I had a dream last night. It was about Barry, in the beginning, before it switched over to Kara. I didn't keep journals back then. I only started a few years ago, because, of course, that psychiatrist that Ellen dragged me to said it might help, and she hammered the habit into me. She was a Nazi about stuff that the psychologist said might help. In case I ever get hit on the head hard enough to cause actual brain damage and I need to read this to get my memories back, Barry was the first person I ever kissed, and Kara was the first person I ever slept with. And the last. The only. I don't think it matters if I admit it here; no one's ever going to see it but me.
Somebody had a hunt at that school about a year ago. The school that I went to when I was fourteen, the one that I met Barry at. It was a ghost hunt. They thought that it was him at first, because he'd killed himself in the school. It sounded like he was bullied to death, from what they told me. They dug up his grave and burned his bones, and I felt like I should have been there. I still feel like that, actually. Because it might have been my fault. They sat us together, and I left, but he had to stay there with all of them.
But that doesn't really have anything to do with the dream. Barry was here, in my cabin, exactly how he was the last time I saw him. He kept walking around the whole cabin, touching everything. He left a black handprint on everything he touched. The fridge, my bed, the back door. He wouldn't talk to me no matter how many times I called out to him. And then he was just gone. The handprints started growing, spreading until there wasn't anything left except the blackness, and I couldn't move to stop it. I started falling, very slowly, and Kara was suddenly there, and she grabbed onto my hand. She was naked. Had a sheet wrapped around her. Again, like the last time I saw her.
She kept me from falling, for a while. But then she sort of faded away, too, and then I was alone. I guess she got tired of holding me up.
- Personal journal of Sam Winchester
Sam's leg had an infuriating habit of playing dead when he was really, really upset. Like he was now, anger and what he didn't want to believe was betrayal boiling in his stomach and his pulse pounding in his skull. He dragged his leg resentfully behind him as he left his room and crossed the floor, shotgun cradled at the ready in his arms. He gritted his teeth and felt his eyes burn as he came to a stop in front of the demon cell and let his cramping leg dangle uselessly.
There was no way Dantalion could have missed him coming up, since his footsteps weren't exactly quiet even when his bad leg was functioning at full capacity. But he had his back to him anyway, pretending that he didn't even know he was there. Sam adjusted his grip on the wooden stock of the gun. And tried really, really hard not to get distracted.
The gate was still, stupidly, open, and so Sam's view of the demon was unobstructed except for by his own shadow. Dantalion had stripped off his ruined jeans and whatever underwear he'd had on, his boots and his socks, leaving himself completely naked. Everything but the boots had been carelessly tossed out of the cell. Sam had been seeing him shirtless for over a week, but his bottom half was new. Shallow dimples at the very base of his back, overshadowed by ridges of muscle. Firm buttocks. Strong, sturdy legs that bowed out, just slightly. And, of course, it was all dusted lightly with freckles.
He was washing himself. His upper back glistened wetly, a few soap bubbles stubbornly hanging on. As Sam watched, he bent down to wet the rag again, showing him in the process just how well-endowed he was. After straightening back up, he wiped along his arm. The movement was slow, languid. When he reached his wrist, stopping at the severed handcuff dangling from it, he glanced over his shoulder and shot Sam an amused smirk.
"Enjoying the show?" he asked pleasantly. Sam felt his face twitch with something like disgust.
"Dean Singer," he replied quietly, and let that be his only response.
The demon looked like Sam had hit him in the mouth with no warning besides a warm greeting. For a few seconds, at least. Then the sucker punch shock started to fade, and he sighed through his nose as he took the wet cloth to his chest. He looked down at himself in concentration, avoiding Sam's eyes. Which Sam didn't fail to notice. Evenly, he said, "Haven't heard that name in a long time."
"Yeah, I bet you haven't," Sam replied, voice shaking a little with the fury, with the forbidden pain, that he was struggling so hard to bite back right now. "It's been thirty years. Exactly. When did he go quiet? Or is he strong enough to still be screaming somewhere in there?"
The shocked look was back, to a much lesser extent. There was confusion in there, too. "Who's screaming?"
"Dean – " Barefoot, Sam kicked the gate closed. It didn't lock, of course, but it did clang impressively, making Dantalion flinch just a little. In the same movement, he swung the shotgun up and aimed both barrels at the Knight's exposed chest. " – Singer!" Maybe he should have left the gate open. He didn't know what kind of effect shooting through the bars would have; but at least he'd made a statement. "Bobby's son!"
Dantalion blinked at him, expression blank, then reached up and rubbed a wet hand over his face. "Yeah," he said, slowly. He enunciated carefully, like he was talking to a little kid. "That's me." He pointed at his chest.
"That's totally impossible," Sam spat. "I saw Dean Singer. Pictures. And he didn't have an identical twin. He's your vessel – you're not him." He squeezed the gun. "You just thought it'd be fun to go digging in his memories and try to convince me that you were him. Did you think it'd get you outta there?"
Dantalion dropped the washcloth that he was still holding into one of the buckets with a liquid plop, then turned and took a few steps across his cell. Sam followed him with the barrels of the gun, warily. He picked up one of the pieces of clothing that had been left for him. The boxers, Sam saw. He stepped into them, pulling them up onto his hips.
