Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 2434
Summary: there's a vampire after Sam Winchester….
Warning, A/N: I played with Vampire lore because that's what it's all about. Character death, dub-con, but not extremely graphic.
"Ssssammy, Sammiieeeeee…let me in."
"Let me in, Sam."
"I promise, I just want to talk."
"Help me Sam, please."
"Sammy, I need you. Help me."
The scratch of nails against the glass makes his throat work; fear fills his mouth unpleasantly, lays thick and sour on his tongue. His back's pressed against the motel room's door, looking into the bathroom, watching the shadow on the bathroom window, too terrified to move. What if he gets up to run but opens the window instead? No, I won't I won't I won't…. Sam cradles the hunting knife in his hand, concentrates on the weight of the haft on his palm and steadies his breathing. they can be stopped, silver, fire, decapitation-- He runs the drill he learned from his father in his mind and his fingers flex, almost drops the knife but he's sure he can do it. Ninety per cent sure. Ninety-nine.
Dean would want him to. The real Dean, not that thing scratching at the window. Sour spills across his tongue again because the window's clear. The shadow's gone. Now, there's the sound of claws dragging slowly across the door.
Scratch, scratch scratch… Sam imagines slivers of maple being gouged out, dropping to the ground like dirty snowflakes.
"Saaaaaaammy. Come on, bro, I'm not gonna hurt you. Come on out, let's go get a drink. It's been a long time…"
"Let me the fuck in, Sam."
Sam huffs a bitter laugh. Dean's sounding impatient now, s'okay, makes him sound more real. Sam takes a deep breath, "Go away," he shouts and winces. Damn it. He's tried over and over not to let it engage him but. Fuck, it's hard not to want to talk to it, see it. Not when he misses Dean so fucking much, not when that's all that's left of his brother.
"You're being unfair, Sam. Talk to me, what's that gonna hurt?"
It's bad when the Dean shaped thing is near but almost worse when he's not. Because if Dean's not where Sam is, trying to get at him, then he's out there being a monster. Being everything Dean hated.
Sam's knees give out and he drops to the floor. His face twists with the effort of holding back tears; the pain of it clogs his throat. Everyone's told him what he had to do—Pastor Jim, Caleb, Missouri…they've all said no cure, no hope. He's gone over Dad's journal like his life depends on it, found nothing except a vague sort of almost hint that killing the head vamp might undo the changes and…done that, no joy. Sam had hacked and slashed and burned his way through the nest and Dean was still showing up on whatever doorstep was Sam's for the night, calling for him, begging for help, crying out that he was lonely, and why, why did Sam turn his back on him, Sam, Sammy, my Sammy--
"SAMMY, please! It hurts!"
Sam's halfway off the floor, pavlovian response, the end of the world, defcon one—Dean admitting pain meant the stink of hospitals and Sam wading through screaming, gnawing fear.
Except Dean's not Dean anymore.
Nails scratch across wood again, a sound like rats in the walls.
"I'm sorry I'm scaring you," the voice is low, soft, and almost the same as the one that once read Sam to sleep. "I just want to see you, that's all. I can control it now. It's not the same. I won't hurt you. I could never hurt you, you know that."
Sam's head hits the door and the door gives out a hollow thunk. He follows that with the ghost of a laugh. "Yeah, I know, Dean would never hurt me. You though…you're a whole 'nother animal, aren't you." He slams his head against the door, purposely hurting himself. "You tried to eat me. Fucker. Fucker," and he slams his head again.
"That was different. It's different now. I'm not…I'm not hungry. I can't get in anyway, remember. Unless you invite me in. And you're sure as hell not coming out here with me, right?"
Sam wants to cry. It sounds just like Dean. Fuck, he wants to see him, Dean.
"Sam." With every passing second, it sounds more and more like Dean, that horrible, inhuman note in his voice fading. The mocking sly undertone becoming brotherly teasing…Dean always was kind of a dick….
"I miss you Sammy. So fucking much." Dean must be sitting too on the other side of the door, pressed up against the wood like Sam was. "I miss your face. I miss your smile, your laugh. Why won't you open the door and help me like you're supposed to?"
