Sam/Dean; Dean/OMC; Dean/OFC; Sam/Dean/OFC
WARNINGS: post-season two AU; serial killing
Something goes wrong in Louisiana, you both feel it. Sam starts drinking more, stealing cigarettes from your back pocket and smoking them when you aren’t looking, licking his fingers and pinching the end and tucking it behind his ear for later, something you’ve only seen your father do when he was strapped for cash in a town without any bars that held weekly poker games. You start looking for trouble. Small time stuff at first, tailing stragglers that come out of clubs right before morning light, reaching them quick as lightning, pulling on wallets and purses and solid gold chains before they even know what hits them. Stupid juvenile pick pocketing, but at least it puts food on the table.
Your asthma starts acting up, something that hasn’t happened since you were a child, dreaming about fire and smoke and blood dripping down from the ceiling, but Sammy digs out an inhaler from somewhere, cups his hand over your mouth as you breathe it in, rubs little circles on your back as you open and close your fists helplessly. Sam’s cuts start to hiss at holy water, but neither of you mention it, thinking about Yellow Eyes and his revelations, thinking about bad demon blood. Your driving gets worse and you blow out two tires before you even realize it, jacking new ones from parking lots, stroking the Impala’s hood until you think she forgives you, and Sam starts buying more knives, sharpens them in the motel rooms you stay at, keeps them under his pillows at night, one hand on the handle, always ready.
You forget about finding demons, pass towns full of innocent lives, wrongful deaths, and you just keep going, forget what your father ever taught you about saving people, hunting things, about avenging your mother. You pass Texas and Oklahoma and wind your way through New Mexico and Arizona, driving at night when the desert isn’t quite as searing, stopping in shithole motels for junk food and a few hour’s sleep, pressing close to Sammy’s skin when the need gets too hard to refuse, his mouth on yours and your nails digging in far enough to draw blood. Sam likes to bite the back of your neck, hard and harder, leaving mouth-shaped bruises, little indents where his teeth just couldn’t get enough of your taste, and you draw symbols from your father’s journal on his naked back, fingers tracing first, then your tongue, slow and soft and wet.
One morning, Sam says, “Something’s happening, isn’t?” Lips on your shoulder, fingers tight on your arm, curled around your elbow, scared.
You say, “Yeah,” even though you’re not sure what.
He looks at you and pinches his cheeks together, chews on his lower lip and strokes your elbow once. “We’re not gonna fight it, are we?”
You say, “No,” even though your heart is screaming in your chest.
Sam starts getting migraines again, but they’re worse and they bring vomit and dark shadows under his eyes and the only thing he finds solace in is the quiet of the open road, asks you to drive somewhere, anywhere, asks you to never slow down, never stop. You start hearing voices, and that’s where everything finally comes together, where you finally realize what this has all been adding up to you, what you both need to do.
The first kill, well, she’s right out of college, Sam’s age, pretty blonde hair and perfect blue eyes, somewhere in the heart of Colorado. She smiles perfect white teeth when she sees Sammy, and it only takes one flash of the dimples to get her to follow along back to your motel room, where you slide a knife along the curve of her belly button, hot, slow, watch it slip in smooth. Sam’s hand over her mouth, she tries to scream, tries to bite down hard, but he doesn’t let go, instead watches you, watches as you move the knife up, past her heart, as you split her throat open clean. Sam breathes in loud, quick, as she settles, stills, motionless against his legs, but he doesn’t cry out when you bring your blood-spattered hand close to your face to smell, this dark, rich scent like something that’s always been in the back of mind, that’s always been on the tip of your tongue. And he smiles when you lick your hand clean.
Something goes wrong in Louisiana, but you’re retracing your steps through the country, every state you’ve saved a life in, every state your father ever dragged you to, every state you and Sam sent a demon back to hell, well, you’re killing to even up the score. First, they’re young and pretty, girls you wouldn’t mind spending a night with, girls that look at Sammy like they’d like to take him away from you, girls that remind you of Jess. First, they’re blondes, and then they’re brunettes, and redheads, and Sammy gives you little tips about MOs and signatures and disposal, about cleaning up, tells you to spray everything with bleach, to burn all your clothes.
You say, “All that school really came in handy, huh?” And Sam looks unimpressed, but he doesn’t regret a thing, you can tell, the way he holds you tight to him, the way he moans low in his throat when you kiss his neck, kiss his jaw line, this girl’s blood all over your mouth. His hands all over you, and you say, “Why didn’t we start this sooner?”
Sammy steals license plates from every rest stop, just in case, and you keep hustling pool, even though you’ve got a cache of wallets tucked away from every kill, even though you’re probably set for life, but you kind of just like the thrill. You kind of just like the spotlight, end up with some cowboy’s mouth on you one night after you lost two grand, no hard feelings, as his hands move up and down your sides, over your shoulders, down your back. Your eyes keep rolling in your head, and his teeth keep catching on your skin, but you keep wanting to moan out Sammy’s name, this cowboy’s fingers unbuttoning your jeans so swiftly, so easy.
And later, Sam finds you in bed with his body, his blood and his semen and the way you just keep smiling, tuck the cowboy hat on your head and slip his sunglasses on to your nose, smiling, saying, “Hey, Sammy.” Saying, “Look what I found.”
And Sam rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, reprimands you for getting blood on the sheets, for making such a goddamn mess. Says, “We’re gonna get caught if you keep doing this, Dean.” And, “Why can’t you just follow the rules?” But you shut his mouth for him, press close, press tight, let him taste the blood and sweat, let him feel the strength of your body, firm, taut, solid.
