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17 May 2011 @ 08:32 pm
Descent 'Verse Part Five: Unseen Part V  
title unseen
rating nc-17
fandom supernatural
pairing sam/demon!dean
summary fifth in the descent 'verse. since legba pretty much destroyed all sam's hope, one thing is left unanswered: how exactly did dean get here, and who exactly is responsible? okay, it's two questions, really.
warnings incest, language, violence/gore, blood play, graphic sexual situations between two men
disclaimer look up the word fiction. you won't find a picture of this story, but you'll find the definition of fiction.
word count 6344

author's note sorry it took so long, guys. i had a bitch of a time deciding what to do next.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Sam has the dream almost every night now. The dual suns, the orange and red sky, the burning ground that smells of copper, the air that smells of ozone. Every night, it's someone new on the rack. The week before, it had been an old man with rickety joints; a little worn at the edges, with bones that had disintegrated into nothing underneath Dean's razor. The night before last, it had been a college-aged boy with streaky blond hair and a poor excuse for a soul patch dotting his chin. Sam watched as Dean pulled his teeth out with suspiciously clean pliers. Tonight, it's a woman with long red hair and green eyes that watch them warily, not making a sound. As if she thinks that will improve her chances.

Dean's the one holding the razor, like he always is. He sharpens it on a long strip of leather before lifting it into the light.

"See how it shines, Sammy?" Dean marvels aloud, probably not even aware of what he's saying. "It's ready to be put to good use." He explains how the razor becomes a part of you, how it's merely an extension of you. Sam can't wait to watch it dive into the girl. He hates himself for it, but he looks forward to all this. Since Dean somehow stumbled back into his life, nothing like the brother that left Sam behind, the younger Winchester convinced himself nothing was the same. It wasn't Dean talking to him, listening, joking, poking, prodding. It was something else, an empty vessel just waiting for the rest of Dean to fill it up. But that isn't right, never was. This is Dean, at least most of him, and Sam's jumped on the bandwagon.

Jumped on and never looks back.

Dean is an artist with a blade. He says he's learned well, from his time spent down under, and Sam can see it now. He knows where to cut to cause maximum amounts of pain and minimal damage. Most men would simply fall into the subject, cutting and slashing like some horror movie reject with no penchant for flair or drama. Dean always was creative and more than capable, but with no direction, he turned everything to hunting and drinking and fucking.

It's like watching a fucking flower bloom, as stupid as it sounds.

The first slice is clean; straight and to the point, right beneath the woman's right eye. She whines and clenches her jaw tight, but doesn't scream or beg. Dean looks at her, just looks, watches as he does the same to the left eye. Sam can see the glimmer of white peek out through the folds of skin and the blood. Crimson streaks down her face, mixing with the tears already falling from her eyes. She whimpers every time the salt mixes with her wound.

Dean sidles up to the woman, getting in real close, pressing his face to her neck and licking a stripe up her reddened skin.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Dean asks, lining up his body with hers, slotting them together like two pieces that just might fit. "Are you imagining it right now? How does it feel, baby, to know that you aren't going to make it past tonight?" She whimpers again and Dean keeps going, enjoying the fear bursting in her eyes like suns exploding, so magnificent and powerful. He's practically drunk on it. "I'm not even going to tell you, baby, what I'm planning. I find it's so much better, juicier, when your little brain goes to work." He knocks his knuckles against her forehead. "With your overactive imagination, you'll do so much more damage than I ever could." He pulls away, leaves her whimpering, craving even that tiny bit of contact, and opens the razor (already streaked with her blood) once more.

"Now, let's get started, shall we?"

Dean goes to work. Days ago, when a bodybuilder hung on the rack, Dean had gone for the joints. Break them in half, tear through muscle and sinew and bone. Dean decimated the man, and it took awhile for Sam to recognize the figure beneath all the quivering red when Dean finished with him. But this woman, today, deserves a little more panache, a little more care and devotion than the hulking figure before. She's a delicate creature, Dean assures him, so they have to be delicate with her.

