Sam finds him in a bar in Vermillion. It’s like deja vu. The smell of stale beer, peanut shells crunched into the cheap shag carpet and godawful country twanging away on the jukebox. He watches as Dean downs shot after shot of undoubtedly cheap whiskey as the brunette bartender leans forward, tits pushed together in the tubetop she wears, her teeth worrying her lower lip.
Dean stands up, and Sam can see the tendons in his forearm as he slams his third empty shot glass down on the bar. He’s wearing his favorite jeans, the blue pair that are worn at the knees and so tight that Sam can’t help but stare at the curve of Dean’s ass and his strong thighs. It’s nothing new. Staring at Dean and watching his time-honored pick-up routine is nothing out of the ordinary, either. But the fluidity of his body, the effortless way he works his muscles as he leans in to whisper in the girl’s ear – Sam’s never seen Dean move like that before, all lithe seduction and elegance. He wipes his palms on the front of his jeans and swallows, watches as Dean follows the bartender out the front door.
It's not like Sam intended to follow them, but he's still a hunter and Dean's –different. He might rip the girl's head off, or maybe he won't, but Sam's not hanging back, just in case. He holds up for a couple of minutes, his heart pounding a strong, solid rhythm in his chest. Sam closes his eyes as he steps outside; there's a slight chill in the air and the crisp bite of it hits his cheeks. Sam listens, not moving yet, just taking in the sound of boots and high heels on the gravel as they get fainter and fainter. He allows himself to follow, into the parking lot and down the alleyway where Dean has her backed up against a wall, his fingers hooked in her beltloops. Sam stops, backs up and ducks behind a dumpster. He can't see perfectly, but it's good enough.
"I can't be gone long." She shudders as Dean unbuttons her jeans.
"This won't take long," Dean says. He pulls her jeans down and knees her legs open wide, shoves his fingers inside her panties. "Hm. Yeah. Not long at all." Sam doesn't need to see Dean's face to know how damn smug he looks.
Dean keeps his promise and brings her off fast. He kisses her, his hand holding her jaw in place and Sam looks away, because clearly the only danger Dean poses to this girl is in getting her fired for screwing on the job. It would be far too difficult to sneak out from behind the dumpster without bringing attention to himself, so he stays there, staring at his boots. It's the longest few minutes of his life; she isn't exactly quiet when she comes and if Sam never hears Dean calling another girl 'sweetheart' in that leering, pornographic tone it'll be too soon.
Her voice is shaky when she finally stops panting. "Did you want me to–?"
"No thanks, sweetheart." Sam grits his teeth. Dean is so fucking predictable, even this Dean. "I'm good."
Sam hears her heels against the gravel minutes later and he peers out to see Dean shaking his head and looking back, grinning.
"Enjoy the show, Sammy?" Dean asks, turning to face him. He's sweaty, his hair standing up in messy spikes and Sam can see the mark, angry-red before Dean folds his arms, leaning back against the wall. "Was it everything you've ever dreamed of? Or were you just too jealous to appreciate a master at work?"
"Wow." Sam steps out from behind the dumpster. "Your ego grew even bigger. How is that possible?"
"What can I say? It's a gift." Dean cocks an eyebrow. "How did you get free, anyhow? I was gonna come get you, you know. Eventually."
Sam shudders, thinking of Cole's blade slicing through his flesh. The white-hot pain of hammer on bone and how many times he begged Dean wordlessly to come and save him.
"I'm grateful. Really." Sam steps forward, clenching his fists at his sides. "If I'm lucky, I might not even scar."
Dean shrugs. His face is all bored indifference and it makes Sam want to punch him repeatedly in it. "I told you to let me go, Sam. It's your own fault if you can't follow orders."
"Orders, huh? Is that the mark talking? Or you?"
The air between them changes. Dean's face clouds over and he shoves off the wall, gets his hands on Sam's shirt, pulls him in. His breath is warm in Sam's face and he smells like liquor, cigarettes, and something that Sam can't place.
"Listen to me, little brother," Dean says, his voice soft, but not at all gentle. "The mark is me. We're one and the same. Sooner you get it through your giant forehead the sooner we can both move on. Now get gone." He lets Sam go, not gently, and Sam staggers back, just managing to catch himself before he lands on his ass.
"Yeah, I don't think so." Sam plants his weight and crosses his own arms. "You think after everything we've been through, I'm going to just walk away?"
