"A Beast in Repose" (3/?), Supernatural, PG-13, gen.
Title: A Beast in Repose
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language and mild gore/violence.
Length: Part three is about 2900 words; the entire story is currently about 7000.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Bobby, other canon characters.
Spoilers: All of season two, especially "Bloodlust" (2x03) and "Heart" (2x17). There's also some minor details from John Winchester's Journal, which isn't technically canon, but I felt I should warn all the same.
Summary: What if Lenore didn't think that letting Sam go was the best course of action? And what if Dean ended up in San Francisco with a different hunter at his back?
Notes: I'm still shooting for about five parts to this story, but depending on how the next part plays out, it could be more. It definitely won't be less. Again, extended notes will come at the end of the last part.
Part one | Part two
A Beast in Repose (part three)
Sam rolls his eyes into the back of his head as Dean reaches into the waistband of his jeans for his gun. He takes a full thirty seconds to remember that he'd been unconscious for days in Bobby's house, and another ten seconds after to start scanning the kitchen for something with an edge.
Bobby, on the other hand, merely looks overwhelmed as he tries to balance Sam. “Will you help me?”
“Get away from him!”
“Just calm--”
“Now!”
“Damn it, will you listen for a second?”
Sam makes a choking sound and slumps, and Dean forgets all about Bobby. He runs forward and grabs the knife, but the edge of the handle is stuck under Sam's skin. Moving it only causes Sam to draw in a breath that sounds more liquid than air.
Before Dean can decide what to do next, Bobby's hand clamps around Dean's wrist. His skin starts to itch, but that doesn't stop him from meeting Bobby's good eye.
“Take your hand off of me.”
“How much of an idiot are you, boy?”
Dean snarls, but it isn't in reply to Bobby's statement. His skin's heating up so much it feels like it's going to burn off. He pulls hard, and even though his muscles feel like water, he jerks out of Bobby's grip with little trouble. However, it means letting go of the knife, so he grabs it with his other hand as quickly as possible.
Sam makes a noise. At first, Dean thinks it's yet another desperate attempt to breath, since he probably moved the blade in Sam's chest around, but Sam repeats it.
“Dean?”
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
Bobby says, “Help me!”
Without further hesitation, Dean slings Sam's other arm around his shoulder. Sam's head hangs forward, and his eyelids flutter, but he looks to be trying to focus.
“The chair,” Bobby says with effort.
“But he's hurt,” Dean says, and feels a surge of anger that nearly makes him shake.
“He'll be fine. Just sit him down!”
They shuffle across the kitchen; Sam's feet can't seem to gain traction, and Dean struggles to keep him up. He pulls out the chair he'd been sitting in with his foot, and it screeches against the tile on the floor. Both he and Bobby crouch and lower Sam into the chair, and Sam groans as he makes contact.
Dean extracts himself and kneels in front of Sam. Sam's head is tipped forward, so Dean puts his hands under his chin and props it up.
“Hey,” he says, fighting tears. “Talk to me.”
“Dean,” Sam says. His eyes meet Dean's, and his dry and cracked lips push into a small smile.
A hand on Dean's shoulder tips him backward, not because it's powerful, but because Dean's off-balance. He stumbles, then gets to his feet in one motion and swings his fist. Bobby steps out of the way just in time and holds up his hands.
“Don't get close. Not 'til I've fed him.”
The words make no sense to Dean. He shakes his head, then throws his fist at Bobby again. Bobby tilts his head to the side and lets it pass.
“Fine!” Bobby yells. “You want your throat torn out, be my guest!”
“What are you talking about?”
Bobby backs into a drawer and opens it, keeping eye contact with Dean. Before he puts a hand inside, he rolls up the sleeve of his left arm, and Dean sees gashes all up and down his arm parallel with his wrist. Some are light pink, but most are an angry red. Dean's innards freeze.
“I'll show you,” Bobby says, putting his right hand into the drawer. Unseen metal rattles as Bobby searches, but after a second, he extracts a small dagger and puts it against his skin, digging in. Blood rises to the surface.
Sam hisses behind Dean.
Bobby puts the knife back in the drawer and closes it, holding his arm level to keep his wound from dripping on the floor. “This is just to tide him over, you understand. Haven't gotten a chance to leave since you got here.”
