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For Warnings and Summary, see Master Post
Part Nine
He’d been lying in bed for hours, shaking, unable to force Dean’s horrified face from his mind. Dean thought he… Dean thought… and really… isn’t it true? Sam did want it. Even now that he was awake, he longed for it. God help him, he’d never wanted anything like this with Dean before, but now that he’s… now it was all he could think about – Dean’s warm hands caressing over his skin, soft whispers of love, of acceptance, the two of them so tangled up in each other that Sam wouldn’t ever get lost again. He hungered for it.
You’re a monster, Sam. There’s no going back.
Dean was never going to talk to him again. He kept expecting Bobby to call for him angrily, to banish him from the house and tell him to never come back. All it would take was one phone call from Dean. Bobby, I know what Sammy is now. I saw what he did…
Maybe it was the demon blood, maybe drinking it changed him more than he thought, turned him into this… this thing that could lust after his own brother.
Bloodsucking freak.
Or maybe… maybe Lucifer had been telling the truth – Sam was just… evil, inherently evil. It was in his nature to be this twisted, this fucked up. The only question was why he ever bothered to fight in the first place.
Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic.
He almost drifted off a few times, but every time he was laughed back awake by jeering faces that taunted him with his worthlessness. The desperate feeling of being completely alone gnawed at him, and he wished he could die. Saying yes to Lucifer was as close as he was ever going to get to death, but… but he wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t. As long as he could pretend he had his brother when he was dreaming, maybe he’d be able to hold on indefinitely, except, he was really not sure how much longer his sanity would stick around.
You were always a monster. And you only feel right when you're sucking down more poison and more evil.
If he was completely insane, would it still count if he said yes? In a court of law he certainly wouldn’t be held accountable for anything he said while he was bat-shit crazy, but he wasn’t sure the same laws applied to angels. And also, of course, that would be assuming there was something fair, something good in the universe… it took awhile, but he thought maybe he’d finally grown out of that childish insistence.
There’s no saving you…
“Sam?” The word was soft, unsure, and Sam thought he must’ve imagined it, conjured it out of his despair, until it happened again, “Sam, you awake?”
Sam jerked up, Dean’s voice behind him suddenly registering as real. He scrambled back, launching himself off the side of the bed and moving backwards until he hit the wall. He didn’t know why Dean was here. There was nothing left to say between them. Why would Dean feel the need to make him feel even worse?
He didn’t think that was possible – it wasn’t possible to hate himself more than he already did, but if anyone could still do it, Dean could.
Just get the hell out. There’s nothing left to say. Just leave me alone, please. It was what Sam intended to say, but all that came out was a soft, broken, “No…” He wasn’t going to even be able to beg Dean for forgiveness. He curled in on himself, wrapped his arms around his head, and it hurt – any movement hurt, of course, but with his clenching muscles, sitting with all his weight on his ass, it all just added to the agony. Maybe that was a good thing. He rocked himself forward and back, forward and back, letting the pain white everything out, so that he didn’t have to be present, didn’t have to see the permanent look of disgust that decorated Dean’s face now. There was no going back from this.
“Sammy?” The hand that landed on his shoulder scorched him, judgment and condemnation and betrayal and Sam couldn’t…
He jerked away from it, crawled away until he hit the corner of the room and couldn’t go any further. He twisted himself up as small as possible, praying for what little shelter the walls could give. Don’t touch me, he wanted to say, and Leave me alone, but nothing passed his lips except a steady stream of, “No, no, no…”
Hands grasped at him anyway, hands that pulled him away from safety falsely promised, the safety that was never really his. “Sam, Sammy, stop!” The words were commanding, the voice promised sin… no, that wasn’t right. Desire swelled in him, true enough, but it was nothing he should want, and it wasn’t Dean’s fault that he did.
We're not even the same species. You're nothing to me.
He screamed helplessly, his struggles fruitless as the arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly.
He kept screaming, kept fighting, but he had so little left to start with, and his body gave out far too soon. There was no escape from the hands that gripped him. There never was. His struggles waned, slipped away into stillness broken only by the small tremors of spent muscles and residual panic.
Eventually, he relaxed into the embrace, even though he knew he shouldn’t. How many times did faith have to burn him before he learned not to reach for it, not to touch it? He didn’t deserve the blessings of a higher power.
Abomination.
He tried not to let false hope fill him, even as the comforting hands rocked him, and whispers of love and support taunted him with their unattainability. “Shhh…” the words whispered. “I’ve got you, Sammy… It’s okay. I’ve got you...” Everything was blurring around him, and the soft words chased him into sleep.
~o0O0o~
He came awake from his dreamless sleep with a start; the arms wrapped around him were still holding him securely. He was trapped, helpless, and it overshadowed his relief at getting the first undisturbed sleep in longer than he could remember. He lay there silently for a moment before he realized escape might be an option. He thrashed against his captor, letting out a barely audible cry.
“Sam?” Dean’s sleep hazed voice simultaneously soothed and alarmed. Sam froze in confusion, his body rigid with indecision. “Hey, Sam. You’re okay, just relax. Please.”
The barely concealed fear in Dean’s words had an immediate effect. Self-preservation took over, and Sam settled down. He couldn’t face Lucifer coming out to play. Not right now.
“Sam, can you… can you look at me?” Dean’s hesitant request caught Sam by surprise; he hadn’t realized his eyes were closed.
He fluttered them open to find Dean’s face inches from his own. His vision wasn’t any clearer than it was the last time he awoke, and for a moment all he could do was panic that it never would be. It hadn’t occurred to him to try before, but Dean was blurry enough, even this close, that Sam wasn’t sure he’d actually be able to read anything without a magnifying glass. Lucifer promised him sight, but hadn’t said anything about how good it would be. Dean didn’t pull away, just looked at him worriedly, their faces close enough to share breath. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He leaned in and pressed his lips to his brother’s.
Dean jerked back, looking vaguely panicked, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he raised a hand wonderingly and ran a finger over Sam’s cheek. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, almost like Sam wasn’t even there, “Bobby said, but… I don’t think I really believed it. How… What happened?”
Dean was looking at Sam’s eyes like a miracle had occurred. Sam couldn’t really find it in himself to agree, especially since Lucifer was the very one that caused the injury he’d ‘healed’. Sam knew he couldn’t answer Dean’s question, and Dean’s grip had loosened, so Sam rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow.
Dean responded by curling around Sam protectively. The sob Sam heaved into the pillow caught him off-guard, his body shuddering in his brother’s embrace. Dean reacted by holding him tighter. “I don’t know how to help you, Sam. You gotta tell me how to help you.”
