AN: BookwormBaby2580 made this so much better. Any mistakes are totally mine because I just keep fiddling...
The boys belong to Eric Kripke. Not sure they'd agree but there you go.
WARNING! Here be Wincest.
Chapter 2 - Sink Your Teeth Into My Flesh
"Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else."
Richard Siken
Sam didn't remember the drive back to the Bunker. After emptying his stomach into the motel room's grimy toilet, he'd pulled himself together enough to throw on his clothes and stumble to the car. He hadn't showered, he hadn't checked if the room was paid up. He just got the fuck away from there as fast as he could and apparently kept on driving until he pulled up to the Bunker. No stops.
Once there, however, all Sam could think of was crawling into the shower. He turned the water on as hot and as hard as it would go. He toed off his boots, and stepped into the stall, only then realising that he still had his clothes on. He gave a small shrug and slowly pulled his shirts off, then his jeans, his underwear, his socks, all while standing under the spray of water. He threw each item of clothing as far away from him as he could. He would burn them later.
Sam stood for a while, just breathing under the almost scalding hot spray. Then he slowly tilted forward, bringing his arm up so that he could lean his forehead against it on the wall in front of him. His eyes fell closed and his breathing hitched. Sam turned around sluggishly, leaned his back against the tiles and slid down the wall. As his ass hit the floor, the jolt seemed to knock something out of him, and he sat on the floor of the shower, knees pulled up to his chest as sobs clawed out of his already wrecked throat. It felt like he spent hours on that floor just breaking over and over again, until he almost felt numb. Almost. He reckoned that was about as good as it was going to get. When he finally had the presence of mind to stand up, Sam stepped out of the shower just long enough to get the industrial-sized bottle of disinfectant liquid they used, and ended up scrubbing that into his skin until the bottle was empty and his skin was burning. At least the smell of the chemicals covered up any lingering smell of him and Dean. Mostly. Sam thought traces of that smell were probably forever embedded in his nostrils.
Stepping over the soggy pile of his discarded clothes, Sam shuffled naked out of the bathroom and down the hallway to his bedroom. He paused just long enough to pull his phone out of his duffle bag, and check it. The screen was cracked from where he'd dropped it in his rush to get away from the photo Dean had sent, but he could see that there were a few missed calls and texts from Cas. Nothing new from Dean. Sam didn't care. He didn't care about any of it. He put the phone on his bedside table as he crawled under the covers. He was still damp from the shower, his throat burned, his head ached. His ass ached. His heart ached. He pulled the covers over his head, and hoped like hell that he would pass out and never wake up.
Sam did pass out. By the time he eventually woke up and managed to pull his eyelids apart, he felt as if he must've been asleep for days. His body was sluggish and heavy and his head felt fuzzy and thick. His phone was dark—battery finally died—so he couldn't be sure of the time. Not wanting to give himself time to think, he focused on finding the phone charger. Cas must be worried sick. After getting the phone plugged in, he realised that his mouth tasted foul, and not allowing himself to follow that thought any further, he brushed his teeth at the basin in his room. Running his fingers through his hair, Sam remembered that he was still naked, so he rummaged in his cupboard for something to throw on. Sweat pants and an old Stanford sweatshirt. They were soft and comfortable, and didn't irritate the marks on his wrists, or the clear imprints of Dean's fingers bruised into his hips—and Sam didn't think any further about that. By the time he was dressed, his phone had switched on and Sam was able to check his messages. Seven missed calls from Cas and almost double that amount of texts. Sam's eyes flitted over the text from Dean. For some reason he couldn't delete it, although it made him physically sick just thinking about it, but he did swipe across the message to archive it. At least that way he wouldn't have to see it every time he checked his messages. Not bothering to read the messages from Cas, Sam phoned him. Cas picked up before the first ring had ended.
"Sam, where are you? I'm in the car, Hannah is driving, just tell me where you are, we're coming."
Sam had to smile. Cas could barely stand, but he was on his way to rescue Sam.
"… I …" this time it was Sam who broke off coughing. He hadn't realised his throat was so dry. And raw.
