Fic: My Beloved Is Mine (2/3)
Title: My Beloved Is Mine
Rating:NC-17
Fandom and/or Ship: Supernatural; Dean/Crowley, Sam/Dean
Warnings: knifeplay, bloodplay, blood drinking, blood injection, addiction, dubious consent, angst, dark
Word Count: 4,366
Summary: "If you kick your puppy and leave him in the street, moose, you shouldn't be surprised when someone else takes him home."
Dean knows next to nothing about the mark of Cain but Crowley, he knows enough for both of them. Or, at least, enough to use it to his advantage. In theory, the mark bound Cain to Lucifer. By the same rules, it should bind Dean to him, if he can learn how to use it.
All Dean knows is that if he's lost Sam, there isn't much that matters.
About Sam, they're all wrong, Sam himself included. No matter what he said, when he's faced with losing Dean, he won't go down without a fight.
When Sam’s phone vibrated, he was sure it was Cas. He didn’t get many messages these days, not even with Dean more often gone than he ever had been. Hell, Dean used to text him from the damn gas station, stupid questions and pictures of stale donuts and possibly fresh pie.
So even now, past midnight with his brother God knew where, he didn’t expect Dean, would’ve sworn to it even if the lack of expectation pained him. (And it did, every time, more than he wanted, more than he cared to examine.)
He wasn’t wrong, either. It wasn’t Dean, but it wasn’t Cas either. Crowley, 2 messages in quick succession. Sam’s jaw clenched, strung tight in his hesitation. Could be Abaddon; could be anything. He couldn’t afford not to see.
One click gave him an image of Dean, sprawled and sleeping in a bed they never would have been able to afford, soft sheets crumpled beneath him. He was naked and bloody, beautiful and too pale. Sam’s stomach was caught in a sharp tug and burn, flicker fast before the rush of cold that quenched it. It had been months and his response to Dean’s body was still there, all instinct, but he could take no genuine pleasure in seeing Dean like this.
He swiped the messages away before he’d even finished skimming the message, jabbing Crowley’s name in his contacts with first too much force. The call didn’t connect, and he tried again. After a single ring, Crowley answered, his voice hushed.
“That was fast. Waiting up for someone?”
“What the hell have you done?” He hadn’t meant to yell, he hadn’t, but it echoed around his room, hollowed fury. The bunker swallowed the sound, and Crowley shushed him.
“Keep your voice down; have a little respect! He’s had a hard day. Needs his rest. Loud as you’re carrying on, even over the phone he just might hear you.”
“If you-“ Sam choked, incapable of articulation. His mind suffered the opposite difficulty, all too full of clarity. Once, on a hunt, he’d stumbled on a demon who’d been a minion of Alistair’s in hell. The words he’d gotten out in seconds that covered a fraction of what Dean had suffered in his time downstairs had been enough to give Sam nightmares for years, enough that Sam had stabbed the demon long past the crackle of the knife, past the point where the man’s chest had caved and run red down Sam’s wrists. He’d never offered an explanation and Dean had never asked, but he washed the blood from Sam’s hands with cold water and the scrap of an old shirt. Later, in the dark, he had felt the hesitation in Sam’s hands, murmured soft and low with his lips at the nape of his neck. Don’t think about it, Sammy. Whatever that bitch told you, you know they lie. Trust me.
Sam leaned against the bunker wall, breathing against the burn in his throat.
If this is remotely what it looks like, Crowley, I’ll tear you apart. I swear to God.
I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.
I should have never let him go out alone.
No, no the last was for Dean, not Crowley. Maybe no one, maybe only Sam himself.
Crowley cleared his throat, a polite mockery. “If I had finite minutes, you’d be irritating me. Cat got your tongue?”
“Answer me. What is this?” Because maybe, maybe it was a hoax, maybe it was bait to make him rise, maybe-
“Sam, you surprise me! I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to want the play by play- frankly you’ve always seemed rather the clumsy, jealous type but if you insist I can-“
“What did you do to my brother?” His voice wavered, catching on the word that should’ve tasted easiest.
“Your brother? Oh I’m sorry; must be some mistake. Last I heard, you were an only child.”
