Summary: Fourteen years ago, two brothers were split up. Demons took one to raise. Now he’s looking for the brother he never forgot. He’s got plans. Like the original story, this is hookerfic, with some voluntary bloodletting.
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Original story: In My Brother’s Keeping, by poisontaster, http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/332663.html
Finders Keepers (Sin Crouching at the Door Extended Remix)
Part 1 of 2
When Dean Winchester was twelve years old, John Winchester left on a hunt and didn’t come back for three weeks, which was fifteen days more than he’d promised. Day fourteen, Sammy was furious with hunger, tantrum crashing down into sobs, big fat tears running down his blotchy face, and Dean went out to do what needed to be done.
He got back a couple of hours later, bag of food clutched in his sweaty hand. Except that the door to their nasty room was open and someone was carrying out a trashbag of stuff, looked like clothes. Like Sammy’s clothes. Dean caught sight of the police officer standing just inside and he knew just how bad he’d messed up.
Dean slept behind the building for the next week, under some boxes he stacked up, waiting for Dad to come back and fix everything. The social services people came back a couple of times, looking for Dean. But Dean was already a decent hunter, silent and fast, so it was no problem to dodge them.
On the twenty-first day, the car rolled up into the parking lot. Dean was crying as he ran up to the driver’s side, relief and shame twisted together.
“Dad,” he got out, and his father turned to him and smiled.
His eyes were the yellow of chicken fat, streaked with brown like dried-out veins.
Dean squeaked. The thing riding in his father’s body laughed as it eased out onto the pavement. “Hi, Dean-O. Where’s your brother?”
Dean turned to run, but a hand jerked him back, and he was tossed into the backseat so hard that his head smacked up against the opposite-side door.
“Now, is that any way to greet your dad?” The thing loomed over him, halfway inside the car. For years after, Dean imagined himself being smart and popping the door open, rolling himself right out the other side and running. He rocked himself to sleep some nights with the thought that he might’ve gotten away if he’d been strong enough. If he’d been a better hunter.
Instead, Dean just wriggled, scared as any victim. The imposter grabbed his ankle and pulled him a couple of feet closer, Dean’s hands scrabbling for purchase on the leather seat. “I said, where’s your brother?”
Dean swallowed and thrust out his chin. “He’s gone. They came for him and they took him and you aren’t getting him back!”
John Winchester’s head tilted, considering. “The tender mercies of the state, eh? That could be interesting. Meanwhile, what am I going to do with you? There are just so many possibilities.”
Dean tried to kick out, but the creature just grabbed his other ankle. Then Dean’s vapor-locked brain unfroze long enough to let him remember the first line of the exorcism he was trying to learn. “Ex-exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—”
Its eyes flashed brighter and it snarled, reaching in to cuff him so hard his head went all floaty and fuzzy. “Oh, no, little boy,” it said. “I’m bound to this fine fellow now. But I like your spirit. Your father thinks you’re going to grow into quite the upright man, and looking at you I’m willing to take a chance that it’s not just a case of proud papa syndrome. So you and I are going to do some work together.”
Fourteen years passed.
Dean took a couple of days to track Sam down—he wasn’t at his apartment, and none of his neighbors knew him enough to say boo about where he might have gone. They did know he was unfailingly polite, holding doors and hauling packages for the older people in the building, once scaring off some kids who’d been harassing a white-haired lady who walked with a cane and wanted Dean to stay for supper, trying to pump Dean for information about his supposedly good friend from high school. Dean declined as politely as he knew how and went back to his stakeout.
If Sam didn’t come back soon, that could mean Azazel didn’t know where he was. Which should have been a comfort, but not knowing where Sam was still made Dean’s stomach twist. Most likely, anyway, it was just another one of Azazel’s games: let Dean think he was going to get to see Sam and then rip him away, hold him out on the horizon as the reward Dean was never going to merit.
But Sam showed up at a little after five on the third day, duffel in hand, and an hour later went back out, heading to a bar.
Sam wasn’t like Dean thought he’d be. His face had more angles, so stark that they needed softening by that ridiculous mop of hair, the only thing that was exactly the same as Dean remembered. He was about eight feet tall, taller than Dean anyway, which had never been part of Dean’s imaginings. He moved like a predator in a rival’s territory.
He still had the eyes, though: sincere and compelling. When he made the effort to smile, like when he got another drink from the bartender, the rest of the room faded away. The bartender fumbled his dishrag and tried to keep up a conversation, but Sam smiled again and peeled himself away from the bar, zig-zagging through the crowd until he’d found a good spot against the wall, where he could keep an eye on everyone else.
That first night, Dean only watched. Good thing, too, because he saw Sam go into the back room with three different guys, and leave with a fourth. He was worried, until he peeked in the motel window and saw that Sam wasn’t some kind of sex freak. He was just getting paid for it. And Dean understood why: his brother had grown up (and up and up) into a fine-looking man.