"Just so that you won't be distracted by my cock while we're having this conversation," he said with wide eyes, patting his crotch.
"None of that's yours," Sam replied, shaking his head and smiling humorlessly.
"Actually, it is," Dantalion replied, returning to the front and center of Sam's field of vision, standing only a few inches away from the gate. Sam glared. He was too close, but he wouldn't let him know that by telling him to step back. "This is my body." He put his hands over his pectorals, palms covering his nipples. Indicating himself.
"Even if the original soul's burned away," Sam answered, shifting his weight, "it's still a stolen body."
"Okay, you're not getting it." He shook his head, like he was frustrated. "Listen to me. You moron. I'm the original soul for this body. I've been back in it for maybe three years now, and it was a real bitch to get it in shape."
"That's – " Sam began angrily, about to repeat that what the demon was saying was impossible, but Dantalion cut him off by slamming a hand into the bars of the gate. A mirror of what Sam had done earlier. He'd come at it sideways, so it just barely drifted open. Sam repressed the urge to shove it closed again. Dean's – Dantalion's hand dangled by his side. Steam rose from the reddened skin of it.
"Just shut your goddamn mouth for five minutes and let me talk," he snapped, upper lip twitching up into an exasperated snarl. "Okay? You need to listen. Again. I get it, you're jumping to conclusions 'cause you're hurt." Something sparked in Sam. Dean cut him off again, before he could even open his mouth this time. "You are so freaking obvious that I probably could've picked up on it even if I wasn't an empath. Hell, I probably could've even if I was deaf and blind. So…just calm down. Deep breaths. Let me explain."
A muscle in Sam's jaw flexed. He didn't lower the gun. But he did stay silent.
"I'm a Knight of Hell," Dantalion began. Sam choked down a sarcastic, "No shit." From the look the demon gave him, he noticed. "That comes with certain perks. One of 'em's healing. I can't do anything near as major as an angel'd be able to do, and it takes a ton outta me. I've got some pretty serious limits. For example…only dead flesh I can restore is my own." He touched his chest again, briefly. "It took me months to track my body down after they finally let me outta the Pit. I didn't know what hole I'd been chucked in after the hellhounds did their job. And after that, I spent almost a year putting everything back together. Getting it all going again."
"Why?" Sam knew he'd been ordered into silence, but he blurted it out before he could stop himself. He was skeptical, and if there was one thing he hadn't been able to stand for as long as he could remember, it was being lied to. "Why the hell would you waste so much time doing that? There's literally no shortage of people you could possess out there. And if it was a matter of…of comfort, or whatever, then I'd bet you anything that it'd take you about five minutes to find somebody the same size and shape as your real body." Humans just weren't that diverse.
Dantalion smirked, and glanced down at the ground. "Yeah." He looked back up at Sam. "Yeah. That's pretty much exactly what my, uh, handlers told me – Alastair, Lilith, Azazel. They really bitched me out. Constantly. But that was the only thing I really wanted, and I was their only Knight – still am – so they let me work on my body."
"But why?" Sam demanded. Dantalion snorted and shook his head.
"There's a reason they stuck you all the way out in the ass-end of nowhere," he said frankly. "Interrogating monsters instead of people. You'd make a real crappy therapist." He walked over to the clothes again, picking up the jeans this time and examining them critically. Just like he had earlier. "I haven't ever talked about any of this with anybody. I've got a whole lotta guts to spill. The least you could do is be patient."
"I don't even know if this sob story of yours is true," Sam replied, gun still held at the ready. Just in case the demon decided it'd be a good idea to try something while he thought Sam was distracted.
"Y'mean you're…actually willing to listen, now?" Dantalion asked incredulously as he raised a dark blond eyebrow. "You're not just gonna accuse me of lying about everything?"
"You'd better enjoy it while it lasts," Sam replied neutrally. His bad leg was still limp and useless, basically dead, so he couldn't put any weight at all on it. His good leg was starting to burn with the exhaustion of supporting the whole of him. "Tell me why you're hellbent on getting your original body back."
Dantalion glared, apparently not liking the commands, but Sam was the one holding a gun and figured that he could order him around a little if he wanted. Stepping into the jeans, Dantalion answered without looking at Sam.
"Because it's mine," he said, like that was the most natural answer in the world. Because I was born in it, and I died in it, and if I'm gonna usher in some new age of Hell on Earth, I'm not gonna do it wearing somebody else's meat." He zipped the fly and maneuvered the button into place, shrugging. "At least, that's the reason that I've been giving the others."
Sam, mouth pressed into a thin and hopefully unreadable line, swallowed. It was his. Just because it was wounded, crippled, falling apart with rot and infection didn't mean that it could just be thrown away and forgotten. It was his. And as long as it was there, it was worth moving Heaven and Earth in an effort to restore it to even a fraction of what it'd been before. Sam understood. He wished that he didn't.
"This is me," Dantalion said, repeating himself from earlier. "This is my body. My name's Dean Robert Singer. Born in South Dakota in nineteen-fifty-six, died from a hellhound attack in nineteen-eighty-seven. Left the Pit as Dantalion the Knight of Hell around six years ago – little sketchy on the dates there, I'm not so good with time anymore."
