Chapter Text
“I have come to realize that if you spend enough time watching things that would have otherwise gone unnoticed, you will begin to realize you are the keeper of a terrible secret. Yourself.”
— Matthew Good
At Last There is Nothing Left to Say
Dean’s boot heels scuff through the grit of ice and salt on the sidewalk as he makes his way through the night. He walks a little splay-legged to try and keep his footing. A light rain fell earlier and it’s freezing over the salt and in small puddles, making black ice for pedestrians. Kilgore trots along beside him, tender pads of his paws protected from the frigid air with a pair of doggie booties. It’s dark and late, Dean’s not wearing gloves and he hasn’t felt his fingers for the last half hour or so. He’s been out walking for maybe three, maybe four, hours; he doesn’t know nor does he care.
He wishes he was half past lit and on his way to Blackout Town, but on nights like this, he has to limit his intake. He can have a few nips, catch a slow-burn buzz, but he has to watch it, at least until after. If he’s not careful, he’ll be passed out on the floor when Sam gets back and that’ll never do. He’s exhausted though, a full day of driving has worn him out and all that’s really keeping him awake is the four Stackers he took a little while ago.
Sam left around 9:30 to go be with one of them and left Dean alone with a bottle of Stackers, a fifth of Old Grand-Dad and Kilgore for company. It’s been three years now and Dean’s adjusted to Sam’s extracurricular activities well enough. Now, the problem is that Dean resents the hell out of them, the ones Sam goes to late at night in towns all across the U.S. of A. It isn’t right for him to feel that way; it isn’t how the story is supposed to go. Dean is supposed to be the good guy here, he should feel awful about all of the bodies piled up behind them over the years, but he doesn’t, not anymore.
Tonight, Sam set his sights on an attractive young woman with hair dyed so red it made Dean think of the yarn used to make Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. Her open, freckled face and rosy cheeks only invited further Raggedy Ann comparisons. Comparisons Dean had tried and failed not to make. His stomach had given a sick little lurch when his mind started supplying him with jokes about busted seams and popped stitches.
She was their waitress three towns back when they stopped for supper. She smiled at Sam, tried to chat him up and Dean knew. It had been in the way Sam smiled back even as he ran his fingers over the top of Dean’s hand. Raggedy Ann had flushed and giggled, she’d apologized. She’d said they were cute together—no, they were more than that. They looked hot together, that’s what she said. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment and apologized again. Sam’s responding laugh had been just the right pitch, somewhere between amused and a hungry growl. Dean had forked more meatloaf into his mouth and shivered when Sam turned that werewolf smile on him.
Dean still doesn’t know how Sam picks them or why one person makes the grade and another doesn’t, but he has learned to read the signs. Nowadays, he knows when Sam’s found someone new to scratch his itch. The way Sam looks at him tells Dean that he knows he knows; he figured it out years ago. Maybe that’s why Sam doesn’t mind telling him about it later. Or maybe it’s because Dean asks. It’s like poking at a sore tooth, picking at a scab or digging pus out of an infected wound with the glowing-hot tip of a knife. Maybe all of the above at once. It’s a bad habit and he shouldn’t do it, but he can’t leave it alone.
Supper was about seven hours ago. By now, there’s probably not much of Raggedy Ann left other than a stain and the smell of Sam slowly fading from the air. She’ll be cold now or at least getting there and her eyes will be open, staring and filming over. Dean would lay down serious cash on Raggedy Ann not being fit for an open casket funeral.
No matter how hard he tries, Dean cannot remember Raggedy Ann’s actual name. He guesses it doesn’t really matter, but he tries like hell to keep track. Although it’s not really necessary; Sam can rattle off his list in alphabetical order. He did it once because Dean was drunk and mad and challenged him to. He’d thought it would really show Sam what a bad person he had become. Instead, Sam had looked pleased and annoyed at the same time, but the curly lipped smirk he gave Dean was what had left a ball of ice in his belly. Gotcha, that smirk said and then Sam pulled him down on the bed and fucked him so hard Dean forgot his name for a while.
Dean stops walking and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Blinking against the gritty feeling snow scouring his cheeks, stinging his eyelids, chapping his lips, he takes in his surroundings for the first time in six or seven blocks. Kilgore sits by his left leg and watches a stray cat with a limp and half a tail slip into an alley a little ways up. Christmas lights twinkle all around them, reducing the shadows to colorful, glowing puddles with only a small nucleus of darkness to combat them. Dean tips his head back and looks at Santa hanging off the light pole above him. He smirks when he thinks of him as an out of place Mardi Gras reveler. They grease the lamp posts down in New Orleans come that time of year to keep people from making like Santa here. Dean remembers Sam telling him that years and years ago.
Across the street is a thrift shop with a cheerful window display all bedecked for the holiday season. Mannequins dressed in gay sweaters hold brightly wrapped, festive packages in their stiff, fused together fingers. The window is glittering with the light from three small artificial trees and sparkly fake snow lies in drifts around the bare feet of the mannequins. Maybe the shop is running low on hand-me-down shoes this time of year. Dean licks clinging ice-snow off his lips and steps off the curb to have a closer look at the happy scene.
Up close, it’s not as pretty as it was from the other side of the street. The sweaters have small holes and the one on the child mannequin is coming unraveled at the hem. Their expressionless faces are chipped, marked with the pox scars of ill use and age. The bright red flocking on the bow of the package in the female mannequin’s hand is mangy looking, rubbed bald in places and appears to’ve been nibbled on by mice. There’s a stain on the paper of the male mannequin’s package. The artificial trees are missing limbs and the glitter paint is flaking from the ornaments hanging off the ones that remain.
