Monday Night

7:25:36 p.m.


Dean makes sure to lock the motel door behind him. The cold hits his back, breathes down his neck. He would have worn a coat, but coats hinder movement. He is putting his chips down on the element of surprise, but he's not counting on it. They have a way of knowing, these things.

He glances across the slushy, frigid parking lot to Baby sitting under a thin layer of freshly fallen snow. By morning, the slush will be refrozen, making it nearly impossible to drive. It's now or never. Best before the thing finds him. The lot is washed in the dull yellow light of the streetlamp above and as Dean maneuvers the duffle bag over his shoulder, he thinks he can feel someone watching him from the deep, dark of the alleyway to the left of this small, podunk motel. He spares a quick glance to the side. A feral cat yowls from the deep dark, pivoting off a dull, off-gray dumpster. The cat skids across the slush, rushing away down the alley and out of sight. He shakes his head and turns back towards the parking lot, shoving the motel key into his front pocket.

The snowflakes swirl through the air, speckling Dean's short hair, landing on his eyelashes, melting on contact. He drags his hand against the Impala's smooth, black side, the thin layer of snow nibbling at his fingers. Dean unlocks the door, throws his duffle onto the empty passenger's seat, and slams the door shut. Dean cranks the engine, listens to the low rumble of the Impala, and lets his hands settle onto the steering wheel.

Dean remembers briefly of the case he and Dad investigated in Manning, Colorado. The revenge for Daniel Elkin's murder. The snow covering the barn's decrepit roof, the stench of dead man's blood in the backseat, the way their leader's head flew back through the air, the spray of blood that rained down on that screaming, flailing thing that was once a woman.

Dean shivers, but it's not from the cold. He turns on the heater and throws the car into reverse, throwing an arm back behind the seat and staring back into the night.

Most of the Austin's downtown buildings are old and rustic, the kind that draws a person in to spend too much, to waste too much time. Most storefronts look like they're straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting: red brick and white frames with little windows. Fake flowers. Unblemished, snow dusted sidewalks stretch in front, enclosing random benches and bare maple trees. Stop lights sway in the chilly breeze. For Austin, the city seems as dark and dead as a crypt.

The further downtown Dean drives, the further the scenery changes. It's like the changing of generations. Old, rustic store fronts bleed into young, hip bars and nightclubs. With the windshield wipers swooshing back and forth, Dean creeps along, squinting out the window. He watches a group of college girls stumble out of a brightly lit nightclub, the music thrumming in his ear drums. They're laughing, holding onto one another, and a young man chases after them, clutching a hot pink purse, waving it about.

Dean glances down at the address sprawled on his palm. He looks back out the window just in time to pass a giant neon blue rose plastered onto the middle of a building. The caption THE BLUE ROSE underneath in fancy script gives it away. The Black Rose is a tall, black building with red fringes. A group of blue collar patrons stand in front, smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit. When Dean creeps by, suspicious, hostile eyes swing his way. He glances up at the building next to it, a tall townhouse with faded gray brick that appears black in the moonlight. In dull golden script 2654 West Aspen hangs on a bright red door. Dean swerves into the nearest available parking spot a block down, kills the engine, and reaches for his duffle. Pulling out his machete, he stashes the weapon at his hip underneath his worn leather jacket. He licks his lips, garners his bearings, and slips out of the car.

Dean tries to act inconspicuous as he steps onto the slick sidewalk, the wind biting at his bare face. He stashes his hands into his pockets, hunches his shoulders, and walks. People pass by him, but he pays no mind. There's the smell of cheap perfume and cologne, the husky murmur of voices, the brief, insignificant feel of a warm body passing just briefly beside his own. Dean's eyes are glued on that red door and, more specifically, the alleyway between the house and The Blue Rose.

The hunter in Dean, the most important part of himself, silently searches for a way in. He steps into the alleyway between the two buildings, eyes roaming over graffiti covered brick wall. The cold has killed the stink of trash that would normally be unbearable during the summer months, and Dean doesn't mind the piles of garbage laid out in his path. A younger, more inexperienced hunter would declare what Dean is attempting, especially without backup, to be suicidal. Perhaps this is suicidal, but Dean doesn't think he has anything left to lose. The last thing he had is buried up in Lawrence, Kansas, along with the residual taste of everlasting guilt.

