FIC: Wraith
SPN 3.09 really struck a chord with me, what can I say?
I hope you all like it.
Title: Wraith
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, Sam/OFCs, Sam/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,367
Warnings: Based off of a theme from SPN 3.09, so SPOILERS lie within.
Thanks: To katjad for 4am fic consulting while I succumbed to insomnia. To dev_earl, nomelon, & arabella_hope for keeping my run-ons in check and assuring me this wasn't completely nuts. MUCH LOVE AND ♥♥♥
Summary: And in the end, he'll suffer just like the rest of us do.
Wraith
Sam thinks she's a little bit off tonight.
Normally, Kit just pours his beer, makes a sarcastic remark or two. Bitches at him whenever her team loses or her boss docks her for being late. Sam just smiles and plays it off, humors her and offers up a word of advice. The only time he's asked to let him buy her a shot, she's politely refused.
But tonight it's different. She's more... friendly than usual. Her eyes don't leave his when they talk and she fixes him with this half-smile that makes his stomach ache. She asks him if he'll come back later, after last call, for a nightcap.
Sam weighs his feelings out, truth is he's attracted to her, but it's never been a serious thought. She's just Kit; she's the bartender at his favorite dive in town, nothing more.
Still he goes, but Sam thinks it's more out of curiosity than attraction. He knocks on the door to the bar at half past three, and she opens it grinning at him and laughing softly. "I knew it," she says, biting her bottom lip and stepping aside so Sam can walk in. Kit pours them both a shot of scotch, the good stuff from underneath the bar. And before the sting of it can hit the back of Sam's throat, Kit's mouth is on his. She pulls back and pants.
She looks down at her hands, fisted tight in Sam's shirt, "I just, it's been a long-"
"For me too," Sam mumbles, then leans in to kiss her again.
Her hands move to wrap around his neck and pull at the shorter hairs on his nape, mouth a tight seal over his. Sam closes his eyes and takes her small body in his arms, pulling her into his lap. Sam runs his hands up her tight white tank top, cupping her breasts and feeling her nipples harden against his touch. She rocks her hips against his crotch, and he feels the prickles of arousal, leaning in close, finding friction against her body.
They end up fucking behind the bar, Sam on his back and Kit riding him and moaning and it's the hottest thing he's heard in a good long time. Sam stays through dawn, holding her close against him as she kisses and nips at his chest. While Sam gets dressed, Kit watches him while sitting naked on a barstool. Sam thinks it's just about the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He ducks his head, asks her what he owes for the scotch.
She half-smiles, making his stomach pang again, says it was her pleasure.
The next night, Kit can't look at him.
*
She's too pushy, and Sam is really just being polite by allowing her to flirt shamelessly, laugh at everything he says and grab his arm. She tosses her head, whipping straw-blond hair at him and fixing him with a drunk, wobbly stare.
A hand lands on his shoulder, firm grip and Sam turns to meet the gaze of the stranger. He tilts his head, nodding towards the street exit and Sam follows, either too drunk to care or just because the stranger seems to command him to follow. Sam forgets about the girl, forgets what he was doing and just tries to make sense of it through the haze of alcohol and the swagger of the guy's hips.
In the alley Sam gets a good look at him under the streetlights, dark eyes, dark hair and soft, coffee-colored skin. Then his lips leaning in to kiss Sam's neck and push him up against the cool stone of the building. Sam responds and tugs the guy closer, until he can get his hands under his shirt, then down his pants as the stranger does the same. They jack each other off, slicking their palms with precome and spit. Sam thinks that shouldn't be as hot as it is but he comes anyway with lights behind his eyes. He feels the guy slump against him when he comes, and they hold there for a beat. Sam hums into the skin of the guy's neck.
"What's your name?" Sam murmurs and kisses softly up his jaw and the guy pulls away, moving Sam's hands off of him with a tug. Sam turns his head, trying not to let embarrassment show when the guy turns his face, cupping his cheek and running a hand along the collar of the leather jacket Sam's taken to wearing.
"It looks good on you."
*
It's another guy when he figures it out. He said his name was Michael, Mitchell or Aaron or something non-descript. Sam decides Michael is probably the closest but it doesn't matter because, whoever he is, he's sucking Sam slow and good, swallowing him almost all the way and cupping his balls. Sam comes and pulls him up, holding him close as he jerks out his orgasm. He falls back on the bed and Michael goes with him, curling at his side and brushing the hair off his forehead, hushing him and letting him ride it out.
"You now," Sam rasps and turns to grab him, fist his fingers in the shoulder-length blond hair and pull at his shirt. "Off, off," Sam says and Michael laughs and pulls off his tee, reveals pale skin and tight muscles that Sam paws at. He pins Michael down and straddles his hips, kissing his across his belly and hipbones and up his chest, and freezes at the collarbone.
The guy, he didn't notice it before but he's wearing a Star of David around his neck. And right where the pendant touches his skin it's burning bright red. Sam falls back on his haunches and Michael sits up, fixing him with a curious stare, "What's the matter?"
Sam licks his lips. "Christo."
Michael's eyes turn from blue to obsidian black and the half-smile, the one Kit wore, is fixed upon his face. "What gave me away?" the Demon asks, tilting his head to the left at an owlish angle.
"Symbol of faith-"
"-in the God of light," it finishes. "Like anathema to my kind."