The shocked expression Dean had worn when he saw Sam dreaming about using his own brother to get himself off popped into Sam’s head, and he rolled away abruptly, pushing Dean away from him forcefully. Clearly not expecting the move, Dean tumbled over the side of the bed in a clumsy heap.
“Sam? Fuck,” Dean muttered in confusion, untangling himself from the blankets he took with him in his fall.
“Dean, it is time.” Cas was abruptly in the room with them, his tone grave like it usually was.
Sam flung himself backwards off the bed, he couldn’t… his back hit the corner of the room, he couldn’t move any farther away, but if Cas looked at him, he thought he might just fly apart.
“Not now, Cas,” Dean said angrily, his eyes not leaving Sam’s.
“Prolonging this will only cause your brother more suffering. You are being… unreasonable.”
“Fuck you, Cas. You aren’t the one that’s gonna have to…”
Cas was already moving toward Sam as Dean’s voice trailed off. “No!” Sam yelled. Cas didn’t listen though, nobody ever listened. The angel reached out and placed cool fingers against Sam’s forehead. He was out before he had time to scream again.
~o0O0o~
He’s face down in gravel that’s tearing into his skin with every pounding thrust. It’s peaceful; the sound of crickets fills the night and a gentle breeze is cooling against the sweat that covers his naked body. He wonders why he isn’t fighting, why he’s just taking the endless abuse that’s being visited on him in the quiet night, in the middle of nowhere. This is a dream. It has to be a dream. Tim never raped him. Not like this.
“Please,” he rasps against the dirt and stones. Still, he doesn’t fight back, doesn’t do anything but beg into the ground that’s wet with his blood. “Please, you don’t really want to do this, Tim. Please, stop...”
The body above him stills, and the crickets grow louder and louder, loud enough that the echo is maddening. The man thrusts forward hard enough to jerk Sam’s body at least a foot across the course ground, driving more gravel into the skin of his abdomen and groin. Sam yells, his body on fire, so much pain he thinks he might not be able to contain it all, and suddenly, the crickets stop, leaving a deafening silence.
Fear curls around Sam like a blanket. “Tim?” he whimpers.
The masculine laugh from above him shatters the quiet, and Sam’s heart stops. It isn’t Tim. It’s… It’s… Dad. The tears brim and then fall. There’s no way Sam can keep them back this time. The laughter doesn’t stop even as the harsh thrusts resume, pounding into him as Sam lies there helplessly.
He thinks it can’t get any worse than this, until John stills above him once again. Suddenly, his father is swinging their bodies around and up to sitting, effortlessly keeping their connection, until Sam is sitting in his father’s lap, and he can feel the zipper of his father’s open jeans scraping against his own bare skin. His father’s thrusts gentle, and he pulls Sam in closer, nuzzling his rough-shaven skin against Sam’s throat. Dad’s hand wraps around Sam’s dick and Sam spreads his legs apart, allowing him better access. He thrusts up into his father’s hand, lets gravity impale him once more on his father’s dick, and then does it again, and again, his movements rapid and synchronized with his dad’s. He’s still crying, still doesn’t want this, but his body seems to have other ideas.
They pulse together until the orgasm builds, crests, breaks… his dad comes at the same time, his groans obscene as his come fills Sam’s body, warm and wet.
Sam’s aftershocks haven’t even completely faded before Dad pushes him away so harshly he sprawls face first in the middle of the road. “Just like old times, right, Sammy?” Dad laughs, his voice teasing and light.
“What? No!” Sam yells out, horrified, “We never…”
Dad blinks, and when his eyes open again, they’re glowing yellow. The demon wearing Dad’s skin leers at him for a moment, laughing cruelly. He steps into Sam’s space, roughly grabs hold and pulls Sam against him, covering Sam’s mouth with his own. His tongue thrusts deep inside, and Sam does nothing but whimper against the invasion.
The kiss continues as a hand comes up and covers Sam’s eyes and nose, cutting off his air flow. He can’t breathe, can’t see, and still the tongue roughly, possessively claims his own.
By the time he starts to struggle the smallest bit, he’s getting light headed and his resistance is weak, as if his body has no strength. It’s all been stolen from him.
For a split second, he thinks he’s going to die, but then he’s harshly pushed away. He slams into a table as he stumbles back and collapses against it, shuddering.
“Go back to your place!” Tim screams at him so angrily that spittle flies from his lips. Sam throws himself to the floor and frantically crawls back over to the wall, rising up on his knees obediently so that he’s at the right height to pleasure the other hunter.
Tim stalks toward him, every bit the predator and Sam doesn’t think he can take another round. Tim and Reggie have both already taken a turn with him – Tim can’t possibly be ready to go a second time already. Sam’s mouth is swollen and sore, his jaw aching. “Please,” he begs when Tim gets near. “Please, just let her go. I did what you wanted.”
Tim is hard and leaking already, despite the fact that he’s still messy from Sam’s earlier efforts. Time must be moving oddly… or maybe he’s losing time. It’s the only thing he can think of to explain how Tim can be this excited this soon.
“Open wide, Sammy-boy,” Tim taunts, ramming himself inside as soon as Sam parts his lips. “Oh,” he groans, “Now this, is heaven.” Tim pants obscenely, his thrusts hard and deep and overwhelming. Sam’s head is pressed firmly against the wall behind him, and he can’t do anything except just take what Tim is forcing on him.
“God, son, you do learn fast. You have to have done this before.”
Tim thrusts forward hard enough that Sam gags, and a bit of bile bubbles up into his mouth. He can’t breathe, and he frantically tries to swallow the burning liquid back down before he aspirates it. He knows he’ll have no choice but to gulp air as soon as Tim allows it. “Who was your teacher, huh, Sam? Did your daddy teach you to do this when you were young? Did he shove his dick down your useless throat just like I am?”
Tim’s dick is still thrusting in and out deeply, and suddenly Sam can’t keep the image of his Dad doing this to him out of his mind. It’s filthy and sick and wrong and he can’t stop the tears from spilling over. His dad doesn’t belong here, shouldn’t be in his thoughts as Tim groans and starts spurting down Sam’s throat. Tim finishes and shoves Sam roughly to the ground.
The bitter taste of come coats his mouth and he retches against the floor helplessly. He can’t stop his heaving even when the men do something that makes Lindsey cry out in pain or fear, he can’t tell the difference any more.
“Okay, Sam,” Tim says, moving back towards him, and something in the man’s voice, something darker that hadn’t been there before, makes Sam freeze with fear. “Time to wash my come off your face, you no good dirty piece of shit.” Sam’s still on the ground, supporting his upper body with his arms to keep himself out of the come and the vomit. “Look at me, Sam. Take your penance for Steve’s death like a man.”