Dean feels the blood leave his head, but he doesn't sway. He just steps aside and turns as Bobby walks past him.
Sam's eyes are fixed on Bobby's arm, and he's breathing through his mouth fast. His fists are balled up so tight that his knuckles look like they're going to burst out of his hands. He tilts his head back as Bobby hovers his arm over Sam's head.
Dean knows what's coming next, even if he doesn't know what it means, and his stomach rolls.
Bobby tips his arm over and squeezes just above the gash in his arm. Blood spills into Sam's open mouth, and he slurps loudly.
Dean's stomach lurches again. Not because he's disgusted. He's...fascinated. He can't tear his gaze away from Bobby's arm, and he can't think, can't figure out why he's feeling this way or why Sam's drinking blood or why Bobby's letting him.
Dean looks down for an instant; it's all he can manage. He sees that Sam's now gripping the seat of the chair with both hands and hears the wood creak. He hears another creaking and barely registers that it's his own teeth, clenched together as hard as he can manage.
Bobby puts a hand over the gash and moves to the sink, and Sam tilts his head down. His lips are pulled away from his teeth in what looks like a snarl, but Dean squints, and his throat closes up.
Over Sam's pearly whites are a full set of twisted, crooked fangs.
--
Sam smells Dean with every breath he takes in through his nose. His eyes don't want to focus, but the scent is so strong that it makes up for it. He doesn't smell as good as Bobby, but it takes every ounce of self-control within Sam to stay in the chair and leave Dean leaning against the counter.
He touches a tentative hand to his chest. Bobby took out the knife before he left, but the dead man's blood left the wound open and burning. He presses it hard and hisses under his breath.
“What...”
Sam grimaces and looks up. Dean's gaze is fixed on him, at the knife wound. Sam's vision starts to clear as he watches Dean.
“It's fine,” Sam says. He isn't about to tell Dean that pain works better than self-control.
Dean's jaw clenches, and Sam realizes what he said. And how wrong it is. He decides to try something else. “It's good to see you.”
It doesn't relax Dean like he hoped. But then, it's a massive understatement.
“Was that your head?”
Sam blinks. “My head.”
“Back in Montana. The motel.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Dean pushes a hand over his hair. “They...left your head on the front step.”
“My head.” That explained a lot, and begged more questions, like how they found a head that was believable as Sam's.
“Oh? That's all you have?”
Sam feels a surge of anger, and with it, hunger spiking. It's all he can do to keep his fangs from coming out again. “I wish they had cut my head off.”
“What?” Dean's face twists.
Sam isn't sure what to tell him. He probably wouldn't want to hear a retelling of Lenore's speech about making an example of a hunter to get others off the trail, or how the blood roared through his body as he was forced to drink from Lenore's arm, or how he felt himself grow skinnier and less focused as they trapped him in a basement for months without feeding him. And how voraciously he ate when they did.
He decides to go simple. “It would have been quicker.”
Dean's lip quivers, and he rubs a hand over his mouth. Sam stares at the floor.
“How'd...did Bobby find you?”
Sam shakes his head without looking up. “Got away about a month ago. I tried your old number...I called Bobby after, explained what happened.”
“And he believed you?”
“No.” Sam smiles. “Got the drop on me at our meeting place and sliced my arm with a knife. It had dead man's blood on it.”
He hears Dean's boots stamp on the floor, and he looks up. Dean's pacing across the other side of the kitchen, not meeting Sam's eyes. His inhale sounds more like a sniffle than a normal breath, but Sam keeps his hearing unfocused, just in case.
“Why didn't he kill you?” Dean asks, his voice a quiet rumble.
Sam swallows. “I asked him not to.”
“And he listened?”
“When he heard my reason.”
Their eyes lock again, and Dean stops walking. His eyes widen.
“No fucking way.”
“Dean, you promised.”
“No.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows and swallows. He feels like he should be crying, but his eyes are bone dry.
“It's your turn, Dean.”
Dean frowns. “My turn.”
“Bobby didn't tell me what happened. In San Francisco.”