Sam starts the ritual whispering under his breath, learned by rote and practiced dozens of times. He's done it in under a minute before. But the guy leans forward, quicksilver fast and kisses his mouth shut, reaching for his neck and snapping off the amulet Sam wears.
"This is mine, right?" Dean says, tying it around his neck while Sam sits stunned, unmoving. He stands up, placing a final kiss to Sam's temple and gathering his clothes, leaving him alone in the motel room.
*
It's made him more paranoid, every girl giving him the eye from across the room, every guy with a knowing smile looking his way. Sam knows he's still out there, that there's something he wants, that it can't end well.
And at the same time, there's a thrill, an electricity under Sam's skin that excites him. Dean is someone, somewhere, and Sam stops and surveys every room he walks into, scrutinizes strangers on the street, waiting for Dean to reveal himself.
Sam wonders if he's acting this way so he can find Dean before Dean finds him, or because he just wants to see him again. He shrugs off the thought and turns back to the Sunday paper, just as the waitress serves him a chicken-salad sandwich he didn't ask for. Sam looks up, "I'm sorry, I didn't order this, I just wanted more cof-"
The waitress ignores him, sliding into the booth across from him, a slice of pie on a plate in front of her. She settles herself in and stabs a forkful of cherry and crust. "Eat what I bring you, Sammy."
Sam feels the world iris in on him. "You..."
"Mmm?" She looks up at him with a red stain in the corner of her mouth, and it's just like Dean would. Careless in his sloppy eating, focusing on Sam and whatever he was going to say.
"You're..."
"That's it Sammy, use your words," Dean says, swirling his fork around in a coaxing motion.
It takes Sam a good fifteen minutes to compose himself. He actually can't think of what to say, and he's suddenly hungry and starts eating his sandwich while Dean brings himself over a few more slices of pie and a chocolate tart.
They sit and eat for so long that the restaurant manager comes over to harangue "Diane" for fraternizing with the customers and taking too long for her lunch break. "Diane" counters by telling him to go change the rat-traps while she chats with her good buddy from the bureau of health and safety-Sam flashing him his most official-looking badge with a smile. The manager leaves their table with his tail between his legs, telling Diane she can have the rest of the day off if she wants to.
*
"How long?" Sam finally asks, staring at the chipped paint on the ceiling of her apartment. "How long were you-I thought it took centuries, millennia even."
"Time is relative," Dean says through her voice, her body arching as he drapes a leg across Sam's torso. "How long has it been?"
Sam swallows. "Five years, six this May."
Dean flutters her eyes shut, opening them to reveal his coal-black stare. "Seven-hundred times that, I figure."
"How-"
"A pocket of time they trapped me in, specially made for me. I forgot a lot of things, for centuries I just..." Dean pauses, runs a little finger down in-between Sam's pectorals, tracing the lines of his body. "Everything cycled around again. I had to wait for the other side, for it to come around again. And then I knew who I was, and by that time no one remembered me so I just." Dean drops his sentence, eyes shutting and body going still in Sam's arms.
"Dean?"
"It's a cage," Dean whispers and Sam feels the body in his arms shudder as black shadows fill the bedroom. There's a scream, loud and piercing his ears and Sam's so startled he lets go of her. When the darkness clears she's on the ground, body twisted and blood pooling out of her mouth.
Someone must have snapped her neck while Dean was in her.
*
The first time Sam sees Dean in five years is when he looks up to glimpse his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a week after Diane. Sam is standing there in his tee and with a toothbrush hanging out of the side of his mouth and Dean is standing behind his reflection. His mouth drops open and he turns quickly, toothbrush clattering in the sink.
Of course it's all an illusion; it's his mind's eye, or his sixth sense trying to make sense of Dean's true form. Black shadows and dust swirling and blinding him, forcing their way past his wards, past the pithy charms he's got in place, and Sam doesn't know how he does it, how Dean breaks through his defenses and enters him, but he does.
Maybe it's because Sam wants him to.
It's like Sam remembers from before, from Meg. It's like being a spectator, a watcher in your own body, unable to control your movements and your voice but still thinking, still you-and-not-you. Still in control of the inner monologue and unable to hear the thoughts of the demon, just watching what they do.
So Sam watches as he's turned around to face the mirror again, and his mouth is turned up in a half-smile. Hands lay across the glass, like Dean's touching his face by stroking the reflection. The smile fades as his hands curl on the glass, and his expression turns blank, hard, his jaw set tight.
"Missed you, Sammy," Dean says in Sam's voice. And then he's silent, still for a few moments before the wicked glint in his eyes returns and he looks back at the reflection. "Missed this, missed your body." Sam's body is shedding his clothes, stepping into the shower and getting under the hot spray. Sam's hands are all over himself, squeezing and teasing his cock. "Fuck, fucking hell, your cock." Dean groans and strokes harder now, and Sam knows his body is getting hard.
Dean's jacking him off and talking to him, "I know you can hear me Sammy, know you know what I'm doing to your body. And I'll do everything, everything you want. I know what you like." He works Sam's cock to orgasm, dropping to his knees as he comes and pants against the tile.
Dean repeats the process again on the shower floor while the spray falls against him like fat raindrops. "We did this in the rain, in the mud and the storm and it was so cold, but your hand was warm on my neck and your cock was in my hands. You loved it Sam, you told me you loved it, the water and the-fuck!" Dean cries out as Sam's body comes again.
