Ipsum Custodem
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. So, this is another of these things I thought would be 2k words if that (of Halloween creepiness) and then ballooned (into way too much smut), and honestly I'd be daunted by a 15k oneshot myself. So I'm uploading it in chapters, and you get them all today. It's the best compromise I could come up with. Hope you're not too annoyed at me! ^^''' Also, warnings because this website has no tags: This story has themes of Infidelity, RAPE in chapter 3, a spot of Vomiting in the last chapter, assorted painful kinky things. If any of that doesn't sound like your jam, please turn around. Happy Halloween? ^^''''
Dean's supposed to keep them on the straight and narrow. Ish. Kind of. As much as two monsters can do, anyway. He has no illusions about what they are. Just smarter zombies, if you ask him. But the fact is – the alternative could have been worse.
It wasn't even just Sam coming clean about having – having had all his life, or near enough – demon blood in him. (That explained a lot, certainly, even if it didn't necessarily make what his brother could do less scary.) And it wasn't about Dean eventually turning into a demon, once he was dragged to hell. That eventually was the most maddening, because it didn't come with a timeline. A century? Fifty years? Ten years? Three frigging days?
Say that Sammy actually traced the Colt and managed to reopen hell's doors, hoping Dean's ghost would flee like dad's did and not caring how big an army of demons he let out at the same time. What if Dean was already a black-eyed fucker by then? What if he could get past Sam's protections and curl inside him, possessive, a two-in-one demonic creature that – They'd create way more chaos than they currently did, he bets, and their hunting...there'd be few if any monsters on the menu, Dean suspects. And people would have to fear a lot more from them than not entirely willingly donating a few organs here and there.
Say that Sam had actually moved on like he should have, went back to college, made a family, everything Dean would have wished for him...and then when he was 75 and had long forgotten his Latin, Dean earned his red eyes, popped upstairs for a deal...and since he was already there, well, might as well check on his baby brother, right? Ruin his life all over again, undoubtedly. Yes, it technically might not have been on him the second time Sam's life was fucked over, but if Dean hadn't pulled him away... Sam had enough sense to keep his place salted in college, didn't he? They might have been safe.
And even if Dean took longer than a human life to turn... Well, Ruby had already been in line, and who knows how many other demons would have jumped at the chance of getting a piece of Sammy. Or where they might have dragged him. Not that Dean didn't see why anyone - or anything - would want to, but the point is. Keeping the boy safe is his job. And when they'd slipped, together (always together) into monsters? Well, they weren't as bad as they could have been, but keeping the world as safe as possible from him - them - had felt like a natural consequence. Sammy was his responsibility. And he wouldn't even have entertained the idea of turning himself if Dean hadn't done...what he had to do. The only way dad had taught him how.
His role, though, means that he has to hold the high ground. Otherwise, he can't exactly grumble at Sammy for murdering a kid, can he? Which already happened once, by the way, because when Dean's in need of a heart, Sam stops following the rules and decides fate can be poetic. Christ. There's a reason Dean bought him a literal collar and leash. It fits that boy all too well.
And yeah, Sam's still Dean's boy - his baby boy, in fact - even if they've played the double game, monsters and hunters, for a few decades already. You'd never say he's out of puppyhood, after all.
Still, the years pile up, and the wear-and-tear with them. Normally, it doesn't matter. They know how to handle that. Really, they've kept the unwilling donations to the strict minimum indispensable.
But that's the fact: something is going to be indispensable, sooner rather than later. And it breaks Dean's heart. Especially because it's his fault. He's sure of it. Honestly, at first, he'd refused to see (which, really...it's the issue, here). So what if they finally needed glasses. It was a little heady that they lived long enough to, in the first place. There's a part of him that's never stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop, their (Sam's, actually) loophole to fail and a demon - or a Reaper - to claim his due.
Besides, Sam with glasses was hot. Well, he's always hot, but - the new accessory was the opposite of a problem. And there are always contacts if they're on a job.
