The kiss isn't all sharp teeth and angles, aggression and dominance. Dean doesn't expect the slow twist of a tongue as it's brushed into his own gaping mouth, as it tries to urge him into responding. His oxygen-starved brain can't be sure what's real or not, and this certainly doesn't feel like the truth, like the dazzling light of day as it illuminates the shadow of fantasy and make believe. Everything's overlapping, turning black and white to grey and there's a fucking vampire kissing him, telling him that he has no choice but to become something else too, to die and be revived in a way he's never though possible. Forever alone.
"No," his voice is slurred as the word comes out, sliding over the other man's tongue to a quick death. There's a sudden and complete split in him, thought versus touch, hedonism bearing down on intelligence, fighting it off in favor of the slicked movements and twisting drag of nerve endings too simple to understand that the sensations they're flooded with are unwanted. Dean feels electric, his pulse in his throat, heated by blood and pheromones and the creep of fingers that know just how to entice, slow strokes and rough digs at his sides, trails that are sure to be red and raised in a few minutes.
"No," Dean says again, and this time he means it, jerking away from the vampire sharply, teeth gnashing at the other's bottom lip as they separate. His chest is rising and falling fast again, though now air gets in. "I won't do it. I'm not going to be like you." He's staring into those eyes, a scattering of dark blue, shades like a finger painting of depth that rivals the sea. There's nothing to say, nothing but what's already been uttered, words without legs because he has no power and for all he knows he's already changing, skin paling, teeth lengthening.
"Please," he whispers, unused to the quiet in his voice, the dry pleading. "Just let me go."
"I can't," the vampire reaches for him but too quickly, the space between closing too fast, a glaring you're not in Kansas anymore. Dean flinches back, hands raising, a mix of fight and flight that would probably prove pointless even if he were actually being attacked. But the other man just freezes, every muscle motionless except his mouth, which he licks before speaking again. "You know what I am, where I live. I—I can't risk you telling people about me. About my kind."
"I wouldn't," breathless now, the pleas bubble up within him. "I wouldn't tell anyone and who would believe me if I started babbling about vampires and things that go bump in the night?" He opens his eyes a little wider, bites at his lips because he'll do whatever it takes and acting is too fucking easy when his life, his humanity is on the line. But all he gets in return is that look, that familiar look he's been getting since Sam died, the 'I'm-sad-for-you' glance, the 'How-do-I-say-this' flutter of nervous eyelashes. The other man's mouth is pulled thin, eyebrows drawn close to his eyes.
"No," Dean says again. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want anything from you." The vampire's not saying anything, is probably waiting for him to finish, to pour himself out, emotions and bile on the floor until he's exhausted and easy to handle. "So how long do I have," he looks up, catches the other man's gaze and holds it, words even and plain, "until you kill me, huh?"
"How do you know you're not dead already?" The question is barely processed in Dean's mind before he's in an empty room once more, mouth left open for a fight that drains from him like blood from a slit wrist.
The vampire is rich. Or old. Or both. The house Dean is in, one he's seen from afar so many times, is not the dilapidated, cobweb-ridden monstrosity his childish mind had painted so long ago. He remembers staring at it, before he started coming to the clearing at the edge of town for reasons of a more salacious nature, misted windows and hot mouths yearning, with the eyes of innocence, wondering why, exactly, what looked like an empty field stretched into infinity would have a gate around it. Why an old house that no one seemed to live in would remain standing. The explanation, though, belongs in his childhood, when the idea of the supernatural wasn't a silly fantasy, the product of an overactive mind.
