Okay, well, I missed the deadline for
sasquatch_love's prompt challenge. BUT! I still managed to finish my fic. Also, I totally stole the look of my hellhounds from Mercedes Lackey's description of wyvern. What can I say? I never liked the thought of hellhounds looking like dogs on 'roids, so I switched it up a bit. Plus, Lackey was the first author I read seriously as a kid, so a special place and all that (also HAI ANNE MCcAFFREY!). Besides, wyvern are kick ass and I adore them. That is all.
OMGWTF: 8295 words (zomg, what?); unbeta'd; explicit wincest; written for
minalynn53 whose prompt was: the hellhounds choosing to follow Sam and not take Dean's soul, so yeah, this is an AU; maybe a 4 on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
Watch the Heavens Scream
He says, "no."
Everything goes to hell.
(He'll remember it as screams, loud and terrified. He'll remember being shocked, even as the demon stumbles away from his brother, even as red trails course down her face. If he thinks about it long enough, he'll remember baying, hunting dogs on a scent, but he can't pay attention to it, really, not over the metallic fog that overlays every sense. It's choking, strong as a hand, strong enough to make him gag.
But he won't be able to remember how. Just blackness before the screams.)
He doesn't notice at first, and when the shadows in the corner of his eyes resolve into solid shapes, into something elongated and dog-like, he has one brief, splintered second of denial; he just wants to keep his mouth shut, because the shadows don't seem to be hunting them, don't seem to have caught their scent even as they trail behind them, staying unerring distant and quiet. Grief, he thinks. Grief can make a person do funny things. Maybe hallucinating's one of them.
But there's something telling him it's real, and he knows that if it is, then he has to tell his brother. He stops, and Dean knows, because he turns as soon as Sam's footsteps don't echo along behind his own. "Sam?" And for a minute all Sam can see is his brother's swollen, bruised cheek (fear and anger and an empty bed. A note on the table: don't follow). "Sammy, what's wrong?"
It doesn't matter that he'd been steeling himself to watch his brother be torn apart right in front of him, one hundred steps away from the Impala, gleaming blue-black where the moon hits. Doesn't matter that he was preparing himself to handle his brother's body. Doesn't matter that Sam's only weapon was a word - just one - and if that had failed, had been planned and failed, he would've been left with less than nothing, just screaming and pain and fear. Doesn't matter because it worked and he's grateful for it.
So when he feels the heat snap into place, when the back of his head feels stretched and tight - twins points of pain on either side of his skull, low down and spreading to his neck -he welcomes it, unsure of why, scared of the high pitched whines from the sleek dog-snakes. Hellhounds, and jesus, they're nothing he would've imagined - black all over and bits of purple on the underside. Smooth skin and glowing yellow-green eyes; long necks entwining when they move, over and under and around each other. It hypnotizes, paralyzes if Sam looks too long, if the fear doesn't make him dart his eyes away (and it's the faintest trace of brimstone or sulfur, he thinks, vague but persistent until it's almost burned into his nose, that seals it, that lets him know this is real).
He's still not sure why it's happening, or what it means. He only knows what it looks like, but he tells Dean everything as they walk (slow and careful, as if a stray root might take out what a demon couldn't, making one hundred steps into a thousand, something torturous and endless). He describes what they look like, what they feel like in the back of his mind - the constant, thrumming presence, something inescapable and ancient. Wild. He thinks it's the fact that Dean's just stared down his own mortality, almost died not twenty minutes ago, that keeps him impassive and mute, as they reach the car.
"Do we have to do anything?" Sam looks at the shapes crowding the Impala's bumper. They're solid, real, and he knows they'll be gone when he is. He can almost see them fading in as he stares at them, every minute flitters across their scaled skin until he can almost see through them, so he turns back to Dean, to the idea of leaving, getting away.
"Oh," and he folds himself into his seat, slams the door. He waits until Dean follows, feels the force through his seat into the backs of his thighs. Dean doesn't touch the ignition, and Sam says, "No. I think they just - know." At Dean's look of shocky alarm, he adds, "But not, like, you know - tracking scent in the drag-you-to-hell way."
Sam sees the muscle jump in Dean's jaw before his brother replies. "Mm. Obviously in the other way hellhounds are so well known for. Right?" When his brother sounds like that, looks at him like he's too stupid to live, Sam feels all of twelve, clumsy and scared, but he thinks the it's not like I meant to, creeping up his throat would only add to that, so he just says, "uh."
When he can get around his own disbelief, his own instant denial that says nonono, he manages, "You're mad." It's not a question; Sam's had too many years with Dean that even if the situation weren't so obvious he wouldn't have to ask. Dean, apparently, hasn't gotten that memo because he's shaking his head. The bruises on his face look dark and poisonous. "I would be. If I were you." Or scared. I think I'd be terrified. Dean just stares. His mouth is flat and relaxed - he's not even tempted to talk. "Hey." Because it's Dean, and that's the least obvious part about it. Sam doesn't know, never expected anything like this, but he's close enough to lean over, press in close, so he does.
Dean doesn't flinch, doesn't turn away or acknowledge it. They've done worse, Sam thinks, and brushed it off, made it inconsequential. So this is nothing, really, and Sam holds on to that as his nose touches the outside corner of Dean's eye for a moment before his lips touch skin. It's not a kiss, nowhere near, just touch and breath so that when Sam straightens, slides back over to his side of the Impala, the echo of too-hot, bruised skin lingers on his mouth.