It'll make it last longer.

By the end, she's screaming.

The sun has barely risen when Sam's phone begins a furious buzzing on the nightstand. He's half-awake, half-asleep, and can feel the cool emptiness of the bed beside him. Before he can decipher what that means, where Dean might be, why he's fled in the early hours of the morning, Sam grabs his phone and presses 'TALK'.

"...Hello?" The greeting is groggy and half-assed, but whoever is calling him has just woken him, so get over it.

"You still lazin' in bed, boy?" Bobby's gruff voice sounds over the phone line, more than welcome later in the day. Now, Sam just wants to hang up on him, and pretend the sun doesn't exist. He glances at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock beside him. He groans, because he has maybe gotten three hours of sleep or so. Not nearly enough.

"Yeah, I am," Sam gripes. "Because it's fucking four in the morning, Bobby."

"So? I'm up at four AM, and I sure as hell need the sleep more than you do," Bobby argues, unaffected by the miserable tone of Sam's voice.

"Go to bed then, and stop bothering me before I've had my coffee," Sam tells him, a little more attitude coloring his voice than usual. But he's tired, and he's had a long week.

"You better watch your mouth, boy, or I'll come down there myself and kick your ungrateful ass," Bobby growls. Sam knows he's good on his threat, and silently promises to ratchet it down. "Now, is that any way to greet a man in the morning calling with good news?"

That's piqued Sam's interest, for damn sure. He sits up in bed, cheap motel sheets pooling around his hips. The sudden movement wrenches the sore muscles in his legs and back. He winces, but doesn't say a thing because he doesn't want Bobby to stop. Wants to hear what he has to say.

Bobby takes Sam's silence for what it is: interest. "Ah, got your attention now, don't I?"

"I'm listening."

"Remember how you asked me to look into Dean's resurrection?"

Sam remembers. It was in the early days of Dean's return, after Sam first drank his (steaming, powerful) blood but before they'd made their trip to Louisiana, and Sam was still reeling from realizing his brother was, indeed, alive. But seeing his brother in the flesh (literally) brought back more than relief; while Sam wanted to be happy and carefree and ignorant of the fact that his brother's body was now occupied by a cloudy mass of black smoke, he couldn't help but wonder how and why Dean was topside again, not to mention whole instead of in pieces. Sam can't help but remember how he looked when he buried him. Dean had been a torn up mess of wobbly bits and red. A whole lotta red. He couldn't be called 'complete' then. But he shows up, and suddenly, he is? A little more than what Sam left in that coffin, that's for sure.

Bobby had agreed to check into things while the brothers took their trip down South, and he's just finally getting back to Sam.

"Tell me you found something."

Bobby sighs into the phone. "Will you let me finish, you impatient idjit?"

Sam waits, silent and more than patient (in his opinion), for Bobby to spill.

And waits.

"Well? What's the hold up?"

"Oh, just enjoyin' the peace and quiet for change. Usually, you're runnin' your damn mouth 'bout somethin', and I don't get a word in edgewise. Can't blame a man for enjoyin' the little things, can ya?"

Sam tries to restrain himself from reaching through the phone and strangling the old hunter. It's a close call.

"Please, Bobby," Sam groans. "Just tell me what you found out."

"Okay, since you asked so prettily," Bobby snickers into the phone. Sam can hear some papers rustling in the background. Was that a good sign? "Got a lead. Well, 's more like a lead of a lead. Got a friend in LA name of Amelia Pryce. She's a witch, and before you say anything, she's a damn fine lady at that. Nothin' like them nasty disease-riddled bitches who think showering is just a suggestion."

Sam has to sit up, scrub his eyes a little, to catch up with Bobby. However, once his brain got up to speed, it all sounded the same as it was.