The room he's in is one of luxury, the sheets soft, the chair at the study desk plush. There are two windows, he finds, covered by crushed velvet, a texture he wrinkles his nose at as he pulls the blinds back, surprised to see the watery first light of day. The place feels heavy, stuck in a century where lavish boasting was done with property, not words. He's waiting to be handed a goblet of mead and a leg of chicken, skin and fat still attached. The light helps a bit, throws colors on the walls as it refracts through the crystal of the too-ornate chandelier. Dean lifts his hands, watches as a rainbow is painted on his skin in splotchy patterns, fat circles of lemon and thin strips of a barely-there glow that dance across the lines of his palm as it shakes, his body smart enough not to be fooled by the forced calm he's talked his mind into believing. He can tell himself it's okay as many times as he can think the words, but they'll just be the airy lilt of falsities, a rhythmic sigh that gets less and less true the longer he remains the vampire's captive.
Drawing his hand back to his side, Dean faces the sun, closing his eyes against its warmth, the kiss of its rays on the angles of his face.
Its warmth. Its light.
The sun rises every day. It's a fact as steady as gravity, one he's overlooked for thirty some-odd years because he's had no need to question its importance. But today, it matters. Today it's important.
Vampires can't go out in the sun, right? He wonders, his mind picking up speed, excitement. A way out looms in front of him, waiting to be jumped through. Burning and all that shit. Safe in the day. The door behind him is old but sturdy, and of course, locked. But even the best of doors have weaknesses and all it takes is a few kicks near the handle and it's swinging open, dust and wooden debris coming free as the bolt is dragged through the wall. The cracking and scraping are devastatingly loud, splintering the hush of the house, but when he hears no other movement, no surprised scrabble coming toward him, he leaves the room, finding a staircase just a few feet from the door. Each step down is made with held breath, legs stiff with adrenaline. Just get downstairs. Just get out.
It's too simple, though. Of course it is. Because as soon as he spots the way out, the last barrier between him and the rest of the world, he's pulled back down into the depths of his prison with a single sentence.
"I thought you'd try the window first." A glance over the shoulder reveals a face bathed in light, like a flower, made to soak the stuff up. "But you chose the front door. Pretty direct."
"That's me." He spreads the sarcasm thick to keep from choking. So close.
"Come on." The vampire turns, gesturing toward a hall. He doesn't check to see if Dean follows, leaves him alone to glance back at the door once before sagging in defeat privately, shoulders slumping before false bravado alights on them, urging him to pull his mask back on. He can't show this thing weakness. Blood in the water means sharks, sharp teeth in soft flesh. The muscles of his shoulders sting and protest when he rolls them and turns, following the path of the vampire. He ends up in a dining room, another space detailed with objects of luxury, exquisitely carved chairs around a long table varnished so shiny it looks like glass. The room is lined with bookcases, each filled to the brim with worn-looking volumes, big and small, some in languages Dean can't begin to identify.
The table is set, an impersonal, simple spread of fruit and pastries, a gauge at his tastes. Or maybe just things the vampire had lying around. Dean can't begin to guess.
"I want to make you an offer." The vampire looks at the chair nearest to Dean, a command to sit. He doesn't, though he rubs the top of it, resting his hands on the smoothly crafted wood, taking in the intricate patterns for a moment before acknowledging the other man's words.
"An offer."
"Yes. I'll let you go free."
But...Dean trails in his mind, waiting for the inevitable catch, the part when he has to sell his soul or his body.
"But," the vampire pulls on the collar of his simple black sweater, a v-neck that reveals a swath of pale skin. It seems too simple for what the man is, for the house he lives in. What should he wear, a cape?He smirks at the image, top lip coming up in a sneer. He waits.
"I need to know I can trust you."
"You need to know you can trust me. Because it's so fucking easy to trust a stranger."
"We won't be strangers when I can trust you." The vampire levels his gaze on Dean, who has to pretend the focus of the stare isn't at all off-putting, that it doesn't dump toxic levels of adrenaline in to his overtaxed system. And raise the hair on his arm because he's pinned, held down by the simple sweep of eyes as they run over his form and stop on his face.
"Great. And how long is that going to take?"
"That's up to you, Dean."
Up to you, Dean. He mocks the vampire, the echo of his name on the vampire's tongue aggravating, like someone snapping a rubber band on his wrist. Up to you, Dean.