"Sam…?" Cas sounded almost frantic.
Sam took a sip of whatever liquid was in the mug on his bedside table—old, really old, cold coffee—managed to swallow it without gagging, cleared his throat and tried again.
"I'm at the Bunker, Cas. I'm fine. I just…" Shit, he hadn't thought this far. What was he going to tell Cas? There was no way he could tell Cas about what had happened. He couldn't tell Cas he'd seen Dean at all, couldn't tell Cas Dean was a demon, couldn't tell Cas… Any of it.
"… I just came down with flu or something. Been feverish, throwing up, felt like hell, man. Finally got some sleep though, and I think I'm getting over it. Let the phone go flat, sorry. No need to worry though Cas, I'm fine. Really."
Sam could hear the relief pouring down the line as Cas said, "I thought maybe something had happened, that Dean…"
"You heard something about Dean?" Sam asked, feeling a swell of panic. Cas couldn't know!
"Nothing," Cas sighed. "I thought maybe you had and that's why I couldn't get hold of you. Thought something might have happened."
"Nothing like that, Cas. I'm sorry I worried you. Just felt like I was dying." Sam tried to tag on a little chuckle, to show Cas he was fine, and maybe felt a little silly about his bout of 'man-flu' but truthfully, Sam did feel like he was dying. Wished he was.
"Okay." Cas still sounded worried, like he didn't completely buy what Sam was trying to sell him, but Sam knew he wouldn't push it. "Okay," he said again. "I'm just glad you're okay, Sam."
"I am. Really. You don't need to come all the way to Lebanon. I'll keep the phone on and with me." Sam cleared his throat, which was still burning a little. "Got a few leads I want to check on. Nothing major, but gotta do something, you know? I'll probably spend the next few days at the Bunker anyway, until I feel better. Do some digging on the laptop."
Still sounding unsure, Cas slowly breathed out another "okay." Then "Just take care of yourself, Sam. If you're sure you don't need me—"
Sam cut him off, "I'm sure Cas."
"—then Hannah has asked me for some help with something. I'll be with her for the next few days. Keep in touch, Sam. I was really worried."
"I will, I'm sorry Cas. Thanks for looking out for me though. I appreciate it… More than you know." Sam felt tears burning at his eyes, his throat tightening. Just knowing that someone did really care for him, didn't see him as something to use, didn't know how truly broken he was, it meant so much to Sam. He struggled to keep his voice even as he tagged on, "Oh, and say hi to Hannah from me. You two be careful."
Sam hung up before Cas could say anything else, knowing that wouldn't help alleviate Cas's worries, but not sure he could hold himself together for any more words with him. He put the phone in one of the pockets of his sweatpants, vowing to keep it with him and to keep in regular contact with Cas. Cas deserved that at least, and besides, Sam couldn't afford to make him any more suspicious than he likely already was. Sam sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his still-bare feet, and took a deep breath. A tear escaped one eye and rolled down his cheek. Sam roughly swiped it away before it reached his chin. He could get through this. He'd been to Hell and back and he could get through this.
Dean wouldn't stop calling him. He texted Sam at all hours of the day and night. Sam was so scared that Cas would see a missed call or message on his phone. Cas hadn't been around much, helping Hannah and following his own leads on Dean, but that didn't stop Sam from worrying. Sam had reluctantly listened to the first voice message Dean had left but at the first smug sound of "Heya Sammy—" he had hung up and deleted the message. Sam had deleted every voice message that Dean had left since then without listening to them. He obviously wasn't answering Dean's phone calls. He couldn't. He still felt the bile rise in his throat every time he thought of that night (even as his cock twitched at the memory of Dean's hands on him, his taste…) He tried to delete the text messages as they came through—although he still hadn't been able to delete that first one—but sometimes he caught glimpses of words.
"…hungry..."