Sam feels nothing, and he can only watch as Dean finishes him off again, and things turn white in his vision.
*
When Sam comes back to himself, Dean's still in his body, drying and dressing him quickly.
"You do know I can hear you, right Sammy?" Sam feels Dean's smile rather than hearing it, and tries to think a thought to him.
What are you doing now?
"You're gonna find someone for me," Dean answers, tying Sam's shoes and grabbing his wallet and keys from the night-table.
Is that what this is all about? Who are you looking for?
Dean looks up, catching Sam's reflection in a mirror so he can see the sly grin spread across his face.
"Whoever you want."
Sam figures it out when they get to the bar and Dean's eyes are everywhere, surveying the territory like some kind of predator. He whispers to Sam, pointing out a pretty face here and there. "How about her Sam, with the big- Oho, so that's what you feel like tonight?" Dean's gaze settles on a figure at the bar that Sam feels drawn to. He's got a stubbled jawline and thick fingers and Sam wants, just on the edges of his desire, he wants him. He wants and Dean smiles. "Him, then," he says walking towards the bar with purpose.
Dean charms his way past the guy's defenses, glib words rolling off his tongue like always but he's coming even stronger. The years have polished and cut Dean into to diamond sharpness, the guy doesn't stand a chance. Dean buys him two shots of whiskey and an hour later he's following Dean into the bathroom, lust-drunk and laughing softly under his breath.
It's there that hands and mouths are furious movements in Sam's vision. Hard kisses and clothes being tugged at, fingers fisting in each other's hair and it isn't until the guy is thrown against the wall and Sam hears the door being locked that there's a shift in him. It feels like all the blood is rushing back to his head, and his arms and legs are regaining feeling, but it's too much, too intense and he falls back as the shadows appear and the guy screams out.
The next thing Sam knows is he's being walked out, his arm slung over the guy's shoulder as he staggers forward through the crowd. There's a voice at his side, "Sorry there, my friend had too much to drink, I've got him though, I'm the designated." And then Sam's in the passenger seat of the Impala, someone buckling him in tight and it's the guy from the bar, reaching into his jeans pocket and taking out the car keys.
The guy's fingers tap the wheel when he settles down in the passenger seat and he turns to Sam and asks, "This was my car, right?"
Sam laughs, quietly, a tinge of sadness. "Yeah, Dean. It's yours."
"Good," Dean says and turns out of the parking lot and back on the road to the hotel. "I was going to steal it otherwise."
Sam snorts and moves his arm slightly, brushing Dean's new elbow, his new skin. "Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever do that to me again."
Dean laughs long and hard, leaning over when they stop at a red light to kiss Sam, stubbled jaw scratching his cheek. Sam sits boneless, barely able to move back this time, his body still worn from what Dean did and the amounts of alcohol he consumed. His heart still races at the touch and he slips his eyes shut, trying to rest up as much as he can on the drive back.
When they reach the hotel, Sam's strength is back and he's all over Dean's new body, kissing and stripping him to his skin. Beautiful skin, soft and hard in all the places he wants it to be. Stubbled face rubbing against his own skin reminding him of Dean, of the man Dean was and is again. He's drunk and his head swims but he pushes Dean down on his back. Sam straddles his thighs and cups Dean's new face, searching his eyes for the glimmer of mischief, of dirty thoughts and sweetness. Sam sees it when Dean rocks his hips upward, moaning and encouraging Sam. "C'mon," he purrs.
And Sam leans down to taste him.
*
"Which one?" Dean asks, fingers twined in Sam's hair as they survey the crowd.
Sam kisses the girl's cheek, she's young and smells of sweet perfume but it's not what Sam wants tonight.
"You know," Sam says, pointing out the figure skulking around towards the back of the room. He seems to be alone tonight, nursing the shot of dark liquor in front of him.
"Him again? Sam, we're gonna give that guy a complex."
Sam shrugs and sips his beer. "I like him."
"Fifth time in under a month, though."
"I like him," Sam takes the girl's face in his hands. "You know why."
Dean's eyes drift back over to him, "Yeah, I know." The guy, Alex or something, Sam's never really bothered to care about their real names; well he's the closest-looking person to Dean that Sam's found. There are big differences, he's shorter than Dean was, and he's a good seven years younger than Sam is. His skin is pale but not freckled, his swagger is easy but his stance is definitely less cowboy, more like mercury. But Sam loves that skin, that body, loves burying himself deep inside until Dean comes so hard he screams his name. Loves running his nails down his back and feeling gooseflesh crop up.
"Fine, get us arrested," Dean grumbles but walks forward. "Meet me in the damn car," he hisses and presses the amulet into Sam's palm. It's probably the equivalent of Dean asking Sam to hold his purse, and Sam chuckles at the thought.
Twenty minutes later as Sam watches the door to the bar from the Impala the girl finally comes staggering out. She sways on her feet and runs towards the garbage can on the curb, puking her guts out before she succumbs to alcohol poisoning. Dean's pretty good about leaving his victims in that kind of state, where they're too fucked up to really do anything about what happened to them.
And then Dean leaves the bar, wearing the skin like it's his own. He slides into the passenger side and holds out his hand, Sam handing over the amulet again. "You're buying me dinner, okay? And I'm snapping this guy's neck when we're done, you're no good to me in prison."
"It hurts me that you doubt my ability to get away with this six times or more."
"Really expensive dinner."