While he was watching Sam count his money, he felt the tug of Azazel’s command. He retreated to a nearby alley—it would be pretty fucking stupid to get caught standing in front of Sam’s door—and called. Azazel would no doubt prefer him to use a cup of steaming blood, but the one blessing of being a powerless human was that Azazel couldn’t ask that of him.
The alley stank of summer garbage and old urine, which made it a perfect setting for communication with Azazel. “Find him?”
“Yes, sir.” It was hard to say which Dean hated more, hearing Azazel use his father’s voice or having to yessir him like he was really Dean’s father. But Dean had learned long ago that not all battles—actually, no battles to date—were worth fighting.
“No, sir.” Dean gave a quick summary of what he’d seen. So far, it hadn’t been that different from the other jobs, aside from Sam being missing for the first couple of days—he watched, he figured out whether the kids were manifesting powers and what they were, and he got an idea of just how psycho they were (an assessment he kept to himself). So far, Sam was stunningly, amazingly normal.
“Hunh,” Azazel said when Dean finished, drawing it out so it sounded thoughtful. Long practice kept Dean from rolling his eyes. “I suppose even a full scholarship to Harvard doesn’t cover the incidentals, and I doubt darling Sammy wants to hit up any of the yokels who raised him for walking-around money. Still, you have to wonder why he’s whoring himself. Don’t they have work-study in Cambridge?”
Dean wasn’t supposed to answer that, so he didn’t. Anyway, he had no problem figuring out why Sam would be selling sex. Azazel had sent Dean out on missions in the human world often enough with nothing but empty pockets, or a knife if he was feeling generous. Sometimes it was the only money to be had without violence, and violence was risky when there was nobody who had your back.
Evidently, nobody’d had Sammy’s back.
Azazel sighed. “Very well. Ingratiate yourself with him. I’ll be talking in his sleep very soon, but I want you to set the hook.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said, his voice as colorless as he could manage. He had to believe that Azazel would attribute any strangeness to the fact that he was about to see his brother again after half a lifetime. Dean had accepted after his twentieth escape attempt that he was basically incompetent, and he didn’t expect things to end any better for him this time. But there were a couple of places in him that Azazel didn’t own, and every one of them wore Sam’s name. If Dean couldn’t get them both out of this, he’d at least make sure that Sam didn’t have to live through anything like Dean’s last decade.
Dean’s hand clenched on the phone. “Yes, sir?”
“I have some sad news. Max Miller is dead. He was your least favorite of the ones you visited, as I recall.”
“He was a serial killer,” Dean pointed out, because mouthing off was the only thing of his own that remained to him.
He was reminded why he didn’t do it that often when Azazel sent a lash of pain through him. Every muscle cramped. Dean curled up like a crumpled paper bag, his knees bashing the filthy ground, holding onto the phone only because his fingers were locked into a spasm. “He was my son.”
Dean was too busy trying not to vomit to follow up with something stupid like ‘Yeah, that apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.’
“Go to your brother tomorrow, Dean. Get ready to bring him home.” Azazel hung up. Rank wetness was seeping through his jeans, flies buzzing in his ears like Azazel had left sentinels behind.
Dean rocked himself, gasping, until he was able to struggle to his feet and leave.
The next night, Dean waited until Sam had taken care of a couple of guys, so he’d be feeling confident but willing to consider leaving if Dean made the offer sweet enough. Dean had to turn down more than a few offers himself, though most of them had nothing to do with money. When he was ready, he caught Sam’s eye from across the room. He was pretty sure his smile was awkward, but that probably fit the profile, so it was okay. His stomach was twisting like Azazel had a hold of him, and he wished he’d skipped that second beer, but he had to keep it together.
Sam smiled back politely and Dean made himself wander over. Sam was about four inches taller than Dean, Dean decided when he got close enough to compare. Dean remembered this shrimpy little kid, always lost in a book, and he felt his smile falter as Sam looked him over with the careful calculation of someone who didn’t expect the world to give him anything.
“Hi,” Dean began, then faked another sip of his beer.
“Hi,” Sam said back, amused. He leaned further back against the wall, letting his T-shirt pull out of his low-slung jeans. The worn shirt was tight over his biceps, a featureless gray that looked like it would be soft to the touch. His bangs were so long that, even pushed to both sides like wings, they were level with his eyes. His mouth was pink and looked slightly swollen, his skin clean-shaven. He had several moles, one near his nose, another near the corner of his mouth, another at the side of his chin, like someone had dripped chocolate on him. Dean remembered the one by Sam’s nose, but either he’d forgotten the rest or they’d shown up along with the height and the muscles.
“You’re new here,” Sam prompted.
Dean nodded and cleared his throat. “I’m. Yeah. Looking for company.”
Sam’s gaze sharpened. “Really.”
