SPN: Dealing With Devils 1/2 {Sam/Dean; Sam/Jake; NC-17}
Just wanted to get this up and posted in case the new episode comes along and completely Josses me on everything. I don't know. Anyway! Um, enjoy! :)
Title: Dealing With Devils
Fandom: Supernatural/DeVour [crossover]
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean; Sam/Jake; Ruby
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; graphic m/m content, graphic incest, dark themes [including dub-con]
Word Count: 10,000+
Summary: […] he looks with tired eyes at all the people hypnotized // and wonders what can save him from a self-created hell.
Notes: Dedicated to mona1347 on the occasion of her birthday. Because I adore her verily. See the end of fic for further necessary details.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Notes/Acknowledgments & Soundtrack
Dealing With Devils
by keepaofthecheez.
Part 1.
Fifteen miles outside of Salem, it starts to rain. It’s that choppy, hateful kind of pouring that used to keep Sam up late at night; thunder roars and criss-crossed streaks of lightning. Mean. Nasty. He fights a nostalgic shiver and pulls away from the steamy-wet window.
“Better pull over,” Dean is saying, like Sam actually has some kind of say-so in the matter. Still, he appreciates the token gesture and nods anyway, something of a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Dean slants him a sideways glance and pulls into the parking lot of the latest rustic motel they’ve graced during their five days of traveling the Pacific northwest.
The Impala’s engine dies, Dean’s fingers linger behind on the keys. Dean turns toward him and for just the briefest of moments, Sam waits for the inevitable questions. Can almost taste them, hovering in the air between them. But then Dean’s half out of the car and grumbling about food and the weather and Sam’s choice of music the past twenty miles.
Sam lets it slide. He’s been letting everything slide, again, since Christmas; can barely remember what it was like to argue and fight and challenge his older brother over even the most menial things. That flame’s burned down to ash, replaced by a flicker of desperation that glows brighter with every passing day, minute, second Dean’s time draws closer.
They don’t talk about it. Not since Ypsilanti.
But Sam still makes plans. Dean pretends not to notice when he disappears for hours, coming back to the room smelling of graveyard and smoke. Reeking of failure. But Sam feels him watching, sees the pale strain edging Dean’s mouth and hollow eyes and knows Dean wants to know; wants to stop him.
But he won’t. And they don’t talk about it.
Tonight Sam stays inside; Dean watches the game. They have cold pizza and beer between them; Dean hoards both. Halfway through the fourth quarter, Dean grimaces and fumbles a slice, and the sick roll in Sam’s belly has nothing to do with hunger.
Dean catches him looking and pulls an annoyed grimace that hides absolutely nothing. “Hey, pass me the Excedrin, will ya?” he says, eyes carefully trained on the television, and Sam presses his lips together.
He wordlessly gets up from the bed and Dean tenses, just for a second, before melting back against the pillows when Sam simply moves on past. Sam digs into the small duffel of medical supplies and shakes out three white pills. His fingers close around them, and he feels like he’s choking.
“Dean.”
It slips out, surprising them both, and he doesn’t hear Dean’s sharp intake of breath so much as it’s projected deep down inside of him.
“What?” Not unkind, but with a definite snap of “we’re not talking about this,” and Sam’s jaw aches from clenching, holding back the words. Suddenly, the whole charade seems ridiculous and, damn it, he’d thought Christmas proved something.
“Sam?” Yeah, Dean’s pissed now, prepared for confrontation as Sam slowly comes to his feet and turns around. Sees his brother sprawled length-ways on the bed and glaring through dark-circled eyes. “The hell’s the matter with you…give me the pills.”
“You feel it, don’t you?” Sam isn’t sure what’s making him start this now, but whatever it is it won’t let him shut up. “It’s getting close, and you can feel it now.”
Dean’s lips tremble, go slack, and Sam’s eyes are burning. There’s a weighted silence drowned out only by the broadcasted sounds of hard-hitting and helmets clashing, and finally Dean licks his lips and looks away.
He shoves the pizza toward Sam. “Eat something.” The added, “and shut the fuck up” goes unsaid.
xxx
“So, it’s three more dead in the past forty-eight hours.” Sam’s fingers clack across the keyboard. “Each killed another three before finally killing themselves…all show signs of self-mutilation before the suicides-cutting, strangulation, ah…Jesus.”
The disturbing images glare back at him, too large and over-pixilated, and Dean steps forward. He doesn’t touch Sam or offer any kind of support, but he’s there--an overwhelming, sure presence that helps keep the bile down.
“Guess no one ever told them the dangers of too much foreplay.” But the sarcasm falls flat; Sam turns slightly and Dean’s pale and looking as sick as Sam feels after an hour researching their latest investigation. He watches his brother wipe a hand down his face, visibly steeling himself before turning back to the bed where Dean’s been steadily and meticulously cleaning weaponry while Sam does the legwork.
“Crazy bastards,” he hears Dean mutter over the sharp click of a pistol chamber. “Can’t just do everyone a favor and check out peacefully. Gotta make it all fucked-up and messy.”
Sam ignores the bitter note in Dean’s voice, clicks the next news caption. Straightens a little in his chair because, hey now. “Dean. Look at this.”
It’s been a week since Sam got the call from Ruby, leading them out of Michigan, through Indiana, Wisconsin. A week, and Sam’s had nothing more to go on than a demon’s tip and the promise that it all had something to do with everything Sam has been searching for.
He hasn’t told Dean where he got the information, and he doesn’t trust Ruby. But he still has hope, stupid and thick in the back of his throat.
“What’d you find-” Dean brushes against him, pressed up close on the sofa as he leans over and squints at the laptop screen. Sam tries not to think about the niggling perfection of Dean so close, and yet so far away. It’s another one of those things they don’t discuss.
“Tell me it’s something to warrant you dragging my ass two thousand miles on a goddamn wild goose chase,” Dean continues, and Sam blinks. Struggles to remember a good reason why he shouldn’t be pulling Dean closer, reminding them both that he’s still fucking alive. That Sam’s not giving up until he stays that way.
Only there’s plenty of reasons, too many to choose from, and so Sam huffs a shaky breath and points at the screen. If Dean notices the tense set of his shoulders, he doesn’t comment on it. “Cheever Lake College, three years ago. Same string of homicides, suicides, same pattern…”
Dean’s eyes light up as he reads the text. “They busted one of the sick freaks.”
