Fic: Fear The Sunless Lands (Sam/Dean) 4/6

[bewaretheides15]

Chapter Three




Sam watches his brother work from a discreet distance; far enough away that he can't overhear what Dean's saying to the girl, close enough to see the spark light in her eyes. It's still beyond him the level of trust these girls - people, there had been that guy back in Missoula - put in someone they don’t even know, let alone someone they do know wants to take a bite out of them, but Sam had to face the realization a long time ago that your average human being is a lot crazier than your average monster.

It probably doesn't hurt that Dean's picked easily the sluttiest looking girl in the place, that she'd practically been panting by the time he walked over. The tip of Dean's nose traces softly around the whorl of her ear and Sam can see her eyelashes flutter. He knocks back what's left of his lukewarm beer and heads for the back to get into position.

He can't pretend he's not nervous, maybe moreso than Dean, as he slips into the shadow of the big dumpster in the alley behind the bar. The place is quiet, secluded, the sort of spot that sets his senses on high alert.

There are a couple of dozen ways to get Dean off of the chick if things go south and Sam goes over them again in his head, trying not to jump as the back door bangs open again and his brother and his new pal stumble into the alley.

Dean has her pressed up against him in a heartbeat, his own back against the wall to give some kind of vague impression that she's the one in charge here when they all know the real score. She's got her tongue in Dean's mouth and Dean's hands on her ass, all but lifting her up off the ground to get closer. Sam's caught between the almost overwhelming urge to look away and the fact that doing it would negate the whole point of him being here. He does his best to stay focused on Dean's dangerous, fanged mouth and absolutely nothing else, not that it makes things even moderately less uncomfortable.

Dean's fingers slip underneath the girl's mini-skirt - apparently nobody told her it's 30 degrees out - and Sam reminds himself he's not supposed to be looking a couple of seconds after he's discovered that she's not wearing underwear. It's really not his fault his dick's already at half-mast. He's only human.

His brother is kissing his way down the girl's neck, tension singing through every fiber of Sam's being knowing what's going to happen next, ready to jump in if he needs to. There's a lamp over the back door, keeping Dean and his companion illuminated well enough that Sam can see the glisten on Dean’s fingers as he pushes them up under the girl’s skirt and draws them out again slow, back in, an unsteady rhythm as he just plays with her, leaving wet stripes on the insides of her thighs and the swell of her ass when he drags the skirt up until it’s more of a belt than anything.

Sam’s watching it way too intently, he knows, but he can’t peel his eyes away. He’s no monk, but he’s never gotten the kind of play that Dean does, never been willing to do the whole one night stand thing. It means he’s no stranger to going months at a stretch with anything but the company of his own hand, but even for him this mess has been pushing it. Not so much the time as it is the... other stuff. And yeah, that’s fucked up too but how much is a guy really supposed to take of being touched and caressed and fondled all the freaking time without getting worked up on occasion, even if it is only his big brother.

His big brother with the hot, soft, eager mouth who gives head like he’s getting paid for it.

Sam’s mouth floods with the taste of aluminum like he’s going to be sick but his dick is perking up in his jeans anyway.

Dean’s green-shattered eyes are cat-bright, almost reflective, when they open and lock on Sam’s under the cover of shadow, just as white teeth puncture tan skin. It's not actually possible that the whole rest of the world shuts up at the exact same moment, but it seems like it as Sam listens to the impossibly loud, lewd gulp of his brother's throat working, lips smearing red against the girl's neck. Surely she's making some kind of sound too, but Sam can't hear it, honestly, genuinely can't, even when he strains for it. Not the noise of tires through slushy snow on the street or the music from the bar, nothing but Dean swallowing over and over again and the sound of his own heart hammering.

Inevitably, it seems like it takes forever with Sam on edge and ready to spring into action at any second, but it’s never lasted more than a few minutes in the handful of times they’ve done this. The girl comes with Dean’s mouth on her neck and his fingers spreading her so wide Sam ought to have a medical degree for the view he’s getting.

She’s barely coherent by the time Dean’s lapped the bite carefully closed, weak kneed and hanging from Dean’s jacket. None of which is to say unconscious, regardless of Sam’s worst fears the first couple of times around. No, she’s very much awake, if not entirely aware, busy pulling the usual ‘come home with me’, ‘just one more’ routine because nobody can seem to get enough of Dean Winchester. It was true enough when he was human, Sam’s not sure why he expected that to change.