Sam hesitates, and Lindsey cries out once again. Sam’s head snaps up automatically to find Tim standing over him, dick out and held loosely in Tim’s hand. Tim smiles, and the half-crazed expression sends an electric shock of panic through Sam’s body right before Tim lets loose with a steady stream.
Sam cries out and throws himself to the floor, but it’s not fast enough to keep the acrid liquid from burning into his eyes and nose, to keep it from splattering against his lips enough to taste the bitterness. He covers his head with his hands, not that it does much good, and keeps his head turned away, tries to tune out the steady pattering sound of the liquid splattering over his hair and back by squeezing his arms against his ears. It doesn’t help much.
Lindsey is sobbing openly now, yelling at Tim to stop it, to leave him alone, but her cries do nothing. The stream seems to go on and on, pinning Sam to the floor under the onslaught until Tim finishes with a satisfied groan and zips himself up. Tim crouches down and grabs Sam’s face. “You’re a blood-sucking freak, and death is too good for you. Admit it.”
“What?” Sam gasps.
“Admit what I just said, and maybe we’ll let the girl live,” Tim growls.
Lindsey cries out, and Sam’s tripping over the words in an effort to get them out fast enough. “I’m a blood-sucking freak, and death is too good for me.”
“That’s right,” Tim nods. “You’ve become one of the filthy things we hunt. You’re a monster, and nobody’s going to save you.”
Tim looks at Sam expectantly, and against the backdrop of Lindsey’s continuing sobs, he replies brokenly, “I’m one of the filthy things we hunt. I’m a monster, and nobody’s going to save me.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Tim responds. His fist slams into Sam’s face, sending him crashing to the ground. He stands up, looking at Sam coldly while he gathers his saliva and spits in Sam’s face.
He doesn’t know why he ever thought he was the strong one. Dean and his dad should’ve just let him die in the fire when he was an infant.
“Sammy?” Dean’s voice pulls his attention away from Tim towards the door into the bar. Dean’s standing there, looking pained. Sam lets out a panicked, “Shit,” and frantically wipes at his face to obscure the evidence of what he’s been doing. Dean probably isn’t real, but… on the off chance Sam is wrong, he can’t help but try to cover up his shame.
“What?” Sam whispers. His jeans are still around his ankles from when Reggie forced him to expose himself. Mortified, he staggers off the floor and pulls them quickly back up.
Dean looks horrified as he looks around the bar. Tim’s frozen in place, his eyes still boring into Sam with hatred and derision. Reggie and Lindsey are nowhere to be found.
“Where…” The word is scratchy, mumbled and barely audible. Dean has to clear his throat before trying again. “Where are we?” He still sounds wrecked, but at least Sam can understand the words now.
“The bar I worked at. The one in Oklahoma.” It suddenly occurs to Sam that he can talk now, but he’s too exhausted to question it. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
Dean moves clumsily over to Tim and stops in front of the unmoving man with a gasp. “Wait, I know him. This is the guy that gave you the demon blood, isn’t it?” Dean scrapes out angrily.
“I spit it out, Dean, I swear I spit it out,” Sam answers miserably.
When Dean turns back to Sam, his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Sam, why were you dreaming about…” Dean flails his hands uncomfortably. “That.”
Sam folds in on himself, shaking with the confirmation that Dean saw.
He’s not real, Sam thinks furiously. This isn’t really Dean.
“Sam?” Dean’s crouching in front of him, and Sam has to keep his gaze on the floor to avoid meeting his brother’s eyes. Real or not, he doesn’t really want to have this conversation. “He didn’t… the demon blood isn’t all he did to you, is it. This… this isn’t just some fucked up dream that came out of nowhere.”
Dean sounds sickened, scared, but he’s not moving away, and eventually, Sam replies, “I… I don’t... I’ve… been having nightmares about it since it happened, I guess. I’m sorry.”
Dean jerks back. “You’re sorry? What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know, being weak? Being born?” Sam rasps out wretchedly. “What the hell do you want, Dean?” The hopeless look Dean gives him leaves him feeling gutted, but he still isn’t sure why his dream has turned in this direction – why his dream brought his brother here. His subconscious must really be trying to fuck with him this time.
“I need to know what’s been happening to you. I want to try to fix this. Why… why did you let him do that to you? Why didn’t you fight him off?”
Sam huffs out a dry, self-depreciating laugh. “Because I was too stupid to figure out how to fight him off and keep Reggie from putting a bullet in Lindsey’s head at the same time.”
An arm loops around Dean’s neck from out of nowhere and hauls him backwards. Dean’s gun clatters to the ground a moment later. “Well, look who’s come to play with us,” Tim purrs in Dean’s ear.
Sam freezes, his breaths speeding up so fast he can barely get enough air. He can’t watch Dean go through what he did, he can’t. It feels like he’s bolted to the wall though. He strains against the hold, but his muscles are largely unresponsive, and he can’t move away from the wall no matter how hard he tries.
Tim’s hand snakes around Dean’s body and plunges a hand down the front of Dean’s pants, making his brother cry out in alarm. “Get the fuck away from me!” Dean yells.
“Let him go!” Sam cries out at the same time, renewing his struggles against his invisible bonds, but nothing seems to happen. He lets out a miserable, useless sob when Dean hisses in pain at whatever Tim is doing to him.
“Sam! This is your dream! Take control of it! Now, damn it!” Dean’s shouting at Sam furiously as he struggles against his captor. He seems to be having about as much effect as Sam is, though. “Sam, please!” Dean yells, sharply.
Dean’s panic cuts through Sam’s helplessness like a knife. He jerks away from the wall and sends his body crashing into Tim’s, landing them all on the floor in an untidy heap.
The gun is in Sam’s hand, pointed at Tim’s head while Dean holds the man, the tables completely turned between one heartbeat and the next. No one else seems to notice the disconnect.
Tim smiles cruelly. “Go ahead and pull the trigger, Sammy-boy. I get to haunt you for the rest of your sorry life no matter what you do. I made sure I left a lasting impression.”
Sam stakes a step to the side, angling himself so there’s no chance of hitting his brother, and fires. The blast sends blood splattering everywhere. Dean doesn’t even flinch.
Tim’s body suddenly disappears, and Dean falls backwards with a thud. “Ow,” Dean moans pitifully, rubbing at his head. He holds out his other hand and Sam takes it automatically, leveraging Dean up from the floor, but he drops it self-consciously as soon as Dean is up and in his space. He takes a guilty step back - he knows he’s filthy, knows Dean probably doesn’t want to be close to him now that he’s seen.
Dean’s still covered in gore, despite Tim’s disappearance. It’s a little surreal how the blood glows eerily against Dean’s skin in the dim light of the bar, with Dean seemingly unaware of his current state.
