Word Count: 3,000
Notes: Written for the smpc. Pre-series, Stanford-era AU. Warnings for bloodplay, dub-con and werewolves!
Summary: Dean's got a silver bullet in his clip, a second in the number two slot and the need to see Sam just one more time.
The engine dings as it cools. The car’s been pushed too hard and Dean knows it, regrets it, wishes he has time to do a tune-up before. Before. More than two thousand miles in a day and a half. Across two mountain ranges, up and then down again, lowlands, flatlands, high plains. Thirty-three hours of the motor running too high, his jaw clenched too hard, fingers wrapped too tight around the steering wheel, stopping only for gas and coffee in almost equal doses.
But he had to come. He shouldn’t have come. He couldn’t not come.
The door creaks as he gets out of the car. Dean leans against the fender, tilts his head back and looks at the blank sky. Nighttime in the city. No stars.
His eyes are drawn upward toward the moon. Of course he’s looked at it a thousand times before, everybody has. It’s always been just a useless hunk of rock held up there by invisible force, the easiest thing to find in a telescope, something to stare at when he has nothing better to do.
But now it’s different. Now it’s a deadline. An hourglass with almost all of the sand spilled out.
Because there’s no denying that strange new pulling sensation, just like there’s no denying how crystal clear everything is. He’s slept four hours in three days, but his vision is precise and sharp. So is the press of his gun in his back, the scuttle of some creature from two blocks away, the overwhelming smell of human beings that surrounds him like a fog, even though the street is empty.
He pulls his gun from his waistband and pops out the clip, checks it. A silver bullet, front and center, another one riding in the number two slot, because sometimes folklore is bullshit, but more times than that it hits the nail right on the fucking head. Dean’s fingers click off the safety and click it right back on again. An old habit.
The front door of the house across the street opens and a woman walks out. Dean notices how pretty she is in an almost detached way. Long blonde hair and hips that sway just right as she walks down the steps and makes a quick turn up the street, her backpack slung over a shoulder.
For a second Dean thinks that he’s gotten the wrong place, but then the breeze shifts direction and he knows he’s spot on.
She smells like Sam. It’s unmistakable.
His heartbeat speeds up, blood moving in a maniac rush. Thud thud thud, and Dean can feel it. It. This sensation that starts in the half healed bite on his shoulder and travels north and south, lighting up his nerve endings, making his skin run hot.
He wonders if his blood is still red.
The girl has turned the corner, out of sight now, but Dean can still hear the slap of her shoes against the bricks of the sidewalk. She’s another reason. One more in a mountain-sized pile of reasons why he shouldn’t do this.
So he crosses the street, because that mountain seems so small in the face of the one thing that pushed him here in the first place.
One more second of hesitation and then Dean knocks on the door.
There is an excruciating period of time when there’s no answer, and Dean can picture his brother, bent over a book and chewing on a thumbnail, headphones plugged into his ears to help him study. Just like when he was a kid.
Dean raises his fist to knock harder, stops when there’s a twitch in the curtains beside the door, a hollow feeling carving out a place in his gut. In a life that has been lousy with shoddy decisions and lapses in judgment, this takes the cake.
The chain slips the latch on the other side of the door and then Sam is there, pale-faced with high spots of color just starting to bloom on his cheeks, his hands shaking as he grips the doorjamb like it’s the only thing in the world capable of holding him up.
“Hey…hi…Dean?” Sam says in a wavering voice, and Dean suddenly finds himself biting hard on the inside of his cheek at the sound of his name in his brother’s mouth. That destructive part inside of him that had been convinced he’d never again hear his brother’s voice breaks loose, enters his bloodstream and gets reabsorbed.
Dean doesn’t say anything, knows that he can’t quite yet. He just stares, tries to imprint this on his memory, to hold onto it for however long he has left. Every new scar on his brother’s skin, every last fingernail. Sam looks the same. Unruly hair that’s too long, the same ridiculous preference for t-shirts that are a little too short for him, those slanted eyes that somehow manage to be green and blue and brown and hazel all at the same time.
Dean picks up on the small differences too. A lot can happen in a couple of years. Sam’s too skinny now, bony shoulders poking at the material of his shirt, slight hollows in his cheeks that were never there before, dark thumbprints under his eyes and a sharper angle to his jaw.
There’s more, too, and it’s not all physical. It’s in the set of his eyes and the serious line of his mouth. It’s in the way that Sam holds himself, shoulders pushed back further and his spine straighter, like he’s just starting to learn how to own the space he inhabits, fill it up.
Dean takes a breath, wonders why he’s never before seen how startlingly beautiful Sam is, and if it’s another side effect of his recent misfortune, then he’ll take it.