"…wanna come…"
"…skin…"
"…hole…"
"…taste you…"
"…raw…"
"…fingers…"
"…touch myself…"
Dean had always had a dirty mind, and it seemed to be working fine for his demon. Sam wasn't sure he could take much more of the way his heart sped up every time his phone buzzed and the way his stomach sank as he deleted messages while trying not to look at his phone. And Dean was relentless. Sam's silence seemed to spur him on, because if anything the messages and phone calls seemed to increase as the days went by. Maybe Sam was just hyper-aware of them.
And Sam had stopped looking for Dean. He didn't need to, did he? He could just call his brother. His brother, the demon, who knew how fucked up he was and wanted to use him as some sort of sex toy for his own sick amusement. Cas had obviously noticed, and Sam couldn't think of a reason that Cas would accept. There wasn't an acceptable reason to stop looking for Dean, and Sam couldn't tell Cas the truth. So instead he used the super-hunter persona that had got him through so many tough times—times when he'd been without Dean—and worked and worked and then worked some more. If Cas asked about Dean, Sam would use his current hunt as an excuse, "I just haven't had time, Cas, this rugaru has killed six people so far, you know Dean would say the job comes first…"
Which was a lie. If the tables had been turned, nothing would have stopped Dean from finding Sam. Sam wasn't even sure him turning into an sex-crazed demon who had fucked his brother with dubious consent would've stopped Dean from looking for him. And probably killing Sam when he found him, but finding him nonetheless. Sam could never kill Dean. Sam wasn't sure he could ever face Dean again, demon or not. Especially if not.
Sam knew that he wouldn't be able to keep avoiding Cas for much longer. He was trying to keep some distance between them, so that he wouldn't have to face him, but it couldn't go on forever. He would have to think of something to tell Cas, eventually. In the meantime, he'd keep up with the avoidance as long as he could. Right then Sam was working on a case involving a more vicious than usual wendigo—eleven nature lovers down, and counting—and he was truly hoping that the hunt would end well. For the wendigo. It would just be so much easier…
Sam had tracked the creature to a small town on the edge of the Black Hills National Forest. The thing knew that a hunter was on its trail, and it was clever. Sam had been out for most of the day, trying to find where it might be holed-up when the sun was out, and he was exhausted. He figured that he would get some food and caffeine and then head back out after sunset, when the creature was more likely to be out and about—and more likely to kill a hunter stupid enough to go after it at night and alone. Sam shrugged to himself. He just didn't give a fuck.
He got a room at the only motel he could find in the small town of Piedmont, and picked up coffee and a burger at the nearby diner (it took no effort to order a burger, no small talk, no decisions). After forcing down the burger (which he didn't taste) and the hot coffee (which he did, bitter and burning), Sam sat at the rickety table in his room in silence, waiting for the sun to set. He planned to start back out at around eight that night. Give the wendigo plenty of time to get up and at 'em. Him. Whatever. When he almost fell asleep at the table, nearly knocking himself out on the way, and it was still light outside, Sam resigned himself to lying down on the bed. He may as well get some sleep while he waited. Sam set the alarm on his phone, shoved Ruby's knife under the pillow out habit, lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping well, and the physical toll of this hunt had left him so exhausted that this time when he closed his eyes, he fell into blissful unconsciousness. No memories. No dreams. No black eyes.
When Sam woke up the room was dark. Not even the flash of a neon sign outside. And it was so very quiet. Sam reached over for his phone to see what time it was, but he couldn't feel it where he'd left it on the nightstand. He felt around for the lamp and, finding it, moved his hand along its shape until he found the switch. Even though the lamp was dim, he still had to close his eyes at the glare as he switched it on. As Sam swung his legs to the floor, he saw another pair of boots on the floor at the bed opposite from his (two queens. Always two queens). Sam went rigid. He felt himself go cold all over. His lungs seemed frozen; he couldn't get a full breath…
He knew those boots.
He looked from the boots, up the denim-clad legs (he knew those legs). Dean was sitting on the bed. Near enough to touch. He was just sitting there, slightly hunched over, looking at something he was holding in his lap. Sam realised that Dean was holding Sam's phone, shadows highlighted on his face from the dim glow of the screen. Dean had found the photo. He was just sitting there, almost a little sadly, looking at the photo he'd sent Sam, Sam naked and fucked-out and Dean smugly leaning over him, his eyes black.
