Fic: 'Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)' (Sam/Dean; R, 2/2)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (2/2)
Sam/Dean, R
Summary, Author’s Notes, etc. can be found back in Part One.
Part Two
It’s a complicated process, the ritual, involves a lot of chanting, herbs, Latin stuff Dean’s not good at, but apparently his tail’s really prehensile, drawing out the correct symbols in chalk down the hallway of cages, connecting lines that linked all the sleeping creatures. It’s a modified version of the familiar circle, one that Sam’s thankful they-he can use. No need to pull them out of their cages with the nets. But he’s still breathing heavy, nausea turning his stomach, nervousness over anything else.
He’s done clean-up, earlier, brought the bodies back, salted and burned the ones they couldn’t save.
He wrenches the knob on the faucet in the small little bathroom off the main office, places the small first aid kit they carry around on the sink edge. He grabs a slip of melted soap and starts to scrub the grime and blood off his hands. Scrubs himself near raw, pool of water pink, droplets getting on his slimy shirt, on his sweaty face.
Sam breathes in and out, slowly, wipes his hair out of his eyes. The mirror’s too dusted and cracked over and he’s almost glad he can’t see himself, his expression. Like he’s expecting something else there, the same fucking look of terror in his eyes that surely Dean saw. Or disgust, or fright, god, Dean’s gone and they don’t have any time left.
After that, he patches up the gashes on his belly, more superficial scrapes than he thought. It’s hard to do it by himself, but he’s okay. He’ll live.
Sam rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.
Cleansing ritual, fire, throwing up special herbs and dust through cage bars. Sam lighting a match-books of them gone in an hour, starts to use the flamethrower after-and throwing it directly on them. They aren’t burned; it takes a moment before bodies shift and crack into smaller, into larger, compact forms, human, unconscious and sleeping. The cleansing ritual goes on for hours, takes a lot of energy out of him. He’s thinking of Dean all the while, before and after, his face, that look.
And isn’t that the kicker, that Sam misses his brother, hates how this sort of darkness keeps creeping into their lives.
That he misses him, like a burning in his gut, needs him. Thoughts that are jumbled, dark, wrong. Little slip of madness, that’s always been there-jerking off in motel showers, Dean’s name on his lips-but it’s taking this to bring them out. He can’t put a name on it, whatever the feeling is, beyond comprehension right now with the smell of burnt matches in the air, burnt flesh even though the fire’s mystical, and the people are unharmed. Cured.
But Dean isn’t here to be transformed, to be saved.
Fuck.
~
Sam’s in the Impala now, wind ruffling his hair, car slowly easing down a residential block. He’s left the pick-up at the warehouse, and sinks into the familiar leather seat with comfort and apprehension-car, the car’s his home, as it were, but not this side. Not driving; that’s Dean, cocky, serious, gamut of emotions that run across a face Sam actually misses terribly, for all the bickering and complaining.
But then he doesn’t have time to dwell, not when there’s smoke in the distance, first licks of flames that catch his eye and soon enough he pulls over, small crowd of people, fire trucks and firefighters dealing with a blaze tearing through one old Victorian style house. The smoke billows up high, brown and black plumes, linger in the dead air.
He gets out of the car, coming to stand-and tower-over the small crowd. They’re haggard, nervous, not enough sleep from the terrors that have kept them awake at night-ready to jerk at a moment’s notice. Sam and the crowd stare at the burning house in front of him. That’s when he hears the first cries to terror, a woman hitting futilely at the chest of a fireman, screaming about her children.
“Oh god, what is that?” cries one woman, hand over her mouth, pointing.
And there’s a large shadow moving through the bushes, the sound of children crying as their bodies settle on the ground lightly before the shadow disappears.
That’s my brother, Sam thinks, and he’s never been prouder in his life.
He slips into the car to follow, barely clears the corner of the block when he sees Dean slithering across an intersection quickly.
But Sam’s got the windows rolled down, hearing a curse outside, on the block. It’s one of the people in the crowd, a man holding a gun, kind of look that screams he knows how to use it, albeit in hunting.
And there’s the biggest, weirdest animal game around these parts, streaking across a lawn-and then gun’s aimed right square between Dean’s shoulders.
~
Sam sucks in a breath when the shot goes off, feels his heart hammer as the Impala skids, and he realizes he’s yelling.
Not like this, he thinks, but Mom didn’t get to ask that, Dad didn’t, Jessica didn’t. But fuck if he’s going to let it happen like this.
The first bullet barely grazes Dean, Sam’s able to tell, swerving the car around the block towards him-close enough to watch him nearly fall over when two and three hit their targets, his shoulder and right side. He’s still moving too fast for Sam to catch up, having discarded the Impala by the curb and running after Dean, gun in one hand, bobbing flashlight in the other.
There’s a backyard, high wooden fence that Dean scales over like nothing, falls more than gracefully slipping down the other side, between two small, old fashioned two story buildings. Sam takes a while to reach him, sweaty when he scales the fence, twinge in his left leg disagreeable as he runs into the alley.