"Because you don't sleep," Sam said. His arms were tired, so he lowered the shotgun. Even sawed off, those things were surprisingly heavy. "The days just blend together. Especially because Earth time seems off to you, after being in Hell." He rubbed, tiredly, at his face. "A lot of demons have that problem."
Dantalion smirked. "You know more about me and my kind than I do. I'm kinda feeling inferior here."
"You just took him in 'eighty-seven," Sam replied. "The only reason he's still alive, still looks like he's in his late twenties, is you. The smoke inside of him. In his veins." He tipped his chin up, trying to disguise the fact that fatigue was making him wobble in place. "I don't know who you are and I probably never will, but you're not Bobby's son."
"I don't wanna talk about him." Dantalion turned his back on Sam, pacing away into the weak shadow of his cell as he raised his arms to lace his fingers together behind his head.
"D'you feel guilty about taking his only family away from him?" Sam asked. There wasn't any of his earlier rage or hate behind the question. He was in too much pain to keep up emotions that intense.
"No. No. I didn't – " Dantalion dropped his hands and glanced over his shoulder. "I told you. Hurts to remember."
"That's convenient," Sam replied. Dantalion turned around to look at him, and rolled his eyes.
"Go get a chair," he said, waving an irritated hand at him. "Your gimpy leg must be giving you trouble. You look like you're about to fall over."
"'M fine," Sam muttered. One hand was preoccupied with holding the shotgun, dangling down next to his leg, but his free one clenched into a fist.
"Don't be a bitch," the demon replied, walking over and picking up the chair that Sam had put in his cell a few days ago. He carried it back to the gate, setting it down right in front of it and sinking into it. "You're obviously planning on staying here a while and playing Twenty Questions with me. And you know I can't help you if you collapse out there."
Sam felt his face twitch into a scowl, but turned away and limped heavily over to the kitchen area anyway. After grabbing the only chair that was left there, he dragged it slowly back to where he'd been standing before. He was aware that he probably made things a lot harder for himself by refusing to put down the shotgun while he was doing it. Without a free arm, his balance on one leg was completely shot. He tried not to just fall into the chair once he'd finally gotten it situated, but he'd exhausted himself so completely that it was a lost cause.
He did stupid things around this Knight.
"Why d'you say that it hurts to remember?" Sam asked. He didn't wait until he caught his breath to do it, so it came out wheezy and thin.
"Uh, because it does?" Dantalion said, raising his eyebrows and spreading his hands. "I don't know why. Never asked, and I don't spent a whole lot of time thinking about it, y'know?" He pushed himself up in his chair. "I barely remember anything at all from before I died. Names. Dates. I know where I lived, and I know my name, and I know that everybody I ever knew – including me – called my dad 'Bobby.' Not Robert, or Bob – Bobby."
Sam laid the gun across his lap and didn't respond. Dantalion sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
"But you're not gonna believe me no matter what I say, are you?" he asked after a few seconds, dropping his hand and looking up at Sam. "Because you're just gonna think that I'm pulling memories outta the brain of the guy I'm wearing.
"You can do that," Sam replied. "Just so long as the brain's alive. Or at least fresh."
"This is my brain, though," the demon said, indicating his head with a jerky movement. "I should fucking know. I built it from the brainstem up after it'd rotted outta my skull." He'd started sounding frustrated, stressed. But he stopped, and blew out a deep breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Sam thought about getting up and locking the gate, then decided he needed another minute or two to rest.
"Not sure why I'm trying so hard here," Dantalion admitted, opening his eyes and staring levelly at Sam. He sort of wished he'd switch over to the black; it'd be easier to think of him as dangerous and untrustworthy that way. "'S not like it matters." He looked away, staring at nothing now. "You'll be dead the next time they come for me. They won't underestimate you again, after what happened last time. They'll be coming in here expecting Wolverine instead of Professor X."
"Professor X was in a wheelchair," Sam pointed out, speaking past the chill of primal fear that the Knight's words had sent through him. "I've just got a limp."
Dantalion snorted. "Nerd."
"You made the reference," Sam snapped. "You're the nerd."
He had to admit. He hadn't come across many older demons who were this knowledgeable about pop culture. Or any, really.
"Yeah, bite me," Dantalion replied. "Are you ever gonna shoot me for running off with poor, helpless Dean Singer's body without even asking his dad for permission? Or are you done? 'Cause I'd really appreciate it if you'd fuck off and stop bothering me about shit I can't even remember."
Sam stayed where he was for about a second, chewing on the inside of his lower lip, then exhaled loudly through his nose and struggled up out of his chair. He'd leave it where it was for now, until after he'd rested up and felt strong enough to move it back to the kitchen. Before he could even take a single step towards his room, though, Dantalion spoke up again and stopped him. That seemed to be his hobby or something – his timing was impeccable.
"Wait. One last thing before you go." He cleared his throat as Sam turned to glance quizzically at him. "I'm sorry. Again. This time it's for lying to you about my vessel, though. I should've just told you that it was me. I shouldn't've tried to mess with you like that; kinda seemed like it gave you a hard time."
Sam, holding onto the back of the chair for balance, squinted at him. Then he shook his head. "Why do you care about apologizing to me?"
Dantalion hesitated. For less than a second, but Sam still caught it. "I don't know."