And Sam snapped. He'd been holding on to so much fear and disgust and overwhelming sorrow and shame, that he hadn't realised that he'd been holding back a torrent of anger as well. Sam was angry. He was furious. For what Dean had done to him, what he'd done to them, and for what Dean had become. He knew that it was irrational. Dean, the real Dean, hadn't had any choice in what had been done to him, or what he'd done to Sam. If there was anything of Dean left, he was probably just as horrified as Sam was. Later, when Sam had a chance to think about it, he would hope that Dean really was gone. That he wasn't aware of they'd done. What he'd done. But the anger swallowed up any rationality that Sam had. Sam reached under his pillow, as fast as he'd ever moved in his life, pulled out the demon knife and lunged at Dean, knocking the phone from his hands and Dean onto his back. Sam had the knife at Dean's neck before he'd had a chance to blink. He barely struggled. Dean could hold his own against Sam. They'd sparred enough against each other their whole lives to know each other's weak points, but Dean did no more than grab onto Sam's wrist, the one that was holding the knife, and try to hold it away from his throat. As he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed against the blade, nicking the skin just enough that a small bead of blood appeared along with a soft sizzling sound.
Dean took in a long slow breath, and looked up at Sam. Sam pressed the blade deeper into his skin, drawing more blood and for just a moment, Dean's eyes flashed full black. Whether at the sight of the blood or of Dean's demon eyes, something else took hold of Sam, his eyes blown almost as black as Dean's. A new need came over him, and there was no way in hell Sam was going to fight it. Dean had done this, he had ruined them, and now Sam needed, he needed to get the upper hand. To feel that he had some control again. He leant down and drew his tongue along the cut in Dean's neck, along the line of the blade still pressed there, licking at Dean's blood, tasting the scorch the blade left on Dean's skin. Sam didn't think he imagined the ragged breath that Dean took as he sat up and licked his lips, all the while looking at Dean. The taste of the demon blood on his lips was heady, but the fact that it was also Dean's blood? That thought nearly drove Sam out of his mind. He swiped his tongue along his lips again, his eyes drawn to the blood still seeping from Dean's flesh. His eyes still looked black, but not that complete demon black. It was his brother's eyes watching him now, and Sam felt emboldened and terrified. But he wasn't going to back down. He'd show Dean, the demon, and himself, that he was not some broken little boy that could be used. Well, he might be broken. But he could also do the using.
Dean didn't say a word, just kept watching Sam. Pliant. Dean was pliant, and Sam was too angry and too turned on to wonder at that in the moment. Sam realised that he'd been straddling Dean since he knocked him back, and he could feel how hard Dean was. He pressed his own hardness into Dean, with a scorching sneer on his face, and Dean closed his eyes briefly before tilting his hips up to meet Sam's. Sam took Dean's jaw in his hand and roughly tilted his head just the way he wanted it, before bending down to kiss him viciously. He bit at Dean's lips, at his tongue, drawing blood on purpose. Just before pulling away, Sam dragged his teeth along Dean's lower lip and bit down slowly, but hard, making sure that he'd leave a mark. He sat up, looked at his handywork with satisfaction, the taste of iron and darkness thick on his tongue, and slowly climbed off the bed, keeping the demon knife in his hand. Aimed at Dean.
"Get naked, Dean. Right the fuck now, before I cut the clothes off of you." Sam hardly recognized the voice coming out of his mouth. It didn't sound like him. He had never heard that aggression and hate in his voice before. It was so wrong that it should be aimed at Dean. But so appropriate that it was aimed at the thing that had broken them, and taken his brother away from him.
Dean got up from the bed, licking at his bleeding lip, never taking his eyes off Sam. Sam loomed over him, keeping him within stabbing distance, and looked up and down his body, like Dean was something he wanted to devour. He did. He was going to. Sam was shaking with fury and want, and with the feeling of vengeful power that having this demon obey him was giving him. He didn't notice the way Dean had still not said one word to him. How he was still slightly hunched over, even as he pulled off his clothes and hung them over the chair nearest to the beds. How he wouldn't look Sam directly in the eyes for more than the briefest moment, kept his head bowed a little.
