blood donor (Sam, Dean - Gen)
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester (Demon)
Genre: Gen, no pairingsSummary: Written for prompt - "Demon!Dean and Sam reunite after Sam searches for Dean, happy ending". (Set post S9 finale Do You Believe In Miracles)
--
Dean is painfully difficult to miss. He’s always had the craft of disappearing into a crowd down pat, if only because John made it mandatory, but occasionally Dean would walk into a room, and every head would turn perfectly in time. Even mid-puberty and almost gawky, Dean’s presence had never dimmed, so now at thirty-six he smirks, and the entire bar lights on fire.
Quite literally too, at times - but tonight Dean is at the back of the bar, watching as women dance on stage, and nobody is fawning over him. He turns just enough when Sam walks in, spares a brief, displeased glance at him, then turns back to the show on stage.
“Hello, baby brother.”
“Dean.”
“Come to spoil the party again, huh?” He finally turns completely, eyes shifting slimy black.
“Come to help you,” Sam retorts, forcing himself not to react to the darkness in Dean’s eyes.
Dean snorts. “Too bad I’m still not ready for that,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Sam doesn’t react.
--
The fourth time does the trick. Sam grins, feral and mirthless, and claps a pair of handcuffs onto Dean’s wrists, then watches as Dean looks down, notice the new sigils carved into the demon-proofed metal, and blink his eyes a cold, hard black. Before he knows it, he’s thrown against the wall with Dean’s elbow on his sternum.
“My fun’s not over yet,” he hisses, and for the first time since Sam found his trail, he feels hope.
“I think it is,” Sam says, and throws a knee between them, knocking wind out of Dean’s stomach - Dean doesn’t need breath, but it nevertheless hurts, affording him enough give to turn the situation around, pushing his knife against Dean’s throat.
Then Dean smirks - slow, unmindful of the blade on his neck. “Don’t bring a weapon you’re not gonna use to a fight, Sammy,” he tsks, and the next moment he’s leaning into the blade, forcing Sam to step back, and then there’s a sickening crunch-pop. “Don’t need demon powers to have fun,” he chuckles darkly, and presses his thumb into the dislocated joint on Sam’s shoulder.
“Don’t need demon powers to stop you,” Sam grits out against the wrenching pain, and jabs a syringe into Dean’s neck, feeling the pressure on his shoulder ease as Dean collapses. “Research, Dean,” he says, but there’s no victory in his voice.
--
“You know this is violating bodily autonomy, don’t you Sammy?”
It shouldn’t hurt, it really shouldn’t - it’s not his brother talking to him in the chair, calling him Sammy and throwing salt on his wounds. Dean, maybe - a version of Dean who cares about nothing, not even the Impala - but not his brother, and not his Dean.
“I mean, honestly - hypocrisy doesn’t look that great on you.”
“I’m not getting you possessed,” Sam bites out, and immediately regrets it when Dean’s face lights up in triumph.
“Was worrying I’d accidentally taken your voice away, Sammy,” he says. “That’d be a shame.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. I don’t wanna be a human, Sam. Does that mean anything to you - what I want? No, of course not - ‘cause Sammy gets what he wants, but only Sammy gets it,” he says, and his eyes flash black.
“You’d rather die than become a demon,” Sam says, but he feels faraway, distant.
“Yeah, well - that’s called changing your mind, Sammy. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? You’ve done that very same - ”
Sam settles on gagging him, hands shaking and fingers twitching. He knows far too well how it feels to have his brother torn away from right beside him, loss so overwhelming nothing ever muffles the constant noise that screams Dean - less a name than the reason for every next breath he takes, and far too often the reason every breath hurts. He’s not going through that again, and he’s not letting anyone stand in his way - even if it is Dean himself.
--
“You know you want it,” Dean says, and it’s so ridiculously like a terrible porn line in perfect delivery that Sam looks up and stares uncertainly at Dean, wondering if he’s finally gone mad.
Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam flinches. It isn’t so much that the particular movement hurts him, as that the entire being existing in front of him makes him want to stop existing. It’s almost poetic, maybe, in a pathetically tragic way, that the one single person that makes him feel alive as no one else does, is also what makes him want to die.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says - needles. Sam fights the urge to smash his face in. “As they say, the addiction never truly goes away - and if you think it has, don’t you want to test it?”
Sam looks at Dean, baring his throat, glint in his eyes, and wants. He wants - not the blood, not the demon blood - but he wants to know. He needs to. He’s always needed to - to poke and prod and prove - to know, for sure. He wants to know that it’s really gone, that he’s not a -
But his brother is. Everything that Dean has ever hated, he now is. Monster, check. Freak, check. Demon - check.