It's a long wait, and Sam starts thinking that this is it, endless silence and tension. Dean raps his knuckles against Sam's thigh, but his voice is flat when he says, "I haven't gotten there yet."
They find the nearest motel, going the opposite direction of where they stayed before. It's not that easy to find a place when it's just one small town after another, all dead by ten o'clock. But, on the outskirts, they find one open and vacant (some Super8, sign backlit and dingy, and maybe New Hampshire's not entirely hopeless, but Sam will always hate it a little for trying to steal his brother away). When they get to their room, spread salt and wards and slide knives under pillows, he crashes, catching one brief glance at Dean pulling out toothbrush and paste, before he's sliding into sleep.
He wakes up when weight shifts his bed. It's Dean, sitting on the edge, by his hip, and his brother whispers, "Sam?"
"Yeah," he says. Flames and howls and sharp teeth play out in the back of his brain. "Yeah."
"Another nightmare?" Sam wants to snap, say something stupid and angry, because Dean's whisper curls through him, soft and hesitant, and it sets his teeth on edge, sparks an ache behind his eyes, and he doesn't know what to do with any of it. I'm not gone, he thinks, but he can't say the words, not now, not here where Dean's face is a mess of shadows and striped street light, more haunting than anything else.
"No," is what comes out instead. "I don't know." Because it wasn't pleasant, not really, but it didn't scare him. It felt familiar, in a way. Familiar, like the press of bodies against the motel door (lingering but not entering, not without permission) are already a part of him, something he's always known.
Stop, he thinks, and feels that connection thin out and stretch until he can't sense them outside of his own mind. He thinks, limbo, and it has to serve for now, because he doesn't want to be responsible for them and maybe this abstract heat and emptiness that takes over where he had felt that absolute connection is the best way to stop them.
Sam doesn't know what Dean sees when his brother looks at him. Maybe it's Sammy. Maybe it's the person that's been riding shotgun in the Impala for the last three years. Maybe (and this is the one Sam always comes back to, always tries to deny) it's a complete stranger, unwelcome and unshakeable. All he knows is that something ghosts over Dean's face, cloudy and uncertain, and then it's gone. Nothing really replaces it, so he's not expecting warm hands to cup his face, calluses dragging on stubble, friction and itch and pressure, or for his brother to say, "I can't believe I'm here," and the quiet amazement, giddiness, makes something clench in Sam's chest. A pause, then, "I wish you could've been normal."
"Well," he says, and it comes out hoarse, his thoughts slow with a pressure he doesn't want to name. The weight of Dean's hands against him aren't really making anything easier, either. "I'm still alive, so are you. There's always that."
Dean laughs, a low, tired sound. "Jesus, you're something else, Sam."
They sleep clear into the evening, and when they can finally find the energy to crawl out of bed, they ask the desk clerk where to get something to eat. Ten minutes later, they find themselves tucked into the booth of a diner, chalkboard menus almost completely obscured by cheap souvenirs and fresh-pressed apple cider posters slumping sideways against ones that read welcome to the FALL FESTIVAL when their tape dries out and starts to peel.
"What do we do?" Sam's picking apart his club sandwich, uninterested in stale bread and wilted lettuce, but Dean's eating his salisbury steak like the world's ending and this might be his last meal. It makes something turn over in Sam's stomach.
"Time off," Dean says, and Sam can see hints of mashed meat before he looks away. "We're not taking a case when we are a case."
"Sounds good," Sam says, and tries to ignore the hesitant scrabbling behind his eyes.
------
He can feel the constant burn smoldering in the back of his mind, throbbing and inescapable, but he loses the overwhelming sense of presence when they're in the Impala. If they stop at motels or rest stops or abandoned buildings, if they just stop, he can feel them pressing against the door, waiting, begging for a permission they can't ask for. It's always heavy, like he's the thing they're resting against, pushing into, and if he manages to sleep it's to a chorus of yips and howls, of bitingtearingripping and speed.
So they drive. Dean goes with it, stretches out in the back when he needs to sleep, doesn't tell Sam anywhere to go, and Sam always heads them south and west, getting away from. Cold, deals, everything. When his brother wakes up, shoves at his shoulder to get him to pull in somewhere, he knows Dean will turn them around, keep them near where it all went down.
Their current hotel doesn't have any more double beds available, and when Dean's done with guns and setting the small corner table up like a gunshow reject, he doesn't make any noises about sharing. Just climbs in, punches at the pillows and lays back. Sam can feel his own heart beating at his temple and deep in his belly (quivering and pounding through the liquid heat that always seems to be pooled there, now), imagines it like some kind of vibration that even Dean could feel through the mattress, through the space separating them, into skin and bone and muscle. It unnerves him a little, because he can still remember a time when it wouldn't, when it would've just seemed like one more thing that linked Dean to Sam.
So he ignores Dean, turns on his side facing the bathroom wall, thinks that maybe sleep's farther away than he really wants it to be, but Dean seems to be sliding into it easily, if his breathing (deep and even and thankfully quiet) at Sam's back is any indication.
"It burns," Sam says one night, when they've been in town over a week, no closer to anything, not even sleep, and Sam thinks even going insane has to be better than this. It's abrupt, but Dean has a habit of starting these rambling, disjointed conversations in the middle of the night, always has - like it doesn't count if he waits until it isn't morning and isn't night. Sam's maybe picked up the habit. "Sometimes it's all I can think about, you know? Letting them go so maybe it wouldn't hurt so much." The words are childish, but it gets Dean to turn over, face close to Sam's in the semi-darknes.