When Dean was naked, he stood in front of Sam silently. Waiting. Sam could now see how hard his brother was. Dean—Dean's body, it was difficult to keep making the distinction—wanted this as much as Sam did. The shallow cut on Dean's neck was drying, the blood on his mouth still visible, lip looking a little swollen. Perfect for…
"Get my pants off." Sam stood with his legs a little apart as Dean stepped closer, hands reaching for his jeans. Sam noticed the Mark of Cain on his right arm, still as livid as the day it first appeared on his brother's arm. Sam hated that mark. It had started all of this. "No. Get on your knees, you fucker." Dean hesitated, but Sam lifted the knife to his chest, and Dean dropped gently to his knees, and undid the button and zipper of Sam's jeans. Without being told, he leaned into Sam, and nosed at his groin, making a small mewling sound that Sam would not have believed could have belonged to his brother. "You better make it good," Sam growled, as Dean pulled Sam's jeans and underwear just low enough that he could wrap his swollen mouth around his cock. Sam knew that had to sting. Sam didn't care.
Keeping the knife in Dean's eyesight, Sam used his other hand to grab Dean's longer-than-usual hair, and hold him in place as he fucked into Dean's mouth. His glorious mouth. Dean just relaxed and took it, trying every now and then to lick and suck, but really just submitting to Sam in a way that Sam knew shouldn't turn him on as much as it did. Sam grunted and thrust roughly, hating Dean a little. Hating himself a lot. As he looked down, he saw Dean was staring right up at him, with a look on his face that broke Sam's heart and made him all the angrier. How dare Dean look at him like that, like Sam was something precious, like Sam was worth loving. Like Dean's heart was breaking as well. Sam hated him.
Sam shoved Dean away, hard enough that he fell over, his hands catching himself before he landed on his back. Sam was breathing hard, and so was Dean, but Dean just sat back up and knelt there, looking into the middle distance, waiting for Sam to say something. Sam clenched his teeth and ground out, "get the rest of my clothes off. Shoes first." As Dean crawled over (the site made Sam feel sick) and started to work on the laces of Sam's boots, Sam pulled his shirts over his head, holding on to the knife, like it was a lifeline. Sam clung to the knife, and felt like he was losing his mind. What was he doing? What the fuck was he doing? But then he remembered that photo, and the rawness of his throat, the bruises on his hips and the bile and the fury rose up once again. He wasn't weak! He wasn't. He wasn't some lovesick victim, he was strong and would take what he wanted. What he needed to feel halfway human again.
Dean had pulled Sam's jeans off and had folded them into a pile on the floor. Once again he was waiting.
"Get on the goddamn bed, Dean."
Dean stood up and sat on the bed. After a brief glance at Sam, he scooched back so that he was leaning against the pillow. "Not like that. I don't even want to look at you, cocksucker. You fucking cocksucker!" Sam was almost screaming, and he knew he had to try to calm down, or he would lose control completely. Taking a deep breath, and lowering his voice he said quietly and clearly, "On. Your. Knees."
Dean didn't even hesitate. He just turned around and lifted himself onto all fours, head hanging down a little.
Sam wanted to just spit-fuck Dean right then, he really wished that he could be cruel enough to do that, fuck Dean raw until he bled… But as angry has he was, as hurt and as devastated as he was, he couldn't bring himself to hurt Dean like that. Well fine, but he could still be rough. When Sam looked again Dean was holding out a packet of lube. And that infuriated Sam. Was he that predictable? A sure fuck and sure softy. The sound that came from Sam then was part profanity, part anguish, and if he'd been able to notice he would have seen Dean flinch—just the barest movement—at it. Putting the knife on the bed within his reach and out of Dean's, Sam grabbed the packet from Dean and tore it open, pouring the slippery liquid out all over Dean's ass and his own fingers as he started roughly pushing two fingers into his brother. Dean never made a sound, but Sam wouldn't have heard anything above his ragged breathing or the blood that was pumping furiously in his ears.
