A/N: This chapter is based on a request I received: "I'd love to hear more about their early days too, the horror of it all."
Two weeks.
14 days.
A fortnight.
Sam couldn't be sure, not exactly, but he'd tried to count the days in his head. He thought the gesture kept him present. Grounded. Without the rising and falling of the sun, without the constant reminder of time-of reality-Sam was sure he'd welcome insanity like a lover, be swept up in her arms and driven away. His flesh would be here, sure, but his mind would be gone, free from the constraints placed on him in the living, breathing world. The wretched, blood drenched world.
Was it so bad, really? Losing one's mind?
Sam idly pondered these thoughts as Dean continued to meander through the forest. The ground vibrated with each step, thunderous. Dean's heartbeat thrummed in Sam's ears, his body heat like a tangible thing, a creature aching to be touched. With his eyes tightly closed and the chilly autumn wind whipping his tussled hair, Sam laid passively in his brother's strong grip. Dean's fingers were curled around him and his brother had him pressed half-heartedly against his chest. Dean's free hand was cupped underneath Sam in case the giant accidently loosened his grip.
Sam didn't know where Dean was taking them, but his brother had been moving for quite some time now, ever since the sun had risen, turning the surrounding trees into a riot of autumn color, almost shamefully happy. Did nature have the right to be this bright in the midst of so much misery?
There was one thing Sam did know for certain, though.
His days were numbered.
Sam suspected Dean was eventually going to eat him. The knowledge of his impending death stuck on Sam's tongue like a bitter root, grew more potent with each second, minute, hour, day. Dean would grow tired playing (raping) him and when the time came, Sam just hoped Dean would be merciful.
Mercy wasn't likely, Sam knew. Dean hadn't been merciful to the countless innocents they'd come across, for the myriad of villages his brother had been hell bent on destroying.
Sam was thinking about the number fourteen when Dean suddenly stopped walking. Sam tensed, his heart jack hammering in his chest. He listened keenly. He could always hear when they'd descended on a town (the sudden hush, the abrupt startled cry of horses followed by the panicked screams of the villagers having spotted the giant, the desperate sounds of evading footsteps), but he could hear nothing but the inhale and exhale of Dean's powerful lungs, the steady beat of his massive heart.
"Sam, wake up." Dean rumbled from above him. He felt Dean's wretched fingers lessen their grip.
But Sam was already awake. It was impossible to sleep anymore.
He obeyed the order, making it a point to open his eyes and look up at his brother. It was difficult to look at Dean, not only for the flaky stain of dark red blood, blotchy and too real, staining his chin, but because of the inhuman, predatory intelligence in his too large, too green eyes.
Dean smirked, "You gonna sleep all day?"
Sam blinked, too afraid to speak. With the sunlight shining down upon them, Dean's enormous, deadly teeth glistened with saliva (the sharp scream, the flailing arms, the brutal smash of teeth against ripe belly, the burst of internal organs, the ravenous growl at the back of his throat, the final gasp of his victim, the gnashing of teeth, tearing of limbs, all the pause an irresistible, barbaric appetite), but perhaps it was just in Sam's imagination.
Dean's smirk drained away. Sam rubbed at his thigh, glancing away. He didn't dare look down. He was never going to be used to the absolute horror of being poised this high above the ground.
"Sammy, we talked about this." Dean's tone was disapproving. Sam was briefly reminded of when he was twelve, short and stout, having sneaked out of the cottage with a girl from school. Dean had warned him not to go, identical disapproval marring his teenage face, but Sam hadn't listened. Dad had come home, drunk per usual, and upset having found his youngest gone. He'd taken his frustration out on Dean. It was only later on that Sam understood that Dean had taken innumerable beatings for him, had always gotten Dad off his trail, even up until the day the man died.
Sam's chest clenched-felt like barbed wires cutting into his flesh, it did-and he felt a hot pressure behind his eyelids. Dean jostled him gently, lowering him down on the hand below him, letting Sam lean back against his other hand.