"Look, Bobby," Sam begins, planning to let him down easy. "I don't think a witch and extra-crunchy hex bags are going to do the trick here. I mean no disrespect, but you weren't down in Louisiana with us, you didn't hear Legba-"

Sam thinks for a second Bobby sneezed, but instead, turns out all he did was offer up one gigantic derisive snort. Sam can imagine his mustache twitching.

"Don't mean shit," Bobby grumbles, rustles some more papers, then turns his attention back to Sam. "Spirits are highly unreliable sources of information. Everything gets jumbled in the spirit world, you know that. So why expect a spirit to be able to piece together your brother? Nah, we need some expert advice here, and Amelia's 'bout as expert as you can get 'round here."

Sam heaves a sigh, part relief, part frustration. He wants to feel relieved and excited that there is a possibility things in Louisiana didn't go down the way they were supposed to, but at the same time, he can't help but feel the voodoo snake spirit, or whatever the hell Legba is, was right. Dean's dead, his soul is dead, and all that's left is the demon Sam's been on the road with. But he doesn't say any of this to Bobby. Instead, he asks, "So a witch is better? Witches are bad news, Bobby. I think you were the first one to tell us that."

"I know, I know," Bobby says. Sam can hear his feet shuffling back and forth like he's pacing across his living room floor. "And I'll be the first one to stand behind that...any other time. But Amelia's got a true gift. She's not such phony baloney demon worshipper who just wants to win first prize at the fair or somethin'. She's the real deal, and she can help you boys figure out exactly what brought Dean back. Like it or not, if there's somethin' out there that's got the juice to raise and piece together a body from the dead, we want to know about it."

Bobby's right. If there's something out in the big, bad world that's got enough juice to bring Dean out of Hell, not to mention restore his mangled and broken (and most likely rotten) body, then that thing's probably worth hunting down and killing. They just have to find it first.

"You're right. I just don't like the idea of turning to a witch for help," Sam admits. "How do we know she can be trusted?"

"I've known her since she was in diapers," Bobby informs him. "She's a good girl, and she'll help us out right."

"Fine. Fine. When can we meet with her?"

"Already called her up. She's free next Saturday. Thing is, she lives in Los Angeles. That's a bit of a drive, I know."

Sam quickly calculates the time it'll take them hoofing it in the Impala to make the drive from Oklahoma where they'd finally bunkered down to Los Angeles.

"That's a good three days or so, with pit stops. Two if we don't mind breaking a few land speed records." That'll get them into LA Friday night if they leave in the next few hours, just in time to meet the witch and get this show on the road.

"I'll let her know you'll be there. Got me a hunt in one of the towns up North or I'd meet you down there," Bobby explains, obviously sorry to miss out on helping the boys he considers his sons, but Sam understands. Really he does.

"The hunt comes first, got it," Sam repeats his father's well-used mantra. He had heard it throughout his childhood, and though he's come to know it as the truth in these recent years, the words still taste bitter on his tongue.

"Yeah," Bobby gripes. "But call me if you need me. I'm just a few states away, and I can be there as soon as possible."

"Got it. Thanks, Bobby."

"No thanks needed, kid. Just fill me in on what happens. Don't keep me out of the loop."

"Got it. See you later."

"Yeah, yeah." The other line clicks dead, and Sam drops his cell into his lap.

He tries not to get his hopes up. Legba had been a mistake and a blessing at the same time because while he'd been hoping more than anything for Dean to turn out alright, for this all to be one big misunderstanding, the spirit gave him that closure. Yeah, Dean's a demon. Always will be. Won't be changing anytime soon. But now, he can't help that eternal hope burning deep inside him, that wellspring of little boy Christmas morning hope that thinks maybe, just maybe, Dean can get better. That whatever raised him out of the Pit and into his repaired body might just have the muscle to reverse whatever the darkness of Hell did to him.

