Before the One You Serve (Sam/Brady | NC-17)
title: Before the One You Serve
author: monicawoe
recipient: delanach
word-count: ~5,000 words
characters: Sam, Brady, Dean
genre: angst
warnings: blood-drinking, demonic powers, voyeurism
story summary: When Dean comes to get Sam at Stanford, he finds him living with Brady. And Dean doesn't trust Brady, even though he can't quite put his finger on why. Not at first.
Written for the sammessiah Antichristmas 2014 exchange!
for the prompt:
AU from the beginning of the Pilot. Dean finds Sam with Brady, not Jess, when he goes to get him from Stanford. Brady has been drawing out Sam’s darker side and preparing him for his role as the Boy King of Hell, but Sam belonged to Dean first, and Dean wants him back, even if that means accepting his darker side.
***
AO3 link for downloading
The house in Palo Alto that Sam is living in isn't what Dean was expecting. Not even a little. It's bigger, for one, not something a college student on a grant should be able to afford. The lawn is impeccably manicured, and there's a rock garden that follows a curving walkway to a heavy wooden door.
This wasn't the plan. Dean had intended to slip inside while Sam was sleeping, check out his home and then wait for him in the living room. Maybe grab a beer first. It'd be good to see if he was still hunter enough to notice somebody breaking in. But the lights are still on in nearly every room, despite the fact that it's just after midnight on a school night. There's laughter coming from a room to the right. Sam's laugh, and someone else's mixed in with the sound of a television.
Dean frowns at the perfectly trimmed, oval shrubs lining the front of the house and comes to a decision. With a deep inhale, he climbs up the broad stone steps to the door and rings the bell.
There's a soft chime inside, and the lull of conversation in the other room cuts off, television volume muted. The door opens in, revealing a blond man, Dean's height. Maybe an inch taller, if that, and dressed like an an Armani model. Eyebrow cocked, the man asks, "Can I help you?"
"Yeah." Dean sticks his hands in his pockets, thumbing his car keys. "I'm Dean, I'm here to see my brother Sam."
"Oh," the man's lips purse. "He's mentioned you."
Something about the tone of the man's voice gets Dean's hackles up instantly. Even more than the khakis and pale yellow polo shirt "And you are?"
"Tyson Brady," Preppy boy says, holding out his hand. "My friends call me Brady."
"Okay, Tyson," Dean says, taking a step forward. "You gonna invite me in, or do I-"
"Dean?" Sam's voice is close. The door opens further and Brady steps back to let Dean in.
Sam looks taller. Which doesn't make any sense. Kid's already twenty-two. He can't still be growing.
"Dean, what are you doing here?" Sam asks, before reaching out to pull Dean in for a rib crushing hug.
From the feel of him, Sam's switched out his regular exercise routine for something involving a lot more time in the weight-room; his white t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders as he pulls away and grins down at Dean. "Come in."
***
Even the beer is pretentious, Dean thinks, taking another long draw from his bottle. Good though. Dammit.
"…and I said, you have to follow your heart, you know?" Brady says. "Listen to your dreams." He leans back against Sam, who folds his arm around him, fingers draping down over the blond man's shoulder.
"So school's going well, then?" Dean asks.
"Really well," Sam says, smiling wide. "Got a 174 on the LSATs."
Dean blinks at him. "That's good?"
"That's fucking amazing," Brady says, clasping Sam's thigh. "He's gonna get his pick of any law school he wants."
Sam chuckles, taking a sip of his own beer. His cheeks are flushed and he looks content. Relaxed and hopeful.
Dean doesn't know why he can't just be happy for Sam. He should be. "You still want to be a lawyer, huh?"
"Yeah," Sam says, nodding. "I mean, pre-law wasn't easy, but I-I don't know, I'm good at it. It feels right."
Nothing about this feels right, Dean thinks bitterly. "Not to me."
Brady's brow furrows, and Sam's smile fades.
"Sorry," Dean says, glaring down at their plush white carpet. How the hell do you keep white carpeting that clean? Freaky.
"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks, voice considerably cooler.
Dean glances at Sam's boyfriend, who's glaring daggers at him. Snooty little expensive-cologne scented daggers. "It's private-family business."
Brady's mouth thins into a tight line but he pushes up from the couch.
"No," Sam says. "Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of him."
Brady sits back down slowly, eyes locked on Dean like he's some kind of threat. He is, of course, but not to Sam.
"Okay." Dean takes a breath. That's how you want to play this, fine. "Um. Dad hasn't been home in a few days."
Sam's expression stays flat, like his voice. "So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later."
Dean's molars grind together. "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days."
"Your dad's a hunter?" Brady asks, eyebrows raised. "What's he hunting?" There's an unmistakable touch of condescension there.
Sam either doesn't notice the tone in Brady's voice, or he doesn't care.
"Something big," Dean says, eyes focused on Sam.
"Like a stag?" Brady asks, snorting.
"Quiet," Sam says. There's no emotion in the inflection, just the word, but Brady's mouth snaps shut instantly.
"Just come outside with me, Sam." Dean stands and sets his empty bottle down on the glass coffee table. "Five minutes."
Sam's eyes stay fixed on Dean as he blinks once, deliberately. "No."
Dean's fingers curl into a fist. Come on, man. You owe me that much.
With a quiet sigh, Brady stands and collects the empty beer bottles. He saunters out of the room, through the saloon-style doors, into the kitchen, glass clinking against glass.
Sam doesn't say a word, watching Dean with that same unmoved expression.
At least three different arguments for why Sam needs to get off his damn high horse war in Dean's brain. Finally he settles on the most succinct one. "Really?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks, though it doesn't sound like he's particularly interested in the answer.
"This? This is more important than your family?"
With a huff, Sam averts his eyes. "I never said that."
"You don't have to." Dean cracks his knuckles. "Listen, here's the deal: I need your help. Dad needs our help. I can't do this without you."
"Yes, you can," Sam says, meeting Dean's gaze again. "You have to."
"Why?" Dean asks incredulously. "Because your boy-toy here doesn't want you to get your hands dirty?"