But glasses aren't going to cut it soon. Sam's younger than him, so why the fuck is he the one complaining that the world's growing blurry and he's going to swap the damn things out himself, if Dean won't help? The answer is obvious, really. Because Dean didn't pull his weight. Oh, he's picked up the slack lately, of course he has. But for decades, he's left most of the research to his brother. He jokes all the time that learning is Sammy's kink, and a nice, thick book on...anything, really, from local history to spells, might as well be his brother's version of a porn magazine. And that's not even completely wrong.
Still, all that poring over musty tomes written in arcane languages, and extra hours browsing to find out exactly when, what, or who have finally caught up with Sam. Now, with anything else, Dean wouldn't even let things get to the stage where Sam felt like he had to complain about it. He'd find someone young and healthy, help himself to some fresh organ with hopefully a few decades in them.
Eyes are the windows to the soul, though. Yes, that's a fucking platitude, not any literal idiom, Dean's well aware, thank you. If corneal transplants led to a soul swap, it would have pinged their radar long ago. And probably there would have been no way to keep the supernatural the awkward dirty secret it is.
The problem is, Dean has spent decades staring at Sam's eyes, and despite how intimately he knows them, it feels like he hasn't been able to pin them down just yet. His own are green, and you know, if he needed another pair - ok, not as easy as if they were brown but still. Maybe the shade wouldn't be quite right, but it'd be no great hassle. If he needed some, Sam wouldn't feel like the mere idea of a change would make him break out in hives, is the point.
But Sammy... Mom used to say that it didn't matter if Dean couldn't decide which color to use for his baby brother's eyes just yet, when drawing a family portrait. They'd settle, eventually. Well, Sam has never done anything anyone expected him to, and his eyes are no exception. They still change, with the light, with his mood, with how tired he is, with a dozen different inputs that Dean has learned to suss out. They're hazel, often, but sometimes they can be almost as green as Dean's, sometimes baby blue, or grey...and sometimes a little golden, and Dean's never going to admit it, but that's scary as all fuck. He's wondered if that specific shade comes with Azazel's blood rushing through his brother.
That aside - it doesn't matter, after all. Sam behaves...mostly. Dean's here to make sure he does. But how is he supposed to help now? How can he pick one single shade to see, when his brother looks back at him? Resign himself to losing one of the clues he's learned to use to take care of him?
So yeah, Sam grouches. Dean...dillydallies. Promises him that yes, he'll get to it, of course, soon...Just one thing first, no don't worry, it's stupid,really, he doesn't need backup, sit this one out. He should be ashamed of himself, really. Sammy's in trouble, and instead of taking care of him, Dean's moping about stupid things. Only it's not really moping. It's – weirdly, the word that comes to mind is mourning. Which is emphatically the wrong word for this. Fuck, they've changed exactly to avoid ever having to mourn each other, because they can't cope, can't function, can't – anything. Just no. But maybe Dean is already mourning his baby brother's awesome, perfect eyes a little bit. The way saner people mourn. One of the people they saved, maybe, who – even if they lost a loved one – aren't completely, irreedemably shattered by that. Dean'll never figure out how they manage, but he's happy for them.
He knows he won't be able to stall much longer about the issue at hand, though. He needs a plan. For a moment, he'd actually considered looking into some witchy shit. And not just to restore Sam's pretty eyes, mostly because he knows he's not very apt at it, and it'd be just their luck if when it really matters, he messes it up , there's an idea that flitted through Dean's brain before he tossed it down the drain like the madness it is. Finding a way to make the squishiest, most evanescent organs keep. So he could take a dozen pairs for Sam to switch around according to mood.
That he's even considered it for a breath...Dean knows he's a monster now, of course. Well aware. But it's not every day he scares himself. Idiocy is what he's always lived and breathed. This? This goes above that, and past "run of the mill nightmare", even if it entwines both. It jumps right into "they should make horror movies about me - maybe a dozen".
No, no, not that. It's not feasible, anyway. Still, he needs a solution yesterday.