“The sick freak, maybe,” Sam murmurs, opening a new window and sitting back as it fills with various new links. Dean stretches an arm along the back of the couch, it’s a warm weight against Sam’s shoulders. “This, uh, this kid…”--it’s hard for him to think of anyone capable of this magnitude of horror as a kid, but twenty-one is hardly past anyone’s prime--“he was connected to all the deaths in that area. Authorities couldn’t pin anything on him at first, then they finally found him in the woods one night, covered in rot and gore. He, ah…” Sam swallows against sour. “He’d killed his parents, drank their blood.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He told police the occult was involved, made him do it. Or did it for him…the story changes several times throughout the trial. Back and forth, like he can’t figure it out himself.”
“Being fucking crazy’ll do that to you,” Dean says, working his fingers like they ache. Sam doesn’t miss the telltale wince his brother tries to hide, and forces himself to keep both eyes on the computer.
Then a more recent caption catches his attention. “There was…some kind of incident and he was moved six months ago into mental eval,” he reads off the page, and suddenly everything falls into place. “Hot damn. He’s here. Oregon State Hospital.”
“What kind of incident?”
Sam glances over at his brother. “He claims to be the son of the Devil.”
“Well, give the boy points for originality,” Dean finally answers after prolonged hesitation. Then, “Like…the actual Devil? Beelzebub?” There’s a smirk in his voice now and it goes a long way toward soothing Sam’s nerves. “Where does he hide his pitchfork and cloven feet?”
“Drinking blood, Dean.” Sam clears his throat and refuses to give into the shaky smile. Instead, he clicks the next entry, pulls up a picture of their newest lead. “You know what ingesting human blood does to…a…”
Dean shifts next to him, stunned into silence before, “Aw, now I need to go throw up.”
But Dean doesn’t move, and neither of them really know what to say next. They’re treading on dangerous ground, and Sam can see now exactly the reason Ruby sent him here. He stares at the open jpeg image file, into familiar, haunted green-gold eyes, and the floor quakes beneath his feet.
Jake Gray, in all his colorful insanity, is connected to something much bigger than idle psychopathy.
xxx
Sam doesn’t sleep.
Dean’s curled up in the other bed, back to Sam and sheets tangled down around his hips. He’s not snoring, so Sam knows he’s awake, too. The air is thick and heavy, the storm still raging through shallow window panes.
Sam stares at the line of Dean’s shoulders. Studies the scar left behind by a bullet triggered from his own fingers, and a cold fist grips him around the heart. All he wants in that exact moment is to rub away the calloused flesh with a thumb, smear the memories that are becoming clearer every passing day.
Christ, he can remember now; Dean crouched under him with betrayed, pleading eyes. The weight of his own fist pummeling his brother’s ravaged face. The taunting sound of his own voice: “You’re worthless…they’d have been better off without you.”
He knows to expect it; Ruby explained to him what would eventually happen. It doesn’t make it any easier, and he’s not quite successful at biting back the choked sound in his throat, eyes squeezing shut against blurred vision.
He hears Dean move in the dark, the creak of cheap bedsprings, and when he looks again it’s into worried green eyes. They watch each other with varying uncertainty for a long moment before Dean nods toward the open med kit on the sink counter.
Sam shakes his head at the invitation and settles again on his back. The ceiling is cracked and peeling in places, a metaphor for Sam’s entire existence. Any other time and he’d laugh at himself for even thinking it, but with the sense-memory of possession still fresh in his mind, he simply clenches his teeth and imagines the small stain spreading out, taking over the whole room.
He doesn’t even hear Dean get out of bed. Then he’s being prodded, Dean gives a tired murmur, “Shove over, Sammy” before he sticks a cold foot right up against Sam’s ribs. Sam jumps, blurts out a curse that makes Dean snicker.
“Dean, what’re you.” He stops, near-on swallows his tongue because, this? They don’t talk about, and they definitely don’t risk. Not since Sam’s awkward, drunken moment back at the Pierpont Inn, or maybe even before. Still, it’s dark enough, desperate enough, that Sam wants to get away with it. His voice comes out two shades too husky. “Why’re you doing this?”
Dean settles in beside him, a tight fit considering they both have a tendency to overwhelm their surroundings. His shoulder is a hot, solid press through cotton and seams, and Sam’s breath shudders. Dean pretends not to notice. “Because I don’t have your favorite binky handy. Now shut up and sleep, bitch.”
The funny thing is that Sam actually does.
xxx
Sam yawns into his hand while Dean shoves nearly an entire bagel in his mouth.
They’ve been waiting in the lobby of OSH for close to an hour now, the picture of family concern and grief, and Sam can tell Dean’s short attention span is starting to fold under the pressure of boredom. He offers sad smiles to any of the curious nurses who wander past, and reaches over to rest a hand on Dean’s bouncing knee, squeezing hard when his brother nearly up-ends a vase of brightly colored tulips as a pretty blonde resident catches his eye.
“Christ, what, are they drugging the guy before letting us see him?” Dean mutters under his breath, going completely still and staring at Sam’s fingers spread out around his thigh.
“Standard procedure, maybe.” Sam catches the faint flush at the tips of Dean’s ears and slowly removes his hand. He can’t quite define how it makes him feel to know he’s the one who put it there, but something warm is blossoming in his chest and he knows it’s better all-around not to dwell on it.
“Yeah, well, let’s hope they don’t dope him up so much all he does is drool on us.” Dean leans back, tip-tapping his fingers against crossed forearms, and Sam looks anywhere but at the tight pull of material across Dean’s lap.
He can still feel Dean from this morning, rock-hard and sleepy-hot against his back. If things were normal between them, he’d get a momentary kick out of pointing out Dean’s tendency to snuggle; instead, it was all he could do not to grab the hand carelessly cupping his hip and draw it down further.
It scares him a little that he’s not even trying to deny those feelings anymore. He still won’t put a name to them, won’t use the ugly word society deems appropriate because then it’s all too real. But it’s getting harder to care what anyone thinks, and sometimes he catches Dean watching him, and wonders.
“Excuse me, Mr…Rodgers? Mr Kirke?”
Sam starts, looks up into the face of a stocky man in his late thirties. He comes to his feet and holds out a hand. “Yes, you must be Dr Anders. We’re so grateful you could meet with us on such short notice.”
“We do try to encourage and facilitate visitation between patients and family as best we can.” Dr Anders smiles, but there’s a hint of something there that Sam can’t quite put his finger on. It makes him stand up straighter, expression serious and hopeful, eyes wide and trusting.
