Things go bump in the night.
Especially when they're around.
The shadows move and the woods are dark, deep.
A growl somewhere in the black, hidden away from the moonlight.
Sam doesn't look like he's even breathing, as if he's cold, solid marble and Dean wants to lick him, feel the heat and strum of blood under his skin.
But adrenaline is making him itch, flaring along his nerves.
They're being hunted as much as they're hunting.
So Dean waits to get his tongue on his brother.
Though it might make him feel better, make them both feel better. Sam hates werewolves with a heavy blindness, as if he's been struck by lightning. He fucks Dean harder, uses his teeth more on soft sensitive skin and sometimes Dean tells him they're hunting a werewolf just so Sam will systematically take him apart with mouth and cock and knife, taste him before putting him back together, broken, cracked, the way Sam wants him to be.
And it's the sweetest torture Dean has ever had, better than anything, even that time Sam tied him to a chair, sank down on Dean's cock and cut Dean until they were both slippery with blood and he didn't get to return the favor for a full week, those seven days passing in a haze of demanding, riding want and smoke, nights in the car and motels where Sam's moans would be mistaken for screams; those seven days almost killed Dean with how much he wanted to get that rope around Sam, get the blade red and fuck Sam so that he couldn't feel anything but Dean in every part of him, cells, oxygen, blood.
Another growl, circling footsteps and Sam's pure shadow as they circle away in time.
Dean takes a chance, covers Sam, pushing him against the tree and puts his lips by Sam's ear.
New plan, he exhales.
Sam grins, all adrenaline glee here in the dark as Dean drags him out into a small clearing, out into the moonlight.
Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch, Dean says as he sinks to his knees in forest debris, leaves, twigs, everything black and white-blue.
The zipper is loud in the wooded silence and Sam makes a happy noise as Dean pulls him out of his jeans.
Contented, Dean hums, taking Sam's cock as far as he can, all at once and there's a flash of light on the gun in Sam's hand when he moans.
A hand in Dean's hair and Sam's fucking his mouth, reckless, fast, and this is all Dean's ever wanted with Sam's eyes smashed and shattered by the moonlight.
Sam's watching the slip-slide of his cock between Dean's lips, watching the trees, and Dean's waiting, so fucking hard he's dizzy because this is sheer pleasure, hunting and fucking all at the same time.
Everything makes sense when they're like this, when there's a crashing in the trees, the ground shakes and then Sam fires over Dean's head, comes down Dean's throat with a shudder and the smell of warm blood fills the air.
The body is going cold and the spreading puddle is turning the dirt into black sticky mud underneath them as Dean fucks Sam, hauling him close to get his cock deeper inside his brother.
The warehouse creaks. There are hooks swinging gently in the moonlight coming through the windows, their shadows swaying with them.
Outside of the bands of light, everything is surreal, cloaked, abandoned.
Sam's waiting, listening, his palms sweaty and he smiles, biting his lip.
He thinks Dean is just around the corner, stalking away from him. He takes a step forward, boot coming down on something soft and slick. But it doesn't make noise and there's the rustle of Dean's coat.
His brother hasn't heard him.
He needs a distraction, something so he can get behind Dean, press his blade to Dean's throat. Kneeling, Sam feels around.
Heavy, round, it'll roll nicely. He suppresses a laugh and aims for a corner of the large open room.
The head lands with a squelch and a bony thud before tumbling away, uneven bouncing. Sam wipes loose hairs from his fingers as Dean follows the sound, moving past him, fluid, shadow in motion.
It's like a minefield, Sam dodging bodies, because putting a foot right through a ribcage is never a good idea when you're sneaking up on someone.
He sees a form hunched by a pole, as if Dean is tracking him, trying to sniff him out and Sam's excited, his blood running hot and quick, wanting to pull out his knife now, now he needs it fucking now, he needs to get his hands on Dean and Dean's blood on his tongue.
But it's just another dead vampire out of the nest they decimated, posed where it fell, art.
And Sam is pissed.
Then he's being dragged backwards and he trips over a leg, forced to the ground and Dean's chuckling, low and blackly amused.
Looks like I gotcha, Sammy, he says and his teeth scrape along Sam's neck.
You cheated, you bastard, Sam says, tilting his head as Dean bites down.