“Nothing much. Hunting werewolves with Gordon--”
“With Gordon?” He bites his lip after he says it.
Dean shakes his head. “I won't be hunting with him anymore. Hell, I wouldn't be breathing if Bobby hadn't--”
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“Can't say that Gordon and I were close.” Dean's shoulder drop as he exhales. “Good man to have at my back, though.”
Sam tilts his head slightly. “Not about that.”
Dean's face tightens. “I'm fine.”
“You are.” Sam's eyes drop to Dean's wrists. Both have raw patches circled around, but his right has a particularly deep burn mark.
Dean follows his gaze, then touches the mark with his other hand. He hisses. “Don't know what Bobby had, but man...”
“You don't know?” It's plain to him, but he heard the screams from the basement for the last week and can see the clothes hang off Dean's body. And if Bobby's blood smells like brandy - tastes like it too, which makes the dead cow blood that much more nauseating - Dean's smells like cheap hooch. Not mouthwatering by any means, but drinkable nonetheless.
“Know?” The question is tinged with the slightest edge of fear. Sam might not have heard it so clear before the change, but he would have recognized it right away.
Sam thinks hard. It's been a while since he's hunted, but the info comes back without too much trouble. “Bobby's blood...did it make you hungry?”
“What? No!” The answer's too quick to be a true denial.
“Do you remember...remember getting bitten?”
If Dean wasn't pale before, he certainly was now. His eyes are so wide they look like they'll pop out of his skull.
“Gordon,” Dean whispers. “He was gonna shoot me.”
Sam's vision starts to have red at the edges. If Gordon wasn't dead, Sam would tear him limb from limb, suck him completely dry, and--
He looks at Dean. Tears are streaking down his cheeks, and he's not doing a thing to try and stop them. Sam feels a stab of jealousy at his emotional expression, but it disappears as anguish takes hold.
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“The last week,” Dean says, his voice husky. “I...”
Sam nods.
“And Bobby's eye.”
He nods again.
Dean leans heavily against the counter next to Bobby's various phones. His eyes are unfocused. “Why didn't he kill me?”
Sam has his theories, his own request at the top of his mind. But he doesn't know for sure, and so, he doesn't bother trying to answer. Dean doesn't seem to expect him to, since he doesn't look his way.
Before Sam can do anything else, he hears the front door open, and he jerks his head around. He can see Dean does too, faster than he was ever able to before. There's a rigidness to Dean that he's never seen before.
The rustle of plastic bags and the slam of the door reaches Sam just before the smell of Bobby does. As he approaches, Sam can start to smell the cow blood through the containers, and hunger so sweet that it's nearly pleasure floods through him. Dean looks back at him, then bites his lip. He looks like he's going to lose his stomach contents.
I should never have let Dean see me like this, Sam thinks. Bobby should've killed me.
Bobby pushes into the kitchen, hands full of bags. It's more than he usually comes back with, but then, there's more people in the house who like their food rare. If Sam wasn't so ravenous, he knew he would feel shame, and he wishes with all his being that he could.
Dropping the bags on the floor, Bobby backs away. “I'll leave you boys to it.”
Sam has the discipline of several months guiding him; he manages to look away from the bags and at Dean and Bobby. Dean, on the other hand, has barely eaten for a week and has only had his hunger for about that long. He practically jogs to the bags and is on his knees in the blink of an eye.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam says, touching the wound on his chest again. “We'll talk after?”
Bobby nods. His face is neutral, and Sam wonders at it. But his eyes flash on Dean, and Sam can see him swallow hard, and he leaves the room.
Dean is tearing through the bags to get to the contents; he seems to be past the point where he can remember that bags have an opening in the top. Each inhale sounds more snarl than breath, and Sam's fangs extend before he realizes it.
He leans back in the chair and grimaces as the hunger sharpens into pain. Dean needs to feed first, and Sam has already had a snack. He can wait, no matter what his body says.
--
Meat slides down Dean's throat, and he nearly groans as his stomach eases its churning. He takes more, and more, and it quiets further.
It's only when he's silenced it completely that he takes in the kitchen around him.
