Pairing: Dean/vamp!Sam (implied)
Rating: Adult themes
Word Count: 3,613
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Summary: There is one order John Winchester gives that Dean won't follow.
”You know you have to do this.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Dean, don’t you let me lose two boys. I need you to come out of this on the other side.”
“Dad, we have… I have Elkins’ journal. He mentions someone that may be able to help.”
“Dean, I love… I loved Sammy but he’s gone. You need to finish it.”
“When everyone told Sam I was going to die, he didn’t lie down and take it. Neither will I.”
“No, just… no.”
Dean couldn’t believe it had only been two weeks since they had been standing in that parking lot in that nothing town. Sam had just let out his weird little Ha-HA that almost sounded like a crow’s cry and he called a laugh and then…
Dean moves over to the bed now, testing bonds automatically, fingers tugging at the fraying strands of rope and knowing he’s going to have to replace them soon. Sam has nearly worked his way through them again. He passes a hand into Sam’s eye line, fingers lightly gripping a syringe full of almost black liquid and sighs.
“This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch, but I need you meek right now,” he says and watches as Sam’s eyes narrow.
“You don’t have to-“ Sam starts up but Dean merely grabs a handful of hair and yanks Sam’s head to the side, plunging the needle in and depressing the plunger. Sam lets out a hiss and starts to say, “What is-?” but then he’s bucking, legs bouncing on the worn mattress, eyes and teeth gritted.
“Dead man’s blood baby brother,” Dean says, dropping onto the opposite bed as Sam goes limp. He just needs sleep, just an hour.
Then they have to get back on the road.
Dean wakes when something brushes his eyelashes and he almost falls off the bed. Sam is still unconscious but he has thrown his arm out to the side and freakishly long as it is, spans the distance between their two beds and his fingers are right against Dean’s eyes.
It doesn’t help that Dean has rolled towards him in his sleep, one leg and one arm of his own hanging off the narrow mattress, pointed at his brother.
If Sam had been conscious…
Dean doesn’t let that thought follow through because then he’ll have to admit that his Father may be right.
”You have to end him, son.”
Dean pulls Elkins’ journal out from between his mattress and the base and thumbs through it, much like he once did with his Fathers’. He finds the page he needs, running his finger over the name.
There is only the vaguest detail, alluding to a cure but the what and how are not explained. Dean has this small niggling fear that it isn’t a name at all, of a person at least but maybe just an address. Looking across at his brother, pale and giving off heat in almost palpable waves, Dean will take it.
He’ll try anything.
The next time he talks to their Father, the rattle and hiss of a long distance connection on the phone is gone and it makes Dean cold all over.
John Winchester is closing in on them.
“You’re going to have to go through me,” Dean growls and there is silence on the other end of the line until finally John just says, “Please don’t make me do that.”
Because he will.
Sam is awake when Dean gets back into the room and is worrying at his bonds again. He’s curved at a weird angle on the bed but then Dean realizes that this is because there is a strip of sunlight falling across the mattress that Sam has curled to avoid.
“I’d stop that if I were you unless you want another of these,” Dean says, knowing his voice sounds tired and pulling a capped syringe from his inner jacket pocket. He’s got a can of no-name cola which he sets down on the table, popping the cap.
“I know you wanted to keep me with you, but this is a little extreme don’t you think?” Sam asks and his voice sounds so normal that Dean pauses in swallowing just long enough for his eyes to tick to him. Sam’s own eyes shine in the half-light of the room.
“No talking,” Dean snaps. Sam has tried begging, cajoling and pleading and Dean isn’t really interested in another round of any of those three.
“C’mon, this is what you’ve always wanted right? Me bound to you. I just didn’t think you would be so literal about it.”
This is new. Sam’s voice is low and seductive and it’s like they’re having just having a normal conversation as if Dean has only tied him to the bed as some kind of prank. There is the faint wicker-snick of the ropes being moved back and forth again.
“I mean it,” Dean warns, pulling the syringe out and setting it down on the table next to his can. He rolls it back and forth with just his fingertips but Sam isn’t looking at him.