Everything about Amelia Pryce is sharp. From her precise haircut fashioned into a fierce bob to her steely gray eyes that could probably see right through Sam, even to her professional "Don't Fuck With Me, and You'll Do Fine" wardrobe more suitable to a Wall Street executive rather than a Free Age, hippie-loving witch (that's how Dean described her when he first heard the idea; needless to say, he wasn't exactly thrilled about their next destination; though he did want to know exactly how he'd ended up ripped topside and fighting his way through the ground to an open, decimated field). When she opened the door and Sam first caught a glimpse of her high collared blouse, tight without being pornographic pencil skirt, and stab-worthy stilettos, he knew she meant business.

"You're late," she greets them, her voice calm and just this side of cold. "I am not about to be kept waiting, especially when you're the ones that came to me for help."

"We apologize," Sam immediately replies, adding a touch of groveling because they really do need her help. "We got a little waylaid."

And by waylaid, he means they were caught up when Dean's hand snaked down his pants while driving, and they just had to stop to fuck on the side of the road.

Dean shoots him a knowing look, and doesn't say anything. Just smirks. Sam knows he's blushing, and from Amelia's face, she can see it, too, but doesn't give a shit and a half.

"Doesn't matter. I've got somewhere to be soon, so you'd better get your asses inside and we'll get started." She steps aside and lets them into her penthouse (honestly, a fucking penthouse) apartment. The inside of her home suits her just fine; it's all polished steel and black leather furniture probably too uncomfortable to sit on; cold. Fits her like a glove.

"We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice," Sam informs her, hoping to communicate his high level of gratitude.

"I owe Bobby a favor. He helped me out a while back," she replies off-handedly, but her comment makes a point. "Not really doing this out of the kindness of my heart." She shoots Dean a particularly venomous glare. "And I'm not about to make helping demons a habit."

"Fuck you, too, sister," Dean hisses.

She ignores him like the semi-classy lady she is, and instead draws them into her 'living' room (though, if she actually did any living in this particular room, Sam would eat his shirt) where she's set up a small round table draped with a black cloth painted with various occult symbols. There's a bowl in the center, probably for scrying, and a ceremonial dagger in its gilded hilt beside it. The obligatory white candles are brand new, never used, and are just waiting to be lit.

"Take a seat," she instructs them, and without further adieu, she kicks off her pricey shoes and kneels at one point of the pentagram. Sam sits at another point; he knows how these things go. But Dean remains standing, his expression so filled with distaste and disbelief.

"Wow, didn't know we were at an eighth grade slumber party," Dean says. "Séances are so passé. Now, if you've got an Ouija board round here, we could have a real good time."

"A Séance is going to give us a very clear picture of what pulled you out of Hell," Amelia calmly explains. "Seeing as how I've channeled about twenty or so spirits from here to Taiwan, and none of them know a thing about your..." She searches for the words, "predicament, a Séance is the only tool I've got left for this kind of thing. If you'd rather stay up late and gossip about boys while you and your brother braid each other's hair, fine by me. It's no skin off my nose."

"Dean, shut up," Sam hastily whispers. He addresses Amelia, "A Séance is fine."

"Good. We're decided. Sit down." Dean, more curious than anything, sits to her left. He still seems reluctant, but Sam can tell the unrelenting pull of curiosity has got him, and he's more interested in seeing where this goes than arguing about the validity of the method.

Amelia arranges herself comfortably, and says, "I need to touch something our mystery monster touched. Tell me he left a mark or something."

Dean shrugs, and lifts his right shirt sleeve, showing her the bright red, raised hand print on his shoulder. Sam's seen it a lot in the past weeks, and he knows how sensitive it is. When Amelia touches it, matches her significantly smaller palm to it, Dean shivers and smirks.

"Interesting," she remarks. "I've never seen a mark like that one."

"Means I'm special," Dean quips.

Amelia ignores him, and turns her attention to Sam.