Five minutes ago he could have swallowed that bullet right down and be done with it. But that was five minutes ago, might as well be ancient history. He can feel his willpower unraveling as Sam stares at him, a question in the arched tilt of his eyebrows, the twist in his mouth.
He never should have come.
He had to come.
He’s one selfish son of a bitch. That’s pretty much a given at this point.
So he does what he’s always done, cocks a smile at Sam, wraps himself up in self confidence like it’s a goddamn suit of armor and asks, “What’s a guy gotta do to get a beer around here?”
Sam smiles back, shakes his head, huffs out a small impatient breath, and for a second Dean thinks he can see something, a light surrounding his brother. It’s a small thing that pulses like a heartbeat. Dean should have seen it before. His instinct tells him that it’s always been there, that Sam has always outshined everything else.
Sam leads him into the house, asking questions, he’s always asked too many questions, and Dean doesn’t have any good answers, so he ignores them and instead looks around. It’s been bred into him to case a joint. This isn’t a hunter’s shack; a woman’s touch lays heavily on the place, plants on the windowsills, pictures on the walls and coasters on the coffee table. There are no dusty books bearing arcane symbols on the shelves, no salt lining the windows or protective charms hanging in the doorways.
Everything is so blatantly normal, and for a second Dean feels a stab of remorse tinged with a pride over the fact that Sammy has made it out, kept all of his promises and really made it out.
They’ve made their way into the kitchen, lit only by the streetlight outside. Dean takes it in stride. He doesn’t need much light to see nowadays. Sam has gone quiet. It drags Dean back to the here and now and he reaches out for the bottle that his brother tips in his direction, pops it open with his ring and snaps the cap into the sink. It lands with a click.
Sam’s eyes follow it as he chews on the corner of his bottom lip, snorts a cut-off laugh. Finally he looks to Dean again. “You look like hell. Spill.”
“It’s the life,” Dean replies, and it’s not a lie. Not even close to a lie. “It’s good to see you, Sammy.” And that’s not a lie either. He takes a long swallow so he doesn’t have to say anything else, then places the bottle on the counter, the glass cloudy from condensation.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. His mouth is screwed up as if he’s about to say something more. “Yeah,” he tries again then crosses to Dean, and wraps his large hands around his brother’s face, thumbs tracing along his cheekbones, knocking Dean’s memory back to two years ago, to a bus stop and a last kiss that wasn’t ever supposed to be the last.
Dean remembers this, the feeling of his brother’s hands, the way Sam’s kisses had always been too much teeth, too much tongue and absolutely perfect. The taste of him, the feel of him, the undeniable pull of his brother, as if Sam carries a positive charge and Dean has a negative one and they've never even had a fighting chance.
“No,” Dean says, taking one of Sam’s hands and kissing the palm of it. It’s the closest he can come. He knows it’s in his spit, is pretty sure that it takes a bite to pass it along, but he’s not sure enough.
Sam only nods, like he’s been expecting it all along. Dean’s heart had been splintered already, and it’s enough to finish the job. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder and notices his brother’s wince.
“What?” Sam asks, curiosity lighting up his eyes, and Dean curses the way Sam never misses a thing, not even now.
Sam’s nimble fingers peel back the collar of Dean’s shirt, his expression going slack when he sees the bite. It’s scabbed over, angry red tendrils branching out. “When?” he asks firmly, and there’s no chance that Dean can dodge this one.
“Three days ago,” Dean answers.
Sam tears himself away from Dean and starts pacing, the floor groaning under his footsteps. “We’ll find a way. I’ll get you better. Dad?”
“He doesn’t know. He’s not ever gonna know.”
“Maybe Bobby? Have you tried—“
“This one is signed, stamped, and delivered, Sam. Nothing to be done. Take my word for it.” Dean cuts him off and is suddenly tired, so very tired. “I’m gonna go.” He digs in his pocket, fishes out the keys to the car and places them on the counter beside his half full beer. “Car’s parked outside. She’s yours now. Don’t fuck her up.” Dean turns toward the door but Sam can be a stubborn fucker and holds him back, spins him around.
“Where are you going?” Sam’s voice is taking on a desperate tone. Dean hates the sound of it, he never wanted any of this to end up this way. “There has to be something.”
“If wishes were fishes, Sammy.” He can’t stand to look at Sam any more and drops his gaze, rips himself out of his brother’s grip. “How’s that for famous last words?”
“No,” Sam says. A forceful negation. A snap decision that registers plainly on Sam's face. “It takes a bite, right?” He pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck. “If you have to go, take me with you.”
Dean reaches blindly for the door. He’s almost there, with the warm weight of the gun in the small of his back that feels like salvation and the cool metal of the doorknob beneath his palm. He glances back to Sam and can hear the beating of Sam’s too-fast heart, see the hyped-up flicker of the pulse in his throat. Dean can smell him, the scent of Sam’s fear and sweat and underlying determination.