Too much, not enough. Sam yanks open the door and scrambles backward, fast as he can. There's Dean crouched in the doorway, his face twisting, hissing like a cat when his hand slides over the threshold. He jerks it back and cradles it to his chest. His eyes are bright red….
And then it's just Dean kneeling there. Different. The same.
His brother and Sam's never seen him looking like this. He's seen Dean painted red and brown and spattered with freckles from the sun, he's seen Dean grey with agony, his eyes huge and bottomless and fucking petrified. He'd had a glimpse of him chalk white, blue lips, drained of blood and the pain of it still twisting his lifeless face but this…this is Dean distilled. More Dean than he's ever been, even stripped of the sun's color, he's beautiful. Even that unearthly white--smooth and blank as new snow--can't detract from how beautiful Dean is and Sam sees in his clear green eyes that Dean knows this, can probably see how incapable Sam is of looking away.
"Sam," he breathes, as if the sight of Sam is overwhelming, and he pushes himself as close to the door as he can get. "Ssaaam..." and the way he says it. Sam's name slithers over Dean's lips in a way that leaves his stomach tight with fear, revulsion. Goose bumps and heat race over his skin. Dean says it again, and it crams his way into his chest, and around his heart and burns through his blood, fills his dick.
Dean smiles. He looks satisfied. His eyes bore into Sam's and then travel the length of his body, slow. His regard is as intense as his voice and Sam's reeling with a sudden need to touch himself. Or throw up.
"Hey, Sammy. Long time no see. Look at you. You look…" The heat in his eyes dims a bit. Dean frowns. "Tired. Sick. I did that, didn't I?" He drops his eyes. "Shit, I'm sorry. I wish…I'd rather have died instead of becoming--this. That's why I've been trying to get you to see me." Dean keeps his eyes turned down, a hand twitches towards Sam. "Need your help."
Sam stares, trying to see past the thin veneer of brother to the monster that is absolutely underneath but it's impossible. It's Dean, broken and sad and miserable and Sam can't begin to imagine what it must be like, this half life. He pictures himself standing where Dean is, and it scares him, he can't imagine anything worse that what's happened to Dean. Knowing you're a monster.
Dean's lost to him, a vampire now...Sam knows damn well they lie almost as bad as demons but his brother's always drawn him like a magnet. Sam edges closer and closer.
"Dean. Fuck, Dean." Sam draws in shaky breath after breath. "What guarantee do I have," Sam mutters, throat and mouth cotton dry but that need plucking at his heart, "that you won't—won't hurt me?"
"None Sam. Don't trust me, trust yourself."
Sam nods. Okay, he's right, trust himself. He hefts the knife, letting its weight settle in his palm. Feels like an extension of himself, the blade is long and sharp and heavy—it'll take a vampire's head right off. He swallows, tightens his grip and says, "Come in."
Dean slinks into the room, glides into the room like he's riding shadows. "Sam." He smiles, a pale imitation of his real smile. "You got my knife, hunh? Good, good." He looks around. "Spartan, but suits you. I slept in a dumpster last night," he chuckles. "And the night before that, I slept on a ledge back in a subway tunnel—did you know people sleep in there too? Was like a fast food joint," and the chuckle grows into a laugh, low and sly and dark. "Do you want me to be sorry, Sammy?" he asks and rubs his eyes, "Wah, wah, I'm a monster, kill me Sammy please." He stops, his chin lifts and he sniffs. Like a dog, he sniffs and licks his lips. "Sam. Fuck you look good, smell good. Sound like…"he shivers, "like a whole symphony. Blood and heart and lungs, all wet and juicy."
Sam lunges and he's damn fast, but Dean's not Dean anymore and before Sam's really moved, he's on his knees between Dean's feet, arm twisted up behind him about to snap, and the knife quivering in the wall in front of them. "Yeah, I'm a little faster than you now," Dean chortles. "You're pretty fucking good, but I'll always be better now." Sam shudders. It's not Dean not Dean not Dean but his hands are as sure on his skin as Dean's have ever been. Dean's eyes flick over him like they've always done, checking that he's unhurt, that he's in one piece and that Dean's done his job. It hurts like a gunshot, worse when Dean seems to realize what he's doing. The look that passes over his face is not exactly amused, not exactly a sneer.