“Dean,” Sam says, panting, quiet, keeps the flashlight beam steady. He hears a rustling, seeing a brief glance of dark claws at the edge of the beam’s halo.
Sam waits, breathing steady.
“Sam.”
His voice is different, echoing, this foreign, rumbling noise that makes Sam hesitate, makes him long to move forward. But he’s only got a short amount of time-
“Dean… come on. You have to come with me. I’ve got the ritual-I, I used it on the others. You’re hurt. The sun will be up soon, and if you don’t let me help you, then… you’ll be stuck like this.”
He waits for a moment, doesn’t care if his voice cracks when he says, “And I’m not gonna lose you like this. I’m going to save you.”
Doesn’t add that he wouldn’t go, that he’d stay-
But then he sees him, blinking owlishly in the dark, golden eyes a little off, not the same shape. Narrowed, more, sees the glint of sharp teeth. Then there’s a slide on pavement, smooth and rough, like a body being dragged. Sam lifts the flashlight slowly, raising it up to trace a soft glow against Dean’s lower half, streaked bloody, little dry rivulets from his side, and up, more, pans up his chest.
“Shut up,” Dean growls, constant rumble in the back of his throat. He slides forward, and Sam feels himself taking a step back.
“But Dean-”
“Shut up!” he hisses, and that’s when he coils up and surges forward, right at Sam.
~
Right at him, no, past him, brings his tail up, thick, to lurch and wrap around a shadow passing by. There’s a yelp of noise, fumbling, as Dean wraps his hand around the person’s mouth and yanks them back into the alley, a tumble of limbs and tail that falls heavy, rough, to the dirty pavement.
Sam stands nearby, almost too shocked to react, because the man Dean’s holding is an elderly gentleman, early sixties with a wisp of white hair, overcoat and plaid dress shirt. Fuck, he knows.
“The doctor?”
Dean nods, keeps his hand wrapped around the man’s throat, pushing down, not quite choking him. All the while the man’s coughing, scuttling, trying to move away, but Dean holds fast, tail slowly weaving through and wrapping around his legs.
“Get off of me!”
“What’d you put into the candy?” Dean growls, shakes him by the collar. “Tell me!”
“You’re-” The man pants, glances from Dean to Sam and back again. “You’re those Winchester boys, aren’t you?”
“Saving the intros for later,” Sam says, points the flashlight and gun at the doctor, doesn’t care if the man blinks furiously, trying to close his eyes. “So, what’d you get? Money? Power? Street cred with your monster buddies?”
Dean leans forward, too close for comfort, sniffing the man’s face and neck. “Don’t think it went down like that. He’s-he’s not a demon.”
“What?”
Sam’s mouth curls into a sneer as the doctor’s eyes flash black, as though proving Dean’s point. Says in a voice that’s harder, edge of madness creeping in, “If you’re here to stop me, Sam, I think you’d best save the energy for your pet monster.”
Sam cocks the gun as Dean bares his teeth, not blunt, razor sharp now, right near the junction of the doctor’s jaw and neck. “Well, you’re not getting away with it. I found a cure. People are getting back to normal.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve had my fun,” the doctor says, grinning devilishly, offers a little shrug. “I’ve tried, time and time again-those demons you talk about, you know how some get off on torturing you humans? And oh, it’s beautiful, the way the body works-blood, bone breaks through, bruised skin. Strive so hard for outside perfection, and the body grows weak, ugly.”
“Made some demon deals and got your hands on a spell book or two when you weren’t getting results the old fashioned scientific way, huh?” Sam interjects, voice too sharp and low, roughness that he can’t squeeze out, not when he’s seen monsters that are so tiny, soft, children-
“I’ve tried so hard, to teach you all a lesson. So you can understand. Now I have, I have achieved it! This town, this stupid little town-you’re all monsters inside, might as well twist the flesh outside, and show what you really are.”
Sam’s jaw tightens, and he feels a little off, head numb, too much running and fighting, not enough sleep, tired and weary, sharp tang of Dean’s blood the only thing that’s keeping him going, because he can’t quite look at Dean’s face and mouth. It’s like the corner of his eye, where he keeps the look, not quite there, avoidable, can’t-
“Look at him, Sam. Look at that thing you call your brother,” the doctor says, Dean’s hold on his collar tightens, draws blood. “He’s been perfected, the true model of gluttony and lust.”
He cants his head in Dean’s grip and Dean cries out, moan tearing through him, shudders and shakes. Sam’s watching him transform, again, further-spikes that pop out of the flesh of his back, down his spine, getting longer and more dangerous. His skin’s in patches, tearing and melting off; the leathery skin of the ridges grows thicker, harder, and then Dean’s face starts to push out, expand further into strong jaws.
Sam moves, then, pulling Dean’s upper body away from the doctor, one hand on the rough skin of his bicep. The changes cease, connection broken, and all Sam’s left with is a brother who looks far less human, with a monster that would sooner tear his throat out by the way he shakes, jaws clenched. He doesn’t look at Sam, doesn’t look at the doctor, line of tension to his posture and strain on his jaw, muscles of his neck and shoulders.