Sam’s hand slammed against the wall, quick and sharp. The sting against his palm was steadying, enough to help him breathe. “I swear to God Crowley, if you don’t tell me where you’ve got him-“
“Where I’ve got him? I don’t think you understand; I didn’t send you a hostage notice. It’s more a…celebratory announcement.” His voice had changed; Sam could hear it. A little rough, a little rich, full of arrogance and humor. “If you kick your puppy and leave him in the street, moose, you shouldn't be surprised when someone else takes him home. You should be grateful, even. Poor little lost thing like that, something terrible could’ve happened to him. I’m sure even you wouldn’t want that.”
Sam could feel his face twist, his unseen expression terrible in his glare against solid concrete. “He’s not a dog; he’s a person you sick-“
“Save it. Dog or man, you and I both know what he’s like so let’s be honest with each other, Sam. You kicked him out-“
“I never-“
“-and I took him in. Hasn’t been easy; you did a lot of damage, but for a project of this underlying quality I can handle a few repairs. One man’s trash…well, you know how it goes.” Sam caught the clink of ice on glass, the hesitation as Crowley sipped. “We might be at odds here, but you have to admire my brilliance. Hell hasn’t had a true guard dog since Cain dropped off the map, but I never lost sight of the possibilities of it, all that wasted potential. I started to think, if Lucifer handpicked his pet, why couldn’t I pick mine?”
“So this is the mark. You did do this.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. The mark doesn’t make his choices for him, Sam. It just…opened his eyes to another option. Reminds him where he belongs. Where he’s needed. Loved, even. I can take good care of him, better now than ever, really, since I-“
“You could never-“
“No, I care for him, I do, really. Enough to be fond of him at least, and that’s all it takes. You might have taken psychology, but I think you’ve forgotten a bit about successful conditioning. With Dean, it’s been all too easy. You and the mark provide the pain, I provide the relief, and the positive reinforcement. He kills to protect me, and I reward those instincts. All I showed you was the preliminary results. Give me a few years, and I’ll be the safest thing he knows. Which is to say, Sam, that what I sent you was an example of a foregone conclusion that you need to accept.” The words twisted into a growl, deep and heavy. “Dean will never turn on me, not now. You’ve lost. He’s mine. And I have to say, I’m rather enjoying my winnings.”
Bile rose in Sam’s throat, a sickly sting. He swallowed against it. “Go to hell. When I find Dean-“
“Oh there’s no need to worry about that. He’ll be home tomorrow, of his own accord. He’s no prisoner here. Only a guest.”
Sam hung up the phone.
********
Dean came in just after nine the morning after, pale but with his hands clean. All that Sam had seen of the marks on his skin were hidden by his shirts, no pain visible, no hitch in his step. Sam met him in the library, perched on the edge of a table.
“Hey. Where were you?” It came out like an accusation even though he’d rehearsed it as curiosity, mild, touched with worry.
Dean graced him with a cursory glance. “Chasing a lead on Abaddon; didn’t pan out.”
“I could’ve gone with you.”
“It was nothing; knew it might be.”
“You could’ve called, Dean.”
Dean laughed under his breath, short and sharp. “Cause you’re so worried? How many missed calls do I have from you again? Oh, wait, you never-“
“Dean, we need to talk.”
For that, Dean stopped. His eyes were dark, shoulders tight. For now, Sam would find no way in. “Talking’s the last thing we need. Right now, I need a shower, and then I’ve got work to do. I’m sure you do too.”
Dean’s boots echoed down the hall and Sam caught himself counting the steps, judging the distance, blocking the image of Dean naked under hot water washing Crowley off his skin. Sam swept his hand across the table, let out the breath he hadn’t meant to hold at the satisfying shatter of lightbulb glass.
When the ensuing quiet grew too thick, he pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Cas? I need you to get here.”
“Sam,-“
He couldn’t afford to be postponed; not now. His voice rose, more solid than he felt. “Something’s wrong with Dean, and I need your help. Please.”
********
The problem with lore on the mark of Cain lie chiefly in its narrow focus. Until now, the mark had claimed only one subject, hardly enough for extensive experimental data. Castiel and the men of letters combined could tell Sam disturbingly little, though enough that Crowley’s bits could seep and expand to fit the cracks.
According to biblical lore, the bearer of the mark gained immortality. Cain’s very existence seemed to bear that point out. The bond between the one who carried the mark and the current possessor of hell was another certainty, affirmed by Castiel’s reluctant confirmation. What precisely that entailed Sam and Cas were equally uncertain, though Castiel was adamant that the bond could be overpowered by a stronger tie, a better hand of cards.