Dean looks down at the ground and laughs, empty and hollow. When he looks up at Sam again, his eyes are tar-black. The back of Sam's throat tastes bitter and he swallows against it, not surreptitiously enough for Dean's inhuman reflexes to catch.
"Scared, are you, Sammy? I can see you are, gripping that old holy water hipflask in your jacket pocket like it's a fucking lifeline or something."
Dean barges forward and Sam doesn't even have time to think before his brother pulls Sam's hand out of his jacket, grabs the flask out of his hand and throws it on the ground. Sam tries to move but Dean's too fast for him now - lightning reflexes and strength on top of a hunter's training. He has Sam's arm twisted behind his back before Sam can even blink and shoves him face first into the nearest wall. The concrete is rough against Sam's cheek, grazing his skin.
"I'm not scared of you," he says, his mouth slack. "You're still all talk, just like you always were. Gonna take a lot more than black eyes to scare me off."
"Yeah? Why is your heart racing then?" Dean says and his mouth is so close to Sam's neck that it almost brushes against the skin. Sam can't help but shudder. It's hard for him not to be turned on by all of it: Dean's body pressed against his and his mouth so close to Sam's flesh. There's a knife-edge of danger in this new version of Dean, an unpredictability that is maybe the biggest turn-on. If Sam really thinks about it, though, it isn't that new at all.
The way Dean shoves his face into Sam's neck and inhales though, that is most definitely new.
"What the fuck? Did you seriously just sniff me?"
Dean laughs. "Quick on the uptake, as always. Do you know what you smell like though?" He inhales again, slower this time and his fingers tighten around Sam's wrist, digging into the pulse point.
"No, but since you seem to love the sound of your own voice more than usual, I'd imagine you're going to tell me."
"You smell–" Dean lets go of Sam's wrist and trails his fingers down his back, a long, slow glide from his neck to his waist, "like lust, little brother. Like you want me to push you down on the ground and use you like some ten-dollar whore."
"You wish." Sam's almost spitting, trying to ignore the ache in his groin. "And you wouldn't be my first black-eyed screw." He turns around to face Dean, rubbing at his wrist. It's going to bruise.
Dean growls, actually fucking growls. He pushes Sam back, one hand on his neck, gripping tight and holding him against the wall again. His eyes are back to normal, but he looks even more dangerous. It's impossible to tell where the demon ends and Dean begins, but there's something in the way he's gripping Sam that makes Sam want to see what it would be like if he just gave in. He rubs his lips together; they're wind-burned and raw. When he wets them Sam can see Dean's gaze, fixed on him, tracking the movement of his tongue.
"What do you want from me, Sam?" Dean asks, his voice as rough as the gravel they're standing on. "You want me to come home? Play brothers all day long while we pretend that I don't want to slit your throat and make pretty pictures with your blood?"
Sam swallows, hard, and shifts his weight.
"Wow." Dean looks down at Sam's crotch, one eyebrow raised. "Am I turning you on? Violence kink? Or just a death wish?"
"You never get tired of listening to yourself speak, do you? This is me, Dean, not some fake-boobed waitress who's just looking for a quick fuck before she goes home to her husband. I fucking know you."
Dean shakes his head. "No. You really don't."
Sam moves in, so he's right in Dean's face. "You say you can smell it on me, but I know goddamn well that you can smell it on you, too. I was watching before, did it make you hard? You didn't fuck her, was that 'cause you wanna fuck me instead?"
"No, Sam. I didn't want that," Dean says, softly and bows his head, "because– that would be wrong. You're my brother."
There's complete silence for about a minute before Dean erupts into hysterical laughter, bending over and clutching at his belly.
Sam bites the inside of his cheek and waits for Dean to stop. "You're an asshole, you know that?"
"Aw, come on Sammy, don't be such a buzzkill. You should have seen your face. It was beautiful."
"Fuck you, Dean."
"Nah," Dean stands up to his full height and walks over to the dumpster, leaning against it, the long lines of his body stretched out. "But I could fuck you. If you want."
"Wow," Sam says, walking over to join him, not really wanting to let Dean out of his sight. "How could I turn down such an enticing proposition?"
"Not like it'd be the first time." Dean says. "You know your ass was made for my dick."
"You're unbelievable, you know that?"