The doctor laughs, a ringing, cackling sound in the dark, eyes that aren’t quite seeing, madness. His hands reach out, like claws as he keeps on laughing, grabbing at himself, at his arm.
It’s a sound that cuts off abruptly when Dean jerks his head, quick, lunging to grab the doctor by the collar too hard, sharp crack that has the doctor’s head lolling in Dean’s hands, his claws.
Sam sucks in a breath sharply, staring at Dean, unable to move. Dean, who’s snarling and spitting, tongue darts out and licks his mouth, as if in anticipation, wanting to taste-no, to tear into-the freshly dead body laid out in front of him. Doesn’t act on it though; he stays rigid, in place, like if he doesn’t move the whole thing isn’t real. His breathing is steady, loud panting, and he straightens, too tense, ready to snap.
A wave of worry, dread, determination courses through Sam, finds himself grabbing Dean by the shoulders, facing him. “Dean. Dean, look at me.”
But he doesn’t, avoiding Sam’s gaze, head snaps up and forward when Sam shakes him, fingers digging into the rough texture of Dean’s shoulders.
“I know you. I-I know who you really are. And this isn’t you, but you’re still my brother. Don’t give up on me, man. We’re gonna fix this. Hang in there, all right? Just hang in there.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, and his features seem to soften, less hard and alien, eyes closing as he sighs. Sam can see the fright there, that Dean’ll never voice, the way he’s trying, for him. Dean opens his eyes again, still gold, pupils distorted into thin slits, saying shakily, “The kids. They safe?”
Sam nods.
“I have to go find the others,” Dean says, his voice rough, rolls his shoulder muscles and slips out of Sam’s grip. He’s healing up quickly; a bullet pushes out and falls from his shoulder wound at the motion, another two bullets fall from his side and plink and clatter to the ground. Doesn’t look Sam in the eye, saying, “The monsters that set the house on fire. I-I have to go after them. They’re the last ones left.”
“Dean-”
“They’re just kids, Sam. They didn’t know. I’m not letting them stay like-like this,” he says, glances at his clawed hands before he moves towards the curb near the parked Impala. Sam’s already following behind him, shoulder brushes against him when he stops, saying, “No. I’m doin’ this alone. You go back and get everything ready. I’m going in the sewers.”
He runs his fingers over the roof of the Impala, caressing, careful to keep the tips of his fingers up, so the longer nails won’t scratch the paint. Dean reaches into the back window and pulls out one of the nets thrown on the backseat.
Sam opens and shuts his mouth, scrunches his nose. He doesn’t say a word because it’s not like Dean’ll listen-stubbornness in his blood regardless of situation, as always, a trait Sam hates and loves.
“I’m faster tracking it alone,” Dean offers by way of explanation when he straightens up, eyelevel with Sam. He moves towards the manhole cover, bends down and lifts it up to place it aside. “Trust me.”
Sam shifts his weight from either foot, a little pace before he says, “Dean,” just as his brother starts to move down into the hole. Dean stops and straightens up, muffled words on his tongue when Sam crushes his mouth against his, hands cupping Dean’s cheeks and the leathery skin of his face.
His tongue pushes in, all too quick when it draws back over the edge of sharp teeth, over thinner lips. Knows that it’s him saying goodbye, that it’s too obvious, but can’t help it, feels the time winding down, clenching his heart, still, can feel it jack-hammering, wonders if Dean can pick up on it.
Sam wonders if Dean can pick up on how he’s so ready to be swallowed down by the darkness creeping in at the edges, accepting him as it all goes down south, haywire, and the body before them. Heart attack, neck snapped, god, Sam doesn’t want to look.
Doesn’t, not when he’s accepting this, pushing his tongue into Dean’s mouth and takes him over a crazed dead man’s corpse.
And Dean pushes back, responds, soft groan and sharp teeth.
Dean’s eyes are wide in the dark when he pulls away, irregular series of breaths before he nods and moves down into the sewers, Sam’s gut clenching at the last sight of his tail.
~
Sam wants to kick himself.
His thoughts come in short bursts, a repeated droning in his head, fractions that scatter and collide in his brain. Anger at waiting alone, anger at letting Dean go, anger at the slight chill that makes him shiver, leaning against the Impala’s side. He’s at the warehouse again, having just buried the doctor. Sam’s worn out, aching muscles from concentration, waiting for Dean to come back.
The minute Sam starts thinking about embedded GPS devices, the nearby manhole cover shakes and pops open. He rushes over, a body shoved into his arms, wrapped up in one net. It’s small and hairy, a little unconscious monster that he places down, another one that’s slightly bigger immediately shoved up into his hands, also wrapped in a net.
After a moment, there’s a grunt, and Dean pokes his head and shoulders up out of the sewer. Sam moves to grab him but Dean shakes his hands away, tells him to get the kids. He crawls out of the sewer on his arms and elbows, tight against his sides, as though they’re starting to fuse together-and they are, Sam can see it, the way the skin stretches, slowly melts, strings of flesh and slime.