"You don't know a damn thing about him." Sam's voice is low and angry.
"Why don't you enlighten me, then?" Dean says. "How'd he get to be more important than Dad? More important than me?"
"Even if I could explain it to you, you wouldn't understand," Sam says.
And that's about all Dean can take. "Yeah? Try me."
Sam sits back against the couch and folds his arms loosely across his chest. "For a long time, all I wanted was to get away from hunting--"
"From us."
Sam arches an eyebrow, and presses on. "I wanted normal."
"You mean boring. Looks like you got your wish."
"But I'm not...normal. I'm never going to be. And Brady, he loves me because of who I am, not in spite of it."
"You told him? What we are? What we do?"
"No, that's not it. It's--I don't have to hide from him."
"And what--you think you have to hide from me and Dad?" Dean asks incredulously. "You think we'd judge you, or something?"
Sam looks away and shakes his head.
Dean moves to the couch and sits down next to Sam. "He's not--" Dean runs his fingers through his hair. "He's not who I thought you'd fall for. He seems a little stuck up, and he smells like a banker, but if he makes you happy..." Dean looks at Sam, waits until he meets his eyes. "Then he's okay in my book."
The relief that spreads across Sam's face is as bright as dawn. "Thanks."
"Doesn't mean you can't help me find Dad though," Dean says.
"I have an interview in two days, an important one. I can't go with you." Sam's eyes soften, and for just a few seconds, he looks like Dean's little brother again. "But show me what you've got. Maybe I can help you pin him down."
***
Dad's journal is in the passenger seat. Sam should be sitting there, but he isn't. He'd helped Dean figure out where to start looking for Dad, and sent him on his way with and apology and a clap on the shoulder.
In Jericho, Dean finds Dad's journal along with some coordinates he knows are intended for him. He calls Sam after taking down a wendigo in Colorado, and again after Lake Manitoc.
But the passenger seat is still empty, and Dean finds himself driving back to Palo Alto, without even really planning on it. Logically it's the best course of action. He's hit a dead end searching for Dad, and despite voicemails that are growing embarrassingly desperate, Dad hasn't seen it fit to put Dean out of his misery and tell him where he is.
The few breadcrumbs Dad had left behind weren't all that helpful either. Except for one of them--one of them had been damn interesting. A possessed pilot in Nazareth, a stewardess who survived a plane crash and another possessed pilot Dean had cornered in the airport bathroom just before his targeted plane boarded. Dean had stumbled through a barely-memorized exorcism, as the demon spat curses at him, but one thing he'd said had stuck with him more than anything else. "Do you know what Sam is? Do you know who he is? "
Demons get into people's heads. It'd been one of the first things Dean had found in the lore. They look into your thoughts, pull out whatever will throw you off kilter, and use that to break you. It wasn't a stretch to think that this demon had seen Dean's worries about Sam and voiced them, but something about the fervor in that demon's voice had made its words feel like more than just a taunt.
"I know who he is," Dean mutters to himself as he slows the Impala to a crawl and parks on the street, opposite of Sam's house. Sam and Brady's house. "He's my brother." The air feels chilled enough that Dean expects to see it curl white as he exhales, but the air is too heavy and wet.
He crosses the street and turns just before Sam's house, walking the outermost perimeter of their property, one foot on the neighbors' lawn. Keeping an ear open for guard dogs or motion detecting cameras, Dean makes his way around the outside of the house, peering through brightly windows into empty rooms, until he finds the bedroom, hears Sam's voice.
Thick, tall hedge trees line the side of the house, with a gap where the window is. Dean walks closely behind the hedge trees and stands at just the right angle to get a glance inside the bedroom, where Sam and Brady are writhing against each other on the bed. I shouldn't watch this, Dean thinks, but his feet are rooted to the ground and his mouth feels dry.
Sam slides his arm under Brady's waist, long fingers spread wide, and lifts him clean off the bed and up into his lap. His back muscles shift, flexing obscenely as he sits back on his knees, loops his arm under Brady's and lifts him up and down.
Each thrust from Sam brings a louder moan from Brady, and he cries out, "Please!" And Dean doesn't have a clue if he means Please stop, or please don't ever stop, and he just. can't. stop watching.
A growl low enough to be a wolf's comes from Sam and he slams Brady down hard before reaching his left arm straight out to his side, palm spread open towards the empty air. From the other side of the room, something slim and silver flies through the air and straight into Sam's waiting fingers. He lowers Brady just enough to turn him slightly, facing him towards the window.
Sammy? Dean's confusion makes his breath catch as he tries to process what he's seeing. And then Sam flicks open the sleek razor and slides it neatly across the side of Brady's throat.
But Brady's moans just grow louder and he reaches up, grabs the back of Sam's head, pushing it down until Sam's mouth is closed around that gushing wound.
The sharp points of the shrub-leaves dig into Dean's fingers as he pushes them apart another inch, shoving his thigh between branches until he can get his face closer to the window. He's not worried about Sam seeing him anymore. His brother's eyes are closed, and by the way he's latched onto Brady's throat, it looks like he might never let go. Dean slides in between the two trees until he's pressed tightly against the wall of the house, head angled so he can see inside.
Sam drops the reddened razor and it bounces lightly on the mattress, glinting in the lamplight. Brady turns, lays on his back as Sam pulls him up by the hips, faster and faster until he stills and cries out; Sam's mouth is wide open, teeth stained red, and his pitch-black eyes mirror Brady's own.
The gears all click into place one horrifying groove at a time and before Dean can think it through, he's crashed through the window, gun drawn. "What are you?" he shouts.
The thing pretending to be Sam doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. It just brings a finger to its lips in a shushing motion.
***
"...but this is the only way," Sam's voice says.
Dean's head is filled with cement, and his eyelids refuse to cooperate, heavy as lead. When he finally gets them open, he sees cream white carpeting. Curling his fingers into the plush fabric, he pushes himself up until he's sitting. His head's spinning like went ten rounds with a barrel of whiskey.