Dean doesn’t have an exceptional amount of patience for them after he’s fed though - again, Sam’s not sure why he thought that would change. He takes care of her nicely enough, pulls her clothes back into place and more than half carries her back inside. A few hours to sleep it off, a couple of days to get back up to full strength and she’ll be fine. Sam continues to amaze himself with how easy it is for him to rationalize away something he was brought up to hate.

Tears well in his eyes as the back of his head smacks against the wall without warning, heavy warmth like Dean only ever has after he’s fed molded to his front.

“You little pervert,” Dean grins, cupping Sam’s junk in a wide, hot palm, the other on the side of his neck, idly toying with his hair. “I’m so proud. Always knew you had it in you.”

And Sam has every intention of saying something to that, just as soon as he figures out what the hell it might be, but the chance is stolen by Dean’s mouth opening against his in something too vulgar to be a kiss.

He tastes sharp, salty, the familiar, inexplicable taste of blood that Sam’s gotten to know too well over the years of taking hits to the face. Something in him clenches, not nearly as disgusted about it as he ought to be.

“You like watching us, huh? Saw you eyeing up her wet little pussy. Nice and sloppy. You like it like that?”

This too, is becoming routine, if not for the fact that Sam’s always stunned by it. A part of him keeps expecting Dean to outgrow it or something like that, some kind of weird attachment phase to his first feed that will wear off, but it hasn’t.

It’s like before, in a way, but different at the same time. He trusts Dean fully and absolutely, but now that that innate trust has been verified by Dean’s proven ability to stop himself, Sam’s reservations don’t stand a chance. It leaves him floundering in a DMZ of adrenaline and calm.

He could get away, if he really needed to - a short silver knife in his pocket along with an encyclopedic knowledge of every last one of Dean’s physical weaknesses - but it would be a fight, the feral side that feeding awakens in Dean amped up and motivated, and he doesn’t want to risk it if he doesn’t have to. He’s convinced that the only reason Dean agreed to give this a shot in the first place was because he felt guilty for feeding off of Sam and he really doesn’t want to make it harder on his brother than it already is. Dean’s always cared more about the black and white borderlines of right and wrong than Sam does.

“You want me to fuck the next one for you, let you watch? Or do you wanna get up on it yourself, hmm? Slide your dick into some tight piece of ass while I drink her?”

Without the fight-or-flight shouting him down, though, Sam’s aware, way more distinctly than he wants to be, of everything that’s going on. Dean’s lips teasing at his throat, thin grazes of fang so shallow they make the skin itch, soft, hot tongue kneading at a vein the same way Dean’s palm is rubbing against his dick, a reminder he doesn’t need of how that mouth feels on more interesting extremities. The inside of his shorts are wet with precome, pulse after pulse oozing free as Dean works him far too expertly, fingers fanned out wide to roll his balls too.

Starting tomorrow, Sam’s making a point of getting laid more often - he clearly needs a lot more sexual interaction. From people he’s not related to.

“Or we could do her together. Could just hold her between us and get both our cocks wet at the same time. It’d be so tight, Sammy, the both of us shoved in there making her moan. Might even make her scream, big as you are.”

He’s been anticipating it so long he startles when Dean’s teeth slide home, a smooth, deep slice sharp enough that the pain doesn’t register until they’ve pulled free again. The hit of Dean’s saliva - on the plus side, these uncomfortable interludes have given Sam plenty of opportunity to make first-hand observations on the effects of a vampire bite - is more intense this time, because of the placement or some sort of delivery system related to the bite itself Sam doesn’t... can’t... oh fuck.

The music from inside is nothing but a mosquito buzz now but it seems like the wall behind him is pulsing with the beat. Maybe that’s just his own pulse, though, throbbing point-counterpoint to Dean’s lips on his skin. Or maybe that’s the broken pieces of a moan he realizes too late are tumbling out of him. Shit. Fuck. Ok, so the trust thing is still a mystery, but he completely gets why someone would be willing to hang around a place like this offering themselves up as a snack. It’s like high-test sex injected into his bloodstream.

Dean presses the flat of his tongue against the bitemark and Sam nearly comes, sizzling bliss branching out along his nerves and zinging around in his skull. Then Dean’s pulling back enough to rub their faces together, damp mouth going sticky in the cold air. Sam’s eyes snag on it when Dean puts enough room between them to get a look, florid smears over his chin and cheeks, clinging to the curves of his lips even after his cherry-stained tongue runs over them, salacious and gut-wrenching. His eyes are huge, that creepy almost-demon-black with emerald splintered through. Dean doesn’t look less than human he looks... too human, intensely, viciously human with Sam’s blood coloring his face and his eyelids hanging heavy, life on his breath and sex in his eyes. Like this is what he’s always been underneath a shell of civility. That this is what they all are, what Sam is.