"Sam, grab some matches and light the candles." Sam follows Amelia's instructions, and lights the five candles at each point of the pentagram. "Right, take each other's hands." They do, Sam's hand fitting into his brother's, and other hand completely swallowing Amelia's petite fingers. She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and begins.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure and command you, appear unto me before this circle," Amelia intones, voice deepening, taking on a spiritual authority she didn't have before. Sam can tell she knows what she's doing, and watches her face as the candle flames flicker and cast shadows over her skin. "I invoke, conjure, and command you..."

Suddenly, she falls quiet. In the background, the TV switches on, static echoing in the near-silent apartment.

"What is it?"

Amelia cocks her head. Her eyes are still screwed shut, but she's suddenly nervous. Something has rattled her, something big, and Sam's almost afraid to ask again.

"It's...something," Amelia mutters with clear frustration.

"Ooh, something! That's specific," Dean sarcastically chastises. He shoots Sam a particular look, "Knew this was a waste of time."

"Quiet!" She digs her finely manicured nails into Dean's shoulder. He winces. "It's two...there's two of them..."

"What's that supposed to mean? It was a tag team deal, or something?"

"Never knew a monster to team up," Sam remarks. The rare time they've had to deal with more than one monster, it had been a nest of vampires or the Seven Deadly Sins. Monsters rarely travel in packs; they tend to get on each other's nerves.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you...Castiel? Sorry, Castiel, I've come too far to turn back now," she nearly growls.

"Castiel? What's..."

"It's one of them, something big," Amelia tells them. "There's two of them in the dark, one named Castiel, one named... He's whispering me to turn back, telling me to leave." She shakes her head like this Castiel person can see her. And maybe he can, wherever he is. "He's turning from me...that's alright, we'll come back to you later. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle...I invoke, conjure, and command you..."

"Who's the other one?" Dean is almost crawling out of his seat, all joking aside.

"I don't know," Amelia answers. "I'm close, really close, but...he's laughing at me, telling me 'Nice try,' and he's...You're not getting away from me, too, Mister. Show me your face."

The candles begin to rattle on the table, shaking like they would in an earthquake, though everything else in the apartment remains perfectly still. The static sound of the TV grows louder in the background until its ratcheted up to a dull roar. And still Amelia doesn't stop.

"C'mon, you son of a bitch," she mutters, the closest to unglued he's seen her become since they stepped into her apartment. "I just want one tiny little peak, one glimpse, and I'll leave."

Three candles topple over and spread a thick layer of wax all over the table top and hardwood floors. Sam automatically moves to clear it up, but Amelia's hand holds fast onto his.

"Don't break the circle. You break it, and we can't hold this thing inside," she warns him. "We're too close now to stop."

"Still, maybe we should stop," Sam tries.

"I'm no quitter," Amelia shoots back, pride leaking through her words. "Yeah, that's right, Mister. I'm not gonna quit, so you may as well show me your-"

It happens too fast.

One moment, Amelia's taunting the thing in the dark (which, let's face it, isn't the best thing in the world to do when you're dealing with something powerful enough to tear a soul of Hell), and the next minute, the rest of the candles flare and leap when her head turns all the way around, her neck snaps, and her fingers go limp in Sam and Dean's hands when she falls to the table. Dead.

Sam drops her hand like its hot, and pushes away from the table.

"What the fuck was that!"

Sam can't help but stare at the body of the woman who not two minutes ago was telling Dean to shut up, getting ready to perform a perfectly harmless Séance. Now she's dead, and worse, whatever killed her knows they're onto it. Knows they're trying to find it, and damn if that doesn't scare Sam just a little.

Sam calls Bobby as soon as they leave and tells him about Amelia's death. The old hunter has known so much death in his lifetime, both of friends and of enemies, so it's not a big surprise. But it's still a blow to have to say goodbye to another old friend, one he's known for so long. Sam can hear the hurt and sorrow in his voice, but he doesn't communicate it. Just tells Sam to get his ass out of there and find a place to hunker down. He'll pull out the books, he says, and start looking for whatever might have the juice to pull that kind of stunt.

Sam doesn't hear from Bobby for awhile after that.