There’s a web of angry burns down the length of Dean’s flank, blackened and bloodied mess over newly healing gunshot wounds.
They’re running out of time, Sam knows, lets a string of curses fly out of his mouth when Dean refuses the ritual first, tells him to “take care… of the kids, Sam. Don’t let them-don’t let them stay. Stuck.”
And isn’t that a knife to the belly, Sam reciting the incantations over their sleeping forms back in the warehouse, pinch of dust that sends a fire blazing, all the while Dean moans and writhes on the floor behind him, tries to muffle the sounds by turning away, presses his mouth and chin into the softness of Sam’s discarded jacket.
Sam turns away and faces Dean, fumbling with his items, mouth and hands on auto-pilot as the first rays of sunlight start to creep into his vision, streaks of light that grow on the floor, reaching towards Dean’s tail.
But he throws the dust on Dean, words slip slide out of his mouth, and then he lights a match, throwing it on Dean like he’s done more than two dozen times in the past few hours, but this time he’s willing it to work more than he’s wished for anything in his life.
~
Sam sits on the floor next to Dean, knees up, head in his hands. He rubs his face with the back of his sleeve and looks over at Dean. At least he’s not moaning now.
The light casts harsh shadows on the contour of Dean’s chest. Still covered in scales, still half-snake, still a monster, that flutters his eyes open, weakly, mumbling.
“Dean?”
Dean’s face scrunches up, like he’s about to complain when his face actually moves, physically, moment passes and his body starts to shift, lighten in color and grow softer in texture. Sam almost falls over, feeling too gangly and awkward all a sudden, resting on his knees as a slit forms down the length of Dean’s shortening tail, clean cut that breaks in half, forming the corded muscles of his thighs, calves, legs.
Within a few minutes he’s back to normal, sheen of sweat and naked, yeah, hands that fumble to grab and check, as always, just to be sure. Dean sits up on his elbows, chin tucked down, forehead creased as he peers up at Sam.
“Sammy?”
Sam lets out a breath and almost lunges, barely able to contain himself, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck.
“Get offa me, you big girl. Goddamn, Sam, get off!”
But he still slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders, patting him once, twice, before he punches him on the arm.
Sam groans, eyes narrowing. “Idiot.”
The sunlight’s stirring the people in cages awake from the looks of things-adults and kids stare out numbly in their cages, soft murmuring as their bodies struggle awake, as if waking from a bad dream. Some are awake, some still passed out-right, they need to get them back, Sam knows, even if it’s hard to concentrate when Dean stands up, cock bobbing up and down as he hops from foot to foot, grinning.
“Man, we gotta like, steal a bus,” Dean says with a smirk as Sam gets up quickly. He gestures to the groggy people in the cages, saying, “So we can get all these people to the ER and looked after.”
Sam nods, saying tightly, “You need clothes.”
Dean looks down at himself. “Hey, buddy! Been a long time!”
“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters, swiping a large book off the desk to shove it into Dean’s flat belly, his brother scrambling to hold it in front of his exposed dick.
~
They’re in the hotel room later, Sam closing his laptop as Dean scans through the local newspaper, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile. He tears a page out and folds it a little sloppily, rubbing his shoulder with a hand afterwards, looking over and down for any remnants of the bullet wounds. They’re all gone and he’s looking fresh faced, skin soft and pliable, like a new coat of paint or something-something Sam isn’t really wanting to think about, not when he’s just been on the ‘net for a good half hour, avoiding looking at Dean’s mouth.
A mouth that’s back to normal, full lips in place of the angular drawn mouth he just kissed hours before.
“So, what’s the deal?”
“What?” Sam jerks his head up abruptly, licks his lips.
Dean nods at the laptop. “What’re the news saying?”
“Food poisoning. They think one of the local candy manufacturers slipped in a bunch of hallucinogens. But mysteriously, they’re all going to pull through thanks to a ‘good Samaritan’ bringing them into the hospital for observation. All twenty six of them.”
“Yeah, Sam-aritan. Funny.”
It’s not but Sam pretends to laugh anyway, his skin twitching with discomfort, trying to find something to look at that’ll distract him.
Dean stands for a minute, and he happens to have his shirt off-it’s not like he does it often, he’s not that bad about flaunting his body-but it’s like having this readily seen expanse of skin, of normal skin, there, gives him relief. Normal and human.
Not a monster, despite the tension to his body still. To them both, always avoiding and denying, like they haven’t seen these bodies the past two nights.
Doctor gone down, dead, good riddance, Sam tells himself, tells Dean, Dean nodding, tight, changed the subject just as quick.
“Sam?”
Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, avoiding Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, Dean?”
“Wanna join me in the shower? I’ve got grit in places you wouldn’t believe,” he says, grins wide at the open mouthed stare Sam gives back. He’s giving a cackle when Sam gets up, slowly, then quicker, fast, long strides as he pulls his shirt up over his head, taking Dean up on that offer.
end
Sam/Dean, R
Summary, Author’s Notes, etc. can be found back in Part One.