Sam’s hand is underneath Dean’s shirt, feeling up the valley where muscle gives way to spine, and he can’t figure for the life of him when he put it there.

A noise that sounds like it was ripped out of him with pliers comes out of Dean and then he’s back up in Sam’s space again, licking at him, satin tongue rasping on stubble. Cleaning him up, Sam realizes dimly, bathing him like a kitten. At some point in the distant, theoretical future Sam has a feeling that’s going to be incredibly awkward to think about but that’s not where he is now. Right now he’s dick to palm with his brother and Dean’s pulling out all the stops. Twisting and rubbing, just the good side of painful through the rough fabric of his jeans. No way could a regular person have that kind of dexterity through the thick cotton but to Dean it’s nothing, he’s probably working just to keep from accidentally tearing it right off of Sam’s body.

Gunshot-sudden, his other hand is shoving rudely down the back of Sam’s jeans, trapping his arm at an odd angle. If Sam could get enough space to think he could come up for some reasoning for that but he doesn’t get the chance before Dean’s fingers are pressing between his cheeks and rubbing dry over his asshole. It would be worthy of some very harsh words if Sam wasn’t so busy having his nerves systematically switched on by Dean’s mouth and his hands.

Dean’s lips slip down to the stretch of Sam’s throat again, close enough to his windpipe to make his breath stutter, and sinks his teeth in again. It hurts there, way too sensitive, until whatever it is in Dean surges in and twists the pain into something so sweet Sam’s molars ache.

He can’t even work out which way to buck, forward or back but it doesn’t matter anyway, Dean’s not giving him a choice. Rough fingers squeeze at his cockhead, palm massaging the shaft at the same moment that one tip slides past the resistance and up into his ass, sharp pain and pleasure shaken to a heady cocktail at the base of his spine.

“Oh fuck,” worms out of him thready as all hell and he’s just as bad as any of those girls right now, grinding down on whatever Dean will give him, grabbing at this brother’s skin, the collar of his jacket, palming the back of his head to hold him right there and make him keep sucking at Sam’s neck until he can’t breathe for the pressure.

Thin trickles of blood escape Dean’s mouth and seep into the collar of Sam’s shirt, a kiss of cool on his overheated skin. The coiled pleasure ratchets tight, Dean’s hand working his soaked cock mercilessly, finger wriggling deeper, bizarre and invasive, almost too bad to be good but it is, it so is. He can’t even handle how pure the euphoria is, swelling to press at the cage of his ribs, drenching the pan of his hips, blistering, aching perfection. And then it pops like a bubble, sparkling and iridescent all over the inside of Sam.

He thinks he yells but he can’t really tell and there’s not enough air getting to his lungs for it to have been very loud anyway. Come pumps free of him, throbbing hot. Sticky gobs of it cling to his skin and hair, pasting his underwear to his body as Dean knuckles at something with the finger in his ass and instead of slowing down Sam gets hit by a whole new wave of ecstasy.

Dean’s groaning against Sam’s skin, fucking roughly against his thigh as he shudders his way through his own orgasm. They don’t talk about it, but Sam thinks there must be something about the endorphin rush in his blood that Dean can taste and it gets him off too. It makes him a little curious if it happens the same way with the girls and Dean just has incredible stamina or if there’s something specific about Sam that keeps driving Dean back for more.

Of course, Sam’s always been good at coming up with questions he doesn’t really want the answers to.




Gordon Walker has always been an asshole. Dean gets it, guy’s whole family was killed by vampires, that’d be enough to royally screw anybody’s social skills. When all is said and done, Dean’s had a relatively trauma-free life by hunter standards and he’s never won any popularity contests either. While it’s kind of limiting, he understands why, under the circumstances, a guy like Gordon would choose to go on a vamp-only hunting diet.

That’s all stuff Dean can respect from a professional standpoint and sure as hell nothing he’d begrudge the guy. But Gordon just hit Dean’s brother in the face with a tire iron, which means that the letting shit go portion of the evening is officially over.

A jagged roar bursts out of Dean’s chest like a physical thing, hurled at Gordon just ahead of the weight of Dean’s own body. Gordon’s good at this, fast, tricky. He hasn’t survived this long as a vampire hunter without learning a thing or two, which Dean guesses explains why he didn’t smell the tell-tale sting of silver or the withered odor of dead man’s blood. How he plans to beat Dean without them is a good damn question, but it’s one that’s only turning over in the back of Dean’s mind as he skids to a stop on the black-ice covering the motel parking lot like a blanket.

