Thicker Than Water
Title: Thicker Than Water
Author: morgan32
Recipient: cho_malfoy
Rating: Adult (for bloody violence and some NSFW language).
Warnings: This is darkfic. Dark as in "the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of an oncoming train". Character death is implied (but open to interpretation).
Prompt: Either Sam or Dean gets turned into either a vampire or a werewolf, and how the other deals with it.
Notes: For the purpose of this fic, I am assuming Fresh Blood took place in early November and Dean's deal was due on May 2nd.
Summary: In the dreams, it never happened the same way twice. Two things in the dream were always the same: Dean always asked Sam to kill him and Sam never could.
THICKER THAN WATER
"I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world. And, I mean, I can't blame you. It's just... I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. 'Cause... just 'cause." (Sam, Fresh Blood)
Voicemail: November 30 2007
Hey, Dean, it's Bobby. Where the hell are you boys? I ain't seen hide nor hair of you for a month! I might have a case you'll be interested in if you feel like coming by. See ya.
Article clipped from the Delaware County Times, December 15 2007
BODY IN WOODS IS NOT MISSING ABBY
...confirmed that the body found in Quaker Woods last week is not that of missing Abby Perkins. Nineteen-year-old Abby has not been seen since leaving work three weeks ago in the company of an unidentified man. A spokesman for the sheriff's office stated...
Voicemail: December 21 2007
Hey, Dean, it's Bobby. Just wondering what you boys are doin' for Christmas. You're welcome here if you want. I'll open the good scotch. How about one of you returning my call this time. Well...Happy Christmas.
Article clipped from the Indianapolis Herald, January 4 2008
POLICE ADMIT NO PROGRESS IN SEARCH FOR MISSING WOMAN
...still trying to trace the driver of a black car seen in the vicinity shortly before Janet Milican disappeared on December 20. Police stressed the unknown driver is not a suspect at this time, however...
Voicemail: January 15 2008
Hey, Dean, it's Bobby. Kid, did I do something to piss you off? Come on, I'm worried about you boys. No one's heard from you in months. What the hell's goin' on? Call me, Dean. Please.
Voicemail: January 19 2008
Sam, it's Bobby. Listen, would one of you boys call me back? I'm not some high school date you can just ditch. I know you're staring down a deadline, Sam, and you know I can help. Just call me, goddamit. Let me know you're okay.
Conversation: January 21 2008
"Hey Bobby. It's Sam."
"Holy...about goddamn time! Are you boys alright?...Sam?"
"No, we...I'm not..."
"Sam. What's happened?"
"Dean. Dean's dead, Bobby. He's dead. I couldn't save him."
"I'm so sorry."
"Yeah. You're sorry. So am I. Everyone's sorry."
"Where are you, Sam? I'll come get you."
"No. I'm...I'm doing okay."
"Sam."
"I said I'm okay. Bye, Bobby."
*Click*
Article clipped from the Kansas City Gazette, February 20 2008
LUMPKIN TRIAL SET FOR SEPTEMBER
...continues to deny any involvement in the murder of Sara Ashley. Rob Lumpkin admits to having fought with Sara on the night of her disappearance but insists she was unharmed when he left her home that night. A source inside the Kansas City police department revealed that no other witness has been able to corroborate Lumpkins' story of a black Chevrolet "stalking" Sara prior to her disappearance. Though Sara Ashley's body has not yet been found, police have treated the case as murder due to the amount of blood found...
Voicemail: February 21 2008
Hey, Sam. It's Bobby. Just wanted to know how you're doing. You know you're welcome to come by anytime.
Sam Winchester's Journal, February 25 2008
91 days ago, I lost Dean.
9 weeks from now I would have lost him anyway, because he sold his soul for me.
I've been over this a hundred times. I've read and re-read the articles and I'm sure. It's just a coincidence.
I know what Dad would say to that. Dad would tell me that belief in coincidence is how evil goes unnoticed in the world. Dad would tell me to check it out, even though I'm sure. But I won't. I can't, because what if it's not a coincidence? What the hell could I do about it?
91 days since I lost Dean.
81 days since Abby Perkins went missing. But girls go missing all the time. It's horrible, but it's true. There is nothing in these articles to indicate anything supernatural was involved. There are no hints of the unexplained. Nothing strange. No red flags. Just a girl who vanished one night. It's a crime, sure, and it's horrible, but it's one for the cops, not a hunter.
91 days since I lost Dean.
In 9 weeks I would have lost him anyway, because he sold his soul for me.
Voicemail: March 18 2008
Hey, Sam. I'm worried about you, kid. Give me a call.
Voicemail: April 20 2008
Sam, I know what you did, you damn fool. This time I ain't kiddin'. If you don't show up at my place inside a week, I'm gonna take care of this myself. Boy, I get it, I do, but you... Damn it, Sam. Just get here. Now.
Sam Winchester's Journal, April 22 2008
Bobby figured it out. I should have known he would, sooner or later.
It's that damn demon deal that's the problem.
Nothing I've read answers the question keeping me awake at night. Dad's journal is supposed to have all the answers but he never wrote anything about this. I've spent weeks researching in libraries and I've read the books Bobby gave me so many times I've got them memorised, but none of them have the answer I need. I tried the internet, but I don't think Buffy the Vampire Slayer counts as an authority on the real world.
What happened to Dean's soul that night?
The books have no answers. All I've got to go on is what I know. What I saw.
Because Dean's not exactly dead, is he? I know. I know he's gone. But I saw him that night. I saw him. He's my brother.
So I guess the question is how much of the personality is in the soul. Metaphysics was never my best subject. If the person is the soul, then maybe that part of Dean is still there. Still his. Still...here, in this world. Not in Hell.
And if that's true, then how can I do what Bobby wants me to do?
Bobby's right. I know he is. I've known for weeks, ever since the fifth disappearance. Coincidence doesn't stretch so far.
I am a hunter.
I am a Winchester.
I know what I'm supposed to do.
But I can't do it. Oh, God, I can't. Because if I'm right, I'll be sending Dean to Hell.
***
Sam's shirt stuck to his chest, wet and sticky with Gordon Walker's blood. Decapitations are messy and the rusty razor wire Sam used to do it had cut his fingers badly, adding his own blood to the mix. The sweet-copper smell of blood was strong, covering the stink of spilled gasoline and rotting garbage that pervaded the old warehouse. Sam heard footsteps ahead and ran after them.
"Dean!" Sam yelled as he ran. "Dean!"
No answer came back, just the sound of someone running, getting further away. Sam put on a burst of speed, following.
His feet slipped on the damp and dirty floor. He kicked empty beer cans and fast-food cartons out of his way.
"Dean!"
A loud crash came from ahead. It sounded like part of the roof came down. Sam ran faster, propelled forward by terror. The darkness ahead was thick, more than just the absence of light. It forced Sam to slow down a little. He came to a gap in the wall ahead and skidded to a halt an instant before he careered off the edge into thin air. Sam grabbed the jagged edge of the wall to get his balance. His heart was beating in his throat. He caught his breath, gazing down into the inky darkness below.
The sound of footsteps was gone. Sam heard something falling against metal, a tinny sound. He heard water dripping somewhere. He could almost hear his own heartbeat, but he couldn't hear Dean any more. Still holding onto the wall, Sam inched forward. Something cracked loudly and the next instant Sam was falling! He grabbed for the wall but his fingers closed on empty air. He fell, tumbling into the black.
Sam landed heavily on a pile of rubble. The impact was painful, sharp stones thrusting into his muscles and bones. Dust filled his mouth when he took a breath and he coughed. Slowly, Sam rolled onto his back. He stretched out a hand to feel the painful place on his thigh. He felt the tear in his jeans, but there was no wetness, no blood. That was good. As long as it was just bruised, he could deal.
He reached into his jacket for his flashlight and pushed the button that should have turned it on. Nothing happened. He shook the flashlight and heard an unhealthy rattle. His fall must have smashed it. Damn.
Okay. There was nothing for it but to try to find his way in the dark. Sam started to get up, moving slowly as his bruised limbs and side protested each movement. He was on his feet, balancing precariously on the unstable rubble and slowly straightening up when the ground beneath his feet began to move. Sam dropped into a crouch, grabbing for the floor and the motion stopped.
His breath sounded harsh and loud in the darkness. Sam knew he was in real danger now: if he broke a bone down here, or if he couldn't find a way out, no one would ever find him. He could die in this stinking hole.
