a rabbit in the gaze of a wolf, too stunned to move.
"I understand, Dean," Amara (the Darkness) said, even though she wasn't the real Amara. Dean could feel that. This wasn't the same. He could fight this. He could.
"Is that right?" he asked, his eyes flickering to the knife standing wedged in the table across the room.
"The longing in your heart—I feel it too," Amara said, eyes serious as always.
Only they weren't hypnotic like always. They were just eyes. And Dean could look away from them—towards the knife.
He edged over to that side of the room, moving his feet slowly, cautiously, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Let Amara think he was moving towards her if she wanted.
The next second, not-quite-Amara mirrored Dean's footsteps. Every move he made, she countered. Like they were dancing.
"Well, that's touching," Dean said, keeping her distracted. Keeping her talking. "Considering that you don't have a heart. Qareen."
"Who I am doesn't matter," Amara said, still moving in tandem. "The question is: who are you?"
Dean blinked.
"What do you mean, who am I?"
This wasn't right. This wasn't real. This Amara—this Darkness—was saying all the things the real Amara would in this situation. But Dean just wasn't feeling it. He wasn't intrigued, wasn't enraptured. He was just—on guard. And trying to plot out how to keep the bitch from punching his heart out of his back.
"You're a mystery," fake-Amara said, apparently not bothered by Dean's skepticism.
Dean took another step toward the dagger. Almost there.
"I can see inside your heart," Amara continued. "Feel the love you feel. Except—it's cloaked in shame."
Dean froze again. No, that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. He didn't love Amara. Not even at the best of times, not even when the real deal had her tongue down his throat. That feeling this copy—this monster was talking about, that shame? That wasn't for the Darkness. It had nothing to do with her at all.
Dean took a sharp breath in, clearing his head of that unproductive line of thought and closed the last few feet between himself and the dagger. He reached for the knife, gripping the hilt and pulling it out before turning on the Amara impostor.
"Yeah, you're right," he snarled, certainty fueled by the realization that none of this, not one scrap of it was right. "The real Amara does have a hold on me. You—you're nothing but a cheap imitation."
The qareen's face shifted from Amara's characteristic impassivity to pure rage, eyes sparking, lip curving into a snarl.
Dean slashed out with the knife, but the qareen side-stepped, thrusting her arm out toward Dean. He jumped back, but hadn't calculated how close he'd been to the edge of the room. The small of his back smashed into the edge of a shelf unit, effectively trapping him.
The qareen's lips quirked even more, and she edged forward slowly, deliberately.
Dean thrust the knife out, aiming at her throat, knowing her chest wouldn't do him any good.
The qareen's arm flew up to block his attack, the supernatural force of the blow sending the knife skittering out of his hand. With her other arm, the qareen latched onto his shoulder, grip bruising on impact. She drew back her right hand, fingers curved like a claw.
For the briefest moment, Dean closed his eyes, bracing himself. Then they snapped open, and he was about to try for a head-butt when the sight of the monster froze him in place for the second time.
Amara was gone. In her place stood Sam, towering over him, all long hair and soulful hazel eyes.
"I see," the monster said with Sam's voice. "Amara isn't your darkest desire. I am. Now, I've seen some grade A sickos in my time, but someone lusting after their own brother? That's just unnatural."
Dean struggled stupidly in the copy of his brother's grip. Instead of threatening to rip his heart out now, the qareenwas smoothing out Dean's shirt, his giant hand resting on Dean's stomach for the briefest of moments before sliding temptingly lower.
With his free arm, Dean swung a sloppy left hook at the monster's head. Not-Sam barely had to lean aside to avoid the fist.
The qareen chuckled, a chilling sound Dean hadn't heard from Sam's lips since that time he faced Lucifer wearing his brother in a dead future.
"That's embarrassing, Dean," not-Sam said, stepping even closer. They were practically chest to chest. The monster gripped both of Dean's upper arms now, anchoring him in place. "Now don't be like that. I'm going to rip your heart out, but there's no reason you can't know what it would feel like to kiss me just once. One time before you die. What do you say, Dean?"
Dean bit his lip. This was wrong. This wasn't Sam. But still, this thing was standing closer than Sam ever would if one of them wasn't on the brink of death. He was grinding the start of an erection up against Dean's crotch like Sam never would. And even as his hands confined, they rubbed slowly up and down Dean's arms, caressing him like Sam would never do.
"Y-You're not Sam," Dean offered lamely, hearing the edge of a whine in his own voice.
Not-Sam leaned forward, lips practically brushing the shell of Dean's ear, his hot breath tickling as he spoke.