It’s a risky, stupid place to set an ambush - anybody could walk out and see them, and authorized hunter or not, throwing down where civilians could get hurt is a major no-no. Dean had always heard the guy was unhinged but this is a whole other level of what the fuck.

Sam’s crumpled against the wheel well of the powder-blue Crown Vic next to the Impala, bleeding but not bad, nothing arterial in the tendrils of scent coaxing at Dean’s less controlled side. He shakes them off, the temptation nothing compared to the boiling flush of fury at Gordon standing between them.

“You don’t wanna do that, Winchester,” he says, brandishing a long buck knife, too short to get decent torque for something like decapitation, but easier to tuck inside his coat. “After all, you may be a lost cause, but Sammy, here,” the animal inside Dean spits acid rage at the casual nod Gordon flicks at the groaning slump of his brother, sidled in too close for Dean to make a dive for Sam, “well he could still go back to the Guild, welcomed with open arms. It’s not his fault his big brother’s a monster.”

Gordon’s eyes go wide, all mock innocence. “Hey, maybe he’s even been trying to hunt you down all this time, huh? For all they know, he was just trying to do the right thing. ‘Course, that’ll be a lot harder to believe if these start showing up.”

Inching closer to Sam, boots crunching on ice and salt, Gordon reaches into his coat and draws out a rolled stack of papers. The wet ground starts seeping through them immediately when he throws them down in a fan at Dean’s feet, flipbook images turning transparent. Inky ghosts of him pressing his brother up against the outer wall of some bar or club, god only knows where, hand in his pants, red mouth at his neck, rucking up his shirt to bite at his nipples, sliding down to leave scarlet marks on his dick.

“Not a lot of ways to take that, is there?” Gordon’s smile is bright, mocking. “No, the Guild really wouldn’t have any choice; aiding and abetting. Lock him up for the rest of his life if they decide to go easy or else just give him the old Marie Antoinette.”

His fingers flex on the knife like he’s just itching to run it across Sam’s throat personally. That fine tread running between Dean and his brother suddenly feels like barbed wire and it’s not tugging, it’s hauling on him, steady pulse in the back of his head like the heartbeat he barely has, mine, mine, touched what’s mine, hurt what’s mine.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all set up. Unless the right messages get to the right people, these’ll be in the hands of every newspaper, TV station, and two-bit blogger in the country by sunrise tomorrow. But if all goes according to plan, we can forget about the whole thing; Sammy can go back to the Guild and you can finish dying like you were supposed to before the Council went soft. What do you say, Winchester?”

Mine.

“Fuck you.”

The words curl free of Dean with barely a voice, every fiber of his being coiled and ready to strike. Gordon smiles that same glittering, vicious twist that Dean’s just dying to tear right off of his face.

“I was really hoping you’d say that.”

With every ounce of strength he’s got, Dean lunges, a hair’s breadth off when Gordon dodges, flinging himself against the Crown Vic and stabbing out with his knife at Dean’s side. A quick block and feint knocks the blade away from his body, gets him in close to Gordon, one swipe of his teeth away from-

The syringe jams into his chest, the cold, sickening creep of dead blood webbing out under his skin.

Dean stumbles back, yanking the needle away long after the damage is done. How? He would have- he should have smelled it, even inside the plastic he should have been able to pick up something.

Like he’s reading Dean’s mind Gordon grins, “Nightshade. Little trick I learned years ago, messes with vampires senses. Handy, huh? Keep meaning to tell the Guild about it but somehow it always slips my mind.” He kneels down within reach of where Dean has sunk to the ground, malicious glee in his eyes. “But hey, a little secret never hurt anybody, right?”

Dean’s “Mother fucker,” trickles out too slow, slurry. His body is moving like he’s swimming in cold syrup, too heavy and uncoordinated to do what he wants it to.

Gordon laughs. “Don’t think you’re one to talk, under the circumstances, brother fucker.” The knife skirts up Dean’s hand and over his arm. He tries to bat it away but it barely comes out a twitch. “Always heard about you two but I assumed it was all talk. Then I finally track you down and there you are, doing little Sammy dirty.” Freezing whisper of steel running up Dean’s throat with the point of the blade. There’s no reason for it, the oxygen’s not doing him any good, but he can’t stop himself from breathing fast, panicky. This can’t be the way it ends. Not like this. Not with Sam still in danger. “Tsk tsk, Winchester. What would your d-”

Gordon’s voice cuts out on a gurgle, the next cough of air iron-heavy with the blood drooling past his lips. The chiseled end of the tire iron is glossy, blood-black where it protrudes from his chest. Jerks when Sam twists and pulls it free again.