Sam took a breath and began to step forward.
"Sam, don't move!"
"Dean? Dean is that you?" Sam froze, sudden, impossible hope filling him.
Dean's voice came from the darkness somewhere below Sam. "Sam, move to your left. Small steps, okay?"
Sam couldn't see a damned thing, but he obeyed his brother's voice. Something slid from under his right foot as Sam shifted his weight and he heard it tumble away. Sounded like a long way down. He swallowed and moved to the left, one tiny step at a time. "Dean?" he called.
"Just a little further, Sam," Dean called back. "You're doin' good. Okay. Stop right there."
Sam stopped. "Now what?"
"Reach forward with your left hand. Yeah, that's it...a little further."
Sam's hand encountered cool, rough metal. He gripped it tightly. "Got it!"
"That's what's left of the elevator support. It's stable, Sam. You can climb up."
Sam looked up and saw dim light above him. It looked like a long climb, but he thought he could make it. "Dean, where are you, man?"
"I'll be right behind you, Sammy. Climb!"
So Sam climbed.
By the time he reached the top his fingers were bleeding anew from gripping the rusty metal. He was going to need a tetanus shot. He found the edge of the floor above, grabbed on and hauled himself out of the elevator shaft. He lay back on the filthy floor, breathing hard. Dean, God, Dean please climb up. Don't run from me again. Sam leaned over the shaft and peered down. "Dean!"
Moments later, Dean was there, clambering upward. Sam offered his hand to pull Dean out. Dean stared at his hand for a moment but refused the help. Finally he stood there with Sam, silently looking at him.
Sam didn't know what to say. He'd spent all that time chasing Dean but now they were face to face he had no words. Dean looked the same - dirty, his hair mussed and his clothing torn, but the same. Except his eyes. There was a rim of scarlet around his irises and those strange eyes followed the movements of Sam's hand instead of looking at his face.
"You're bleeding," Dean whispered.
Sam immediately covered his bleeding hand with his sleeve. Not that it was going to help. He was soaked in Gordon's blood, too. Sam looked at his brother helplessly. He knew what he was supposed to do. He was a hunter and Dean was... Damn it, he was still Dean!
Dean reached into his coat and brought out a gun. It was the Colt. He offered the gun to Sam.
Sam accepted the Colt from his brother. Automatically, he opened the barrel to check it was loaded and snapped it back into place. He held the gun loosely in his hand and looked at Dean.
"It's your job, Sammy."
Sam felt tears burning behind his eyes. "You just saved my life, Dean. Again. Now you want me to...?"
"I can't. I tried, but I can't."
Sam looked down at the gun in his hand. There was blood on the barrel. "No. No way."
Dean took a step toward him. "Sam, please."
"No! Damn it, Dean. Could you?" It was an unfair question, because they both remembered the answer. When Sam was possessed, nothing the demon did could make Dean turn on Sam. Dean couldn't kill him.
Sam had put a silver bullet in the heart of a woman he loved, but he couldn't kill his brother. Madison begged him to do it, so he did, but she had been beyond help. There was no cure for a werewolf and all werewolves were killers when they transformed. Dean wasn't beyond help. Sam wasn't entirely clear about what he could do to help Dean now, but he was sure that they could handle this. Somehow, they would deal.
The change happened so fast Sam had no time to react. Dean leapt at him in a blur of movement. He struck the Colt from Sam's hand. He slammed into Sam, his weight carrying Sam into the wall. Sam tried to push Dean away. Dean hissed at him like a cat, his vampire fangs descending like shark's teeth.
Sam had nowhere to go. He braced against the wall, ready to fight. Dean came closer, his fangs white in the darkness.
Holy crap!
Sam came awake with a jerk. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding. A dream. It was just a dream.
Sam had dreamed about that night a lot lately. In the dreams, it never happened the same way twice. He never dreamed it the way it really went down, but two things in the dream were always the same: Dean always asked Sam to kill him and Sam never did.
Which was why Sam was sitting in a hired car in the middle of the night, watching the house where his vampire brother's next victim lived.
Sam still had no idea what he was going to do when Dean showed up.
Stop thinking of him as "Dean". It's a vampire. It's just another damn vampire. Dean had killed five women that Sam knew about. Sam was John Winchester's son. He knew he had to stop the killing.
But it was his brother.
Sam checked his watch. It was past 3am. A year ago yesterday, Sam had died. A year ago today, Dean sold his soul for Sam. Today...tonight...would have been the last day of Dean's life. But Dean was already dead...or was he? What happened to a person's soul when they became a vampire? What did "undead" really mean? Sam still didn't know.
He'd been sure this was the right house, but as the night went on and Dean didn't show, Sam began to wonder. Perhaps he wasn't such a hot hunter without his brother backing him up, but Sam remembered his training and he knew Dean. Hours earlier he thought he heard the deep, familiar rumble of the Impala's engine, but there had been no sign of the car...nor of Dean. Maybe Sam had made a mistake. Maybe Bobby made a mistake and it wasn't Dean after all. The thought was a relief.
The passenger-side door opened suddenly and Dean was there, jumping into the seat as if he did this every night. He grinned at Sam. "Hey, Sammy. What's a nice girl like you doin' in a crappy car like this?"
Sam fought not to show how much Dean's sudden appearance unnerved him. It was Dean, no doubt about that, but God, he was different. It wasn't just the pallor of his skin - Sam had expected that. Dean had lost weight. His face seemed sharper than it should be, the cheeks hollow. The wise-ass grin was familiar, though and Sam tried to relax.
He half-turned in his seat, laying one hand on the wheel. "What do you think I'm doing here?" he challenged.
Dean stretched out in the seat, making himself comfortable. "I think you're hunting. Are you hunting me, Sam?"
"I was looking for you," Sam admitted.
Dean smirked. "Well, you suck at it. I picked up your scent three miles away, dude."
My scent? That's so creepy. "I wasn't hiding," Sam protested. He didn't imagine hearing the Impala did he? That had been Dean. He must have seen (or - ew - smelled) Sam so he ditched the car. The Impala was kind of conspicuous. Sam looked up at the house he'd been watching and prayed Dean hadn't done anything tonight. Was there some way to tell if a vampire had fed recently? He saw no blood on Dean now, but that proved nothing: Dean wasn't an idiot and he knew how to clean up after himself.
Sam wanted to ask, but even inside his own head, he couldn't form the words. In spite of everything: all the evidence, the trail he'd followed to be here tonight, Sam just could not picture Dean killing some innocent girl.
"Drive," Dean ordered.
"What? Where?"
"I'll tell you where to go. Drive."
Sam fired up the engine and started to drive.
***
Sam parked his car where Dean directed. Confused, he turned to his brother. "This is my motel. You're staying here, too?"
"Hell, no. We can talk in your room." Dean got out of the car. He headed for Sam's room as if he knew exactly where it was.
He was following Sam's scent, and that didn't creep Sam out any less than the first time. Sam pushed the feeling aside. This was what he wanted: a chance to talk to Dean, a chance to help his brother. It was Dean who left him when Gordon Walker turned him. Dean said leaving was the only way he could protect Sam. He was afraid he would hurt Sam if they stayed together. Sam tried to stop him, but Dean was every bit as stubborn as their dad when he wanted to be.
Sam unlocked the room and waited for Dean to enter ahead of him. Dean stepped over Sam's salt line just as he always had. Salt didn't work with vampires. Nothing did. Salt, holy water, garlic, crosses: all crap. Dad told them that, but Sam hadn't truly understood it before. He was used to his protections keeping out the supernatural. Not until Dean walked into that room did Sam fully understand his father's warning. Too damn late.
Sam closed the door behind him and bolted it. Under the electric light the change in Dean was even more apparent. The old leather jacket hung on Dean's too-thin shoulders and his jeans were baggy. Was this normal for vampires? Sam had no idea.
Dean had gone straight to the wall where Sam's research was all laid out. He looked back over his shoulder with a cynical smile. "Not hunting, huh?"
Sam returned the look steadily. "Not unless I have to," he answered.
Dean's smile softened. "That's my boy, Sammy." He stripped off his leather coat and flopped down on the king-sized bed, bouncing on the mattress. "So. What's the deal?"
Sam looked at the wall. Five women who vanished and were never seen again. Bodies never found...but Dean knew how to dispose of an inconvenient corpse. Any hunter could do that. "Did you do it, Dean?" he asked bluntly.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Give me a break, Sam. I've got to eat."