Remembering the rough prep that Dean had given him, Sam made sure that Dean was thoroughly wet and loose, working four fingers into him (and wondering if he could go further, but shutting that thought down immediately) before lining himself up and angrily shoving himself into Dean. Sam snapped his hips hard against Dean's ass—punching a gasp out of his brother—and held himself there, breathing ragged. It was so hot inside of Dean. Sam tried not to love the feeling of being there, and knew that he failed miserably. He hated that he loved this, loved being with Dean like this, wanted this and more, so much more. He hated that he was punishing Dean in this way, and hated that Dean wasn't even around to know about it. More than anything he hated "… you. Fucking. Demon." Sam was pulling back and thrusting hard into Dean with every hate-laced word. "I. Hate. You." Sam picked up the pace, knew he wasn't going to last long, and from the grunts coming from Dean, he was halfway there himself. "How does it feel, bitch? Being used." He dragged out the word, as he rutted harder and faster into his brother. "How does it feel just being a hole? Nothing more than somewhere to put my dick? Just a piece for flesh for me to sink into?" Sam bent over Dean's back and bit hard into the muscle at the junction of his neck and shoulder, breaking the skin, and sucking until he could taste the blood. Dean whined. And took it.
That sound, of Dean taking and taking and willing to take even more, was what pushed Sam over the edge. With a rough shout, Sam came inside of Dean, shuddering and gasping, and hardly noticing that Dean had collapsed onto his shoulders, face turned to the side so that he could let out the loud groans accompanying his own shaking orgasm. Sam, bent over Dean and trying to recover his breath as Dean's ass clenched at him, felt himself begin to break down. He wanted to be able to come inside Dean, and love it. To show Dean how much he loved him. He hated that he knew how it felt to come inside Dean feeling hate and despair and rage. He hated that he knew how it felt to come inside Dean, and that he would never really know how it felt to come inside Dean. Sam felt the sobs coming. He had to get out, had to get away. Fuck he needed to not feel.
Taking a deep breath, telling himself he could hold himself together long enough to get away, he pulled out his brother's body, trying not to notice the way it slumped, as if Dean had lost something necessary. Sam picked up the knife, and that cruel part of him that had been driving for the last hour or so, smirked, bent back over Dean, and cruelly carved an 'S' into the right cheek of Dean's ass—a corrupt imitation of the initials he and Dean had carved into the Impala. Ignoring the small trickle of smoke from the knife scorching Dean's demon skin, Sam pressed the blade just deep enough to be permanent. The burning would help that. It was like he was branding Dean. Dean hardly twitched, and Sam leaned over to lick away the blood. He could feel it, like a buzz just under his skin. Nothing like the effect demon blood used to have on him, more like a memory. Of the ruthless power it had given him.
"Now you know, you fucker. I own you. And you are nothing to me." Sam knew he was lying. He hoped the demon didn't. He heard what sounded like a small sob, but dismissed it as some kind of trick.
Sam got up from the bed and pulled on his clothes, making sure to slip the knife into the waistband of his jeans. He got his toothbrush and toothpaste and a washcloth from his duffle, and went into the bathroom, forcing himself not to take any notice of the used body on the bed. After brushing his teeth, and wetting the washcloth with warm water, he walked back over to Dean, and wiped up all the blood and sweat and come that he could get to. Dean didn't move any further than shifting his legs, giving Sam room to work. After that, Sam put his toothbrush and the toothpaste back in his duffle, zipped it closed and slung it over his shoulder. He looked around, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and noticed that Dean had turned over and was silently watching his every move. Sam looked away and saw his phone on the floor just visible from under the bed. Walking over he picked the phone up, slipped it into his back pocket, and, tossing the washcloth into the bin on his way out, Sam left, feeling Dean's eyes on his back like brands.
Chapter song: Flesh by Simon Curtis
