The ragged cycle of Dean's breathing, gasp-choke in and thick stutter out stab at the silence, at the false peace in the moments after the vampire finishes feeding, silk-smooth tongue licking at the cuts before allowing Dean's head to fall onto his chest. He cradles Dean, holds him like a prized possession, a child's arm slung around a teddy bear.
"Not yet," Dean hears, each letter laced with the brackish acid of regret, of opportunity lost. He's disappointed, sad that Dean remains human, for the time being. The sentiment is a withering jolt to every nerve ending that trails deep down within him, a sudden and sick twist that leaves the taste of bile in his throat, even as he swallows down the last of the blood, sweet trails streaming downward, a slow-working poison waiting for its moment. It leaves behind a thirst he doesn't understand, one his whole being reverberates with. More, more, more, now is all there is, a drive that's stronger and surer than anything else he's ever craved. He's being tied to this vampire, strands of rope looping around the strength of his spirit, waiting to be pulled tight. The worst part comes when he wrenches away from the vampire's boneless embrace and every instinct he has tells him to go back, to rest his head against the creature's firm chest, to press his ear against the muscle there and listen to the steady beat of an immortal heart, its pattern never breaking, faltering a thing of the past. He doesn't give in, though the refusal withers his stomach until it's a pulsing knot, dampened urgency that throbs, shrilly.
But he can analyze that later, can agonize over this new snarl of conflicting emotion after he's gotten away from the vampire, when he's not lying on the floor, laying like a fish out of water. Vulnerable. But even as frantic 'get up, get up!' messages zing through his muscles, arching back over his spine, the leaden feeling in his legs and arms tells him he's not going anywhere. That he's trapped again, this time in his own shell, the power of the vampire's blood anchoring him even as his fingers scrabble for purchase, slipping over polished wood. Tears come then, sudden and overwhelming, pressing and insistent. He grieves for two lives now, two strands snipped by fate's careful scissors. Because this is the end, isn't it? There is no life without will, and his has been dominated, agency stolen like a sweet from the fingers of a baby.
The hot salt drips easily, hitting the floor below with soft splashes. Come on, he urges, staring at hands that twitch through exhaustion's paralyzing blanket. Move. He'd fucking crawl if he could. Anything to get away. Anything to fight grip that slithers under his side, that heaves him up, manhandles him until he's laid out bridle-style in arms that feel like coiled steel, that give no impression of his weight being anything but feather-light. Dean's head lolls back, his view the angular underside of the vampire's jaw and a smooth-skinned neck, unmarked save for two circular punctures. The vampire doesn't look down as he carries Dean up the stairs, each step light, even. He expects to be left alone, to slip into the stifling dreams that call his name with increasing urgency. But, no. A second after he's put down, child-like, the vampire follows, stretching out beside him.
Dean drifts away wondering how, exactly, he ended up being kidnapped by a bipolar vampire.
It's a black hole night, summer, if the thick curtain of humidity that hangs low, close to the skin is any indication. It drowns him when he opens his mouth, each and every breath an effort, one that makes sweat gather at his forehead, under his arms. He can't see a fucking thing but he can hear something, a rustling and grunting only a few feet away.
"Still hanging on? You're a strong one, aren't you?" The words are almost a purr, satin, but with an edge to it, a cat's tongue catching against the pad of a finger.
"Please," a second voice says, a whispered rasp that's light, the fading rays of the sun as the world plunges into darkness. "I have a wife. I have children. Please."
"I know you do, pet. That daughter of yours has your eyes. She'll grow into a stunner one day."
"Am I going to be around to see it?"
The softest of chuckles is his reply, rising like smoke from a cigarette, elegant, reserved, though a quiet malignancy shines through, unmistakable.
"I'll make sure you see them again." The sound of a bite, sharp and sudden has Dean wincing at the scene; his eyes have adjusted and he can make out one figure crouched over another, one who is lying on the ground, limp. Sounds replace voices but the conversation doesn't change; high-pitched breath, fast and desperate is met with even swallows, a deep sucking sound that lifts the hair on Dean's arms. He wants to back away, wants to run but he's frozen, forced to watch as the attacker relax back onto the balls of his feet.
"Now drink if you want to see your family again." The man lifts a wrist to his own mouth, then presses it flush against the prone man's lips. He shakes his head, trying to avoid the blood that paints his mouth a lurid black, but some makes its way down his throat; Dean understands the sudden keening need he hears in the man's groans, why the initially refused arm becomes a tie to life itself, to nirvana and heaven and sex, the ring of pleasure as it overrides the mind.
The scene changes. It's a here/there snap, a blink and snagged thought as the world thins out and reassembles, leaving Dean unprepared for what he finds when his eyes regain the ability to focus. Dawn dribbles in weakly through the windows of the room he stands in, rays draping over the faces of two women tied up, laid out on the floor. They are mother and daughter, that much is certain; high brows, dark hair, though the younger has eyes of familiar blue while the mother's are winter green, the first shoots of anemic plants in spring, similar to his own. They're trembling, hissing out scared breaths mingled with words obscured by the cotton of what looks to be handkerchiefs tied around their mouths. Their dress is old-fashioned, nightgowns starched stiff and thick, cotton made to fit a specific form, not a product of mass production.