Sam's fingers moved minutely on the stock of his shotgun, rubbing at the polished wood. After some thought, he laid it aside, letting it rest against the narrow patch of wall between the demon cell and what used to be Vaughn's room. As he slowly lowered himself back down into the chair, Dantalion folded his arms across his chest and swung one leg over the other.
"I thought I told you to get outta here," he said.
"Yeah," Sam answered. "You're not really in any position to be ordering me around." Spreading his knees, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together. "Tell me what's going on with you."
"What d'you mean, what's going on with me?" the demon asked. Just a little too quickly, in Sam's opinion. "I'm stuck in this nifty little cell you set up. I literally can't do anything."
"Why are you acting like a human being?" Sam clarified.
"I'm not," Dantalion said, a humorless smirk tugging half of his mouth up. "I can't. You know that."
"I thought that," Sam corrected. "But now…" He trailed off, shaking his head and spreading his hands. "You're apologizing. You're fighting hard to make me believe that you are who you say you are. And you were so…" He swallowed, then pushed on. "You were so gentle with me, while I was in there. Never once tried to hurt me. And I can't think of anything you'd gain by doing that."
"I threatened to kill you," Dantalion pointed out.
"But you didn't mean it," Sam replied. "And you never followed through."
The demon stared at him, expressionless, and didn't provide a reply to that. His chest slowly moved with the breath of his vessel. Sam stared back, unwilling to be the first one to break eye contact. After maybe thirty seconds, Dantalion closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.
"You're just head over heels for me," he stated. Sam straightened up, face settling into an indignant mask, but before he could protest, Dantalion's green eyes opened and he held up a hand. "I already told you that I know. You just can't hide it – you're a mess of emotions. I don't even need to read your feelings, because you can't hide 'em at all. I bet you suck at poker."
Reading emotions through body language, facial expressions, and tone of voice. That was a hunter thing. Sam kept his mouth shut tightly, though – the demon could just be piggybacking skills that Dean had picked up on the job. Or lying.
"I know why you feel the way that you do about me," Dantalion continued. "You're lonely. You've got some hangup about using your monsters to clean the pipes, and that Garth guy obviously isn't giving your sorry ass any action, so I've gotta be the first one who's actually touched you in years. Kissed you. Held you. Made you feel all special inside." He smirked. "I'm pretty, too, which helps. And maybe some part of you believes that I'm just misunderstood, and that I'm more human than demon and you help me." He tipped his chin up. "And you're one of those delicate little flowers who can't have the urge to bone somebody without being completely prepared to spend the rest of your life with them, too. So. You're in love with me." He shrugged.
Sam stared at a spot directly to the left of Dantalion's eyes, jaw working involuntarily. Quietly, he said, "This doesn't have anything to do with you."
"Actually, it's got everything to do with me," the demon replied easily. "Because your stupid, hopelessly misguided puppy love?" He pushed down at the floor with his bare feet, rocking his chair up onto its two back legs. "I should think it's hilarious. I should be using it to get outta this cell. At the very least, it should squick me out. Human feelings. Weakness. I don't like that."
"What're you trying to say here?" Sam asked, shaking his head. He didn't understand. And he was staring to zone out a little, in ten-second intervals, now that the adrenaline rush had fully worn off.
"I get why you feel the way that you do," Dantalion repeated. "But I don't understand why I feel the way that I do. Probably don't have a hope of figuring it out, either."
There was no way that he was saying what Sam immediately thought he was saying, so he rejected that possibility. "What are you talking about? How do you feel?"
Dantalion lifted his feet, letting the front legs of his chair fall back to the concrete with the full weight of his vessel behind them, creating a loud snap that nearly made Sam jump. "Human."
Sam licked his lips. "What kind of game are you playing?" He was just about done. He wanted to go lay down.
"I'm not, and I don't expect you to believe me, so I'm not even gonna waste my breath arguing," Dantalion replied. "Since I've started talking to you, I've been feeling stuff I haven't for…Jesus, I don't even know how long. Twenty years, in your time. Stuff I thought I lost in the Pit. Stuff they shoud've peeled out of me." He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, bit it. "Thought it was just some kinda phantom pain. Figured it'd go away if I ignored it and just focused on getting back to the others. But it didn't – it just kept on getting stronger. Keeps getting stronger. And you must be what's causing it."
"You can't seriously expect me to believe this."
"I'm attached to you," the demon said. "I shouldn't be, but I am. I don't think I'm capable of love; definitely not your kinda love. But I'm feeling something for you. I don't wanna hurt you, and I don't want anybody else to hurt you, and I don't want you to leave me or get pissed at me, and I hate it, but it's real." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "My name's Dean Singer. Really is, I promise. And I'm pretty sure that I'm as in love with you as my stunted, torn up, tainted soul is gonna let me be, Sam Winchester."
Sam was quiet for a moment, just focusing on processing. And there was a lot to process, and to judge and to understand and to form opinions about. Then he lowered his face into his hands and rubbed until he could feel a dull pressure in his sinuses. The demon sitting across from him, an unlocked gate between them, stayed quiet the whole time, and when Sam opened his eyes and raised his head, he saw that he'd been watching him.
"Well?" Dantalion, or maybe it really was Dean, asked. He spread his hands and widened his eyes expectantly.
"What?" Sam asked blankly, shaking his head.