Across from Dean are a pair of long legs, clad in denim. Sam's sitting on the leather couch, looking down at him with that familiar puppy-dog face Dean remembers. Sam's shirt is heather grey, there's not a trace of blood on him, and his eyes are hazel-green. Not black.
Dean's back stiffens at the memory. "What are you?" He asks, and it comes out a growl.
The Sam-shaped-thing sighs. "I'm your brother."
"No, my brother can't move things with his brain. And my brother's not a --"
"A what? A vampire?" The shapeshifter--or whatever it is-- says. "I'm not."
"You were drinking from his throat! I saw you!"
"I asked him to," says a quiet voice from behind Sam. Brady steps into the room. He's dressed again, but even though the collar of his polo shirt is open, there's no trace of the razor-wound on his neck.
"Why? I mean I've got nothing against kinky, but--"
"Your brother, he's special," Brady says, tracing his hand over Sam's shoulder as he walks past. He keeps walking until he's standing right next to Dean, and then drops into a low crouch, so he's nearly eye level. "More special than you can possibly imagine. I'm giving him what he needs to be ready."
"Ready?" Dean asks. He's not buying a word of whatever story these two monsters are trying to sell him, but it's smarter to bide his time, learn what he can. At least until he figures out what they are. And how to kill them. "Ready for what?"
"For what's coming," Sam says. He folds his hands together across his lap. "I know this is...difficult to understand, but I need you to trust me."
Dean nods, and looks down at the soft carpet, shifting his weight like he's thinking about standing. Brady's legs straighten, and Dean reaches up into the inside sheath of his jacket, pulls out his hidden knife, and brings it up in a tight arc as he stands, slicing into Brady's torso, nice and deep. It's silver, and if this thing's a shifter or any of at least ten other monster-varieties, the blade won't just hurt as it opens him up, it'll kill him.
There's no scream, or bubbling skin, Brady just gasps and clutches at his chest and stomach as blood trickles out of the wound. There should be more, with a knife like that, a cut that deep.
Brady sinks to his knees, drops from the wound dripping sluggishly onto the white carpet, leaving cherry red polka dots. He tries to speak but it comes out a moan, and then falls on his side, looking up at Dean with shock. He pants for a few more seconds, pathetically, and then falls completely still, blue eyes frozen open.
Sam hasn't moved from his spot on the couch, but he turns his head to Brady. "I need him," he says softly. There's no anger there, just sorrow. And the raw truth of that one sentence, more than anything, convinces Dean that this really is his brother.
"Too late," Dean says, and if there's an edge of hysteria in his voice, he doesn't really care. "Come with me."
"No." Sam says. He seems far too undisturbed by the death of his--whatever Brady was to him. Was being the operative word.
"Why not?" Dean asks, voice tight. Sam's calm is getting under his skin. If he'd wanted to stop Dean from killing Brady he could have. He would've at least tried.
"Did you ever wonder what was on that page Dad tore out of his journal?" Sam asks.
The question catches Dean by surprise. "What?"
"It's gone now, but I saw it before he burned it. He kept it in a cigar box with Mom's ring. I found it in his bag that night you two were out hunting the selkies in Michigan." He sat up, leaning his elbows against his knees, chin resting against his knuckles. "Want to know what was on that page?"
Dean doesn't answer. He can't. His voice is caught in his throat and there's a part of his brain that's screaming at him to cover his ears, to not listen.
"It was a list of all the reasons he should kill me."
"No. That's not true," the words spill out of Dean. "Dad wouldn't--"
"And on the other side, one reason not to. Just one." Sam's mouth curves into a sad smile. "Dean."
"You're lying." Dean says. Unsteady on his feet. "Something's all twisted up in your head, and--"
"No, it isn't. I know what I am, what I'm..." Sam chews on his lips as his words trail off and he stands. There's a bitter little laugh. "You ever wonder why he told me not to come back?"
"Because he's got a shitty temper, and so do you!" Dean snaps.
"This is why," Sam says, placing two fingers on Dean's forehead.
The leather couch and pale carpet tunnel inwards and Dean's mind fills with a flood of images--so many, so quickly that he can barely process them all:
His father's in the hospital and his smile is frightened and sad and he says, "Promise me," and Dean thinks, No. Not Sam. You can't mean that.
His father's back arches and doctors surround him and a voice says, "Time of Death," and Dean thinks, "I shouldn't even be here. It should've been me." There's a windmill in a town that looks like it's been empty for centuries and Sam's limping towards Dean. Sam collapses in Dean's arms, and there's blood pouring out of a wound in his back and Dean's hands are red and Sam's not moving. He's not moving. Sam is crying, and there's a clock inching close to midnight and dogs are growling. Dean's legs and chest explode in pain as claws and teeth dig into him, tearing him into strips and he's torn down down down and he's strung up like a fly in a web made of metal and fire and everything hurts. He calls Sam's name, because it's why he's here and he's glad to be here if only Sam-- But Sam's not here. And Dean is pulled apart and put back together again and again until he can't find a cell of his that hasn't been reassembled, and every day a voice like a dragon's asks if he's ready and every day he says no until one day he says yes because he just can't. Can't. And it feels so good to not be in pieces, to be the one that cuts and not the meat and the screams of the souls under his blade are like music. He feels red and he starts to forget why he's here but sometimes he remembers. Why. Sam. Sam's alive and so is Dean and Sam is cold and not how Dean remembers and there's blood on his teeth. Sam wields power from his palm like a scythe, unholiness spilling out of him and he's not human, he can't be. There's a hollow pit inside of Dean and Sam's eyes are just as empty and a pillar of light bursts free from the earth. "Sammy, what did you do?" "I stopped it. I stopped it, didn't I?" But he didn't stop it, he couldn't stop it because Dean's the one that started it and everyone breaks. They break too, go their separate ways and Dean wakes up and the sky is ash and the ground is blood and Sam is dressed in white, his lips are rose-red slick and his smile belongs to a stranger.
The white carpet stutters back into view and Dean's fingers are digging into the soft fibers. There's a dead thing where his heart should be, but it squirms to life when he looks back up at Sam--Sam whose eyes are the color of sunflowers. A thin ring of fire hovers over Sam's head. A halo. A crown.