"The house is completely open to you," the vampire continues. "But if you want to go outside, I'll accompany you."
"Awesome," the coils of anger unfurl in Dean's voice, begging to be allowed to go wild, to scream and whine and tell the vampire that he's not a fucking toy, that he's a person and he has a life and he's not just going to tolerate being treated like a four-year-old. But he holds the embers of fire down until his entire body is clenching at it, the burn an intoxicant that has to be resisted. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to tour your lovely abode." And look for ways to escape.
"We're not done yet, Dean," the vampire calls as he's turning on his heel.
"What?" He snaps. He can't help it.
"You've no incentive to stay," the vampire all but purrs, pushing his chair back to stand. There aren't any consequences for you to fear. So every time you try to leave, or incapacitate me somehow," he's closer, now, each step a roll of fluid hips, cat-like grace that leaves Dean as prey, filled with the urge to run. But he can't, not fast or far enough. "You will be given my blood and I will take some of yours."
"H—how" the stutter is obvious, a trip that leaves his deep voice sprawled. He coughs and tries again. "How many times until I'm—I'm like you?"
He gets a Cheshire cat smile, one that would have lit up the other man's face, had it not twisted it with condescending pleasure. "It's not an exact science. It could be the next time I feed from you. It could be the twentieth. You won't know until it's happening."
Swallowing is difficult, suddenly.
"So, Dean. Do you agree to my terms?"
"You won't touch me?"
There's a flicker of disgust on the vampire's face, a flash of surprise that makes him look innocent, if just for a moment. But then it's gone. Dean doesn't care; the vampire has raped him already, has taken his body through his blood, has made him a slave chained in a golden cell.
"No. I won't touch you without your permission."
You'll never get it.
"Then I agree."
He feels the wind of the vampire's movement before his vision catches up and sends the right pictures through his mind. The other man is inches away, breathing in the air of Dean's agreement. One step back means the vampire wins, two makes it clear. He's surprised, scared. And he wants to get the fuck away.
"We'll start now, then." Seeing Dean's confusion, the furrow of his brow, the vampire smiles again. "Oh, you didn't realize?" He gestures in between them, almost poking Dean in the chest. "Your little door-breaking tantrum counts."
Opening his mouth is Dean's mistake. As soon as his lips part, there's a bleeding wrist pressed to the opening, blood somehow dripping freely, hot like mulled wine on his tongue. It's cinnamon and a kick like whiskey, old and warm and diving into his body like it was meant to be there, like not having it was a lack, a hole he'd never known about but always wanted filled. He's lost as soon as the first wave glides down his throat, tangled in images that aren't his.
Castiel, he hears, a singular name over and over, then the face of his captor, scared and shaking, pale and pleading. No, no, no, just like Dean. He sees the vampire seizing, the whites of his eyes visible, hair plastered to his forehead. Then the picture goes and he's vaulted into the stars, rolling through what feels like someone trying to scream themselves hoarse, an out-of-body gasping cry that flays him alive, turns him inside out. Vaguely, he's aware that his knees have hit the floor. That he's not supporting himself anymore. That he's being held by the monster with its teeth in his neck right now, a bite that he barely noticed, though now each enthusiastic swallow brings about a shudder of axis-tilting pleasure that crescendos suddenly, leaving him panting against skin his tongue seeks out, licking at the vein openly to find the last drops of blood even as the wounds close. He should push the vampire (Castiel) away, should wipe his mouth and spit the night-spiked blood out, try to purge it away but no, he can't, not when he's mewling like a kitten, blind and deaf and dumb to all but the taste of it, the potency that thrums through him now, life and energy and electricity bursting within. But is it changing him? Is he a v—a monster yet?
"Not yet," the vampire mumbles, pulling Dean to his sturdy chest, contact he shrinks away from, though his body forgets to react. "Not yet." It's so faraway, so quiet that Dean can't be sure if the vampire's speaking to him at all.