Dean spots the rusted emergency latter and lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He takes a step closer to it, readies his muscles to jump and pull it down.

"Dean? Is that you?"

Dean freezes, his heart leaping into his throat. He slowly turns around.

A man is standing in the middle of the alleyway, a mere three yards away from Dean. The streetlamp casts flickering shadows on his face. It takes all but a few seconds for Dean to put two and two together.

The man is taller than what Dean expected. Buffer, too. He's wearing a skintight black shirt, his biceps bulging against the thin material. Donning worn blue jeans, a tear in the left knee, and a pair of scuffed gray sneakers, like in his profile picture, his overgrown hair falls like curtains on either side of his wide forehead. His fox-like eyes bore into Dean's, his features twisted in what Dean can only describe as subdued excitement.

"Dean?" Sam says genuinely, like he's tasting the name on the tip of his tongue.

"Yeah," Dean says, feigning a smile. "It's me."

Sam takes a step closer, and it takes everything in Dean not to take a step back. He hadn't expected him to be this, well, big. This might be harder than he thought.

"I thought you were coming tomorrow night?"

Dean's tongue feels like led in his mouth. The alarm bells in his brain are going off, telling him to say anything, anything, before that smile melts away into suspicion.

Dean shrugs, "I just couldn't wait to meet you in person, man."

Sam seems to take the answer. "Did you bring the beer?"

Dean smirks, feigning flirtation. He can do that. God knows he's spent half his life flirting his way out of trouble. "Thought you'd might have beer. I ran out. Can't pick up my check until Wednesday."

Sam walks up to him, pauses a moment, his hands fidgeting at his sides, a shy, awkward smile plastered on his face. Dean stares up at him, eyes flickering over his features, his smirk unwavering, although his fingers itch and the back of his neck feels cool where the winter air has chilled his sweat.

"Can, I, uh." Sam makes a motion with his arm, indicating a hug. Dean stares at this stranger. This stranger that smells like cheap deodorant and the nighttime air. This stranger with the hazel eyes and full, soft lips. Dean wants to recoil, to yank the machete where its carefully concealed in his jacket, to lop off the thing's too-human head.

Dean says, "Yeah, man. Bring it in."

Sam wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him into a hug. Dean tries to relax his stiffening muscles, but the thing's mouth is pressed so close to his jugular it ain't even funny. Dean pats his back. Although the hug only lasts a few seconds, Dean can sense Sam wavering when he pulls away, as though he wants to go in for another. Revulsion wages a war in Dean's stomach, and he hopes Sam can't see the look of unadulterated disgust on his features.

Sam takes a step back and rubs the back of his neck, swinging abruptly innocent eyes towards Dean's direction. "I'm excited. Is this a date?"

"Sure. It's a date." Dean smiles. "But just so you know I don't put out until at least the second."

Sam laughs, a full, bright sound, uncharacteristically cheerful. It sounds wrong in this cold, dark place. Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Okay, then. Follow me." Sam turns around and begins walking to the mouth of the alley. Dean's eyes don't leave his back.

"I don't know about that." Dean whispers.

Sam glances back, stops. "What?"

Dean has not moved. Sam cocks his head to the side, a startlingly animalistic gesture. Dean's heart rachets in his chest. Sam frowns, glances down at Dean's chest and then back to Dean's big, green eyes.

"Don't you trust me?" Sam says, looking hurt. "Look I'm not some freak or anything. If you don't want to come up, you don't have to."

"Just playing, dude." Dean laughs. "Of course, I want to." Dean makes himself move forward, although his legs feel like two pillars of steel. "Just playing hard to get."

Sam smiles again, a smile that Dean can only characterize as more of a grin than a smile, all white teeth and excitement. He doesn't think it's right for this thing to have such a pure look about him. Sam turns back around.

Dean knows it's now or never. He slips the machete out of his jacket and rushes behind him, weapon raised high, the metal glistening off the yellow streetlamp. The metal whooshes in the air, the target true.

Sam ducks out of the way, snatches Dean's wrist mid-swing and yanks. Pure agony flares through Dean's arm like a syringe of fire. He cries out. With the option of a broken wrist or the machete, Dean lets the weapon drop, kicking his leg out and catching Sam in the kneecap. Sam lets out an inhuman snarl while simultaneously swinging the machete behind him. The metal makes a sickening slippery sound where it lands somewhere in the dirty sloshy mess of the street.