"I wanna know what's going on in that giant skull of yours," he replied. "I just about literally bared my soul to you a minute ago. What're you thinking? What's your reaction? I can't read anything from you – it's all jumbled up."
"I don't know." Sam rubbed at his face again, this time reaching up and dragging his hands back over his hair. It left it messy and sticky with sweat, but he barely noticed and didn't' care. "I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know how I'm supposed to react to this." No one had ever prepared him for something like this. Dantalion (possibly Dean) wasn't the first monster to profess to love him, but he was the first demon. And all the others had either been capable of feeling human emotions or blatantly, obviously lying. This…he didn't know. He just didn't know. He couldn't tell. "You can't be telling the truth. I shouldn't believe you. You're just – you're just manipulating me, because you can tell what I need and you think that giving it to me will make me let you out."
The demon shrugged, tipping his head to the side in a "fair point" kind of way.
"But I want to believe you," Sam continued quietly. "Which is stupid, and crazy. It goes against everything I've ever been told about handling monsters, and everything I know about demons. I just…" He closed his eyes. "I guess I'm stupid. Or crazy. You're probably gonna kill me, and I don't care. It's really not like I have anything else going for me right now."
"Ain't that the truth," Dantalion agreed. Sam felt a scowl flicker involuntarily across his mouth.
"I hate this," he stated.
"I'm not enjoying it all that much, either," the demon replied. "I thought I'd never have to deal with this kinda thing every again – this flies in the damn face of everything I am. And, look, no offense to you, but you're not really my usual type. Way too…" He tilted his head back and forth, considering, being he settled on, "Committed."
"Least my name's not Dandelion," Sam replied. His mouth seemed to be running on autopilot, which wasn't something that happened to him all that often.
"Dan-tal-yun," the demon immediately corrected, looking offended. "And…seriously. I'm really not all that fond of that name, okay? 'S why I didn't give it to you myself. Just call me Dean. And get over any moral dilemmas you might still have about that, because even if I'm not him – which I am – then I've been in this body so long that he's gone and I've earned the name."
"You're not…doing a good job of convincing me that you're really Dean Singer," Sam admitted quietly, shaking his head again.
"But you said you believed me," Dean (he guessed it wouldn't hurt anyone if he really did call him that) replied. Sam had actually said that he wanted to believe him, but he kept his mouth shut about it. "So why don't you come in here, if that's really true…" He raised one hand, palm out, and narrowed his eyes. His forehead furrowed like he was concentrating hard. Sam swallowed reflexively as the gate slowly, silently swung out, its edge barely missing his knees, until it was completely open. "…and prove it to me."
Sam stared, then closed his eyes and sighed softly. Everyone he cared about knew his feelings towards them. He didn't have any other monsters right now that needed to be fed. Whatever peace he could possibly have with a God whose angels he'd shut out of his property had been made. If Dean punched a hole in his chest and dragged his heart out through it, he wouldn't be leaving any loose ends behind. So he opened his eyes again and stood up.
"Of course, if you come in here," Dean said calmly, before Sam could take a step forward, "you're gonna get hurt."
Sam blinked, suddenly riddled with doubt. "But you said you didn't want to – "
"I don't," Dean interrupted. He stood up again, walking over and picking up the T-shirt. He dropped it over his head, and Sam felt an involuntary twinge of disappointment as it fell loose and soft over the bare skin of his chest, obscuring it. "I'd never. Not on purpose. But even though you make me feel human, I'm still a demon, and I can't make any promises."
Sam focused on drawing breath, before swallowing once again. He wasn't afraid. "Okay." He understood. His leg still hurt, but he walked forward, forcing himself not to hesitate for even a second before stepping over the threshold and into the cell.
Dean was still standing off to the side where he'd picked up the T-shirt, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He watched Sam, blinking slowly as he turned to look at him, just inside the gate. He closed the distance between the two of them with a couple steps, then pulled Sam against himself. Sam stiffened at first when he wrapped his arms around him, hugging him, but it felt so nice that he couldn't help but relax after a couple seconds.
"Hey, look at that," Dean said, voice low and husky with what sounded like affection. "We just made it through our first fight."
Sam snorted softly, but made no move to pull away. "We're not a couple."
"We're not a normal couple," Dean corrected. "I mean, like – it sounds like my dad really took a shine to you after you met him. We're practically brothers."
"Stop making it weird," Sam commanded. He stepped back, but Dean's arms stayed loosely around his waist. Which he sort of liked. "More weird than it already is, I mean." It couldn't get much stranger, in his opinion, than a bi-species gay couple, one half of which was contained in a cell and the other half of which had a permanent severe limp.
Dean chuckled softly, then leaned forward to peck hesitantly at Sam's lips. When he didn't protest, or pull away, he was tugged into a much deeper kiss. One that practically made him melt into a puddle on the concrete floor. There was much warmth there, so much passion – he really didn't think that anybody, even a demon, could fake that. He could do without the taste of sulfur (the blood was gone – Dean must have rinsed his mouth out), but it was faint, and he'd certainly tasted much worse in his time. Dean raised his hands to Sam's hair and took big handfuls of it, stroking the curls that lapped over his fingers with his callused thumbs. Sam had his arms around his waist. He tilted his head, giving him a better angle, and an extremely embarrassing moan rolled out of him when Dean slipped his tongue into his mouth.