Sam feels Dean's hands drift over him, chest to shoulders to neck, searching like he'll be able to feel the difference in temperature, locate the source. But Sam knows it's all in his head, and the thought's not comforting, but he can't help the grin that stretches his lips. Dean ignores it, though, just says, "where," in a sleep roughed voice, like Sam'll tell him and he'll kiss it better, make it stop just because he wants it to. But Sam just takes the hand that's resting under his jaw, moves it right above the first knob of his spine, low on his neck, here, here.
Dean's hands are warm, callused, and it doesn't soothe the burn, doesn't lessen it, but when his brother's fingers press in, determined and sure and with pressure that might border on a different kind of pain, everything's that much farther from overwhelming him. "Better?" And Sam can only nod, something thick and tight in the back of his throat, pushing behind his eyes.
After that, their rooms stay singles and Sam falls asleep to the rhythm of Dean's hands stroking over skin, sensitizing and distracting and completely, reassuringly, human.
The first thing Dean asks when Sam wanders in after visiting the local library and coming back with a messenger bag bulging at his side is, "Anything new?"
"I don't know, man. Hellhounds are usually guardians to the mouth of hell. They shepherd escaped souls." Sam settles on the bed and flips through a tome at random, breezing by flamboyant fonts and faded illuminations. "And you can guess that those souls aren't innocent, you know? So by themselves, they're not that bad, I guess."
"Dad was in hell. You saying you'd want him dragged back by them?" The words are angry, coils of steel and heat, but his brother just looks tired, like he wants to forget everything.
"Yeah, that's fair, Dean." He rests the book against his stomach, takes in the sharp set of his brother's jaw, the stillness in his face. "You know what I meant. Most souls in hell aren't like Dad. They're in the pit for a reason, a real one. Murder, torture, rape, you name it. I'm just saying - "
"Don't." Dean runs both his hands through his hair, knots his fingers together at the base of his neck, and Sam thinks he looks breakable, fragile, softer than he's ever seen his brother look before. "Don't pretend. We both know exactly what they are."
"Stories."
"No, not like that, Sammy. I -"
"You know, I've even had some stories that I've wanted to believe in." Happy endings, things he didn't even know he wanted until they were gone. Sam shifts, old bedsprings squeaking under his weight. "I mean, really believe in, and so what?" He wants to look at his brother, but his eyes refuse to listen, and instead glance everywhere else. "It doesn't make them true." He pauses, suddenly desparate for something different, for the things he's linked to to be something other than evil. "This isn't any different. We don't know."
"Sam - "
"It doesn't make them true, Dean." Please.
------
He dreams.
They're not like before. They aren't warnings, he doesn't think, or at least they don't feel the same. They're just - things. People. A man he passed on the street the day before; a woman that made his coffee at the local shop. But they're...not. They're smirking, standing over a kid, someone Sam's never seen before, or they're laughing while a woman sobs, begs, tries to run away.
He dreams, and he isn't disgusted, isn't really surprised. He expects it. Hungers for it, he guesses, feels something growing in the pit of his stomach, something blunt and painful, twisting his guts in on themselves until the pain wakes him up.
Hunger, he thinks again, staring up at the ceiling of choice while images burn away in his mind. He feels the craving deep in his throat, a knot that stretches throughout his whole body, something impossible to shake until Dean stirs. Becomes breath and volume and presence that Sam can focus on.
------
It always happens like this, Sam thinks. Every time they say no, when they want a break, some time to sleep or go off and see Dean's goddamn Grand Canyon, or even just stand still for five minutes - let alone try to find an answer for their own goddamn problems - something drops into their laps. One mistimed glance at a local newspaper when they're waiting on coffee, hearing don't know and unsolved or unexplainable and they know. They know, because when they're desperate and everything's dry, they're left choking on dust. But when they're hurt and looking the other way, then it's a free-for-all, and really, Sam knows Dean can't help it. His look, his Sammy, just this one.
Sam hears the talk in one Waffle House, but it's a few days later (on the end of one of Dean's tireless circles of the east coast states, and Sam swears they've passed the same lodges and snowmen and hidden little towns a dozen times, now, what the fuck. Dean just glances at him, brows arched and Sam can see the what else can we do? written all over the look; it's barely enough, now, to keep Sam from ramming the Impala into the nearest, thickest tree he sees when it's his turn to drive) that Dean brings it up. He drops into the booth opposite Sam and chucks a rolled up paper at Sam's chest.
This one - or at least what they hear of it - is bad. Something leaving a string of mutilated bodies, hikers mostly, on isolated trails in Maine woods. And maybe they could've gotten off thinking cat or bear or something vicious but completely normal, except that the reports all said black, nose to tail, except for a stark white spot on its chest. And maybe it could've been exaggeration and fear, but both accounts were too consistent - if brief - before either witness heard of the other.
So Sam knows when they hit Maine and the rumors follow them for two counties, it's something besides coincidence. When Dean backtracks, finds a motel bordering both county lines, he can say, "I get it, Dean," and only have to deal with his brother's relieved smile.
The first thing he does in any case is look at the population of a county, or broader, including districts or states, if nothing piques his interest. He finds statistics that tell him median age, race, even income, of a given area - everything that could help narrow it down to a certain mythology, if the thing they're hunting isn't some obvious generic badass.