“We’ve tried contacting Jake’s family…those left…over a period of several months now.” Dr Anders’ gaze travels between Sam and Dean, voice a bit harder than before. “We were told in fairly explicit terms that the family wishes to be left out of any subsequent matters dealing with Jake.”
“We were out of the country when it happened,” Dean interjects quickly, and Sam shoots him an incredulous look. What the hell are you doing? Dean responds with an equally silent, Go with it. Taking Sam’s arm and squeezing lightly, possessively, he says, “We only just found out, and my…partner and I, we felt close to Jake. Before. We just want a chance to understand.”
“Your partner,” Dr Anders echoes, and now Sam’s the one blushing. The doctor doesn’t seem to notice, more interested in Dean now than Sam. His eyes narrow, but a lot of the tension seems to drain away. “Well, I can definitely see the family resemblance. Maternal cousin, I believe you said over the phone?”
Dean flashes his teeth. “Something like that, yes.”
Sam musters up an appropriately melancholy smile and is relieved when the doctor sighs, tucking a clipboard under his arm and gesturing for them to follow.
“Well, what matters is that you’re here now. Jake’s shown remarkable improvement since being moved into our facilities, and we now have him on a steady regime of-”
Sam stops listening, an odd sensation rising up his throat as they walk down the stark, white corridor. They pass seemingly innocuous common rooms where patients loiter, watching television, all stoic-faced and dreamy. They turn a corner, and Sam reaches up. His collar feels too tight.
“Hey.” Dean nudges him, and Sam realizes they’ve been standing still in front of a cracked-open door with a security system big enough to intimidate even Sam’s lock-picking skills. His brother’s brows rise, concern lurking deep down in his eyes. “You with me here?”
“I’m fine,” Sam mumbles, embarrassed for Dean to be worrying over him. He’s not the one with a freaking expiration date, and the reminder settles like a greasy lump in his belly. “I just…is this it? Where-where’d the doctor go?”
Dean purses his lips, looking like he doesn’t much appreciate Sam’s blatant lie. Then he shrugs. “Inside. Probably checking out our story, which speaking of, what’s the plan if Mr Bloody Num-Nums points the finger?”
Sam blows out a breath, reaches a hand back around his neck. “He won’t.”
Again, that skeptical look. “And you know this how?”
“Just trust me?”
“Great.” Dean’s laugh holds little amusement. “Friggin’ great, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t have time for a response--not that he has a good one anyway, because all he’d have to do is mention the name Ruby and Dean would probably reach over and slug him-before Dr Anders reappears, solemn and serious.
“He’s somewhat sedated, so there shouldn’t be any problems. Still, it’s best if you stay behind the red line and don’t…don’t provoke or startle him. Security personnel will be monitoring, he’s aware of this. Coherent.” Dr Anders pauses. “Gentlemen, I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but…it might be difficult to reconcile this Jake with the one you knew.”
Sam sends him a thin smile, moves to push past. Dean catches his arm, he glances back and sees hesitation written across his brother’s features.
“Sam, I-” Dean licks his lips, glances toward Dr Anders, who while not actively doing so, is still within hearing distance. Dean lowers his voice and thumbs across Sam’s elbow without even seeming to realize the gesture. “You absolutely sure about this?”
Sam stares at him. “Dean, we have to do this. What’s wrong with you?”
A hint of anger glints through Dean’s eyes; he drops Sam’s arm and spreads his feet further apart in quintessential Winchester stubbornness. “Me? You’re the one acting like a fucking…” He bites off the sentence with a curse, looks away and shoves all ten fingers through his hair. “Fine. Let’s get this shit over with then.”
Sam’s slightly bewildered, but this isn’t the time or the place to delve into the litany of their numerous issues. He follows Dean inside, hears the buzzing sound of the security alarm as the door closes behind them.
An almost eerie calm settles in the air and Sam looks up and into the youthful face of his own brother, staring back at him. It’s horribly, wonderfully worse than the distorted computer image; Jake’s alive and vibrant and despite whatever Dr Anders and the rest of the staff believe, the young man sitting cross-legged on crisp hospital sheets is nothing near a state of drugged tranquility.
“You came.” The voice is a husky rasp, and it sends chills down Sam’s spine even as he takes two steps forward. He’s brought up short, Dean’s fingers a bruising restraint around his wrist. Jake doesn’t seem to mind, fully focused on Sam as red-rimmed eyes light up, lips parting on a breath. “I knew you would.”
“What the fuck do you know?” Dean grits out, and Sam is startled by the vehement undertone. He risks a glance, finds Dean nearly bristling, all but baring his teeth at the other man wearing his face.
Jake’s eyes finally flicker over Dean, cataloguing, dismissive, something glittering through green and black before he returns to watching Sam again. And Christ, but there’s something so disturbingly…beautiful about him, so completely at odds with the vision of demented insanity painted by various police reports and accounts, that Sam struggles to find his voice.
“You were supposed to be mine,” Jake says, softer, and Sam recoils because something deep down inside of him recognizes the truth of this statement, even as he knows it for a lie.
“Sam, what the hell-” Dean sounds annoyed, fearful, and Sam can’t get the idea out of his mind. Flashes of dark, heat, flesh and bone, and Jake smiles like he understands. As if anyone could understand.
“It’s what they wanted.”
A faint whisper now, and Sam shudders. His head feels on fire; he hasn’t felt that since before Wyoming when Dean lodged a bullet between glaring, yellow eyes.
“What are you?” he asks, ignoring Dean’s squawk of protest, shaking his brother off and moving closer. “What really happened three years ago? What’s happening now, damn it, what have you done-”
“Not me,” Jake corrects, bringing a single finger to his lips. “The Pathway.”
“Sammy.” Dean’s pleading with him now, gruff and determined. “C’mon, man.”
Jake seems amused by Dean’s uncharacteristic anxiety, leaning back and folding his hands against his stomach. He’s wearing typical asylum attire, and Sam can see skin and muscle beneath the thin cotton. Then wonders why he noticed in the first place.
“You can’t stop it. No one can.” Jake’s eyes glitter, and yes, not with a little insanity.
Sam holds his gaze. He doesn’t know what inner demon has him spitting out, “Then you stop it.” Like he has the slightest clue what the conversation’s even about.