“You won’t use that on me. You can’t be sure what two doses will do in such a short period of time. You don’t want to kill me, do you?” Sam pauses and looks at Dean, head canted. “You don’t want to do Dad’s job for him do you? I mean, he’s probably been looking for an excuse to put me in the ground for years and-“
Dean is up and across the room before he has time to think about it. His fist connects solidly with Sam’s face, whose head rocks back and cracks against the old wooden headboard of the bed. There’s blood in his nose when he drops his chin back down. “How long have you been waiting to do that?” Sam sneers, an ugly expression that isn’t at home on his face.
“Well, you can be a real pain in the ass some…no, most of the time,” Dean crosses back to the table and drops into the motel chair. He was hoping Sam would be out of it for longer and now he’s got to work out how to get Sam to the car, still tied, without being seen and without Sam getting free.
“The feeling’s mutual,” Sam grouses and it’s again so normal sounding, so like their usual patina of conversation that it actually hurts.
“I said no talking,” Dean reminds him.
There’s a faint smile on Sam’s face and Dean doesn’t like it. There’s something…
At that moment he sees that one of the ropes has a loose end trailing on the floor and Sam has been loose the whole time. Sam pushes up from the bed and is across the room fast, too fast and his hand closes around Dean’s, which has closed around the syringe.
“You are not putting that junk in me again,” Sam growls into his ear, tightening his grip. Dean feels the knuckles of his hand grind together and it’s all he can do not to scream. Sam is pressed against him so Dean does the only thing he can think of.
He goes limp, dropping to the floor and sliding through Sam’s arms. Sam surprised, lets go of Dean’s hand. Dean reaches up and stabs the syringe into Sam’s thigh, jamming the plunger down with his thumb. Sam drops to his knees and then forward onto his hands, panting harshly.
“No fair,” he complains in such a small, Sam voice that it squeezes Dean’s heart. He reaches up a hand and the fingers bump against Dean’s face, slide down his neck and come to rest on his chest.
“No one’s ever accused me of being fair,” Dean says, rolling Sam over onto his back, Dean’s knee under his head. He runs his fingers over Sam’s forehead, watching his eyes go half-lidded and glassy.
“Now don’t you go and die,” he says.
Sam is curled on his side with his hands handcuffed behind him and his legs trussed with a double-length of rope. He’s got a blanket over his torso that had been over his face until the sun went down. Dean couldn’t bear to have him shrouded any longer than necessary because Sam was right about one thing, Dean has no idea what a double-dose of blood will do to him.
He’s pulled over to a phone booth with a phone book inside hanging by a chain and even though there are a lot of pages missing, he finds the one he needs.
He snorts and pulls the page out, folding it and tucking it into his front jeans pocket. When he gets back to the car he can see Sam’s eyes are open and are tracking him as he folds himself behind the wheel.
“What are you up to?” Sam asks, real curiosity in his voice. “You thinking you can save me?” Dean sees in the rear vision mirror Sam’s shoulders tense and knows he’s pulling on the cuffs, but Dean is no dummy. He knows normal handcuffs wouldn’t cut it but has a reinforced pair, strength runes inscribed on the metal.
“It’s what I do,” Dean shrugs. Sam snorts, turning his face into the upholstery.
“You’re such a loser.”
“I like to think of myself as a failure with style,” Dean muses, not wanting to be drawn into engaging with the thing curled inside of his brother, but not really able to help it. It’s weird to miss someone who is sitting right behind you.
“You like to think?” Sam rejoinders and Dean is so dangerously close to tipping over the edge of thinking that who he has tied is Sam that he can feel the wind of it on his face.
“Shutup,” he snarls instead.
“It’s funny,” Sam continues and there is a squeaking sound of him levering himself upright, head bowed forward and forehead almost touching Dean’s seat-back because he hasn’t been able to sit upright in the backseat since he was sixteen. “Dad didn’t show when you were dying. Didn’t even call. It seems it takes one of us becoming something he can hunt to get his attention, huh?”
“You shut up right now,” Dean growls, knowing that Sam is just trying to get him angry so he’ll make a mistake. Intellectually he knows this but he can’t help the black rage that ebbs at his mind regardless.
“You were dying man. He didn’t even ask how you were the next time we talked to him. I answered your phone and he wasn’t even interested enough to ask if you were dead.”
“He knew I wasn’t. He knew.”
“He stopped seeing sons and started seeing soldiers the minute mom died. Expendable soldiers. I’m just a casualty. Why do you think it’s so easy for him to come after us? He’ll cut my head off and he won’t even blink.”