Sam loves it, loves the body, loves the voice and loves that he's never been more Dean than when he wears this skin. He laughs and drives in the direction of the nicest Italian restaurant he knows they can afford.
It makes what he's going to do next all the more justified, in his mind.
*
He's beautiful, laid out like this, naked and spent. They've fucked for hours, and Sam's still nuzzling at his nape, running his mouth down that beautiful back, nipping all the way down to the inside of Dean's thighs.
In this body, they are Dean's thighs, Dean's mouth, Dean's lips, Dean's cock. He owns it so thoroughly that Sam still has trouble believing Dean wasn't born this way. But he's satisfied nonetheless. Dean's younger body has the stamina he used to only dream about. Strong, streamlined body, agile and tensed to move in an instant. Which Dean does in an instant, flipping Sam over and attacking his cock with his mouth. Sam moans, "Dean c'mon, I'm done, I'm done..."
"Awww, d'you want me to go easy on you, old man?"
"Says the three-thousand year old."
"Did you say something? I'm far too busy blowing your brains out," Dean says, his mouth wrapping around Sam's cock again and he moans.
"That's why, Dean," Sam murmurs. "That's why I love you in this skin, that fucking mouth and your cock and the way you drive me, oh!" Sam feels his orgasm building and so he stops talking so he can enjoy the long sweeps of tongue up and down his cock.
When he comes, he dozes a bit, only to be woken by Dean smacking him in the face with his hand. Sam knew this was coming, and he rolls off the bed.
Dean's trying to swing his feet over the edge but they're caught in mid-air, pushing against some invisible presence, some tension stopping them from touching the ground, or leaving the perimeter of the bed. "What the hell?" Dean yells at Sam. Sam sighs and starts gathering up his clothes, he's going to have to do it sooner or later, might as well be now. So he opens the closet, rummaging around for his big duffle bag.
Dean's eyes go wide and he starts throwing off the covers and sheets of the bed. "You didn't! You-You didn't!"
Sam swallows. "I did." He pulls out his big green bag from the closet and unzips it, taking out a book of demonic apocrypha, and a rectangle of black velvet cloth. He walks to Dean and lays the items down on the night table, pulling it out of Dean's immediate reach. "It's under the bed, if you were wondering. On a sheet of wrought iron, painted with India ink. Learned my lessons about wood and cement."
"Wrought iron," Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course, demon resistant. Gee, Sammy, you sure do think of everything. Make sure you have a fucking foolproof plan to send me back to hell." Dean draws up his knees to his chest, resting his arms on top of them. "I don't suppose you're open to negotiations right now?"
"Nope," Sam flips through the pages to the marked section.
"I'll make it worth your while."
"I know you will," Sam smiles and starts reading. Dean closes his eyes, bracing himself for the pain of being banished again from the waking world, but nothing happens. He doesn't feel his presence being forced out, but rather-
"That's, those aren't the right words..." Dean searches the room, then Sam's face for any kind of clue as to what's really going on. "What are you doing to me?" he worries his brow, voice going small and scared.
Sam continues the reading, calmly unwrapping the black velvet cloth to reveal the wrought iron brand and Dean's eyes go dark and black and through the emotionless veil Sam can still read the panic. The tip of the iron begins to glow red, as the incantation summons. Dean tries to move back on the bed but he finds himself unable to move and Sam grabs him, pushing him face down on the bed and pressing the iron to his left shoulder blade as he screams. The mark burns onto his skin, locking the demon inside.
*
Sam keeps the Devil's Trap under the bed when it's over. Dean's still looking at him out of the corner of his eye, predatory glare of distrust, of anger. So Sam decides to leave it there until Dean calms down, until he understands why Sam did it. But Dean's really in no place to do any kind of damage, the entire ritual leaving him weak and vulnerable. Sam remembers that much from when the demon bound itself to his body, how it had to hide and recuperate after the ordeal, unable to do anything but rest for a few days.
So Sam sits on the bed, Dean still lying on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow, staring out at nothing. Sam presses ice to the burn, ignoring the way Dean's body winces beneath it. He lifts it and replaces the ice-pack with his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the circle marking Dean's skin-it really is Dean's now, Sam realizes, smiling into his shoulder.
"You know I'm finding my way out of this one too. I crawled out of hell, what's one more prison?" Dean smirks at him.
Sam strokes his hair. "It's not a prison, Dean."
"It's a cage," Dean's voice goes softer, like he did all those weeks ago when he was in Diane. But then he picks up his head, face angry and he shouts, "It's like a cage, Sam! You don't understand, I was free!"
And Dean's crawling into his arms, slowly and Sam takes him, lays down on his back, Dean grasping around his neck and winding his legs around his torso. Sam holds him, holds the weak body, feels Dean burying his face in his neck, wetness in his eyes seeping into his shirt.
"It's a cage, Sam. This is hell, I can't move and I'm-"
"I know, Dean." He holds on a little tighter. "I know because I was free too, once."
"Sam?" Dean asks, pulling his head up to meet his gaze.
His brother's eyes narrow in on him, dagger-sharp stare. "But then you put me back, didn't you?"
end.
Music:
1. Of Montreal - Bunny Ain't No Kind Of Rider
2. Gorillaz - White Light
3. Tricky - Tear Out My Eyes
4. Clinic - Harvest (Within You)
5. Arcade Fire - My Body Is A Cage
6. Modest Mouse - Fly Trapped In A Jar
28mb Zip file
I hope you all like it.