Collette was the proof, years of conditioning undone by a single woman. Cain’s soulmate, the first he’d met in all his long years. Her success was Sam’s hope, his only remaining play.
Those were facts, and still, Castiel tried to temper Sam’s hopes. He took Sam’s hand where it lay against the open pages of a crumbling encyclopedia, a gesture that would’ve been more human if he hadn’t used both hands, hadn’t held on so tight.
“You have to understand, Sam, what Collette did she achieved with Lucifer caged. If he had been free and able to go to his weapon’s side, we don’t know how the story would have ended.”
“I do.” And he did, he knew he did, even if the thickness in his voice made him sound unsure. For his brother’s sake, he had denied Lucifer. If he could do it, so could Dean.
“You don’t. And I don’t want to see you walk into this blind.”
“So you think we should let Crowley have him? Just let Dean go?” Sam’s vision blurred and he closed his eyes. He hadn’t cried since Kevin.
“No, I don’t.”
“Because I won’t do it. I won’t.”
“I know, Sam. Neither would I.”
“Then what are you saying, Cas?”
“I’m saying…” He could feel Cas’ exhaustion in his grip, the ebb of the sigh that escaped him. “You have to try. But even if you succeed, Sam, the damage the mark does is extensive; it took Cain years to even begin to control his bloodlust and even then, he remained a dangerous man. So long as he bears the mark, Dean will be half weapon himself, bound to the blade in ways I can’t even begin to understand much less explain. And I very much doubt the pull to Crowley will ever fully leave him.”
“He’s still Dean. If that’s the best we can do, I’ll take it. I’m not gonna leave him to Crowley.”
Castiel’s laughter was soft, unexpected. He anticipated Sam’s question, it seemed, before Sam could even look up.
“It’s just something Dean said to me, years ago. That he would take you as is, addicted, high on demonic power. At the time, I couldn’t understand it. And I helped him anyway.”
Sam laughed, free of humor, a gesture of empathy. Over the table, he met Cas’ eyes. “So you’ll help me.”
“I’ll do what I can to stave off Crowley. The rest has to be up to you.”
********
Sam’s next attempt at conversation went as poorly as his first. He tried, Dean left. Crowley sent Sam a clip of sound, detached from all reference. It didn’t matter; Sam would have known the sound of his brother anywhere. Dean whimpered, sharp and needy. The last time Sam had heard that sound, Dean had been beneath him, his legs spread wide, his body arching as Sam’s cock teased against him without sliding in.
Fuck, Sammy, please, please
In a storage room down the hall from Crowley’s old holding tank, Sam took a table apart with his bare hands, bashed the pieces until they shattered. By the time Dean got home Sam was ready to meet him the door, his bloodied knuckles rinsed but not bandaged.
In the time he’d taken to think, Sam had decided on a pinch of truth. At least. But Dean came in without a coat, neck exposed, a red circle on the left side that might as well have been fucking neon. There was no room left in Sam for subtle pinches of truth after that.
He stepped up to Dean like he knew he’d be allowed, like he still had the right, cupped his hand against Dean’s jaw to tilt his face and give Sam a better look. He hadn’t meant to, not really; he didn’t think, he moved. For an instant they both froze, Dean’s breath slow and measured in its skim against the inside of Sam’s arm.
Sam unglued his throat. “Something you want to tell me, Dean?”
“Yeah.” His voice was low, whiskey rough. Sam’s stomach jolted, though he knew it shouldn’t. In that tone, with that set line of his neck, his shoulders, nothing good ever followed. “Mind your own damn business.” It stung as much as Dean meant it to, enough make Sam pull away. Dean’s utter stillness broke only with Sam’s fingertips clear, his head cocking up to look at his brother. “I mean, that is what this is, right? Business? So if we’re professionals, me and you, then so long as I don’t bring them here, so long as I leave it off the road, it’s nothing to you what I do, who I see outside the job. Isn’t that what you asked for?”
Sam’s jaw worked, and he tempered himself down almost to a whisper. “Maybe. Maybe I did. But it’s not what I want. Not anymore. It never really was, I just-“
“Well, then you shoulda been more careful, cause I gotta tell you, this works.”
