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It was something like a dance they did. Always back to back, never facing one another. Because faces were never needed in a dance like this, such identities clouded the ruthlessness in which the heart clung to for support. The crimson tint, it could never be disturbed by the flash of emotion across one's face, lest falter ensue, and with it the death of everything. And so they remained as they were always, back to back in the dance of battle, toes at a graceful arch, arms never failing to reach back and check for the other, before leaping into full combat with the enemy.
Dean had come to learn early on a number of things about his undead partner in war; one being Benny's unusual flow in a jointed brawl. He and Dean seemed to be kindred souls of the fight, in perfect sync and harmony from the first moment they'd entered battle on shared ground. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was luck.
But the other thing, the one which both comforted Dean in its familiarity with Benny, as well as left him estranged to the other's barreling mind, was the whistling.
Perhaps it was the eerieness of the tune, or the inappropriate setting in which Benny would begin it, but the vampire would always whistle. Always when tensions began to rise and twist and constrict in the air about them, always when the enemy was nearing as if, like a vicious siren in the sea, aiming to bait them closer. And they would always come, hypnotized by the thrill of blood and melody of challenge.
It started low, always low, haunting in such a register, and Dean would forever assume that was purposeful. And it would echo as it rose in pitch, ghosting across the black stained dirt through weeping tree branches and filthy streams. Dean could swear he felt it, like lips at his ear, whispering to him some forbidden thing in some dead tongue. And he would always give into it, to the enticing sound of war. It reminded his soul of blood whenever he heard it, and somewhere along the tireless fight, that was when he realized it was a dance. Their dance, intimate and known to no one but them, there in the valley where lost souls went to be hideous and free.
An ominous dance. A dangerous hymn. A-
"Dean."
The hunter looked up from where he'd been hunched over his work, gun and cleaning cloth in hand. Sam eyed him, unsettled lines creasing above his brows.
"You alright?"
Dean rolled his shoulders. "'M fine."
"Dude, you've been cleaning your gun for the past twenty minutes."
"Why the hell are you timing me?"
His brother gave a deflating sigh. "I'm going out for a bit. You want anything?"
Dean waved him off with a hand, returning to his task and Sam opted nothing further, striding from their room with keys in hand. Dean heard the precious growl of his baby before silence befell him once again, and he was truly alone.
And like always, since he'd been topside these past few weeks anyway, the silence about him invited with it the eerie echo of a tune, their tune, and Dean was again unsure if it were really there, or simply a shaky imprint in his mind.
But he appreciated it still, recognized the shell shock comfort which it provided and settled into the melody with familiar easy. With no purgatory-bred fucks to fight, it had become more of a lulling sound rather than a call to arms, reminding Dean of the partner whom he had bled with, bonded with, and tied his soul to. He closed his eyes, wondering quietly if fate or the job might ever reunite them in battle.
That's when a hand clasped over his, pulling the gun from his grasp in one delicate movement. Dean's eyes shot wide and he took in the face of the kneeling entity before him, eyes still as blue, and as dead as ever. And so impossibly close.
"Your brother's right. You have been cleaning this thing for some time now."
"Benny-"
But Benny's lips were already on his. Dean allowed the split second of shock to ripple through him before leaving just as quickly, and he melted into the kiss, tossing the cloth at his side to fall from his perch at the end of the bed, onto his knees and encircle the vampires neck with his arms.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Dean breathed into the barely there space between their lips.
Benny smirked, always with a silent mocking tone as if he knew how much Dean needed him, craved him to be so close and personal.
"Had an errand that needed tending to. You know me kid, I like to get things done in a... timely fashion." He laughed. "'Course I never planned to stay away long. Last I remember, you don't do so well on your own."
And Dean ignored that, pressed himself closer than should be possible and seized Benny's lips with his own, biting at the tender flesh in a pain-pleasure tease which never quite failed against the vampire.
"Shut up and fuck me." It came out just as Dean wanted, a heated growl sure to tremor a spike of fear- or in their case excitement- from any being.
And Benny obeyed, shoving the hunter over with unmistakable dominance, making aware the fact that despite the order, he would in the end be the one to call the shots, to take the lead, to ravage as he pleased, as had been established some time ago.
He straddled Dean's hips, and Dean took in the the feeling of weight between him. Something he'd missed, more than most things.
Without warning the whistling returned just then, like a gust of air making its thousandth trip back home. It echoed inside the cavity of Dean's head, caressing at the tissue walls another bout of whispers. It was then that he recognized once more the dance which consumed them. The dance of war, of battle, between desperate souls in need of comfort and solace.
Dean would like to imagine he needed Benny more in Purgatory than he did then. But as the vampire pressed into him, hard and fast and unforgivingly perfect, Dean realized that that just wasn't true. Because now, with the carnage and secrets of war behind them, the intimacy of blood which they shared became as important as breathing. And that creeping tune of a whistle, that would forever remain a permanent echo of what was behind, and between them.