Dean stretches his arms above his head. "So I've been told."
"I didn't come here for this, you know. We need to talk. Really talk. Not in an alley with your fingers all smelling of girl."
Dean tilts his head as if he's processing Sam's words. "Yeah. Not really in the mood to talk, Sammy. You should probably just go."
"Nah. I'm bored, Sam. If you're not putting out then I'll go find someone who is. Maybe get in a fight. Night's young."
"Okay then," Sam says. He shrugs his shoulders and turns to walk away. When Dean nods and starts to follow him, Sam freezes in place, turns around and kicks out, sweeping Dean's leg, overbalancing him. Sam falls on him, straddles his hips and smiles, pleased to have the upper hand at last.
"You shouldn't be so cocky," Dean says, "I'm far too strong for you."
Sam doesn't take Dean's threat in fast enough and his brother, all hard muscle and supernatural strength, flips the two of them over. Sam tries to move, but Dean holds him down, his hips flush against Sam's. He can't help but gasp at the friction of Dean's denim-clad crotch against his, his cock hard and pressing into Sam's hip.
"I could kill you," Dean says, staring down at Sam, pushing his arms over his head, his hands gripping Sam's wrists. The way he looks - jaw set and eyes intense and every muscle in his body ready for sex or violence or both– makes Sam's gut twist with want. He thrusts upward and Dean grunts, pushing him down, his hips holding Sam in place. "I want to, Sam. Want to hold you down, dig my fingers into your throat and just squeeze and squeeze. It itches, you know. It wants you."
Sam stares at the mark. It looks like it's burning, and he should be scared, but he has nothing to lose. Without Dean, everything's pointless anyway. "I still remember how it feels, you know. Having Meg inside me, so I get it. Fucking and killing, right? But I'm not leaving, Dean."
"You stubborn little shit." Dean leans forward and licks between Sam's closed lips, just once. When Sam tries to kiss him, Dean just laughs and pulls back. "Uh-uh, brother. If we're doing this, we're doing it my way."
Dean moves his hips sinuously, his cock rock-hard in the juncture of Sam's hip. "How long have you been hard, Sammy? Since you heard her moan? Or since you saw me? Hm?"
Sam shakes his head. "Your ego doesn't need stroking, you know. It's already the size of. Fuck. The continental US." Dean is no longer holding his wrists with his hands, but Sam can't move still. Dean's hand is on his dick, rubbing him through the denim, a long, slow glide. Sam whines, wanting that barrier of thick material gone.
"Neat trick, huh?" Dean says, nodding at Sam's wrists, "I've got all sorts of new moves, Sam. Just you wait."
"Like I said," Sam says, biting his bottom lip as Dean unzips him and gets a hand inside Sam's boxers, his fist gripped tight around Sam's cock, "You're not my first demon fuck."
Dean moves up Sam's body, his right hand still in Sam's boxers, not moving. "You'd better shut the fuck up about now," he says, and shoves his fingers inside Sam's mouth, so deep that Sam almost gags. "That's better, Sammy. So much better when that pretty mouth of yours is full. Wanna see you take it. Come on."
Sam groans around Dean's fingers. They're rough and calloused, too many years of driving and guns. They're so long and slender though and Sam's been dreaming of having Dean's hands on him again for years now. It's not like when they were younger, when Dean was always so fucking afraid of breaking him that he was gentler than he was with any of his girlfriends. Nothing gentle in Dean's touch now and his eyes are so dark they may as well be completely demon-black.
Sam's not entirely sure he's going to get out of this unscarred.
Dean pulls his fingers out, steadily, inch by inch. Sam isn't going to be passive though, that's not his idea of fun, danger or not. He tongues the base of Dean's forefinger, watches intently as Dean's eyes drift closed. They only shut for the barest of seconds though; Dean's lips curl into a smile that doesn't look anything other than dangerous and when he opens his eyes they're solid black. It makes Sam crazy, seeing Dean like this, and not in the way he would've expected. He bucks his hips up again, trying to get Dean to just touch him, but it isn't happening and Dean pulls his hand free, pulling Sam's jeans down his thighs, pausing to scratch his nails down the length of them, hard. Sam hisses; it stings like hell and he should hate it but he doesn't - this is what he wanted after all, his brother back in his life no matter what.