In Maine, it's relatively simple. He visits the county's info page and the number of Scottish descendants far out number any other. It's something to go on, something better than Dean's bland shrug when he gets back from interviewing the two witnesses (and, really, Dean's never had much luck talking to victims, but Sam wasn't expecting much anyway, so he's not surprised).
"Feline," his brother says, before dropping onto the bed and hunting for the remote. "Big. Black." He finds it, apparently hiding under a limp pillow, and clicks the TV on. Shrill voices screech out of the speakers next to Sam and he winces. "That's it. That's all they saw." Some woman on the television shrieks about her baby's daddy, and then Dean says, "They did. Well, there was a lot of talk about reforesting the area." Dean's sprawled, legs wide, over the bed, limp and relaxed. Sam grins through the sudden heat flushing his face. "Apparently, some farmers have reseeded their lots with trees, or something. I guess it's a big deal around here."
"Huh," Sam says, mostly because Dean expects the response. "You did say these attacks were described as like a wild cat, right?" Dean nods, and Sam focuses on the pages tabbed open in his browser. "Maine does have them - lynx, bobcat, maybe even mountain lions. Which, you know, it could be, except coloring and size estimates are off. And usually attacks are only from sick and injured cats, right? Which, anyone'd see tracks from, especially since the attacks were in the same 30 mile area -"
He drifts off, closing out of the windows on the computer until only one site's left, pictures of weirdly drawn creatures outlined with flashing sparkleboxes, blue font oversized on a yellow background. Sam leans back in his chair, the shrieks and cheers get louder until he leans forward again, rubs at his eyes. "I think I know what it is."
"So, why are we here, again?" Dean's voice is muffled by the approximate fifteen layers of clothing. Yeah, it's cold, it's Maine, but Sam still rolls his eyes as he trudges back to where his brother's standing.
"This is approximately the midway point between the two attacks," Sam shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans, the coarse fabric rubs against the chilled skin of his hands, and the feeling is both dull and too sharp. "This area is newly wooded, right?" Dean nods. "A lot of area, perfect hunting ground. For the normal wild cats, but maybe for something supernatural."
"And?"
"Cait sith." Sam moves, feels the urge in the muscles of his legs, in the way way they cramp under his weight, in the way heat spreads thickly through him. "It's. It's a Scottish legend. A big cat that's black except for a white patch on the chest. Big as a dog." Jesus, jesus, there's something sickly sweet rising in the back of his throat, pain lancing across his cheekbones -
"...Sam." Dean's voice is close, and is followed by his brother's hands jerking at him. Dean lets go when Sam pushes at him, but he doesn't move back, and Sam can see the concern in the tense lines of his mouth. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Sam puts room between them, rubs at his forehead, where his headache is throbbing in time with his pulse. "Um, the only thing is they're generally not dangerous unless you meet them face-to-face."
We know. The words are hissed, silibant, and oddly empty, echoing in the back of his mind. His feet stutter on the path and he can feel rocks shifting under him.
He feels his head jerk on his neck, quick fire along his spine. He doesn't - see anything, except Dean, who's mouthing words and grabbing for him again. He wants to go this time; wants his brother's arms and hands, because at least that's familiar. But he's too far away, he thinks. Too far to reach, before the presence in the back of his mind rushes forward, consumes him.
He thinks, what?, and it's a surprise to him, almost unwilling. But then he's filled with fire, feeling it molten in his veins even as he seems to be miles away, seeing his body fall to the ground, distant bite of pain as gravel presses into skin and then -
We know why the beast hunts. Same voice, except it hurts, somewhere, everywhere, and he wants to scream with it , but he can't get anything past the weight bearing down on him. But let us show you, first -
- bitter arousal and the shrieks of kids, laughing and running, and he wants them, wants them all, soft hair and softer bodies -
- and he's himself again, slumped forward on a dark hiking track, vaguely aware of noises coming out of his mouth - groaning, maybe - that he doesn't have the ability to stop. He's hard, dick pressed against the metal zipper on his jeans. Christ, he thinks. Kids, they were kids -
- covered in blood and screaming. help. help. help and he wants to copy them, play in the mess. Weak creatures, and puny. Pathetic. They deserve -
- he watches the knife carve into flesh. Each drop of blood a signature he can recognize, even as the body under his hand writhes, muscles eager for escape. You're mine, sweetheart, and the lust in his voice is thick, slurs his words. I've got you now.
And while you are listening, let us take you back.
"Take me back where?"
To what we were. To our freedom -
- and he feels the darkness, ever present and heavy. It's empty, nothing there, no creature he can sense. Then suddenly there's light and weakness, flesh and blood, but not yet. Not yet. That's all he knows. He isn't needed, now. Bide the time, and wait.
Wait.
He learns that there can be screams and blood, heat and anger, but no guilt. No fault. Wait.
Comes a time for shame. Real and imagined. It makes no difference. Mea culpa, and it's a pain in the belly, unending desire and sweetness, and he has to follow, has to find, has to claim and drag back to where he was born. Bodies churn and suffer and he feels it, eternally, under his skin, warm glow and appeasement. He is content, his purpose fulfilled, body twining with his pack as he waits and waits and waits for the right time, the right person, the right trangsression.
