Disclaimer: I don't own. Duh. A. N. Happy Halloween!
Monsters
A kid. Nothing more than a bored kid, stranded in one of the shitty motels that litter the States. Odds are he'll be carried off to the next one. Or would have, if the monster wasn't staring at him, looking through ageless, mercurial eyes. The creature pounces, whispering, "Scream, and I'll be quick." The child meets the other's stare, an odd mix of unflinching savagery and empathic understanding, and whatever he reads there makes him obey.
"You won't stay alone long, " is the last thing he hears, before his neck is snapped. The last he sees, the predatory, gleeful smile stretching the other's lips.
The prey he's really angling for is rushing on, worry and anger making the older boy stupid. Oh, yes, just perfect. Throat open and the body falls to the dirty parking lot floor. The monster crouches over his victims, now careful in a near-surgical way.
"I'm back!" Sam calls out brightly.
"Too quick to have got the good shit," Dean whispers. How he manages to speak with the hole in his chest would be a mystery to anyone who wasn't there during a certain procedure. How he fucking managed to get his heart ripped out by a werewolf past the full moon is what Sam actually would like to know, but - priorities. They'll live - that's what has always mattered - and, eventually learn.
For now... "It's perfect, actually. Stay still, ok?"
They were used to stitching each other's wounds since way too young. It's no wonder they've taken to Benton's lessons like ducks to water. It turned out that even if the man was functionally immortal, that didn't make him immune to their persuasive methods. Sam is absolutely ruthless when he really wants something, and being able to replace any organ doesn't mean one has to like losing them..slowly.
Dean snorts. Yeah, it's not ideal, but he knows better than to get in the way of his own cardiac transplant, for many reasons, including that he won't hear the end of Sammy's grousing if he did. He carefully tucks away the question about how his brother procured his new heart. He's been in and out of it, obviously, but it really feels too soon for a breaking and entering at the morgue. That, and the guilt that never really stopped gnawing at him. He should be dead. Not just a few hours ago, by weirdo werewolf, as any other hunter as careless as him would be. He should have died years and years ago. But who'd have taken care of Sammy?
Sam kind of expects an interrogation, when his night's work is done. OK, he didn't stick to the rules this one time. No actual picking from the morgue (from the matching people who are not organ donors, in fact, since the two of them need it more anyway, whatever 'it' happens to be at the moment). Since hunting turns out to be necessary, no researching the criminals in the area, the viler the better. While usually humans are not their fare, well, Dean's morals would be appeased. Sam has never liked mixing up body parts of awful humans with his brave, amazing brother, but sometimes, under his sibling's vigilant eye, he has no choice.
The temptation was just too strong. He'd noticed the two, of course he has. Found himself blinking a few times, to make sure it wasn't a mirror into the past. Investigated them, quietly, on the side of the actual were case research. He wasn't even surprised when he discovered that the older one and Dean were compatible. As much as he hates the idea of it, it felt a bit too much like fate.
Sure, Dean will bitch at him. But he'll be whole to do it.
Being attacked by his brother out of the blue instead, as soon as he's all patched up, isn't something Sam could have foreseen. They still have their spats - a long, long history of them - but there's usually some sniping before they get to that stage. The first hit makes his head ring, and he accidentally bites his tongue, but the next is parried. He wants to grouse, "What the fuck, man?" but something is not right, and he would rather figure out what his brother's problem is than complain right now.
That is when he feels it - Dean's breath on him, freezing cold. It's not the first time (only the second, to be fair, but still) and he could just get out and go shopping again, so to speak, but the new heart seems to fit nicely, parasite aside, so he tries talking things out.
"Not Dean driving, huh?" he says, blocking another attack.
"Monster," his brother's voice, but not his brother's venom, hisses.
"Duh. Ghost," he retorts. "Anyway, you have a choice. Stick around for more of this - you might even do some actual damage, too, but I'll just patch it up, and you know how..." There. It falters. Even as a very pissed off ghost (and he has his reasons, not like Sam disagrees) he doesn't want to cause more wanton murders. "Or, hop on. Look for a reaper. I thought I knew where your priorities lay. Do you really mean to leave him alone?"
"Idiot." Yup, that's Dean back. Bitter and frustrated and concerned and too fond by half.
"Ghost whisperer," Sam retorts, with a bloody smile. It'll be all right...at least until one of them manages to get another serious wound or an organ failure that will require helping themselves to someone else's again.
"We have rules for a reason, Sammy." A deep sigh.
"It's not like other hunters could catch us, even if they figured out it was me. We're always on the move anyway. And this time you know who the were is and that they have no moon constraints, so it should be easy. And I'll come along. Might even want to ask them how they can shift whenever."