“He’s the only one who gets to call me Sammy.”

Gordon lists to the side and topples, hand cupped over the oozing hole in his chest. For the first time since Dean turned, the smell doesn’t appeal at all.




It takes all of six hours for everything to go viral.

No one had actually walked out and saw the fight that Sam knew of, but even in the middle of the night, that kind of dust up was bound to have attracted someone’s attention, even if they were smart enough to stay out of it themselves. He and Dean didn’t stick around long enough to check up on the local PD’s response time.

There’s barely any mention of Gordon at all. Going after a vampire would have been one thing, but exposing private hunter matters to the public is nearly as bad in Guild’s eyes as if Gordon had been turned himself. The son of a bitch was crazy and Sam doesn’t feel even a little bad about leaving the charred remains of his bones in the woods for some animal to make a snack out of.

As for the pictures, they’re blurry, shadowed, a worse quality than the ones that had bled ink all over the motel parking lot. Within a couple of hours it becomes obvious that someone’s been tampering with them, different versions cropping up everywhere with details big and small changed. In one of them Sam’s actually a girl. It’s all part of the Guild’s public relations shuffle, he knows, covering their own ass, not his and Dean’s. He’s grateful anyway. Glad he took the time to make friends with the crazy genius who makes up the Guild’s entire tech department. Always knew he liked Ash.

Another two days and the vampire-Winchester story has been as debunked as anything ever gets among the conspiracy theorists on the internet. There’s a lot of people swearing that they’ve seen them here or there, dotted all over the country in places Sam’s sure he’s never been, let alone since Dean developed fangs. There’s also a disturbing number of chatrooms devoted to what they’re calling ‘Wincest’ that Sam has learned very quickly he’s better off not looking at. The fact that some of that stuff has actually happened between him and Dean only makes it weirder.

The bigger issue is that if the Guild is covering it up, then obviously the Guild knows, which, in all likelihood means more hunters will be on their way and soon, even if Sam has technically kept his promise - Dean hasn’t killed anybody.

Figuring their best plan is to get as far from the scene of the crime as possible, they end up squatting in an unfinished development in the north of Maine. Dean keeps grumbling that the reason it’s unfinished is that they realized nobody wants to live in the north of fucking Maine and Sam’s not particularly inclined to disagree with him. It’s freezing and eerily quiet and far too much of a reminder that everything is off-angles between them.

From the very start Dean’s feelings about their situation have been less than subtle, both the sexy ones and the verging-on-Catholic guilt ones. Sam’s been too occupied with the basic business of keeping them alive and trying, in the meantime, to find this fabled doctor when the leads keep coming up dry, to deal with Dean’s issues and, in all honesty, he hasn’t wanted to. Despite what his brother might think, talking about uncomfortable stuff is not one of the great joys of Sam’s life. He’s still a Winchester, if the slightly less repressed model.

But not talking about it has also led to a lot of not thinking about it on Sam’s part, and now that they’re trapped in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but watch the self-blame tear Dean apart, Sam can’t do anything but think about it.

They’ve survived a lot of things they shouldn’t have and come out mostly whole on the other side of it because they give each other everything, always, as a matter of course; a coping mechanism honed deadly-sharp. Dean has always been the one Sam turned to for anything, everything, and as much as Dean might want to deny it, he knows the same is true in reverse. No home, no real family, no life, no choices. Just the two of them against the world, and in a perverse way, Sam has always liked it that way. He’s never had anything in the world he could claim as his and his alone except for his brother.

So if Dean needs his blood or his... his body, then Sam hasn’t hesitated to give them willingly. They’ve always belonged to Dean anyway.

Given the opportunity, Sam would prefer not to think too hard about the fact that being willing to have sexual contact with his brother wasn’t nearly as difficult a decision to make as the one about what that means for the two of them.

He’s never been particularly big on casual sex, it happens and it’s fine, but he’s always preferred actually giving a damn about the people he sleeps with. With Dean it’s more complicated than that, though, since casual doesn’t really figure into the equation. What they have already, even before Dean was turned, is a lot more like a marriage than Sam had ever presumed he’d get. Throw sex into the mix and the differences become nominal at best.