“Dean,-“
“Hey, I mean it. You asked for this; I’m just following through.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t ask-“ Sam cut himself off, caught on the arrogance of the words he’d almost said. I didn’t ask for you to move on. I didn’t think you could. Angry(at himself or at Dean, he wasn’t sure), he tried again. “So that’s how it is? Almost nine years of the two of us, and you can put it past you just like that?”
Dean was on him lighting fast, arm heavy against Sam’s chest as he slammed him back into the nearest pillar. The stone was hard, unyielding, but it was the pressure in Dean’s grip that took his breath, forced it gasping from his chest. He had fought Dean a dozen times, grappled without honest intent more times than he can count, but in that grip there was strength in Dean’s arms he’d never felt, a foreign power. For all the research he had done in the mark, no amount of it had ever made it so crystal clear that had he chosen, this Dean could crush him in the palm of his hand.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” If there was conflict in Dean, his voice didn’t betray it. It wasn’t in his iron grip or the set of his lips, but Sam was sure he caught a glimpse of it in his eyes on the release, a glimmer of genuine fear. He stepped away from Sam winded, though the flash quick conflict had hardly taken enough out of him that he should have been. “Look, you made your choice, Sam. I’m just living with it.”
“Dean, what I meant-“
“You say what you mean; you always do. And now I am.” He turned his back, his words muffled as he walked away. “Leave it alone, Sam. Just let it go.”
********
If Sam had his way, he would have fallen asleep and dreamed something decent, something better. Since the confrontation with Dean in the library he’d been able to feel the ghost of Dean’s hands against his arms, feel the way he’d wrapped Sam’s palm in the church, all smooth efficiency before he pulled Sam into his arms.
We will figure this out; just like we always do. Let it go. Let it go, brother.
Leave it alone, Sam. Just let it go.
Neither of them had ever been very good at letting go.
On his phone, Sam had kept the picture. He should have deleted it, he knew that much, and still he pulled it up every night, stared until his stomach turned and he had to look away. The more he looked, the less he was sure which part hurt more- that Dean had, in the end, turned away from him again; that Sam had left him vulnerable; that Crowley had taken advantage, had taken Dean into his bed and broken him open, left him there to sleep it off alone.
Dean hated to sleep alone. He preferred the weight of Sam beneath him, against his back, across his chest. He had hated it when they were boys, his complaints against Sam’s long teenage limbs entirely without venom; since hell, he’d hated it even more. The nightmares still woke him, not that he admitted it. His breathing shifted and he came awake too quick, reached for Sam, and then his flask.
Sam let the phone drop, rolled over and stared up at the pitch black of his ceiling. Tonight, Dean wasn’t so far, not really. Across the hall, a matter of feet and two doors. He could go to him, knock on the door and try for a kiss and take his chances. He could go and ask, lean into the frame of the door and force out the question that had burned in his mind since he’d realized that not every bit of this was Crowley, not every bit was the mark.
Do you even think of me at all, when he’s fucking you? How could you not? And if you do, how do you go through with it? How much of it really is the mark, Dean? How much would you want without it?
No matter the ending he found to all of this, those were answers Sam knew he didn’t really want. Still, a part of him wished he knew, a part he hated almost as much as the lingering question of what he might feel to find out that it was Crowley, every bit of it, no part of it Dean himself. He didn’t want that, not really; he couldn’t. But the thought was in his mind, and that was damning enough.
********
All his life, Sam had watched Dean kill. He knew the deliberation of Dean’s movements when it troubled him, staccato efficiency, knew the effortless ease in his hands that could come when it didn’t. Each piece was a part of him, as inseparable as any other, and Sam, he knew them all.
Across the room Dean pinned the witch to the wall with one hand to his throat, the mark standing out stark against the flex of his arm. He called back to Sam without looking away from the terror in the man’s eyes, his voice tight. “Sam, you hurt?”
A little, a slash on his wrist, a twist in his shoulder that would need a little heat, a little rest. He shook his head, though Dean couldn’t see. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m ok, Dean.”
“Alright.” He murmured to the man beneath his hand, dark and beautiful, almost soothing. “For that, I’ll make this quick.” And it was, little more than a heartbeat, finished in a single loud crack of bone. Dean let the body flop to the floor like a limp stalk with the flower snipped, flexed as hand as he watched it collapse. The desire and elation rolled off him in waves.
Sam acknowledged neither. He pressed his hand to Dean’s spine, light and careful, unwilling to startle him. “Are you hurt?”