"You don't have to be afraid of me." Dean said, voice suddenly as soft as velvet. He reached out and rubbed the tip of his finger against Sam's bicep in placating swoops.
Sam stared down at his trouser leg. He wasn't even wearing his own clothes anymore. This was a stranger's attire, too baggy and too short for his long legs. When Dean was human, he was the one who called Sam a giant. Oh, the irony.
Sam scratched at the wool material, fingernails dragging deep. Dean had pulled the clothing off a man a week ago.
A man his brother had eaten after.
Sam had not spoken a word since watching his brother tear the man's head from his body like a disobedient little boy plucking the head from his baby sister's doll.
"Sam, look at me." Dean rumbled.
Sam's heart clenched, but he casted his eyes upward.
"Talk to me, man." Dean blew out a breath, abruptly moving Sam's bangs. Sam shivered at the wave of heat, and he suppressed a look of repugnance at the gamey stench. Sam felt something in his chest cave and before he knew what was happening, his legs had given out and he was sobbing unconsolably. He swiped fervidly at his tears, ashamed of his obvious weakness. He clutched at the warm, calloused flesh below him, trying to gain his feet, but failing miserably.
"Sammy, shhhh," Dean hushed, reaching his finger out and beginning to stroke his brother's flushed cheek. Sam jerked away, shaking his head. He pawed at his face as if stung, trying to scrub the sensation away. That was the same finger that had tore flesh from faces, that had shattered bone, that had touched Sam in his most intimate crevices, that had forced abhorrent pleasure from his powerless body.
"Don't touch me!" Sam snapped, momentarily shoved from any common sense. Dean jerked his finger away. Sam tensed, face draining to a lily-white, ready for retribution. Surely Dean was going to get angry. Instead, Dean frowned, eyes flickering over his little brother's face, a look of both relief and frustration waging a war in his eyes.
"Sam, tell me what's wrong."
Sam nearly choked. The question was absolutely ridiculous. What was wrong?
Sam rubbed his eyes, attempting to swallow the thick cotton ball wedged in his throat, emotion heightened not only by his current situation, but by his lack of sleep. How long had it been since he'd fallen unconscious? Too long. He'd been too afraid to fall asleep lest Dean attack him. Although, in retrospect, Sam couldn't stop Dean from hurting him if he tried. Dean was too big and too strong.
Dean jostled him gently once more and whispered, "Sam, what do you need? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Is that why you're so upset? Or do you need to rest? We can lie down somewhere."
"No. Please. Dean. We need to turn you back. You're sick. You need help." Sam reached out and grabbed the side of Dean's finger. He squeezed, kneading the tender flesh.
It didn't evade Sam that the thing that caused him so much anguish was the same thing he derived comfort and solace from and with that knowledge, Sam threw his hands back, a hot ball of shame slamming into his stomach. How could he be trying to comfort this monster, this abomination that had brutally devoured countless people in the space of two short weeks?
Dean's expression darkened, his lips curling back from his teeth. Sam shuttered, backed up, and tried to cower away. Dean reached out his other hand, making sure Sam didn't tumble off. He wrapped his fingers securely around Sam.
"Dean, please. I'm sorry. D-don't." Sam said, mistaking Dean's sudden mood change for impending violence. He waited for the sharp edge of embarrassment to hit him-begging for mercy like some pathetic prisoner of war-but instead he braced for pain. Just because Dean hadn't hurt him yet didn't mean he wouldn't if Sam pushed him to it. But Dean held him completely still for an endless minute, looking plain frustrated, and Sam suppressed the urge to turn away from his brother, if not to escape his unflinching gaze.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Sammy? I won't."
Sam swallowed thickly, "Just listen to me. You...you have to turn back. We can find the witch. It's not too late. You can stop what you're doing."
A slow smirk curled onto Dean's full lips. Sam's stomach roiled.
"Who says I want to?" Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam's mouth suddenly felt stuffed with wool. Abruptly nauseous, he shook his head.