His brother laughs again and whispers between sharp nips, I'm playing the badass fucking vampire, aren't I? Then fuck yeah, I cheat.
You cheat even when you aren't the motherfucking vampire. And why do I always have to be the hunter? That's bullshit. I wanna play vampire; it's my turn, you skipped me.
The teeth stop and Sam whimpers before he can do anything about it.
You can do it next time. If you can fuck it out of me, Dean says. And you love it when I cheat, bitch.
Then he straddles Sam and bites hard enough to break the skin right under Sam's jaw.
And Sam laughs, gasping at the pain and Dean's tongue, says, Just wait until I cheat next time, jerk. Make you pay for it.
The water is black and blue, like a shifting bruise. It's warm too, blood rising to the surface, and Dean's swallowed too much of it.
It's all he can taste, that stale drowning plant flavor and he grimaces as he swims to shore, twisting to look for Sam.
Then something snatches at his ankle, claws and fingers curling around his boot and he kicks, but too late.
He's under in a rush of bubbles and pain. There's music somewhere, floating like he is, aimless and wandering until the claws dig into his skin.
The music spikes and Dean tries not to gasp against the sensations.
Something bright slices through the water, nicking his leg and the fingers loosen as the morphing blue-green-black is strung out with red.
A forearm drifts by as he breaks the surface, the moon trickling on the water and everything is an odd fluorescent blue, even the arm.
He laughs, grabbing the curled wrist and heads towards the sand. The arm flaps, smacking the water as Dean swims and he's laughing in time, water in his mouth.
Sam's emerging from the lake ahead of him, all his lines defined and sharpened by the white-blue moonlight and the way his clothes stick to him. A hissing sound and Sam pulls a naked girl with him.
Her eyes flash green, unearthly copper lamps, and as Dean trudges up, water pouring from him, as if he's been reborn, she shakes furiously, her tits and belly and thighs glistening.
She's missing part of an arm, blood streaking her skin.
Sam grins, all sharp teeth in the dark, machete glinting at his side.
Laughing, Dean waves the arm he's carrying, the hand limp and spinning on the wrist, like a toy.
The girl spits at them, lake water dribbling from her mouth.
You know, Sammy, any other time and I'd say look, we got us an audience, Dean says.
But I'm fucking soaked and so are you. And this water is shit-nasty.
You're such a wuss, Sam says, challenge in his gaze.
There's a rising shriek as the girl struggles against Sam where he's got her by the hair, green grasping strands, and it makes her body writhe.
Dean appreciates that, misses watching naked women shake and whine with pleasure.
You motherfucker, Sam says, his jaw tight and the machete is pure blue as he cuts off her head.
The rusalka's body slides a little into the waves, the tide lapping at it.
And then it's one of the most beautiful things in the world. Sam drops the machete and pulls out his gun. So fucking tall against the thick lake-bruise, the blue-white lining him, throwing him into shadow, he's spattered with blood, jets of it from the ragged neck, and he shoots into the water, into the body, again and again and again.
Tossing the head over his shoulder, spray of blood in the air, Sam grabs Dean, one hand sticky wet, the other still holding the gun, pressing it to Dean's heart.
You wanna fuck, huh, Dean? You ready? he says, voice dark and dangerous, like he'll fuck Dean and stab him in the belly and devour him, all in one go.
It sounds perfect and he's whispering, Sammy Sammy please, now.
What Dean really loves is when Sam gets so jealous, the little bitch jealous of a monster, for shit's sake.
All Dean can see is the blue-white-black of Sam, towering angel of fucking vengeance as he shoves Dean down onto the shore at gunpoint.
And Sam makes it hurt when he fucks Dean, his brother with a hand around Dean's throat, squeezing until he thinks his blood is going to shoot out of his veins, fountains for Sam to drink and Sam's cock stretching him as he breaks with every thrust.
Their moans echo out over the lake like gunshots.
Then Sam says, Look, Dean, audience.
Breathless as Sam fucks him, Dean laughs hoarsely as the copper-green eyes shine out dead from the head a few feet away, hair spread out like seaweed.
The black dog had almost gotten Sam, swiping out at his back.