“I can’t stop her, either,” Jake says, and Sam doesn’t miss the pronoun shift. “But that isn’t why you’re here, Sam.” Jake’s eyes go misty-green and that familiar choking sensation rises up inside of Sam. “Is it?”
“What are you?” he asks again, and this time he knows to expect an answer.
“Unclean.” Jake’s voice trembles, the first real sign of emotion Sam’s glimpsed. Tears sparkle across lowered lashes, Jake’s knuckles go white with distress. “Damned, dirty, fucked beyond recognition…you can choose, it doesn’t make it any less true.”
The only sound left is Dean’s harsh breathing, and then Jake lifts his head and laughs. A sort of wild, desperate humor that pulls his mouth wide and makes Sam’s head pound.
Sam licks dry lips, tries not to notice the way Jake’s greedy eyes track the movement. “Tell us how to stop the deaths?” It burns on his tongue, but he adds anyway, “Please.”
Jake doesn’t blink. “It won’t save him,” he finally says, and Sam imagines a thread of apology woven into the words.
Dean, apparently struck dumb and silent by the spiraling conversation, suddenly streaks forward with both fists curled. “Listen, asshole. Just answer the goddamn question, okay?”
Jake’s eyes drop to the floor; Sam sees the toe of Dean’s boot scrape across thick, red tape, and when he looks again Jake’s smirking.
“Bye-bye for now,” he sings, just seconds before security bursts inside.
xxx
When they get back to the motel, Sam’s laptop blinks with an incoming message.
Dean still isn’t speaking to him, hasn’t been since they were politely “escorted” from the institution premises, and Sam’s got too much fogging his mind right now to worry about initiating that particular confrontation.
His brother disappears into the bathroom; Sam hears the sound of the shower starting, and shrugs off his jacket. Tosses it in the corner and sits down on the bed with computer in hand. Steam’s already starting to curl into the air, smoky wisps of wet and heat, and Sam swallows. Opens his email and stares at the single line of text.
Welcome to the Pathway.
It’s a swirling, psychotic mess of reds and yellows, almost too much for Sam’s eyes. Then the screen seems to melt in on itself, dark, leering shadows, leaving behind a blinking cursor. Sam reads the new message, recalling the hazy warning in Jake’s words and gaze.
“What’s that? Some kind of geek game?”
Sam lets out a shrill yelp, meets Dean’s exasperated surprise as his brother stops in the middle of drying himself with a shabby motel towel. “Jesus, man!” Sam gasps, ducking his eyes when Dean barks out a laugh and rounds the bed for his duffel. “I…what?”
“You,” is all Dean says, still with the wicked chuckle. “Ever give up on this manly hunting gig again, you could get yourself a real nice spot in the Vienna Boys’ Choir.” Bending over to dig through a pile of shirts, he lifts one and sniffs the armpit.
Heat crawls up Sam’s neck, and it has nothing to do with brotherly mocking. He drags his eyes away from Dean’s bare back, gritting his teeth against the sordid imaginings of bruised, freckled muscle and husky begging. Goddamn.
“No, it’s-” He blinks, then glances back over at Dean, who’s-thankfully-dressed again and none the wiser about Sam’s more recent perverted delusions. “Actually, I think maybe it is. A game.”
Dean’s brow cocks and he wanders over. “Kick ass. You get to blow shit up, or what?”
As he settles down close on the bed, eyes alight with curiosity, Sam can’t help but choke on hysterical laughter. Hell, not even an hour ago Dean seemed ready to bludgeon him with a blunt instrument-now the day’s odd circumstances are all but forgotten in the wake of the opportunity to wreak online havoc.
A few click-clacks of keys and Sam brings back up the main screen. Dean reads the welcome message, eyes narrowing.
“The Pathway,” he says, hard and…disappointed, Sam would almost wager, if it wasn’t too fleeting to be real. “Huh.”
“There has to be some kind of connection.” Sam taps a finger against the keyboard, thinking out loud. “What’s happening here, Washington, this just…appearing in my inbox right after Jake mentions it.” The hope in his chest is ridiculous, intoxicating. “Maybe he was telling us something after all. Maybe--”
“Sam,” Dean starts slowly, getting up to pace several feet away. Sam stares at the tense set of his brother’s shoulders and already knows where this is going. “That guy was a fucking nut job. Okay? I don’t think we should be listening to anything he says.”
Sam thinks of Gordon, bites back a heated reply. “He’s the only one left,” he says instead, clipped and defensive. The look Dean shoots him is unreadable. “What if we don’t take the chance, and someone else dies?”
Dean’s jaw works, but he won’t meet Sam’s eyes. “What even makes you think we can help, huh? That this has anything to do with us?”
In truth, Sam still doesn’t know-apart from a general sense of wrongwrongwrong every time he even thinks about the investigation-but he knows he’s already too involved, damn it, already too drawn in to whatever madness is behind this.
Still. Dean’s as stubborn as they come, and Sam knows when it’s best to tread lightly. Play his cards close to his chest. “Fine. Forget it, let’s just…” he trails off, unable to keep a bit of the irritation out of his voice. “I’m goin’ to bed. Have at it.”
He stalks over to the rickety table near the window, drops the laptop with a clatter. Hits the light switch and yanks his shirt over his head. He gets as far as the closet when Dean closes in, face pale in the moonlight. He slaps both hands against the wall, on either side of Sam, trapping him in the path of Dean’s suspicion and some other emotion Sam can’t bring himself to contemplate.
He reaches up to shove his brother away, but simply closes his fingers around Dean’s wrists and squeezes. They’re nearly nose-to-nose; Dean’s breath coming in shallow huffs of warmth against Sam’s cheek.
The dark makes it feel safe somehow, okay, and Sam closes his eyes and simply savors the solid proof of Dean’s existence. If Dean had any idea of the direction of his thoughts he’d laugh, maybe call Sam a big girl. But Sam still remembers the look on Dean’s face back in Wyoming. Can still feel the crushing embrace, slick, salty tears against Sam’s throat that Dean wasn’t even trying to hide.
Sam thinks if he lowers his head now, he could taste them.
Unclean, he hears in the back of his mind. Dean’s eyes are big and black.
Damned, dirty, fucked beyond recognition…
“Take your pills and go to bed,” he chokes out, hating himself and the lines of pain creasing Dean’s mouth, ones he doesn’t even think his brother’s aware of anymore. He turns toward his bed, nearly misses the frustrated flicker in Dean’s gaze.