"You have no idea," Dean says, his voice like molasses, dark and sweet in Sam's ear, "all the things I want to do to you. How much I wanna hear you scream." He waves his hand and Sam can move again. He takes it slow, flexing his fingers, trying to get the blood circulating again. Dean has different ideas though, and he grabs Sam by the hair, kisses him finally. It's been so long that Sam had forgotten how this felt, Dean's lips on his, so forceful and his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam remembers hours of leisurely, hot kisses when they'd just make out with no end in sight. This isn't like that - it's rough and dirty and so, so good when Dean sucks on Sam's tongue and bites at his lips. Sam's so fucking turned on that he thinks he might actually start humping the air when Dean sinks his teeth into Sam's neck so hard it breaks the skin.
"Watch it," Sam says, lifting his hand to touch the abraded skin. "I don't really want to contract rabies."
"Funny you should say that," Dean says, moving down Sam's body to kneel at his feet. "Because if you really wanna know what pain feels like, I could always call down one of Crowley's hounds. You have no idea –"
But Sam does, he remembers. A hundred years in the cage with the most sadistic fuck that's ever walked the earth tends to heighten one's pain threshold somewhat.
"Oh right," Dean says, his voice softened, "forgot Lucifer turned you into his little painslut for a minute there. Love to be a fly on that wall."
And it makes sense that Dean would end up like this, craving the suffering of others - Alistair was a damned good teacher after all.
"Soon," Dean says, "I'm going to tie you down and see how much you can take before you beg me to stop. But not today, Sammy."
Dean peels Sam's jeans down, trailing his fingers between Sam's legs and digging his nails in, not too hard this time, just warning. Sam tries not to writhe when Dean removes Sam's boots, pulling his jeans all the way off and spreading Sam's legs, wide. He's on edge, his skin on fire, and when Dean pulls his knife out and cuts carefully up one leg of his boxers, then the other, Sam digs his fingernails into his palms so deep that they draw the tiniest trickle of blood.
"I can smell it, you know," Dean purrs, pulling the fabric of Sam's destroyed pair of boxers off of him. He narrows his eyes, considering, and Sam wonders what exactly Dean is going to do to him, the anticipation making him shiver. Dean touches his fingers to one of the fingernail gouges and smiles when Sam inhales sharply. Dean brings his fingers to his lips and licks at them, small kitten-licks. Sam thinks about doing the same to Dean, making him bleed and tasting his blood: coppery and strong. He wouldn't be so overpowered then, could do anything he wanted, drag Dean back to the bunker and make him stay there for a start.
Dean slaps him on the thigh. "You're drifting, Sammy, can't have that now, can we?"
"Perhaps you could stop jerking off to your own monologuing then and, oh I dunno, fuck me?"
Sam watches as Dean pulls out a lube packet and tears it open, rubs the slick liberally over his fingers. When Dean shoves three in, no gentle build-up or preparation, Sam thinks that perhaps taunting his brother - the sadistic demonic fuckhead - might have been a mistake. It burns and Sam's stretched full, but it's been a long time since he's felt anything like it, being assaulted like this. Dean pushes in hard, fucking in deeper and Sam spreads his legs even wider, desperate for more, harder, as deep as Dean can manage it.
"Did she ever do this to you?" Dean asks, his mouth on Sam's hipbone, tonguing the crease. "When she fed you her blood did you let her peg you? On your hands and knees, begging for her to shove it right in?"
"Shut up," Sam hisses, and Dean pulls out his fingers abruptly, flips Sam onto his stomach, pulls him onto his knees and spreads him wide.
"You started it, little brother," Dean says and when he pushes inside, his huge cock deep in Sam's ass, Sam can barely breathe. Dean's a good fuck at the best of times but this? Is insane. He's rough, relentless, not even allowing Sam to adjust before he's pulling out the whole way and slamming back inside him, deeper and deeper. It's so fucking good being had by something with so much strength. It had been easy to forget, remembering strips him of his dignity all over again, but Sam had forgotten just how good it was: sex with a non-human. Dean is making him remember with every deep thrust, though, every time he pulls Sam back by the hair, his teeth grazing Sam's throat.
Sam can't touch himself, it's impossible with the sheer force of Dean's fucking, all he can do is lean forward, ass in the air and just take it.
When Sam comes, untouched; long and hard and embarrassingly loud, on his knees for his brother, the demon, in an alley, he realises that dignity is probably overrated.