As quickly as his world narrowed into pinprick points of flaring pain, a fire tunneling through his body, intent on burning it from the inside out, it opens, flushing the agony away until it's a distant memory, like trying to look at the world through a mosquito net. A melody plays through him, strong and commanding, electric on his skin like a piano player's fingers on the ivories. It's familiar, a song he recognizes because it hums in his own blood, the barely-conscious lash of pain so constant it begins to feel normal, sorrow so deep that happiness seems a mirage, illusions from dreams others have had.
This isn't my pain, Dean realizes, even as he's tangled deeper, wrapped in emotion too old to be human. Too twisted to be his, the straightforward loss of family, the roots of a tree ripped away, leaving him a weed in the wind. This is layer upon layer of complication, frustration he doesn't understand and the acidic bile of wrath with no specific target. You fucking hypocrite, he imagines saying, pushing wrath into those harsh syllables as they pass his teeth. You're no better.
The teeth leaching from his veins bear down once, a white-out of agony that suddenly stops as they're pulled out completely. The wounds trail blood like the heat of tears leaking from his neck, pooling in the dip of his collarbone before soaking into the white of his shirt, blooming like a flower on the starkest canvas.
"Hyp—." He coughs, once, twice, before the word comes out. "Hypocrit."
Dean's blood runs over the vampire's chin, bathes those too-long teeth so they're red-tinged, disturbing in their strange beauty. He can't look away from them.
"Nothing," A sluggish tongue seems to have taken up residence in Dean's mouth; it refuses to give any more than that, to slur anything beyond a solitary work. You're nothing, he wants to continue, to deal a blow he know will land and slice deep because he's seen inside this creature and if it's going to kill him he's going to use whatever he can to wound it back.
"I'll return later," the vampire says, words tilting with Dean's axis as dizziness spins its web, forcing his eyes closed as nausea churns the acid of his stomach. "If you've not bled out by then." Then a door closes, a gentle shut that doesn't fit the hasty exit, the 'I'm-a-bad-bad-vampire' performance. But the blood loss is real and the constant drip is worrisome; he can't put pressure on the punctures, can't staunch the flow, not with his hands tied. He pulls on the ropes, trying to find a weakness that doesn't exist. He tastes iron in his throat, the sweet salty thickness of his own blood from the dredges of his throat as a roar builds in his ears, the crash of the ocean as it pounds its fury into the sand.
The flutter of touch on Dean's neck is a sudden and sharp roll of nostalgia, a memory unfolding in him with a gasp, images of long blonde hair spilling over shoulders, laughing eyes and a light kiss on scraped skin, a lilted warning to be more careful next time. His mother was tactile, running her fingers through his hair, squeezing his hand or arm as she passed, pressing his small body to her chest to ease nightmares, to show love and allow their hearts to synch into a single time, a pattern of calm protection he relished.
Sammy ("Don't call me that!" he hears his brother say. He has to fill in for the useless protests now) had been that way too, more prone to hugs and the comforting gestures of love and grief and need, always open with things Dean couldn't afford to want, to give to anyone. The butterfly skim of fingers breaks him out of his memory prison, the past and all it's taken. There's a pulse of pain radiating down his side, a leftover 'fuck you' from the vicious bite the vampire had taken.
The bite.
The vampire pays him no attention at first, tending to the punctures without even looking up, though eventually he feels the weight of Dean's gaze, the heat of fury, confusion fueling an aggressive fire. Why would the monster help him? Dean finds himself staring into the vampire, the windows or doors to a soul that can't exist, not in a being like this. The blue is still bright, though laden with something unidentifiable, a muted tone that looks a bit like defeat.
"What?" The creature snaps, flat, human teeth showing, the predator tucked safely away for now. "Are you pontificating over the beauty of my eyes? Their cerulean depths?" He smirks, aristocratic features rearranging themselves into a haughty portrait of condescension.