“Whatever you’re trying to do, it won’t work,” Dean says, but his voice betrays him, breaking in the middle.
“I’m the one that loves you Dean, me. I’m the only one that loves you.”
Dean is concentrating so hard on not hearing Sam that he almost misses the furtive sound of Sam working his arms under his legs so his cuffed hands will be in the front. He swings in his seat just as Sam’s arms clear his boots. Dean reaches for the shotgun on the passenger seat but Sam is too fast, dropping his linked hands over the seat and across Dean’s throat and he leans backwards.
Grey is touching Dean’s vision when the hold loosens and he’s pulling in great lungfuls of air as Sam threads himself through the space between the driver and passenger side seats like a cat through a barred door. With one hand he reaches across and pushes open the driver’s side door and then one long leg slides over Dean’s thighs and Sam comes to rest, pressed up against Dean with the steering wheel in his back and one foot on the gravel outside. Dean wonders if he maybe did black out for a minute because he didn’t even hear Sam get his legs free.
“You’re even pretty when you choke,” Sam muses. His cuffed hands are now resting behind Dean’s head and one thumb makes circles behind his ear.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Dean’s voice pushes past the feeling of broken, ragged glass in his throat.
“Oh I will, just not the way you’d like.” The moonlight catches Sam’s eyes and they gleam. “It’s only fitting John Winchester has to hunt down both his boys, don’t you think?”
“No, Sam, no,” Dean says, bucking, but Sam has outweighed him for some time now and he’s pinned.
“He warned you, didn’t he? He said this would happen. He always needs to be right. I’m just obliging.”
One of Dean’s hands is freed when Sam curls forward to lick the place under his ear he has been circling with a thumb and his fingers pull free the last weapon he has, taped under the seat. His Hail Mary, his Just In Case. Sam’s teeth graze over his pulse point as Dean works the syringe he has pulled free around and pointed in the right direction. His wrist aches from the angle but he ignores it, jerking his hand up, needle sliding home into the meat of Sam’s calf.
“Ow! What the f-“ Sam jerks straight as Dean pushes the plunger home. His eyes are wide as his spine snaps in and out and he jerks sideways, falling out of the open door of the car.
“What did you do?” he groans.
"There’s a lot about vampires that is just crap, but according to Elkins holy water works, just has to be under the skin.”
At first the small woman just glares, crossing her arms and planting her feet in the doorway when Dean turns up with Sam slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. When Dean pulls Elkins’ journal from his back pocket and holds it out, her face softens and she steps aside without a word.
“Well, I was thinking he wouldn’t just tell you about me,” she says, following Dean into her lounge room and watching as he lowers Sam carefully onto the couch. Madelyn sniffs delicately and then scrunches her nose. “Holy water and dead man’s blood? He must be a fighter.”
“Yeah, he’s a real pain in the neck,” Dean quips and grins but Madelyn just rolls her eyes.
“So Daniel’s dead then?”
Dean lowers his eyes to the floor. “Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do it did you?”
Dean snorts. “No Mam,” he says and she waves a hand at him.
“No Mam stuff. Do I look that old to you?”
Dean’s gaze skips over Madelyn and he honestly can’t tell how old she is but she’s waiting, hands on her hips and his brother’s life in her hands and he says, “No, of course not.”
“Good answer,” she nods, lowering onto her knees by the couch and running fingers over Sam’s face. “They certainly like the pretty ones.”
“If you say so,” Dean shrugs. Madelyn looks back at him, something strange flitting across her features but then it’s gone.
“Ah, about two and a half weeks,” Dean says, dropping into an armchair on the other side of the room.
Madelyn stands and flicks her head in the direction of what Dean figures must be the kitchen. “Get him and bring him,” she orders and Dean nods. He picks Sam up again and they make their way into a very yellow kitchen, big sunflowers on the curtains and cheery daffodils painted on the cupboard doors. Dean pauses, at a loss and Madelyn grins at him.
“Set him down on the table,” she instructs.
“In here?” Dean looks about the room again. It looks like somewhere you’d make cookies, not devamp someone.
“If you’re more comfortable, we can go into my basement and I can light some candles and put on a show, but I’m not really in the mood for the theatrics right now. This works just as well.”