Title: Wraith
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, Sam/OFCs, Sam/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,367
Warnings: Based off of a theme from SPN 3.09, so SPOILERS lie within.
Thanks: To katjad for 4am fic consulting while I succumbed to insomnia. To dev_earl, nomelon, & arabella_hope for keeping my run-ons in check and assuring me this wasn't completely nuts. MUCH LOVE AND ♥♥♥
Summary: And in the end, he'll suffer just like the rest of us do.
Wraith
Sam thinks she's a little bit off tonight.
Normally, Kit just pours his beer, makes a sarcastic remark or two. Bitches at him whenever her team loses or her boss docks her for being late. Sam just smiles and plays it off, humors her and offers up a word of advice. The only time he's asked to let him buy her a shot, she's politely refused.
But tonight it's different. She's more... friendly than usual. Her eyes don't leave his when they talk and she fixes him with this half-smile that makes his stomach ache. She asks him if he'll come back later, after last call, for a nightcap.
Sam weighs his feelings out, truth is he's attracted to her, but it's never been a serious thought. She's just Kit; she's the bartender at his favorite dive in town, nothing more.
Still he goes, but Sam thinks it's more out of curiosity than attraction. He knocks on the door to the bar at half past three, and she opens it grinning at him and laughing softly. "I knew it," she says, biting her bottom lip and stepping aside so Sam can walk in. Kit pours them both a shot of scotch, the good stuff from underneath the bar. And before the sting of it can hit the back of Sam's throat, Kit's mouth is on his. She pulls back and pants.
She looks down at her hands, fisted tight in Sam's shirt, "I just, it's been a long-"
"For me too," Sam mumbles, then leans in to kiss her again.
Her hands move to wrap around his neck and pull at the shorter hairs on his nape, mouth a tight seal over his. Sam closes his eyes and takes her small body in his arms, pulling her into his lap. Sam runs his hands up her tight white tank top, cupping her breasts and feeling her nipples harden against his touch. She rocks her hips against his crotch, and he feels the prickles of arousal, leaning in close, finding friction against her body.
They end up fucking behind the bar, Sam on his back and Kit riding him and moaning and it's the hottest thing he's heard in a good long time. Sam stays through dawn, holding her close against him as she kisses and nips at his chest. While Sam gets dressed, Kit watches him while sitting naked on a barstool. Sam thinks it's just about the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He ducks his head, asks her what he owes for the scotch.
She half-smiles, making his stomach pang again, says it was her pleasure.
The next night, Kit can't look at him.
*
She's too pushy, and Sam is really just being polite by allowing her to flirt shamelessly, laugh at everything he says and grab his arm. She tosses her head, whipping straw-blond hair at him and fixing him with a drunk, wobbly stare.
A hand lands on his shoulder, firm grip and Sam turns to meet the gaze of the stranger. He tilts his head, nodding towards the street exit and Sam follows, either too drunk to care or just because the stranger seems to command him to follow. Sam forgets about the girl, forgets what he was doing and just tries to make sense of it through the haze of alcohol and the swagger of the guy's hips.
In the alley Sam gets a good look at him under the streetlights, dark eyes, dark hair and soft, coffee-colored skin. Then his lips leaning in to kiss Sam's neck and push him up against the cool stone of the building. Sam responds and tugs the guy closer, until he can get his hands under his shirt, then down his pants as the stranger does the same. They jack each other off, slicking their palms with precome and spit. Sam thinks that shouldn't be as hot as it is but he comes anyway with lights behind his eyes. He feels the guy slump against him when he comes, and they hold there for a beat. Sam hums into the skin of the guy's neck.
"What's your name?" Sam murmurs and kisses softly up his jaw and the guy pulls away, moving Sam's hands off of him with a tug. Sam turns his head, trying not to let embarrassment show when the guy turns his face, cupping his cheek and running a hand along the collar of the leather jacket Sam's taken to wearing.
"It looks good on you."
*
It's another guy when he figures it out. He said his name was Michael, Mitchell or Aaron or something non-descript. Sam decides Michael is probably the closest but it doesn't matter because, whoever he is, he's sucking Sam slow and good, swallowing him almost all the way and cupping his balls. Sam comes and pulls him up, holding him close as he jerks out his orgasm. He falls back on the bed and Michael goes with him, curling at his side and brushing the hair off his forehead, hushing him and letting him ride it out.
"You now," Sam rasps and turns to grab him, fist his fingers in the shoulder-length blond hair and pull at his shirt. "Off, off," Sam says and Michael laughs and pulls off his tee, reveals pale skin and tight muscles that Sam paws at. He pins Michael down and straddles his hips, kissing his across his belly and hipbones and up his chest, and freezes at the collarbone.
The guy, he didn't notice it before but he's wearing a Star of David around his neck. And right where the pendant touches his skin it's burning bright red. Sam falls back on his haunches and Michael sits up, fixing him with a curious stare, "What's the matter?"
Sam licks his lips. "Christo."
Michael's eyes turn from blue to obsidian black and the half-smile, the one Kit wore, is fixed upon his face. "What gave me away?" the Demon asks, tilting his head to the left at an owlish angle.
"Symbol of faith-"
"-in the God of light," it finishes. "Like anathema to my kind."