“Guess it’s time to wake up now,” Sam mutters to himself. He pinches himself, and when that doesn’t work, tries to will himself awake. Nothing happens.
“Cas is keeping you out,” Dean says quietly.
“What?” Sam replies intelligently.
“I took dream-root to get here, and Cas is keeping you asleep so we can talk, so we can... He thought… he thought this might help.”
“Help? How?”
“It’s… can we go someplace more comfortable?” Dean deflects, looking around. “This place is creeping me out a little.”
“I guess.” Sam closes his eyes, tries to take control of the dream the way they did before, tries to imagine someplace safe.
The crickets burst into song again, but it’s soothing, not raucous like it was earlier. He opens his eyes to find Dean and himself next to the Impala in the middle of an open field. It’s late night or early morning, and the view of the stars is glorious.
Dean snorts and clasps his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You always did have a thing for starry nights,” Dean says affectionately. “You forgot the beer, though, bitch.”
The answering name is on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but there’s too much pain in the way to force it past his lips. Sam turns and bends forward to brace himself against the Impala’s fender. Dean doesn’t take his hand away.
“Tell me,” Dean whispers.
Sam shudders, “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I’m not going anywhere. I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there for you before,” Dean’s voice breaks slightly, “but I swear, I’m not going anywhere now. I’m listening. I don’t need every detail, but… you can’t keep it all inside anymore, you gotta give me enough to help you. Start with what happened in the bar. Please, Sam.”
His knees suddenly won’t support him anymore and he sinks all the way down to the ground. Dean follows him, his hand never losing contact with Sam’s shoulder.
There’s almost no moon, and despite the stars, it’s pretty dark. Still, Sam doesn’t think he can talk and look at Dean at the same time, so he turns away and leans his shoulder against the Impala’s front tire. Dean leans against the car behind him, letting his shoulder form a warm, comforting line of contact down Sam’s back.
“Demons showed up in the town I was working in,” Sam started with a sigh. “Tim and his friends were tracking them and asked for my help, but I refused.” Sam shrugged helplessly. “Steve didn’t make it out. Tim showed up later and tried to make me drink demon blood so I’d go after the demons and take them out. When that didn’t work, they brought in Lindsey, who was also working at the bar, to use as a hostage. Tim wanted…”
Sam cuts himself off, emotion threatening to strangle him. He can barely breathe, his breaths coming out rapid and short as he tries desperately to keep it all inside.
Dean stays still, an unwavering line of support against Sam’s back. Sam forces deeper breaths in and out, somehow pulls strength from his brother to get himself under enough control to continue, “He just wanted to humiliate me a little bit. Made me give him and Reggie blow jobs in exchange for Lindsey not getting hurt. Then they let the girl go and took off. That’s all that happened.” He didn’t understand why Tim was still haunting his dreams. They were just blow-jobs.
“What I saw, back there…”
And fuck, Dean saw. Sam can’t contain his sob at the realization.
Deans grip tightens on Sam’s shoulders as he continues, “That was a hell of a lot more complicated than a blow job, Sammy. That was… Plus, I saw your injuries.” Dean sounded calm. The rigid way he was holding himself said otherwise. “That’s not all that happened. Not all that’s still happening. You have to tell me. I swear to you, whatever it is, I’ll understand. Probably better than anybody else.”
Sam can feel the bile inching up his throat. He knows he needs to tell Dean… but… he can’t quite force the damning words out.
“Sammy…” the word whispers across the field, making Sam jump. A puff of warm, moist air against his face, at an angle that can’t possibly be Dean, causes cold sweat to bead along his forehead and down his back as he looks frantically for the source of his name.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, tightening the grip on Sam’s shoulder enough to be uncomfortable. Dean probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Did you hear that?” Sam chokes out.
“Hear what?” Dean asks, confused. “We’re all alone out here.”
“Sam…” It’s Nick’s voice, and it’s close. Too close. A cold, wet finger glides over Sam’s bottom lip.
Sam surges backwards to get away, only to be blocked by his brother. “Please, stop,” he begs shamelessly.
Dean wraps himself around Sam, grabbing Sam’s face and forcing their eyes to meet. “Sam! Nobody’s here but me. I swear.” Sam can still feel the warm puffs of breath against his face. “Look at me!” Dean shouts when Sam’s attention shifts to the side, jerking Sam’s face back.
Their bodies are entwined, Dean’s face inches from his own, and suddenly, Sam’s overcome with a desire to lose himself in his brother, to shut everything else out. He stretches up and covers Dean’s mouth with his own. Dean doesn’t pull away immediately, doesn’t even close his mouth, and Sam takes advantage, plunging hungrily into the warm, welcoming heat to lick the taste of Dean into his mouth.
The moment doesn’t last long. Dean jerks away, pushing Sam back, a confused, “What the fuck?” slipping past his spit-damp lips.
Sam’s naked now, completely exposed, and for a moment, he can’t remember why that’s a bad thing.
Dean’s gaze wanders lower, probably realizing the same thing. He freezes for a single heart beat. Abruptly, he’s scrambling back, but he doesn’t leave, just kneels at Sam’s side. He runs his gaze over Sam’s body, his breath held, and then trains on Sam’s exposed chest. “Shit,” he whispers. Unsteady fingers slide over Sam’s burn, tracing the shape of Lucifer’s hand. “What’s been happening to you? When… Who did this?” Dean asks, unable to keep the fearful tremor out of his voice. “What didn’t I see?” he adds, anguish roughening his tone.
Sam curls into himself on his side protectively, but Dean stops him, pulling him back with both hands on Sam’s shoulders to keep him in place. Sam’s too exhausted to struggle. It’s not like it ever helps anyway.
“That night, Lucifer appeared to me in a dream. Told me I was his vessel. That’s when I called you. He wanted… he doesn’t know where I am. He wants me to tell him. He keeps… he keeps coming back… thinks if he keeps… if he hurts me enough I’ll say yes.”
“Oh, God,” Dean moans. “Sam, I’m… Jesus. I should have known. I mean, I knew something was wrong but…” Dean’s eyes are full and pleading for forgiveness. His voice softens as he continues, “I thought I had all the answers, I didn’t… I pushed you away.” Dean whispers, horrified.
Sam can hear the self-recrimination in Dean’s voice. “No, it’s okay, Dean,” he hurries to reassure. “You changed your mind pretty fast. God, you’re the only thing that’s been keeping me sane.”
“I wasn’t going to. I… wasn’t going to. I wasn’t planning on ever seeing you again. But then Zachariah showed me the future, showed me what would happen if nothing changed. You said yes.”