You can choose, it doesn’t make it any less true.
Part 2 | Notes/Acknowledgments & Soundtrack
Title: Dealing With Devils
Fandom: Supernatural/DeVour [crossover]
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean; Sam/Jake; Ruby
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; graphic m/m content, graphic incest, dark themes [including dub-con]
Word Count: 10,000+
Summary: […] he looks with tired eyes at all the people hypnotized // and wonders what can save him from a self-created hell.
Notes: Dedicated to mona1347 on the occasion of her birthday. Because I adore her verily. See the end of fic for further necessary details.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Notes/Acknowledgments & Soundtrack
Dealing With Devils
by keepaofthecheez.
Part 1.
Fifteen miles outside of Salem, it starts to rain. It’s that choppy, hateful kind of pouring that used to keep Sam up late at night; thunder roars and criss-crossed streaks of lightning. Mean. Nasty. He fights a nostalgic shiver and pulls away from the steamy-wet window.
“Better pull over,” Dean is saying, like Sam actually has some kind of say-so in the matter. Still, he appreciates the token gesture and nods anyway, something of a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Dean slants him a sideways glance and pulls into the parking lot of the latest rustic motel they’ve graced during their five days of traveling the Pacific northwest.
The Impala’s engine dies, Dean’s fingers linger behind on the keys. Dean turns toward him and for just the briefest of moments, Sam waits for the inevitable questions. Can almost taste them, hovering in the air between them. But then Dean’s half out of the car and grumbling about food and the weather and Sam’s choice of music the past twenty miles.
Sam lets it slide. He’s been letting everything slide, again, since Christmas; can barely remember what it was like to argue and fight and challenge his older brother over even the most menial things. That flame’s burned down to ash, replaced by a flicker of desperation that glows brighter with every passing day, minute, second Dean’s time draws closer.
They don’t talk about it. Not since Ypsilanti.
But Sam still makes plans. Dean pretends not to notice when he disappears for hours, coming back to the room smelling of graveyard and smoke. Reeking of failure. But Sam feels him watching, sees the pale strain edging Dean’s mouth and hollow eyes and knows Dean wants to know; wants to stop him.
But he won’t. And they don’t talk about it.
Tonight Sam stays inside; Dean watches the game. They have cold pizza and beer between them; Dean hoards both. Halfway through the fourth quarter, Dean grimaces and fumbles a slice, and the sick roll in Sam’s belly has nothing to do with hunger.
Dean catches him looking and pulls an annoyed grimace that hides absolutely nothing. “Hey, pass me the Excedrin, will ya?” he says, eyes carefully trained on the television, and Sam presses his lips together.
He wordlessly gets up from the bed and Dean tenses, just for a second, before melting back against the pillows when Sam simply moves on past. Sam digs into the small duffel of medical supplies and shakes out three white pills. His fingers close around them, and he feels like he’s choking.
“Dean.”
It slips out, surprising them both, and he doesn’t hear Dean’s sharp intake of breath so much as it’s projected deep down inside of him.
“What?” Not unkind, but with a definite snap of “we’re not talking about this,” and Sam’s jaw aches from clenching, holding back the words. Suddenly, the whole charade seems ridiculous and, damn it, he’d thought Christmas proved something.
“Sam?” Yeah, Dean’s pissed now, prepared for confrontation as Sam slowly comes to his feet and turns around. Sees his brother sprawled length-ways on the bed and glaring through dark-circled eyes. “The hell’s the matter with you…give me the pills.”
“You feel it, don’t you?” Sam isn’t sure what’s making him start this now, but whatever it is it won’t let him shut up. “It’s getting close, and you can feel it now.”
Dean’s lips tremble, go slack, and Sam’s eyes are burning. There’s a weighted silence drowned out only by the broadcasted sounds of hard-hitting and helmets clashing, and finally Dean licks his lips and looks away.
He shoves the pizza toward Sam. “Eat something.” The added, “and shut the fuck up” goes unsaid.
xxx
“So, it’s three more dead in the past forty-eight hours.” Sam’s fingers clack across the keyboard. “Each killed another three before finally killing themselves…all show signs of self-mutilation before the suicides-cutting, strangulation, ah…Jesus.”
The disturbing images glare back at him, too large and over-pixilated, and Dean steps forward. He doesn’t touch Sam or offer any kind of support, but he’s there--an overwhelming, sure presence that helps keep the bile down.
“Guess no one ever told them the dangers of too much foreplay.” But the sarcasm falls flat; Sam turns slightly and Dean’s pale and looking as sick as Sam feels after an hour researching their latest investigation. He watches his brother wipe a hand down his face, visibly steeling himself before turning back to the bed where Dean’s been steadily and meticulously cleaning weaponry while Sam does the legwork.
“Crazy bastards,” he hears Dean mutter over the sharp click of a pistol chamber. “Can’t just do everyone a favor and check out peacefully. Gotta make it all fucked-up and messy.”
Sam ignores the bitter note in Dean’s voice, clicks the next news caption. Straightens a little in his chair because, hey now. “Dean. Look at this.”
It’s been a week since Sam got the call from Ruby, leading them out of Michigan, through Indiana, Wisconsin. A week, and Sam’s had nothing more to go on than a demon’s tip and the promise that it all had something to do with everything Sam has been searching for.
He hasn’t told Dean where he got the information, and he doesn’t trust Ruby. But he still has hope, stupid and thick in the back of his throat.
“What’d you find-” Dean brushes against him, pressed up close on the sofa as he leans over and squints at the laptop screen. Sam tries not to think about the niggling perfection of Dean so close, and yet so far away. It’s another one of those things they don’t discuss.
“Tell me it’s something to warrant you dragging my ass two thousand miles on a goddamn wild goose chase,” Dean continues, and Sam blinks. Struggles to remember a good reason why he shouldn’t be pulling Dean closer, reminding them both that he’s still fucking alive. That Sam’s not giving up until he stays that way.
Only there’s plenty of reasons, too many to choose from, and so Sam huffs a shaky breath and points at the screen. If Dean notices the tense set of his shoulders, he doesn’t comment on it. “Cheever Lake College, three years ago. Same string of homicides, suicides, same pattern…”
Dean’s eyes light up as he reads the text. “They busted one of the sick freaks.”