Dean's voice is lodged in his throat, though his silence would have reigned anyway. He has nothing to say to this being, nothing left to give to the man who'll end him, a quick snuff to a flickering fire.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Dean's stare is hollowed resignation; he's tied up and weakness, like a heady wine flowing through his veins would keep him from fighting, anyway. There isn't anything to do but stare Death in the eyes, to show he remains in tact, no matter the games his captor has up his sleeve. Helping Dean is probably just a trick, a tactic to feed his sadism, a rug to be pulled out from under his feet when the vampire gets bored of his toy and decides to finish it off. The vampire raises his arm and Dean expects a flash of warmth across his cheek, a sharp strike to disorient him further. But it never comes, never touches down. Instead, the underside of a wrist meets his lips, the softest parts of their bodies touching in a way that is unnaturally intimate, a brush that sends nails-down-chalkboard chills through Dean's body. Wetness dribbles over his tongue, drenching his dry mouth with a taste that's a heart racing, the fever of bodies writhing in time on a cold night. He tastes the darkest of chocolate, bitter as it is sweet and thick, drowning him in stimuli, shutting down any higher thinking until he's just this moment and all he can think is more.
When it draws back and all that remains is the spark of ecstasy, candied violet in his mouth, Dean whines, a moan of pure loss and begging. Come back,he wants to say, and apparently his wish is his own command, though it's not until he hears chuckling that he realizes he's spoken aloud.
"Greedy, aren't we?" Then, a sigh, a tangle of fingers brushing back the short hair falling toward his forehead. "Why did you have to come here, you stupid, stupid human?" The words mean nothing to Dean, not while the pads of the vampire's fingers card through his hair, zinging trails over his scalp. And then, just like the blood, the blood, the pleasure stops and the vampire's hands busy themselves elsewhere, first on one wrist, then the other, then his feet. Dean should see that this is important, but the thrills of pure sensation jangle through him. Every breath is sweet, the scent of pine and a faint tingle of cologne easily detectable. How had he not noticed before? He doesn't hear Castiel leave, but suddenly he's alone, thrilled with the fibers of the blanket under him, the rub of them against his skin.
He curls onto his side before stretching out, making each and every muscle burn to show it's alive, to show he's alive. And he is, buzzing with...
Blood.
It's a gunshot moment, the shattering click when the ego pushes the id out of the way, takes back the controls and asks him exactly what the fuck he thinks he's doing. He falls from the bed, too shocked to care and gags, retching up nothing even as his tongue searches for the last of the nectar in the crooks of his teeth, the walls of his cheeks.
No, he thinks, over and over. No, no, no. This isn't happening. And...maybe it's not. He doesn't feel different, can still the frenzied thump of his own heart in his ears, each beat resounding like alive, alive, alive. Eyes open now, he sees a door across the room and pretends not to notice how good his eyesight is, suddenly, how the shadows falling over the wood should have masked its presence completely. He opens it to find a bathroom bigger than his bedroom at home, the décor lush but ignored in favor of finding a mirror, or in this case, many. A few steps in and he's staring at himself, his face and his profile and his side all at once, a Picasso portrait that makes the nausea and dizziness rise again, though his grip on the sink just below the mirrors is enough to keep him standing.
Just do it, he commands himself, staring into the white, the unmarked purity of the sink. It's too clean, like no one actually lives here, a decoration for aesthetic purposes only. He lifts his eyes, stares into them, into his reflection and opens his mouth, searching for something, anything that would mark him different, changed. But his teeth are still plainly human. Normal. Now he does sink down, hands still clasping at porcelain, sagging to the floor to let it absorb the monstrous heat inside of him, the intoxicant of the vampire's blood as it flits through his veins.
He lets himself drop completely, hands falling down as his head lolls to the side. In front of him is a love seat, furniture in a fucking bathroom, cherry wood and ornate cushions, the kind you'd find in the fanciest of hotels. The kind you'd find in funeral parlors. But for the first time since he'd put his brother in the ground, Dean isn't thinking about Sam.
He has an idea.