Dean smacks his hand against the plate glass display window. It’s a fucking illusion. None of this is real and it’s only pretty from a distance. Up close it is ugly-ugly-ugly and he hates it with a ferocity that’s so sudden it nearly chokes him.
Then he laughs and takes the flask of Old Grand-Dad out of his back pocket. “Fuck me,” he says.
Kilgore doesn’t seem interested in any of it, he’s waiting patiently for Dean to shit or get off the pot. Given the things the dog has seen and heard over the last three years, he’s probably pretty damned jaded by now, if a dog can be jaded. Dean tips the flask back and ponders the idea for the first five swallows and forgets again by the sixth. He’s jittery from the speed and anxious for Sam to hurry the fuck up. Actually, he may be back by now. Thinking that, Dean pulls his cell out to check the time. It’s after two in the morning.
“Shit!” he says as he turns away from the window.
He slips yet again and this time, he can’t catch himself. Dean’s already bracing himself for the impact when a hand grabs his arm and yanks him back upright. Automatically, he slaps the hand away and steps backwards to put distance between himself and whoever grabbed him.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean stops and blinks. Castiel is standing in front of him, hands in his coat pockets and head tipped to the right. Like a runaway train, Castiel has a bad habit of appearing out of nowhere. Dean should be used to it by now, but he’s not and isn’t entirely sure if he will ever be.
“What the hell, Cas? You scared the crap outta me,” Dean says.
“I apologize,” Castiel says. “If there is another occasion such as this, I will let you fall if it will leave you feeling less… startled.”
“No,” Dean says. He huffs out a breath and rubs at his eyes. His mind is like an exploding fireworks factory thanks to the Stackers and he still feels his exhaustion. He has to slog back to the motel, too. And here’s Castiel, being his inconveniently timed self as usual. “What do you want?”
“I need to speak with you about Sam,” Castiel says.
Dean jerks his head up at that, instantly on the defensive. Castiel’s known about Sam—or at least had his suspicions—longer than Dean has. He’s never asked and gotten absolute confirmation, but he doesn’t need it. Castiel has been weird around Sam for a long time now, Dean remembers noticing it back when he himself was still in the dark and thinking it odd. Hell, Castiel had looked at Sam funny back then and now, he avoids him altogether unless he has absolutely no other choice in the matter.
“What about Sam?” Dean asks. He takes another swig from the flask and waits as Castiel shifts on his feet, working up his nerve. Dean thinks it’s a pantomime, mimicry of human behavior that he’s picked up. It’s hard to imagine an angel actually needing to do something so basic as work up the nerve to open his heavenly yap.
“I know you are aware of Sam’s… activities… the last few years,” Castiel says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. He feels a prickle of heat run up his spine, chasing away the chill. “What about his activities?”
“What he does is wrong, Dean and your… your acceptance of it is perhaps even wronger,” Castiel says.
Dean huffs out a laugh. Even as scary-smart as he is, Castiel still gets little things wrong. Because he’s a tourist here on Earth, human language is not his mother (well, Father) tongue. “Wronger isn’t a word, dude.”
“Be that as it may,” Castiel says. “Sam cannot continue to slaughter innocent people the way he does. Do you not see that it is wrong?”
His voice is at his prissy librarian best and Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. This is serious business, this here. Dean clears his throat and nods.
“I know it’s wrong, but there ain’t shit I can do about it, short of ending him and I’m sorry, man, but no,” Dean says.
“Dean,” Castiel begins patiently. “If you will not do something about Sam then I will. He must be stopped.”
Okay, this didn’t go exactly the way Dean thought it would. He thought Castiel would ask him to speak to Sam, to try and reason with him. He didn’t think he’d threaten to fucking kill him.
He jabs a finger at Castiel and takes a couple of steps towards him. “You leave Sam alone, understand? If he ends up with a… with a hair out of place, so help me, I will tear down Heaven and Hell to…”
Dean trails off with a shake of his head and represses a sharp sound of anger. He’s breathing heavy, breath pluming out of his mouth and nose in clouds of white as he rolls his shoulder. Only the memory of past experience keeps him from punching Castiel in the face. The last thing he needs is to break his hand on his jaw again.
“Dean, listen to yourself,” Castiel says. His big blue eyes are even bigger as he reaches for Dean, trying to reason with him. “Your brother is an abomination, that truth has never changed, but he is also a monster now. Is that really what you want for him?”
“It’s not what I want, no. It’s never what I fucking wanted for Sammy. It’s what I’ve got though and I can live with it. I’m used to it,” Dean says. He turns to walk away, but whirls back on Castiel and nearly falls down again. He notices that this time, Castiel doesn’t try to help him. “And you say he’s an abomination, a monster, but tell me this, Mr. High-and-Mighty: Whose fault is that? Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell isn’t Sam’s.”
“Dean!” Castiel says. “What about free will? Do you not believe that he could choose not to kill these people?”
Dean slumps a bit, but shakes his head. He believes in free will, sure, but he also knows how Sam’s been fucked with—damn near genetically engineered—from infancy. Dean knows that Sam did none of those things to himself. Thanks to all of that shit though, Sam’s mind is bound to be a mess of nightmare corridors and charnel houses by this point.
“It’s not his fault,” Dean says. “It’s just the way he was made.”
“He will eventually be caught,” Castiel says. “Then what will you do? You are an accessory after the fact because of your knowledge of his criminal activity. You will be held just as responsible for it as Sam will be.”
“Maybe I am responsible,” Dean says. He sees the way Castiel’s eyes soften at that. Poor fucking Dean, always blaming himself for the shortcomings of others, that’s what Castiel is probably thinking. “Don’t you fucking look at me like that. Like you know what I’m thinking. You don’t.”