"Sam." Sam finds himself pulled upright in Dean's grip, legs giving out, head swimming. It was a gamble, he knew when he opened the door it was pretty much a crapshoot, and he's lost. It's obvious that Dean feels the exact minute Sam gives up.
Heartbeat's like a sledge hammer pounding him apart. His pulse throbs violently under his skin, it shatters him, breaks him into shards. Dean's nose tucks under his chin, gently nudging it upwards, nuzzling in the soft, thin skin there. The chuckle that escapes him blows hot against Sam's skin, hot and moist, an imitation of life. It shocks Sam to realize that the pounding pulse beating against him, the heartbeat shuddering through him is Dean's, not his. Dean's like a furnace, almost too hot to hold. Sam feels like crying when his dick shifts, thickens, because it's just not right….
"Vampire blood," Dean whispers, the wet tip of his tongue tracing a silky arch along the edge of Sam's ear, trailing a wet line along the ear before dipping in and out, quickly, gone before Sam can protest. It's like throwing gasoline on a fire, he's even harder now.
"Vampire blood makes you…hot, not cold. You’re burning all the time and my heart…beats so hard, beats so hard it hurts so fucking much and the only thing that stops it is blood, you know...thick and sweet and fuck, it's like the best fucking drug you can imagine, an orgasm that doesn't stop…" Dean's forehead is like a brand on Sam's neck. Sweat pearls up and runs between them. Sam keens when hot and slick, Dean's tongue laps up the drops and Sam falls even more, throws his head back and spreads his legs and he knows he's signing his dearth warrant but he can't stop. The last few days are a hollow bubble and it's only this moment that is real and what he wants is his brother. The unexpected heat of Dean against him, the thick, hard ridge of his dick against Sam's thigh, it's enough. Everything.
The feather touch of Dean's fingers at his waist push him to rock against him, grind down on him. They slide soft as moth wings under the hem of Sam's shirt, pushing it over his head, leaving him bare and vulnerable, waiting for pain but Dean…ever contrary, pulls back. Lets his hands settle back at Sam's waist, such a gentle, a light hold. He runs his nose over Sam's chin, along the arch of his neck, into his hairline, delicate sniffs, tongue tip tasting, tracking over his cheek, rasping against the stubble, licking up his earlobe. Dean's lips close tenderly around it.
It's so fucking hot inside his mouth and wet, the rasp of his tongue over his tender lobe makes Sam squeak, and his hips jerk, he's thrusting--not wanting to but he's burning too, just as insanely desperate as Dean, if for different reasons. He hooks a heel over Dean's calf and tries his best to grind his throbbing, aching dick against Dean's. He's too far gone to care about the noise he makes, panting, groaning, fucking against Dean as he sucks Sam's earlobe like it's his dick and now Sam's practically climbing Dean, squirming and pushing until it hurts, until he's screaming with it, come slicking up his boxers, his dick sliding around in thick viscous heat. His head's pounding in sync with his heart, all he can hear is Dean chuckling in his ear—Sam jumps when Dean puts a sharp tooth right through his earlobe and sucks hard, hard, hard…
His head weighs a ton; he can't lift it and his eyelids too. He's nauseous and weak and--"What did you do to me—what's--" his eyelids unpeel and he stares at the moon pale, unblemished face of his brother. Dean grins, wide, wet...beautiful. "You did something."
"Well, yeah. Evil mind control, one of the perks," Dean leers. "Fucking handy, too." And licks up the rill of blood snaking over Sam's collarbone. "Make you believe you wanted that."
The last smoky thread of arousal melts like fog. He feels…sick, disgusted and it shouldn't be possible to be this scared…"I do. Did. I-—you really never knew?"
Dean, for a wild moment, looks maybe sad, maybe guilty, something—gone before Sam can untangle it. His eyes are cold green discs of jade, black pupils open and narrow down to pinpoints. The fingernails that scratched the bathroom window cloudy and gouged long streaks of raw wood into the door are trailing over Sam's chest, and sketching circles over his heart that are growing steadily pinker….
"Good news, Sammy--guess who gets eternity to make up for lost time?"
Sam can't move, can't stop watching Dean's fingers. He smells his blood on Dean's breath.