When they killed it, Dean set the corpse on fire and pissed on the ashes, muttering, Sonuvabitch almost cut you open, Sammy. Shitty fucker thinks he can do my job.
Now as they wheel into the room, a whirling tornado, their kisses like the eye of the storm, the smell of smoke and ash rises from their clothes and Dean's eyes are bright as if he's left a match burning somewhere inside himself.
They're fighting, struggling and Sam keeps Dean close, ecstatic that he's leaving bruises, he knows he is with how Dean's skin gives under his fingers.
It's a battle, love in wartime, things exploding around them, shrapnel flying as a lamp breaks, then the television topples over, and the room is flooded with moonlight, broken glass like stars in the dark.
Finally Dean's naked, Sam's got him how he wants him, spread out and dazed, bruises from Sam's mouth, bruises from the gravestones and he's fucking alight with adrenaline, as if his blood is glowing, burning him up from the inside out.
Sam remembers seeing him like this in Hell, open and bare, cracked down to his bones and his elements, his being exposed in the green of his eyes and he smiled then when Sam climbed up on the rack, dripping blood, and he smiles now when Sam climbs up on the bed, shard in hand.
Dean's blood oozes almost black, a deep glistening red from his body, following Sam's broken glass piece as if he's calling Dean's soul to the surface, and it’s his, Sam’s, everything Dean is and will be in the noise he makes when Sam licks at the wound, smears his mouth in the warmth.
His hand tight in Sam's hair as every curve of Dean begs at Sam, begs for more from the shard, from Sam's tongue, from Sam, so he holds his brother down and scratches a slow "S" at the base of Dean's throat.
Stabbing the broken glass into the mattress, Sam turns Dean over and winds his tongue into Dean. The bed shifts when Dean steals the shard and slices shallow across Sam's palm, sucking at it.
The pull of Dean's mouth is almost too much, his blood on Dean's lips, he knows what it looks like and Sam is close to coming apart even as he listens to Dean.
When he finally slides into his brother, Sam skims his hands on Dean, gathering blood to jack him. The glass flares white-blue against Sam's thigh, then Dean cuts him, and Dean pushes his sticky salty fingertips into their mouths as they kiss.
They rock, falling sweat and blood making the sheets filthy, graveyard dirt in their hair and there's nothing better than this.
And the smell of death and sex is just them together.
Driving without headlights, guided by nothing but the wind and the moon emerging blue on the horizon.
Sam pushes the car faster and Dean whoops, the windows open, everything fucking possible and they'll fucking make sure they can do it all.
They're flying out of town like a dying star, the car and the night eating space like the creation of a black hole.
The jail behind them is missing two prisoners and maybe some handcuffs too and is littered with scattered, startled hostages.
The wind whips at Sam's hair and he looks so young, looks like he did in Hell, with a wondering expression of awe and giddiness and Dean fucking has to siphon it off him, a gas station overflowing, Sam's happiness volatile and making Dean lightheaded, ready to burn the landscape.
So he stretches as best he can on the seat, fumbling at Sam's fly and fuck, his baby brother's hard and Dean can't move fast enough to get him in his mouth.
The car's humming, speeding up when Sam throws his head back, hand clutching Dean's neck, forcing him deeper and Dean is choking, loves it, loves having Sam so far down he can't breathe.
Dean, oh you fucker, Sam says and Dean drags his gun out of his jeans, puts it against Sam's ribs and every breath he takes makes Dean shake, even as he slows down, tortures Sam with flicks of his tongue.
Nothing exists, Dean is blind, all senses filled with Sam and the friction from the car on the road.
Then everything seems brighter and Sam laughs, Oh shit, and comes in Dean's mouth, saying, Yeah, swallow, baby, swallow.
When Dean sits up, there's a car barreling at them, honking and Sam grabs Dean's gun, fires out the window at it, and the other car panics, swerves and slides before flipping over and over in a cloud of dust, red and yellow lights spinning in the night.
And Sam's laughing, the sound like every one of Dean's happy memories, so he shifts, leans against the passenger door, opening his jeans, hand rough on himself and he groans, a fucking porn star just for Sam.
With a grin, Sam watches Dean, greedy hot eyes, the heat in the car melting the moonlight like blue sugar.
Things go bump in the night.
Especially when they're bored.