"Didn't I keep my promise?" The chocolate-rich voice is quiet, a sinister smear of calm emphasized by the panicked gasps from the tied women. "Here they are, just for you." The speaker, Dean finds, is icy. He light-haired but dark-eyed, delicate, thin features made serious by an expressionless face and thin lips that look like they've never known the feel of a smile. He is tall, lithe, catlike as he stands from the crouch he'd been in, and walks around the other man, each step bleeding with the grace of a dancer. He circles the other man twice, but Dean doesn't pay much attention, is too enthralled by the form on the floor, his own prison guard.
Castiel.
But this isn't the vampire he knows. This isn't the cock-sure bastard who pulls strings and throws power around like it's a toy; this is a man shattered, pieces strewn about too wide to ever be collected again. He writhes, muscles twitching and jerking like he's being shocked, electricity working through him, overriding everything with a spread of pain so all he feels is a white-hot death grip. His face is ashen, beaded over with sweat and smudged with dirt, eyes half-closed and lips in constant motion, tracing a single word over and over—'no.'
"Come now, Castiel. This is your last chance to see them." A quick pivot on his heel leads the other man away, toward the women. Castiel's wife. Castiel's daughter. Dean's throat contracts, dry and gritty. The man speaks again.
"Open your eyes, Castiel. Or I'll have some fun with them instead."
"Please," Castiel's voice is like clasped hands, a plea he knows won't be granted. He shuts his eyes tight now, shakes his head back and forth and Dean can feel what's happening, the denial that courses through the other man, the let this be a dream, let this be a nightmare his entire body holds hope for.
"Castiel..."
When the man's lashes part, a wash of tears drip down, reaching the corners of his lips and stopping there, edging between the skin. Castiel's eyes lock on the forms of his wife and child, and like a man possessed, he convulses, back arching up, bending into a perfect curve. When he comes back down his mouth is open and blood, glaring in the first light of morning, trickles out as teeth extend, a slick, wet sound mapping their progress until the room falls silent. Dean wants to turn away, to hide his face and just pretend this isn't happening. He doesn't want to see the new vampire's almost-black eyes, pupils blown and animal snarls falling from his lips like the first flakes of snow before a blizzard.
"Got your fangs, I see."
Castiel's head snaps up, eyes ticking to the source of the noise. He grunts softly, rolling over to lift himself to his hands and knees before raising his head. His profile is sharp, the line of his nose and the jut of his jaw and all Dean can see is a wolf, a predator scenting the air to catch its prey's direction. It doesn't take long; one turn of the head and Castiel is entranced, moving slow, crawling toward his family. When he reaches his wife, he wets his lips, tongue sneaking past fangs to wash away the crust of blood found there. His gaze is the dead blank of a shark, sight only significant in that it helps find food. There is no recognition, no warmth or love and like any animal would, Castiel strikes. His fingers curl in the white of her nightgown, a color that's rapidly losing its purity as it absorbs the blood his mouth doesn't catch, a steady drip that has the vampire moaning in ecstasy. He twists to better the angle of his feed, making the gag slip from her mouth.
"Cas," she gasps, fingers working in at the elbow of the worn dinner jacket he wears. "Please. Please. Don't—Emma—Cas!"
But pointless words slide away from ears not meant to hear anything but the pulse of life that slows quickly. She whitens, begins to match that pale cotton and it's only a few long moments until her face crumples under death's strong-willed hands, dark lashes shutting for the last time, mouth falling slack. And then long-fingered hands, artist's hands, push the body away and reach out for another. The animal isn't done, hasn't been sated yet and Castiel, blood-smeared and beautiful and terrible, takes his daughter into his arms, a sick mockery of a father's embrace. She sobs, each sound wracking and terrible and when Castiel pushes back her hair, curls the same shade as his own unruly locks, Dean feels the heat of blood in his own mouth; he's bitten into his lip, neat teeth marks that well up like the growing river slipping from the girl's neck. Castiel is latched on, nursing at the fount of his child's neck.
"Now," the other vampire says, moving to stand behind Castiel, before reaching down to stroke his hair, "you're mine."
There's a line being traced into Dean's skin when he's dragged back into the waking world. A circle, a completed circuit trails over and over on the palm of his hand. He stretches, lifts his chest, sighs through his nose.
"You were screaming in your sleep."
Dean stiffens. The touch on his hand falls away and Castiel's hawk-like profile comes into view. Words die in his mind because anger replaces them, a molten sheen of fury over the fact that there's another emotion buried within him for his captor, the roots of pity, of sympathy that are too deep to pull out. He shouldn't feel anything, should hate simply and easily but now there's a rift and it's not caused by the sigh of Castiel's blood that's running through his veins. Fuck.
"It happens." He keeps the words hard, all jagged edges and sarcasm. It's an easy role to play, an imitation of himself.
"What were you dreaming of?" Castiel faces him now, a casual gaze that's too searing, too focused to be human. The vampire points a spotlight at him, and it's all he can do to react.