To our defeat -
- do it. And that voice can't be denied; the power hurts, and it's easier to listen, to run, long bodies coursing over ground, scent of clean/sour/toxic all-encompassing, undeniable, innocent. But the voice makes them. Chase, catch, kill, guard. Chasecatchkillguard -
- each rip, each tear, is acid in his mouth, coerced and foul. Screams dig into his ears, block out the howls and yips of his pack, spin him off into solitude and isolation. But the need, the demand is there -
- time, time, time. He becomes aware of it. Singular units that weigh down. More than wait, more than waitwaitwait. It's expectation, anticipation. He becomes aware of tententen. Each time. Ten. It's wait-ten, and when he's freed, sent down the path of flesh and blood, he smells life and mortality and greed, but no true-guilt, never the sweetness he craves -
- and when he drags them back to where he was born, he loses them, can't derive satiation before they slip through his jaws. These bodies do not appease his hunger, because their rightful place is somewhere other than here -
"God. God," he thinks, sudden vertigo and tilt and his palms scream with the force of gravel breaking skin. Why now? He falls onto his ass, relieves the pressure on his hands, but doesn't try to stand yet. He can feel the tremors spreading up his legs. What is this?
We see into the hearts of men, and the last word has the flavor of newness, and Sam can hear the undercurrent of bodycreatureprey that threatens to overwhelm it. We are made for this. Only for this.
"Why now?" He repeats and he can suddenly see them, black-purple skin and glowing eyes. Scent of hell, and with it a sense of deathbloodguilt that feels like his but not. Too much or too distant, he can't tell.
They are being hunted because they do evil. It is humanity's transgression, not that of the beast you hunt. Sam watches as the hounds' bodies twine around each other, pattern changing and mutating and predictable. With you, we hear the pack again. We would help you. It's said like a response, but Sam didn't have a question in mind. Still, he doesn't discard it even when he's not sure how much to believe.
We are not evil, Samuel Winchester, the voice says, and it's only now that he thinks it's not just one but many, not like he can tell them apart, the sounds too much alike and too sinuous for him to track. Only the pattern shifts, as if one takes over while the rest follow behind. That's why it echoes - it's the pack, speaking as pack, as the only thing they know. We were never evil; we just followed behind those that were, claimed them for our own. A pause - weighing, deliberate. You do not trust.
"No. I'm sorry," and he doesn't know what he's apologizing for, except maybe the vague swooping feel of disappointment (his, his, like he's hurt that he can't make himself believe them - their words, their meaning, their reason for existing - while they seem completely fixated on the random undulations of their bodies) before he feels the brush of an alien mind against his. Then: you have faith -
- he's staring up at a body; gray-scale vision shows blood and dirt as shadowed stains against white-gray skin. He knows what this is, who this is, this body nailed up before him, limp and slack against the stout wood, dark head bowed down to his chest, with nails winding through his hair. He knows it objectively, without cause or motive. This just is.
It's a barren hllltop, where he is. The body he's in is low, gives the impression of slinking, hanging back, hungering. He can sense something creeping up through his awareness, coming from the crowd gathering at the base of the three crosses, coming from the other bodies up on display. It's something he wants -
- and he feels sucked up, too small, and when he's fully aware again he's looking down, I thirst, I thirst, filled with agony and hopelessness and love that pounds through him even as his heart stutters in his chest, even as his wrists and ankles scream around iron sunk deep -
- he's tasting it like wine. The fear and betrayal is sharpsweet on his tongue, makes him pant and snap at air, at the others suddenly at his back, circling around him, pressing close.
"Stop." It's a croak, but his throat feels torn open, dry, useless, as he pants for breath he can't catch. "You can't just do that. You can't."
We only meant to show you, not cause you distress. This is as true as your faith: we are real, and we will abide by every single rule you choose to impose upon us.
"Why," he says. He really means, what guarantee is there? What will stop you?, but he can feel the damage those questions would do, all the doubt eating at something he can't even name, didn't even know was there until he questioned it. So he goes simpler, sticks with something he can ask, that they can answer.
Because we wish to run.
They're fading, dancing around each other and disappearing, even as he tries to get his body under control. He manages to lift his head, and that's when he sees it. Glimpse of short, black hair and a muscled rump before it disappears into the woods. Dean, he thinks, too tired to do much but struggle when his brother's arms wrap around him.
"Holy fuck, Sam." Dean starts yelling as soon as they're settled back in the motel. Sam tries not to flinch but he's raw, even his hair hurts, and he just wants his brother to shut up. Or hug him. Or both. But Dean's off again, arms waving and Sam tries not to puke. "You were. God. I thought you were gonna fuckin die."
"You can't be serious."
It's that voice, Sam thinks. The one that says think and I know what's best, and it's a guilty thought that agrees, that wants to rollover and go along with whatever his brother says, because Sam doesn't know. He just feels something, a vague certainty and it's more than he's had for a long time. So he says, "Demons can corrupt anything, Dean. You know, maybe it's what happened with the hounds." Dean scoffs, but Sam rushes on before his brother can say anything. "They were independent. For a long time. I think maybe if I let them go, they'd go back to being what they were."
"That's one hell of a risk for maybe, Sam. What's the guarantee?"
"Demons are the definition of sin. If they got these guys within their control, they would corrupt them. Take them away from their intended purpose. Wouldn't they?"