Part Eight | Part Ten
Part Nine
He’d been lying in bed for hours, shaking, unable to force Dean’s horrified face from his mind. Dean thought he… Dean thought… and really… isn’t it true? Sam did want it. Even now that he was awake, he longed for it. God help him, he’d never wanted anything like this with Dean before, but now that he’s… now it was all he could think about – Dean’s warm hands caressing over his skin, soft whispers of love, of acceptance, the two of them so tangled up in each other that Sam wouldn’t ever get lost again. He hungered for it.
You’re a monster, Sam. There’s no going back.
Dean was never going to talk to him again. He kept expecting Bobby to call for him angrily, to banish him from the house and tell him to never come back. All it would take was one phone call from Dean. Bobby, I know what Sammy is now. I saw what he did…
Maybe it was the demon blood, maybe drinking it changed him more than he thought, turned him into this… this thing that could lust after his own brother.
Bloodsucking freak.
Or maybe… maybe Lucifer had been telling the truth – Sam was just… evil, inherently evil. It was in his nature to be this twisted, this fucked up. The only question was why he ever bothered to fight in the first place.
Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic.
He almost drifted off a few times, but every time he was laughed back awake by jeering faces that taunted him with his worthlessness. The desperate feeling of being completely alone gnawed at him, and he wished he could die. Saying yes to Lucifer was as close as he was ever going to get to death, but… but he wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t. As long as he could pretend he had his brother when he was dreaming, maybe he’d be able to hold on indefinitely, except, he was really not sure how much longer his sanity would stick around.
You were always a monster. And you only feel right when you're sucking down more poison and more evil.
If he was completely insane, would it still count if he said yes? In a court of law he certainly wouldn’t be held accountable for anything he said while he was bat-shit crazy, but he wasn’t sure the same laws applied to angels. And also, of course, that would be assuming there was something fair, something good in the universe… it took awhile, but he thought maybe he’d finally grown out of that childish insistence.
There’s no saving you…
“Sam?” The word was soft, unsure, and Sam thought he must’ve imagined it, conjured it out of his despair, until it happened again, “Sam, you awake?”
Sam jerked up, Dean’s voice behind him suddenly registering as real. He scrambled back, launching himself off the side of the bed and moving backwards until he hit the wall. He didn’t know why Dean was here. There was nothing left to say between them. Why would Dean feel the need to make him feel even worse?
He didn’t think that was possible – it wasn’t possible to hate himself more than he already did, but if anyone could still do it, Dean could.
Just get the hell out. There’s nothing left to say. Just leave me alone, please. It was what Sam intended to say, but all that came out was a soft, broken, “No…” He wasn’t going to even be able to beg Dean for forgiveness. He curled in on himself, wrapped his arms around his head, and it hurt – any movement hurt, of course, but with his clenching muscles, sitting with all his weight on his ass, it all just added to the agony. Maybe that was a good thing. He rocked himself forward and back, forward and back, letting the pain white everything out, so that he didn’t have to be present, didn’t have to see the permanent look of disgust that decorated Dean’s face now. There was no going back from this.
“Sammy?” The hand that landed on his shoulder scorched him, judgment and condemnation and betrayal and Sam couldn’t…
He jerked away from it, crawled away until he hit the corner of the room and couldn’t go any further. He twisted himself up as small as possible, praying for what little shelter the walls could give. Don’t touch me, he wanted to say, and Leave me alone, but nothing passed his lips except a steady stream of, “No, no, no…”
Hands grasped at him anyway, hands that pulled him away from safety falsely promised, the safety that was never really his. “Sam, Sammy, stop!” The words were commanding, the voice promised sin… no, that wasn’t right. Desire swelled in him, true enough, but it was nothing he should want, and it wasn’t Dean’s fault that he did.
We're not even the same species. You're nothing to me.
He screamed helplessly, his struggles fruitless as the arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly.
He kept screaming, kept fighting, but he had so little left to start with, and his body gave out far too soon. There was no escape from the hands that gripped him. There never was. His struggles waned, slipped away into stillness broken only by the small tremors of spent muscles and residual panic.
Eventually, he relaxed into the embrace, even though he knew he shouldn’t. How many times did faith have to burn him before he learned not to reach for it, not to touch it? He didn’t deserve the blessings of a higher power.
Abomination.
He tried not to let false hope fill him, even as the comforting hands rocked him, and whispers of love and support taunted him with their unattainability. “Shhh…” the words whispered. “I’ve got you, Sammy… It’s okay. I’ve got you...” Everything was blurring around him, and the soft words chased him into sleep.
~o0O0o~
He came awake from his dreamless sleep with a start; the arms wrapped around him were still holding him securely. He was trapped, helpless, and it overshadowed his relief at getting the first undisturbed sleep in longer than he could remember. He lay there silently for a moment before he realized escape might be an option. He thrashed against his captor, letting out a barely audible cry.
“Sam?” Dean’s sleep hazed voice simultaneously soothed and alarmed. Sam froze in confusion, his body rigid with indecision. “Hey, Sam. You’re okay, just relax. Please.”
The barely concealed fear in Dean’s words had an immediate effect. Self-preservation took over, and Sam settled down. He couldn’t face Lucifer coming out to play. Not right now.
“Sam, can you… can you look at me?” Dean’s hesitant request caught Sam by surprise; he hadn’t realized his eyes were closed.
He fluttered them open to find Dean’s face inches from his own. His vision wasn’t any clearer than it was the last time he awoke, and for a moment all he could do was panic that it never would be. It hadn’t occurred to him to try before, but Dean was blurry enough, even this close, that Sam wasn’t sure he’d actually be able to read anything without a magnifying glass. Lucifer promised him sight, but hadn’t said anything about how good it would be. Dean didn’t pull away, just looked at him worriedly, their faces close enough to share breath. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He leaned in and pressed his lips to his brother’s.
Dean jerked back, looking vaguely panicked, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he raised a hand wonderingly and ran a finger over Sam’s cheek. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, almost like Sam wasn’t even there, “Bobby said, but… I don’t think I really believed it. How… What happened?”
Dean was looking at Sam’s eyes like a miracle had occurred. Sam couldn’t really find it in himself to agree, especially since Lucifer was the very one that caused the injury he’d ‘healed’. Sam knew he couldn’t answer Dean’s question, and Dean’s grip had loosened, so Sam rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow.
Dean responded by curling around Sam protectively. The sob Sam heaved into the pillow caught him off-guard, his body shuddering in his brother’s embrace. Dean reacted by holding him tighter. “I don’t know how to help you, Sam. You gotta tell me how to help you.”