The next time Bobby calls, he tells Sam he's found something. Something else. It's been about a month since he's dialed Sam's number, since that disastrous end to his first tip. He still sounds a bit distant, more than a little drunk, but Sam ignores it, and writes down the directions Bobby gives him.

They're on the road in an hour, heading for a warehouse in the middle of Podunk, Nowhere.

Bobby goes on ahead of them to prepare the warehouse. He wants to go over it with a fine-toothed comb, carve as many symbols and runes and fucking blessings into it as possible. Doesn't want to take any chances. He wants to get the ceremony ready, he tells them, so once Dean and Sam get there, all they have to do is say a few chants and get the show on the road. But Sam knows he's got a different reason. It's partially because he's still anxious and wrong about hanging about a demon like it's nothing. Ruby helped him put the Colt back together awhile back, and while her help was the key in making the weapon work, he had to take a three hour long shower after to get the stink of demon off him. Needless to say, Ruby was not amused.

Sam and Dean take a break halfway through the twenty hour drive for a little rest and relaxation. Dean pulls the car off the road and down a dirt pathway hidden behind a thick growth of poplars. Their white buds sprout and float around them in the late summer heat. It's sweltering here, and they get out of the car to stretch their legs.

The world is quiet. For a time, it's like nothing else exists but the two of them and the quiet hum of the wind through the tree branches. High grass envelopes them from all angles, yellowed from the coming Fall. It sways in the breeze like an unmoving army. This entire landscape is kind of surreal, déjà vu-like, reminding Sam of too many times before. Time was, the two brothers would be seated on the hood of the Impala, one of the rare times Dean allowed anyone to touch her like that, with a beer in hand and a quiet moment to themselves. Now, Sam can almost dismiss the fact that things have changed so much, he can barely recognize this fucked up family dynamic they've got going here. Now, it's kind of like old times, and Sam likes it a little too much.

"Are you ready, Sammy?" Dean asks him, a rare moment of seriousness.

"For what?"

Dean turns his head, meets Sam's eyes full on. "Ready for what's coming. Hell, for what's going to pop up after Bobby performs his little summoning ritual. We don't know what's going to come through that doorway, and I need to know you're on the top of your game."

"I am, Dean. I'm fine," Sam tries to reassure him. Truth was, he was fucking shaking inside like a leaf in a monsoon. It's kind of reassuring that, after all these years and the months without his brother where he more than shut down, he can still get scared. Frightened. On some level, ghosts and vampires always scared him, but he learned to put those fears behind him. Learned to shut them out in the time of battle because that's what he was trained to do. But, and this is the kicker, those are enemies he knew. He knew how to kill a vampire, knew how to take down a vengeful spirit. He and Dean are treading into the unknown here, and while Sam knows Dean's still his brother deep down under all those smoky insides, he has to admit he still has his reservations. Reservations about how much of Dean is still there, and how much is demon. How far is that demon going to go before turning on him?

Sam doesn't want to think this, doesn't want to have to second guess the man who is his brother, the brother he's come to begrudgingly reaccept in the past months, but he can't help it. With Ruby, Sam always knew at the back of his mind that she was a demon, that she would probably turn on him at any given moment. He trusted her, yeah, but he never let her at his back. It was instinct, yes, and this is, too.

"You're not fine, kid," Dean tells him, so matter-of-factly that Sam wonders for the billionth time whether or not demons are telepathic. "You're fucking scared out of your wits, and you won't tell me." His voice is uncharacteristically calm, almost kind. No teasing in sight.

"I'm not scared."

"Liar." A little teasing this time.

"Alright, you got me. I'm a little...on edge about this whole thing."

"A little? You're so high strung, you're a fucking tight rope." Dean laughs a little. It's a good sound, a familiar sound.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. Didn't really think that metaphor through. Let me get back to you on that one." He pauses a second, probably trying to come up with a better metaphor than that circus shit, but instead, he says, "Doesn't change the fact that you're worried about something."