“What?” Like a dog on the hunt, Dean’s eyes hadn’t left the unnatural bend of the man’s neck, not once.
Sam’s hand clenched into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, tight. “Dean, are you hurt?”
Dean shook himself, pulled away. There was a burn on his wrist, two coils of a stove eye. Already, it was bubbling up. “No. Piece of cake.”
“Yeah, but your arm-“
“I got it; thanks.”
Maybe he did, but Sam reached anyway, caught Dean’s hand for just long enough that his fingertips grazed the wound.
Sam was sure Dean shivered as he pulled away, barely perceptible, just under the skin.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
*******
Sam opened Dean’s beer first, set it down before cracking the cap on his own. The rise in Dean’s eyebrows was slight when he looked up, a question without much curiosity. “Thought we were working?”
“We are; you gonna get drunk off one more beer?” Dean wouldn’t, he knew, not even if it was his fifth. Not all the way, at least, but they hadn’t had dinner, and he’d seen Dean take at least one hit his of his whiskey. He might not be drunk, but he was a little looser, a little warmer. Sam could work in small increments, if he had to.
Dean accepted, and Sam watched him drink while he read until he was almost finished, dregs swirling at the bottom of the glass. Dean had slipped his jacket off, draped it against the back of the chair. He was at as much ease as he was gonna be for the foreseeable future and Sam took his opening, leaned in from behind with his hands on Dean’s shoulders on the pretext of studying a table in the book.
It was the most touch they’d had in ages, Sam’s palms spread wide over cotton, the muscle beneath knotted and tight. Sam squeezed, carefully at first while he read from the page. When Dean didn’t shake him off, he fell silent, kneaded in earnest until he could feel the tension begin to seep away beneath his fingers. Dean’s head tilted just a touch, so slight Sam might have imagined it. It was no open invitation, no graceful arc of bared skin like Dean had often so freely offered him. It was a crack, nothing more, but Sam took it.
Even now, even like this Dean turned to meet him when he leaned in to claim a kiss. Sam was deliberate, teased at Dean’s lips with his tongue with an insistence that could not be denied. Dean let him, passive though he made a sound so high and quiet Sam hardly heard it, even this close. It went to Sam’s chest in a sharp stab of lust and hurt, spurred him to let go of Dean’s shoulders and take his face in his hands. Dean was permitting him, now, but if he kissed him properly, if he did this right Dean would understand, he would answer, he would kiss back and Sam could take him to bed and in the morning, they could talk. It was always easier like that, between them, always simpler to lead with action.
Dean jerked away. “No.”
He couldn’t mean it, he couldn’t, and still Sam let go like he’d been scalded. He couldn’t mean it, but Sam would respect it, if he had to. Sam’s hands curled around the top slat of Dean’s chair, a stabilizing force though Dean sat forward, his back away from even the brush of Sam’s knuckles.
“I can’t do it, Sam. You said we’d keep hunting, and that I can give you, but this…” He shook his head, just once. “It doesn’t mean the same thing to us anymore. And that’s more than I can give.”
“It doesn’t have to. Dean,-“
“Hey, I told you, I didn’t start this, but I-“
“And you’ve never, never in your life said something to me you didn’t mean? Not out in front of that hospital, when you said we’d never be the same?” Sam pushed away from the chair, frustration and rage and fear giving him back enough will to move that he could circle around, face his brother. “I was pissed, Dean! Hell, I still am! I believed every word you said in that church, just you and me, and then you lied to me, for months, and you brought in an angel in that killed Kevin, that could’ve made me kill you; did you ever even think about that, or did it slip your mind?”
Dean stood, snatched his gun from beside the computer. Dimly, Sam realized he probably should have been afraid, but this was Dean, his Dean. He only feared that Dean might go.
“So we are asking for the same thing, here. I was mad. I’m gonna be mad for a while, Dean, but I was wrong too, ok? Me and you. That’s it. So when you say we don’t want the same thing from this-“
“I gave you that choice, Sam! That was me, and you didn’t take it.” Dean looked right at him. It didn’t feel anything like acknowledgement. “You have any idea what that felt like?”
“I don’t know, Dean. You have any idea what it feels like to have this picture in my head I can’t shake of Crowley all over you?”
Dean flinched, hard enough that for a moment, Sam almost regretted it.
Dean turned, and maybe Sam could have caught him if he was faster, maybe he should have tried, but he had no words left, and Dean slammed the door behind him.