The shocked expression Dean had worn when he saw Sam dreaming about using his own brother to get himself off popped into Sam’s head, and he rolled away abruptly, pushing Dean away from him forcefully. Clearly not expecting the move, Dean tumbled over the side of the bed in a clumsy heap.
“Sam? Fuck,” Dean muttered in confusion, untangling himself from the blankets he took with him in his fall.
“Dean, it is time.” Cas was abruptly in the room with them, his tone grave like it usually was.
Sam flung himself backwards off the bed, he couldn’t… his back hit the corner of the room, he couldn’t move any farther away, but if Cas looked at him, he thought he might just fly apart.
“Not now, Cas,” Dean said angrily, his eyes not leaving Sam’s.
“Prolonging this will only cause your brother more suffering. You are being… unreasonable.”
“Fuck you, Cas. You aren’t the one that’s gonna have to…”
Cas was already moving toward Sam as Dean’s voice trailed off. “No!” Sam yelled. Cas didn’t listen though, nobody ever listened. The angel reached out and placed cool fingers against Sam’s forehead. He was out before he had time to scream again.
~o0O0o~
He’s face down in gravel that’s tearing into his skin with every pounding thrust. It’s peaceful; the sound of crickets fills the night and a gentle breeze is cooling against the sweat that covers his naked body. He wonders why he isn’t fighting, why he’s just taking the endless abuse that’s being visited on him in the quiet night, in the middle of nowhere. This is a dream. It has to be a dream. Tim never raped him. Not like this.
“Please,” he rasps against the dirt and stones. Still, he doesn’t fight back, doesn’t do anything but beg into the ground that’s wet with his blood. “Please, you don’t really want to do this, Tim. Please, stop...”
The body above him stills, and the crickets grow louder and louder, loud enough that the echo is maddening. The man thrusts forward hard enough to jerk Sam’s body at least a foot across the course ground, driving more gravel into the skin of his abdomen and groin. Sam yells, his body on fire, so much pain he thinks he might not be able to contain it all, and suddenly, the crickets stop, leaving a deafening silence.
Fear curls around Sam like a blanket. “Tim?” he whimpers.
The masculine laugh from above him shatters the quiet, and Sam’s heart stops. It isn’t Tim. It’s… It’s… Dad. The tears brim and then fall. There’s no way Sam can keep them back this time. The laughter doesn’t stop even as the harsh thrusts resume, pounding into him as Sam lies there helplessly.
He thinks it can’t get any worse than this, until John stills above him once again. Suddenly, his father is swinging their bodies around and up to sitting, effortlessly keeping their connection, until Sam is sitting in his father’s lap, and he can feel the zipper of his father’s open jeans scraping against his own bare skin. His father’s thrusts gentle, and he pulls Sam in closer, nuzzling his rough-shaven skin against Sam’s throat. Dad’s hand wraps around Sam’s dick and Sam spreads his legs apart, allowing him better access. He thrusts up into his father’s hand, lets gravity impale him once more on his father’s dick, and then does it again, and again, his movements rapid and synchronized with his dad’s. He’s still crying, still doesn’t want this, but his body seems to have other ideas.
They pulse together until the orgasm builds, crests, breaks… his dad comes at the same time, his groans obscene as his come fills Sam’s body, warm and wet.
Sam’s aftershocks haven’t even completely faded before Dad pushes him away so harshly he sprawls face first in the middle of the road. “Just like old times, right, Sammy?” Dad laughs, his voice teasing and light.
“What? No!” Sam yells out, horrified, “We never…”
Dad blinks, and when his eyes open again, they’re glowing yellow. The demon wearing Dad’s skin leers at him for a moment, laughing cruelly. He steps into Sam’s space, roughly grabs hold and pulls Sam against him, covering Sam’s mouth with his own. His tongue thrusts deep inside, and Sam does nothing but whimper against the invasion.
The kiss continues as a hand comes up and covers Sam’s eyes and nose, cutting off his air flow. He can’t breathe, can’t see, and still the tongue roughly, possessively claims his own.
By the time he starts to struggle the smallest bit, he’s getting light headed and his resistance is weak, as if his body has no strength. It’s all been stolen from him.
For a split second, he thinks he’s going to die, but then he’s harshly pushed away. He slams into a table as he stumbles back and collapses against it, shuddering.
“Go back to your place!” Tim screams at him so angrily that spittle flies from his lips. Sam throws himself to the floor and frantically crawls back over to the wall, rising up on his knees obediently so that he’s at the right height to pleasure the other hunter.
Tim stalks toward him, every bit the predator and Sam doesn’t think he can take another round. Tim and Reggie have both already taken a turn with him – Tim can’t possibly be ready to go a second time already. Sam’s mouth is swollen and sore, his jaw aching. “Please,” he begs when Tim gets near. “Please, just let her go. I did what you wanted.”
Tim is hard and leaking already, despite the fact that he’s still messy from Sam’s earlier efforts. Time must be moving oddly… or maybe he’s losing time. It’s the only thing he can think of to explain how Tim can be this excited this soon.
“Open wide, Sammy-boy,” Tim taunts, ramming himself inside as soon as Sam parts his lips. “Oh,” he groans, “Now this, is heaven.” Tim pants obscenely, his thrusts hard and deep and overwhelming. Sam’s head is pressed firmly against the wall behind him, and he can’t do anything except just take what Tim is forcing on him.
“God, son, you do learn fast. You have to have done this before.”
Tim thrusts forward hard enough that Sam gags, and a bit of bile bubbles up into his mouth. He can’t breathe, and he frantically tries to swallow the burning liquid back down before he aspirates it. He knows he’ll have no choice but to gulp air as soon as Tim allows it. “Who was your teacher, huh, Sam? Did your daddy teach you to do this when you were young? Did he shove his dick down your useless throat just like I am?”
Tim’s dick is still thrusting in and out deeply, and suddenly Sam can’t keep the image of his Dad doing this to him out of his mind. It’s filthy and sick and wrong and he can’t stop the tears from spilling over. His dad doesn’t belong here, shouldn’t be in his thoughts as Tim groans and starts spurting down Sam’s throat. Tim finishes and shoves Sam roughly to the ground.
The bitter taste of come coats his mouth and he retches against the floor helplessly. He can’t stop his heaving even when the men do something that makes Lindsey cry out in pain or fear, he can’t tell the difference any more.
“Okay, Sam,” Tim says, moving back towards him, and something in the man’s voice, something darker that hadn’t been there before, makes Sam freeze with fear. “Time to wash my come off your face, you no good dirty piece of shit.” Sam’s still on the ground, supporting his upper body with his arms to keep himself out of the come and the vomit. “Look at me, Sam. Take your penance for Steve’s death like a man.”