Sam starts the ritual whispering under his breath, learned by rote and practiced dozens of times. He's done it in under a minute before. But the guy leans forward, quicksilver fast and kisses his mouth shut, reaching for his neck and snapping off the amulet Sam wears.
"This is mine, right?" Dean says, tying it around his neck while Sam sits stunned, unmoving. He stands up, placing a final kiss to Sam's temple and gathering his clothes, leaving him alone in the motel room.
*
It's made him more paranoid, every girl giving him the eye from across the room, every guy with a knowing smile looking his way. Sam knows he's still out there, that there's something he wants, that it can't end well.
And at the same time, there's a thrill, an electricity under Sam's skin that excites him. Dean is someone, somewhere, and Sam stops and surveys every room he walks into, scrutinizes strangers on the street, waiting for Dean to reveal himself.
Sam wonders if he's acting this way so he can find Dean before Dean finds him, or because he just wants to see him again. He shrugs off the thought and turns back to the Sunday paper, just as the waitress serves him a chicken-salad sandwich he didn't ask for. Sam looks up, "I'm sorry, I didn't order this, I just wanted more cof-"
The waitress ignores him, sliding into the booth across from him, a slice of pie on a plate in front of her. She settles herself in and stabs a forkful of cherry and crust. "Eat what I bring you, Sammy."
Sam feels the world iris in on him. "You..."
"Mmm?" She looks up at him with a red stain in the corner of her mouth, and it's just like Dean would. Careless in his sloppy eating, focusing on Sam and whatever he was going to say.
"You're..."
"That's it Sammy, use your words," Dean says, swirling his fork around in a coaxing motion.
It takes Sam a good fifteen minutes to compose himself. He actually can't think of what to say, and he's suddenly hungry and starts eating his sandwich while Dean brings himself over a few more slices of pie and a chocolate tart.
They sit and eat for so long that the restaurant manager comes over to harangue "Diane" for fraternizing with the customers and taking too long for her lunch break. "Diane" counters by telling him to go change the rat-traps while she chats with her good buddy from the bureau of health and safety-Sam flashing him his most official-looking badge with a smile. The manager leaves their table with his tail between his legs, telling Diane she can have the rest of the day off if she wants to.
*
"How long?" Sam finally asks, staring at the chipped paint on the ceiling of her apartment. "How long were you-I thought it took centuries, millennia even."
"Time is relative," Dean says through her voice, her body arching as he drapes a leg across Sam's torso. "How long has it been?"
Sam swallows. "Five years, six this May."
Dean flutters her eyes shut, opening them to reveal his coal-black stare. "Seven-hundred times that, I figure."
"How-"
"A pocket of time they trapped me in, specially made for me. I forgot a lot of things, for centuries I just..." Dean pauses, runs a little finger down in-between Sam's pectorals, tracing the lines of his body. "Everything cycled around again. I had to wait for the other side, for it to come around again. And then I knew who I was, and by that time no one remembered me so I just." Dean drops his sentence, eyes shutting and body going still in Sam's arms.
"Dean?"
"It's a cage," Dean whispers and Sam feels the body in his arms shudder as black shadows fill the bedroom. There's a scream, loud and piercing his ears and Sam's so startled he lets go of her. When the darkness clears she's on the ground, body twisted and blood pooling out of her mouth.
Someone must have snapped her neck while Dean was in her.
*
The first time Sam sees Dean in five years is when he looks up to glimpse his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a week after Diane. Sam is standing there in his tee and with a toothbrush hanging out of the side of his mouth and Dean is standing behind his reflection. His mouth drops open and he turns quickly, toothbrush clattering in the sink.
Of course it's all an illusion; it's his mind's eye, or his sixth sense trying to make sense of Dean's true form. Black shadows and dust swirling and blinding him, forcing their way past his wards, past the pithy charms he's got in place, and Sam doesn't know how he does it, how Dean breaks through his defenses and enters him, but he does.
Maybe it's because Sam wants him to.
It's like Sam remembers from before, from Meg. It's like being a spectator, a watcher in your own body, unable to control your movements and your voice but still thinking, still you-and-not-you. Still in control of the inner monologue and unable to hear the thoughts of the demon, just watching what they do.
So Sam watches as he's turned around to face the mirror again, and his mouth is turned up in a half-smile. Hands lay across the glass, like Dean's touching his face by stroking the reflection. The smile fades as his hands curl on the glass, and his expression turns blank, hard, his jaw set tight.
"Missed you, Sammy," Dean says in Sam's voice. And then he's silent, still for a few moments before the wicked glint in his eyes returns and he looks back at the reflection. "Missed this, missed your body." Sam's body is shedding his clothes, stepping into the shower and getting under the hot spray. Sam's hands are all over himself, squeezing and teasing his cock. "Fuck, fucking hell, your cock." Dean groans and strokes harder now, and Sam knows his body is getting hard.
Dean's jacking him off and talking to him, "I know you can hear me Sammy, know you know what I'm doing to your body. And I'll do everything, everything you want. I know what you like." He works Sam's cock to orgasm, dropping to his knees as he comes and pants against the tile.
Dean repeats the process again on the shower floor while the spray falls against him like fat raindrops. "We did this in the rain, in the mud and the storm and it was so cold, but your hand was warm on my neck and your cock was in my hands. You loved it Sam, you told me you loved it, the water and the-fuck!" Dean cries out as Sam's body comes again.
Sam feels nothing, and he can only watch as Dean finishes him off again, and things turn white in his vision.