Part Two
It’s a complicated process, the ritual, involves a lot of chanting, herbs, Latin stuff Dean’s not good at, but apparently his tail’s really prehensile, drawing out the correct symbols in chalk down the hallway of cages, connecting lines that linked all the sleeping creatures. It’s a modified version of the familiar circle, one that Sam’s thankful they-he can use. No need to pull them out of their cages with the nets. But he’s still breathing heavy, nausea turning his stomach, nervousness over anything else.
He’s done clean-up, earlier, brought the bodies back, salted and burned the ones they couldn’t save.
He wrenches the knob on the faucet in the small little bathroom off the main office, places the small first aid kit they carry around on the sink edge. He grabs a slip of melted soap and starts to scrub the grime and blood off his hands. Scrubs himself near raw, pool of water pink, droplets getting on his slimy shirt, on his sweaty face.
Sam breathes in and out, slowly, wipes his hair out of his eyes. The mirror’s too dusted and cracked over and he’s almost glad he can’t see himself, his expression. Like he’s expecting something else there, the same fucking look of terror in his eyes that surely Dean saw. Or disgust, or fright, god, Dean’s gone and they don’t have any time left.
After that, he patches up the gashes on his belly, more superficial scrapes than he thought. It’s hard to do it by himself, but he’s okay. He’ll live.
Sam rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.
Cleansing ritual, fire, throwing up special herbs and dust through cage bars. Sam lighting a match-books of them gone in an hour, starts to use the flamethrower after-and throwing it directly on them. They aren’t burned; it takes a moment before bodies shift and crack into smaller, into larger, compact forms, human, unconscious and sleeping. The cleansing ritual goes on for hours, takes a lot of energy out of him. He’s thinking of Dean all the while, before and after, his face, that look.
And isn’t that the kicker, that Sam misses his brother, hates how this sort of darkness keeps creeping into their lives.
That he misses him, like a burning in his gut, needs him. Thoughts that are jumbled, dark, wrong. Little slip of madness, that’s always been there-jerking off in motel showers, Dean’s name on his lips-but it’s taking this to bring them out. He can’t put a name on it, whatever the feeling is, beyond comprehension right now with the smell of burnt matches in the air, burnt flesh even though the fire’s mystical, and the people are unharmed. Cured.
But Dean isn’t here to be transformed, to be saved.
Fuck.
~
Sam’s in the Impala now, wind ruffling his hair, car slowly easing down a residential block. He’s left the pick-up at the warehouse, and sinks into the familiar leather seat with comfort and apprehension-car, the car’s his home, as it were, but not this side. Not driving; that’s Dean, cocky, serious, gamut of emotions that run across a face Sam actually misses terribly, for all the bickering and complaining.
But then he doesn’t have time to dwell, not when there’s smoke in the distance, first licks of flames that catch his eye and soon enough he pulls over, small crowd of people, fire trucks and firefighters dealing with a blaze tearing through one old Victorian style house. The smoke billows up high, brown and black plumes, linger in the dead air.
He gets out of the car, coming to stand-and tower-over the small crowd. They’re haggard, nervous, not enough sleep from the terrors that have kept them awake at night-ready to jerk at a moment’s notice. Sam and the crowd stare at the burning house in front of him. That’s when he hears the first cries to terror, a woman hitting futilely at the chest of a fireman, screaming about her children.
“Oh god, what is that?” cries one woman, hand over her mouth, pointing.
And there’s a large shadow moving through the bushes, the sound of children crying as their bodies settle on the ground lightly before the shadow disappears.
That’s my brother, Sam thinks, and he’s never been prouder in his life.
He slips into the car to follow, barely clears the corner of the block when he sees Dean slithering across an intersection quickly.
But Sam’s got the windows rolled down, hearing a curse outside, on the block. It’s one of the people in the crowd, a man holding a gun, kind of look that screams he knows how to use it, albeit in hunting.
And there’s the biggest, weirdest animal game around these parts, streaking across a lawn-and then gun’s aimed right square between Dean’s shoulders.
~
Sam sucks in a breath when the shot goes off, feels his heart hammer as the Impala skids, and he realizes he’s yelling.
Not like this, he thinks, but Mom didn’t get to ask that, Dad didn’t, Jessica didn’t. But fuck if he’s going to let it happen like this.
The first bullet barely grazes Dean, Sam’s able to tell, swerving the car around the block towards him-close enough to watch him nearly fall over when two and three hit their targets, his shoulder and right side. He’s still moving too fast for Sam to catch up, having discarded the Impala by the curb and running after Dean, gun in one hand, bobbing flashlight in the other.
There’s a backyard, high wooden fence that Dean scales over like nothing, falls more than gracefully slipping down the other side, between two small, old fashioned two story buildings. Sam takes a while to reach him, sweaty when he scales the fence, twinge in his left leg disagreeable as he runs into the alley.