"Dad's right to be scared of me." Sam says. He keeps his eyes on Dean for a few heavy seconds, blinks and looks over at Brady's prone form. "Get up."
The dead man takes a deep, gasping breath and raises his head, turning instantly to Sam, like a plant to the sun. Black eyes unblinking, he pushes himself to standing and waits.
"What did you do?" Dean asks, as he stumbles back a step. "What is he?"
Sam gestures with his hand, a half-hearted wave. Brady moves a step closer to the couch and falls to his knees by Sam's feet, head bowed. "He's loyal."
Ugly jealousy pools in Dean's gut. "And I'm not?"
"No one can truly serve two masters," Sam says, lips curling slightly as he cards his long fingers through Brady's hair. "Go back to Dad. He needs help with something important. He can't do it without you." There's another layer under those words, strong enough that Dean feels them carving into mind. Find the key. "Dad needs your help."
"No. Sam, I--"
"Go."
***
Weeks later Dean finds himself heading back to Palo Alto. He's still not sure why he'd left in the first place. Sam had been insistent, that was it, and it had seemed like a good idea to go help Dad, but Dad still didn't want to be found.
Dad's journal is lying in the passenger seat along with a weapon that shouldn't exist.
Dean parks in Sam's driveway this time, no reason to hesitate or hide. He walks right to the door. Brady smiles wide when he sees Dean and steps back to let him in. The Colt fires nice and smooth, bullet piercing Brady's skull cleanly. The demon's body flickers with orange lightning, skull flashing through skin as it's extinguished.
Sam rounds the corner, horror in his eyes and falls to his knees beside Brady, cradling his head in his hands.
There's a deafening crack as Dean is hurtled against the wall so hard his vision shorts out. Just for a second. He stays there, feet dangling a good foot above the floor as Sam leans over Brady, shoulders quivering. The Colt lies a few feet away from Dean, the handle's a slightly more muted brown than the polished wood of the foyer.
When Sam raises his head again, his eyes are pale yellow. He moves his mouth as though to speak, but stops himself, biting down on his lip, pure fury distorting his features into something inhuman. There's a burning ring above Sam's head, ochre-white flames that match his eyes. He digs his fingers into Brady's corpse, leans down and kisses him on the forehead. Fire spills out of Sam's mouth, running liquid over Brady's face and body, incinerating hair and flesh and bone in seconds.
No Earthly fire burns like this, fast, clean and all-consuming, but it's a pyre nonetheless, and Dean waits until the flames have died before he speaks.
Or tries to.
He doesn't get much further than "Sam--" before pressure clamps down on his throat, cutting off not just his voice, but his air.
Sam rises, fingers coated in ash and walks towards Dean. There are wet streaks running down his cheeks and a terrible heat spilling off of him. "Why?" Sam asks, his breath glowing like embers. Dean feels like he's standing too close to a bonfire.
Dean tries to answer but can't. The pressure around his throat cuts off and Dean spits out, "Because he's not what you need."
"He was exactly what I needed. And you-" Sam clenches his eyes shut, turns away from Dean and exhales slow, steam billowing out of his mouth. "You took him from me." As Sam turns away from Dean, his power lets go.
Dean falls, head thudding against the wall as he lands heavily on his hip.
Sam crosses the floor, stops short of where Dean dropped the Colt, bare toes nearly grazing its handle. "But I guess there had to be a sacrifice." He holds his hand out and the antique gun flies obediently into his grasp. "Like we haven't had enough of those."
"That wasn't easy to get," Dean says. His anger is still strangely muted from Brady's death. He considers telling Sam about the vampires, about how close he came to dying--how if somebody hadn't come to his help, setting the barn the fangs were holed up in on fire, he wouldn't even be here right now.
"I'm sorry about that," Sam says. It sounds earnest, at least. "This gun is important. More than you know. Thank you for getting it for me."
"I didn't get it for you," Dean says. "I just wanted Brady dead."
There's an empty smile from Sam--more pity than anything else. "You did exactly what I asked you to."
"Find the key. The memory of Sam's voice echoes in Dean's head. "Bring it to me, not Dad. Choose who you serve."
"You brought me the key." Sam tilts the gun slightly so the metal catches the light of the chandelier above. "Now, we can really change things." He tucks the gun into the back of his pants and steps closer to Dean. "Now I don't have to die, and neither do you." He holds his hand down to Dean, wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist and pulls him to his feet.
Dean looks up at his brother and sees that crown again, white and yellow light with flames curving up around the edges like thorns. "And Dad?" Dean asks. "I saw him die. You showed me."
Sam's eyes pale until they match his warped halo, and when he speaks his voice holds barely banked fury. "Who do you serve?"
There's no compulsion in the question. It's just a question. But it's one that can change everything. Dean feels himself teetering on the brink, he can step back and run away and if he does that right now, he knows Sam won't stop him. He can go back to Dad, he can tell him everything and try to save Sam from this twisted version of himself. And if they can't save him then they can take the Colt back or find another weapon that can--
He can stop this. But he won't.
"Who do you serve?" Sam asks again, more quietly.
Dean thinks of Dad and Mom, thinks of Sam and the scorch marks on the floor. Outside is a deep shade of orange, the sunset tinting the sky. The world looks like it's burning, and for a moment Dean can see the future--Sam's future. Streaks of black angry clouds race through the air, howling rage and hunger. There's an inevitability to it. A certainty that this is what the world should be. This is what it deserves.
It needs to bleed, Dean. It needs to be red. Do you remember what that was like? How pure it felt, how right? Do you remember what I showed you?
"Yes," Dean says, voice barely a whisper. The sky is thick with clouds and the clouds are heavy with sin. He sees himself standing next to Sam, knee deep in corpses. Sam's untouched, radiant in a world gone grey and Dean stands by his side with a wicked blade in hand made of bone and teeth.
"Who do you serve, Dean?"