“The sick freak, maybe,” Sam murmurs, opening a new window and sitting back as it fills with various new links. Dean stretches an arm along the back of the couch, it’s a warm weight against Sam’s shoulders. “This, uh, this kid…”--it’s hard for him to think of anyone capable of this magnitude of horror as a kid, but twenty-one is hardly past anyone’s prime--“he was connected to all the deaths in that area. Authorities couldn’t pin anything on him at first, then they finally found him in the woods one night, covered in rot and gore. He, ah…” Sam swallows against sour. “He’d killed his parents, drank their blood.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He told police the occult was involved, made him do it. Or did it for him…the story changes several times throughout the trial. Back and forth, like he can’t figure it out himself.”
“Being fucking crazy’ll do that to you,” Dean says, working his fingers like they ache. Sam doesn’t miss the telltale wince his brother tries to hide, and forces himself to keep both eyes on the computer.
Then a more recent caption catches his attention. “There was…some kind of incident and he was moved six months ago into mental eval,” he reads off the page, and suddenly everything falls into place. “Hot damn. He’s here. Oregon State Hospital.”
“What kind of incident?”
Sam glances over at his brother. “He claims to be the son of the Devil.”
“Well, give the boy points for originality,” Dean finally answers after prolonged hesitation. Then, “Like…the actual Devil? Beelzebub?” There’s a smirk in his voice now and it goes a long way toward soothing Sam’s nerves. “Where does he hide his pitchfork and cloven feet?”
“Drinking blood, Dean.” Sam clears his throat and refuses to give into the shaky smile. Instead, he clicks the next entry, pulls up a picture of their newest lead. “You know what ingesting human blood does to…a…”
Dean shifts next to him, stunned into silence before, “Aw, now I need to go throw up.”
But Dean doesn’t move, and neither of them really know what to say next. They’re treading on dangerous ground, and Sam can see now exactly the reason Ruby sent him here. He stares at the open jpeg image file, into familiar, haunted green-gold eyes, and the floor quakes beneath his feet.
Jake Gray, in all his colorful insanity, is connected to something much bigger than idle psychopathy.
xxx
Sam doesn’t sleep.
Dean’s curled up in the other bed, back to Sam and sheets tangled down around his hips. He’s not snoring, so Sam knows he’s awake, too. The air is thick and heavy, the storm still raging through shallow window panes.
Sam stares at the line of Dean’s shoulders. Studies the scar left behind by a bullet triggered from his own fingers, and a cold fist grips him around the heart. All he wants in that exact moment is to rub away the calloused flesh with a thumb, smear the memories that are becoming clearer every passing day.
Christ, he can remember now; Dean crouched under him with betrayed, pleading eyes. The weight of his own fist pummeling his brother’s ravaged face. The taunting sound of his own voice: “You’re worthless…they’d have been better off without you.”
He knows to expect it; Ruby explained to him what would eventually happen. It doesn’t make it any easier, and he’s not quite successful at biting back the choked sound in his throat, eyes squeezing shut against blurred vision.
He hears Dean move in the dark, the creak of cheap bedsprings, and when he looks again it’s into worried green eyes. They watch each other with varying uncertainty for a long moment before Dean nods toward the open med kit on the sink counter.
Sam shakes his head at the invitation and settles again on his back. The ceiling is cracked and peeling in places, a metaphor for Sam’s entire existence. Any other time and he’d laugh at himself for even thinking it, but with the sense-memory of possession still fresh in his mind, he simply clenches his teeth and imagines the small stain spreading out, taking over the whole room.
He doesn’t even hear Dean get out of bed. Then he’s being prodded, Dean gives a tired murmur, “Shove over, Sammy” before he sticks a cold foot right up against Sam’s ribs. Sam jumps, blurts out a curse that makes Dean snicker.
“Dean, what’re you.” He stops, near-on swallows his tongue because, this? They don’t talk about, and they definitely don’t risk. Not since Sam’s awkward, drunken moment back at the Pierpont Inn, or maybe even before. Still, it’s dark enough, desperate enough, that Sam wants to get away with it. His voice comes out two shades too husky. “Why’re you doing this?”
Dean settles in beside him, a tight fit considering they both have a tendency to overwhelm their surroundings. His shoulder is a hot, solid press through cotton and seams, and Sam’s breath shudders. Dean pretends not to notice. “Because I don’t have your favorite binky handy. Now shut up and sleep, bitch.”
The funny thing is that Sam actually does.
xxx
Sam yawns into his hand while Dean shoves nearly an entire bagel in his mouth.
They’ve been waiting in the lobby of OSH for close to an hour now, the picture of family concern and grief, and Sam can tell Dean’s short attention span is starting to fold under the pressure of boredom. He offers sad smiles to any of the curious nurses who wander past, and reaches over to rest a hand on Dean’s bouncing knee, squeezing hard when his brother nearly up-ends a vase of brightly colored tulips as a pretty blonde resident catches his eye.
“Christ, what, are they drugging the guy before letting us see him?” Dean mutters under his breath, going completely still and staring at Sam’s fingers spread out around his thigh.
“Standard procedure, maybe.” Sam catches the faint flush at the tips of Dean’s ears and slowly removes his hand. He can’t quite define how it makes him feel to know he’s the one who put it there, but something warm is blossoming in his chest and he knows it’s better all-around not to dwell on it.
“Yeah, well, let’s hope they don’t dope him up so much all he does is drool on us.” Dean leans back, tip-tapping his fingers against crossed forearms, and Sam looks anywhere but at the tight pull of material across Dean’s lap.
He can still feel Dean from this morning, rock-hard and sleepy-hot against his back. If things were normal between them, he’d get a momentary kick out of pointing out Dean’s tendency to snuggle; instead, it was all he could do not to grab the hand carelessly cupping his hip and draw it down further.
It scares him a little that he’s not even trying to deny those feelings anymore. He still won’t put a name to them, won’t use the ugly word society deems appropriate because then it’s all too real. But it’s getting harder to care what anyone thinks, and sometimes he catches Dean watching him, and wonders.
“Excuse me, Mr…Rodgers? Mr Kirke?”
Sam starts, looks up into the face of a stocky man in his late thirties. He comes to his feet and holds out a hand. “Yes, you must be Dr Anders. We’re so grateful you could meet with us on such short notice.”
“We do try to encourage and facilitate visitation between patients and family as best we can.” Dr Anders smiles, but there’s a hint of something there that Sam can’t quite put his finger on. It makes him stand up straighter, expression serious and hopeful, eyes wide and trusting.