It was as good as a confession and Sam realised he'd been hoping Dean would deny it, or that he'd have some reasonable explanation. There was no explanation. This hunt was exactly what it looked like.
Sam rounded on his brother. "There are other ways, Dean!" he said angrily.
"No." Dean laced his fingers behind his head. "There aren't. This is what I am now. You had your chance to stop this. You chickened out."
Oh, so it's my fault? Sam shook his head in denial of that charge. "If Lenore and her people could - "
Dean rolled off the bed. "She lied to you, Sam," he announced, staring at the research on the wall again.
Sam couldn't see Dean's expression, but he heard the emotions in Dean's voice: anger, frustration and regret. It was the last that kept Sam standing where he was, listening.
"She lied," Dean said again. "She must have. Do you think I didn't try? I'm still me." The bitterness in his voice was a touchable thing, real and heavy. "Losing your touch, Sammy. You missed one."
Oh, God. Sam swallowed. "Dean, there's got to be some way..."
Dean whirled around. "You did this, Sam! I asked you to finish it. You chose this. What did you think I was gonna do? I have to eat."
It was not like Dean to try to shift the blame like that. It wasn't like Dean at all. He had always taken responsibility for what he did.
Sam nodded reluctantly. "Okay. You need to eat. But you don't have to kill. And you don't have to choose people like this..."
Dean shrugged. "What else should I do? You want me to pick bad guys and pretend that makes it okay? It ain't okay, Sam. I'm doin' the best I can."
"You're killing people, Dean!"
Dean met Sam's eyes. "Yeah. Sometimes." He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you here to kill me, Sammy?"
I think I have to, Sam thought, but what he said aloud was, "No. I'm here to stop you."
"Only one way you can do that," Dean told him bluntly.
"I don't believe you. There's got to be something, Dean. You don't have to kill."
Dean shook his head. "You keep sayin' that, but you've got no idea what this is like. I can't just...feed and leave 'em behind to tell the story. Come on, man. I know hunters. I'd have someone like you or Dad on my tail in no time and then I'd have to kill him."
Sam took a breath. Dean wasn't wrong about that.
"At the start I figured, maybe there was some way. If I could just make sure she didn't remember me... But I screwed it up."
Sam swallowed. "Jesus. Dean, what did you do?"
"GHB. But anything like that, it gets into the blood. Sam, I didn't think...I didn't know." He glanced toward Sam's display. Just a quick flicker of his eyes but it was enough for Sam to get the message.
Sam understood enough to be horrified. The first girl had left with a man: with Dean. He'd given her GHB, a date-rape drug, so she wouldn't remember what he did to her. So he could feed and she wouldn't know. Good plan. Except GHB destroys the inhibitions, which for Dean meant it loosed the bloodlust. Dean didn't need to spell out what happened. He'd killed the girl. Probably ripped her throat out before he knew what he was doing. Probably loved it.
"I'm not the only one who's noticed you, Dean," Sam tried. If he couldn't appeal to Dean's conscience, he would try appealing Dean's sense of self-preservation. "Bobby put the same trail together. There could be others. You've got to stop."
Dean pushed himself away from the wall. "I can't do that, Sam," he said calmly. He headed for the door.
Sam leapt across the room and reached the door just in time. He stood in front of the door, blocking Dean's way out.
Dean stepped back, but he was frowning. "Get out of my way."
"No. I'm not gonna let you go out and kill some innocent girl." Sam reached out to his brother, begging him to understand. "I can't let you do it, Dean. Damn it, you know I can't!"
Dean looked at him steadily. "Sam," he said, his tone utterly reasonable, "you can't stop me. Get out of my way." It was a threat.
Dean was wrong. There was one way Sam could stop him. Well...there were two, really, but Plan B involved using dead man's blood and if Sam did that there was no way Dean would ever trust him again. So Plan A it was.
Sam steeled himself and met Dean's inhuman eyes. "No. Stay." Sam slipped the jacket from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground between himself and the door. He began to unbutton his shirt. "You have to eat, I know. But you don't have to kill. Right?"
Dean backed away as he realised what Sam was offering. "No. Sam...no. That's totally fucked up." He was shaking his head.
Dean chose girls, young women, to kill. He chose them because it wasn't just about food. Taking blood was sexual to him. Sam had suspected it before. The choice of victims - all of them young and pretty - hadn't seemed random and he knew his brother's taste in women. They were all Dean's type. Dean's reaction to Sam's offer of his own blood confirmed it. Did Dean fuck them as he killed them? Sam did not want to know.
But he was determined. "I'm not letting you leave if you're...hungry," Sam insisted, stumbling a little over the word. "This way is safe, for both of us. You won't kill me and I won't rat you out."
"But what happens tomorrow, Sam? Huh? You gonna stay with me? Do this every time I need to...eat? No way. No freakin' way."
"I don't know," Sam answered honestly. He opened his shirt and shrugged it off. The shirt joined his jacket on the floor. Sam stayed where he was, topless now, waiting. "Do it, Dean. Let me take care of you tonight. Be my brother again. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what to do next."
Dean simply stared at him.
Sam pulled a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans. He popped the blade and raised it toward his own neck. He had no intention of cutting himself but he saw Dean's eyes follow the blade. The look on Dean's face was dark and anticipatory. Sam never, ever wanted Dean to look at him that way. It was almost like lust, but it wasn't that. It was hunger...inhuman hunger. It wasn't anything Sam recognised as Dean.
"Okay," Dean said slowly. "But not like that. Put the damn shirt back on and give me your wrist."
Sam let out the breath he had been holding. He could do that. He could handle it if it would save a life. Sam watched Dean a moment longer, worried he might try to leave as soon as Sam moved away from the door. Finally Sam bent down to retrieve his shirt, pocketed the switchblade and walked across to the bed. He pulled the shirt on but didn't bother buttoning it. He rolled both sleeves up to his elbows and held his arm out for Dean.
Dean gave Sam his best dude-what-are-you-thinking? look. "That's your gun hand," he pointed out, his tone one of long-suffering patience. "You won't be able to shoot straight for a while after this."
That didn't sound encouraging. Sam offered his left arm instead, although if Dean had given him an out in that moment, Sam might have taken it. He really didn't want to do this.
Dean knelt on the bed and took Sam's forearm in both of his hands, turning the inner wrist toward his face. Dean's hands were cold and Sam shivered at his touch. Dean silently opened the clasp of Sam's watch and slipped it off his wrist. He laid the watch down on the bed, but said nothing. He didn't even look at Sam.
Sam watched Dean, though. He saw the flicker of disgust on Dean's face as he lowered his mouth to Sam's wrist. He was a little offended by that, but then, if taking blood was usually sexual for Dean, Sam was glad Dean wasn't okay with it. For his brother to think of him that way, even a little, would freak Sam out worse than the rest.
Dean rubbed his thumb across the indentation left by the watch-strap and Sam tensed involuntarily, anticipating pain. Even then, Dean didn't look at Sam. He opened his mouth, white fangs descending, and bit deeply into Sam's wrist.
It hurt. It hurt more than Sam expected: the razor-sharp teeth piercing his flesh and hanging on like a pit-bull. Dean's hands gripped him so hard Sam knew he would have bruises as well as a bite wound. He felt his blood flow. Dean's mouth was cooler than living flesh should be. He didn't just suck Sam's blood: he worried at the wound, his jaw working as he swallowed.
Sam felt sick. He knew, then, that Dean had been right: not even for his brother could he do this on a regular basis. The thing feeding off him wasn't the brother he loved. The press of cold, dead skin against his, the way Dean's mouth and throat worked as he fed...it took everything Sam had to remain still and allow it to happen. He wanted desperately to tear his hand away. It wasn't fear. It was revulsion.
It went on forever. Sam was so caught up in trying to hide his feelings from Dean that he missed the signs. Not until his vision darkened did he realise that the worsening nausea he felt wasn't from his disgust. It was from blood-loss.
"Dean!" Sam tried to pull away but Dean held him fast. Dean's eyes were closed, his mouth still working at Sam's wrist, his concentration on the task absolute.
"Dean! Enough! Please!" It took the last of Sam's strength to wrench his arm away from Dean. Sam fell back onto the bed, cradling his bloody wrist. He hadn't understood, but he did now. Dean could have killed him. Dean wouldn't have stopped until Sam's heart did.