Dean felt the flush crawl up his neck and cheeks. That was fine, he told himself. Credible. “I’ve got a room and some cash burning a hole in my pocket.” He sounded like a fucking fool; he struggled not to cringe. But Sam wasn’t turning away.
“You’re not that good at this,” Sam suggested, smiling almost enough to bring on his dimples.
Dean made a noise that was supposed to be a laugh. “Guess not. Uh, good enough?”
“That depends.” Sam shifted closer, leaning in so that their mouths were only inches apart. He put his hand on Dean’s hip, curling a finger into one of Dean’s beltloops. “You a cop?”
And this time Dean’s relieved smile was real, because he was about as far from a cop as an elephant was from a donut. “I’m not a cop.”
Now that they were touching, it was like the rest of the world had gone silent. Sam seemed to feel it too, shuffling them so that Dean had his back to the wall, all escape blocked by Sam’s body. He was grinning as he put his free hand on Dean’s shoulder. “And you’re not worried that I might be one?” His breath was warm on Dean’s cheek, his neck.
Dean fought to keep his eyes from closing. “You’re not a cop.”
“Yeah? You been watching me?” One of Sam’s thighs was pressed up against him now, not quite against his groin. Underneath the beer and cigarettes from the bar, Dean could smell Sam’s skin, sweat and something forest-dark.
“You know I have,” he managed, bringing his hands up to rest on Sam’s waist, touching damp cotton and a slice of warm skin where the T-shirt had given up the battle. He wanted to touch more, slide his fingers over the rest of Sam’s hidden places. Usually he would have been frozen in place, imagining invisible armor, with someone else so close to his skin. Dean knew he should be freaking out over how distracted he was getting, but he was having enough trouble with the distraction itself without worrying about it. Okay. Back to business. “How much’ll it take me to get you to come back to my room?”
Sam bent his head further, nuzzled Dean’s ear. “What are we talking about?”
Dean took a deep breath. “Do you do blood?”
Sam snorted and pulled back. “Should have known.” Dean frowned, because he didn’t think he looked that kinky. Sam registered his reaction—kid had to be good at reading people, given his line of work, Dean figured—and kept talking: “Nobody as good-looking as you needs to pay for it regular.”
Fair point, which Dean conceded with a shrug. “So, do you?”
“Mine or yours?”
“Yours,” Dean said, and tried not to look too desperate. Their legs were still touching, which meant that Sam wasn’t rejecting him, not yet.
Sam looked at him, those cat eyes narrowing as if trying to judge the precise degree to which Dean was a freak. “Costs extra,” he suggested.
Dean shook his head. “Not a problem.”
“You don’t tie me down and you stop if I say stop.”
He nodded. “I’m good with that.”
“A thousand dollars,” Sam said, and if Dean hadn’t known just what to look for he would have thought that Sam was completely confident.
“Done.” Dean wasn’t about to negotiate; it wasn’t his money, and agreeing quick would make Sam think there was plenty more where that came from, which might be useful. He pushed Sam back, gently and not without a reluctance that he didn’t want to examine too much. “Let’s get out of here.”
After Dean flashed enough cash to prove he was for real, they didn’t talk on the way. Dean was grateful. He always had trouble making conversation with civilians. Sam wasn’t a civilian, but he thought he was, so the problem was the same.
Dean had picked a nice hotel, and Sam didn’t look any more out of place there than Dean himself. Both of them able to pass as normal. Dean had a thousand questions for Sam, and no way to get answers. Maybe, if it worked out—
In the elevator, Sam stood shoulder to shoulder with him, even though there was plenty of room. He examined their reflections in the mirrored wall, eyes narrowed as if he was searching for something specific.
The scrutiny made Dean nervous, but it wasn’t like he could call Sam out for excessive looking.
“Your freckles,” Sam said just before the doors opened onto Dean’s floor. “They’re cute.”
Dean successfully fought off the urge to swipe at his face or joke about flattery coming with the thousand-dollar package. He shrugged, feeling his expression twitch somewhere between a smile and a grimace, and led them down the hallway.
“By the way,” Sam said as Dean tried the keycard for the second time (Dean really missed good old-fashioned keys, the way they used to be when Dad was the one who rented the rooms), “what’s your name?”
Dean stopped, the hard plastic edges of the card cutting into his fingers. “You can call me anything you want so long as it’s not John.”
“Fair enough,” Sam said, putting his hand on Dean’s back, just above his waist. “You got any preferences for my name?”
Dean didn’t trust his voice, so he just shook his head, and finally managed to get the door opened.
“Then I’m Sam.”
He didn’t know what it meant that Sam used his real name. Fuck, what did Dean think he was doing? He was going to fuck this up; he should tell Sam the truth, hope Sam believed the craziness, warn him to stay away from—
Like Sam was going to listen when some batshit trick who didn’t even have a name warned him to ignore his own dreams, and powers he didn’t expect or understand. Yeah, that was going to work out just fine.