“Dean,” Sam says, panting, quiet, keeps the flashlight beam steady. He hears a rustling, seeing a brief glance of dark claws at the edge of the beam’s halo.
Sam waits, breathing steady.
“Sam.”
His voice is different, echoing, this foreign, rumbling noise that makes Sam hesitate, makes him long to move forward. But he’s only got a short amount of time-
“Dean… come on. You have to come with me. I’ve got the ritual-I, I used it on the others. You’re hurt. The sun will be up soon, and if you don’t let me help you, then… you’ll be stuck like this.”
He waits for a moment, doesn’t care if his voice cracks when he says, “And I’m not gonna lose you like this. I’m going to save you.”
Doesn’t add that he wouldn’t go, that he’d stay-
But then he sees him, blinking owlishly in the dark, golden eyes a little off, not the same shape. Narrowed, more, sees the glint of sharp teeth. Then there’s a slide on pavement, smooth and rough, like a body being dragged. Sam lifts the flashlight slowly, raising it up to trace a soft glow against Dean’s lower half, streaked bloody, little dry rivulets from his side, and up, more, pans up his chest.
“Shut up,” Dean growls, constant rumble in the back of his throat. He slides forward, and Sam feels himself taking a step back.
“But Dean-”
“Shut up!” he hisses, and that’s when he coils up and surges forward, right at Sam.
~
Right at him, no, past him, brings his tail up, thick, to lurch and wrap around a shadow passing by. There’s a yelp of noise, fumbling, as Dean wraps his hand around the person’s mouth and yanks them back into the alley, a tumble of limbs and tail that falls heavy, rough, to the dirty pavement.
Sam stands nearby, almost too shocked to react, because the man Dean’s holding is an elderly gentleman, early sixties with a wisp of white hair, overcoat and plaid dress shirt. Fuck, he knows.
“The doctor?”
Dean nods, keeps his hand wrapped around the man’s throat, pushing down, not quite choking him. All the while the man’s coughing, scuttling, trying to move away, but Dean holds fast, tail slowly weaving through and wrapping around his legs.
“Get off of me!”
“What’d you put into the candy?” Dean growls, shakes him by the collar. “Tell me!”
“You’re-” The man pants, glances from Dean to Sam and back again. “You’re those Winchester boys, aren’t you?”
“Saving the intros for later,” Sam says, points the flashlight and gun at the doctor, doesn’t care if the man blinks furiously, trying to close his eyes. “So, what’d you get? Money? Power? Street cred with your monster buddies?”
Dean leans forward, too close for comfort, sniffing the man’s face and neck. “Don’t think it went down like that. He’s-he’s not a demon.”
“What?”
Sam’s mouth curls into a sneer as the doctor’s eyes flash black, as though proving Dean’s point. Says in a voice that’s harder, edge of madness creeping in, “If you’re here to stop me, Sam, I think you’d best save the energy for your pet monster.”
Sam cocks the gun as Dean bares his teeth, not blunt, razor sharp now, right near the junction of the doctor’s jaw and neck. “Well, you’re not getting away with it. I found a cure. People are getting back to normal.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve had my fun,” the doctor says, grinning devilishly, offers a little shrug. “I’ve tried, time and time again-those demons you talk about, you know how some get off on torturing you humans? And oh, it’s beautiful, the way the body works-blood, bone breaks through, bruised skin. Strive so hard for outside perfection, and the body grows weak, ugly.”
“Made some demon deals and got your hands on a spell book or two when you weren’t getting results the old fashioned scientific way, huh?” Sam interjects, voice too sharp and low, roughness that he can’t squeeze out, not when he’s seen monsters that are so tiny, soft, children-
“I’ve tried so hard, to teach you all a lesson. So you can understand. Now I have, I have achieved it! This town, this stupid little town-you’re all monsters inside, might as well twist the flesh outside, and show what you really are.”
Sam’s jaw tightens, and he feels a little off, head numb, too much running and fighting, not enough sleep, tired and weary, sharp tang of Dean’s blood the only thing that’s keeping him going, because he can’t quite look at Dean’s face and mouth. It’s like the corner of his eye, where he keeps the look, not quite there, avoidable, can’t-
“Look at him, Sam. Look at that thing you call your brother,” the doctor says, Dean’s hold on his collar tightens, draws blood. “He’s been perfected, the true model of gluttony and lust.”
He cants his head in Dean’s grip and Dean cries out, moan tearing through him, shudders and shakes. Sam’s watching him transform, again, further-spikes that pop out of the flesh of his back, down his spine, getting longer and more dangerous. His skin’s in patches, tearing and melting off; the leathery skin of the ridges grows thicker, harder, and then Dean’s face starts to push out, expand further into strong jaws.
Sam moves, then, pulling Dean’s upper body away from the doctor, one hand on the rough skin of his bicep. The changes cease, connection broken, and all Sam’s left with is a brother who looks far less human, with a monster that would sooner tear his throat out by the way he shakes, jaws clenched. He doesn’t look at Sam, doesn’t look at the doctor, line of tension to his posture and strain on his jaw, muscles of his neck and shoulders.