At heart, Sam’s always been a planner. Maybe it’s something to do with the Seer thing, wanting to know what the future has in store. There’s never been a point in his life where he hasn’t had a scenario worked out for how he might live out the rest of his days. It’s changed over the years, sure, evolved from a big house with a wife and a couple of kids to an apartment full of books, maybe a dog, to some small place in the middle of nowhere where he and Dean could spend their days knocking around.

The most recent iteration has been a body shop, detailing hot rods and specialty jobs. Dean could work on the cars and Sam could handle the business side of things, a little house out back where they could sit on the porch and share a beer. He’d always assumed it would be after retirement, one or the other of them with a limp or some permanent injury that would be an impediment on a hunt, but now, once they find a cure - they will, they have to, visions are hard to read and assuming that the grey eyed woman is saying what he immediately assumes she’s saying is just asking for trouble - he doesn’t know what will come next.

Would Dean ever be able to look at him the same way once he’s stopped starving for Sam’s blood? Would he understand why Sam let it happen between them and forgive it or would it tear them apart? And would Sam be able to get over having that much of Dean and then being forced to give some of it back?

Sam can admit that he’s greedy, selfish sometimes and in particular with Dean. He grew up without a lot of stability outside of some freckles and a promise that Dean would take care of him so it’s not exactly stunning that there’s a part of him, not even a small part, that craves being the center of Dean’s universe. A hungry, jealous little thing that he’d done some varsity-league wrestling with when he was a teenager, after Dad got sick and Dean started doting on the man like loving him enough would make up for the fact that they barely knew him in any meaningful way. He thrives on Dean’s notice more than is probably healthy and the more he pays attention to it, the more he’s starting to think that it might not just be the chemicals in Dean’s bite that make him feel the way he does when they’re together.

It would be easier to get a feel for it if Dean didn’t keep dodging him like the plague, but the fluttering in his chest when Dean’s eyes stick on his skin too long definitely aren’t fear and there’s a preening sort of desire that makes him linger a little as he’s getting dressed in the mornings or undressed at night that he hasn’t got a decent excuse for.

The dreams are certainly... evocative. Provocative. It’s not especially stunning after everything for him to have started having visions about the two of them mixed in with the ones about the grey eyed woman and her dark eyed friend, but they’re turning up in his rotation more and more and not always as visions. Sometimes they’re just dreams, plucked from the depths of his own morally questionable subconscious. Dreams about boning his brother and moaning for more. He’s broken a very proud six year streak of not coming in his sleep thanks to those.

So maybe it’s not just a vampire-sex-blood thing. Maybe Sam actually wants Dean the same way his brother is trying so hard to pretend he doesn’t want Sam.

And assuming all of that’s true, even ignoring the world full of trouble they still have to contend with, where does he go from here?




The slap when Sam’s hands hit the hood of the car, his chest following after at a slightly lower velocity, is loud enough that Dean’s glad there’s nobody around for miles to feel the need to check up on them. Not that there isn’t plenty of him that’s roaring to let people see, put on a show that’ll make sure everybody who cares to look will know that the pictures were real, but he kinda doubts Sammy would appreciate that. He’s always been a shy kid.

“Just a taste,” Dean says, muffled when he gets distracted licking at the shell of Sam’s ear. Sam knows what he means. “C’mon. Little itty bitty teeny one.”

There’s not a whole lot of point in asking; he’s already busy tugging at Sam’s fly until his jeans go lose around the cut of his hips and shoving the works out of the way. Sam gasps, the cold air hitting all of that hot flesh that has Dean moaning through a giggle, hopped-up and crazy-feeling.

His whole body is racing inside of his skin, his awareness buckshot scattered around the pounding heat and the lingering taste in his mouth, the tingle in his fingertips and his toes and the roots of his hair. He can feel the stars, bright licks of light at the back of his hands where they splay over Sam, digging at the cloth of his shirt, manic and sharp as Dean feels, eight steps ahead of what’s going on even as it’s happening.

Sam sucks in another breath and shivers, “You already had a taste,” into the mirror-shine of the Impala’s paintjob, lip catching at still-warm metal.

There’s a dark shadow high on Sam’s neck close to the jaw bone that proves he’s telling the truth. Dean would say he likes that particular locale because it’s tender but there’s a giddy buzz in his system thinking about how Sam won’t be able to hide it tomorrow even with only Dean there to see.