When Sam opened his eyes, Dean wasn't in view. For a moment Sam was afraid he'd gone but a few seconds later Dean returned with Sam's medkit. "Holy crap, Sammy! You should have stopped me sooner." He climbed onto the bed beside Sam and reached for Sam's bleeding arm.
For a moment, Sam resisted, afraid of what the blood would do to Dean. Sam's blood was smeared around Dean's mouth, running down his chin. Gross.
"Don't be an ass," Dean snapped, and he sounded so much like the old Dean that Sam obeyed, allowing Dean to see his wound. Dean ripped open a sterile dressing using teeth that now appeared normal and human. He laid the dressing over the bite wound, applying pressure.
Sam watched him worriedly. Though Dean's frown of concentration was familiar, and his concern for Sam seemed real, Sam could still see his blood drying on Dean's face. He could not forget Dean feeding off his blood. No matter how normal Dean appeared, he was a vampire now. He was a killer.
"Dean..." Sam felt consciousness slipping away. His heart was racing, partly from fear but mostly from the loss of blood. He struggled to get the words out. How could Dean not realise he was in trouble here? "Dean...hospital. I...I need...blood."
It never crossed Sam's mind that Dean might refuse. His entire life, Dean had taken care of him.
Through a fog of dark and disbelief, Sam saw Dean shake his head. "I told you, Sam. I can't do that." His voice was utterly emotionless.
"Dean...please..." Sam whispered.
Dean took the dressing from Sam's wrist, lifting it to his face. It was soaked with Sam's blood. "You'll be okay, Sammy. Go to sleep now."
You killed me, Sam thought. As he lost consciousness, his last awareness was Dean, lifting his bloody wrist once more.
***
Sunlight falling across Sam's face brought him back to semi-consciousness. He felt awful: his head ached and his body felt stiff and old. He couldn't think. There was something important, he knew, but it danced out of reach. Sam squinted against the light and tried to roll onto his side. His muscles obeyed him, but slowly. He was weak as hell.
Someone jerked the curtain closed and the light went away. Sam groaned, turning his head toward the window.
Dean stood there, still wearing his leather coat, arms crossed over his chest. "Hey, Sam. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Sam answered. Even his voice sounded weak. What happened to him?
Dean's lips quirked in an expression that wasn't quite a smile. "Yeah. Sorry about that. But you're awake now. We can talk. That's what you wanted, right?" He left the window and sat down on the end of the bed. "I ditched the dead man's blood, by the way. No offence. Oh, and Bobby's been calling you. He left like a dozen messages."
Bobby? That was what Sam had forgotten. Bobby was going to come after Dean if Sam didn't...oh, God. Dean!
"You...you bled me," Sam whispered. It was coming back to him. He remembered begging Dean to take him to a hospital. He looked down at his injured wrist and saw the neat, white bandage. So Dean had stopped the bleeding and patched him up. But this wasn't a hospital.
"You asked me to," Dean answered, a little defensively. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. Your breathing is easier and your heart rate is almost normal."
Almost? Almost meant it wasn't normal. That was bad. Sam tried to sit up and found he was too weak even for that. He collapsed back onto the pillow. His mouth was dry. "Water?" he asked.
"Not yet." Dean was sitting half-turned away from Sam, his shoulders hunched so Sam could see only his profile. "You didn't do this to me, Sam," he said with a sigh.
It was such a weird thing for him to say. Of course Sam hadn't done this! He watched Dean, trying to understand.
"What's it like?" Sam asked, not sure he really wanted to know.
"What's it like bein' a vampire? What's it like knowin' that if Dad were here, he'd kill me without a second thought? What's it like? Goddamit, Sam!"
Sam swallowed. Dean was right about Dad, but... "I'm not Dad."
"No. Dad would have ended this. I fucking begged you to end it."
"I couldn't. Dean, you're my brother. You're all I've got. Why'd you leave?"
Dean sprang up from the bed. He rounded on Sam, looming over him. "One day I'm killin' vamps, the next I am one. Dude, I was freaked. You came after me and all I could see was... Sam, you were..."
"Food." Sam said it for him.
"I did my best, Sam. I've killed, yeah, but only when I had to. I wait until I'm starving. Six people, Sam. That's all."
"It's not okay, Dean." Six people. Six young women were dead.
"I know that! I know I'm a monster." Dean paced beside the bed. "I'm what I used to hunt. You have no idea what this is like. But this is what I am now."
"Dean..." Sam tried to reach for him.
"I haven't done this to anyone else, though. I wanted to, Sam. I wanted to so bad. That's the thing we never got about vampires. They - we - ain't supposed to be alone."
Sam did understand it. That was the one common thread in all the vampires they'd run into. The nest that killed Daniel Elkins were a close-knit group. Lenore described her nest as her family. Dixon was trying to create a new family for himself. Even Gordon Walker, the ultimate loner, had been driven to turn a girl, though he hadn't understood what was driving him. And Dean...Dean never liked flying solo. Family meant everything to him. It was why Sam had been so shocked when he left.
"I get it," Sam said softly. Maybe there was a way. If Dean wanted to stay now, Sam could find some way to help him. They could be brothers again.
Dean smiled. "Good."
There was something in his tone that made Sam flash back on the previous night. For a moment his wrist ached with the memory of Dean's teeth in his flesh. Sam invited it, but he hadn't enjoyed the experience. Dean took too much blood. He must have known he was doing it: he had the whole vampire-preternatural-senses thing going for him. When Sam's heart started working overtime, trying to pump not enough blood through his body, Dean must have known it long before Sam did.
He hadn't cared. Not then, not in the moment.
Sam didn't know what to think. Last night, when Dean got into his car and started talking, Sam had been sure it was Dean. He was a little different, sure, but Sam hadn't expected him to be exactly the same. How could Dean be so like the brother he remembered and loved, yet do these things which Sam knew Dean would never, ever do?
It was as if he were possessed, Sam thought suddenly. The demon was driving, but it could put on a convincing show. The way Meg had done, when she possessed Sam. Dean wasn't possessed. That wasn't possible. But he was putting on a mask. It was all an act designed to stop Sam from doing what Dean knew he had to do.
Sam struggled to sit up. He managed it, though his head swirled and he had to fight to keep from retching. He shifted one of the pillows so he would have something to lean on and caught a glint of metal from under the pillow. He covered it quickly and looked toward Dean, but Dean gave no sign that he'd seen the gun.
Dean had Sam's switchblade in his hand. He was turning the blade over and over, slowly, studying the play of light. He glanced up when Sam looked his way. His smile was Dean's old smile, a smile Sam hadn't seen since before their father died: happy, relaxed...content.
It scared the crap out of him. Nothing in their present situation matched that smile.
"I missed you, Sam," Dean told him. "You're my family. I get that now."
And you didn't before? Sam frowned, confused.
Dean raised the switchblade and quickly sliced into his own palm.
There's no stimulant quite like adrenaline. Sam, weak and sick a moment before, found himself moving as he realised what Dean intended to do. He rolled off the bed, grabbing the gun as he moved. He found his feet and started to straighten up. His vision blurred. Long practice allowed Sam to raise the gun anyway. But the gun felt all wrong in his hand. It wasn't his gun.
He looked across the bed to Dean, able to see the shape of his body, but nothing more. He blinked, hoping to clear his vision. "I don't want to do this, Dean!"
Dean raised his hand and the first sharp image Sam saw was Dean's blood dripping onto the motel carpet. "It won't hurt, Sam. Just a couple of hours and we can be family again. Isn't that what you want?"
"Not like this! God, Dean...please!" There was a tremor in Sam's hand, the gun shaking. It was from the blood loss. It had to be.
Dean moved toward him. "You can't kill me, Sammy. Last night you wanted this."
"No. Not this. Are you hearing me, Dean. No!"
"It's okay, Sam. You'll feel different when it's done."
Sam drew back the hammer on the gun. "Stop," he ordered.
Dean stopped. He looked, not at Sam, but at the Colt in Sam's hand.
Sam's hand was steady now. "I knew last night, when you confessed to killing those women," he said, his voice even and determined. "I didn't want to believe it. I thought we could be brothers again."
"We can."
"No. If you really want to do this, to turn me against my will, then whatever is left of you isn't my brother. Dean's gone." Just saying the words aloud hurt more than a knife in Sam's heart.
Dean returned Sam's gaze, his expression changing. "Did you happen to notice today's date?" he asked.
"Yes," Sam answered. He pulled the trigger.
***
Voicemail: May 3rd 2008
Bobby, this is Sam. It's over. Don't call me again.