No, the only way out was through. And Dean couldn’t help the spark of hope that said that one Winchester alone wasn’t enough, but two (Dean didn’t dare to count higher than that, not even in his most secret thoughts)—two might be a lucky number.
While Dean had been flipping out, Sam had pushed past him, checking out the room. Dean approved of reconnaissance. Sam hadn’t learned the truth about what Dad hunted before he’d been taken, but at least he’d eventually managed to figure out that the world didn’t reward obliviousness. Dean squared his shoulders and followed, closing the door on the too-bright hallway.
When he turned, he found Sam already on his knees, looking up with a grin that would have been wicked even if it hadn’t been at the level of Dean’s crotch. Before Dean could react, Sam’s hands were opening his belt and shoving down his jeans and shorts.
“Mmm,” Sam said, almost as if he was talking to himself. “Pretty as the rest of you.”
Dean’s cock, already half awake, jumped under the ghost of Sam’s breath.
Dean thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to do this. Human brothers didn’t do this, though he was sort of unclear why not; sex felt good and most things in life didn’t. And fuck, Sam was good-looking, and he was willing, and doing what most people paid him for might even reassure him that Dean wasn’t totally insane. Plus Dean knew for an established fact that there were a lot worse things than sucking a stranger’s cock. Dean was clean, disease-wise anyway, and maybe Sam was even telling the truth about finding him pretty. Lots of people did.
Sam’s mouth was sure, coaxing him all the way hard in ten seconds flat, and Dean didn’t have the mental resources to continue the debate with himself while getting blown. He leaned back, palms flat against the door, and looked at Sam’s thick, messy hair, blocking almost all of the view. Didn’t matter; Sam’s bunched shoulders and the slope of his back were enough to watch and Dean’s other senses were reporting in just fine, the feel of lips and tongue circling him, hot wet suction making him shiver.
Sam swallowed and hummed. Dean’s legs nearly gave out. And then Sam brought his hand up to cup Dean’s balls, thumb pressed at the base of Dean’s cock, cool huge palm weighing him, fingertips brushing up against his ass. Dean groaned and thunked his head against the door. Sam was only touching between his legs, but it felt like being wrapped whole-body in desire, sweet as sugar syrup.
Sam was doing something to keep the vibration going, and it was all too much. Dean’s hips snapped once, twice, and he was gone, coming so hard his vision went white and only luck kept him upright.
When his vision cleared, Sam was tossing a balled-up tissue into the tiny trashcan halfway across the room. It helped, a little, to remember that this was just business as far as Sam was concerned. Dean felt a pulse of acid in his throat, wondering how many men Sam had taken to rooms like this, over how many years. Whether Sam had been scared the first time, or the second; whether he’d put his rules in place from bad experiences or just good sense.
There was no point in regrets. Dean was here now, and whatever needed to be done to keep them safe, Dean would be the one to do it.
He didn’t bother pulling his jeans back up. That would have looked too strange, he thought, given why Sam believed he was here. So he toed his boots off and stepped out of his jeans, then realized that he probably looked way too much like a chicken, naked only from the waist down.
“You want to get all the way undressed?” Sam asked, as if picking up his brainwaves.
Dean chewed on his lip for a second, then nodded. He was going to have to strip eventually; best to get Sam used to it.
He dropped the jacket, kicked it into the nearest corner, then pulled his henley over his head. When his eyes cleared the fabric, he saw Sam staring openly, the first time Sam had shown even the slightest sign he was fazed.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged.
The tattoos covered his chest, stopping a couple of inches above his navel; they went all the way around his back, over his shoulders and down his arms to where they ended under his wristwatch and the woven leather bracelet he wore on his right arm.
“Some of that’s Latin,” Sam said, then snapped his mouth shut as if he were expecting Dean to remark on the oddness of a hooker knowing Latin. Not really a surprise, though; Sam had always been bright as a new coin. Now, if Sam had recognized the Aramaic, Dean would have needed to worry that some other demon had gotten to him first. Sam’s eyes were intent, following the lines of text as they snaked over Dean’s body. “How many languages do you have on there?”
“All of ‘em,” Dean said, grinning to show the joke, though he wasn’t actually sure. Some of the words he’d never been able to identify, and his best guess was they were transliterations of terms from languages with no writing system of their own.
“Mind if I ask why?”
It hit him like a car crash: Sam had asked for explanations since he could string three words together, and by the time he was six he could tell when Dean was just making some bull up instead of giving a real answer. Sam had always hoped that the world would go along with his desire for knowledge, and he asked with such enthusiasm that it was hard for anyone to deny him. This was the same Sam, and all he could feel was the desire to wrap himself around Sam and never let go.
Sam cocked his head, and Dean realized he’d let the silence go on way too long. “No,” he hurried out. “I mean. It’s weird.”