Sam's lip curls, flashing a row of sharp, hungry teeth. He shakes his leg to dislodge the throbbing in his knee.

Dean lets his hand settle on the syringe of dead man's blood in his jacket pocket, his heart thudding madly in his chest as he takes several quick steps backward. Sam moves, trying to corral Dean up against the wall, but Dean ducks out of his way.

They circle one another, eyes unwavering. Dean's heart thuds so quickly in his chest, the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, that he's woozy with it. Dean watches as Sam's second teeth retract and a look of contempt mars the vampire's tense features.

"Did you know I was a hunter?" Dean asks.

Sam shifts his weight, all contempt draining from his features, replaced by resolve. "I figured it out when you mentioned the missing men. I went back through our chat conversations and the pieces slid together pretty easily after that. How did you figure out I was using Languid Lounge?"

Dean sneers. "You mean to lure in victims? Wasn't that hard. All the missing men were either gay or bisexual. They were all matched with you. You were the one thing tying them all together."

Sam nods. "Good work."

"Where's the rest of your nest?"

"Out."

"Really. It's hard to believe that." Dean laughs, although there's no humor in it.

"Believe what you want to believe," Sam says. "But know this, I still want you to come up with me."

"Well, sucks for you, I guess. I draw the line at necrophilia. Thanks." Dean sneers.

Sam smirks. "I really think you are the one, Dean. Hunter or not."

"The one? Shit, I'm not some schoolgirl. That bullshit doesn't work on me. I bet you said that to all your victims."

"Oh, that's not fair," Sam says, mock pouting.

"Everything that you told me in the chat, was that a lie?" Dean asks.

Sam sobers up. "Not everything. Sometimes I stretched things to fit the mold."

"Well, that's lovely." Dean says sarcastically.

Sam reaches out his hand in a placating gesture. "You think I'm a monster, Dean, but I'm not. Come here. I won't bite. Well, unless you ask me to." Sam laughs. Like he has any right.

"Fuck you."

"Well, suit yourself." Sam sighs, broad shoulders slumping as if in defeat. Dean cocks his head to the side, confused. A monster has never just given up before. That's not in their nature.

"Jo, be gentle with him." Sam says to someone over his shoulder. Dean tenses, eyes widening.

"Yes, Alpha." The voice croons.

Dean hears a sharp, jarring sound behind him. The sound of someone slipping from the dumpster, a snarl. He turns around. The woman is blond. That's all he can see. There's the flash of fangs and a burst of something metal, and the sharp sting of agony at the back of his head.

Before everything goes black, Dean thinks someone catches him before he falls.

Dean thinks he wakes while being carried. He thinks, like with that case with those vamps in Colorado, there's people locked up in makeshift cages, their faces hot with sweat and desperation, their fingers gripping the small, thin wiring. He thinks the lights are low and the room is hot and the storm outside has just picked up again, blanketing the world with frightening white. He thinks one of them calls out to him, or perhaps the voice is all in Dean's head.

He thinks he sees the underside of the stranger's wide jawline as the thing carries him away, deeper into the townhouse, where the patrons at The Blue Rose can't hear you scream. He thinks he smells incense and spices. He thinks people pass by them, people who aren't people at all.

Then Sam is placing him on a large bed with distantly downy sheets. Sam is grabbing his wrists…Sam is….

Everything fades away again, leaving Dean in total darkness.

Dean wakes tied to a king-sized bed, his wrists bound with thick rope and fastened to the headboard above his head. His legs are free, a surprise blessing. He glances down through the horrible spasm of pain in his shoulders and the dull throbbing in his head to see that although his shoes have been taken off, he's fully clothed, besides his jacket. He doesn't know why, but this brings him a terrible amount of relief. He's spread on soft, marron-colored sheets that smell of laundry detergent. He glances at his surroundings, his muzzy mind scrambling to shove the puzzle pieces back into a logical, healthy order.

The clock on the side table reads 12:01. He glances up at his wrists and instantly begins desperately trying to slip the knot.