~ End ~
Author: morgan32
Recipient: cho_malfoy
Rating: Adult (for bloody violence and some NSFW language).
Warnings: This is darkfic. Dark as in "the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of an oncoming train". Character death is implied (but open to interpretation).
Prompt: Either Sam or Dean gets turned into either a vampire or a werewolf, and how the other deals with it.
Notes: For the purpose of this fic, I am assuming Fresh Blood took place in early November and Dean's deal was due on May 2nd.
Summary: In the dreams, it never happened the same way twice. Two things in the dream were always the same: Dean always asked Sam to kill him and Sam never could.
THICKER THAN WATER
"I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world. And, I mean, I can't blame you. It's just... I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. 'Cause... just 'cause." (Sam, Fresh Blood)
Voicemail: November 30 2007
Hey, Dean, it's Bobby. Where the hell are you boys? I ain't seen hide nor hair of you for a month! I might have a case you'll be interested in if you feel like coming by. See ya.
Article clipped from the Delaware County Times, December 15 2007
BODY IN WOODS IS NOT MISSING ABBY
...confirmed that the body found in Quaker Woods last week is not that of missing Abby Perkins. Nineteen-year-old Abby has not been seen since leaving work three weeks ago in the company of an unidentified man. A spokesman for the sheriff's office stated...
Voicemail: December 21 2007
Hey, Dean, it's Bobby. Just wondering what you boys are doin' for Christmas. You're welcome here if you want. I'll open the good scotch. How about one of you returning my call this time. Well...Happy Christmas.
Article clipped from the Indianapolis Herald, January 4 2008
POLICE ADMIT NO PROGRESS IN SEARCH FOR MISSING WOMAN
...still trying to trace the driver of a black car seen in the vicinity shortly before Janet Milican disappeared on December 20. Police stressed the unknown driver is not a suspect at this time, however...
Voicemail: January 15 2008
Hey, Dean, it's Bobby. Kid, did I do something to piss you off? Come on, I'm worried about you boys. No one's heard from you in months. What the hell's goin' on? Call me, Dean. Please.
Voicemail: January 19 2008
Sam, it's Bobby. Listen, would one of you boys call me back? I'm not some high school date you can just ditch. I know you're staring down a deadline, Sam, and you know I can help. Just call me, goddamit. Let me know you're okay.
Conversation: January 21 2008
"Hey Bobby. It's Sam."
"Holy...about goddamn time! Are you boys alright?...Sam?"
"No, we...I'm not..."
"Sam. What's happened?"
"Dean. Dean's dead, Bobby. He's dead. I couldn't save him."
"I'm so sorry."
"Yeah. You're sorry. So am I. Everyone's sorry."
"Where are you, Sam? I'll come get you."
"No. I'm...I'm doing okay."
"Sam."
"I said I'm okay. Bye, Bobby."
*Click*
Article clipped from the Kansas City Gazette, February 20 2008
LUMPKIN TRIAL SET FOR SEPTEMBER
...continues to deny any involvement in the murder of Sara Ashley. Rob Lumpkin admits to having fought with Sara on the night of her disappearance but insists she was unharmed when he left her home that night. A source inside the Kansas City police department revealed that no other witness has been able to corroborate Lumpkins' story of a black Chevrolet "stalking" Sara prior to her disappearance. Though Sara Ashley's body has not yet been found, police have treated the case as murder due to the amount of blood found...
Voicemail: February 21 2008
Hey, Sam. It's Bobby. Just wanted to know how you're doing. You know you're welcome to come by anytime.
Sam Winchester's Journal, February 25 2008
91 days ago, I lost Dean.
9 weeks from now I would have lost him anyway, because he sold his soul for me.
I've been over this a hundred times. I've read and re-read the articles and I'm sure. It's just a coincidence.
I know what Dad would say to that. Dad would tell me that belief in coincidence is how evil goes unnoticed in the world. Dad would tell me to check it out, even though I'm sure. But I won't. I can't, because what if it's not a coincidence? What the hell could I do about it?
91 days since I lost Dean.
81 days since Abby Perkins went missing. But girls go missing all the time. It's horrible, but it's true. There is nothing in these articles to indicate anything supernatural was involved. There are no hints of the unexplained. Nothing strange. No red flags. Just a girl who vanished one night. It's a crime, sure, and it's horrible, but it's one for the cops, not a hunter.
91 days since I lost Dean.
In 9 weeks I would have lost him anyway, because he sold his soul for me.
Voicemail: March 18 2008
Hey, Sam. I'm worried about you, kid. Give me a call.
Voicemail: April 20 2008
Sam, I know what you did, you damn fool. This time I ain't kiddin'. If you don't show up at my place inside a week, I'm gonna take care of this myself. Boy, I get it, I do, but you... Damn it, Sam. Just get here. Now.
Sam Winchester's Journal, April 22 2008
Bobby figured it out. I should have known he would, sooner or later.
It's that damn demon deal that's the problem.
Nothing I've read answers the question keeping me awake at night. Dad's journal is supposed to have all the answers but he never wrote anything about this. I've spent weeks researching in libraries and I've read the books Bobby gave me so many times I've got them memorised, but none of them have the answer I need. I tried the internet, but I don't think Buffy the Vampire Slayer counts as an authority on the real world.
What happened to Dean's soul that night?
The books have no answers. All I've got to go on is what I know. What I saw.
Because Dean's not exactly dead, is he? I know. I know he's gone. But I saw him that night. I saw him. He's my brother.
So I guess the question is how much of the personality is in the soul. Metaphysics was never my best subject. If the person is the soul, then maybe that part of Dean is still there. Still his. Still...here, in this world. Not in Hell.
And if that's true, then how can I do what Bobby wants me to do?
Bobby's right. I know he is. I've known for weeks, ever since the fifth disappearance. Coincidence doesn't stretch so far.
I am a hunter.
I am a Winchester.
I know what I'm supposed to do.
But I can't do it. Oh, God, I can't. Because if I'm right, I'll be sending Dean to Hell.
***
Sam's shirt stuck to his chest, wet and sticky with Gordon Walker's blood. Decapitations are messy and the rusty razor wire Sam used to do it had cut his fingers badly, adding his own blood to the mix. The sweet-copper smell of blood was strong, covering the stink of spilled gasoline and rotting garbage that pervaded the old warehouse. Sam heard footsteps ahead and ran after them.
"Dean!" Sam yelled as he ran. "Dean!"
No answer came back, just the sound of someone running, getting further away. Sam put on a burst of speed, following.
His feet slipped on the damp and dirty floor. He kicked empty beer cans and fast-food cartons out of his way.
"Dean!"
A loud crash came from ahead. It sounded like part of the roof came down. Sam ran faster, propelled forward by terror. The darkness ahead was thick, more than just the absence of light. It forced Sam to slow down a little. He came to a gap in the wall ahead and skidded to a halt an instant before he careered off the edge into thin air. Sam grabbed the jagged edge of the wall to get his balance. His heart was beating in his throat. He caught his breath, gazing down into the inky darkness below.
The sound of footsteps was gone. Sam heard something falling against metal, a tinny sound. He heard water dripping somewhere. He could almost hear his own heartbeat, but he couldn't hear Dean any more. Still holding onto the wall, Sam inched forward. Something cracked loudly and the next instant Sam was falling! He grabbed for the wall but his fingers closed on empty air. He fell, tumbling into the black.
Sam landed heavily on a pile of rubble. The impact was painful, sharp stones thrusting into his muscles and bones. Dust filled his mouth when he took a breath and he coughed. Slowly, Sam rolled onto his back. He stretched out a hand to feel the painful place on his thigh. He felt the tear in his jeans, but there was no wetness, no blood. That was good. As long as it was just bruised, he could deal.
He reached into his jacket for his flashlight and pushed the button that should have turned it on. Nothing happened. He shook the flashlight and heard an unhealthy rattle. His fall must have smashed it. Damn.
Okay. There was nothing for it but to try to find his way in the dark. Sam started to get up, moving slowly as his bruised limbs and side protested each movement. He was on his feet, balancing precariously on the unstable rubble and slowly straightening up when the ground beneath his feet began to move. Sam dropped into a crouch, grabbing for the floor and the motion stopped.
His breath sounded harsh and loud in the darkness. Sam knew he was in real danger now: if he broke a bone down here, or if he couldn't find a way out, no one would ever find him. He could die in this stinking hole.
Sam took a breath and began to step forward.