“Perhaps not,” Castiel allows. “But I do know your patterns. I know that you feel Sam is your responsibility no matter what. I also know that one day, Sam will be apprehended and then what will you do?”
Even as mad as he is, Castiel telling him Sam will get caught still makes him laugh. That’s where Castiel is dead wrong. Sam’s up there with the best and the brightest; as far as serial killers go, Sammy’s a fucking rock star. Sam ranks up there with the Zodiac killer. He’s smart, he’s organized, he switches things up and creates false paths for investigators to follow because of how he’s tailored his methods. Sam goes from state to state and his migratory pattern has no real pattern at all. Because of the diffusion as much as anything else, it would take decades—if it ever happened—for the authorities to pick up on the fact there’s a highly prolific serial killer at work.
Factor in that at any given time there are an estimated 200 serial killers active in the United States alone and Sam isn’t much more than a face in the crowd. He even fits the generic standard profile: Early- to mid-thirties, attractive, superficially likeable. He comes from a low income, abusive home. He’s highly intelligent. He’s easy to forget because despite Sam’s humongous size, he still fades into the background so easily it’s actually admirable. Dean’s never been half as good at disappearing in a crowded room as Sam is.
“I’ll do everything I can to save him if he ever gets busted,” Dean says. “You think I’d just let him go to the gas chamber? Nuh-uh, no. I’d bust him out; we’ve done it before, it can be done again. But I hate to break it to you: Sammy’s never going to get caught.”
“Dean, please listen to reason,” Castiel says. “He is dangerous. He could very well turn on you one day.”
“No, he won’t,” Dean says. “I’m sick of this conversation. I’m leaving, so how about you just toddle on back to whatever cloud you hopped off of to come bug me?”
“Dean,” Castiel says. He frowns and puts his hands in his coat pockets. There’s that oh-so-sad look in his eyes again, but then he closes them like he’s tired. “Your love for Sam will be the end of you one day. Love like yours is a curse, not a blessing.”
Castiel’s words feel like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t know which love Castiel is referring to, for he’s bound to know about what else he and Sam do together. Either way, he thinks it’s bullshit.
“Fuck. Off,” he says, voice low and grating. “Leave Sam alone. How many times do I gotta repeat myself here? Better yet, leave us alone.” Dean lets out a harsh breath, another rush of steam that glitters in the cheerful light. “Do not fuck with him. That’s your last warning, Cas.”
With that, he turns and walks away from Castiel’s pale, drawn face. He hears Castiel call after him again, but he ignores him. He is fucking done.
Kilgore pads along beside him, unperturbed by the confrontation he’s just witnessed. The dog is steady-on as always, well-trained (Dean is really proud of himself for that) and unflappable. Behind them there is the whoosh of wings and a rush of air as Castiel disapparates away from the sidewalk. Dean is glad to hear him go. At the corner, he stops to lean down and scratch Kilgore’s head before crossing the street to head back to the Golden Rest Motor Lodge where Sam is probably waiting for him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean looks at the dog sitting expectantly by the door, waiting to be let in and it’s only then he realizes Kilgore is not on his leash and hasn’t been the whole time. Dean’s started to forget a lot of little things like that lately, but at least Kilgore is trained well enough that he heels even without a leash. It still feels a lot like the dog has pulled a fast one on him and that makes Dean chuckle.
Sam is sitting in a chair by the window when Dean comes in. The room is dark save the light from the motel sign glowing around the edges of the curtains. The air is humid and the room smells like soap and Sam’s girly Fructis shampoo. Dean can almost taste the water that’s probably still dripping from Sam’s freshly washed hair. Clean, with a faintly bitter chemical chlorine tang. In his black clothes, Sam is almost impossible to see, but Dean knows where to look.
“Hey,” Dean says. He wants to smile, but he doesn’t. He’s still thinking about Castiel’s threat and his lingering anger is a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
“Hey,” Sam says back.
Dean goes to get a beer from the mini-fridge and twists the cap off, tossing it in the general direction of the room’s small wastebasket. He hears it hit the floor with a soft ping and shrugs it off before stooping to grab Sam a beer, too.
“Here,” Dean says, waving the bottle at him.
“Thanks,” Sam says as he plucks the beer from Dean’s hand.
Dean goes to sit on the side of the bed and tries not to fidget in the silence that swallows the room. Outside, the winter wind howls across the flat Nebraska landscape and the sound of their breathing seems loud in the hollow places their quietness has created. Dean can hear Kilgore softly chewing on his favorite rawhide bone, the occasional sound of his rust-colored paws thumping on the threadbare carpet tells Dean when he’s adjusting his grip on the treat.
Sam’s always quiet after one of his hunts, turned inward and introspective. Reliving the moment. Waiting for Dean to make the first move. But they both know how this will play out; they’ve been doing it for a while now.
Dean’s tension builds until he can’t take it anymore—Sam’s silence and what he knows he’s thinking about. He’s made it through three beers, enough to calm the jitters the Stackers left him with and to draw out the moment to its snapping point.
He gets off the bed and goes to stand in front of Sam. He can just make out Sam lifting his head to look up; the moisture in his eyes catches the light and makes them shine.
Dean looks at those crescents of moisture, the brighter stars of specular highlights near Sam’s pupils and says, “Tell me.”
Sam waits a few more seconds then leans forward to curl one of his big hands around Dean’s hip. As he leans back again, he gently tugs Dean closer. With his hand still on Dean’s hip, he uses his other to push up the tail of Dean’s shirt. His fingers ghost over the flat, slightly hollow, plane of Dean’s belly, reading the scars there like Braille and Dean shivers. Sam lets out a slow breath and then he begins to talk.