It's the suffocating guilt that sparks a more viable plan. Frankly, he should have forgotten about it two minutes later. At least if he still wants to be worthy of holding Sam's leash, with the confidence that he can make the right call. That he's not completely evil yet, not simply worth hunting down without any saving grace.
But all he can think about is all the ways he's disappointed Sammy in their lives, over and over and over.
There was that one time - damn, he was the one who ended up in the doghouse. Grovelled for a month, but Sam had every right to make him. They'd been together, in every sense of the word and then some, for years already. They had renounced humanity for each other. It seemed silly to adhere to taboos, when breaking them didn't actually involve – or, truly, concern - anyone else. Dean still flirted like he breathed, because he didn't know how not to, and because why would they give up all the little perks it got them? But he hadn't even thought about actually touching anyone else for years, because why would he, when he had the most awesome lover ever already?
Then...well. They'd had a few hard cases, and Dean had got some new scars, almost back-to-back. Sam had been moody and withdrawn... because he felt guilty about not being capable enough to avoid that. Dean hadn't known yet. It was much later, halfway during his atonement, that the truth about that had slipped out – during an argument, of all things. Without an explanation, he'd taken Sam's attitude hard – he always does - and lowkey started panicking that Sammy would decide to leave him any day. Running away was his brother's modus operandi - and it tore him apart every time. When Sam had stayed, instead of relaxing, Dean had started worrying that he did so only because he thought he had no choice.
So when they'd taken yet another case, and during the investigation - hey, the victims had been to that place - a gorgeous lady had wanted more than just flirting? She was the aggressive type, and Dean had always been a sucker for people knowing what they wanted...and besides, he was just checking, you know? That he still had game. That his new scars weren't a complete turn off. That – well, he wasn't actually thinking much. He hadn't meant to go that far, but he had. Of course, it turned out that she was a fucking Amazon. Monster fucking monster.
They'd misunderstood, at first, and Sam had been so looking forward to murdering the slut that'd dared to touch his partner. But nope. A kid. Dean had a kid. In Dean's defense, he had used protection; he was a dumbass, and now an immortal one, but not that big of one. He just didn't expect to have to protect his genetic material, no matter how successful he'd bragged about being.
Sam killed the child anyway, though undoubtedly quicker and cleaner than he'd have his mom. The whole Amazon tribe had immediately moved on, before he could have the pleasure he was looking forward to. Smart gals.
The memory of that specific failure sparks fireworks in Dean's brain. No, he can't conceive of just grabbing any random dude's eyes and sticking them in Sam's sockets. But maybe...if he had a child... The girl's eyes might be close enough that Dean could watch them day in day out in his brother's face without wanting to puke. And even if only one of Sam's infinite nuances won out, these eyes would still be his brother's, in a slightly contorted way. Dean could just tell himself they finally settled. Sort of.
Does he hate himself for the plan? Yes. Is he going to find another way? Fuck no.
First of all, he needs to track himself down some Amazons. Now, a few years ago, that would have been a nightmare. Especially without Sammy's help. But Dean had decades of hunting behind him, and he hadn't slept through them. He remembered what they'd learned back then, about the tribe's patterns, their habits. He knew what to look for, and the databases to scour for it.
Found them! California. The first murder happened yesterday. Of course the first, they'd stick around for a while and replenish - or increase, depending on whether anyone had caught a few of them lately or not - their ranks.
"Get in the car, Sammy, found a case." His brother doesn't have to see his grin to feel it.
"Dean." Sour, as his baby boy has been all the time lately. Not being his priority must have stung. And been confusing, too. If anything is against the natural order of things, that is. Well, once he fixes things, Dean can properly apologize.
"Last one, swear to god. Let me do this, and I'll get you the prettiest pair of eyes in town." Totally earnest. There couldn't possibly be anything prettier, after all.
"Fine," Sam sighs. "I hate you."
That isn't true. He hates feeling useless. And Dean gets it, of course he does...But everything will be alright soon.