Rating: R (mostly for gore)
Word Count: 1000
Notes: written for this prompt over at spn_masquerade. warning for gore, violence and cannibalism. there is nothing linear about this one, folks.
Summary: Eat your heart out.
It's a good day. Dean's favorite kind of day. Bright, clear sky, and the hangover hasn't kicked in yet. Earlier, they'd killed something that had killed somebody with minimal risk to life and limb and now Dean has half a dozen tacos from that truck he'd been eyeing up all week, twenty-two dollars in his wallet, a full tank of gas and half a bottle of Jack.
Sam's leaning over the closed trunk of the Impala, forearms on the metal, the dip in the small of his back enough to drive Dean crazy.
"Hey, Dean, I think I figured it out." He has a map spread out, a calendar, their father's journal open and face down on the trunk, a calculator in his hand. One of those fancy graphing ones, SW scratched into the case. "It kills on a cycle. We've got three days."
And that's just like Sam. Always searching for the next burning building while the last one still smolders in their rearview, never taking the time to appreciate the finer things in life.
"How quick can you get us to Omaha?" Sam straightens and shakes his hair out of his face. The sun is coloring his cheeks and his mouth is bright red from chewing on it and right then Dean loves him so much that his heart isn't big enough to hold it all.
"Sixteen hours," Dean says. "Have a taco."
Above their heads, that bright blue sky is starting to crack.
A knife is in his hand and Dean doesn't know who put it there. There's a dry skin-on-skin rasp like he's suspended over a nest of knotted up snakes. A searing pain rips into his shoulder, another in his side and he's not ready to open his eyes. Not yet.
It could be anything. The heart is still there, nestled in a puddle of torn-up flesh, so that scratches werewolf off the list.
The coroner doesn't trust them, squinted at their credentials a little too thoroughly, looked down his nose at Sam's long hair and grunted when Dean introduced himself as Bonham. Not that it matters. They won't be here long. They're never anywhere for very long.
"Rugaru maybe?" Sam says, and pokes at a severed arm with the tip of his pen. "This bite looks sorta human."
Dean shrugs, scoops the heart into the palm of his hand, blood and viscera black against his blue latex glove. "Whaddaya say, valentine?"
Sam licks his lips, closes his eyes and when he opens them again they're black, like spit-shined obsidian. "That's not the heart I want."
"Ten thousand, four hundred and forty-nine days, Dean, and you haven't aged a bit. As beautiful as the very first time I saw you." Alastair waltzes around the table, arms covered in gore up the elbows, guts threaded between his fingers. Dean has a feeling that they're his. "I've had that made especially for you."
The knife in Dean's hand is pearl-handed, fits perfectly in his palm.
"Sappy. Overly sentimental, I know, but tomorrow is a very big anniversary for us. Do you know what it is?"
Half of Dean's teeth are gone and his mouth is full of blood. His voice bubbles out of it. "It's Sammy's birthday."
Alastair doesn't like that answer, snatches the knife from Dean's hand, picks two ribs and slides it in between them. Dean hardly registers it. He's already floating.
There’s a hole in the ceiling of hell where the blood drips through and the sun shines in. Sam’s up there somewhere, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s not Sam’s blood. Almost certain. Almost.
Dean falls back onto the mattress. His dick is sticky with come and his brother's spit and a couple of the stitches on his side have pulled loose. He covers the gash with his hand, makes it look like nothing, because Sam is long and warm and happy, twisted all around him, and there's nothing in the entire world that's better than this.
"Slow down, slow down," Sam says, two fingers pressed to the pulse in Dean's throat. His voice is raw and ragged and Dean takes a certain amount of pleasure knowing that he's the one who made it that way, that he's the only one who gets to hear it.
Sam curls his spine, rests his head on Dean's chest, ear pressed over Dean's heart. He takes his own pulse and says, "Your heart is still faster than mine."
Out there in the night, a dog keeps howling, and Dean wishes the motherfucker would just shut up. It doesn't. It keeps coming closer.
"All you need to do is cut. Carve. Then it'll all be over." Sam steps into the light, touches the chains that bind Dean to the table and makes them disappear, then pulls Dean to his feet. One small touch and Dean's whole again.
The knife is warm in his hand, warm like blood and life and Sam's all around him, smelling like cheap shampoo and hotel soap, like the Impala's leather seats on a hot day.
"One small slice," Sam goes on, "and you'll never feel pain again."
Alastair has taken Dean's place on the table, tied down and gagged, face like a nightmare. Still he manages to grin.
"One small slice," Dean repeats, and flips the knife in his hand, sets the point to his own chest and punches it in. It doesn't hurt, not when he widens the gash and not when he cracks his ribs open and not even when he takes his heart in his fist and rips.
"It's yours," Dean says, and holds his heart out to his brother.
Sam drops to his knees, lips open like he's about to pray. Dean's heart is beating and he wonders if it's faster. The first drop of blood falls into Sam's mouth and Sam shivers, opens wider and sets his teeth into bloody muscle.
There is no pain. Sam takes another bite. Dean isn't floating and there still isn't any pain. "It's always been yours. I don't need it anymore."