Sam’s dimples were back. “You hired me to bleed for you. I’m not gonna judge. But I’d like to know.”
Dean breathed out. He could make up some story—Sam didn’t know his tells any more—but he found himself hating the thought of claiming the tattoos as his own. Even if words didn’t have real, raw power in Dean’s world, he wouldn’t have wanted to tell Sam that he’d consented to be marked like this. “The thing is, they’re not—they’re not really who I am. They were—I made a mistake. And. Well.”
Sam leaned towards him, and before Dean could react he was running a finger over Dean’s bicep. “When did you get these? They look—”
Pride warred with chagrin; Sam was too fucking smart for his own good. He could see how the tattoos had stretched irregularly as Dean had grown and gained muscle, but the ink was as solid black as if it had been applied yesterday.
Dean cleared his throat. “Can we just say I was really young and really stupid?”
Sam gave him a forgiving smile. “Okay. So, you have any more surprises for me?”
You have no idea, Dean thought, but he tried a grin. “Let’s see what happens when you take your pants off.”
Sam pulled off his T-shirt first. His chest looked even better without the shirt wrapped around it, the light showing every curve of muscle. He smirked when he saw Dean watching and slowed down a little as he thumbed open the button of his jeans. He was nearly bare, neatly trimmed hair surrounding his dick, which was impressive even soft; Dean found himself wanting to touch it, feel the slide of soft skin under his fingers, take care of Sam where Sam was most vulnerable.
When Sam was naked, he eased himself back onto the bed, his legs falling open and one hand straying down to rest near his cock, like the teaser ad for a porn site. His abs looked solid enough to build on, and Dean had to take a deep breath just to remind himself of his purpose.
He extracted his switchblade from the puddle of his jeans. Sam’s face stayed pleasant, but his eyes narrowed a little in wariness as Dean approached. “You said I could, right?”
Sam was probably counting the money in his mind. Thinking about how many books it would buy, how many nights out with his college friends so that he could pretend that he was just like them, coddled and untouched. “Yeah,” Sam said, and managed to sound casual. “But if I say stop, you stop, right?”
Dean nodded. He wasn’t going to give Sam reason to bolt. He had a really sharp knife and over a decade of training: he could make the endorphin rush last longer than the kiss of pain.
“Spread your legs some more,” Dean suggested.
“I’m not gonna go after your junk,” Dean said, running his free hand through his hair. “Your thigh’ll bleed quick and safe. Or, you know, safer.”
Sam considered Dean’s words. When he complied, splaying himself out like a centerfold as he leaned back against the pillows, Dean noted that for all his concern, his cock was far from indifferent, already thickening as Dean approached.
Dean sliced fast and shallow, opening up a cut not longer than two inches. More than that would be a waste, since this was just a test. Blood dripped down Sam’s skin—shaved smooth, Dean realized when he put his fingers out to collect the blood. “You all right?” he asked, his voice breathy.
“Yeah,” Sam said after a moment. He was shaking almost imperceptibly. Dean might not have noticed if they hadn’t been touching.
“Okay.” Dean swallowed and pulled back. “I just—I need you to hang on while I do this.” He put the knife down on the bedspread and rubbed Sam’s blood onto the back of his forearm, right on top of one of the Etruscan symbols he’d never satisfactorily translated. Quickly, before it could dry, he began the chant.
Dean was not much of a scholar, but he did have a knack for figuring out how stuff worked, which Azazel had never really appreciated even after years of watching Dean hunt and kill things. The binding spell that allowed Azazel to control him and torture him at will was powerful; its power came from Azazel’s name and Azazel’s blood. Dean knew the first and now he had the second, mixed with his own, which was major mojo in itself. He muttered the Latin he’d cobbled together, ignoring Sam’s squawks in the background. Latin was classic, but he’d thrown some English in there at the end too, hoping that precision and intent would help it work. “Blood to blood, let blood break what blood made.”
The blood flared into a flash of yellow, bright as the sun. And Jesus fuck it hurt, like having molten metal poured on him instead of blood. Burned like the marks had burned going on, Azazel laughing at him and the screams he couldn’t help then at least he could swallow now, fight to stay conscious as what felt like a razor-blade arrow went through his arm, whirling as it went.
He could feel cool tracks on his cheeks when the haze of agony cleared. He was on his knees, swaying like a sapling in a storm.
“Your tattoo,” Sam said. “It’s gone.”
Dean looked down at the bare skin, the first time he’d seen that patch of flesh clean and clear in almost fourteen years. “Just one character,” he corrected, clenching his fists to keep from crying more or anything stupid like that.
“Fuck that!” Sam snarled, scrambling away across the bed as if he’d just now realized that he was only a few feet away from the freakiest thing he’d ever seen. “What the—how can blood erase ink that’s under your fucking skin? What are you—what are you?”