The doctor laughs, a ringing, cackling sound in the dark, eyes that aren’t quite seeing, madness. His hands reach out, like claws as he keeps on laughing, grabbing at himself, at his arm.
It’s a sound that cuts off abruptly when Dean jerks his head, quick, lunging to grab the doctor by the collar too hard, sharp crack that has the doctor’s head lolling in Dean’s hands, his claws.
Sam sucks in a breath sharply, staring at Dean, unable to move. Dean, who’s snarling and spitting, tongue darts out and licks his mouth, as if in anticipation, wanting to taste-no, to tear into-the freshly dead body laid out in front of him. Doesn’t act on it though; he stays rigid, in place, like if he doesn’t move the whole thing isn’t real. His breathing is steady, loud panting, and he straightens, too tense, ready to snap.
A wave of worry, dread, determination courses through Sam, finds himself grabbing Dean by the shoulders, facing him. “Dean. Dean, look at me.”
But he doesn’t, avoiding Sam’s gaze, head snaps up and forward when Sam shakes him, fingers digging into the rough texture of Dean’s shoulders.
“I know you. I-I know who you really are. And this isn’t you, but you’re still my brother. Don’t give up on me, man. We’re gonna fix this. Hang in there, all right? Just hang in there.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, and his features seem to soften, less hard and alien, eyes closing as he sighs. Sam can see the fright there, that Dean’ll never voice, the way he’s trying, for him. Dean opens his eyes again, still gold, pupils distorted into thin slits, saying shakily, “The kids. They safe?”
Sam nods.
“I have to go find the others,” Dean says, his voice rough, rolls his shoulder muscles and slips out of Sam’s grip. He’s healing up quickly; a bullet pushes out and falls from his shoulder wound at the motion, another two bullets fall from his side and plink and clatter to the ground. Doesn’t look Sam in the eye, saying, “The monsters that set the house on fire. I-I have to go after them. They’re the last ones left.”
“Dean-”
“They’re just kids, Sam. They didn’t know. I’m not letting them stay like-like this,” he says, glances at his clawed hands before he moves towards the curb near the parked Impala. Sam’s already following behind him, shoulder brushes against him when he stops, saying, “No. I’m doin’ this alone. You go back and get everything ready. I’m going in the sewers.”
He runs his fingers over the roof of the Impala, caressing, careful to keep the tips of his fingers up, so the longer nails won’t scratch the paint. Dean reaches into the back window and pulls out one of the nets thrown on the backseat.
Sam opens and shuts his mouth, scrunches his nose. He doesn’t say a word because it’s not like Dean’ll listen-stubbornness in his blood regardless of situation, as always, a trait Sam hates and loves.
“I’m faster tracking it alone,” Dean offers by way of explanation when he straightens up, eyelevel with Sam. He moves towards the manhole cover, bends down and lifts it up to place it aside. “Trust me.”
Sam shifts his weight from either foot, a little pace before he says, “Dean,” just as his brother starts to move down into the hole. Dean stops and straightens up, muffled words on his tongue when Sam crushes his mouth against his, hands cupping Dean’s cheeks and the leathery skin of his face.
His tongue pushes in, all too quick when it draws back over the edge of sharp teeth, over thinner lips. Knows that it’s him saying goodbye, that it’s too obvious, but can’t help it, feels the time winding down, clenching his heart, still, can feel it jack-hammering, wonders if Dean can pick up on it.
Sam wonders if Dean can pick up on how he’s so ready to be swallowed down by the darkness creeping in at the edges, accepting him as it all goes down south, haywire, and the body before them. Heart attack, neck snapped, god, Sam doesn’t want to look.
Doesn’t, not when he’s accepting this, pushing his tongue into Dean’s mouth and takes him over a crazed dead man’s corpse.
And Dean pushes back, responds, soft groan and sharp teeth.
Dean’s eyes are wide in the dark when he pulls away, irregular series of breaths before he nods and moves down into the sewers, Sam’s gut clenching at the last sight of his tail.
~
Sam wants to kick himself.
His thoughts come in short bursts, a repeated droning in his head, fractions that scatter and collide in his brain. Anger at waiting alone, anger at letting Dean go, anger at the slight chill that makes him shiver, leaning against the Impala’s side. He’s at the warehouse again, having just buried the doctor. Sam’s worn out, aching muscles from concentration, waiting for Dean to come back.
The minute Sam starts thinking about embedded GPS devices, the nearby manhole cover shakes and pops open. He rushes over, a body shoved into his arms, wrapped up in one net. It’s small and hairy, a little unconscious monster that he places down, another one that’s slightly bigger immediately shoved up into his hands, also wrapped in a net.
After a moment, there’s a grunt, and Dean pokes his head and shoulders up out of the sewer. Sam moves to grab him but Dean shakes his hands away, tells him to get the kids. He crawls out of the sewer on his arms and elbows, tight against his sides, as though they’re starting to fuse together-and they are, Sam can see it, the way the skin stretches, slowly melts, strings of flesh and slime.