Yes, he's being dumb on purpose. But Dean looked like he was dying, and even knowing he - they - couldn't, not anymore, Sam had been antsy. Those other two were handy, and fit, and - he could explain, but Dean doesn't want to listen. Not now.
"That's not the reason, and you know it."
Oh. Oh. Dean's rooting through Sam's duffel, and...it was born as a gag gift, supposed to piss Sam off, but he likes it. Perhaps too much. The soft, black leather collar, with a shiny name tag - but instead of any variation of his name, it read, "Dean's."
His brother lets it slide between his fingers. "Do you want me to throw this away, Sammy?"
"No!"
Ten years ago...
"See, what the Doc is, is a freakin' monster. I can't do it. I would rather go to hell."
Sam had snapped. "I should have known. You're too good to ever become a monster. No, that's just me, right?"
Dean sighed, weary and not a little disappointed. "We've talked about this..."
"You didn't know. I'm not on a pity party. Yellow Eyes told me something, when he kidnapped me. He was feeding me his blood, when mom interrupted him. Not the first time, at that. And yes, demons lie, but it explains things, right? The freaky powers. Being immune to that weird sulphuric rage-virus. I was already worse than that." His nostrils flare in frustration, but he lets Dean corner him against the wall.
"When he kidnapped you? And trustworthy source or not, you wait till now to share with the class?"
Sam laughs in his face. "Priorities. Not like it'd change anything, would it? You've been travelling with a monster all along. And by the time I could have explained, we had your situation to worry about. The one time you should have listened to dad and put me down yourself, and you didn't."
"You said it yourself. It doesn't change anything. So I'm not having this discussion. We have a job to do, if you didn't notice."
His eye still throbbed, of course he'd noticed. But it didn't matter. "It could. Change things. Not now, but unless we find another solution in the next three weeks - maybe Ruby will help, or Bobby will find a way, or what - well, if I can't save you in the first place, I'll have to get you back. Maybe Yellow Eyes' plan really went only as far as opening that fucking gate, or if there was more, it died with him. Maybe someone else knows, or can have some sort of use for me, and if I can buy you back? I'm interested. Fuck, dad's soul got out when the gate opened, and if emptying hell on earth is the way to get you out, it's really starting to sound more like a plan every day."
"You're not serious." Dean took a step back.
"Try me. Today, you pick, Dean. If we're unlucky, you leave me behind, and then...I don't know, but that's the point, is it? Because we do know what's going to happen if we take this chance. And I'm not saying I like Benton, but we'd stay like this. Both of us. And we can change back, eventually, if we find a better way to break your contract, but in the meantime? We'll be together, monsters or not. And you get to hold the leash."
His brother snorted. "You don't fucking listen, that's your problem."
"Certainly not if you're gone. Look, you can stay human and leave me to whoever feels like picking me up, or you can get your hands just a little dirtier and keep me. " Puppy eyes at full-strength.
"And here I thought you were already making plans. Go back to school, get a dog...get a cat, for all I knew, use pussy to get pussy."
"It's not funny, Dean." Why was his brother always like this?
"Come on, it is, a bit."
Sam sighed, trying to sound more put-upon than he actually felt. "A tiny, minuscule bit. Anyway, we've established that I'm not going to get a cat or play pretend again ...It doesn't matter how bad I wanted to be normal, I'm not. So I might as well admit it and use it to my advantage. Do you want to finish this job and, worst case scenario, have me shop around, or can you stand joining me in monsterland? Until we find another way, at least?"
When Dean had caved, Sam had felt like he could actually breathe for the first time in a year. Sure, the process hadn't been fun, and he hated that Dean had needed some extensive repairs when the hellhounds had come. But Lilith's confusion had allowed Sam to kill her, and no more hounds had been on their trail since.
Six months later, Dean had presented him with the collar (and yes, he had a leash to clip on it). Instead of telling him to fuck off, Sam had let his brother put it on him, quietly regretting it was much bigger and flashier than the amulet (soft black leather and shiny studs), so there was no way he could wear it on the regular.
Today...
"I'm sorry," Sam mumbles.
"Are you?" Dean lets the collar dangle between his fingertips.
"Yeah. I didn't mean to miscalculate. There should have been no ghost. "He shrugs. "You'd think I'd read people better by now."
"Sam." Dean's tone is a warning.
"You have a Dane who's savaged someone he shouldn't, letting him loose isn't the solution. Not if you're worried about the public good. Chain it tighter, if anything."
"And if I'm worried about the dog?"
Sam huffs. "I was never in danger, Dean." It had been too easy, if anything.