Escape is a few steps away, and he should leave. He should. But the light surrounding Sam is now so bright and he needs one last look. Just one more second.
“No.” Sam repeats it like it’s the only word he knows how to say. Sam shoots forward, faster than a thought to block the doorway. He slides down until he’s kneeling and presses his face to Dean’s hip, hands locked to the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and when he speaks his voice is thick. “You’re my brother. You have to take me with you.”
A feral feeling spikes in Dean’s veins, fiercely protective and needful, and his lips pull back in a snarl.
He can feel the heat radiating from Sam, his muscles contracting when Sam slips his hands beneath Dean’s t-shirt to paw at his stomach, a snarl of his own now fixed on his face as he hisses a breath through his clenched teeth.
Sam’s mouth is hot on him, hotter than his skin as he places open-mouthed kisses on Dean’s belly, moving lower and nuzzling his crotch through his jeans, leaving behind darker spots on the dark denim.
Dean drops his hand from the door handle to tangle in Sam’s hair, his fingers slipping through it. He closes his eyes and tips his head back and feels it—this black taint inside of him working through his body like it’s finally been let loose and can at long last stretch its legs, nothing but pure animal ambition as Sam pops open his fly and roughly shoves his pants down.
Sam yanks himself up, gripping Dean’s hips for leverage and the last shred of Dean’s willpower disintegrates when Dean looks into Sam’s eyes, dark, hungry and determined as all hell.
“You’re going to give me this, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean nods, helpless, because he's weak and pathetic. Sam is the only thing that he’s ever really wanted, and loving Sam is the only thing he’s ever done right.
Dean pushes him up against the door, pins him there, shoving his leg between Sam’s thighs, his hands spread wide on either side of Sam’s head. He presses his face into the crook of Sam’s neck and licks along his neck, his collarbone, dips down to lap at the small pool of sweat that has gathered at the hollow of his throat. Salty, bitter, familiar. Same as always.
Sam is grinding down on him, the fabric of his shorts rasping against the bare skin of Dean’s thigh. He moans, sweet and dirty, the vibration of it trilling against Dean’s lips. It catches a fire in Dean’s blood and then he’s kissing Sam, biting at his lips, their tongues are slipping together, and god, he’s missed this so much he can hardly breathe.
It’s a tangle of arms, legs, and restless hands pulling at their clothes as they make it to the floor, hard and cool beneath Dean knees as he kneels between Sam’s spread legs.
Sam reaches toward Dean’s mouth, pressing two fingers between his lips, rolls his eyes back when Dean swirls his tongue around them and bites down. He removes them with another dark grin and slides his hand between his spread thighs, further down still and then he’s opening himself up. One finger and then both. A small crease forms in the center of his brow as he works himself loose, hips writhing and breath shallow.
He's putting on a show, and Dean's helpless to do anything but watch, his own hand gripped tight to the base of his leaking cock, a heat building low in his belly.
Sam removes his fingers, spits thickly on his palm and jacks Dean with a few fast pulls, spreading spit and precome along his length. “Now, Dean, now,” he says, hooking his legs around Dean’s waist and bringing him closer.
The urge to go slow is completely lost to Dean with the first feeling of Sam stretching around him. It’s almost painful, burning when Sam grabs his hips and yanks him forward, steering him out again and right back in twice as fast.
Sam is a sublime heat all around him, his hips moving to meet every thrust, his cock a hard line trapped between their sweat slick bodies. He’s clawing at Dean’s back, reaching to lick at his lips, legs locking tighter around Dean’s waist when Dean finds the right angle.
Dean is losing his rhythm, hips starting to stutter. Sam grins wider beneath him, a wicked curl to his lips and Dean slams into him, shorter thrusts now. Close, so close, even closer, his mouth locked on the crook of Sam’s neck and then Sam digs in with his whole body, his thumb pressing to the bite on Dean’s shoulder, his other hand clawing into Dean’s back just as Dean’s orgasm bursts white hot throughout his body.
Dean clamps down, biting into Sam’s neck as pain mixed with pleasure shoots through him, teeth piercing, tearing in, and Sam is laughing. Fucking laughing.
Reality and consequence starts to crash in as Dean flicks out his tongue to lick his lips, tastes blood. He lifts himself up on numb arms. There’s a trickle of blood creeping down Sam’s neck from the bite, a small puddle of it on the wooden floor beneath him. Instinct makes him dive down, nuzzle at the bite and taste it. His brother’s blood.
Sam is still laughing, that wicked, dark glint in his eyes still a bright shine. Maybe even brighter now. “Like I said, where ever you’re going, I’m going too.” He pulls Dean down for a kiss, slow and filthy, smiling against Dean’s mouth. “You always let me get my way, and besides, you always have been a biter.”
Thanks for reading.