“Shut up, Dean,” he says, and plunges the sixth syringe into his brother’s body.
--
Dean is begging and making no sense whatsoever. “I don’t wanna be like you,” he’s screaming, and Sam can understand that. Honestly, that anyone might even potentially want to be like him never even crossed his mind.
But the next moment he’s screaming that he can’t do it like Sam did, and Sam is so strung out by that point he crosses over, grips Dean’s shoulder, and growls in his face, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Can’t be like you,” he’s muttering, “’m not like you.”
If he could understand what Dean was even saying, he would be able to calm his brother down - whatever he is now, enough of Sam’s blood to render him a little human. As it is, he releases Dean and turns back to the door. “I know you’re not,” he says, confused defensiveness mixing in with reassurance, but Dean only throws him a despairing look and starts begging again.
It’s not like Crowley - it’s nothing like seeing Crowley humanised. Dean alternately growls and pleads with him, but there’s only one tune he’s singing - don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, and Sam wonders what makes his blood so repulsive to his own brother.
“’m not str’ng like you,” Dean slurs at the end of the hour, defeated and tired. Sam frowns, and injects the syringe into Dean’s neck.
--
“You’re turning me into a vampire, Sammy,” is the first thing Dean says when he’s no longer looking like he’s dead. “Gonna want for human blood the rest of my life - worse still, I’m gonna want your blood.”
“What?”
“Gonna become a human blood junkie - and it’ll never stop,” Dean says, and chuckles. “Guess I’ll know how you felt about demon blood - and I’m going to be a hundred times worse too, Sammy.”
“You’re going to be cured,” Sam says, like Dean’s slow. “You’re going to get back to being a human.”
Dean snorts. “You think,” he says, and then falls silent for the rest of the hour.
--
“I don’t want to become human,” Dean says clearly, and Sam feels his stomach drop. He’s seen this before - Crowley before the very last dose, and at that time Crowley had turned compliant, even Crowley. He’s already turning away before Dean can say anything more, rifling through the papers on the desk, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. “You know what happens when you cure me,” Dean continues, and Sam stops. Completely.
He whirls back, hope rising again as anger. “We don’t know what will happen,” he says, voice harsh.
“We know what might happen,” Dean says, looks at Sam, and grins. For the first time, there’s nothing there but exhaustion and fondness, and despite Dean’s words his heart clenches helplessly at the sight. “Swear to God, Sammy - I’m not taking that chance.”
“Yeah, well - I am,” Sam retorts.
Then Dean smiles, and shakes his head. “’m afraid it’s not up to you, Sammy. There’s only been one Cain before me - I don’t suppose your research was quite as trustworthy as you thought they were - “ and then he clenches his fists, the chains, the cuffs - break, and Sam’s world turns black.
“No,” the word is out before he knows it, cracked and hoarse like he’s been crying himself into oblivion for hours. “No, you can’t do this to me - you can’t...” Then Dean’s hand is in his hair and on his cheek - and without knowing he’s reaching up to grab at Dean, stay that touch. “Dean - ”
“Hey hey - kiddo, calm down,” and it’s a Pavlovian response, the slowing of his breathing, the calming of his heart, and he can almost hate it, because the moment he’s no longer seeing stars Dean is moving back, away. He watches Dean’s lips twist into a smile, bleak. “I’m going to be the death of you,” he says, and there is no joke in it, no mocking, nothing but truth.
“You can’t stay a demon,” Sam says, because that’s what he’s been trying to undo for eight months now, trying to track Dean down and trying to find out everything he can about Cain. “You’re hurting people,” he says, and knows Dean hears you hurt me when he winces.
“I do that whether I’m demon or human, Sam,” he says. “And if you try to force that last dose on me I’ll blink out of here so fast to somewhere you can’t track me down. I’m not going to be responsible for killing you. Not like this.”
Then like what? Sam wants to say. By leaving me again? But his world is crumbling yet again before his very eyes and he doesn’t know how many more times he can try to build it up again piece by piece without going insane. “If you leave,” he croaks out, finally, more a futile promise, a helpless confession than a threat - “If you leave, I swear I’ll tear the world apart to find you. I swear - you’ve seen me - ”
“I’ve seen you,” Dean agrees, and for a moment Sam wonders if Dean will leave, if he’s become more amoral than a demon - then - “You’re a mess without me, huh? Well - I’m a mess without you too, Sammy.”
“W- What?”
Dean huffs. “You made me a Sammy-blood junkie, dude,” he grouses, but there’s no heat in his words.
Sam has to swallow twice before speaking, and even then his voice is rough. “I’ll be your dealer?”
The swat to his head is the best thing he’s ever felt - “You’ll be my blood donor, bitch.”