"All right, but what if you're wrong? What if you're the only thing holding them back from taking anybody they want?" Dean stands up, comes closer and Sam's never been more aware of the difference in their sizes and in the fact that it's never really mattered, not between them. "Do you really want that on your conscience?"
"No, I don't, Dean. But look at everything we're already responsible for - when we thought what we did was what needed to be done. This is just one more, and if it goes wrong then we hunt them, but I don't think it'll come down to that. They won't take innocents; they aren't built that way. That's what they're trying to tell me."
"Well, just the fact they're trying to get something across - kinda convinces me otherwise, Sam. Gotta tell ya."
"You." Didn't feel it. Weren't there. "I just think that maybe we should consider it. I mean. They haven't done anything, in all this time. When I. When I banished them or whatever, they stayed gone."
"Are you fuckin kidding me?" Dean's hands smack his thighs, sharp thwackthwack. It draws Sam's eyes for a moment, enough to see the dull glint of silver against his brother's worn jeans. "According to you, they sent you all the way back to the crucifixion, Sam. And now they want us, what? Off this hunt, so they can kill the people called us out here to begin with?"
"This thing." Sam remembers the words, can't not, but he doesn't think they'll do a damn thing for Dean. "This thing, the hounds, they were built to keep a certain type of balance, Dean. They're not good or evil, they're neutral. Kind of...objective by instinct."
"Yeah? Well, so what's to stop them from massacring thousands of people on a technicality, then?" If it's not us or god or demons or whatever. If it's just them then that's not much of a check, if you ask me."
Sam's breath gusts out of him, more of a growl than anything else. "Don't," he says, and thinks about taking a shower, about digging out stray pebbles from his palms and knees, about washing away the blood. "Don't humanize them, Dean."
Let us go.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
You can. Restrict our actions if you fear us, but give rein so we can do what we must. We are needed, Samuel Winchester. We are balance.
"My brother and I -"
Are limited to one type of prey. It tips the scales, but we - we are made for the other, for the ones you cannot hunt.
"I wonder what made them come back." Sam hears the mechanical taptaptap of Dean's fingers against computer keys, the intermittent thunk on the mousepad. He wants to go over, still his brother's fingers with his own. The urge is so strong he can imagine the heat and calluses even now, jagged nails brushing his own skin. But he doesn't, knows he can't or wouldn't be allowed to if he tried.
He remembers the glimpse he got of the cait sith. "They were doing me a favor." Dean huffs a breath, and Sam says, "I think I was killing them. Where ever they went. I could feel it. They wanted out," even though his brother wasn't really asking a question. He's defensive and abrupt, can't deny the sick rush of anger (at himself, at Dean, at the damn crossroad demon who couldn't hold onto what was hers, at the hellhounds for getting free, for choosing him).
Dean looks at him, over the edge of Sam's laptop. He could be doing last minute research on their case or looking up midget porn and Sam won't know unless he hovers over his brother's shoulder. He's got his suspicions, though. "Maybe you should have left them there, then."
"I could feel it, Dean. I'd dream about it. I couldn't. I think maybe I'd die, too."
He doesn't understand the look that crosses his brother's face, except it's not gentle, it's not what Sam expects. "Right."
They're standing in the clearing where Sam first caught sight of the cait sith. He remembers muscle and sleek, black fur, but he can't seem to recall fear or hostility. Just something that was there and gone, with nothing in between. This is wrong, he thinks, but he doesn't know if that's him or the hounds, and even that's enough for him to reach over the blankness in his mind, to connect with heatfireneed and give direction. He pushes the dim picture of the cait sith at the memory/feel of the hounds, intermixes this one, only this, and hopes it's enough.
"I'm not gonna leave you." Dean's fingers are cold where they wrap around Sam's chin, points of pressure that keep Sam's face tilted up toward Dean. "Sam."
"I know." It's true, he does know. Something in Dean or something in Sam makes it impossible for Dean to give him up for anything - not for Stanford or Jess or even when Sam isn't exactly Sam. He says, "You should." He doesn't push it, though. Dean's the one that asked him to do this.
When he lets them run, he feels it in the cold bite of wind over tough hide, over rough tongue that gives direction, picks up the scent of meatrotden as the cait sith flees through trees and underbrush. He can follow them easily. When they reach the cait sith, they waste no time treeing it, their bodies entwining, dizzy, frenzied; voices rising and falling with their yipping, patterned and monotonous, and he knows the cait sith is dead, caught in the hounds' rhythm. He is, maybe, or at least can feel it pound through his body, making him sway, even while bile builds in his throat, sour and acidic against his tastebuds.
When the creature falls (large and black except for a flash of white on its chest), lands disoriented and slow, hypnotized by the movement and sound, the hellhounds are starved. It's snarls, screams, matted hair between sharp teeth before hot, wet, salty sweetness and flesh. In the seconds before he can tear himself away from the hounds he can see red seep into the surrounding snow like a poisoned vein erupting.
There's something like death in the back of his throat. Betrayal, maybe, and he runs, hears Dean scream something at him, but he's sliding and tripping over roots and snow, following the heat trail in his mind until it's tangible, red-gold and binding.
Then he's stumbling over bodies he knows, wading in and pushing them away from the carcass he knows is under them. It's everything he caught in the flashes they sent him, torn and bloody, white-gray entrails pulled out of the red cavern of its stomach. "Jesus," he says, and he wants to kneel, get closer, but he hears a growling, a low thrum that makes his heart pound in his chest. He turns to look, sees the seven hounds arranged in a semi-circle, standing alert and tense between him and Dean.