Like so much else, it’s hush-hush between them, what happens when Dean feeds; what happens every single time that Dean feeds. The same way he doesn’t say a word about the way he can smell the anticipation pouring off of Sam before they even make to it the car when they go out to find Dean a meal or the way the blood that ends up in Dean’s system those nights is always topped off with a little hit of something from his baby brother’s veins. The same way neither of them mention how Sam’s been coming in his sleep practically every night for a week like he’s taking puberty for a joyride down memory lane, going 80 with the brake line cut.

The same way they keep pretending they’re just normal, ordinary brothers when there hasn’t been a day of their whole lives where that was the truth.

It’s a lot clearer now, like this, than it will be tomorrow or the next day when Dean feels like he could bench press a couple of semi-trucks and wants to curl up and die from the shame of molesting his own brother, of not being able to control it. But he can’t, no matter what he promises himself over and over again before he feeds, and moreover, he doesn’t want to. Not really. He will later, so much that by the next time the hunger hits he’ll be sick with how much he wants to tie down the instinct and burn it away. But one drop of blood on his tongue and those feelings just melt under the weight of the rightness of this, Sam all around him, everything he can smell and feel and taste. Sam is his and he’s Sam’s and that’s just how it should be.

He argues, “One more,” like he’s really looking for consent when his fingers are already spit soaked and pushing between Sammy’s ass cheeks.

That gets Sam wriggling, a “Dean,” flung at him as if Sam really wants to get away from it. He doesn’t smell like he does, though. Smells like his dick is dripping against the Impala’s grill and that’s more permission than Dean needs to push two up into Sam’s heat past the resistance.

His brother makes a hurt noise, finger tips gone white with pressure squealing against the hood as he grips at nothing and cants his hips up anyway. Dean huffs out a couple of rough breaths between Sam’s shoulder blades, trying to lock down the flutter of pure electricity laying butterfly kisses on his nerve endings. God, Sam’s such a dirty slut for something in his ass and Dean can’t believe it was just waiting there for him to discover all these years. Such a little bitch he thinks as he slides down Sam’s body, digs his fingertips hard against Sam’s prostate until his brother starts to squirm. My bitch and the thought makes him smile broad enough to bare fang.

Sam tries to say something that ends up as, “oh, oh,” when Dean licks at the soft skin puckered around his knuckles, pushes his tongue between them into the swelter of Sam’s body. He’s never taken it this far before, kept it to fingers teasing around inside Sam or his hand or mouth playing with Sam’s dick but damn, the way Sam feels, the way he tastes, the sounds he makes with Dean licking at him on the inside, it’s addictive and no way is this going to be the last time he’s doing it.

He’s not holding Sam down anymore but his brother doesn’t make a move to do anything but writhe against the hood and bite down on moans. Dean likes him like this - Sammy’s a lot better off when he’s not overthinking things so hard.

It takes at least one bite to get Sam far enough under to let go like this, make him forget a little bit that he has to whine about everything under the sun.

“Gonna come, aren’t you?” he mouths against Sam’s ass, letting his fangs catch enough to leave thin red lines that fizzle-heal almost instantly against Dean’s tongue. He fucks his fingers slowly, never really giving Sam a break from the pressure of the tips, just pulsing them harder and lighter and harder again into his sweet spot. “Go on, know you wanna. You know what I like, baby boy.”

Tight muscles clench and suck at Dean’s fingers, dragging a blurt of fluid out of his cock at the thought of being in there. Sam’s so hot under his hands it burns him down to the bone, scorch marks in his marrow. He’s got no sense of gravity like this, orbit displaced around Sam the same way it has been for the better part of Dean’s life.

He licks a stripe across the spot where Sam’s thigh meets his ass, this succulent, meaty little spot just begging for in imprint of Dean’s teeth. He imagines it worked red from the flat of his hand, all that blood rushing under thin skin where Dean could press his lips and feel it simmer and adds that to the increasingly long mental list of things he’ll have to get Sam blind-drunk and talk him into sometime as he bares his fangs and sinks them deep into Sam’s flesh.

Rich, liquid fire blazes its way across Dean’s tongue, mellows before slinking down his throat and deeper, blooming out like fireworks all over Dean’s body. He’s rapidly becoming a connoisseur - fresh so much more intense than the bags. Sam’s bittersweet with a spike of clove, smoky and earthy and satisfying. Familiar, like his tastebuds were configured around it. For the obvious reasons he can’t use Sammy as his own personal smorgasbord but nothing else lights Dean up the way Sam’s blood does, especially when whatever it is in Dean’s bite and the pressure of his fingers teams up and shoves Sam over the edge. Pleasure headier than any liquor slams through him from the mouth down, force fed bliss so intense he hardly registers the feeling of his own dick unloading in his jeans.