Dean closed his eyes. It was hard to tell what answer would be the least bad, and the ritual required voluntariness. Usually demonic spells were pretty flexible about the concept of ‘voluntary,’ but since this one was supposed to cleanse it might not be fully demonic, in which case lying to Sam to get him to continue might sour the magic completely.
“This is going to be hard to believe,” he said. “But I really need your help.”
He looked at Sam through his lashes, head lowered submissively, keeping his shoulders down and willing Sam to notice that he was just as naked, just as vulnerable. He stayed on his knees.
The tears dried and the salt tugged at Dean’s skin before Sam reacted. “Okay,” he said finally, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Start talking.”
Dean breathed out and carefully, slowly, joined him, sitting a couple of feet away, his hands clenched in the bedspread. “Ever had something happen that didn’t make sense? Like, maybe you dreamed about something and then it happened. Or got mad at someone and have them get hurt right after?”
Sam frowned, like he thought Dean was making fun of him, and then he really frowned, like he was afraid Dean wasn’t. “Keep going.”
“Here’s the rough part: you’re special, but in a sucky kind of way. Uh, demons and magic are real, and you’ve got—powers. I’m kind of—if you can read the Latin, you know that I’ve got words of binding and obedience all over me. A demon did that, and I need you to get myself free of him.” That was probably too fast, but Dean needed to get it out there, and he could fill in some of the details if Sam kept listening.
Sure enough, Sam’s expression was somewhere deep south of skeptical. Apparently tattoos disappearing in a flash of light only bought you a couple of inches of unreality, and Dean was asking Sam to take the high dive.
“What’s so special about my blood?” he asked, brows disappearing into his bangs, lips curled like he was going to make fun of Dean for any answer Dean could give.
Dean knew that when he tried to look sincere he ended up worse off, credibility-wise, so he just gave it to Sam: “When you were six months old, a demon named Azazel fed you his blood.”
“Six months,” Sam repeated, like he’d been hypnotized. So, he remembered—not that they’d ever told him the supernatural part, but he’d known the timing at least.
Azazel had probably been lying when he told Dean about Mom, and Mom’s deal. And even if he hadn’t been, even if he’d been telling the truth because it hurt more, Dean was never going to tell Sam that part of it. “He killed—he did it to a bunch of kids, and he killed the parents if they got in the way. His blood’s like, I dunno, demon steroids, and he’s trying to see which of the kids grows up the most powerful. I don’t know what the endgame is, he’s not that stupid. But I can tell you this: if Azazel wants it to happen, there’s no human on earth oughta agree with him.”
“So how’d you get away from him?” Sam asked. And maybe he still halfway thought he was humoring Dean, but Dean could tell that ‘six months’ had rocked him.
Dean shrugged. “Didn’t. Can’t, as long as these things are on me. He sent me to check you out. I need to get the ritual completed before he tries to talk to me again. He just didn’t think I’d figure out how to use his own blood against him.”
“You realize you sound like a lunatic,” Sam told him, still leaning back against the headboard. Dean’s knife was inches from his hand, which Dean could only hope Sam found reassuring.
“You saw what you saw.” Dean gestured at the newly empty space on his arm. “And I’m betting you’ve already started to wonder about yourself. Things you know that you shouldn’t, things you can do that nobody else can.”
Sam turned his face away. His jawline was sharp and clean, like an arrowhead. Dean wanted to trace it with his fingertips, slice himself open, reclaim every year he’d lost by touch.
“How do I know you’re not the demon?” Sam said abruptly.
“What?” Dean glared at him.
Sam stared back, nostrils flaring, eyes bright with challenge, as if Dean ought to have a better answer.
“You could be—I admit that the Latin is for binding, but it’s been a while and it’d be really stupid for me to confuse binding the righteous with righteous binding and set some big evil loose on the world. Maybe you need to be bound.”
Dean groaned. “I’m not a freakin’—look, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, any of this ringing a bell? Demons can’t abide the name of the Lord—”
Sam thrust his chin up. “So you say. You want my blood. Blood, that can’t be good.”
Dean gaped at him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell me your name.”
“What good’s that gonna do?” Dean complained. “Suppose I am a demon. D’you think I’m gonna give you some name you can look up in the Big Book of Demons?”
“I was thinking more Wikipedia,” Sam said, though he had the decency to look a little embarrassed.
“Okay then,” Dean said. He stood and pointed towards the laptop he’d stashed on the dresser. “Fire that bad boy up. Let some douchebag on the internet tell you what the top five signs of demonicness are, and then test me for ‘em. And you should check for the top signs of vampirism, and werewolves, and the rest of the crew, because I might not be a demon but I could be a golem, or a rakshasa, or something even nastier. Except, oh wait, you don’t know what the fuck you’re looking for. That giant IQ gives you a leg up, but if you try to start from ground zero Azazel’s gonna turn your brain into a milkshake before you get to the letter D in the supernatural alphabet!” Dean was nearly yelling by the time he finished, and he panted out his aggravation, waiting for Sam’s response.