“She got off after eleven,” Sam begins. “I watched her wipe down tables and take the trash out the back. The cook slapped her ass and it made her uncomfortable, I could tell by the look on her face.”
“Did she say anything to him?” Dean asks as Sam snakes his hand up to his chest.
Sam’s thumb moves in a short arc over Dean’s left nipple; back and forth, back and forth. He says, “I don’t know, her back was to me by then, but the cook flipped her off when she walked away. So, my guess is that she did and it wasn’t very nice.”
Dean starts to ask more, but Sam rolls his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, gradually applying pressure until the throb is hot and electric. The pain is brief and fades to an echo when Sam lets go to stroke his hand down Dean’s side. He wants the pain back, but this is just as good, it keeps his own greed in check, builds his anticipation and lets him focus on the story again.
“No one walked her to her car,” Sam says as he strokes Dean’s lower back with smooth, firm strokes of his palm. Dean sways towards him and Sam leans forward to nip his belly through the cloth of his shirt. There’s a small spot of moisture left behind on the shirt and it sticks to Dean’s skin, grows cold. “Chivalry may not be dead, but I think it’s definitely dying a little more all the time. Her hair was like a flag, all of that bright red waving in the wind. Her coat looked old, worn around the seams, but it was hard to tell from that distance.”
“Where were you?” Dean asks. He closes his eyes and pictures Sam watching Raggedy Ann, taking in her movements, inserting himself in her life through the eye of a voyeuristic needle. It makes a hot little spike of anger poke into his spine and kindle in his chest.
Sam pushes Dean’s shirt up and presses a wet, sucking kiss to the skin right above the waist of his jeans. He runs his tongue over the long, neat scar there. There’s a twin of it on Dean’s other side, both of them curving around from front to back; parentheses bracketing his hips.
“I was in the garage of the auto repair shop across from the diner,” Sam says. “It provided the best view and the best cover.”
Dean remembers the place. It had been open when he saw it, but it was probably close to closing time. The place didn’t look like it did much business anyway. “You used binoculars then?”
Sam snorts softly and says, “Yes, Dean, I used binoculars.”
“I dunno, you could’ve used your go-go gadget eyes or something,” Dean says.
Sam’s soft laughter makes him smile even as Sam flicks open the button on his jeans. “Maybe next time,” he says.
“What happened next?” Dean asks.
“You know,” Sam says.
“I want to hear you say it,” Dean says.
“Okay,” Sam says. “I followed her home. She lived on the other side of town, the side we came in on. Her place was a little trailer out in the middle of nowhere. There was a house kind of close by and I’m guessing she was living on some of her family’s land.”
“But you don’t know that,” Dean says.
“Of course I don’t know, but I’m a pretty good guesser,” Sam says as he drags Dean’s zipper down.
He darts his head forward and bites him, quick and hard, deep. Dean jerks at the feel of Sam’s teeth sinking into the delicate skin beneath his belly button. His spit grows cold, but there is a warm tingle beneath it. Even if Sam didn’t break the skin, there’ll be a bruise there tomorrow, roundish and red-purple. There may be a blood blister to pop, too, a dark, raised lump of pain to prod at then drain. He gasps and runs his fingers through Sam’s hair as he licks over the spot. His fingers catch in the damp strands and he can feel them squeaking cleanly as he moves. He drags his fingers down to Sam’s jaw as he turns his head to lick and nip the fleshy heel of Dean’s palm. When he bites down, Dean moans, the sound sudden and sharp in the room. Not too long ago, such a sound would’ve embarrassed him, but he’s over it now, Sam helped him learn it was okay to like it.
“I waited a few minutes then walked down the drive to her place,” Sam says. “Her porch light was on and there was a moth fluttering around, even in this cold. It’ll freeze to death because of its helpless stupidity.”
Dean rolls that around in his mind, helpless stupidity and thinks he likes that. Sam’s become a good storyteller the last three years; he can mark the improvement in his skill over time. Dean wonders if Sam perfects his tales for him so they’ll be ready, ripe, when Dean finally makes his request. Sam does believe in preparation and he doesn’t much care for letting Dean down, so maybe he does try. Dean feels a wave of affection swell under his skin at that.
“Did she remember you?” Dean asks as Sam runs his hand up his inner thigh. Dean spreads his legs more to give him better access.
“Yes,” Sam says. “She was happy to see me.”
Dean can hear the smile in Sam’s voice. “She wanted to fuck you,” he says.
He hates her for that, for wanting what is his. She took Sam away from him for a little while and Dean cannot compete on the same level as Raggedy Ann, but he can do this, he thinks. He tightens his fingers in Sam’s hair until he hisses in a breath and lets it out on a chuckle as he shakes his head to make Dean let go.
“I know,” Sam says.
He sounds so calm about it, so fucking matter-of-fact, that Dean bites his lip against saying, Fuck you, Sammy.
Sam surges up out of the chair, a rush of long limbs and solid muscle. He crushes his body to Dean’s and still somehow manages to get both hands under his shirt, shoving it up until it bunches in Dean’s armpits. Sam walks him backwards and leans down to press his cheek to Dean’s. He rocks them from side to side, a slow sway drunken dancehall grind. His breath washes over Dean’s cheek, down the side of his neck and tickles at his ear.
“She let me in,” Sam says. His voice is muffled against the side of Dean’s neck. He nips him, once, twice, three, four times, tiny starbursts of pain following each pinch; the conception of small bruises for tomorrow. “She offered me coffee. Asked me if I was having car trouble.”
“What lie did you tell her?” Dean asks.