Sam hesitates, and Lindsey cries out once again. Sam’s head snaps up automatically to find Tim standing over him, dick out and held loosely in Tim’s hand. Tim smiles, and the half-crazed expression sends an electric shock of panic through Sam’s body right before Tim lets loose with a steady stream.
Sam cries out and throws himself to the floor, but it’s not fast enough to keep the acrid liquid from burning into his eyes and nose, to keep it from splattering against his lips enough to taste the bitterness. He covers his head with his hands, not that it does much good, and keeps his head turned away, tries to tune out the steady pattering sound of the liquid splattering over his hair and back by squeezing his arms against his ears. It doesn’t help much.
Lindsey is sobbing openly now, yelling at Tim to stop it, to leave him alone, but her cries do nothing. The stream seems to go on and on, pinning Sam to the floor under the onslaught until Tim finishes with a satisfied groan and zips himself up. Tim crouches down and grabs Sam’s face. “You’re a blood-sucking freak, and death is too good for you. Admit it.”
“What?” Sam gasps.
“Admit what I just said, and maybe we’ll let the girl live,” Tim growls.
Lindsey cries out, and Sam’s tripping over the words in an effort to get them out fast enough. “I’m a blood-sucking freak, and death is too good for me.”
“That’s right,” Tim nods. “You’ve become one of the filthy things we hunt. You’re a monster, and nobody’s going to save you.”
Tim looks at Sam expectantly, and against the backdrop of Lindsey’s continuing sobs, he replies brokenly, “I’m one of the filthy things we hunt. I’m a monster, and nobody’s going to save me.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Tim responds. His fist slams into Sam’s face, sending him crashing to the ground. He stands up, looking at Sam coldly while he gathers his saliva and spits in Sam’s face.
He doesn’t know why he ever thought he was the strong one. Dean and his dad should’ve just let him die in the fire when he was an infant.
“Sammy?” Dean’s voice pulls his attention away from Tim towards the door into the bar. Dean’s standing there, looking pained. Sam lets out a panicked, “Shit,” and frantically wipes at his face to obscure the evidence of what he’s been doing. Dean probably isn’t real, but… on the off chance Sam is wrong, he can’t help but try to cover up his shame.
“What?” Sam whispers. His jeans are still around his ankles from when Reggie forced him to expose himself. Mortified, he staggers off the floor and pulls them quickly back up.
Dean looks horrified as he looks around the bar. Tim’s frozen in place, his eyes still boring into Sam with hatred and derision. Reggie and Lindsey are nowhere to be found.
“Where…” The word is scratchy, mumbled and barely audible. Dean has to clear his throat before trying again. “Where are we?” He still sounds wrecked, but at least Sam can understand the words now.
“The bar I worked at. The one in Oklahoma.” It suddenly occurs to Sam that he can talk now, but he’s too exhausted to question it. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
Dean moves clumsily over to Tim and stops in front of the unmoving man with a gasp. “Wait, I know him. This is the guy that gave you the demon blood, isn’t it?” Dean scrapes out angrily.
“I spit it out, Dean, I swear I spit it out,” Sam answers miserably.
When Dean turns back to Sam, his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Sam, why were you dreaming about…” Dean flails his hands uncomfortably. “That.”
Sam folds in on himself, shaking with the confirmation that Dean saw.
He’s not real, Sam thinks furiously. This isn’t really Dean.
“Sam?” Dean’s crouching in front of him, and Sam has to keep his gaze on the floor to avoid meeting his brother’s eyes. Real or not, he doesn’t really want to have this conversation. “He didn’t… the demon blood isn’t all he did to you, is it. This… this isn’t just some fucked up dream that came out of nowhere.”
Dean sounds sickened, scared, but he’s not moving away, and eventually, Sam replies, “I… I don’t... I’ve… been having nightmares about it since it happened, I guess. I’m sorry.”
Dean jerks back. “You’re sorry? What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know, being weak? Being born?” Sam rasps out wretchedly. “What the hell do you want, Dean?” The hopeless look Dean gives him leaves him feeling gutted, but he still isn’t sure why his dream has turned in this direction – why his dream brought his brother here. His subconscious must really be trying to fuck with him this time.
“I need to know what’s been happening to you. I want to try to fix this. Why… why did you let him do that to you? Why didn’t you fight him off?”
Sam huffs out a dry, self-depreciating laugh. “Because I was too stupid to figure out how to fight him off and keep Reggie from putting a bullet in Lindsey’s head at the same time.”
An arm loops around Dean’s neck from out of nowhere and hauls him backwards. Dean’s gun clatters to the ground a moment later. “Well, look who’s come to play with us,” Tim purrs in Dean’s ear.
Sam freezes, his breaths speeding up so fast he can barely get enough air. He can’t watch Dean go through what he did, he can’t. It feels like he’s bolted to the wall though. He strains against the hold, but his muscles are largely unresponsive, and he can’t move away from the wall no matter how hard he tries.
Tim’s hand snakes around Dean’s body and plunges a hand down the front of Dean’s pants, making his brother cry out in alarm. “Get the fuck away from me!” Dean yells.
“Let him go!” Sam cries out at the same time, renewing his struggles against his invisible bonds, but nothing seems to happen. He lets out a miserable, useless sob when Dean hisses in pain at whatever Tim is doing to him.
“Sam! This is your dream! Take control of it! Now, damn it!” Dean’s shouting at Sam furiously as he struggles against his captor. He seems to be having about as much effect as Sam is, though. “Sam, please!” Dean yells, sharply.
Dean’s panic cuts through Sam’s helplessness like a knife. He jerks away from the wall and sends his body crashing into Tim’s, landing them all on the floor in an untidy heap.
The gun is in Sam’s hand, pointed at Tim’s head while Dean holds the man, the tables completely turned between one heartbeat and the next. No one else seems to notice the disconnect.
Tim smiles cruelly. “Go ahead and pull the trigger, Sammy-boy. I get to haunt you for the rest of your sorry life no matter what you do. I made sure I left a lasting impression.”
Sam stakes a step to the side, angling himself so there’s no chance of hitting his brother, and fires. The blast sends blood splattering everywhere. Dean doesn’t even flinch.
Tim’s body suddenly disappears, and Dean falls backwards with a thud. “Ow,” Dean moans pitifully, rubbing at his head. He holds out his other hand and Sam takes it automatically, leveraging Dean up from the floor, but he drops it self-consciously as soon as Dean is up and in his space. He takes a guilty step back - he knows he’s filthy, knows Dean probably doesn’t want to be close to him now that he’s seen.
Dean’s still covered in gore, despite Tim’s disappearance. It’s a little surreal how the blood glows eerily against Dean’s skin in the dim light of the bar, with Dean seemingly unaware of his current state.