Dean shoulders Sam onto the table as Madelyn putters about the room, pulling jars and books from shelves. “Now, what’s your name?”
“Dean,” he answers, wondering why he just expected her to know that.
“Now Dean, I want you to leave this house. Go see a movie, take a walk in the park or just a drive.”
“Oh, no, I’m staying,” Dean says, frowning.
Madelyn blinks cool, coffee-coloured eyes at him. “He’s your brother isn’t he?” Madelyn’s eyes tick to Sam and back again. Dean nods stiffly and she half-smiles. “Have you ever heard your brother begging for the pain to stop?”
Dean stills, gooseflesh chasing up and down his arms. He remembers Sam writhing on cheap motel room beds, cradling his head and moaning, “Dean, make it stop, I can’t bear it, it hurts too much.”
“Yes,” Dean says and Madelyn’s eyes flood with a mix of sympathy and understanding.
“Okay, but you can’t be in this room. You can stay in the loungeroom but you cannot come back into this room until I tell you, no matter what you hear. You understand me?”
“Yes mam,” Dean says and Madelyn doesn’t correct him.
Dean has dug bloody half moons into his palms with his own fingernails and has even made it to the kitchen door, hand pressed to the wood before it is over. Madelyn comes out to find him back in the armchair, wiping her hands on a cheery green teatowel and leaving black streaks behind.
“You’re both very lucky. Sometimes there isn’t anything I can do.”
“He’s okay?” Dean stands, not really willing to believe it yet, not until she nods tiredly. ‘How?” he prompts and she grins impishly and taps a finger to the side of her nose, leaving a black smudge behind.
“Secret of the trade.”
“You’re kidding me,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow.
“I never joke,” Madelyn says, stepping aside.
Dean pushes through the kitchen door slowly, not entirely sure what he is expecting to see, but it definitely isn’t Sam sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler with a finger of amber liquid by his hand, looking for all the world like he used to when he’d just stumbled out of bed and before he’d eaten his cereal when they were little.
“Present,” Sam says, gaze still fixed on the glass by his hand.
“You sound like you,” Dean says, pulling out the chair opposite and dropping into it. Sam looks… clean. Scrubbed clean like someone had pushed him under a shower and taken to him with a brush. His skin is pink and his hair is damp but Dean hadn’t heard any sounds of water. His clothes aren’t damp either. There’s also no evidence in the sunny little room of what just happened.
“Is it me or is all this just a little bizarre, even for us?” Dean asks and Sam huffs, finally curling fingers around the glass and bringing it to his lips. After he’s taken a swallow, he holds it against his temple.
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Dean snaps. “None of this was your fault.”
“But what I did-“
“It wasn’t you,” Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“It was me,” Sam says in a low voice and Dean frowns at him. “It was with no conscious or moral boundaries but underneath, at the core of it all, it was me.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“You don’t have to. Dean, I just-“
“I swear, I will put you in a headlock and give you the noogeying of your life if you try and apologise again.”
“This changes things.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Dean, you can’t put your fingers in your ears and lalala your way through this one. I need… I need some time…”
“To do what? Drive yourself crazy? It might have felt like you at the time but it wasn’t. I have you back now. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Me bound to you…”
Dean winces and digs fingers into the corners of his eyes.
“You think?” Sam is looking at him now with such hope shining in his eyes that Dean knows he will never tell Sam what he really believes.
”I’m the only one that loves you…”
How close he’d come. How close to saying, yes Sam, yes anything.
Later, when Sam has past out the door and is waiting in the car, Dean hovers in Madelyn’s threshold and she smiles, putting a hand to his neck and squeezing lightly.
“Maybe I need it too,” Dean says. “For you to draw out whatever is in me.”
“I can only take what doesn’t belong.” Madelyn draws Dean’s face down to her and kisses both eyelids and then his forehead. In a weird way it feels like a blessing. She presses a package into his hands and he looks down, chuckling when he sees what it is.
“Why yes, Dean, I do use my kitchen for that as well,” she says.
“Wait, how did you… you had to ask me my name but you knew I was thinking this?”
Madelyn shrugs. “I didn’t have to, I just find it makes people more comfortable to be asked.”
When Dean slides into the car, Sam wedged against the passenger side door with drowsy eyes and restless hands asks, “Are we okay?”
“Yeah Sam, we’re okay,” Dean nods.