“I took her up on her offer of coffee. Said I was freezing and told her what a happy coincidence it was that her place was the one I saw a light on at,” Sam says as he moves Dean back-back-back until his knees hit the side of the bed farthest from the door. He almost falls, but Sam wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him closer still. Dean can feel his erection against his hip and he lets out a harsh breath as he digs his fingers into Sam’s shoulders. “I blamed it on you, told her we had a fight and I took off walking. I made you the bad guy. She thought it was all just awful.”
“Dick,” Dean snarls.
Sam’s only response is a soft laugh. They’re so close together, Dean can feel the rumble of it in his chest. “That’s what I called you, you bad, bad man,” Sam says. His voice is dripping with sarcasm and Dean clenches his teeth as Sam’s hands move down to his ass and squeeze. “She was so sympathetic.”
“Fuck her,” Dean says.
“What would you do if I told you I did?” Sam asks.
Dean freezes and pulls back from him, eyes wide and searching Sam’s face. “You didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” Sam says. “I could’ve though.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“Why? I thought you wanted to hear about it.”
“I want to know what happened, not what could’ve happened,” Dean says.
“Supposition is part of what makes a good story though,” Sam says.
He pushes Dean and he lands on the bed with a bounce and a curse at the abruptness of it. He stares up at Sam silhouetted in the bad light, the neon glow that inches into the room highlighting his cheekbones softly in bright yellow and blue. It touches the bow of his lips, glints in the ends of his hair. His eyes are in shadow, black holes in his neon kissed face, but Dean can feel them on him as he pushes himself into a sitting position to yank his shirt off and toss it across the room.
“Did she make good coffee?” Dean asks he twists around to lie down without his legs hanging off the side of the bed.
“Yes,” Sam says. There’s a rustle of fabric followed by the soft snick of a blade locking into place. “It was strong and hot. I burned my tongue.”
Dean swallows and shifts around some more, scooting into the middle of the bed. He rests his arms at his sides, hands palm up, exposing the blue river lines of his veins. His tender white belly is exposed; his head is tilted back, showing his throat. It’s a holy trinity of vulnerability, but they all say the same thing: Dean trusts the Big Bad Wolf he calls brother; he calls lover. His blood beats so hard and hot beneath those more defenseless places of his skin. Sam’s teeth are so sharp, but Dean is not afraid. He’s merely waiting. Wanting.
The plaid bedspread of ugly neutrals is made of cheap, scratchy fabric and it itches a little bit, but Dean ignores it. They’ll have to take it and the sheets with them when they leave anyway. They’ll burn them on the side of the road somewhere, in one of the millions Middle of Nowheres out there. It won’t be the first time they’ve done so and it won’t be the last either.
Sam moves around to the foot of the bed and unties Dean’s boots, pulls them off and drops them on the floor. His socks follow suit. Dean lifts up enough to push his jeans and boxers down, wiggling around until they’re almost to his knees. Sam leans over him and tugs them the rest of the way off. Dean keeps his eyes on the blade of the knife Sam is holding between his teeth. It looks liquid as it catches the light and winks like slippery mercury.
The room is cold, not as cold as it is outside, but cooler than Dean typically likes it. Goosebumps rise up on his skin as he looks at Sam. Sam’s teeth are another quick flash of light in the dark, a faint white shine when he smiles then crawls over Dean.
With Sam looming over him, his warmth chasing the chill air away, Dean lifts his hands and cups Sam’s face to pull him down. “My tongue still hurts,” Sam murmurs against Dean’s mouth and then he kisses him.
Dean arches beneath him as he sucks at Sam’s sore tongue, Sam’s laughter another rumble that hums in his chest. Dean wants to make it better; he blames Raggedy Ann for Sam’s sore tongue. It’s one more reason to hate her. This is what Sam gets for straying off to go be with one of them.
Sam pulls away and Dean tries to follow him for a second before dropping his head back on the pillow with a soft sound of frustration. “Tell me more,” he says.
He strokes his hands down Sam’s arm, finds his right hand and touches the knife. The blade feels like dry ice against his fingertips, so cold it burns.
“I drank her coffee,” Sam says. “It cooled off and she talked. She seemed happy to have the company. I don’t think she had many friends. It’s a shame, really, she was sweet and nice.”
“How about that?” Dean says.
He barely manages to keep his lip from curling. He doesn’t know why he does this, not really, except that it’s a different kind of pain. One he hates and wants at the same time, one he has to have in order to prove his point. Getting Sam to talk about it while they do this is the best way. It gets him out of his own head, it brings him back to the present—back to Dean. It allows Dean to become a part of it and blot it out at the same time as he becomes the bigger part of Sam’s focus. He has to prove to Sam that he is better than all the rest, has to prove it until Sam stops seeing them and only sees him.
“Yeah,” Sam says. His voice is distant, distracted, flat almost. He rises to his knees above Dean and presses the knife to his chest, right below his collarbone. “How about that?”
Dean grits his teeth and tells himself to hold still when the knife bites in. The pain takes a second to catch up to the motion of cutting him, but when it does, it is sweet. It burns and tingles as it grows wet with blood. This is the pain that never, ever hurts Dean, the kind he used to be ashamed of. The kind only Sam ever knew about. The kind only Sam will ever know about.
“How about that?” Sam says again. This time he’s not being rhetorical.
Dean nods, touches his wrist and circles it, drawing Sam’s hand back down. “Keep talking, dork boy,” he says.
Sam laughs and presses down with the knife again. “When I grabbed her, I think she thought I was going to kiss her.” The knife digs another furrow into Dean’s skin and he moans this time, barely keeps from twitching. “She opened her mouth a little and her eyelashes fluttered, like she was about to close her eyes.”
“She wanted you,” Dean says through his clenched teeth as he balls his hands into fists at his sides. Sam’s cutting him again, the third one, he can feel his eyes pinned to slight shine of the blade, he can smell his own blood now.