"This is what I am now. Don't you get it?" Dean growled. "This was what I was meant to be. I can feel it in me, Sammy."
"Don't say that." Sam said softly.
"I like what I am." Dean said, bringing Sam closer to his face. Sam slammed his eyes shut, didn't dare wiggle in the strict confides of his hand, and trembled when he felt Dean's hot, gamey breath.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you." Dean whispered. Sam pried his eyes open. Up close, Sam could see his reflection in Dean's eyes, reminding him of his size. Reminding him of his place in Dean's world. His trembles intensified.
"Why don't I just show you what I am, Sammy? I thought I showed you enough, but maybe you haven't really processed it yet." Dean smirked. "Maybe then you'd understand."
But Sam had seen enough of what the witch had turned his beloved big brother into.
"What do you mean?" Sam uttered, face scrunching up in confusion.
Dean did not reply. Instead, he brought his other hand up, lowering Sam to the slight hollow in his chest between his two pecs. Dean began walking again and Sam closed his eyes, trying to decipher Dean's vague warning. After about fifteen minutes of meandering through the woodlands, Sam heard the distant sound of running water. Running water usually meant civilization. Terror jolted through Sam's bones. No. No. Not again.
Sam's eyes snapped open, and he sharply turned his head. He saw the rising smoke, the vague outlines of cottages, of shops, of structure, nestled, like most villages, amid the shadows of the forest. Dean's stomach rumbled. Sam's face paled in horror and disgust. He glanced up at the underside of Dean's chin. Even from his angle, he could see the hunger in his brother's expression.
Every time Dean attacked a village, he'd place Sam high in a nearby tree. Although Sam was still close to the carnage, it was nothing like seeing what Dean had done when he'd tore apart Lawrence right after his transformation. This time, Dean headed straight for the village, not bothering to pause. Sam began squirming in his brother's grasp, but Dean held onto him tighter, keeping him in place. Sam instantly knew the moment the villagers had spotted Dean, even if he was turned away and nestled against his skin.
The panic was palpable in the air as Dean ascended on the square. His bare feet cracked the cobblestones, but the sharp sound was nothing compared to the shrieks and resonances of frantic footsteps. Sam found himself being pulled away from Dean's chest and he watched, heart in his throat, as his fellow humans ran around at Dean's feet like rats, desperately seeking shelter.
"You're going to sit right here." Dean breathed, crouching and carefully placing Sam down on top of the blacksmith shop's roof. The moment his ass hit the wood Sam scrambled up onto his feet. Dean pulled away and with his eyes flickering over the humans and his tongue flicking out to moisten his bottom lip, he snatched up a young woman.
"Got ya," he cooed.
She screamed, thrashing, her blond hair whipping wildly back and forth, her baby blue dress kicking out along with her long, slim legs. For a second, Sam's own legs trembled.
Jessica? Oh, God. Oh. No.
He covered his mouth with his hand as Dean got a better hold on the girl, curling his fingers securely around her back and stepping over to Sam, crouching down, and holding her out. The woman threw her head back and...
Oh, thank God. Thank God.
She wasn't Jessica. Briefly Sam wondered if Dean chose her on purpose because of the resemblance. Maybe this was some sick, twisted reminder of what Dean would do if he ever got a hold of the real Jess. Perhaps a reminder that Sam was his and his alone. Even as kids, Dean never liked to share.
Panting, face flushed, her legs dangling, she glanced up at Sam, meeting his eyes. They were a vivid blue, so beautiful they hurt.
"Please help me." She whispered, desperation scraping against her vocal cords.
"Help you?" Dean snorted. "He's not going to do anything. He can't do anything. Can you, Sammy?"
Sam tore his eyes away from hers, a putrid sensation of helplessness bursting at the back of his throat like a rotten plum.
"Sammy, I asked you a question."
Sam forced himself to glance back up.
"Dean, let her go," Sam addressed his brother, finding his voice steady. Perhaps it was being in the presence of a damsel in distress that sent a shot of bravery through his veins, how false and futile it may be.