"Sam, don't move!"
"Dean? Dean is that you?" Sam froze, sudden, impossible hope filling him.
Dean's voice came from the darkness somewhere below Sam. "Sam, move to your left. Small steps, okay?"
Sam couldn't see a damned thing, but he obeyed his brother's voice. Something slid from under his right foot as Sam shifted his weight and he heard it tumble away. Sounded like a long way down. He swallowed and moved to the left, one tiny step at a time. "Dean?" he called.
"Just a little further, Sam," Dean called back. "You're doin' good. Okay. Stop right there."
Sam stopped. "Now what?"
"Reach forward with your left hand. Yeah, that's it...a little further."
Sam's hand encountered cool, rough metal. He gripped it tightly. "Got it!"
"That's what's left of the elevator support. It's stable, Sam. You can climb up."
Sam looked up and saw dim light above him. It looked like a long climb, but he thought he could make it. "Dean, where are you, man?"
"I'll be right behind you, Sammy. Climb!"
So Sam climbed.
By the time he reached the top his fingers were bleeding anew from gripping the rusty metal. He was going to need a tetanus shot. He found the edge of the floor above, grabbed on and hauled himself out of the elevator shaft. He lay back on the filthy floor, breathing hard. Dean, God, Dean please climb up. Don't run from me again. Sam leaned over the shaft and peered down. "Dean!"
Moments later, Dean was there, clambering upward. Sam offered his hand to pull Dean out. Dean stared at his hand for a moment but refused the help. Finally he stood there with Sam, silently looking at him.
Sam didn't know what to say. He'd spent all that time chasing Dean but now they were face to face he had no words. Dean looked the same - dirty, his hair mussed and his clothing torn, but the same. Except his eyes. There was a rim of scarlet around his irises and those strange eyes followed the movements of Sam's hand instead of looking at his face.
"You're bleeding," Dean whispered.
Sam immediately covered his bleeding hand with his sleeve. Not that it was going to help. He was soaked in Gordon's blood, too. Sam looked at his brother helplessly. He knew what he was supposed to do. He was a hunter and Dean was... Damn it, he was still Dean!
Dean reached into his coat and brought out a gun. It was the Colt. He offered the gun to Sam.
Sam accepted the Colt from his brother. Automatically, he opened the barrel to check it was loaded and snapped it back into place. He held the gun loosely in his hand and looked at Dean.
"It's your job, Sammy."
Sam felt tears burning behind his eyes. "You just saved my life, Dean. Again. Now you want me to...?"
"I can't. I tried, but I can't."
Sam looked down at the gun in his hand. There was blood on the barrel. "No. No way."
Dean took a step toward him. "Sam, please."
"No! Damn it, Dean. Could you?" It was an unfair question, because they both remembered the answer. When Sam was possessed, nothing the demon did could make Dean turn on Sam. Dean couldn't kill him.
Sam had put a silver bullet in the heart of a woman he loved, but he couldn't kill his brother. Madison begged him to do it, so he did, but she had been beyond help. There was no cure for a werewolf and all werewolves were killers when they transformed. Dean wasn't beyond help. Sam wasn't entirely clear about what he could do to help Dean now, but he was sure that they could handle this. Somehow, they would deal.
The change happened so fast Sam had no time to react. Dean leapt at him in a blur of movement. He struck the Colt from Sam's hand. He slammed into Sam, his weight carrying Sam into the wall. Sam tried to push Dean away. Dean hissed at him like a cat, his vampire fangs descending like shark's teeth.
Sam had nowhere to go. He braced against the wall, ready to fight. Dean came closer, his fangs white in the darkness.
Holy crap!
Sam came awake with a jerk. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding. A dream. It was just a dream.
Sam had dreamed about that night a lot lately. In the dreams, it never happened the same way twice. He never dreamed it the way it really went down, but two things in the dream were always the same: Dean always asked Sam to kill him and Sam never did.
Which was why Sam was sitting in a hired car in the middle of the night, watching the house where his vampire brother's next victim lived.
Sam still had no idea what he was going to do when Dean showed up.
Stop thinking of him as "Dean". It's a vampire. It's just another damn vampire. Dean had killed five women that Sam knew about. Sam was John Winchester's son. He knew he had to stop the killing.
But it was his brother.
Sam checked his watch. It was past 3am. A year ago yesterday, Sam had died. A year ago today, Dean sold his soul for Sam. Today...tonight...would have been the last day of Dean's life. But Dean was already dead...or was he? What happened to a person's soul when they became a vampire? What did "undead" really mean? Sam still didn't know.
He'd been sure this was the right house, but as the night went on and Dean didn't show, Sam began to wonder. Perhaps he wasn't such a hot hunter without his brother backing him up, but Sam remembered his training and he knew Dean. Hours earlier he thought he heard the deep, familiar rumble of the Impala's engine, but there had been no sign of the car...nor of Dean. Maybe Sam had made a mistake. Maybe Bobby made a mistake and it wasn't Dean after all. The thought was a relief.
The passenger-side door opened suddenly and Dean was there, jumping into the seat as if he did this every night. He grinned at Sam. "Hey, Sammy. What's a nice girl like you doin' in a crappy car like this?"
Sam fought not to show how much Dean's sudden appearance unnerved him. It was Dean, no doubt about that, but God, he was different. It wasn't just the pallor of his skin - Sam had expected that. Dean had lost weight. His face seemed sharper than it should be, the cheeks hollow. The wise-ass grin was familiar, though and Sam tried to relax.
He half-turned in his seat, laying one hand on the wheel. "What do you think I'm doing here?" he challenged.
Dean stretched out in the seat, making himself comfortable. "I think you're hunting. Are you hunting me, Sam?"
"I was looking for you," Sam admitted.
Dean smirked. "Well, you suck at it. I picked up your scent three miles away, dude."
My scent? That's so creepy. "I wasn't hiding," Sam protested. He didn't imagine hearing the Impala did he? That had been Dean. He must have seen (or - ew - smelled) Sam so he ditched the car. The Impala was kind of conspicuous. Sam looked up at the house he'd been watching and prayed Dean hadn't done anything tonight. Was there some way to tell if a vampire had fed recently? He saw no blood on Dean now, but that proved nothing: Dean wasn't an idiot and he knew how to clean up after himself.
Sam wanted to ask, but even inside his own head, he couldn't form the words. In spite of everything: all the evidence, the trail he'd followed to be here tonight, Sam just could not picture Dean killing some innocent girl.
"Drive," Dean ordered.
"What? Where?"
"I'll tell you where to go. Drive."
Sam fired up the engine and started to drive.
***
Sam parked his car where Dean directed. Confused, he turned to his brother. "This is my motel. You're staying here, too?"
"Hell, no. We can talk in your room." Dean got out of the car. He headed for Sam's room as if he knew exactly where it was.
He was following Sam's scent, and that didn't creep Sam out any less than the first time. Sam pushed the feeling aside. This was what he wanted: a chance to talk to Dean, a chance to help his brother. It was Dean who left him when Gordon Walker turned him. Dean said leaving was the only way he could protect Sam. He was afraid he would hurt Sam if they stayed together. Sam tried to stop him, but Dean was every bit as stubborn as their dad when he wanted to be.
Sam unlocked the room and waited for Dean to enter ahead of him. Dean stepped over Sam's salt line just as he always had. Salt didn't work with vampires. Nothing did. Salt, holy water, garlic, crosses: all crap. Dad told them that, but Sam hadn't truly understood it before. He was used to his protections keeping out the supernatural. Not until Dean walked into that room did Sam fully understand his father's warning. Too damn late.
Sam closed the door behind him and bolted it. Under the electric light the change in Dean was even more apparent. The old leather jacket hung on Dean's too-thin shoulders and his jeans were baggy. Was this normal for vampires? Sam had no idea.
Dean had gone straight to the wall where Sam's research was all laid out. He looked back over his shoulder with a cynical smile. "Not hunting, huh?"
Sam returned the look steadily. "Not unless I have to," he answered.
Dean's smile softened. "That's my boy, Sammy." He stripped off his leather coat and flopped down on the king-sized bed, bouncing on the mattress. "So. What's the deal?"
Sam looked at the wall. Five women who vanished and were never seen again. Bodies never found...but Dean knew how to dispose of an inconvenient corpse. Any hunter could do that. "Did you do it, Dean?" he asked bluntly.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Give me a break, Sam. I've got to eat."