Blood's all over the floor - Dean's nose crinkles because, even though the hunger abated, it still smells interesting - and he's on all fours in the middle of it. Scraps of plastic cling together by either static or because of the blood connecting it, and Dean stares at it for a while until he remembers that Bobby carried everything in with bags.
He puts a hand to his temple, trying to settle his racing thoughts. It was so hard to remember.
A slurping noise echoes, and Dean's ear pricks. He looks toward the corner and sees Sam huddled in it, clutching a round Tupperware container. Sam's chugging and groaning as he does so, and Dean feels his cheeks flush. It sounds like Sam's enjoying adult pay-per-view, not...not drinking blood.
God.
He raises his hands in front of his face and sees them shaking. It's something he hasn't done since he was a kid and he saw his dad kill a shapeshifter...his dad's first kill, unless his memory's completely shot. He'd cried for about a week, peed his pants whenever Dad pulled out a gun.
But even childhood terror can't stand up to this.
Sam finishes with the container and tosses it aside; there's three more empty ones next to him. He looks at Dean apologetically. “I was going to wait until you were done, but...”
He remembers growling as Sam came close and pulled a bag away.
“Sammy,” he says, and his voice sounds small in his ears.
Sam's face screws up like he's going to cry, but Dean sees no moisture there. Right. Vampires can't cry.
Water splashes onto his hand, and he looks down, sees the drop trail down and drag a path through the caked blood.
Sam laughs, and Dean twitches.
“I'm sorry,” Sam says. “It's just...the irony, right?”
Dean can't find words to answer.
“We hunt these things our whole lives, and this is how it ends. You and me, together.”
Dean exhales slowly. It did make a certain sense. He could suffer what Sam had suffered, and he could die when Sam dictated it.
He laughs too, then grins. Sam tilts his head. “What?”
“I know what we have to do,” Dean says.
“Do?”
“With this.” He gestures at the kitchen around him.
Sam frowned. “I don't follow.”
“We can find Yellow Eyes.”
--
Bobby steps away from the kitchen door, a smile on his face. Or rather, Bobby's body steps away from the kitchen. Bobby isn't doing much but raging in his own head.
He laughs quietly, then goes and sits down, puts Bobby's feet onto his desk.
The fun's about to get started.
( Part four.)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language and mild gore/violence.
Length: Part three is about 2900 words; the entire story is currently about 7000.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Bobby, other canon characters.
Spoilers: All of season two, especially "Bloodlust" (2x03) and "Heart" (2x17). There's also some minor details from John Winchester's Journal, which isn't technically canon, but I felt I should warn all the same.
Summary: What if Lenore didn't think that letting Sam go was the best course of action? And what if Dean ended up in San Francisco with a different hunter at his back?
Notes: I'm still shooting for about five parts to this story, but depending on how the next part plays out, it could be more. It definitely won't be less. Again, extended notes will come at the end of the last part.
Part one | Part two
A Beast in Repose (part three)
Sam rolls his eyes into the back of his head as Dean reaches into the waistband of his jeans for his gun. He takes a full thirty seconds to remember that he'd been unconscious for days in Bobby's house, and another ten seconds after to start scanning the kitchen for something with an edge.
Bobby, on the other hand, merely looks overwhelmed as he tries to balance Sam. “Will you help me?”
“Get away from him!”
“Just calm--”
“Now!”
“Damn it, will you listen for a second?”
Sam makes a choking sound and slumps, and Dean forgets all about Bobby. He runs forward and grabs the knife, but the edge of the handle is stuck under Sam's skin. Moving it only causes Sam to draw in a breath that sounds more liquid than air.
Before Dean can decide what to do next, Bobby's hand clamps around Dean's wrist. His skin starts to itch, but that doesn't stop him from meeting Bobby's good eye.
“Take your hand off of me.”
“How much of an idiot are you, boy?”
Dean snarls, but it isn't in reply to Bobby's statement. His skin's heating up so much it feels like it's going to burn off. He pulls hard, and even though his muscles feel like water, he jerks out of Bobby's grip with little trouble. However, it means letting go of the knife, so he grabs it with his other hand as quickly as possible.
Sam makes a noise. At first, Dean thinks it's yet another desperate attempt to breath, since he probably moved the blade in Sam's chest around, but Sam repeats it.
