(Fic for Sharp_teeth) Finally Alive (NC-17)
Every night...every *day* that Dean had been back from Hell had been a struggle. He knew that Sam was watching him, and Sam had given up trying to get him to discuss what it was like. Thank god, because Dean had been starting to struggle with finding that perfect line to tread between giving Sam enough truth that he wouldn't pry, but still steering as far away from the truth as possible.
He'd only been out a month, and already he felt like he was losing it, and even though Sam had shut up, Dean knew that he wasn't oblivious to the threads holding Dean together pulling away. Half of the time when he jolted awake in the middle of the night, Sam would be sitting at the desk with the glow of the laptop lighting his face. Half of those times, there would be a sudden click of the phone and a very bad attempt at a lie that Sam was 'just ordering pizza' or 'Ellen needed help on a case'.
The longer Dean was out of Hell, the longer Sam seemed to stay up online and on the phone, and the more wary he seemed t be of Dean. Or maybe he was just picking up on how Dean was trying to distance himself from everyone, including Sam. Each nightmare was like reliving a portion of his time down under, and each moment got harder and harder to pretend that he wasn't craving blood.
Not just blood from the torture he had finally given in and done, but blood on meat. His nightmares wouldn't let him forget the way his limbs were hooked on chains, suspending him, tearing his flesh. Wouldn't let him forget the sadistic smile of his tormentor-of-the-day as they flashed the silver of a knife and slowly dragged it through his skin, twisting and carving until deep lines decorated his skin. Every time they stopped cutting lines, Dean dared to let himself hope that would be the end. Maybe...just maybe this time the knife wouldn't slide under the skin horizontally to lift the skin from the muscle, cutting the tendons with a sickening snap.
His stomach would lurch when the knife would be brought over his face and he could feel the burning of his blood when it hit his skin, the scent of it tickling his nostrils and how his jaw would tremble when his own flesh was pressed past his lips. Dean wished he could say that it was sickening, that the lurch of his stomach was because he wanted to throw up from the disgusting nature of what was happening...but he couldn't lie to himself. After three decades, all Dean wanted to devour was his own flesh. It had been a horrible fascination of his to watch the rapid regrowth of his skin, eagerly waiting for a patch of skin to be healed enough that he could eat again.
When he’d been offered the chance to come off the rack, he hadn’t been told he needed to torture the new souls. That would be one lie he’d stick to for as long as humanly possible (and that worried Dean because he was feeling less and less human despite being topside). No, he’ been offered to be the new welcoming committee, and he’d jumped at the idea of being able to teach the newcomers the source of food that they held within themselves, how delicious it could be, and he didn’t give up until they realized just how delicious it was. Just how savoury it was to have the thick chunks of meat to chew on, to slice your canine teeth through like they were meant to, and having the little surprising bursts of blood that would be released.
When he’d risen, those thoughts had been gone. He’d been happy to breathe air, to walk instead of merely be moving. After the first night, he thought he’d been free, that it truly had been just something he’d left behind like the soil had filtered that evil from him when he climbed out. The second night crushed that hope when he’d dreamed about standing over that cute jogger in the pale blue yoga pants and black halter top he’d seen bending over the water fountain to get a drink earlier that day. In his dream, he’d dragged the knife along her skin, peeled a perfect piece free and held it to her screaming lips while his free hand held her wrists against the fountain. He hadn’t been able to convince her, or force it, so he’d shrugged and walked away, popping her skin into his mouth like a piece of beef jerky. Waste not. He’d never actually tasted anyone’s skin other than his own, but in this nightmare....no, this dream...it had been even better than his own flesh. The blood was fresher, had an extra zing.
Since that second night since Cas raised him...he hadn’t had a night where he hadn’t happily carved someone to edible ribbons in his sleep, enjoying each piece. It always centered around someone he’d seen that day...and since more often than not, the person he saw the most was his brother...Sam had quickly become the focus of his sadistic dreams. It was bad enough that Dean dreamt about ripping skin from Sam and eating it as if it was spaghetti pieces...but when Dean moved alongside Sam in a hunt, caught a glimpse of a gash in Sam’s arm, or even just the blood splattered on his face...Dean broke into a cold sweat. He had stopped offering to stitch Sam up after the first few times and he’d almost lost it.
So now that Sam was sitting there in the motel room, his shirt off and a towel discarded on the bed, soaked with blood freshly cleaned from his back. Dean couldn’t avoid helping Sam on this one, there was no way Sam could stitch his back up himself. So now Dean sat behind Sam on the bed, needle and thread in his hands, a second fresh towel by his side to wipe any other blood away. His hands were shaking, and Sam was pressing him to get on with it, that Dean wouldn’t hurt him-that they’d done this time and time again.
Dean’s heart pounded against his chest, and the smell of his brother’s blood seemed to be scratching at his nose in desperation for recognition. Straining to keep his hands steady and his vision clear, Dean methodically worked the needle into Sam’s skin and back out, carefully weaving the thread so the wound was pulled back together once it was tied off.
That was where Dean made his worst mistake in just under a year. He hesitated before putting the needle down on the soiled towel, and then brought it to his lips and licked the blood off. His mind shut down, he could almost feel the heat of hell scorching his skin again and his vision all but went blind. Darkness fell over everything and in an instant, Dean had ripped the stitching mercilessly from his brother’s back and shoved Sam forward onto the bed, one hand planted firmly on the base of his neck to hold Sam in place. Sam was saying something, maybe even screaming something, but it was a muted sound as Dean leaned over and pried his tongue into the wound, pressing the edges apart to coax the blood to flow freely again.
An edge of skin tickled his lip and Dean desperately latched his teeth onto it and tossed his head to the side, ripping a large piece of skin free. The fresh blood wafted to the surface and filled his nose, making his head spin. He hazily looked at the body he knew was his brother’s below him, knew his brother was struggling against him, and or once he seemed to have no problem holding him down, keeping him at his mercy even as he dragged his pocket knife from his shirt and swiftly flicking it open. With morbid fascination, Dean traced the sharp blade in designs along Sam’s back, neck and shoulders until Dean was kneeling in a blood soaked bed, hands gripping at the pieces of skin and pulling them, eagerly shoving them into his mouth as his brother now laid still underneath him.
It was the first day since Dean returned from Hell that he truly felt alive again.