“We’ve tried contacting Jake’s family…those left…over a period of several months now.” Dr Anders’ gaze travels between Sam and Dean, voice a bit harder than before. “We were told in fairly explicit terms that the family wishes to be left out of any subsequent matters dealing with Jake.”
“We were out of the country when it happened,” Dean interjects quickly, and Sam shoots him an incredulous look. What the hell are you doing? Dean responds with an equally silent, Go with it. Taking Sam’s arm and squeezing lightly, possessively, he says, “We only just found out, and my…partner and I, we felt close to Jake. Before. We just want a chance to understand.”
“Your partner,” Dr Anders echoes, and now Sam’s the one blushing. The doctor doesn’t seem to notice, more interested in Dean now than Sam. His eyes narrow, but a lot of the tension seems to drain away. “Well, I can definitely see the family resemblance. Maternal cousin, I believe you said over the phone?”
Dean flashes his teeth. “Something like that, yes.”
Sam musters up an appropriately melancholy smile and is relieved when the doctor sighs, tucking a clipboard under his arm and gesturing for them to follow.
“Well, what matters is that you’re here now. Jake’s shown remarkable improvement since being moved into our facilities, and we now have him on a steady regime of-”
Sam stops listening, an odd sensation rising up his throat as they walk down the stark, white corridor. They pass seemingly innocuous common rooms where patients loiter, watching television, all stoic-faced and dreamy. They turn a corner, and Sam reaches up. His collar feels too tight.
“Hey.” Dean nudges him, and Sam realizes they’ve been standing still in front of a cracked-open door with a security system big enough to intimidate even Sam’s lock-picking skills. His brother’s brows rise, concern lurking deep down in his eyes. “You with me here?”
“I’m fine,” Sam mumbles, embarrassed for Dean to be worrying over him. He’s not the one with a freaking expiration date, and the reminder settles like a greasy lump in his belly. “I just…is this it? Where-where’d the doctor go?”
Dean purses his lips, looking like he doesn’t much appreciate Sam’s blatant lie. Then he shrugs. “Inside. Probably checking out our story, which speaking of, what’s the plan if Mr Bloody Num-Nums points the finger?”
Sam blows out a breath, reaches a hand back around his neck. “He won’t.”
Again, that skeptical look. “And you know this how?”
“Just trust me?”
“Great.” Dean’s laugh holds little amusement. “Friggin’ great, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t have time for a response--not that he has a good one anyway, because all he’d have to do is mention the name Ruby and Dean would probably reach over and slug him-before Dr Anders reappears, solemn and serious.
“He’s somewhat sedated, so there shouldn’t be any problems. Still, it’s best if you stay behind the red line and don’t…don’t provoke or startle him. Security personnel will be monitoring, he’s aware of this. Coherent.” Dr Anders pauses. “Gentlemen, I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but…it might be difficult to reconcile this Jake with the one you knew.”
Sam sends him a thin smile, moves to push past. Dean catches his arm, he glances back and sees hesitation written across his brother’s features.
“Sam, I-” Dean licks his lips, glances toward Dr Anders, who while not actively doing so, is still within hearing distance. Dean lowers his voice and thumbs across Sam’s elbow without even seeming to realize the gesture. “You absolutely sure about this?”
Sam stares at him. “Dean, we have to do this. What’s wrong with you?”
A hint of anger glints through Dean’s eyes; he drops Sam’s arm and spreads his feet further apart in quintessential Winchester stubbornness. “Me? You’re the one acting like a fucking…” He bites off the sentence with a curse, looks away and shoves all ten fingers through his hair. “Fine. Let’s get this shit over with then.”
Sam’s slightly bewildered, but this isn’t the time or the place to delve into the litany of their numerous issues. He follows Dean inside, hears the buzzing sound of the security alarm as the door closes behind them.
An almost eerie calm settles in the air and Sam looks up and into the youthful face of his own brother, staring back at him. It’s horribly, wonderfully worse than the distorted computer image; Jake’s alive and vibrant and despite whatever Dr Anders and the rest of the staff believe, the young man sitting cross-legged on crisp hospital sheets is nothing near a state of drugged tranquility.
“You came.” The voice is a husky rasp, and it sends chills down Sam’s spine even as he takes two steps forward. He’s brought up short, Dean’s fingers a bruising restraint around his wrist. Jake doesn’t seem to mind, fully focused on Sam as red-rimmed eyes light up, lips parting on a breath. “I knew you would.”
“What the fuck do you know?” Dean grits out, and Sam is startled by the vehement undertone. He risks a glance, finds Dean nearly bristling, all but baring his teeth at the other man wearing his face.
Jake’s eyes finally flicker over Dean, cataloguing, dismissive, something glittering through green and black before he returns to watching Sam again. And Christ, but there’s something so disturbingly…beautiful about him, so completely at odds with the vision of demented insanity painted by various police reports and accounts, that Sam struggles to find his voice.
“You were supposed to be mine,” Jake says, softer, and Sam recoils because something deep down inside of him recognizes the truth of this statement, even as he knows it for a lie.
“Sam, what the hell-” Dean sounds annoyed, fearful, and Sam can’t get the idea out of his mind. Flashes of dark, heat, flesh and bone, and Jake smiles like he understands. As if anyone could understand.
“It’s what they wanted.”
A faint whisper now, and Sam shudders. His head feels on fire; he hasn’t felt that since before Wyoming when Dean lodged a bullet between glaring, yellow eyes.
“What are you?” he asks, ignoring Dean’s squawk of protest, shaking his brother off and moving closer. “What really happened three years ago? What’s happening now, damn it, what have you done-”
“Not me,” Jake corrects, bringing a single finger to his lips. “The Pathway.”
“Sammy.” Dean’s pleading with him now, gruff and determined. “C’mon, man.”
Jake seems amused by Dean’s uncharacteristic anxiety, leaning back and folding his hands against his stomach. He’s wearing typical asylum attire, and Sam can see skin and muscle beneath the thin cotton. Then wonders why he noticed in the first place.
“You can’t stop it. No one can.” Jake’s eyes glitter, and yes, not with a little insanity.
Sam holds his gaze. He doesn’t know what inner demon has him spitting out, “Then you stop it.” Like he has the slightest clue what the conversation’s even about.
“I can’t stop her, either,” Jake says, and Sam doesn’t miss the pronoun shift. “But that isn’t why you’re here, Sam.” Jake’s eyes go misty-green and that familiar choking sensation rises up inside of Sam. “Is it?”