“Dean?”
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
Bobby says, “Help me!”
Without further hesitation, Dean slings Sam's other arm around his shoulder. Sam's head hangs forward, and his eyelids flutter, but he looks to be trying to focus.
“The chair,” Bobby says with effort.
“But he's hurt,” Dean says, and feels a surge of anger that nearly makes him shake.
“He'll be fine. Just sit him down!”
They shuffle across the kitchen; Sam's feet can't seem to gain traction, and Dean struggles to keep him up. He pulls out the chair he'd been sitting in with his foot, and it screeches against the tile on the floor. Both he and Bobby crouch and lower Sam into the chair, and Sam groans as he makes contact.
Dean extracts himself and kneels in front of Sam. Sam's head is tipped forward, so Dean puts his hands under his chin and props it up.
“Hey,” he says, fighting tears. “Talk to me.”
“Dean,” Sam says. His eyes meet Dean's, and his dry and cracked lips push into a small smile.
A hand on Dean's shoulder tips him backward, not because it's powerful, but because Dean's off-balance. He stumbles, then gets to his feet in one motion and swings his fist. Bobby steps out of the way just in time and holds up his hands.
“Don't get close. Not 'til I've fed him.”
The words make no sense to Dean. He shakes his head, then throws his fist at Bobby again. Bobby tilts his head to the side and lets it pass.
“Fine!” Bobby yells. “You want your throat torn out, be my guest!”
“What are you talking about?”
Bobby backs into a drawer and opens it, keeping eye contact with Dean. Before he puts a hand inside, he rolls up the sleeve of his left arm, and Dean sees gashes all up and down his arm parallel with his wrist. Some are light pink, but most are an angry red. Dean's innards freeze.
“I'll show you,” Bobby says, putting his right hand into the drawer. Unseen metal rattles as Bobby searches, but after a second, he extracts a small dagger and puts it against his skin, digging in. Blood rises to the surface.
Sam hisses behind Dean.
Bobby puts the knife back in the drawer and closes it, holding his arm level to keep his wound from dripping on the floor. “This is just to tide him over, you understand. Haven't gotten a chance to leave since you got here.”
Dean feels the blood leave his head, but he doesn't sway. He just steps aside and turns as Bobby walks past him.
Sam's eyes are fixed on Bobby's arm, and he's breathing through his mouth fast. His fists are balled up so tight that his knuckles look like they're going to burst out of his hands. He tilts his head back as Bobby hovers his arm over Sam's head.
Dean knows what's coming next, even if he doesn't know what it means, and his stomach rolls.
Bobby tips his arm over and squeezes just above the gash in his arm. Blood spills into Sam's open mouth, and he slurps loudly.
Dean's stomach lurches again. Not because he's disgusted. He's...fascinated. He can't tear his gaze away from Bobby's arm, and he can't think, can't figure out why he's feeling this way or why Sam's drinking blood or why Bobby's letting him.
Dean looks down for an instant; it's all he can manage. He sees that Sam's now gripping the seat of the chair with both hands and hears the wood creak. He hears another creaking and barely registers that it's his own teeth, clenched together as hard as he can manage.
Bobby puts a hand over the gash and moves to the sink, and Sam tilts his head down. His lips are pulled away from his teeth in what looks like a snarl, but Dean squints, and his throat closes up.
Over Sam's pearly whites are a full set of twisted, crooked fangs.
--
Sam smells Dean with every breath he takes in through his nose. His eyes don't want to focus, but the scent is so strong that it makes up for it. He doesn't smell as good as Bobby, but it takes every ounce of self-control within Sam to stay in the chair and leave Dean leaning against the counter.
He touches a tentative hand to his chest. Bobby took out the knife before he left, but the dead man's blood left the wound open and burning. He presses it hard and hisses under his breath.
“What...”
Sam grimaces and looks up. Dean's gaze is fixed on him, at the knife wound. Sam's vision starts to clear as he watches Dean.
“It's fine,” Sam says. He isn't about to tell Dean that pain works better than self-control.
Dean's jaw clenches, and Sam realizes what he said. And how wrong it is. He decides to try something else. “It's good to see you.”
It doesn't relax Dean like he hoped. But then, it's a massive understatement.