“What bothers you more? That’s what I wonder,” Sam says. “That she wanted me or that she didn’t want you?”
Dean huffs out a heavy breath as Sam starts the fourth cut. They’re short and deep, blood running down his side and up towards his neck, little earthworm trails of sticky coldness.
“The first one,” he says when Sam pokes at the cuts with his finger to get his attention. “The… first… Goddamn.”
He jerks, panting, when Sam cuts him the fifth time, this one beneath the first cut. The side of his chest is on fire now, wet and burning and Christ, it’s not enough right up until it is and he never knows it. Sam’s the one that knows when Dean’s had his fill, it’s Sam that keeps an eye on him and keeps it from going too far. Dean would let him kill him just to get off. Just to come out on top.
As Sam starts the second cut in his second row, he says, “She didn’t even know what happened when I stabbed her the first time. She actually looked kind of confused. Then she tried to get away, but she couldn’t. The wind was blowing, it made the walls of the trailer rattle it was going so hard. I had to knock her out after that first one though so I could change.”
“Where was your bag?” Dean asks. The question comes out choked and hoarse.
Sam lowers his head to press a kiss to the six dripping cuts and then licks into them, running his tongue through the deep grooves. Dean’s hands automatically go to the back of his head, stroking his hair, holding his head close—asking for more. He pushes up against him with his whole body when Sam bites over the cuts then sucks at them. The pressure is delicious and the pain is sharp-sharp. Fingers tangled in Sam’s still damp hair, Dean lifts his head to press his mouth to the top of Sam’s to muffle the sounds he’s making. They have neighbors here tonight and they don’t need to hear this.
“I left it by the doorsteps,” Sam says when he pulls his head back. He presses a wet, salty kiss to Dean’s open mouth and slides his tongue inside. It’s almost like being kissed by a snake, the way Sam flicks his tongue over his, slides it over the roof of his mouth. Sitting back again, he touches Dean’s cheek with his left hand and Dean turns his face into his palm. “Bite down,” Sam says.
Dean starts to ask why, but then Sam cuts him again and he knows. He fastens onto Sam’s hand hard enough to muffle the sounds he’s making, but not hard enough to actually hurt him because Dean doesn’t want to hurt Sam. It only really goes one way.
“By the time she woke up, I was dressed and had cleaned up after myself,” Sam says. “I already had on my gloves, but saliva and an extra cup out, a pot of coffee sitting almost full on the burner. All of that had to be taken care of.”
Dean lets go of Sam’s hand long enough to say, “You’re so fucking tidy,” His breath is heavy, his chest feels weighted down and there’s an aching ball of pleasure in the pit of his stomach.
“Better tidy than sloppy,” Sam says. He cuts Dean again and he whimpers into the meat of Sam’s palm. Sam’s still and quiet for a moment, just touching the cuts, barely running his fingers over the blood. Then he sticks his fingers in his mouth and sucks them clean of the stain. “I had to gag her, you know,” Sam says. He sounds thoughtful. “I don’t like doing that, but that house was pretty close and well…”
Sam finally takes his shirt off and Dean reaches to touch him with a trembling hand. Sam’s skin is warm and smooth under his palm and he can hear the cat tongue rasp of his calluses against Sam’s skin.
“Did you strip her?” he asks as he touches Sam. “Did you…”
“Yes, I stripped her,” Sam says. “It’s easier that way when I want to take my time. Clothes just get in my way and piss me off. You know that.” Sam bows his head, takes Dean’s hand in his and draws it up to his mouth. He kisses his scarred and still scraped knuckles from their last hunt, tongue running over the scabs, tasting them. “I don’t touch them though.”
“You do touch them,” Dean says.
“Not that way, I don’t,” Sam says. “Not like this.” He licks Dean’s scabbed knuckles again then scrapes his teeth over them once before letting go of his hand. “Or this,” he says as he bends over Dean to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Or this,” he says as he moves back to the bleeding cuts and laps at them, the sound wet and lewd.
“You better not,” Dean says.
“Or what?” Sam asks. “What would you do if I did?”
“Aside from calling you rapist?” Dean asks.
Sam makes a growling sound of disgust at that and Dean smirks. He likes when he can get one up on Sam and he walked right into that. “You know what I meant,” Sam says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I’d be pissed, Sammy, that’s what I’d be.”
“I asked what you’d do,” Sam says. He cuts him again, a practiced movement that’s so quick it startles Dean and he jerks even as he gasps.
“Motherfucker,” Dean says.
“Now who’s being dirty?” Sam asks.
“Shut up,” Dean says.
“Not until you answer me,” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t want to answer him because he thinks Sam already knows the answer. Sam is playing with him, baiting him up and stringing him along. He won’t shut up either, not if he really wants to know and Dean can never tell with him these days.
“Dean, tell me,” Sam says.
Another cut as punctuation and Dean bites his lip against the sound that rises up in his throat. There are eight cuts on the left side of his chest now and each one is a line of pleasure-pain. The ball of pleasure in his belly aches in time with the throb of each cut. It’s getting harder to concentrate now that they’ve crossed the invisible line that is always there when they do this, always waiting for Dean to slip over it.
“I’d fucking kill them,” he manages to spit out. The ferocity in his voice startles him, snapping him back to the here and now. He blinks rapidly and tries to think of something else to say, tries to think of a lie that would let him pretend to take it back, but he cannot.
“Huh,” Sam says. “Okay.”
Dean can’t tell anything from his tone of voice and while he can see Sam, he can’t either. He’s mostly shadows, highlighted with only the faintest touch of light, just like he has been the whole time. Dean wonders how Sam can see him, but he has a sneaking suspicion Sam’s night vision is a lot better—and always has been—than he lets on. It’s one of those things that Dean keeps to himself, one of the questions he will not ask.