“Guess it’s time to wake up now,” Sam mutters to himself. He pinches himself, and when that doesn’t work, tries to will himself awake. Nothing happens.
“Cas is keeping you out,” Dean says quietly.
“What?” Sam replies intelligently.
“I took dream-root to get here, and Cas is keeping you asleep so we can talk, so we can... He thought… he thought this might help.”
“Help? How?”
“It’s… can we go someplace more comfortable?” Dean deflects, looking around. “This place is creeping me out a little.”
“I guess.” Sam closes his eyes, tries to take control of the dream the way they did before, tries to imagine someplace safe.
The crickets burst into song again, but it’s soothing, not raucous like it was earlier. He opens his eyes to find Dean and himself next to the Impala in the middle of an open field. It’s late night or early morning, and the view of the stars is glorious.
Dean snorts and clasps his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You always did have a thing for starry nights,” Dean says affectionately. “You forgot the beer, though, bitch.”
The answering name is on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but there’s too much pain in the way to force it past his lips. Sam turns and bends forward to brace himself against the Impala’s fender. Dean doesn’t take his hand away.
“Tell me,” Dean whispers.
Sam shudders, “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I’m not going anywhere. I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there for you before,” Dean’s voice breaks slightly, “but I swear, I’m not going anywhere now. I’m listening. I don’t need every detail, but… you can’t keep it all inside anymore, you gotta give me enough to help you. Start with what happened in the bar. Please, Sam.”
His knees suddenly won’t support him anymore and he sinks all the way down to the ground. Dean follows him, his hand never losing contact with Sam’s shoulder.
There’s almost no moon, and despite the stars, it’s pretty dark. Still, Sam doesn’t think he can talk and look at Dean at the same time, so he turns away and leans his shoulder against the Impala’s front tire. Dean leans against the car behind him, letting his shoulder form a warm, comforting line of contact down Sam’s back.
“Demons showed up in the town I was working in,” Sam started with a sigh. “Tim and his friends were tracking them and asked for my help, but I refused.” Sam shrugged helplessly. “Steve didn’t make it out. Tim showed up later and tried to make me drink demon blood so I’d go after the demons and take them out. When that didn’t work, they brought in Lindsey, who was also working at the bar, to use as a hostage. Tim wanted…”
Sam cuts himself off, emotion threatening to strangle him. He can barely breathe, his breaths coming out rapid and short as he tries desperately to keep it all inside.
Dean stays still, an unwavering line of support against Sam’s back. Sam forces deeper breaths in and out, somehow pulls strength from his brother to get himself under enough control to continue, “He just wanted to humiliate me a little bit. Made me give him and Reggie blow jobs in exchange for Lindsey not getting hurt. Then they let the girl go and took off. That’s all that happened.” He didn’t understand why Tim was still haunting his dreams. They were just blow-jobs.
“What I saw, back there…”
And fuck, Dean saw. Sam can’t contain his sob at the realization.
Deans grip tightens on Sam’s shoulders as he continues, “That was a hell of a lot more complicated than a blow job, Sammy. That was… Plus, I saw your injuries.” Dean sounded calm. The rigid way he was holding himself said otherwise. “That’s not all that happened. Not all that’s still happening. You have to tell me. I swear to you, whatever it is, I’ll understand. Probably better than anybody else.”
Sam can feel the bile inching up his throat. He knows he needs to tell Dean… but… he can’t quite force the damning words out.
“Sammy…” the word whispers across the field, making Sam jump. A puff of warm, moist air against his face, at an angle that can’t possibly be Dean, causes cold sweat to bead along his forehead and down his back as he looks frantically for the source of his name.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, tightening the grip on Sam’s shoulder enough to be uncomfortable. Dean probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Did you hear that?” Sam chokes out.
“Hear what?” Dean asks, confused. “We’re all alone out here.”
“Sam…” It’s Nick’s voice, and it’s close. Too close. A cold, wet finger glides over Sam’s bottom lip.
Sam surges backwards to get away, only to be blocked by his brother. “Please, stop,” he begs shamelessly.
Dean wraps himself around Sam, grabbing Sam’s face and forcing their eyes to meet. “Sam! Nobody’s here but me. I swear.” Sam can still feel the warm puffs of breath against his face. “Look at me!” Dean shouts when Sam’s attention shifts to the side, jerking Sam’s face back.
Their bodies are entwined, Dean’s face inches from his own, and suddenly, Sam’s overcome with a desire to lose himself in his brother, to shut everything else out. He stretches up and covers Dean’s mouth with his own. Dean doesn’t pull away immediately, doesn’t even close his mouth, and Sam takes advantage, plunging hungrily into the warm, welcoming heat to lick the taste of Dean into his mouth.
The moment doesn’t last long. Dean jerks away, pushing Sam back, a confused, “What the fuck?” slipping past his spit-damp lips.
Sam’s naked now, completely exposed, and for a moment, he can’t remember why that’s a bad thing.
Dean’s gaze wanders lower, probably realizing the same thing. He freezes for a single heart beat. Abruptly, he’s scrambling back, but he doesn’t leave, just kneels at Sam’s side. He runs his gaze over Sam’s body, his breath held, and then trains on Sam’s exposed chest. “Shit,” he whispers. Unsteady fingers slide over Sam’s burn, tracing the shape of Lucifer’s hand. “What’s been happening to you? When… Who did this?” Dean asks, unable to keep the fearful tremor out of his voice. “What didn’t I see?” he adds, anguish roughening his tone.
Sam curls into himself on his side protectively, but Dean stops him, pulling him back with both hands on Sam’s shoulders to keep him in place. Sam’s too exhausted to struggle. It’s not like it ever helps anyway.
“That night, Lucifer appeared to me in a dream. Told me I was his vessel. That’s when I called you. He wanted… he doesn’t know where I am. He wants me to tell him. He keeps… he keeps coming back… thinks if he keeps… if he hurts me enough I’ll say yes.”
“Oh, God,” Dean moans. “Sam, I’m… Jesus. I should have known. I mean, I knew something was wrong but…” Dean’s eyes are full and pleading for forgiveness. His voice softens as he continues, “I thought I had all the answers, I didn’t… I pushed you away.” Dean whispers, horrified.
Sam can hear the self-recrimination in Dean’s voice. “No, it’s okay, Dean,” he hurries to reassure. “You changed your mind pretty fast. God, you’re the only thing that’s been keeping me sane.”
“I wasn’t going to. I… wasn’t going to. I wasn’t planning on ever seeing you again. But then Zachariah showed me the future, showed me what would happen if nothing changed. You said yes.”
Part Eight | Part Ten
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