"Oh, my god, you're a good kisser," Sam gasped out when they broke for air. Dean was stroking through the hair around his face, movements minute and soft.
"You're enthusiastic, at least," Dean replied. He wasn't even out of breath. "Guessing you haven't had much practice."
"Well, it's not like I'm a virgin," Sam defended himself. "I just…haven't been with as many people as you have, apparently."
Dean grinned. "I'd bet my soul on that, but obviously, I already sold it."
Sam thought about asking him if he remembered what he'd sold his soul for. The standard period of time between the making of a deal and it coming due was ten years, so Dean had called up a crossroads demon when he was…eighteen. That seemed pretty young, but Sam had once talked to one who claimed to have closed deals with victims as young as nine. But he decided against pressing for that information when Dean leaned in again and roped him into a long series of soft, wet kisses. Once he was apparently done, he rested his forehead against Sam's, eyes closed. Sam let him, just enjoying the feeling of being so close.
"You don't have anything to prove to me," Dean told him softly. Sam closed his eyes. "I know what you can feel, with that bright, shiny soul of yours. And I know that I'm safe with you and your bleeding hear. Not that you could really hurt me all that bad, even if you were trying." He shrugged a little. Sam felt the motion more than he saw it. "But it's different for me."
"I'm not afraid of you," Sam assured in a murmur.
"You used to be, though. And you had good reason," Dean said. "I get it, things have changed. I stopped acting like such a douche. The wraith kid died." Sam just barely flinched. He guessed that Dean wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if they weren't as close as they were. "…which is still really tearing you up, obviously. Maybe that's why you don't seem to care that I could hurt you."
"I care," Sam argued. "I just don't think you will."
"You sure about that?" Dean asked.
"Yes."
"Okay."
Then he broke Sam's wrist.
Well, not quite. But he came damn close to it. He was suddenly a step away from Sam, and his hands had flashed down from his hair to his forearm and his palm. He was holding them at a strange angle, so that one quick jerk would snap the bones where they narrowed and were at their most fragile. And it was his right hand. Of course.
Sam stared at Dean's hands, mouth suddenly as dry as the soft pine litter outside, and snatched his arm instinctively back against his chest when he let go. It tingled painfully with the shock of what could have happened.
"That's how fast I could do it," Dean told him quietly. "Imagine if that'd been your neck."
"Uh huh," Sam managed, struggling not to start shaking. It was a purely physiological reaction.
"Do you care now?" Dean pressed, and his eyes switched to black with a flickering sound.
"Uh huh," Sam replied. He had no idea what Dean was trying to do. Maybe he should have just gone back to his room and laid down. Or called Ellen back – she was probably worried about him, after he'd hung up and run off.
"Then let me show you," Dean responded, reaching slowly for Sam's arm again, "that I'm gonna do my best to take care of you."
Sam reluctantly let Dean take his hand, only relaxing when it became clear that he wasn't going to try and break it again. Dean's touch was light, as if he were trying not to frighten him. He led him over to the chair, pushing him down gently into it. Sam looked up at him as he straddled his thighs, eyes fading back to normal.
"Are you gonna give me a lap dance to apologize for scaring me half to death?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows.
Dean winced. "Didn't mean to scare you that bad," he said apologetically. Sam guessed he'd used his daily supply of actual "I'm sorry"s up already. "But, no. I don't dance. I've got something else in mind."
Sam accepted his kiss when he leaned in, fully aware that he was getting intimate with a possibly unstable and definitely violent demon. And…yeah. All right. He cared about that. He didn't feel completely safe. But he supposed that that was just the price he was willing to pay in order to feel loved.
Dean took it slow this time, building up to something instead of just greeting him. Sam felt all of the tension in his body slowly draining away as time passed. Which made no sense, but somehow, the longer he spent with Dean, the more comfortable he was around him. Plus, he was a really good kisser, and as Sam's pulse thundered in his groin and Dean's soft pink lips slowly guided his mouth open, he reflected that that probably went a long way towards relieving stress, too.
The taste of sulfur, tangy and harsh. Whatever. All that mattered was the kiss itself. He was just getting into it, figuring out exactly how Dean wanted him to respond, when the demon's pillow-soft lips left his. Sam's eyes fluttered open in confusion, then he felt a kiss on the tip of his lightly-stubbled chin. Then other on his Adam's apple, then another on his pulse point.
"You're gorgeous, y'know," Dean said softly, breath ghosting over the skin of Sam's throat. "I mean, in a nerdy, hippy, Sasquatch hermit kinda way."
Sam snorted. "How sweet."
He felt Dean grin against him. "C'mon. Actions speak louder than words, don't they?"
The demon kept going after that, working his way slowly down Sam's body, kissing him even through the fabric. Which wasn't all that much of a turn-on, but Sam was enjoying it anyway. At least until Dean slipped off of his lap and knelt between his legs, kissing his navel through the thin fabric of the cotton T-shirt that he was wearing.
"Uh," Sam began, shifting in his seat.
"What?" Dean asked, sitting back on his heels and looking up at him.
"I…know what you're doing now," Sam said, clearing his throat. Dean cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.
"And you stopped me?" he asked with an incredulous grin.