"Maybe not," he agreed. "But I'm the closest thing you're ever going to get."
Dean stiffened. He needed to fight. He needed to tell this fucker to back off. He needed to get rid of the semi he'd been sporting since this Sam-facsimile stepped up into his personal space.
But he didn't do any of those things. He just stood there, breath rasping out of his lungs like a death rattle as Sam lifted his right hand to Dean's chest, placing it right over his stuttering heart.
"I'll make it good, I promise," he said.
Dean tensed as the first tease of pain flickered in his chest. He felt the qareen's nails digging into his flesh. But all he saw were Sam's eyes staring into his.
"That's it, Dean," Sam said, inching ever so slowly towards his face. "Just let it go."
Dean could feel Sam's breath on his nose, his lips. He swore he could even feel the body heat radiating from Sam's face so close to his. He licked his lips one last time, mouth opening slightly.
This was wrong. Of course this was wrong. But he couldn't miss this opportunity. Would give anything for a chance to—
The qareen froze, hazel eyes widening.
It took a step back, arms flying out rigidly. A blue glow blossomed in Sam's chest, below his flannel shirt. He threw his head back, screaming out one long note. The blue light pulsed, and Sam vanished, imploding into nothing.
Dean stood panting and alone in the basement, staring at the space where his brother (but not his brother) had stood one second ago.
Dean heard the pounding of feet on the stairs. A moment later, Sam—the real Sam—appeared from behind the plastic sheet hanging from the ceiling. Dean wasn't sure if he'd ever been more and less happy to see him.
"Hey," he said, panting almost as hard as Dean, but grinning faintly. "I got the—"
He stopped, staring at Dean. Then he rushed over, all long legs and gently prodding hands.
"You're hurt," he accused, staring at Dean with eyes as sad as ever.
Dean tried not to think about the way he'd been looking into those eyes earlier. In fact, he decided, probably better not to look at them at all. He stared at the floor by Sam's feet, planted right in front of his own.
"Uh, yeah," he agreed. "You cut it a little close there, Sammy. Let's take a look at it back at the hotel, the light here sucks."
Dean pushed away from his brother, wincing and trying to convince himself it was only his chest that hurt.
Dean sat stoically still while Sam disinfected his wound with peroxide.
Dean really hadn't thought it was that bad, but he couldn't deny his shirt was soaked through with blood by the time they got back to their room. And while being shirtless after what happened (no, what almost happened) earlier wasn't his idea of a good plan, Sam had insisted he get a look at the wound. And Dean had never been able to say no to that wrinkled forehead.
So he let Sam get off on playing doctor, waiting for him to comment on the fact that Dean hadn't spoken a word since leaving the salon.
Sam cleared his throat. Here it came. The heart-to-heart talk.
"So," Sam said. "You going to keep me in suspense?"
"Huh?" Dean asked, craning his neck to get a look at Sam.
Sam gave him a tired half-smile.
"Bach or Simpson?"
"Oh," Dean said, swallowing and looking away again. "Neither."
He couldn't resist sneaking a glimpse at Sam's face. He saw pursed lips and an even deeper-wrinkled brow.
"It was—it was Amara," he confessed, waiting to see what Sam would say. Praying he blew up over it so they could leave it at that. He could just be the traitor to humanity, the fuck up. Not the fucked up.
"Does that surprise you?" Sam asked, eyes skirting down to meet Dean's.
Dean expected to see hate there. Or judgment, or maybe pity over how pathetic that made him. Instead, they just seemed soft, kind. Just Sam.
"That doesn't surprise you?" Dean asked, jerking back to get a better view of Sam and making him fuck up the last strip of tape he was lining up with the gauze pad he'd used to cover Dean's wound.
Sam shrugged.
"Honestly?"
"Honestly," Dean said. "What, you really think the sister of God is my deepest, darkest desire?"
"She isn't?"
"No," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. Then he dropped his face. "No," he repeated, softer.
Sam was quiet for a moment, then nodded.
He really was going to let Dean have that. Really was going to respect what he obviously thought were Dean's delusions. But—Dean wanted more than that. And he was trying to be honest with Sam lately. He might as well go all the way. And in that moment, looking at his baby brother who'd grown up to be such a badass man, Dean wanted nothing more than to confess all his deepest, darkest sins to Sam. For real.
"There's more," Dean confessed, wanting so hard to look anywhere but at Sam, anywhere at all, but finding nothing but his face could draw Dean's eyes.
"There is?" Sam asked, eyebrows shooting up.