Dean falls to his knees, and bows his head. It's not submission, it's fealty. "You," he says, "I serve you."
author: monicawoe
recipient: delanach
word-count: ~5,000 words
characters: Sam, Brady, Dean
genre: angst
warnings: blood-drinking, demonic powers, voyeurism
story summary: When Dean comes to get Sam at Stanford, he finds him living with Brady. And Dean doesn't trust Brady, even though he can't quite put his finger on why. Not at first.
Written for the sammessiah Antichristmas 2014 exchange!
for the prompt:
AU from the beginning of the Pilot. Dean finds Sam with Brady, not Jess, when he goes to get him from Stanford. Brady has been drawing out Sam’s darker side and preparing him for his role as the Boy King of Hell, but Sam belonged to Dean first, and Dean wants him back, even if that means accepting his darker side.
***
AO3 link for downloading
The house in Palo Alto that Sam is living in isn't what Dean was expecting. Not even a little. It's bigger, for one, not something a college student on a grant should be able to afford. The lawn is impeccably manicured, and there's a rock garden that follows a curving walkway to a heavy wooden door.
This wasn't the plan. Dean had intended to slip inside while Sam was sleeping, check out his home and then wait for him in the living room. Maybe grab a beer first. It'd be good to see if he was still hunter enough to notice somebody breaking in. But the lights are still on in nearly every room, despite the fact that it's just after midnight on a school night. There's laughter coming from a room to the right. Sam's laugh, and someone else's mixed in with the sound of a television.
Dean frowns at the perfectly trimmed, oval shrubs lining the front of the house and comes to a decision. With a deep inhale, he climbs up the broad stone steps to the door and rings the bell.
There's a soft chime inside, and the lull of conversation in the other room cuts off, television volume muted. The door opens in, revealing a blond man, Dean's height. Maybe an inch taller, if that, and dressed like an an Armani model. Eyebrow cocked, the man asks, "Can I help you?"
"Yeah." Dean sticks his hands in his pockets, thumbing his car keys. "I'm Dean, I'm here to see my brother Sam."
"Oh," the man's lips purse. "He's mentioned you."
Something about the tone of the man's voice gets Dean's hackles up instantly. Even more than the khakis and pale yellow polo shirt "And you are?"
"Tyson Brady," Preppy boy says, holding out his hand. "My friends call me Brady."
"Okay, Tyson," Dean says, taking a step forward. "You gonna invite me in, or do I-"
"Dean?" Sam's voice is close. The door opens further and Brady steps back to let Dean in.
Sam looks taller. Which doesn't make any sense. Kid's already twenty-two. He can't still be growing.
"Dean, what are you doing here?" Sam asks, before reaching out to pull Dean in for a rib crushing hug.
From the feel of him, Sam's switched out his regular exercise routine for something involving a lot more time in the weight-room; his white t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders as he pulls away and grins down at Dean. "Come in."
***
Even the beer is pretentious, Dean thinks, taking another long draw from his bottle. Good though. Dammit.
"…and I said, you have to follow your heart, you know?" Brady says. "Listen to your dreams." He leans back against Sam, who folds his arm around him, fingers draping down over the blond man's shoulder.
"So school's going well, then?" Dean asks.
"Really well," Sam says, smiling wide. "Got a 174 on the LSATs."
Dean blinks at him. "That's good?"
"That's fucking amazing," Brady says, clasping Sam's thigh. "He's gonna get his pick of any law school he wants."
Sam chuckles, taking a sip of his own beer. His cheeks are flushed and he looks content. Relaxed and hopeful.
Dean doesn't know why he can't just be happy for Sam. He should be. "You still want to be a lawyer, huh?"
"Yeah," Sam says, nodding. "I mean, pre-law wasn't easy, but I-I don't know, I'm good at it. It feels right."
Nothing about this feels right, Dean thinks bitterly. "Not to me."
Brady's brow furrows, and Sam's smile fades.
"Sorry," Dean says, glaring down at their plush white carpet. How the hell do you keep white carpeting that clean? Freaky.
"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks, voice considerably cooler.
Dean glances at Sam's boyfriend, who's glaring daggers at him. Snooty little expensive-cologne scented daggers. "It's private-family business."
Brady's mouth thins into a tight line but he pushes up from the couch.
"No," Sam says. "Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of him."
Brady sits back down slowly, eyes locked on Dean like he's some kind of threat. He is, of course, but not to Sam.
"Okay." Dean takes a breath. That's how you want to play this, fine. "Um. Dad hasn't been home in a few days."
Sam's expression stays flat, like his voice. "So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later."
Dean's molars grind together. "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days."
"Your dad's a hunter?" Brady asks, eyebrows raised. "What's he hunting?" There's an unmistakable touch of condescension there.
Sam either doesn't notice the tone in Brady's voice, or he doesn't care.
"Something big," Dean says, eyes focused on Sam.
"Like a stag?" Brady asks, snorting.
"Quiet," Sam says. There's no emotion in the inflection, just the word, but Brady's mouth snaps shut instantly.
"Just come outside with me, Sam." Dean stands and sets his empty bottle down on the glass coffee table. "Five minutes."
Sam's eyes stay fixed on Dean as he blinks once, deliberately. "No."
Dean's fingers curl into a fist. Come on, man. You owe me that much.
With a quiet sigh, Brady stands and collects the empty beer bottles. He saunters out of the room, through the saloon-style doors, into the kitchen, glass clinking against glass.
Sam doesn't say a word, watching Dean with that same unmoved expression.
At least three different arguments for why Sam needs to get off his damn high horse war in Dean's brain. Finally he settles on the most succinct one. "Really?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks, though it doesn't sound like he's particularly interested in the answer.
"This? This is more important than your family?"
With a huff, Sam averts his eyes. "I never said that."
"You don't have to." Dean cracks his knuckles. "Listen, here's the deal: I need your help. Dad needs our help. I can't do this without you."
"Yes, you can," Sam says, meeting Dean's gaze again. "You have to."
"Why?" Dean asks incredulously. "Because your boy-toy here doesn't want you to get your hands dirty?"