When Sam makes the first cut on the right side of his chest, Dean lets it go. He sinks into what Sam’s doing and what he’s saying because he’s talking again.
“I didn’t say anything else to her,” Sam says. “I don’t like talking to them while I work, it seems hokey to me.”
“And this?” Dean asks. “It’s not hokey?”
“No,” Sam says. “This is different.”
“Good,” Dean says. “What did you do next?”
“I cut her face off,” Sam says. Before Dean can ask why he did that, Sam makes a shushing sound and says, “I felt like it and I haven’t ever done that, so it was something new, too. I left it on her coffee table. I think people call stuff like that a ‘statement piece’. Do you think it counts as a statement piece?”
Dean can’t answer him, Sam’s talking too fast and cutting too quick. Everything is ratcheting up, getting down to the nitty-gritty. Sam’s breathing is heavier, his voice is thicker, it sounds rawer than its usual undertone of hoarseness. He’s back there with Raggedy Ann and right here with Dean at the same time.
“She didn’t die then though,” Sam says. “If you don’t nick an artery or cut a vein, face peeling is actually not that serious, aside from the disfigurement part of it, I guess.”
He cuts Dean again and with his other hand, digs his fingers into the cuts on the left side, raking them down at a 45 degree angle while still applying that heavy pressure. Dean bucks and makes a strangled sound and his mouth tastes like copper and iron because he bit his tongue.
“She was screaming and screaming, but it was muffled because of the gag. She had blue eyes and wouldn’t stop crying. I left her eyelids, it seemed like the right thing to do,” Sam says. Another cut and that’s five on his right side. “Can you imagine how much her tears burned in all of that raw meat?”
His breath comes out in a shaking rush as he cuts again. Six.
“I left her ridiculous hair,” Sam says. “It was an interesting contrast to her face—the raw and real with the obviously fake. I made an art installation out of her head. People in that podunk little town will be talking about it for years. It’s not like anything of real interest happens there often.”
“What did… What…”
Dean shakes his head, trying to clear it. He’s trying to find the words, but he’s not processing much aside from what Sam’s saying to him and the way everything hurts and he wants and he’s shaking. The tremors are fine and soft for now, they probably won’t get that bad at all this time. Though there have been times Sam’s made him shake so hard his teeth have chattered. Sam’s got a real talent for taking people apart.
“What did I do with the rest of her?” Sam asks. He makes the seventh and eight cuts in quick succession.
“Yes,” Dean gasps out.
Sam gets off of him then and Dean grabs for him, wanting to know where he’s going then he hears his zipper come down and he knows. “Roll over,” Sam says.
Dean tries to nod, but isn’t sure if he does or not, so he just rolls over. On his belly, his cuts are mashed into the scratchy bedspread and it irritates them, makes his breath catch and stutter in his throat. Sam’s weight is welcome against the backs of his thighs.
“I vivisected her,” Sam says as he makes a cut at the small of Dean’s back, on the left side of the gutter of his spine. Then one-two-three, quick as you please. “I made the Y incision first and peeled back her skin. It made me think of that dumbshit moth outside at the light.”
Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Two more neat rows and Dean’s got handfuls of bedspread grasped so tightly it’s making his knuckles hurt.
“I didn’t have anything to crack her ribcage, which was disappointing, but I was playing by ear. If I do it again though, I’ll plan ahead. You can go in through the abdomen and up anyway,” Sam says. “Did you know that? Yeah, you probably did. Her insides steamed when I exposed them. It’s so hot inside the human body, we’re all burning up, these furnaces of blood and meat.”
Dean listens to Sam sucking his blood from his fingers again and arches his back without thinking. Sam’s laugh is low and soft, gentle as he strokes a hand over Dean’s shoulders.
“I touched her heart, Dean,” Sam says. “I pushed up under her ribs and touched her heart.”
“God,” Dean chokes out.
Sam’s sickness is in his blood, Dean’s sickness is in his love, which is… Where? Where is his love? In his heart? His mind? Somewhere else? The Impala’s trunk? In his spinal fluid? Wherever it is, Dean knows it’s alive and well. He knows because he’s picturing Sam touching his heart, not Raggedy Ann’s. Such a thing is too intimate for a stranger. She didn’t deserve Sam’s touch, not there. Not anywhere. Picturing Sam doing that to him though makes him jerk again and rut against the bedspread accidentally because of the movement. He makes another of those whimpering sounds through his teeth.
“She was still conscious,” Sam says. He’s cutting on the other side now. One. Two. Three. “That’s the amazing part. She was still screaming, still crying and when I touched her heart… When I touched her there, it was like touching a livewire, it was throbbing and pulsing and pumping so fast.”
Four. Five. Six. Dean’s short, strangled scream is muffled by the mattress.
More sounds of Sam sucking blood off his fingers. He makes a low sound of pleasure in the back of his throat. Then Dean jerks when seven and eight come one after the other. They feel deeper, like they may need stitches and it makes him groan and squirm with want.
In his mind, Sam is fingering his heart and then pulling his dripping hand back to suck the blood off his fingers. It’s beautiful. He makes a choked sound as he presses himself deeper into the mattress, seeking some kind of friction. He wants Sam to finish his story, too and he doesn’t know what he wants more.
Sam pushes at his legs, gently urging him to spread them. Dean complies, spreading his legs as wide as he can; an open, insistent invitation. His hips protest a bit and his thighs tremble with the strain. Then there’s nothing for what seems like forever and Dean starts to get anxious, wondering what’s going on. His face is pressed into the pillow like a kid hiding from the bogeyman and his eyes are closed. It never occurs to him to lift his head and look around.