"Sam," and he can tell by his brother's eyes that he's trying to find any clue that the hellhounds are there. Constant movement when everything else is still. "Sam, are they...?"
He nods and waits for Dean to say more, but he doesn't and Sam can't take the waiting, and he pushes, pushes, pushes until he feels the hounds fade, until their bodies blink out, and the warmth takes up residence at the base of his skull. I'm sorry, he thinks, but it's only in his own head, contained and meaningless. He moves aside, lets Dean see the mangled body, something about it that even the thought makes the aftertaste of bile overwhelm him again. He says, "Happy?"
Dean grins.
------
Dean finally decides enough, Sam guesses, and they get to Tennessee before he stops again. He could ask what? or why?, probably, but he knows Dean'll just smirk at him. So Sam goes with it - when Dean finds a honest to god metal trailer (everything's made out of aluminium, or some shit, he swears), or when he goes and hustles pool at the local dives.
Sam knows Dean thinks he's protecting...someone. Maybe Sam. Maybe everyone Sam comes into contact with. It won't last, he tells himself. It's something Dean thinks he has to do, and when it wears off they'll go back to hunting, or hell, even go to Bobby's. Something.
He just has to avoid killing Dean in the meantime.
When he first meets Evelyn, he holds it close. He doesn't tell Dean about their conversations, about Evelyn's invitation for supper (it's just spaghetti and garlic bread. But it's good, and there's a lot of it. Sam's maybe a little in love with her laugh and the way she always smells like cheap fabric softener and lime and a hint of baby formula). Night after night and he's tired of the mystery stains on the walls, on the way random springs find their way into the small of his back just as he's drifting off. Everything's too cold and he's pressed too tight and not tight enough to Dean.
But he finally does, the Thursday before the supper. "Free food," he says, and it's enough to get Dean up and driving to yet another trailer park, Briar Pointe, and Dean scoffs, but pulls in.
Dean likes to blame him. He says, "you're always so goddamn friendly, Sammy," and he spits it like a curse every time they come back from Evelyn and Gerry's. Like making friends (or not, but acquaintances, most definitely) is a curse, something to be exorcised from his skin. He just smiles and puts the leftovers in the mini-fridge.
After the third invite, after Sam says yeah, sure for the third time, he watches Gerry's face - a little too red, a little too splotchy - and feels an urge to smile, maybe, around the hunger burning a hole through him. He doesn't know; he's never seen a bruise on Evelyn, never seen her wince or try to move away from Gerry.
When they get back to their rental (a tiny rent by the week place, loud neighbors and crazy dogs. Dean bitches, curling up behind Sam on the small bed; mutters in his ear about everything he'd like to do. It's two in the fuckin morning, what the fuck, but he only buries his nose into the back of Sam's neck until Sam hears him snoring), he says, "You don't have to go with me next week."
It's supposed to be a peace offering, but Dean just looks him over and shakes his head. "I'm good."
He gets the call ten minutes after they pull out of their neighborhood. At first it's just static (and Sam motions Dean to the side of the road, quick flap of hand and the monotonous clickclick of the turn signal), and then he can make out Gerry's voice, loud and belligerent, before Evelyn's voice is whispering in his ear please, you gotta help me and when Bethany starts wailing, Sam thinks the baby must be pressed right to the receiver. The line goes dead after that, and Sam's saying, "Dean, I've gotta."
Dean jerks his head, and keeps his foot on the gas the whole way.
When they get there, the door's cracked open, and even then Sam can hear muffled sobs, pitch rising on the end until it's almost like a scream. Besides that, it's quiet, though.
They find Evelyn crouched in the kitchen, body bent over something in her arms. It's still, Sam thinks. He doesn't want to look closer.
"Evelyn," he says, and he can't get his voice louder than a whisper. "Evelyn, did you call the police?" She doesn't answer, just rocks, body tipping forward and back until he wants to punch something, because this wasn't. This wasn't supposed to happen, he wasn't supposed to see this.
Set us free, and it's a chant in the back of his mind, buzzing along his nerves. This is what we are made for.
He turns to Dean. "Do you trust me?"
There's no hesitation, no pause to consider, before Dean's saying, "Most of the time."
"That's not real reassuring, you know," and it's supposed to be a joke, but the laughter dies, becomes just another burst of air. And it kind of fits when he feels something sharp and twisting in his chest.
"Was I supposed to say no?"
Sam shrugs, can't help thinking that all they've done is hedge around this thing between them, so how is this any different? He says, "Then come with me," and doesn't wait to see if Dean will.
It's not that he's particularly worried about the state of his soul if he kills Gerry, but when he hears Evelyn's voice, scratchy and insistent, saying kill him, kill him, kill him, like she's broken and dying and can't remember any other words, it just makes it that much easier. He lifts up his hand, fingers lax, and says go. The surge of heat flaring in his mind borders on painful, but he smiles with it, because the hounds have it - that scent. Sweat and panic and rage, bright against dimmed vision, and Sam knows it's a sure thing.
When they have him cornered, Gerry's screams are like a song lodged in his ears.
When it fades, it's just Sam, just Dean, trailers away from Evelyn's home, from the strobing blue and red lights pinging in the corners of Sam's eyes even here. He almost says we have to go, Dean, but he knows they have time, a little, while everyone mills around in shock and horror before remembering how to do their jobs.