There’s a web of angry burns down the length of Dean’s flank, blackened and bloodied mess over newly healing gunshot wounds.
They’re running out of time, Sam knows, lets a string of curses fly out of his mouth when Dean refuses the ritual first, tells him to “take care… of the kids, Sam. Don’t let them-don’t let them stay. Stuck.”
And isn’t that a knife to the belly, Sam reciting the incantations over their sleeping forms back in the warehouse, pinch of dust that sends a fire blazing, all the while Dean moans and writhes on the floor behind him, tries to muffle the sounds by turning away, presses his mouth and chin into the softness of Sam’s discarded jacket.
Sam turns away and faces Dean, fumbling with his items, mouth and hands on auto-pilot as the first rays of sunlight start to creep into his vision, streaks of light that grow on the floor, reaching towards Dean’s tail.
But he throws the dust on Dean, words slip slide out of his mouth, and then he lights a match, throwing it on Dean like he’s done more than two dozen times in the past few hours, but this time he’s willing it to work more than he’s wished for anything in his life.
~
Sam sits on the floor next to Dean, knees up, head in his hands. He rubs his face with the back of his sleeve and looks over at Dean. At least he’s not moaning now.
The light casts harsh shadows on the contour of Dean’s chest. Still covered in scales, still half-snake, still a monster, that flutters his eyes open, weakly, mumbling.
“Dean?”
Dean’s face scrunches up, like he’s about to complain when his face actually moves, physically, moment passes and his body starts to shift, lighten in color and grow softer in texture. Sam almost falls over, feeling too gangly and awkward all a sudden, resting on his knees as a slit forms down the length of Dean’s shortening tail, clean cut that breaks in half, forming the corded muscles of his thighs, calves, legs.
Within a few minutes he’s back to normal, sheen of sweat and naked, yeah, hands that fumble to grab and check, as always, just to be sure. Dean sits up on his elbows, chin tucked down, forehead creased as he peers up at Sam.
“Sammy?”
Sam lets out a breath and almost lunges, barely able to contain himself, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck.
“Get offa me, you big girl. Goddamn, Sam, get off!”
But he still slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders, patting him once, twice, before he punches him on the arm.
Sam groans, eyes narrowing. “Idiot.”
The sunlight’s stirring the people in cages awake from the looks of things-adults and kids stare out numbly in their cages, soft murmuring as their bodies struggle awake, as if waking from a bad dream. Some are awake, some still passed out-right, they need to get them back, Sam knows, even if it’s hard to concentrate when Dean stands up, cock bobbing up and down as he hops from foot to foot, grinning.
“Man, we gotta like, steal a bus,” Dean says with a smirk as Sam gets up quickly. He gestures to the groggy people in the cages, saying, “So we can get all these people to the ER and looked after.”
Sam nods, saying tightly, “You need clothes.”
Dean looks down at himself. “Hey, buddy! Been a long time!”
“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters, swiping a large book off the desk to shove it into Dean’s flat belly, his brother scrambling to hold it in front of his exposed dick.
~
They’re in the hotel room later, Sam closing his laptop as Dean scans through the local newspaper, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile. He tears a page out and folds it a little sloppily, rubbing his shoulder with a hand afterwards, looking over and down for any remnants of the bullet wounds. They’re all gone and he’s looking fresh faced, skin soft and pliable, like a new coat of paint or something-something Sam isn’t really wanting to think about, not when he’s just been on the ‘net for a good half hour, avoiding looking at Dean’s mouth.
A mouth that’s back to normal, full lips in place of the angular drawn mouth he just kissed hours before.
“So, what’s the deal?”
“What?” Sam jerks his head up abruptly, licks his lips.
Dean nods at the laptop. “What’re the news saying?”
“Food poisoning. They think one of the local candy manufacturers slipped in a bunch of hallucinogens. But mysteriously, they’re all going to pull through thanks to a ‘good Samaritan’ bringing them into the hospital for observation. All twenty six of them.”
“Yeah, Sam-aritan. Funny.”
It’s not but Sam pretends to laugh anyway, his skin twitching with discomfort, trying to find something to look at that’ll distract him.
Dean stands for a minute, and he happens to have his shirt off-it’s not like he does it often, he’s not that bad about flaunting his body-but it’s like having this readily seen expanse of skin, of normal skin, there, gives him relief. Normal and human.
Not a monster, despite the tension to his body still. To them both, always avoiding and denying, like they haven’t seen these bodies the past two nights.
Doctor gone down, dead, good riddance, Sam tells himself, tells Dean, Dean nodding, tight, changed the subject just as quick.
“Sam?”
Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, avoiding Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, Dean?”
“Wanna join me in the shower? I’ve got grit in places you wouldn’t believe,” he says, grins wide at the open mouthed stare Sam gives back. He’s giving a cackle when Sam gets up, slowly, then quicker, fast, long strides as he pulls his shirt up over his head, taking Dean up on that offer.
end