"Yeah," Dean said, finally detaching his gaze long enough to zero in on Sam's Adam's apple. "The qareen—it didn't just turn into Amara. See, since it wasn't really Amara, I was able to resist it, so—"
Dean paused. He took a deep breath, knowing he may be about to undo all the progress they'd made together these last few months. Knowing these may be the last words he ever said to Sam, other than a small "I'm sorry" to his brother's retreating back.
"It changed into you," Dean mumbled.
"Me?" Sam echoed, hand stilling as he reached for the medical tape again.
Dean nodded. Sam left the wound-patching alone for a moment, pulling a chair up across from Dean and lowering himself into it.
"Why would it turn into me?"
Dean shrugged. He wanted to confess to Sam, not tell him all the dirty intricacies of his sick brain. The room was quiet for a full minute; the only sound other than the brothers' breathing was the wind that filtered in through the shattered window.
"Dean," Sam said, breaking the silence after what felt like forever of waiting for his brother to see him for the sick fuck he really was, rail on him, call him a pervert, and storm out. "How did the qareen trap you like that? It almost got your heart."
"He," Dean began, coughing to dislodge the whole desert that had suddenly lodged in his throat. "He said he was going to kiss me."
"He was going to kiss you—as me?"
Dean nodded again.
For the second time that day, he went against all the training his father had ever drilled into him. He closed his eyes in the presence of danger. Pressed them shut, planning to stay like that forever if he had to.
"And you were going to let him?" Sam asked, but he didn't sound disgusted. His voice was quiet, thoughtful.
"Yeah," Dean rasped.
And then he sucked in a deep breath as Sam's rough fingertips traced a line around the bandage covering the qareenclaw marks.
"Didn't you learn anything when I freed you from the Mark?" Sam asked. "I can't lose you, Dean."
And his tone was so gentle, Dean had to open his eyes again, finding himself trapped in Sam's gaze more firmly than he'd ever been in Amara's.
"I don't know why," Dean said, feeling like a chain smoker who'd been gargling broken glass. The words were almost impossible to choke out.
"You don't?" Sam asked, leaning forward and bringing his other hand up to cup Dean's jaw, fingers tracing his cheekbone.
Dean shook his head, but not hard enough to dislodge Sam.
"I'm a freak, Sam," he said. "I'm sick. A-a monster."
Sam inhaled sharply, his eyes growing steely.
"Don't ever say that about yourself," he said. "I said it before and I'll always mean it: you're a good man, Dean. And you'll never hear me say any different."
Dean opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Sam crushed his lips against Dean's, sliding the tip of his tongue into Dean's mouth almost immediately.
The kiss was rushed and urgent. Sam's teeth clacked against Dean's, his tongue lapping at the roof of Dean's mouth in almost frantic passes. Sam kissed like he was afraid Dean might disappear—like he was afraid the world might end if he didn't pour all the air in his lungs into Dean's.
It was desperate and urgent and tactless and ten thousand times better than Dean could ever have imagined. The anticipation of the mockery of this moment with the qareen was so insignificant by comparison, Dean almost laughed.
He might have if Sam hadn't deepened the kiss.
Sam slid off his chair, onto his knees on the floor. He shuffled over to Dean, settling between his brother's spread legs, running his hands up Dean's thighs, up his ribs, to his shoulders.
Dean let go of everything else. His guilt over the qareen and Amara and the Mark. His worry over how they were going to defeat the Darkness or even what they were going to do tomorrow. He lost himself in the moment, in Sam.
When Sam pulled back, he was panting for air. He was beaming, and his face was red like he'd just run three miles in the cold.
"Sammy?" Dean said, reaching out to keep contact with his brother, letting his hand rest on Sam's shoulder while Sam settled back on his haunches before Dean.
"Yeah?" Sam said, grinning even harder.
"Wh-what does this mean? I mean—what happens now? What even are we now?"
Sam shrugged.
"We're brothers," he said, reaching up and grabbing Dean's hand, threading their fingers together before kissing one of Dean's knuckles, giving it a light nip afterward.
"But—" Dean started, pausing at the withering bitchface Sam shot him.
"We'll figure it out, Dean," Sam said, sounding so much like the pissed off fourteen year old Dean wouldn't let drive the Impala, he had to laugh.
Sam smiled back at him, rolling his eyes fondly.
"I can't believe you were willing to give up your heart for me," Sam said, still grinning, teasing.
"Oh, Sammy," Dean said, shoving Sam backwards not quite hard enough to make him lose his balance. "Don't be a dumbass. You know that's always been yours."