He eases them both down with languorous laps at the bite mark until the punctures slowly stop seeping, narrowing down to pinpricks that within the hour will be newly healed skin. The bruise will linger for a day or two, dark and in some way he doesn’t fully understand, distinctively Dean’s. Baby brother’s going to flinch every time he sits down for the next couple of days and it’s going to get Dean hot every single time, he just knows it. Even when he feels suicidal over it, he never really stops wanting Sam.

Reluctantly, he helps Sam pull his pants up over his sticky, spent cock, taking a little more time than strictly necessary running his hands over the tacky trails of come on Sam’s stomach and nuzzling at his neck. Assuming that doing those things could be considered necessary at all, which at the moment Dean’s pretty sure it is.

Sam is slumped in his arms, taking the bare minimum of his own weight. Not that it matters, Dean could pick him up and carry him, no problem, if Sammy wouldn’t bitch about it until the end of days. But he’s fine with staying here for the moment. Temperatures don’t bother him all that much, particularly after a feed, and Sam’s smiling at him hazily, all pretty and sex-doped, not fighting it when Dean palms his jaw and kisses him deep and thorough, giving the taste of his blood right back to him until his lips are bright with it.

“Hate to break up the party, boys.”

Dean whips around at the sound of the voice, Sam stumbling after.

There’s a woman leaning against the rough-hewn wall, not three feet away and not a single one of Dean’s senses would accept it if he wasn’t seeing her with his own two eyes. She’s got long, dark hair falling in glossy waves around her shoulders, big eyes to match and a wide, smirking mouth. No scent, no sound, not a breath or a heartbeat or the shift of her boots on the gravel.

Even when she steps toward them, it’s quiet, only a whisper of her hair against her leather jacket and a hint of rocks moving under feet.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean snarls. His instincts howl to get Sam behind him but his brother’s still not doing so hot at standing under his own power and if Dean’s got to throw him over his shoulder and make a break for it, it’s better to start from here than having to drag Sam up off the ground.

The corner of her mouth ticks up further, the faintest tip of a fang visible. He barely catches her, “Just the messenger,” over the possessive fury ringing inside his head.

In all of the pick-up joints they’ve been to, they’ve run across a vamp or two. Dean’s found he doesn’t like them any more now than he used to, if not exactly for the same reasons. Sam squirms in his hold where Dean’s squeezing the air out of him.

She stops just shy of arm's reach and flicks a plain, white envelope to the ground between them. Sam slurs out something that’s mostly incoherent but sounds like, “Ray lied woman.” Sam doesn’t always make a lot of sense after Dean’s snacked on him.

It gets a funny look out of the girl and a small, sultry laugh. Bitch needs to keep her eyes to herself - all Dean needs is ten seconds to get the trunk unlocked and grab a machete.

She must not know who she’s dealing with though because she just grins all smug at the growl rumbling through Dean’s chest and says, “The doctor will see you now.” Flicks another glance at Sam that runs all the way down his body syrup slow. Seriously, ten fucking seconds. Nine even. “If you’re still interested.”

With one more smirk, she turns on point and starts walking down the long rocky slope that makes up the driveway. Dean watches her go until he can’t make out the shape of her through the trees and then a little while after that. Weighs the merits of going after her vs leaving Sam alone. Which means Sam’s probably been struggling against him for a while by the time Dean actually clues in on it.

He’s calling out, “Wait, wait!” and twisting in Dean’s hold. He stumbles when Dean finally lets him go, takes a couple of unsteady steps toward the driveway himself before Dean catches him again just to keep him from taking a header.

“Y’ just, fuckin’, fuckin’ let ‘er go?” Sam’s still slurring pretty bad so it takes a second for Dean to pick out the words in there. He sounds pissy, though, which is a feat in itself considering he usually turns into a teddy bear after they’ve screwed around a little. He must be really mad. “She’s th’ one, De! In the... in the dream! W’th the doctor!”

This time when Sam pulls away Dean lets him go, only hovering a little when Sam fumbles at snatching up the envelope and tearing it open.

“See!” he brandishes a notecard at Dean with the heading From the desk of Lenore Westenra, M.D. and an address in small neat handwriting.

“This is it, Dean! This is it!” He’s grinning bright and gorgeous, little-boy-thrill zipping through him that Dean can hear in the speed of his breath and the uptick of his pulse before Sam grabs him by the face and mashes their mouths together, feeding the rush right into Dean. For a second, Dean’s almost sure he feels his own heartbeat.

Chapter Five