"You don't know a damn thing about him." Sam's voice is low and angry.
"Why don't you enlighten me, then?" Dean says. "How'd he get to be more important than Dad? More important than me?"
"Even if I could explain it to you, you wouldn't understand," Sam says.
And that's about all Dean can take. "Yeah? Try me."
Sam sits back against the couch and folds his arms loosely across his chest. "For a long time, all I wanted was to get away from hunting--"
"From us."
Sam arches an eyebrow, and presses on. "I wanted normal."
"You mean boring. Looks like you got your wish."
"But I'm not...normal. I'm never going to be. And Brady, he loves me because of who I am, not in spite of it."
"You told him? What we are? What we do?"
"No, that's not it. It's--I don't have to hide from him."
"And what--you think you have to hide from me and Dad?" Dean asks incredulously. "You think we'd judge you, or something?"
Sam looks away and shakes his head.
Dean moves to the couch and sits down next to Sam. "He's not--" Dean runs his fingers through his hair. "He's not who I thought you'd fall for. He seems a little stuck up, and he smells like a banker, but if he makes you happy..." Dean looks at Sam, waits until he meets his eyes. "Then he's okay in my book."
The relief that spreads across Sam's face is as bright as dawn. "Thanks."
"Doesn't mean you can't help me find Dad though," Dean says.
"I have an interview in two days, an important one. I can't go with you." Sam's eyes soften, and for just a few seconds, he looks like Dean's little brother again. "But show me what you've got. Maybe I can help you pin him down."
***
Dad's journal is in the passenger seat. Sam should be sitting there, but he isn't. He'd helped Dean figure out where to start looking for Dad, and sent him on his way with and apology and a clap on the shoulder.
In Jericho, Dean finds Dad's journal along with some coordinates he knows are intended for him. He calls Sam after taking down a wendigo in Colorado, and again after Lake Manitoc.
But the passenger seat is still empty, and Dean finds himself driving back to Palo Alto, without even really planning on it. Logically it's the best course of action. He's hit a dead end searching for Dad, and despite voicemails that are growing embarrassingly desperate, Dad hasn't seen it fit to put Dean out of his misery and tell him where he is.
The few breadcrumbs Dad had left behind weren't all that helpful either. Except for one of them--one of them had been damn interesting. A possessed pilot in Nazareth, a stewardess who survived a plane crash and another possessed pilot Dean had cornered in the airport bathroom just before his targeted plane boarded. Dean had stumbled through a barely-memorized exorcism, as the demon spat curses at him, but one thing he'd said had stuck with him more than anything else. "Do you know what Sam is? Do you know who he is? "
Demons get into people's heads. It'd been one of the first things Dean had found in the lore. They look into your thoughts, pull out whatever will throw you off kilter, and use that to break you. It wasn't a stretch to think that this demon had seen Dean's worries about Sam and voiced them, but something about the fervor in that demon's voice had made its words feel like more than just a taunt.
"I know who he is," Dean mutters to himself as he slows the Impala to a crawl and parks on the street, opposite of Sam's house. Sam and Brady's house. "He's my brother." The air feels chilled enough that Dean expects to see it curl white as he exhales, but the air is too heavy and wet.
He crosses the street and turns just before Sam's house, walking the outermost perimeter of their property, one foot on the neighbors' lawn. Keeping an ear open for guard dogs or motion detecting cameras, Dean makes his way around the outside of the house, peering through brightly windows into empty rooms, until he finds the bedroom, hears Sam's voice.
Thick, tall hedge trees line the side of the house, with a gap where the window is. Dean walks closely behind the hedge trees and stands at just the right angle to get a glance inside the bedroom, where Sam and Brady are writhing against each other on the bed. I shouldn't watch this, Dean thinks, but his feet are rooted to the ground and his mouth feels dry.
Sam slides his arm under Brady's waist, long fingers spread wide, and lifts him clean off the bed and up into his lap. His back muscles shift, flexing obscenely as he sits back on his knees, loops his arm under Brady's and lifts him up and down.
Each thrust from Sam brings a louder moan from Brady, and he cries out, "Please!" And Dean doesn't have a clue if he means Please stop, or please don't ever stop, and he just. can't. stop watching.
A growl low enough to be a wolf's comes from Sam and he slams Brady down hard before reaching his left arm straight out to his side, palm spread open towards the empty air. From the other side of the room, something slim and silver flies through the air and straight into Sam's waiting fingers. He lowers Brady just enough to turn him slightly, facing him towards the window.
Sammy? Dean's confusion makes his breath catch as he tries to process what he's seeing. And then Sam flicks open the sleek razor and slides it neatly across the side of Brady's throat.
But Brady's moans just grow louder and he reaches up, grabs the back of Sam's head, pushing it down until Sam's mouth is closed around that gushing wound.
The sharp points of the shrub-leaves dig into Dean's fingers as he pushes them apart another inch, shoving his thigh between branches until he can get his face closer to the window. He's not worried about Sam seeing him anymore. His brother's eyes are closed, and by the way he's latched onto Brady's throat, it looks like he might never let go. Dean slides in between the two trees until he's pressed tightly against the wall of the house, head angled so he can see inside.
Sam drops the reddened razor and it bounces lightly on the mattress, glinting in the lamplight. Brady turns, lays on his back as Sam pulls him up by the hips, faster and faster until he stills and cries out; Sam's mouth is wide open, teeth stained red, and his pitch-black eyes mirror Brady's own.
The gears all click into place one horrifying groove at a time and before Dean can think it through, he's crashed through the window, gun drawn. "What are you?" he shouts.
The thing pretending to be Sam doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. It just brings a finger to its lips in a shushing motion.
***
"...but this is the only way," Sam's voice says.
Dean's head is filled with cement, and his eyelids refuse to cooperate, heavy as lead. When he finally gets them open, he sees cream white carpeting. Curling his fingers into the plush fabric, he pushes himself up until he's sitting. His head's spinning like went ten rounds with a barrel of whiskey.