“What are you?” he asks again, and this time he knows to expect an answer.
“Unclean.” Jake’s voice trembles, the first real sign of emotion Sam’s glimpsed. Tears sparkle across lowered lashes, Jake’s knuckles go white with distress. “Damned, dirty, fucked beyond recognition…you can choose, it doesn’t make it any less true.”
The only sound left is Dean’s harsh breathing, and then Jake lifts his head and laughs. A sort of wild, desperate humor that pulls his mouth wide and makes Sam’s head pound.
Sam licks dry lips, tries not to notice the way Jake’s greedy eyes track the movement. “Tell us how to stop the deaths?” It burns on his tongue, but he adds anyway, “Please.”
Jake doesn’t blink. “It won’t save him,” he finally says, and Sam imagines a thread of apology woven into the words.
Dean, apparently struck dumb and silent by the spiraling conversation, suddenly streaks forward with both fists curled. “Listen, asshole. Just answer the goddamn question, okay?”
Jake’s eyes drop to the floor; Sam sees the toe of Dean’s boot scrape across thick, red tape, and when he looks again Jake’s smirking.
“Bye-bye for now,” he sings, just seconds before security bursts inside.
xxx
When they get back to the motel, Sam’s laptop blinks with an incoming message.
Dean still isn’t speaking to him, hasn’t been since they were politely “escorted” from the institution premises, and Sam’s got too much fogging his mind right now to worry about initiating that particular confrontation.
His brother disappears into the bathroom; Sam hears the sound of the shower starting, and shrugs off his jacket. Tosses it in the corner and sits down on the bed with computer in hand. Steam’s already starting to curl into the air, smoky wisps of wet and heat, and Sam swallows. Opens his email and stares at the single line of text.
Welcome to the Pathway.
It’s a swirling, psychotic mess of reds and yellows, almost too much for Sam’s eyes. Then the screen seems to melt in on itself, dark, leering shadows, leaving behind a blinking cursor. Sam reads the new message, recalling the hazy warning in Jake’s words and gaze.
“What’s that? Some kind of geek game?”
Sam lets out a shrill yelp, meets Dean’s exasperated surprise as his brother stops in the middle of drying himself with a shabby motel towel. “Jesus, man!” Sam gasps, ducking his eyes when Dean barks out a laugh and rounds the bed for his duffel. “I…what?”
“You,” is all Dean says, still with the wicked chuckle. “Ever give up on this manly hunting gig again, you could get yourself a real nice spot in the Vienna Boys’ Choir.” Bending over to dig through a pile of shirts, he lifts one and sniffs the armpit.
Heat crawls up Sam’s neck, and it has nothing to do with brotherly mocking. He drags his eyes away from Dean’s bare back, gritting his teeth against the sordid imaginings of bruised, freckled muscle and husky begging. Goddamn.
“No, it’s-” He blinks, then glances back over at Dean, who’s-thankfully-dressed again and none the wiser about Sam’s more recent perverted delusions. “Actually, I think maybe it is. A game.”
Dean’s brow cocks and he wanders over. “Kick ass. You get to blow shit up, or what?”
As he settles down close on the bed, eyes alight with curiosity, Sam can’t help but choke on hysterical laughter. Hell, not even an hour ago Dean seemed ready to bludgeon him with a blunt instrument-now the day’s odd circumstances are all but forgotten in the wake of the opportunity to wreak online havoc.
A few click-clacks of keys and Sam brings back up the main screen. Dean reads the welcome message, eyes narrowing.
“The Pathway,” he says, hard and…disappointed, Sam would almost wager, if it wasn’t too fleeting to be real. “Huh.”
“There has to be some kind of connection.” Sam taps a finger against the keyboard, thinking out loud. “What’s happening here, Washington, this just…appearing in my inbox right after Jake mentions it.” The hope in his chest is ridiculous, intoxicating. “Maybe he was telling us something after all. Maybe--”
“Sam,” Dean starts slowly, getting up to pace several feet away. Sam stares at the tense set of his brother’s shoulders and already knows where this is going. “That guy was a fucking nut job. Okay? I don’t think we should be listening to anything he says.”
Sam thinks of Gordon, bites back a heated reply. “He’s the only one left,” he says instead, clipped and defensive. The look Dean shoots him is unreadable. “What if we don’t take the chance, and someone else dies?”
Dean’s jaw works, but he won’t meet Sam’s eyes. “What even makes you think we can help, huh? That this has anything to do with us?”
In truth, Sam still doesn’t know-apart from a general sense of wrongwrongwrong every time he even thinks about the investigation-but he knows he’s already too involved, damn it, already too drawn in to whatever madness is behind this.
Still. Dean’s as stubborn as they come, and Sam knows when it’s best to tread lightly. Play his cards close to his chest. “Fine. Forget it, let’s just…” he trails off, unable to keep a bit of the irritation out of his voice. “I’m goin’ to bed. Have at it.”
He stalks over to the rickety table near the window, drops the laptop with a clatter. Hits the light switch and yanks his shirt over his head. He gets as far as the closet when Dean closes in, face pale in the moonlight. He slaps both hands against the wall, on either side of Sam, trapping him in the path of Dean’s suspicion and some other emotion Sam can’t bring himself to contemplate.
He reaches up to shove his brother away, but simply closes his fingers around Dean’s wrists and squeezes. They’re nearly nose-to-nose; Dean’s breath coming in shallow huffs of warmth against Sam’s cheek.
The dark makes it feel safe somehow, okay, and Sam closes his eyes and simply savors the solid proof of Dean’s existence. If Dean had any idea of the direction of his thoughts he’d laugh, maybe call Sam a big girl. But Sam still remembers the look on Dean’s face back in Wyoming. Can still feel the crushing embrace, slick, salty tears against Sam’s throat that Dean wasn’t even trying to hide.
Sam thinks if he lowers his head now, he could taste them.
Unclean, he hears in the back of his mind. Dean’s eyes are big and black.
Damned, dirty, fucked beyond recognition…
“Take your pills and go to bed,” he chokes out, hating himself and the lines of pain creasing Dean’s mouth, ones he doesn’t even think his brother’s aware of anymore. He turns toward his bed, nearly misses the frustrated flicker in Dean’s gaze.
You can choose, it doesn’t make it any less true.
Part 2 | Notes/Acknowledgments & Soundtrack