Waiting is the worst part. Dean's not sure how long he sits still, counting the seconds and his breaths, but eventually his patience is rewarded. The door to his roomy prison opens and the vampire gets close immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed. It's then that Dean springs, using his weight to throw them both onto the floor. His strength, he's sure, is nothing compared to the vampire's, and he's almost dislodged as the man beneath him twists and tries to wriggle out of his grip. This is, until he sees what's in Dean's hand, feels the press of it against his chest.
"Where'd you get that?" He gestures to the pointed shard of wood in Dean's hand, relaxing into the ground beneath his back. The question is conversational, genuinely curious.
"I broke one of the drawers," Dean refers to the bureau behind him, an easy destruction muffled by of clothes (material sensual, watery silks and high-thread cotton), like a silencer on a gun. The vampire's expression turns dour, mouth pulling down on the sides.
"That was an antique, you know."
Dean ignores him, presses closer, tightening his legs around the vampire's waist. "Who are you? What are you? Why the fuck haven't you killed me yet?" He's panting, hands aching around the makeshift stake, the fury in his blood urging him to rip something apart, to make physical the crater inside. To hurt something as badly as he hurts.
"My name is Castiel. You know exactly what I am," the vampire opens his mouth a bit and the tips of his teeth lengthen, though it's not a single pair of fangs but two, the sets closest to his front teeth. They're tapered, ending with a deadly point just above the vampire's bottom lip. "And, Dean Winchester," he says, speaking so easily around the weapons in his mouth, the pinprick needles that take life with the most casual of movements, a single bite, "I have made a terrible mistake."
"M—mistake?" Fuck. He swears at himself for stuttering, for the waver that turns his bravado into an act.
"I was under the impression that you were going to take your own life when I saw you sitting in your car. I saw that I was wrong."
"So you'll let me out, then?" A plume of hope, feathering out like smoke in the morning air rises within him.
"Yes. I will let you go." The words sound genuine, but there's something there, the knit of the vampire's dark brows, the way he's not quite looking at Dean. There's an ellipsis, a catch.
"Eventually." There it is, the truth hiding in gleaming packaging.
"Eventually? What does eventually mean?"
"You have to understand," and now the vampire's looking up at him, mouth pursing, then pulling down because it's being bitten by now-flat teeth, and Dean doesn't get it, doesn't understand at all because this isn't the monster that captured him, that was barbaric in his yearning for Dean's pain, his fear. This is somehow a person now, beseeching, regretful. "I thought you were some stupid human fed up by life's little trivialities. You all get to be, get to really live, and there you were, about to coat the interior of your car with brain matter." The vampire shrugs, opens his mouth once before pressing those bitten lips closed, shaking his head.
"But you know about me now, Dean. I can't let you go without changing you." He slides an arm away from his side, snakes it around Dean's waist and urges him closer, the stake still between them. Dean floats just behind himself, a half-step away and frozen, disbelief pulling at his edges. Become like this man, this monster?
The stake seems to move on its own, outside the vampire's body and then in. The flames he expects, the thrashes of pain and the dust and decay of a dying vampire never come. Instead, he's vaulted back, thrown against a wall that forces the air from his lungs. He hits the floor, jerkng like a fish on dry land, grasping for something that just won't come, for relief from it all. The floor is too smooth beneath him and his nails scrabble for purchase, curled into claws.
"Dean," Castiel's there, standing over him, pulling the stake out like it's a splinter, distracted. It's thrown away, across the room. The vampire bends, kneeling over him, such a cruel reversal, though now Dean understands that he never had the upper hand, that he was only allowed to think he could dominate the other man. White builds behind his eyes, studded with black shudders, the world as it moves away from him. But then he's jerked up, a hand rubbing his back, face pressed into Castiel's neck until that, too, is repositioned so he's staring into bottomless blue, eyes that are the most inhuman part of the vampire, outside his hiding teeth.
"I'm sorry," the vampire mumbles before pressing his slightly parted mouth to Dean's own. If he'd had any air to lose, it would have been gone then.