"Why would I?" Dean smirked. "When I know how good she'll taste?"
Sam flinched, his stomach roiling raucously. Dean abruptly brought her to his mouth. Simultaneously, her face went pale with horror, and she shrieked. Sam surged forward, hands outstretched in a placating gesture.
Dean's wet, pink tongue darted out; he licked her trembling body. Her struggles intensified.
"Dean! Stop!"
"Aren't you a delicious little thing?" He asked her, raising an eyebrow. With her long, wispy hair sticking to her flushed, sweaty face, she continued to scream.
Dean chuckled. "Aw, now. Don't be like that."
"Dean, stop it. Please." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper. There was no stopping his brother and Sam knew it. Sam just hoped Dean would kill her quickly.
"I'm going to try something different." Dean said thoughtfully. He opened his mouth and as the girl thrashed and cried, shoved her headfirst inside.
Sam watched in stunned horror as Dean began to swallow. Dean reached his hand up to his throat and tilted his head back. His cheeks bulged with her weight. Rapidly, her waist, thighs, calves, and feet vanished. Dean gulped several times. Sam watched in stunned horror as, like a snake, the thick protuberance of her wailing form squeezed down Dean's throat, sending her plunging down Dean's esophagus. Soon, the swell vanished, and Dean patted his belly.
He glanced up at Sam, smirking. "Now that hit the spot."
Sam kneeled over and vomited. Stomach acid and bile scorched the back of his throat, but still more vomit came forth. He knelt with his hands above his knees. Once he got his breath, he rubbed his forearm over his mouth, and looked up.
"No more, Dean." Sam shook his head. "No more."
Dean chuckled. "What do you mean 'no more?' I'm just getting started."
Dean got up, turned, and began snatching people at random. Some he'd swallowed whole, prolonging the moment, dragging them down his gullet. Others he'd tear asunder, ripping limbs off between his teeth, spewing carnage-blood, cartilage, muscle, bone-into the air, biting off heads, slicing open tender bellies, revealing soft, stinking guts. He pulled wailing victims from cramped spaces between shops. His mouth, chin, and hands quickly became stained red and sticky with the carnage, but still he ate his fill, licking his fingers and lips.
Halfway through the bloodshed, Sam collapsed beside the pile of putrid, stinking vomit, and brought his knees up to his chest. He felt like a small child again, overwhelmed with the evil of the world-the absurdity of so much preventable death-and tried to stay in the present even as insanity threatened to pull him into her lovely arms. In that moment, he wanted to embrace her, to become one. But Sam knew he couldn't check out, especially since-despite what point Dean was trying to make-there was a chance he could turn Dean back.
Sam was yanked back to the present when he noticed the silence. Goosebumps snaked up Sam's arms. It was so wrong after so much noise. He peered over his knees at his brother. The bottom half of Dean's face was drenched in blood. His belly was swollen, and his eyes were half-lidden. Sated. Dean's eyes roved over the ground at his feet, but most of the villagers were either dead or had fled farther into the village and into the surrounding cottages.
Dean licked his lips, ran the back of his hand over his mouth, and turned to Sam. His smug smirk quickly turned into a look of concern.
Dean crouched down, reaching out for him. Blood and unspeakable things speckled Dean's fingers, but Sam desperately tried to think passive thoughts.
"Shhh, it's okay." Dean whispered, rubbing a finger up and down Sam's side. If Sam could, he'd curl up even smaller.
"I didn't mean to scare you. I just needed to show you what I am, Sammy. What I really am."
Bastard, Sam thought, tears springing from his eyelids. You sick, evil bastard.
But it's not his fault, a voice whispered from the back of Sam's brain in a place he wanted to keep suppressed and buried. Just like Father Castiel had said, Dean's mind was infected with evil.
Dean scooped him up. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, letting his brother take them out of the carnage and back into the forest.
I will save you, Sam thought as he dared to open his eyes to the quickly disappearing ruined village.
I will. I promise.