"Damn straight I'm worried," Sam tells him. "We're going after something, we have no idea what by the way, that may or may not have killed a witch in a fucking Séance. Which you're not supposed to do. We have no idea what it is. We have no idea how to take it down. And we're bringing the thing right to us, fully corporeal and all. So, yeah, sue me. I'm worried." Sam stops after the words slow from a gush to a trickle. He doesn't know where all that came from, but it's all true.

"I don't blame you, Sammy," Dean tells him, so matter-of-factly. "You haven't had any blood lately. You're getting weaker and weaker. It's like going into a fight without any ammo."

It's true. Whereas he had gotten somewhat used to the power the blood gave him, his brother's blood, he'd stopped asking for it after awhile. Hadn't wanted to think what that meant, coupled with the fact he was sort of not really completely and utterly boning his brother. He'd stopped asking for it, and Dean had never offered it. Whereas Ruby would veritably strap him down and pour the red down his gullet like a child who can't be trusted to take his medicine, Dean wasn't one to push. At least, not in this instance.

Dean wouldn't bring it up. Sam would forget to ask.

But Dean's bringing it up now, and Sam's doing the asking.

"It's okay to want it, Sammy," Dean whispers, dragging a blade out of one of his hiding places. Even as a demon, he's still got at least ten blades and lock picks on his person at all times, even though a demon rarely needs either. "I want to give it to you. I want you to be strong."

That's what does it. Dean gives it to him so willingly. Hands over the knife, lets him choose where to take it. He's handing over a little of his power right now, his power to give in, his power to refuse because once Sam wraps his hand around the knife's hilt, he's not going to give it back until he's had his fill.

Where should he take it? He's had Dean's arm, the crook of it the perfect place to watch the blood drip and cool, pooling in the crease of his arm, just waiting for Sam to drink of it deeply. He's had Dean's neck, and that was a rush. More than a rush. All that blood pouring, gushing forth, so steaming hot straight from his heart. Dean had barely lasted there before Sam nearly drained him dry, belly so full he felt like bursting. But an idea strikes him, so perfect in its simplicity, so dirty in its implications. He likes it. He wants it.

Sam's hands fall to Dean's fly, fingers thick with want fumbling over the button before sliding it not so deftly through its hole and sliding the zipper down with a rough tug. Dean seems to know what he wants, and keeps quiet, but the blood Sam so desperately wants seems to have rushed South, straight to his dick. And suddenly he's half hard beneath the flimsy fabric of his boxers, and Sam likes it a little too much.

"Don't cut my dick off," Dean warns, only once. Sam glares at him as he falls to his knees. Nearly growls when he tugs the elastic band of the underwear straight over his brother's cock, not caring that he catches him, watches his dick bob a little as it springs back from its confinement. "Fuck, careful, Sammy!"

But Sammy's not listening now. He gives Dean's dick a long, slow, slobbery lick from root to fucking tip before he sets his sights lower, a little to the right.

"Sit on the car, spread your legs," Sam orders, voice roughened with want. Dean obeys without a word, and when Sam looks up, one last moment checking to see if this is all okay, if this is truly what Dean wants, he sees his brother's eyes clouded with black, looking like Christmas come early. He's panting already, just the sight of Sam on his knees before him doing it. Oh yeah, that's it. Satisfied, Sam drags the knife along his brother's leg. It catches sometimes on a few stray hairs, but he finds that perfect place in a second. Finds the place where the pulse thumps beneath the surface. Sam sucks a brief red spot into Dean's skin, hickey marking the spot, and watches with such fascination when the tip of the knife just falls through the skin, into the skin.

"Fuckfuckfuck, Sammy," Dean hisses above him. "Do it already!"

Blood rushes to the surface, trickles in a hot river down Dean's thigh and drips onto the hood the Impala. Not wanting to waste it, Sam dips his head, fastens his lips around the wound like a seal, and sucks.