It was as good as a confession and Sam realised he'd been hoping Dean would deny it, or that he'd have some reasonable explanation. There was no explanation. This hunt was exactly what it looked like.
Sam rounded on his brother. "There are other ways, Dean!" he said angrily.
"No." Dean laced his fingers behind his head. "There aren't. This is what I am now. You had your chance to stop this. You chickened out."
Oh, so it's my fault? Sam shook his head in denial of that charge. "If Lenore and her people could - "
Dean rolled off the bed. "She lied to you, Sam," he announced, staring at the research on the wall again.
Sam couldn't see Dean's expression, but he heard the emotions in Dean's voice: anger, frustration and regret. It was the last that kept Sam standing where he was, listening.
"She lied," Dean said again. "She must have. Do you think I didn't try? I'm still me." The bitterness in his voice was a touchable thing, real and heavy. "Losing your touch, Sammy. You missed one."
Oh, God. Sam swallowed. "Dean, there's got to be some way..."
Dean whirled around. "You did this, Sam! I asked you to finish it. You chose this. What did you think I was gonna do? I have to eat."
It was not like Dean to try to shift the blame like that. It wasn't like Dean at all. He had always taken responsibility for what he did.
Sam nodded reluctantly. "Okay. You need to eat. But you don't have to kill. And you don't have to choose people like this..."
Dean shrugged. "What else should I do? You want me to pick bad guys and pretend that makes it okay? It ain't okay, Sam. I'm doin' the best I can."
"You're killing people, Dean!"
Dean met Sam's eyes. "Yeah. Sometimes." He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you here to kill me, Sammy?"
I think I have to, Sam thought, but what he said aloud was, "No. I'm here to stop you."
"Only one way you can do that," Dean told him bluntly.
"I don't believe you. There's got to be something, Dean. You don't have to kill."
Dean shook his head. "You keep sayin' that, but you've got no idea what this is like. I can't just...feed and leave 'em behind to tell the story. Come on, man. I know hunters. I'd have someone like you or Dad on my tail in no time and then I'd have to kill him."
Sam took a breath. Dean wasn't wrong about that.
"At the start I figured, maybe there was some way. If I could just make sure she didn't remember me... But I screwed it up."
Sam swallowed. "Jesus. Dean, what did you do?"
"GHB. But anything like that, it gets into the blood. Sam, I didn't think...I didn't know." He glanced toward Sam's display. Just a quick flicker of his eyes but it was enough for Sam to get the message.
Sam understood enough to be horrified. The first girl had left with a man: with Dean. He'd given her GHB, a date-rape drug, so she wouldn't remember what he did to her. So he could feed and she wouldn't know. Good plan. Except GHB destroys the inhibitions, which for Dean meant it loosed the bloodlust. Dean didn't need to spell out what happened. He'd killed the girl. Probably ripped her throat out before he knew what he was doing. Probably loved it.
"I'm not the only one who's noticed you, Dean," Sam tried. If he couldn't appeal to Dean's conscience, he would try appealing Dean's sense of self-preservation. "Bobby put the same trail together. There could be others. You've got to stop."
Dean pushed himself away from the wall. "I can't do that, Sam," he said calmly. He headed for the door.
Sam leapt across the room and reached the door just in time. He stood in front of the door, blocking Dean's way out.
Dean stepped back, but he was frowning. "Get out of my way."
"No. I'm not gonna let you go out and kill some innocent girl." Sam reached out to his brother, begging him to understand. "I can't let you do it, Dean. Damn it, you know I can't!"
Dean looked at him steadily. "Sam," he said, his tone utterly reasonable, "you can't stop me. Get out of my way." It was a threat.
Dean was wrong. There was one way Sam could stop him. Well...there were two, really, but Plan B involved using dead man's blood and if Sam did that there was no way Dean would ever trust him again. So Plan A it was.
Sam steeled himself and met Dean's inhuman eyes. "No. Stay." Sam slipped the jacket from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground between himself and the door. He began to unbutton his shirt. "You have to eat, I know. But you don't have to kill. Right?"
Dean backed away as he realised what Sam was offering. "No. Sam...no. That's totally fucked up." He was shaking his head.
Dean chose girls, young women, to kill. He chose them because it wasn't just about food. Taking blood was sexual to him. Sam had suspected it before. The choice of victims - all of them young and pretty - hadn't seemed random and he knew his brother's taste in women. They were all Dean's type. Dean's reaction to Sam's offer of his own blood confirmed it. Did Dean fuck them as he killed them? Sam did not want to know.
But he was determined. "I'm not letting you leave if you're...hungry," Sam insisted, stumbling a little over the word. "This way is safe, for both of us. You won't kill me and I won't rat you out."
"But what happens tomorrow, Sam? Huh? You gonna stay with me? Do this every time I need to...eat? No way. No freakin' way."
"I don't know," Sam answered honestly. He opened his shirt and shrugged it off. The shirt joined his jacket on the floor. Sam stayed where he was, topless now, waiting. "Do it, Dean. Let me take care of you tonight. Be my brother again. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what to do next."
Dean simply stared at him.
Sam pulled a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans. He popped the blade and raised it toward his own neck. He had no intention of cutting himself but he saw Dean's eyes follow the blade. The look on Dean's face was dark and anticipatory. Sam never, ever wanted Dean to look at him that way. It was almost like lust, but it wasn't that. It was hunger...inhuman hunger. It wasn't anything Sam recognised as Dean.
"Okay," Dean said slowly. "But not like that. Put the damn shirt back on and give me your wrist."
Sam let out the breath he had been holding. He could do that. He could handle it if it would save a life. Sam watched Dean a moment longer, worried he might try to leave as soon as Sam moved away from the door. Finally Sam bent down to retrieve his shirt, pocketed the switchblade and walked across to the bed. He pulled the shirt on but didn't bother buttoning it. He rolled both sleeves up to his elbows and held his arm out for Dean.
Dean gave Sam his best dude-what-are-you-thinking? look. "That's your gun hand," he pointed out, his tone one of long-suffering patience. "You won't be able to shoot straight for a while after this."
That didn't sound encouraging. Sam offered his left arm instead, although if Dean had given him an out in that moment, Sam might have taken it. He really didn't want to do this.
Dean knelt on the bed and took Sam's forearm in both of his hands, turning the inner wrist toward his face. Dean's hands were cold and Sam shivered at his touch. Dean silently opened the clasp of Sam's watch and slipped it off his wrist. He laid the watch down on the bed, but said nothing. He didn't even look at Sam.
Sam watched Dean, though. He saw the flicker of disgust on Dean's face as he lowered his mouth to Sam's wrist. He was a little offended by that, but then, if taking blood was usually sexual for Dean, Sam was glad Dean wasn't okay with it. For his brother to think of him that way, even a little, would freak Sam out worse than the rest.
Dean rubbed his thumb across the indentation left by the watch-strap and Sam tensed involuntarily, anticipating pain. Even then, Dean didn't look at Sam. He opened his mouth, white fangs descending, and bit deeply into Sam's wrist.
It hurt. It hurt more than Sam expected: the razor-sharp teeth piercing his flesh and hanging on like a pit-bull. Dean's hands gripped him so hard Sam knew he would have bruises as well as a bite wound. He felt his blood flow. Dean's mouth was cooler than living flesh should be. He didn't just suck Sam's blood: he worried at the wound, his jaw working as he swallowed.
Sam felt sick. He knew, then, that Dean had been right: not even for his brother could he do this on a regular basis. The thing feeding off him wasn't the brother he loved. The press of cold, dead skin against his, the way Dean's mouth and throat worked as he fed...it took everything Sam had to remain still and allow it to happen. He wanted desperately to tear his hand away. It wasn't fear. It was revulsion.
It went on forever. Sam was so caught up in trying to hide his feelings from Dean that he missed the signs. Not until his vision darkened did he realise that the worsening nausea he felt wasn't from his disgust. It was from blood-loss.
"Dean!" Sam tried to pull away but Dean held him fast. Dean's eyes were closed, his mouth still working at Sam's wrist, his concentration on the task absolute.
"Dean! Enough! Please!" It took the last of Sam's strength to wrench his arm away from Dean. Sam fell back onto the bed, cradling his bloody wrist. He hadn't understood, but he did now. Dean could have killed him. Dean wouldn't have stopped until Sam's heart did.