*
When Sam comes back to himself, Dean's still in his body, drying and dressing him quickly.
"You do know I can hear you, right Sammy?" Sam feels Dean's smile rather than hearing it, and tries to think a thought to him.
What are you doing now?
"You're gonna find someone for me," Dean answers, tying Sam's shoes and grabbing his wallet and keys from the night-table.
Is that what this is all about? Who are you looking for?
Dean looks up, catching Sam's reflection in a mirror so he can see the sly grin spread across his face.
"Whoever you want."
Sam figures it out when they get to the bar and Dean's eyes are everywhere, surveying the territory like some kind of predator. He whispers to Sam, pointing out a pretty face here and there. "How about her Sam, with the big- Oho, so that's what you feel like tonight?" Dean's gaze settles on a figure at the bar that Sam feels drawn to. He's got a stubbled jawline and thick fingers and Sam wants, just on the edges of his desire, he wants him. He wants and Dean smiles. "Him, then," he says walking towards the bar with purpose.
Dean charms his way past the guy's defenses, glib words rolling off his tongue like always but he's coming even stronger. The years have polished and cut Dean into to diamond sharpness, the guy doesn't stand a chance. Dean buys him two shots of whiskey and an hour later he's following Dean into the bathroom, lust-drunk and laughing softly under his breath.
It's there that hands and mouths are furious movements in Sam's vision. Hard kisses and clothes being tugged at, fingers fisting in each other's hair and it isn't until the guy is thrown against the wall and Sam hears the door being locked that there's a shift in him. It feels like all the blood is rushing back to his head, and his arms and legs are regaining feeling, but it's too much, too intense and he falls back as the shadows appear and the guy screams out.
The next thing Sam knows is he's being walked out, his arm slung over the guy's shoulder as he staggers forward through the crowd. There's a voice at his side, "Sorry there, my friend had too much to drink, I've got him though, I'm the designated." And then Sam's in the passenger seat of the Impala, someone buckling him in tight and it's the guy from the bar, reaching into his jeans pocket and taking out the car keys.
The guy's fingers tap the wheel when he settles down in the passenger seat and he turns to Sam and asks, "This was my car, right?"
Sam laughs, quietly, a tinge of sadness. "Yeah, Dean. It's yours."
"Good," Dean says and turns out of the parking lot and back on the road to the hotel. "I was going to steal it otherwise."
Sam snorts and moves his arm slightly, brushing Dean's new elbow, his new skin. "Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever do that to me again."
Dean laughs long and hard, leaning over when they stop at a red light to kiss Sam, stubbled jaw scratching his cheek. Sam sits boneless, barely able to move back this time, his body still worn from what Dean did and the amounts of alcohol he consumed. His heart still races at the touch and he slips his eyes shut, trying to rest up as much as he can on the drive back.
When they reach the hotel, Sam's strength is back and he's all over Dean's new body, kissing and stripping him to his skin. Beautiful skin, soft and hard in all the places he wants it to be. Stubbled face rubbing against his own skin reminding him of Dean, of the man Dean was and is again. He's drunk and his head swims but he pushes Dean down on his back. Sam straddles his thighs and cups Dean's new face, searching his eyes for the glimmer of mischief, of dirty thoughts and sweetness. Sam sees it when Dean rocks his hips upward, moaning and encouraging Sam. "C'mon," he purrs.
And Sam leans down to taste him.
*
"Which one?" Dean asks, fingers twined in Sam's hair as they survey the crowd.
Sam kisses the girl's cheek, she's young and smells of sweet perfume but it's not what Sam wants tonight.
"You know," Sam says, pointing out the figure skulking around towards the back of the room. He seems to be alone tonight, nursing the shot of dark liquor in front of him.
"Him again? Sam, we're gonna give that guy a complex."
Sam shrugs and sips his beer. "I like him."
"Fifth time in under a month, though."
"I like him," Sam takes the girl's face in his hands. "You know why."
Dean's eyes drift back over to him, "Yeah, I know." The guy, Alex or something, Sam's never really bothered to care about their real names; well he's the closest-looking person to Dean that Sam's found. There are big differences, he's shorter than Dean was, and he's a good seven years younger than Sam is. His skin is pale but not freckled, his swagger is easy but his stance is definitely less cowboy, more like mercury. But Sam loves that skin, that body, loves burying himself deep inside until Dean comes so hard he screams his name. Loves running his nails down his back and feeling gooseflesh crop up.
"Fine, get us arrested," Dean grumbles but walks forward. "Meet me in the damn car," he hisses and presses the amulet into Sam's palm. It's probably the equivalent of Dean asking Sam to hold his purse, and Sam chuckles at the thought.
Twenty minutes later as Sam watches the door to the bar from the Impala the girl finally comes staggering out. She sways on her feet and runs towards the garbage can on the curb, puking her guts out before she succumbs to alcohol poisoning. Dean's pretty good about leaving his victims in that kind of state, where they're too fucked up to really do anything about what happened to them.
And then Dean leaves the bar, wearing the skin like it's his own. He slides into the passenger side and holds out his hand, Sam handing over the amulet again. "You're buying me dinner, okay? And I'm snapping this guy's neck when we're done, you're no good to me in prison."
"It hurts me that you doubt my ability to get away with this six times or more."
"Really expensive dinner."