Sam’s mouth had fallen open and his eyes were wide under raised brows. He looked like a puppy who’d been whacked on the nose for peeing on the carpet.
“…. Sorry,” Dean said, a little grumpily. He crossed his arms over his chest—his still-tattooed chest. “Look, there’s people you can talk to about this stuff—hunters, guys who go after the bumps in the night.” At least, judging from Azazel’s mood a couple of times, he hadn’t been able to use John Winchester’s body to fool all of the hunters Dad had known; Dean had to believe that there were still a couple out there. “But they’ll take time to find, and if we wait, Azazel’s gonna figure out what’s going on. Our only shot is to get me freed up and start making plans for how you survive this.”
Sam flicked his hair off his forehead with a practiced hand, eyes still fixed on Dean. “We,” he said.
“What?” Dean repeated. He was starting to remember how it was possible to love Sam and still basically want to beat his face in, at least at a sort of background buzz of want, all the time.
“Making plans for how we survive this.” He picked up the knife from where Dean had abandoned it on the bed and held it out on his open palm.
And like that the anger was gone, collapsed like the roof of a burning building. Somehow, Sam was still Sam, with the same sweetness, looking after Dean even though he had no idea that Dean used to be his hero.
“Okay,” Dean said, and sat down.
They did a larger patch of skin the second time. The aftershock was so painful that Dean grayed out, and he flailed back to consciousness terrified that Sam had freaked and decided to take off. But Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, holding a washcloth. Dean blinked and Sam wiped it across Dean’s forehead, so cool and comforting that Dean shivered.
“Hey,” Sam said softly.
Dean tried to grin up at him and wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Hey.”
“Are you sure about this?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” Dean said immediately. He would have accepted a lot worse to be free of Azazel’s commands. He tried to push himself up, and Sam ended up hauling him back until he was propped up against the headboard.
Dean rubbed at his forehead. They should go again, but he still felt like he’d been skinned and rolled in salt, and he couldn’t quite make himself say the words.
“I’ve got an idea,” Sam said, and put his hands on Dean’s hips as he bent his head. Dean groaned as Sam’s mouth closed around the head of Dean’s cock, which got interested right away.
“Oh—you don’t have to,” Dean got out, eyes slipping closed. The pain was already receding.
Sam pulled back an inch. “All part of the service,” he said, and Dean wasn’t in any mood to argue.
Sam’s tongue was slick and sure. He swallowed Dean down like it was as easy as breathing, and Dean’s hands clenched into fists as he tried to stay still. Sam didn’t stop even as he brought his hands up, prying Dean’s fingers apart and moving them until Dean had a good grip on Sam’s head. Dean gave up on controlling himself, thrusting into that warm suction, like being drowned only perfect.
“I want to fuck you,” Sam said when Dean was coherent again. “Can I?”
Dean stared at him long enough that Sam twitched uncomfortably. He clambered up Dean’s body, bracing himself above Dean so that his knees touched Dean’s hips and his arms rested on each side of Dean’s head. Dean should have felt caged, but mostly he just felt a strange fizzy joy.
Sam bent his head so that their noses nearly touched. “Look, I know you probably think – but there’s something here, I know you feel it just like I do, and it’s not just the magic, which can I say by the way is just about the weirdest thing that ever came out of my mouth, and—”
“Enough already,” Dean said, but gently, because Sam was only nervous and overwhelmed, and Dean would have to be a much bigger jerk to blame him for that. “Look, I—” Dean could do it, turn over for Sam and let him, and Sam would probably do his best to make it good. But things were already so fucked up, and he wanted—he wanted Sam to know him. “Not yet,” Dean said. “When I’m free. If you still want to.”
Sam’s eyes were hazel, little streaks of dark green and brown mixed together in bursts like the petals of some complicated and exotic flower, all surrounded by a darker ring. Dean could have stared at him for hours. Sam tilted his head forward so that their foreheads touched—his hair was soft, almost ticklish, against Dean’s skin—and breathed out. “Okay.”
Dean still felt wobbly, like he was the one bleeding instead of Sam. He made no move to dislodge Sam.
“These bindings--” Sam said after a moment, tracing one of the words on Dean’s bicep. He craned his head to look more closely. “Isn’t it overkill to have so many? He must really want to own you.” Azazel loved to do this, put Dad’s hands all over him while Dean shook like a coward, fighting not to fight. But Sam’s touch was cool, clinical, nothing like Azazel’s delight. Dean shivered as Sam completed one of the phrases, medieval French. “What’s that mean?” Sam asked, staring at his fingertips on Dean’s skin.