"This really happened, didn't it?" Dean pauses, like that wasn't what he meant to say. "This is you, what you are."
Sam feels dirt under his fingernails, clinging and thick, because when the pack hits a human, apparently, it's different from killing something on a hunt; humans are pleasurerichnesssin and the onslaught is enough to send him to his knees, scrabbling for something to hold onto ("you were fuckin seizing, Sam. Goddammit."). When he takes out a pocket knife, when he presses down and the blade is released with a soft snick, he sees Dean start.
Something howls in the back of his mind. "Yeah, I guess it is." He eases the blade under his nail, feels it scrape and press on flesh. He wants to say this is you. This is what you did, and drag out deals and I can't live without you and pain. But he just manages, "It's not. I'm not," but Dean's just shaking his head, pale skin bloodless and Sam wants to say something, anything, to get the sickened look off of Dean's face, but he doesn't know how.
There's Evelyn's tears. Bethany's horrible stillness. Gerry's body, torn and limp, and a sweetness he can't shake, a pulse in the back of his throat, like a craving for water, but he thinks what he wants is warmer, saltier. He swallows against it, and he can see them, slightly, all seven fanned out behind Dean, bodies transparent, shimmering like a heat wave. I can't let you go, he thinks at them, and he sees them thin out even more, just air currents drifting into shapes, but they're there. He doesn't even think about forcing them away.
Dean's staring at him again, eyes drifting over his face. He doesn't turn, but Sam knows he wants to. "You can manage them." Sam only nods and continues unearthing streaks of dirt. For some reason, that seems to say it all.
It's days later when Sam manages to get to the hospital where Evelyn's staying. When the front desk waves him to the direction of her room, he's stopped by a group of people milling around outside.
One woman raises a hand, stop, stop, and she drags him to the side. "I'm Evelyn's sister. Johanna." she says. "Were you a close friend?"
The bite of antiseptic burns his nose and makes his stomach churn. "No. I. I had dinner with them a few times. I was there - that night."
"Oh!" Some kind of recognition lights her eyes. "You're the one that tried to find Gerry?" The name is hissed, and followed by a grimace, but Sam just nods.
"I just wanted to see how she was doing. Bethany?"
"Evie's fine, you know," her voice wavers, and Sam rests a hand on her shoulder. "The baby - well, she was too young, really, for. She didn't -"
"It's okay." Sam just wants her to stop. He knows.
"They say. Well, my midwives warned me with my first. The first few months with the crying? Can make a man snap, they said. Do things they wouldn't ordinarily?" She jerks her head, fingers pressed to her lips. "I just. I'm sorry. Evie can't deal with much, right now. Family's enough."
"Just," he searches for something to say as he looks at the closed door to her room. He can't do anything here, doesn't know why he thought he could. "I."
"I know," she whispers. "I'll tell her."
He nods again, imagines Dean's fury when he finds out where Sam went, but he had to see, maybe, reassure himself that what he did - let the hounds do - was the right thing. When he starts back down the hall, hears Johanna's muffled sob, he lets their heat wash over him. Thank you, he thinks.
------
It's just something they slide into, without question, after. After, when Sam feels broken and Dean looks tired, half way to dead. He knows it's his fault, all of it, but Sam can't let Dean go, now; he's gotten too used to having his brother's body wrapped around him. The only time he can't sleep, when the heat and otherness of the hounds creep into him, is when Dean stays to his side of the bed. And Sam can't. He can't forget, or ignore it, so he drags his brother back, grabs his hands and presses them into his own skin, says, "please" until Dean's using his own weight to send shivers of pressure through Sam.
It's only a step to left: Dean pushing at him, biting and licking until Sam can feel the swollen skin of his lips, until he can feel the rough fabric of a motel comforter against his lower back where his t-shirt's riding up. He gets his own hands on Dean, pressing and clawing (because he wants to see blood, feel it, under his fingernails, deep red half moons when he goes to shower) when he gets Dean's shirt up and off, when he bends his head and bites into flesh above Dean's heart, watches for a second as blood rushes to the surface, before Dean's growling and pulling at Sam's own clothes ("get these fuckin things off") and then he's naked, and Dean's naked, and it's heated flesh against flesh and he shudders with it, momentarily unsure, before he's off again, feeling everything like matchsticks under his skin, flaring and dying all along his nerves.
He thinks that Dean's looking for something that isn't in Sam's words, or in the way Sam stays at Dean's back when they're working. Something else, and Sam can feel the question when Dean's muscles bunch and clench, tremble under his hands, where they press into Sam's ribs, his hips. Whatever Dean's asking he doesn't think he can answer it, at least not and satisfy Dean, so he just fights the urge that says he's stronger, taller, has more reach, when Dean's settling over him. He thinks okay and spreads his legs, lets his brother rest against him.
Some kind of noise escapes him, high pitched and surprised - keening, he thinks, fucking keening. Dean's caught it, Sam can feel his smirk pressed against him, but Dean's still moving, body sliding against him, friction and burn and he suddenly doesn't care what he sounds like. All he cares about is white hot pain that makes his dick jump, muscles tighten and jerk. Fuck fuck fuck, he thinks. He feels his fingers bite into skin and he can feel Dean's mouth moving, whispering, breathing over him as he comes.
"Sammy," Dean hisses, moving and rutting against him. "Sammy." Something in there is a question, and it gets Sam to open his mouth, but he can't find the answer.