Across from Dean are a pair of long legs, clad in denim. Sam's sitting on the leather couch, looking down at him with that familiar puppy-dog face Dean remembers. Sam's shirt is heather grey, there's not a trace of blood on him, and his eyes are hazel-green. Not black.
Dean's back stiffens at the memory. "What are you?" He asks, and it comes out a growl.
The Sam-shaped-thing sighs. "I'm your brother."
"No, my brother can't move things with his brain. And my brother's not a --"
"A what? A vampire?" The shapeshifter--or whatever it is-- says. "I'm not."
"You were drinking from his throat! I saw you!"
"I asked him to," says a quiet voice from behind Sam. Brady steps into the room. He's dressed again, but even though the collar of his polo shirt is open, there's no trace of the razor-wound on his neck.
"Why? I mean I've got nothing against kinky, but--"
"Your brother, he's special," Brady says, tracing his hand over Sam's shoulder as he walks past. He keeps walking until he's standing right next to Dean, and then drops into a low crouch, so he's nearly eye level. "More special than you can possibly imagine. I'm giving him what he needs to be ready."
"Ready?" Dean asks. He's not buying a word of whatever story these two monsters are trying to sell him, but it's smarter to bide his time, learn what he can. At least until he figures out what they are. And how to kill them. "Ready for what?"
"For what's coming," Sam says. He folds his hands together across his lap. "I know this is...difficult to understand, but I need you to trust me."
Dean nods, and looks down at the soft carpet, shifting his weight like he's thinking about standing. Brady's legs straighten, and Dean reaches up into the inside sheath of his jacket, pulls out his hidden knife, and brings it up in a tight arc as he stands, slicing into Brady's torso, nice and deep. It's silver, and if this thing's a shifter or any of at least ten other monster-varieties, the blade won't just hurt as it opens him up, it'll kill him.
There's no scream, or bubbling skin, Brady just gasps and clutches at his chest and stomach as blood trickles out of the wound. There should be more, with a knife like that, a cut that deep.
Brady sinks to his knees, drops from the wound dripping sluggishly onto the white carpet, leaving cherry red polka dots. He tries to speak but it comes out a moan, and then falls on his side, looking up at Dean with shock. He pants for a few more seconds, pathetically, and then falls completely still, blue eyes frozen open.
Sam hasn't moved from his spot on the couch, but he turns his head to Brady. "I need him," he says softly. There's no anger there, just sorrow. And the raw truth of that one sentence, more than anything, convinces Dean that this really is his brother.
"Too late," Dean says, and if there's an edge of hysteria in his voice, he doesn't really care. "Come with me."
"No." Sam says. He seems far too undisturbed by the death of his--whatever Brady was to him. Was being the operative word.
"Why not?" Dean asks, voice tight. Sam's calm is getting under his skin. If he'd wanted to stop Dean from killing Brady he could have. He would've at least tried.
"Did you ever wonder what was on that page Dad tore out of his journal?" Sam asks.
The question catches Dean by surprise. "What?"
"It's gone now, but I saw it before he burned it. He kept it in a cigar box with Mom's ring. I found it in his bag that night you two were out hunting the selkies in Michigan." He sat up, leaning his elbows against his knees, chin resting against his knuckles. "Want to know what was on that page?"
Dean doesn't answer. He can't. His voice is caught in his throat and there's a part of his brain that's screaming at him to cover his ears, to not listen.
"It was a list of all the reasons he should kill me."
"No. That's not true," the words spill out of Dean. "Dad wouldn't--"
"And on the other side, one reason not to. Just one." Sam's mouth curves into a sad smile. "Dean."
"You're lying." Dean says. Unsteady on his feet. "Something's all twisted up in your head, and--"
"No, it isn't. I know what I am, what I'm..." Sam chews on his lips as his words trail off and he stands. There's a bitter little laugh. "You ever wonder why he told me not to come back?"
"Because he's got a shitty temper, and so do you!" Dean snaps.
"This is why," Sam says, placing two fingers on Dean's forehead.
The leather couch and pale carpet tunnel inwards and Dean's mind fills with a flood of images--so many, so quickly that he can barely process them all:
His father's in the hospital and his smile is frightened and sad and he says, "Promise me," and Dean thinks, No. Not Sam. You can't mean that.
His father's back arches and doctors surround him and a voice says, "Time of Death," and Dean thinks, "I shouldn't even be here. It should've been me." There's a windmill in a town that looks like it's been empty for centuries and Sam's limping towards Dean. Sam collapses in Dean's arms, and there's blood pouring out of a wound in his back and Dean's hands are red and Sam's not moving. He's not moving. Sam is crying, and there's a clock inching close to midnight and dogs are growling. Dean's legs and chest explode in pain as claws and teeth dig into him, tearing him into strips and he's torn down down down and he's strung up like a fly in a web made of metal and fire and everything hurts. He calls Sam's name, because it's why he's here and he's glad to be here if only Sam-- But Sam's not here. And Dean is pulled apart and put back together again and again until he can't find a cell of his that hasn't been reassembled, and every day a voice like a dragon's asks if he's ready and every day he says no until one day he says yes because he just can't. Can't. And it feels so good to not be in pieces, to be the one that cuts and not the meat and the screams of the souls under his blade are like music. He feels red and he starts to forget why he's here but sometimes he remembers. Why. Sam. Sam's alive and so is Dean and Sam is cold and not how Dean remembers and there's blood on his teeth. Sam wields power from his palm like a scythe, unholiness spilling out of him and he's not human, he can't be. There's a hollow pit inside of Dean and Sam's eyes are just as empty and a pillar of light bursts free from the earth. "Sammy, what did you do?" "I stopped it. I stopped it, didn't I?" But he didn't stop it, he couldn't stop it because Dean's the one that started it and everyone breaks. They break too, go their separate ways and Dean wakes up and the sky is ash and the ground is blood and Sam is dressed in white, his lips are rose-red slick and his smile belongs to a stranger.
The white carpet stutters back into view and Dean's fingers are digging into the soft fibers. There's a dead thing where his heart should be, but it squirms to life when he looks back up at Sam--Sam whose eyes are the color of sunflowers. A thin ring of fire hovers over Sam's head. A halo. A crown.