Sam loves it, loves the body, loves the voice and loves that he's never been more Dean than when he wears this skin. He laughs and drives in the direction of the nicest Italian restaurant he knows they can afford.
It makes what he's going to do next all the more justified, in his mind.
*
He's beautiful, laid out like this, naked and spent. They've fucked for hours, and Sam's still nuzzling at his nape, running his mouth down that beautiful back, nipping all the way down to the inside of Dean's thighs.
In this body, they are Dean's thighs, Dean's mouth, Dean's lips, Dean's cock. He owns it so thoroughly that Sam still has trouble believing Dean wasn't born this way. But he's satisfied nonetheless. Dean's younger body has the stamina he used to only dream about. Strong, streamlined body, agile and tensed to move in an instant. Which Dean does in an instant, flipping Sam over and attacking his cock with his mouth. Sam moans, "Dean c'mon, I'm done, I'm done..."
"Awww, d'you want me to go easy on you, old man?"
"Says the three-thousand year old."
"Did you say something? I'm far too busy blowing your brains out," Dean says, his mouth wrapping around Sam's cock again and he moans.
"That's why, Dean," Sam murmurs. "That's why I love you in this skin, that fucking mouth and your cock and the way you drive me, oh!" Sam feels his orgasm building and so he stops talking so he can enjoy the long sweeps of tongue up and down his cock.
When he comes, he dozes a bit, only to be woken by Dean smacking him in the face with his hand. Sam knew this was coming, and he rolls off the bed.
Dean's trying to swing his feet over the edge but they're caught in mid-air, pushing against some invisible presence, some tension stopping them from touching the ground, or leaving the perimeter of the bed. "What the hell?" Dean yells at Sam. Sam sighs and starts gathering up his clothes, he's going to have to do it sooner or later, might as well be now. So he opens the closet, rummaging around for his big duffle bag.
Dean's eyes go wide and he starts throwing off the covers and sheets of the bed. "You didn't! You-You didn't!"
Sam swallows. "I did." He pulls out his big green bag from the closet and unzips it, taking out a book of demonic apocrypha, and a rectangle of black velvet cloth. He walks to Dean and lays the items down on the night table, pulling it out of Dean's immediate reach. "It's under the bed, if you were wondering. On a sheet of wrought iron, painted with India ink. Learned my lessons about wood and cement."
"Wrought iron," Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course, demon resistant. Gee, Sammy, you sure do think of everything. Make sure you have a fucking foolproof plan to send me back to hell." Dean draws up his knees to his chest, resting his arms on top of them. "I don't suppose you're open to negotiations right now?"
"Nope," Sam flips through the pages to the marked section.
"I'll make it worth your while."
"I know you will," Sam smiles and starts reading. Dean closes his eyes, bracing himself for the pain of being banished again from the waking world, but nothing happens. He doesn't feel his presence being forced out, but rather-
"That's, those aren't the right words..." Dean searches the room, then Sam's face for any kind of clue as to what's really going on. "What are you doing to me?" he worries his brow, voice going small and scared.
Sam continues the reading, calmly unwrapping the black velvet cloth to reveal the wrought iron brand and Dean's eyes go dark and black and through the emotionless veil Sam can still read the panic. The tip of the iron begins to glow red, as the incantation summons. Dean tries to move back on the bed but he finds himself unable to move and Sam grabs him, pushing him face down on the bed and pressing the iron to his left shoulder blade as he screams. The mark burns onto his skin, locking the demon inside.
*
Sam keeps the Devil's Trap under the bed when it's over. Dean's still looking at him out of the corner of his eye, predatory glare of distrust, of anger. So Sam decides to leave it there until Dean calms down, until he understands why Sam did it. But Dean's really in no place to do any kind of damage, the entire ritual leaving him weak and vulnerable. Sam remembers that much from when the demon bound itself to his body, how it had to hide and recuperate after the ordeal, unable to do anything but rest for a few days.
So Sam sits on the bed, Dean still lying on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow, staring out at nothing. Sam presses ice to the burn, ignoring the way Dean's body winces beneath it. He lifts it and replaces the ice-pack with his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the circle marking Dean's skin-it really is Dean's now, Sam realizes, smiling into his shoulder.
"You know I'm finding my way out of this one too. I crawled out of hell, what's one more prison?" Dean smirks at him.
Sam strokes his hair. "It's not a prison, Dean."
"It's a cage," Dean's voice goes softer, like he did all those weeks ago when he was in Diane. But then he picks up his head, face angry and he shouts, "It's like a cage, Sam! You don't understand, I was free!"
And Dean's crawling into his arms, slowly and Sam takes him, lays down on his back, Dean grasping around his neck and winding his legs around his torso. Sam holds him, holds the weak body, feels Dean burying his face in his neck, wetness in his eyes seeping into his shirt.
"It's a cage, Sam. This is hell, I can't move and I'm-"
"I know, Dean." He holds on a little tighter. "I know because I was free too, once."
"Sam?" Dean asks, pulling his head up to meet his gaze.
His brother's eyes narrow in on him, dagger-sharp stare. "But then you put me back, didn't you?"
end.
Music:
1. Of Montreal - Bunny Ain't No Kind Of Rider
2. Gorillaz - White Light
3. Tricky - Tear Out My Eyes
4. Clinic - Harvest (Within You)
5. Arcade Fire - My Body Is A Cage
6. Modest Mouse - Fly Trapped In A Jar
28mb Zip file