“‘My words mark my possession; his merit surpasses his iniquity,’” Dean said, turning his face away. He didn’t like to think about the flattery Azazel had inked into him, from the Hebrew with its tzadik to the Maori that seemed to have something to do with a legendary hero. A lot of cultures would write boasts all over their funerary objects, sympathetic magic of a sort. But, even setting aside the disturbing implications for his ultimate fate, Dean knew the fine words were hollow. He was nothing like what was written on his skin, because it never would have gotten written there if he’d been smart and brave enough instead of shit-scared.
“Is your name anywhere on there?” Sam asked, not quite making it to casual.
Dean shook his head. “He – a name would give power. So I don’t – he won’t let me use mine.”
Sam glanced up from the tattoos, surprised and then comprehending. “And if I undo all this and get you to give me your name,” Sam said, beginning to follow a line of Arabic down Dean’s inner arm, “will you be free, or will you be mine?” His fingers clamped down when Dean twitched, holding him in place.
Dean didn’t want to think about who owned him. Sam’s cock was a thick solid weight, rubbing against Dean’s belly. Dean reached up and grabbed his hip. “I could take care of that for you. If you wanted.”
“It’s your dime,” Sam said, but he bit his lip and thrust down against Dean, hot and heavy, and Dean wasn’t going to deny him.
Dean flipped them over and brought his hand to his mouth, licking his palm slowly, enjoying the way Sam’s eyes fluttered as he watched. Sam’s cock felt just as good as Dean had thought it would, thick and firm under soft skin, fitting his hand like they were made for this.
He set his mouth on the jut of Sam’s jaw, licking and nipping against the solid curve of bone. Sam was just getting new stubble, sharp against Dean’s tongue, almost-pain adding to the pleasure of touching him. His cock was jumping in Dean’s hand, wet at the head when Dean tested it with his thumb.
Dean slid down the arch of Sam’s neck, loving the way Sam pitched and groaned underneath him and the flavor of Sam’s skin, salt and a hint of something raw and powerful. “You taste so good,” he said, not even thinking, and it was like nothing he’d ever done before but he wanted to take his time, touch every inch of that golden skin. So he pushed himself up on his free arm and started tonguing his way down Sam’s body, across the arches of his collarbones, stopping to investigate every mole he found, some flat and indistinguishable from skin and others raised just enough that he could drag his teeth over them to get Sam to gasp and curse.
By the time Dean had worked his way down to Sam’s abs, Sam had one hand running restlessly through Dean’s hair and the other pressing steadily on his shoulder, pushing him down. Dean only resisted because he could feel how much Sam was enjoying the trip, how Sam shuddered and fought for breath, his fingertips hard on Dean’s shoulderblade and rubbing the back of Dean’s neck just below his hairline. Dean was barely moving his hand on Sam’s dick and every minute or so Sam would complain about that, or at least Dean thought that’s what he meant to do, but the words came out bitten-off and garbled, so Dean just kept on going, only being careful enough about where he put his hands so as to avoid the just-closed cuts on Sam’s thigh.
At last his mouth was only an inch away from Sam’s fat cockhead. Dean paused to get a better look, and Sam growled like a hellhound and cupped his hand over the back of Dean’s head – palm as big as a shovel, so fucking hot, and Dean realized he was talking only when Sam said, “Shut up, shut the fuck up and suck me,” voice breaking.
And the terrifying thing was, Dean wanted to, really wanted to, same as he’d wanted to put his hands and his mouth all over Sam. He knew they couldn’t afford this, begging for disaster in every single way, but he couldn’t stop.
So he opened his mouth and licked the red, leaking head, bitter and almost soapy, then took as much as he could in one thrust, still working the base with his fingers. He wriggled to get a better angle, loving Sam’s grunts and whimpers, relaxing into it and letting Sam fill his throat, hollowing his cheeks and letting his spit dribble out onto his fingers, getting them slick so that he could cover as much of Sam’s cock as possible.
Sam was making all sorts of sounds, nothing controlled about him except the steady pressure of his hand on Dean’s neck, sweaty and clutching. Dean rolled his tongue, feeling the veins standing out, and maybe even another mole; later he’d take his time and find out for sure. He swallowed, and Sam’s nails scraped his scalp as Sam shot down his throat.
Dean pulled back before he could choke, but he kept swallowing because Sam just kept making this groaning noise, like Dean was nearly killing him and he never wanted it to stop.
“Jesus fuck,” Sam said at last, easing him off. Dean’s jaw was sore and his lips were numb, but he felt as happy as when he’d made his first bullseye. “Uh, sorry I didn’t warn you.”
Dean looked up the length of Sam’s body, all flushed skin and long planes of muscle, and raised an eyebrow at Sam’s rueful expression. “Turnabout’s fair play, dude.”
Sam’s mouth pursed as if he were about to point out that he was the one whose job it was to take it however Dean wanted, but he stayed silent, and Dean was grateful for that.
“Make it up to me by getting rid of more of this crap,” Dean suggested.
Sam’s mouth curled. “I guess I could do that.”