"Yeah. I just…" Sam shook his head, licking his lips and glancing up at the red devil's trap on the ceiling. "Wanted to…make sure that you really wanna do that. Put me in your mouth, I mean."
Dean licked his lips, wetting them. "You've never had anybody blow you before, have you?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah, I have," Sam replied, a note of challenge creeping into his voice as he spoke. Once. In the bathroom of a bar. While his dad had been drinking at one of the tables and catching up with a few local hunting buddies. Sam had told the guy, maybe about a year older than him, that they had to be fast. He ended up clipping him with his teeth and puking before Sam came. Which he chose to believe had more to do with him being drunk than the actual blowjob – the bar was too seedy to card. "I'm just worried about you biting it off."
Dean laughed, grinning up at Sam as he put his hands on his thighs. "Yeah, that's probably a legitimate concern, there." He patted one of his legs. "I've had a lot of practice, and I don't intend to hurt you. This is me showing you that you really can trust me." He lowered his eyelids, and his voice took on a husky, sultry quality. "And that I'm an impassioned and considerate lover."
"Impassioned," Sam repeated.
"You bet your ass." Dean reached up and deftly slipped the button of Sam's jeans back through its denim eye. His gaze flicked back up to Sam when he was finished. "So. You okay with this?"
Sam blew out a heavy breath, leaning back in his chair, before saying, "I guess. Just so long as you stop when I tell you to stop."
"If you tell me to stop," Dean corrected. "I get the feeling that you're not gonna want me to."
"Yeah. We'll see," Sam responded. He had no doubt that Dean was experienced with this kind of thing. He just still wasn't sure that he trusted him with his cock.
Dean tugged the zipper of Sam's jeans down without responding, rolling the waistband of his boxers in the same direction once he'd finished with it. Sam gasped softly as he spilled out into the cool, dry air, already swollen with arousal and half erect. Dean made an impressed noise, supporting Sam in the palm of his hand.
"Looks like you're already raring to go," he said approvingly. "And…guess you're big everywhere, aren't you?"
"C'mon," Sam panted. Dean patted his thigh again with his free hand, then dipped his head. Sam let his own fall back, eyes fluttering closed and another quiet gasp popping out of him when he felt Dean's breath on himself. He was overly sensitive, because it'd been too long, and the tiniest sensation sent lightning bolts up to his brain. There was no way that he'd be able to focus on Dean and what he was doing while this was going on – he'd be completely lost in the pleasure.
Dean's lips had somehow come to rest against the head of his cock. The movement had been so slow, and his lips themselves so soft, that he hadn't felt it at all. His mouth opened, and Sam was drawn into the deep, wet warmth of it. He cried out a little, and was sure that he felt Dean just barely shake his head around him. Probably thinking about how pathetic he was. Which was fine – he was pretty pathetic, when he thought about it. But none of that mattered right now, with how good this felt.
Dean took him to the root, all of a sudden, and Sam's heart rate doubled. He fought not to jump in his seat and turned his attention to breathing, to feeling. Dean's mouth moved, and soft, obscene slurping noises came from Sam's groin. His cock jumped in the demon's mouth. He laughed softly around it, giving Sam a brief, extremely pleasurable vibration, then began to bob his head. Very slowly at first, and he didn't go far, but he quickly built up both speed and distance, until he was jerking his mouth all the way back to the very tip of Sam's cock before rocketing down to the base again. Sam moaned in time with the rapid movements.
Dean hollowed his cheeks, sucking as he went. His tongue flexed and rolled against the ridged underside of Sam's dick, even though there couldn't be all that much room in his mouth. He hummed, cheeks vibrating against him. His hand came up and cupped Sam's balls, fondling and rolling them in their sac, occasionally giving a gentle tug. He might as well have been yanking on the ripcord for an engine. Sam could feel himself revving up to an orgasm after an embarrassingly short amount of time. But before he could hit climax, Dean pulled his mouth off of him.
"Uhh." Sam grunted, opening his eyes and blinking up at the devil's trap. Lifting his head, he stared down at Dean, confused and (even though he knew he shouldn't be) a little angry. It took a second to get his tongue working, and when he spoke, his voice came out husky and deep. "What's wrong?"
Dean's face was still pretty close to Sam's erection (full-blown now), and when Sam looked down, a bolt of pleasure shot through the pit of his stomach as he noticed a thin rope of saliva connecting Dean's lower lip to the flushed tip of his cock. It broke when Dean rocked back onto his heels again and looked up at him. His green eyes were glassy and half-lidded, probably from arousal, judging by the large bulge that Sam could see in his jeans. His lips were puffier than usual, slick and swollen with friction. And he wasn't out of breath, of course.
"Haven't given head in a long time," he explained. His voice sounded a lot like Sam's. "Just need a minute, all right?"
"All right," Sam agreed softly. He pushed himself up in his chair, straightening. Precome welled at the end of his throbbing cock. "Are…" He leaned forward, extending a hand, and gingerly touched Dean's hair. It wasn't nearly as clean as the rest of him after his sponge bath, but Sam could still feel how soft it was, and how thick. And how warm, since it was so close to his skull. He wasn't expecting him to lean into it, but he didn't. Pretty hard, too. "…you okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Dean smirked, shaking his head – though he didn't take it away from Sam's hand. "I swear to god – you, man. Jesus. If somebody pulled off me halfway through a blowjob, I'd rip their head off. And you're asking if I'm all right."