When Sam opened his eyes, Dean wasn't in view. For a moment Sam was afraid he'd gone but a few seconds later Dean returned with Sam's medkit. "Holy crap, Sammy! You should have stopped me sooner." He climbed onto the bed beside Sam and reached for Sam's bleeding arm.
For a moment, Sam resisted, afraid of what the blood would do to Dean. Sam's blood was smeared around Dean's mouth, running down his chin. Gross.
"Don't be an ass," Dean snapped, and he sounded so much like the old Dean that Sam obeyed, allowing Dean to see his wound. Dean ripped open a sterile dressing using teeth that now appeared normal and human. He laid the dressing over the bite wound, applying pressure.
Sam watched him worriedly. Though Dean's frown of concentration was familiar, and his concern for Sam seemed real, Sam could still see his blood drying on Dean's face. He could not forget Dean feeding off his blood. No matter how normal Dean appeared, he was a vampire now. He was a killer.
"Dean..." Sam felt consciousness slipping away. His heart was racing, partly from fear but mostly from the loss of blood. He struggled to get the words out. How could Dean not realise he was in trouble here? "Dean...hospital. I...I need...blood."
It never crossed Sam's mind that Dean might refuse. His entire life, Dean had taken care of him.
Through a fog of dark and disbelief, Sam saw Dean shake his head. "I told you, Sam. I can't do that." His voice was utterly emotionless.
"Dean...please..." Sam whispered.
Dean took the dressing from Sam's wrist, lifting it to his face. It was soaked with Sam's blood. "You'll be okay, Sammy. Go to sleep now."
You killed me, Sam thought. As he lost consciousness, his last awareness was Dean, lifting his bloody wrist once more.
***
Sunlight falling across Sam's face brought him back to semi-consciousness. He felt awful: his head ached and his body felt stiff and old. He couldn't think. There was something important, he knew, but it danced out of reach. Sam squinted against the light and tried to roll onto his side. His muscles obeyed him, but slowly. He was weak as hell.
Someone jerked the curtain closed and the light went away. Sam groaned, turning his head toward the window.
Dean stood there, still wearing his leather coat, arms crossed over his chest. "Hey, Sam. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Sam answered. Even his voice sounded weak. What happened to him?
Dean's lips quirked in an expression that wasn't quite a smile. "Yeah. Sorry about that. But you're awake now. We can talk. That's what you wanted, right?" He left the window and sat down on the end of the bed. "I ditched the dead man's blood, by the way. No offence. Oh, and Bobby's been calling you. He left like a dozen messages."
Bobby? That was what Sam had forgotten. Bobby was going to come after Dean if Sam didn't...oh, God. Dean!
"You...you bled me," Sam whispered. It was coming back to him. He remembered begging Dean to take him to a hospital. He looked down at his injured wrist and saw the neat, white bandage. So Dean had stopped the bleeding and patched him up. But this wasn't a hospital.
"You asked me to," Dean answered, a little defensively. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. Your breathing is easier and your heart rate is almost normal."
Almost? Almost meant it wasn't normal. That was bad. Sam tried to sit up and found he was too weak even for that. He collapsed back onto the pillow. His mouth was dry. "Water?" he asked.
"Not yet." Dean was sitting half-turned away from Sam, his shoulders hunched so Sam could see only his profile. "You didn't do this to me, Sam," he said with a sigh.
It was such a weird thing for him to say. Of course Sam hadn't done this! He watched Dean, trying to understand.
"What's it like?" Sam asked, not sure he really wanted to know.
"What's it like bein' a vampire? What's it like knowin' that if Dad were here, he'd kill me without a second thought? What's it like? Goddamit, Sam!"
Sam swallowed. Dean was right about Dad, but... "I'm not Dad."
"No. Dad would have ended this. I fucking begged you to end it."
"I couldn't. Dean, you're my brother. You're all I've got. Why'd you leave?"
Dean sprang up from the bed. He rounded on Sam, looming over him. "One day I'm killin' vamps, the next I am one. Dude, I was freaked. You came after me and all I could see was... Sam, you were..."
"Food." Sam said it for him.
"I did my best, Sam. I've killed, yeah, but only when I had to. I wait until I'm starving. Six people, Sam. That's all."
"It's not okay, Dean." Six people. Six young women were dead.
"I know that! I know I'm a monster." Dean paced beside the bed. "I'm what I used to hunt. You have no idea what this is like. But this is what I am now."
"Dean..." Sam tried to reach for him.
"I haven't done this to anyone else, though. I wanted to, Sam. I wanted to so bad. That's the thing we never got about vampires. They - we - ain't supposed to be alone."
Sam did understand it. That was the one common thread in all the vampires they'd run into. The nest that killed Daniel Elkins were a close-knit group. Lenore described her nest as her family. Dixon was trying to create a new family for himself. Even Gordon Walker, the ultimate loner, had been driven to turn a girl, though he hadn't understood what was driving him. And Dean...Dean never liked flying solo. Family meant everything to him. It was why Sam had been so shocked when he left.
"I get it," Sam said softly. Maybe there was a way. If Dean wanted to stay now, Sam could find some way to help him. They could be brothers again.
Dean smiled. "Good."
There was something in his tone that made Sam flash back on the previous night. For a moment his wrist ached with the memory of Dean's teeth in his flesh. Sam invited it, but he hadn't enjoyed the experience. Dean took too much blood. He must have known he was doing it: he had the whole vampire-preternatural-senses thing going for him. When Sam's heart started working overtime, trying to pump not enough blood through his body, Dean must have known it long before Sam did.
He hadn't cared. Not then, not in the moment.
Sam didn't know what to think. Last night, when Dean got into his car and started talking, Sam had been sure it was Dean. He was a little different, sure, but Sam hadn't expected him to be exactly the same. How could Dean be so like the brother he remembered and loved, yet do these things which Sam knew Dean would never, ever do?
It was as if he were possessed, Sam thought suddenly. The demon was driving, but it could put on a convincing show. The way Meg had done, when she possessed Sam. Dean wasn't possessed. That wasn't possible. But he was putting on a mask. It was all an act designed to stop Sam from doing what Dean knew he had to do.
Sam struggled to sit up. He managed it, though his head swirled and he had to fight to keep from retching. He shifted one of the pillows so he would have something to lean on and caught a glint of metal from under the pillow. He covered it quickly and looked toward Dean, but Dean gave no sign that he'd seen the gun.
Dean had Sam's switchblade in his hand. He was turning the blade over and over, slowly, studying the play of light. He glanced up when Sam looked his way. His smile was Dean's old smile, a smile Sam hadn't seen since before their father died: happy, relaxed...content.
It scared the crap out of him. Nothing in their present situation matched that smile.
"I missed you, Sam," Dean told him. "You're my family. I get that now."
And you didn't before? Sam frowned, confused.
Dean raised the switchblade and quickly sliced into his own palm.
There's no stimulant quite like adrenaline. Sam, weak and sick a moment before, found himself moving as he realised what Dean intended to do. He rolled off the bed, grabbing the gun as he moved. He found his feet and started to straighten up. His vision blurred. Long practice allowed Sam to raise the gun anyway. But the gun felt all wrong in his hand. It wasn't his gun.
He looked across the bed to Dean, able to see the shape of his body, but nothing more. He blinked, hoping to clear his vision. "I don't want to do this, Dean!"
Dean raised his hand and the first sharp image Sam saw was Dean's blood dripping onto the motel carpet. "It won't hurt, Sam. Just a couple of hours and we can be family again. Isn't that what you want?"
"Not like this! God, Dean...please!" There was a tremor in Sam's hand, the gun shaking. It was from the blood loss. It had to be.
Dean moved toward him. "You can't kill me, Sammy. Last night you wanted this."
"No. Not this. Are you hearing me, Dean. No!"
"It's okay, Sam. You'll feel different when it's done."
Sam drew back the hammer on the gun. "Stop," he ordered.
Dean stopped. He looked, not at Sam, but at the Colt in Sam's hand.
Sam's hand was steady now. "I knew last night, when you confessed to killing those women," he said, his voice even and determined. "I didn't want to believe it. I thought we could be brothers again."
"We can."
"No. If you really want to do this, to turn me against my will, then whatever is left of you isn't my brother. Dean's gone." Just saying the words aloud hurt more than a knife in Sam's heart.
Dean returned Sam's gaze, his expression changing. "Did you happen to notice today's date?" he asked.
"Yes," Sam answered. He pulled the trigger.
***
Voicemail: May 3rd 2008
Bobby, this is Sam. It's over. Don't call me again.
~ End ~