Dean does put the collar on him, then. Just a little tighter than usual. "If you're gonna be purposefully oblivious, maybe I should add a muzzle."
It suddenly hits Sam how much they'd changed from these boys who'd adopted the tried and true Benton system. They might look the same, more or less, especially when properly dressed. The scars of the patchwork they have become are silvery, spider-thin, and easy to mix up with the ones from a lifetime of hunting. But that Dean wouldn't have admitted he was worried without exhausting all imaginable forms of non-verbal communication, in which Sam had been obliged to become conversant. And admittedly, he'd been young and stupid and self-flagellating, and assumed he was as bad as he could ever get. For someone who used to worry about unfairly taking down creatures who might not have deserved it, he'd become way too much at ease with wanton murder. But then again... when it's about Dean, Sam loses any semblance of qualms or impulse control. Why feel guilty about it, when it's reciprocal?
For all his principles, when it was Sam, the other year, who messed up and ran afoul of a vampire nest, in some backwater place in New Mexico, Dean hadn't waited till they got someplace with a decent hospital to steal from, to help with his torn throat and utter anemia. Maybe he actually found a criminal to set Sam right. Maybe not. It's not like he asked.
Then again, it makes sense. They've always been too attached to each other, and now? They literally don't have anyone else. It's not like they could swing by the Roadhouse without having everyone in there try to take them down, Ellen and Jo first of all. They might be immortal, but not invulnerable. And Bobby... Sam is actually not sure what the old man would do. Maybe he would understand, he thinks sometimes. Maybe not. But it would have been too cruel to put his morals in a quandary like that. Besides, the man killed his own wife when she turned zombie. It's not the same, but close enough that visiting Sioux Falls sounds like an eminently bad idea. They called him after Lilith was gone, reassuring him that everyone was still alive. But that was the last contact. Bobby has his pulse on hunters' going-ons. No doubt he's heard from someone. He hasn't tried to call them, either, which is half relief and half disappointment.
Sam flashes a grin at his brother, settling. If his brother wants to add more accessories, Sam will let him, despite how much a part of him wants to huff. A muzzle? Really? As if Sam didn't have dozens of other ways to hurt anyone he chooses? There's indulging in that sorta dog play they have going on, and there's being silly.
Unless Dean wants him to play Lecter for Halloween, or something. Though what would that make Dean? Clarice? It still is a stupid holiday, as far as Sam is concerned - way too much like work to feel like a real holiday, in fact - but they've not been together this long without learning to make allowances. Dean will accidentally on purpose find them cases somewhere Sam can indulge his penchant for serial killers on a few occasions. Fully human ones still lowkey creep Dean out, and Sam suspects it's because his brother would love to be able to still believe in a somewhat clear line between good and evil, even when he's crossed it himself.
Sam knows that line is, at best, a faded and broken one, overstepping allowed anytime it is - depending on the person or creature - necessary, convenient or simply fun. They still save vastly more lives than they take, so, all things considered? Their immortal existence is a net positive, even if a few people, should they resurrect, would argue against that. Not that it would matter. They've always escaped anyone's judgment besides their own, and even in that highly improbable scenario Sam is sure that he could drown out anyone else's voice, without even having to summon anyone else on their side. It's thrilling to officially be Dean's, sure. He moves a little just to hear the tag clink. But Dean is his, too.
Dean sighs. He really should concentrate on the case, now that he's not impaired anymore. Especially since Sam had decided to be so stupid. Sure, the rest of the corpse tonight's ghost came from has undoubtedly been burned, as well as anyone else caught in it. A charred body might offer less clues, but it doesn't completely disappear. It doesn't matter how frustrated he is with his baby brother. His instinct is clamoring to skip town, before anyone can get suspicious.
Only that'd mean leaving the werewolf alone, and make them nothing more than another couple monsters passing through and haunting a place that already had its fucking quota. And sure, that's what they are. But he tries so hard to be both - monsters and hunters, and hey, they've met nice vampires and another ex-hunter turned werewolf who's an utterly helpful, eager pup, seemingly too pure not just to be a lycan, but to have ever taken down anything more dangerous than a rabbit.
Besides. there's only so much lecturing that will lead anywhere, when dealing with Sam. It's not like he could really enforce consequences, and the boy - forever his boy – knows it. He's constitutionally incapable of harming Sam, not really (the occasional spar or swat don't count) and abandoning him would hurt Dean more than the kid. Always has, always will. What the heck is he supposed to do, to get his brother to listen?