The door creaks open. Dean's hands freeze. He snaps his head down to the thing coming into the room; it gently closes the door behind it. The thing that's changed into a simple white button down. The thing that, with a frighteningly sensual smile, begins to crawl up the bed, the muscle in its back rippling with its languid descent.

"Well, look who's awake," Sam says, his voice whiskey rough.

Panic wedges its away into Dean's throat, seizes a torrent of dread into his chest. Dean squirms. "No, get the fuck off me." He tries to kick Sam away from him, but Sam seizes his legs, easily pressing them flat against the bed. He presses himself against Dean, grinning like Dean's a bikini clad stripper with a cherry on top.

Dean feels his heart thudding crazily in his chest. John's voice-Dean's constant-thrusts its way through Dean's panicked, irrational thoughts and scolds him for being so weak in the grip of the enemy. Quickly, Dean gathers his focus, his eyes flickering across Sam's face.

"If you're going to kill me, fine. Just do it already." Dean says with a tone that could freeze hell.

Sam's face softens and he runs a finger across Dean's jawline. Dean jerks his head, trying to dislodge him. "I don't want to kill you, Dean."

Dean glares at the dull off-white wall beside the frosted window, although his heart is doing double time in his chest. There are worse things, Dean knows, than the sweet release of death.

When Sam drops down, his body poised over Dean's, and nudges under Dean's jaw, trying to draw his head back around, Dean puts up a fight, until he realizes Sam isn't going to relent until he complies. He turns his head back around and glares. Sam dives down for his throat and Dean stiffens.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Sam whispers, pressing an opened mouth kiss to Dean's jugular. Dean spasms in dread, feeling blunt human teeth teasingly scraping against hot skin.

"Bullshit."

"Despite what you believe I am, Dean, I am not a monster."

"The facts prove otherwise."

"I do what I need to survive. What makes human lives more important than ours?" Sam moves his head until he's staring directly down at Dean, mere inches away.

"You're evil." Dean spits.

"Evil? Aren't you humans evil, too? Killing, maiming, raping, just for the pleasure of it? What I do, what I have to do, is base instinct. It's survival." Sam breathes, leaning on one elbow to run his fingertips across the side of Dean's face.

Dean jerks his head, but it does not dislodge Sam's persistent fingers.

"Do you know how old I am, Dean?"

"I don't really care, but thanks for asking."

Dean flinches as Sam drops close to his ear inhumanly fast. He presses his mouth against the flesh. Dean shivers involuntarily. "When your kind first huddled around the fire for warmth, I was the thing in the dark."

Sam jerks back up, smiles down at him. Dean's lip jerks upward in revulsion.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Dean?" Sam asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Yeah, I'm a real beauty queen."

"I don't mean just physically; I'm mean in here." He gently presses a thumb against Dean's temple. "I can see right through you, Dean. All that pain, all that sorrow."

"That's nice, Dr. Phil." Dean deadpans. "Now why don't you kill me and get this shit over with. I don't got all night."

Sam gives him an almost sad look, a look that makes Sam appear terribly old, unnaturally old. Sam leans down and presses an almost chaste peck to Dean's forehead, letting his lips linger for an uncomfortable handful of seconds before pulling away, meeting Dean eye-to-eye.

"Do you know how long I've waited for you?" Sam asks.

Dean cringes away from the intensity of the vampire's stare.

"Did you know vampires mate for life, yes?" Sam breathes.

The pieces click into place with rapid realization, and Dean jerks away. "No," he spits.

But Sam is already biting into his own wrist. Blood blooms, trickles onto the bed spread. The cotton drinks his blood deep, begs for more. Dean shouts, jerks his body up. Sam snakes his hand out and covers Dean's mouth with viper-like speed.

"Hush, now." He scolds before bringing his wrist up while simultaneously moving his hand away.

"No!" comes Dean's muffled reply.

"Drink, baby." Sam whispers, and presses his bloody wrist to Dean's resisting mouth, rubbing it back and forth until Dean has no choice but to open and drink.


When Dean wakes two hours later, he wakes a new man.


Sunday, May 25, 2008

8:06:23 p.m.

Message from: Impala67

Message to: BradytheGladiator

Subject: Hey

Hey Brady. Checked out your profile. It said you were open to a threesome. My husband and I are interested. Hit me up in the chats. The name's Dean by the way.