The taste of it, so thick and heady, bursts across Sam's tongue. He can't believe how long he's gone without this because this is so good, too fucking good, to not have every second of every day. Sam wraps his hand across Dean's thigh, forcing more flesh into his mouth, getting him closer and closer to swallowing everything.

"Oh shit, that feels so fucking good, Sammy," Dean hisses, tongue between his teeth. His dick is hardhardhard against Sam's cheek, but that's not what has Sam's attention now. He coats his mouth, his throat, his entire fucking insides with his brother's blood. He wants it everywhere around him, wants it all inside him. He can feel it beginning to take over, beginning to rush and mix with his own blood in his own veins, and he can feel the pure power and electricity light his cells on fire.

Soon, he's completely swathed in the sensation of it, and he doesn't ever want it to end. But a moment later, Dean's hand is pushing his head away, warning him against taking too much; don't bleed me dry, Sammy.

And Sam, unwillingly, hesitantly, stops. He swipes his tongue across the cut a few more times, hates how he has to give this up, but he doesn't want to hurt Dean. Through the haze of red coloring his vision, he knows he doesn't want that at all.

"Gotta stop, Sammy," Dean tells him, out of breath and heaving against the Impala's windshield. He looks spent, well fucked, like he got just as much out of Sam's bloodlust as Sam did. Only problem is he's still hard, and so is Sam, but they can take care of that quick.

Without taking another breath, Sam leans over and swallows the head of Dean's dick into his burning hot mouth. It's a sloppy blow job, not one of his best, but the taste of Dean coupled with the welcomed heavy weight of his dick on Sam's tongue makes it good. Makes it more than good. It's a hot second to finish him off, but Sam tries to make it last as long as possible. He wants to make it so good, and dragging his tongue beneath the head, up and down the thick vein on the underside, tasting and drinking down the precome streaming from the head...It's all so good. Nearly too good. Sam palms himself through his jeans, forces more and more friction. Dean lets out a strangled cry, a harsh shout, before he bucks once, twice, and without warning, spills into Sam's willing mouth. He drinks his brother's come down, doesn't stop licking him clean until Dean pushes his head away when it becomes too sensitive. And they kiss, tongues pressing so lazily against each other, lips slowly stroking one another as Dean dips his hand beneath the trousers and underwear, palms Sam's hip then his dick, strokes him a couple of times before the younger Winchester is coming in his pants.

And it's so good, nearly too good, but neither brother is complaining. Neither says a thing as they lay across the hood and windshield of Dean's car (even when she was John's car, she was Dean's car) as they share heat back and forth, as the wind cools the sweat on their skin. As Sam savors the taste of his brother, both tastes, along his tongue and teeth.

And when they do finally climb back into the car, sated and satisfied for the moment (after Sam's hastily changed his pants, removing the drenched jeans and boxers and shoving them into some remote part of the backseat duffels), they remain silent.

And when they finally get back on the road and back to reality, Sam's skin is humming with power. Sam's skin is humming with power, and Dean's not saying a word.

Neither mentions the future, neither worries any longer because they're both strong.

They're powerful again, ready to take on the armies of Hell with nothing more than a pocket knife and a can do attitude.
froggyfun365froggyfun365 on May 18th, 2011 08:45 am (UTC)
OMFG Cas!... and Crowley? So intriguimg... Great update! :D
redtapestry: Hands on the bibleredtapestry on May 18th, 2011 02:25 pm (UTC)
I'm so glad you liked it! Sorry I made you wait so long for it!
sadritsuka12sadritsuka12 on June 16th, 2011 10:53 pm (UTC)
redtapestry: Hands on the bibleredtapestry on June 17th, 2011 12:56 am (UTC)
Spike Woodsvampirebitch666 on August 7th, 2011 10:52 pm (UTC)
Ohh yummy hot bloodleting love it cant wait for more!
spndeansammylovspndeansammylov on May 20th, 2014 02:09 am (UTC)
ahhh - not finished, damn
sigh, a great story but a shame its not finished