Lube is a cold, slippery shock and Dean jumps. Where’d that come from? Did Sam move without him noticing? What time is it? Where—? His questions cease with a shudder when Sam’s weight comes down on him. Dean lets him crush him into the mattress, feels the way his blood slips against Sam’s skin as he slides his arms under him and starts leaning back.
Dean catches on and moves with him until his back is pressed to Sam’s chest. His cuts spread-pull with the new angle, the lips of the wounds tugging open more, his skin maybe even tearing the slightest bit. He is crepe paper, wet from the rain and caught against the trunk of a tree, dissolving in the downpour.
Sam’s hands come up to his chest and his fingers splay out over those cuts, trimmed nails digging into them. Dean moans and lets his head fall back on Sam’s shoulder. He’s bent and curved against Sam, molding to him as best his flesh and bone will allow. Sam holds him still as he moves away from his back just enough to push inside of him. Sam’s breathing is rough and Dean reaches back with one hand to grab for his hip or his waist, seeking something to hold onto. He finds flesh and anchors himself to it, rooting himself to Sam. His other hand he moves up to touch one of Sam’s on his chest. Sam twines their fingers together over the bloody cuts and Dean trembles.
Sam is slow entering him and slower fucking him, but like the cuts, his motions are short, but deep and they jar through Dean. Sam bites the side of his neck where it meets his shoulder and Dean has nothing to muffle the noise now but his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek. He gasps and moves with Sam the best he can, which isn’t great, but he knows Sam doesn’t mind.
“I held her heart in my hand,” Sam picks up as he fucks him. He digs his fingers deep into the cuts on Dean’s chest and he makes a choked sound almost like a plea. “Then I started to squeeze. I wanted to see if I could make it be still, even with it trying so hard to keep going. She flopped around and it was such a trip to watch her organs jittering around with her. So I squeezed harder.”
He snaps his hips against Dean’s ass and if not for Sam holding him up, he’d fall over. He bites down harder on the inside of his cheek against a cry and only partially manages to hold it back. When they fuck, sometimes it’s Dean who sounds like he’s being murdered. He may not care about that or even care all that much about their neighbor, but he still has enough sense to know having the cops called on them is the worst thing that could happen. He also knows Sam hates having to keep things quiet, that to him this is not much better than when he has to gag his victims. This, this being quiet shit, puts Dean right there with Raggedy Ann and he wants to be above her.
“Did she… Did she keep sc…” Dean is panting, breath choking him more than it is supplying him with oxygen. He’s slick with sweat and covered in chill bumps. Sam is moving inside of him and he’s alive, aching and sick with the pleasure of it. “Did she scream when you…”
“Yes,” Sam growls in his ear. His teeth are a sharp, bright pain when he bites the top curve of it. “I held her heart in my hand and I felt her die, but she screamed until it stopped beating. Her throat was probably really sore.”
“Did you like… Like,” Dean gasps and moans as he tightens his fingers on Sam’s where they’re glued together with his blood. “Like it more than…”
Sam nuzzles him, gentle and affectionate as he slams into him again, forcing a grunt out of Dean. “No,” he says. “No one screams like you.”
Dean squeezes his eyes closed at that and lets it all go, neighbor be damned. Knowing that in Sam’s eyes he is better is enough to make him come. For Sam, he doesn’t try to be quiet now, doesn’t worry about someone calling the police. The mattress is squeaking and if the headboard wasn’t bolted to the wall, it would be banging against it. Dean’s voice cracks and breaks as it rises, crests and then begins to fall back down. For a second, he swears he hears Sam humming and thinks he may even know what song it is.
But then Sam lays him back down on his belly, easing him carefully while he’s still trying to catch his breath and moaning with the aftershocks. Dean’s head is stuffed with cotton and he feels wrung out, but not so much that he can’t still reach back and touch Sam. He wants to feel him, the sweat sliding under his fingers, the flex of muscle as Sam moves. He loves him so much.
When Sam comes with a gasp and moan, Dean smiles.
He lies there, drifting, content and triumphant, while Sam cleans him up. He moves with rubber-boned complacency while Sam takes care of him. He likes this part almost as much as he likes what comes before. It’s the one and only time he doesn’t try to do things on his own because it’s not Sam’s job to take care of him. Dean is tired, as close to happy as he gets and Sam’s hands on him feel good in a different kind of way now. Sam cleans the cuts, smoothes salve on them and tapes bandages over them. Sam gets him out of bed just long enough to pull back the covers. Dean knows the routine, knows the sheets will be spotted with blood in the morning.
Sam lies down behind him and Dean presses close, seeking his nearness and warmth. He’s naked and cold again, but too tired to get up and put on clothes. Sam wraps his arms around him, one cradling Dean’s neck, the other draped over his ribs and Dean sighs.
This was Sam’s idea, not pretending anymore and Dean fought him on it because he was so used to the status quo. Sam’s persistent though and he finally wore Dean down, convinced him to just be with him because most people have no idea they’re related. They don’t even really look alike. Dean’s glad now, it took some getting used to, but being with Sam without hiding it is as close to normal as he can get. They can hold hands in public if they want to and Dean likes that. They don’t do it very often, but occasionally it’s a good thing.
It’s the lack of bullshit Dean likes most, the lack of having to pretend to be something he’s not in this one regard when so much of their life is one lie after another. The never ending game of Play Pretend. This much is real though and until Sam wore him down, Dean never realized what a burden this one secret was to keep.
“Sammy?”
“Hmm?”
“Say it.”
Sam picks his head up and his lips brush against his ear as they curve into a slow smile. “You are my sunshine,” he whispers.
Dean smiles and relaxes even more. He can sleep now.