"Dad's right to be scared of me." Sam says. He keeps his eyes on Dean for a few heavy seconds, blinks and looks over at Brady's prone form. "Get up."
The dead man takes a deep, gasping breath and raises his head, turning instantly to Sam, like a plant to the sun. Black eyes unblinking, he pushes himself to standing and waits.
"What did you do?" Dean asks, as he stumbles back a step. "What is he?"
Sam gestures with his hand, a half-hearted wave. Brady moves a step closer to the couch and falls to his knees by Sam's feet, head bowed. "He's loyal."
Ugly jealousy pools in Dean's gut. "And I'm not?"
"No one can truly serve two masters," Sam says, lips curling slightly as he cards his long fingers through Brady's hair. "Go back to Dad. He needs help with something important. He can't do it without you." There's another layer under those words, strong enough that Dean feels them carving into mind. Find the key. "Dad needs your help."
"No. Sam, I--"
"Go."
***
Weeks later Dean finds himself heading back to Palo Alto. He's still not sure why he'd left in the first place. Sam had been insistent, that was it, and it had seemed like a good idea to go help Dad, but Dad still didn't want to be found.
Dad's journal is lying in the passenger seat along with a weapon that shouldn't exist.
Dean parks in Sam's driveway this time, no reason to hesitate or hide. He walks right to the door. Brady smiles wide when he sees Dean and steps back to let him in. The Colt fires nice and smooth, bullet piercing Brady's skull cleanly. The demon's body flickers with orange lightning, skull flashing through skin as it's extinguished.
Sam rounds the corner, horror in his eyes and falls to his knees beside Brady, cradling his head in his hands.
There's a deafening crack as Dean is hurtled against the wall so hard his vision shorts out. Just for a second. He stays there, feet dangling a good foot above the floor as Sam leans over Brady, shoulders quivering. The Colt lies a few feet away from Dean, the handle's a slightly more muted brown than the polished wood of the foyer.
When Sam raises his head again, his eyes are pale yellow. He moves his mouth as though to speak, but stops himself, biting down on his lip, pure fury distorting his features into something inhuman. There's a burning ring above Sam's head, ochre-white flames that match his eyes. He digs his fingers into Brady's corpse, leans down and kisses him on the forehead. Fire spills out of Sam's mouth, running liquid over Brady's face and body, incinerating hair and flesh and bone in seconds.
No Earthly fire burns like this, fast, clean and all-consuming, but it's a pyre nonetheless, and Dean waits until the flames have died before he speaks.
Or tries to.
He doesn't get much further than "Sam--" before pressure clamps down on his throat, cutting off not just his voice, but his air.
Sam rises, fingers coated in ash and walks towards Dean. There are wet streaks running down his cheeks and a terrible heat spilling off of him. "Why?" Sam asks, his breath glowing like embers. Dean feels like he's standing too close to a bonfire.
Dean tries to answer but can't. The pressure around his throat cuts off and Dean spits out, "Because he's not what you need."
"He was exactly what I needed. And you-" Sam clenches his eyes shut, turns away from Dean and exhales slow, steam billowing out of his mouth. "You took him from me." As Sam turns away from Dean, his power lets go.
Dean falls, head thudding against the wall as he lands heavily on his hip.
Sam crosses the floor, stops short of where Dean dropped the Colt, bare toes nearly grazing its handle. "But I guess there had to be a sacrifice." He holds his hand out and the antique gun flies obediently into his grasp. "Like we haven't had enough of those."
"That wasn't easy to get," Dean says. His anger is still strangely muted from Brady's death. He considers telling Sam about the vampires, about how close he came to dying--how if somebody hadn't come to his help, setting the barn the fangs were holed up in on fire, he wouldn't even be here right now.
"I'm sorry about that," Sam says. It sounds earnest, at least. "This gun is important. More than you know. Thank you for getting it for me."
"I didn't get it for you," Dean says. "I just wanted Brady dead."
There's an empty smile from Sam--more pity than anything else. "You did exactly what I asked you to."
"Find the key. The memory of Sam's voice echoes in Dean's head. "Bring it to me, not Dad. Choose who you serve."
"You brought me the key." Sam tilts the gun slightly so the metal catches the light of the chandelier above. "Now, we can really change things." He tucks the gun into the back of his pants and steps closer to Dean. "Now I don't have to die, and neither do you." He holds his hand down to Dean, wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist and pulls him to his feet.
Dean looks up at his brother and sees that crown again, white and yellow light with flames curving up around the edges like thorns. "And Dad?" Dean asks. "I saw him die. You showed me."
Sam's eyes pale until they match his warped halo, and when he speaks his voice holds barely banked fury. "Who do you serve?"
There's no compulsion in the question. It's just a question. But it's one that can change everything. Dean feels himself teetering on the brink, he can step back and run away and if he does that right now, he knows Sam won't stop him. He can go back to Dad, he can tell him everything and try to save Sam from this twisted version of himself. And if they can't save him then they can take the Colt back or find another weapon that can--
He can stop this. But he won't.
"Who do you serve?" Sam asks again, more quietly.
Dean thinks of Dad and Mom, thinks of Sam and the scorch marks on the floor. Outside is a deep shade of orange, the sunset tinting the sky. The world looks like it's burning, and for a moment Dean can see the future--Sam's future. Streaks of black angry clouds race through the air, howling rage and hunger. There's an inevitability to it. A certainty that this is what the world should be. This is what it deserves.
It needs to bleed, Dean. It needs to be red. Do you remember what that was like? How pure it felt, how right? Do you remember what I showed you?
"Yes," Dean says, voice barely a whisper. The sky is thick with clouds and the clouds are heavy with sin. He sees himself standing next to Sam, knee deep in corpses. Sam's untouched, radiant in a world gone grey and Dean stands by his side with a wicked blade in hand made of bone and teeth.
"Who do you serve, Dean?"
Dean falls to his knees, and bows his head. It's not submission, it's fealty. "You," he says, "I serve you."