"Nothing you need to know about."
Castiel nods, absently, and turns away. He moves to get up from the bed, but Dean stops him.
"I want to go outside."
"Alright." Castiel extends a hand, though something tells Dean the vampire doesn't expect him to take it. He's not sure what's worse, a part of him wanting to, or the fact that when he does, he doesn't immediately want to pull away. Castiel's fingers are smoother than Dean's, a little cooler. The vampire's eyes narrow as he pulls Dean up and tilts his head. A flat, human tooth bites at the skin of his lip, but he remains silent.
Dean follows him downstairs and out the door, into the light.
It's two weeks into his captivity, a procession of days and nights, Castiel's quiet presence and his own bitten-off, one-word sentences, that Dean makes a mistake. He's been in the vampire's library all day, reading first edition novels worth more than his house and the beginnings of a headache build behind his eyes. The steady beat of dull pain, a drum in time to his heart, leaves him glaring as the vampire tucks into the dinner he's prepared. Vampires, apparently, eat. Dean's staring at the steak on his plate, a cut of meat he'd never thought twice about tucking into before, but now, as he watches Castiel chew and swallow with pleasure, satisfaction, Dean can't help himself.
"Does it bother you?" he asks, slitted eyes and fisted hands. He wants to hurt something, wants to lash out and destroy, whatever the consequences.
"Does what bother me?" Castiel's fork is halfway to his lips, a comical sort of pause that's only pathetic now. But Dean just smirks at the vampire's innocent question, at the pretend house they're playing.
"Killing people," he says simply, words even and bland. "Does it bother you?"
At first, Castiel looks like he's been hit, a sharp slap that sends his chin back toward his chest, indignation's fingers pinking his cheeks. A blink and the expression's gone, a hollow sort of neutrality left behind.
"I don't have to kill to feed, Dean."
Dean's eyebrows shoot for his hairline, incredulity dripping from barbed words as they tumble out.
"Really? Because it certainly felt like you were going to fucking kill me when you took me from my car and destroyed my life."
"I was the destruction of your life?" Castiel holds his own, mean-spirited sarcasm edging in around his words. "What an achievement for me."
"You've ended my life either way," Dean all but spits, sitting back in his chair. "You want to fucking trust me, but I can never trust you. You won't kill me, but I'm as good as dead here."
"Dean—"
But trying to stop him is a moot point. Dean is carried by the wave of his anger, the sublimation of grief and helplessness that has built and built and crescendos now in his ears.
"And I mean, does killing your family count? Because I sure as fuck watched you take them out without a second thought."
He's backed into the wall behind him before the last syllable crosses the air between them.
"What did you say?" It's a growl that comes from deep within the vampire's chest. Dean can see the sharp tips of the vampire's fangs. Their proximity to his neck is infuriating in that there's no way to put space between them without baring the long line, inviting the creature to take everything.
"I—you"
"You saw that, Dean?" Like a snake, Castiel bobs and weaves to catch Dean's gaze, to force eye contact that floods him with adrenaline. He resists, fighting at the vampire's grip, but he's no match. He's nothing. "You saw how I was turned." It's not a question, but Dean answers it anyway.
"Yes."
"How my family was dangled in front of me, a newborn vampire that burns with hunger and a drive to kill."
Dean just nods now, a stiff what have I done that squeezes cold fingers around his heart.
"Every day I live with that. I hear their hearts and I taste their fear and then I see you," the vampire's words are a waterfall, almost too fast for Dean to hear, but he's pretty sure he's not being spoken to anymore. "And your eyes and your scent and it was so much like..." He leans into the curve of Dean's neck, traces a figure-eight with his tongue. "And I thought you were going to..." Now a kiss on flushed skin, words mumbled there. "You're so familiar and I can't make the mistake again. I won't."
His eyes are glassy, leaking when they come back to Dean's. "I couldn't stop myself. It was like I was pushed down, under the animal, the monster." He flicks a tongue around one of his fangs, the sharp tip dragging a line of blood to the surface. "And then they were gone." He looks down through his lashes, sooty against the pallor of his cheeks, the pale blue veins Dean can just barely see under the surface.
"The only other person I've ever killed was the vampire that made me."
Words. They're sort of pointless sometimes, too obtuse in meaning to make sense to anyone but the person speaking. 'I'm sorry' becomes a thud in an empty vessel, a hollow ring of true feeling, true emotion. So Dean says it the best way he can.
The kiss he presses to Castiel's lips is careful. He has no idea how tightly the vampire is wound, what actions will set him off. And he's putting himself directly in harm's way, slicking a tongue past fanged teeth that scrape so good, a burst of pleasure leaden with a sharp zing of pain and the bloom of blood that he slides over Castiel's tongue. But the teeth don't bite down, don't do any more harm than what he inflicts upon himself. They learn one another's motions, a tangle of caresses and playful nips that are easier once the vampire retracts his fangs. Dean lets himself fall away, allows the fluidity of the moment to carry him and bolster them both. Because however fucked up these circumstances are, however displaced his control actually is, for the first time in a long, long time, Dean feels alive.