"Well, if you're – if you need to stop, I understand," Sam said with a shrug, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his wet cock was getting cold. "Uh. Please don't throw up on me."
"Somebody threw up on you before?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. "Jeez. No wonder you were being so weird about having me suck you off earlier." He shook his head. "Nah, you don't have to worry about that with me. Gag reflex doesn't work anymore." He opened his mouth until Sam could see his uvula. "I can't really choke to death, so I didn't see the point in hooking it back up when I took care of everything else."
"Great," Sam said, less than enthusiastically. Dean snorted.
"Y'know, Sam, most guys would be excited to hear that I don't have a gag reflex," he pointed out. Sam shrugged. "Okay. I think I'm good to go. Better get my mouth back on your cock before it freezes off, right?" He winked up at Sam.
"Just so long as you're sure," Sam replied, taking his head off of Dean's head. He didn't get very far, though, before Dean took hold of his wrist and pressed his palm back into place against his brush cut.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean assured, nodding underneath his hand. He let go of him after a couple seconds, but didn't say anything about it. Sam decided that he probably didn't need to bring it up right now. "Lemme take you."
Sam's hand tightened incrementally in Dean's hair as he leaned forward again, taking him back into his mouth as quickly and deeply as if he'd never pulled off to begin with. Sam jumped, but Dean must have been expecting that, because he managed not to hit him with his teeth. His hands were back on his thighs, kneading and rolling as he bobbed his head like the forepaws of a purring cat. Sam found himself stroking his hair, practically petting him, as he started to deepthroat him.
"'M gonna – Dean, I can't – " Sam panted, almost whining it out as he started to build again. Dean patted his thigh, not taking his mouth away, and gave him a thumb's-up.
Sam cried out, not even trying to hold it back. Dean didn't seem to mind, and there was really no way that he could keep himself from coming. It was too powerful, it felt too good, as Dean began to suck harder as if trying to coax his orgasm out of him. The fingernails of the hand that he had in Dean's hair raked furrows over his scalp. He hoped, in the very back of his mind, that he wasn't hurting him, but mostly, he was focused on the waves of pleasure ripping through him like honeyed razors.
He wasn't sure when he actually shot his load, but he did know that Dean swallowed every drop. Sucked him dry, even. And Sam came harder than he had in probably seven years. He took care of himself every once in a while, of course. It wasn't like he hadn't had an orgasm since Kara. But another person, a real mouth or entrance, just couldn't be beat by a warm hand and a squirt of lube. Amazing what he thought about while coming. But he also had an image in his head of what Dean had looked like when he pulled off of his cock and looked up at him, open mouth wet and eyes hazy from the pleasure and effort of giving a blowjob.
His eyes were closed when he came down, chest jerking with shallow pants, and he wondered if, maybe, he hadn't blacked out for a couple of seconds. It wasn't like he'd know, since he'd had his eyes shut tightly the entire time. A soft moan rolled out of him in response to the aftershocks he was still drifting on. He was slumped down in his chair, he realized. The only thing that had stopped him from bonelessly sliding out of it seemed to be a hand that was braced firmly on his thigh.
Sam forced his eyes open, raising his head, as the other hand began to wipe him off with something soft. He saw Dean drying his junk off with a handful of the T-shirt that he was wearing, exposing a slice of washboard stomach. And the near-purple head of his cock, where it was tucked into the waistband of his boxers.
"'S my shirt," Sam pointed out. Dean looked up at him, shrugged, then turned his attention back to his work.
"There's no come," he replied, and Sam could swear that he was grinning when he added, "Nah, I took care of that. It's just spit. Not gonna ruin your shirt."
"You don't really have to do that," Sam replied, shaking his head slowly. Tiredly. He hadn't even done anything but sit in the chair and let Dean go to town on him, but it had somehow taken quite a bit out of him.
"Maybe. But I want to." Dean let go of his T-shirt, letting it fall as he tucked Sam, almost completely softened, back into his boxers. Sam closed his eyes as he felt him zip him up and fumble his button back into place. "I told you…" He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt of exertion. "…that I was gonna take care of you. I told you that I'd prove that I care about you."
"You just gave me a blowjob." Sam reached for Dean's hands, almost on reflex. He let him take them.
"And cleaned you up afterwards," Dean complained, nudging Sam's knees together with his own so that he could sit down on his lap. Close to him, so close that he could feel the unmistakably living warmth of him, or his vessel, and feel his erection pressing against his stomach. "You'd have to pay extra for that if I were a hooker."
"Got a lot of experience with hookers?" Sam asked with a grin, opening his eyes just in time to see Dean roll his own.
"Real smart." He leaned in about an inch, which was really all the distance he needed to press a kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam tasted himself on Dean's tongue. It wasn't a flavor he was familiar with, but it was thrilling nonetheless. "How're you feeling?" he whispered, after pulling away to let Sam breathe.
"Great," Sam answered honestly, speaking in a soft voice. "Better than I have in a long time, actually."
"Wonderful." Dean pulled him into another kiss, and didn't protest when Sam reached tentatively for the button of his jeans.