Sam licks his lips against your temple, your arm wrapped around his waist, and he says, “Fuck,” swallowing soft on your skin. Says, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
By the time you get to number forty-seven, you’re in Wyoming. Back when you were the good guys, your father took you and Sam here to hunt an Incubus with a taste for young boys once, and now, well, you’re taking back all those lives you saved. You’re taking back every honor your father ever gave you.
Sam helps you pick out Nicole, this pretty young thing with an eye for trouble, helps point her out when you walk into the bar, how her eyes light up when she sees your leather jackets, your hardened eyes, the scars on your hands, when she smells the whiskey and cigarettes and sex all over you. Sam helps you ask about benign things like family, like about anyone that would miss her if she were to suddenly go missing, and she smiles, leans back against the bar and says she’s away from home for awhile, just looking for some fun. Sam says, “Perfect.”
You say, “Let’s go.”
Nicole is easy, willing, takes the bottles you give to her and swallows the alcohol down with ease, smiles bright and wide and never takes her eyes off you. Nicole is plain and simple and fucking ideal, spreads her legs wide enough and even leans back to touch Sam’s hand, leads him to her side, watches his hands slide down her stomach, tuck themselves underneath her skirt, watches him reach over her to catch your mouth with his. She laughs and says, “I though you guys were brothers.”
And you smile against Sam’s mouth, pull back far enough to look her in the eye, your fingers still gripped on to Sam’s collar, his hands still flat against her tummy, and you say, “We are,” smiling, smiling.
She laughs again, rolls her eyes, says, “Whatever,” and this is where things start to get really interesting.
Sam slips his hand out of her skirt and you sidle closer to her, fingers soft on her knees, the inside of her thighs, creeping higher and higher, and she’s tilting her head back, her neck long and graceful and perfectly smooth, white skin that looks like clean snow in the dim light. Your hands slipping higher and higher, pushing her skirt up, over her waist, and she’s moaning low, moaning soft, and you can feel Sam slipping quiet beside you, reaching underneath his pillow, reaching for the knife you know he keeps there, pulling it out inch by inch, his eyes on you. Sam slipping quiet beside you, he’s taking the knife out and you’re watching Nicole and her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks, long and dark, her mouth open, and she’s breathing low and gentle, she’s breathing ragged.
You say, “Fuck,” your fingers and her face, beautiful, perfect, and she smiles and opens her eyes in time to see Sam press the knife quick against her throat. You breathe out, loud, torn, and, “Fuck,” again, and there’s this feeling like a catch in your chest, like a block of cement where your lungs are supposed to be. Sam says, “Dean?” and Nicole’s panting hard, tears falling down from her eyes, sticky wet against her flushed cheeks, and she’s saying, “Hey,” she’s saying, “I don’t do this kind of thing,” but you can’t even hear her voice anymore, your fingers on your chest like maybe you can scratch your breathing open again, these small hiccups of air.
Nicole’s saying, “I’ll fucking scream,” her voice hoarse against the knife at her throat, the small trickle of blood on the silver there, and Sam lifts the knife to slap her face, once, says, “Shut the fuck up, bitch,” growls when she starts to cry harder. Nicole’s saying, “Please, please,” and you can’t even fucking breathe, both your hands at your chest now, your neck, scratching, clawing, this feeling like you’re going to die, this feeling like you’ll never be able to breathe ever again, your throat tight and closed and Sam’s saying, “Dean, where’s your inhaler?” And, “Dean!” You make some motion to your left, like, over there, and Nicole’s sobbing, “Please, please,” and Sam backhands her once more to quiet her again, but she’s saying, “I have money, just please let me go.” And you want to say, If it was about the money, this would have been over with already, bitch, but your fingers tight against your throat, nothing can get through. Nothing can come out.
Sam digs his fingers under dirty clothes, under old law school textbooks, under the bed sheets until he finds it, clutching the plastic tube triumphantly in his hands, presses it close to your face. You pump it once, feel the spray coat your throat, gravitate downwards and you breathe in and out, breathe a full lungful of air, your forehead pushed against Sam’s temple, his hands on you, fingers smoothing out worry, smoothing out your fear. Sam’s hands on you, he smoothes out the wrinkles on your face, the scars on your neck, and he says, “It’s okay, baby,” says, “It’s alright.”
Sam saying, “You’re gonna be fine.”
And Nicole says, “Please.”
Something goes wrong in Louisiana, you both feel it. What that Yellow Eyed sonofabitch said, about Sam not coming back right, well, you don’t even fucking care anymore, what with your voices, your love for Sam, the way you just feel this need to kill, no matter what, no matter how evil it is, no matter what your father ever taught you, well, maybe Sam came back right, after all. Maybe you’ve actually been like this all along and it just took Sam’s death to realize it. Maybe this is just how you’re supposed to be, really, hunting people instead of demons, killing them because it just feels so goddamn right.
Something goes wrong in Louisiana, but maybe it wasn’t all that wrong, maybe up until that point, you and your brother and your father, avenging your mother’s death, going out half-cocked and taking out anything that stood in your way, all those demons, all those monsters, well, who gave you the right to stop them? Maybe your little black and white life has been turned upside down all these years, maybe there really is no God, and maybe everything goes to shit, anyway, so why should you even try? Why should you even bother?
Sam helps you bury Nicole’s body, after you split her up in to easily managed parts, a leg there, an arm there, after you’ve cleaned her body of semen and blood and fingerprints, of any trace evidence, and you find a shallow spot deep in the woods behind your motel, between some trees, where the ground isn’t as hard. Sam helps you bury Nicole’s body, helps you burn her clothes, your clothes, the sheets from the bed, helps you wipe down everything in the motel room, the Impala, says, “Why do we keep doing this if the clean up part sucks ass?”