“Was that your head?”
Sam blinks. “My head.”
“Back in Montana. The motel.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Dean pushes a hand over his hair. “They...left your head on the front step.”
“My head.” That explained a lot, and begged more questions, like how they found a head that was believable as Sam's.
“Oh? That's all you have?”
Sam feels a surge of anger, and with it, hunger spiking. It's all he can do to keep his fangs from coming out again. “I wish they had cut my head off.”
“What?” Dean's face twists.
Sam isn't sure what to tell him. He probably wouldn't want to hear a retelling of Lenore's speech about making an example of a hunter to get others off the trail, or how the blood roared through his body as he was forced to drink from Lenore's arm, or how he felt himself grow skinnier and less focused as they trapped him in a basement for months without feeding him. And how voraciously he ate when they did.
He decides to go simple. “It would have been quicker.”
Dean's lip quivers, and he rubs a hand over his mouth. Sam stares at the floor.
“How'd...did Bobby find you?”
Sam shakes his head without looking up. “Got away about a month ago. I tried your old number...I called Bobby after, explained what happened.”
“And he believed you?”
“No.” Sam smiles. “Got the drop on me at our meeting place and sliced my arm with a knife. It had dead man's blood on it.”
He hears Dean's boots stamp on the floor, and he looks up. Dean's pacing across the other side of the kitchen, not meeting Sam's eyes. His inhale sounds more like a sniffle than a normal breath, but Sam keeps his hearing unfocused, just in case.
“Why didn't he kill you?” Dean asks, his voice a quiet rumble.
Sam swallows. “I asked him not to.”
“And he listened?”
“When he heard my reason.”
Their eyes lock again, and Dean stops walking. His eyes widen.
“No fucking way.”
“Dean, you promised.”
“No.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows and swallows. He feels like he should be crying, but his eyes are bone dry.
“It's your turn, Dean.”
Dean frowns. “My turn.”
“Bobby didn't tell me what happened. In San Francisco.”
“Nothing much. Hunting werewolves with Gordon--”
“With Gordon?” He bites his lip after he says it.
Dean shakes his head. “I won't be hunting with him anymore. Hell, I wouldn't be breathing if Bobby hadn't--”
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“Can't say that Gordon and I were close.” Dean's shoulder drop as he exhales. “Good man to have at my back, though.”
Sam tilts his head slightly. “Not about that.”
Dean's face tightens. “I'm fine.”
“You are.” Sam's eyes drop to Dean's wrists. Both have raw patches circled around, but his right has a particularly deep burn mark.
Dean follows his gaze, then touches the mark with his other hand. He hisses. “Don't know what Bobby had, but man...”
“You don't know?” It's plain to him, but he heard the screams from the basement for the last week and can see the clothes hang off Dean's body. And if Bobby's blood smells like brandy - tastes like it too, which makes the dead cow blood that much more nauseating - Dean's smells like cheap hooch. Not mouthwatering by any means, but drinkable nonetheless.
“Know?” The question is tinged with the slightest edge of fear. Sam might not have heard it so clear before the change, but he would have recognized it right away.
Sam thinks hard. It's been a while since he's hunted, but the info comes back without too much trouble. “Bobby's blood...did it make you hungry?”
“What? No!” The answer's too quick to be a true denial.
“Do you remember...remember getting bitten?”
If Dean wasn't pale before, he certainly was now. His eyes are so wide they look like they'll pop out of his skull.
“Gordon,” Dean whispers. “He was gonna shoot me.”
Sam's vision starts to have red at the edges. If Gordon wasn't dead, Sam would tear him limb from limb, suck him completely dry, and--
He looks at Dean. Tears are streaking down his cheeks, and he's not doing a thing to try and stop them. Sam feels a stab of jealousy at his emotional expression, but it disappears as anguish takes hold.
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“The last week,” Dean says, his voice husky. “I...”
Sam nods.
“And Bobby's eye.”
He nods again.
Dean leans heavily against the counter next to Bobby's various phones. His eyes are unfocused. “Why didn't he kill me?”
Sam has his theories, his own request at the top of his mind. But he doesn't know for sure, and so, he doesn't bother trying to answer. Dean doesn't seem to expect him to, since he doesn't look his way.