The collar clinks again, and it's like a literal lightbulb flashed in his brain. Sure, Sam will do whatever he pleases, because he knows he can take whatever liberty he prefers. Maybe some good old humiliation will make him think twice next time. (Or not. But hey, Dean needs to try.)
So he turns around, announcing: "Since someone made staying complicated, we're going back to put the wolf down. Right. Now."
Dean doesn't even need to glance over, adding immediately, "Don't you dare touch it."
"What?" Whiny, as expected. "Come on, Dean, you can't be serious!"
"If you want to keep it, I put it on, I take it off. Always have, right?"
"Yeah." Sam nods so vehemently Dean can feel the swoosh of his hair. They'll have to talk about that too, someday.
"Then stop stalling and come help me with that were."
Sam groans but follows along. They've just settled in the Impala, but before Dean can even turn it on, Sam is at it again. "Ok, you made your point, but now stop joking."
"What's the problem? Afraid the big bad wolf will know what a good puppy you can be?"
"Deeean!"
Ignoring Sammy's protests, he drives them out of the parking.
The lycan lives alone, which is a plus. The last thing they need is to have a whole pack on their asses.
"Come on, Dean, we need to be quiet. We might as well set off every car alarm in the street if I'm clinking at every step." Sam is right, of course. With anyone else, this is where Dean would end the game and actually get to work.
"Oh, sure, being quiet would help. But with the both of us? He doesn't have a chance anyway. Come along, Sammy."
His brother grins at him, innocent dimples but a feral light in his eyes. Dean knows he's not any better himself, right now. The bastard might have taken him down once, but he was alone and hadn't expected it to be able to shift for another month or so. Payback, as they say, is a bitch.
The werewolf is a beloved teacher; an upstanding man, if you asked anyone round here. Clever, and fair, and nice looking enough that a few of his pupils have crushes on him. Not that he would ever start an improper relationship. Of course he wouldn't. He doesn't care about breaking hearts; he prefers to snack on them.
Mr. Garou is home. Of course he is. He's already had a surprise meal today, when Dean came asking what he thought were circumspect questions. Not subtle enough, as it turned out. Anyway, the fucker has no reason to hunt tonight.
His main door isn't that secure, though. Dean lets them in easily; then again, someone who can shift at will has a better protection than any lock could ensure.
They've just come in when Garou comes stalking into his own hall, no doubt attracted by the clinking of Sam's collar. His jaw drops.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Dean quips.
"What the fuck are you?" their host growls.
"No, see, we're the ones asking questions this time, professor" Dean says, aiming his gun right at the creature's heart. "Silver bullets, obviously. You answer, and I'll be quick."
"Or?" Garou's jaw is already lengthening, eyes quickly sizing up the both of them.
"Or Sammy takes over. He's a great surgeon, as you can see."
"You could have killed him," is all Sam says, quiet venom dripping from his voice. Out of corner of his eye, Dean sees that he's playing with his favorite knife, silver glinting in the light. Dean hopes fleetingly that the werewolf will not take his offer. Sure, it worries him what they've become. But when there's a legit target? His brother, unleashed, is a thing of beauty. An artist and a masterpiece all in one. And okay, he might appreciate the way Sam goes wild against anyone who might have, in a different life, stolen Dean from him. It makes him feel valued, and shuts up that ever-resurrecting niggling fear that, sooner or later, his brother will get tired and run away from him again.
The wolf snarls, shifting at the same time he rolls, trying to duck behind some shelves to avoid Dean's gun. If he wanted to, he'd still have got him in the chest, if not right in the heart. Instead. he pretends it worked and gets him in an ankle. His howl of pain is very satisfying.
"If you wanna do the honors..." Of course he's here to make sure Sammy will be okay. But the boy has been chomping at the bit enough. His baby brother might still look willowy and cute like so many years ago. But he's a seasoned warrior, dancing around deadly claws while stabbing and slashing. A few severed nerves later, the werewolf is lying in a pool of his own blood, helpless to do anything but stare while Sam considers what body part to remove next, if he won't answer. "And maybe even if he does, huh?"
Dean wonders if Sammy is licking his lips on purpose, for show. It takes him a moment to realize he's mimicking his brother.
Mr. Garou is eager to explain, by that point. Apparently he's a pureblood, which is a thing - Dean didn't know that werewolves came with pedigree, sometimes - which explains his heightened control of his powers.
"Finish me," he finally pleads.
"Oh, but you didn't pick the quick option."
He'll still keep an eye on things. He'd rather be out of town by sunup, after all. But Sam definitely has a few hours to play. And the dimpled grin he sends Dean's way before letting the knife run across their victim's body, pensive...Dean would give a lot to make sure to keep 'em coming.