Before Sam can do anything else, he hears the front door open, and he jerks his head around. He can see Dean does too, faster than he was ever able to before. There's a rigidness to Dean that he's never seen before.
The rustle of plastic bags and the slam of the door reaches Sam just before the smell of Bobby does. As he approaches, Sam can start to smell the cow blood through the containers, and hunger so sweet that it's nearly pleasure floods through him. Dean looks back at him, then bites his lip. He looks like he's going to lose his stomach contents.
I should never have let Dean see me like this, Sam thinks. Bobby should've killed me.
Bobby pushes into the kitchen, hands full of bags. It's more than he usually comes back with, but then, there's more people in the house who like their food rare. If Sam wasn't so ravenous, he knew he would feel shame, and he wishes with all his being that he could.
Dropping the bags on the floor, Bobby backs away. “I'll leave you boys to it.”
Sam has the discipline of several months guiding him; he manages to look away from the bags and at Dean and Bobby. Dean, on the other hand, has barely eaten for a week and has only had his hunger for about that long. He practically jogs to the bags and is on his knees in the blink of an eye.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam says, touching the wound on his chest again. “We'll talk after?”
Bobby nods. His face is neutral, and Sam wonders at it. But his eyes flash on Dean, and Sam can see him swallow hard, and he leaves the room.
Dean is tearing through the bags to get to the contents; he seems to be past the point where he can remember that bags have an opening in the top. Each inhale sounds more snarl than breath, and Sam's fangs extend before he realizes it.
He leans back in the chair and grimaces as the hunger sharpens into pain. Dean needs to feed first, and Sam has already had a snack. He can wait, no matter what his body says.
--
Meat slides down Dean's throat, and he nearly groans as his stomach eases its churning. He takes more, and more, and it quiets further.
It's only when he's silenced it completely that he takes in the kitchen around him.
Blood's all over the floor - Dean's nose crinkles because, even though the hunger abated, it still smells interesting - and he's on all fours in the middle of it. Scraps of plastic cling together by either static or because of the blood connecting it, and Dean stares at it for a while until he remembers that Bobby carried everything in with bags.
He puts a hand to his temple, trying to settle his racing thoughts. It was so hard to remember.
A slurping noise echoes, and Dean's ear pricks. He looks toward the corner and sees Sam huddled in it, clutching a round Tupperware container. Sam's chugging and groaning as he does so, and Dean feels his cheeks flush. It sounds like Sam's enjoying adult pay-per-view, not...not drinking blood.
God.
He raises his hands in front of his face and sees them shaking. It's something he hasn't done since he was a kid and he saw his dad kill a shapeshifter...his dad's first kill, unless his memory's completely shot. He'd cried for about a week, peed his pants whenever Dad pulled out a gun.
But even childhood terror can't stand up to this.
Sam finishes with the container and tosses it aside; there's three more empty ones next to him. He looks at Dean apologetically. “I was going to wait until you were done, but...”
He remembers growling as Sam came close and pulled a bag away.
“Sammy,” he says, and his voice sounds small in his ears.
Sam's face screws up like he's going to cry, but Dean sees no moisture there. Right. Vampires can't cry.
Water splashes onto his hand, and he looks down, sees the drop trail down and drag a path through the caked blood.
Sam laughs, and Dean twitches.
“I'm sorry,” Sam says. “It's just...the irony, right?”
Dean can't find words to answer.
“We hunt these things our whole lives, and this is how it ends. You and me, together.”
Dean exhales slowly. It did make a certain sense. He could suffer what Sam had suffered, and he could die when Sam dictated it.
He laughs too, then grins. Sam tilts his head. “What?”
“I know what we have to do,” Dean says.
“Do?”
“With this.” He gestures at the kitchen around him.
Sam frowned. “I don't follow.”
“We can find Yellow Eyes.”
--
Bobby steps away from the kitchen door, a smile on his face. Or rather, Bobby's body steps away from the kitchen. Bobby isn't doing much but raging in his own head.
He laughs quietly, then goes and sits down, puts Bobby's feet onto his desk.
The fun's about to get started.
( Part four.)