Sometimes Sam opens the safe just to look at it. There’s something about watching the ball of white, gaseous light swirl and dance in its glass bell jar that relaxes him like nothing else. It reminds him of the pensieve charm in the Harry Potter books. The idea of being able to forcibly remove painful memories and lock them away in a magical basin has always appealed to him. Not that he needs to worry about bad memories anymore. Even his worst hell memories, even the memory of Dean being ripped apart by hellhounds, of Dean smiling at him with coal black eyes as he slit the throat of an inconvenient and innocent security guard can touch him now. He can pluck any memory he wants from the most private and secret corners of his mind and examine it like it's an interesting specimen of insect. He's completely impervious to its effect. He's impregnable. Untouchable.
He smiles at the thought, and closes the safe.
“I know you’re there, Dean,” he calls out.
Dean chuckles as Sam turns around. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder propped against the stacks. He’s been trying to catch Sam out ever since Sam removed his soul. For some reason, Dean wants to get his grubby, demon hands on Sam’s shiny, silvery soul. However little it means to Sam right now, he's still not letting Dean anywhere near it. Human souls are great bargaining chips, and he's hanging onto his until he finds a worthy use for it. He's definitely not letting Dean have his wicked way with it.
Dean stalks toward him and puts his hand on Sam’s chest. He spreads his fingers and pushes Sam back against the closed safe. "What are you doing, Sam?"
Sam doesn't answer, and just stares back at him, unblinking. Dean tilts his head to one side and eyes him thoughtfully. "One day, you're going to screw up, and when that day comes, I'll be right here."
"No I won't," Sam says.
It's true, he doesn't screw up anymore. All those messy, sloppy emotions that used to hold him back are gone now. They’re all trapped in that bell jar in the safe right behind him. He's free of all that bullshit, and everything is as clear and empty as an endless highway cutting through the desert, straight and simple and true, and with nothing to get in the way. Especially not Dean.
Dean makes a growling sound at the back of his throat, knots his fingers in Sam's shirt, and pulls him into a kiss.
"I'm going to pay you back," Dean pants. "One day, little brother, you're going to pay for what you did." He turns his head to peer at Sam over his shoulder. His eyes are narrowed and black, his lips drawn back into a snarl. He looks like the animal he is.
Sam puts his hand to the back of Dean's neck and thrusts him down into the bed. "Shut up," he says absently.
Dean groans and pushes back against Sam's hand, fighting the hold. He's not fighting it too much because Dean could easily overpower Sam if he wanted to. But there are some things about Dean that haven't changed, and one of them is his addiction to having Sam's cock in his ass. Sam slides his hand into Dean's hair and yanks on the short strands, pulling hard enough to hurt. Dean makes a deep, growling noise and tosses his head as if to throw Sam off. But he's as hard as hell and Sam knows that he’s not going anywhere.
Sam pulls out just before his orgasm hits. He jacks his cock and shoots over Dean’s back and ass. Dean hisses in annoyance, but Sam ignores him. Instead, he rolls Dean onto his back. The leather bonds tying Dean to the bed creak as the restraints flex and pull around Dean’s wrists. Dean's snarling at him, arching his hips up from the bed and snapping his teeth at Sam. His cock is blood-red and hard, and Sam knows that Dean’s right on the edge, wanting to come more than anything else.
So Sam shuffles back, out of reach. He sits back on his haunches and watches his brother, taking time to enjoy the view.
"Fucking asshole, Sam, fucking touch me already!"
Sam smirks. He feels good, satiated and easy in his skin. His cock is softening, and he can see the evidence of his orgasm all over his brother's flushed skin. He’s always loved seeing Dean painted with his come.
"What were you talking about back then? What are you going to pay me back for?" he asks.
Dean hisses and says, "You think I forgot about you turning me into a vampire. I forgave Sammy, but I ain't forgiven you."
It amuses Sam how even a demonic version of Dean still insists on differentiating between him and "Sammy", as if Sammy is a pure and precious snowflake who could never do anything wrong. The truth is that ever since Dean woke up with black eyes he hasn’t given two shits about “Sammy”. He certainly didn't give a shit when Sammy was trying to hunt him down or trying to cure him.
Besides, they both know that Sammy has never been a pure innocent snowflake. Sammy was the one who decided to remove his soul because he couldn't live without incest.
"Dean, that was years ago," he says. "And I didn't turn you into a vampire. It takes a vampire to turn someone."
"Whatever, you let me get turned," Dean says. "Same fucking thing. I ain't forgotten."
Sam snorts and slides off the bed. He’s done here. He leaves the room to a cacophony of Dean’s frustrated howls.
Dean doesn't forgive him for leaving him tied to the bed with blue balls. He bides his time, taking a leaf from Sam's book with his patience and planning. Sam doesn't sleep - neither of them have to sleep now - so Dean has to wait for the perfect moment to catch Sam off guard. They’re in the middle of a hunt, ghouls this time. Six of them against him and Dean, odds that should be easy, but Sam's nursing an injury and one of them gets him around the neck. It whirls him around and tosses him into a door. Sam blacks out and when he comes around, he’s tied to a chair in their motel room. Dean is standing over him, holding a knife, and he's naked. In fact... he glances down his own body, cataloguing injuries... they're both naked. Great, so this is going to be a sex thing.
Sam tugs at his bonds, but Dean's done a good job, and there’s no give to them. He drops his head back and sighs, setting his eyes on the damp patch on the ceiling. He only gets a second to truly appreciate the Christ-like shape that emerges through the blur when Dean’s fist connects with his jaw and his head snaps back and forward like a jack-in-the-box. A bolt of pain shoots through him, his jaw aching and eyes seeing stars. He blinks, trying to bring the room – and his brother – back in focus, and gives up quickly, shutting his eyes to the swirling fuzzy mess.
Dean grabs his chin, fingers punching into Sam’s jaw, into the blossoming and throbbing bruise. Sam cries out in pain before he can help himself, and Dean chuckles, wrenching Sam’s head around to face him.
“Open your eyes, Sam,” he says.
With a huge force of effort, Sam squeezes his eyes open, wincing at the ache in his pounding skull. Dean leans in, baring his teeth. "Hey there, little brother. How ya doin’?”
Sam doesn't answer, just keeps staring at Dean, slowly bringing him into focus. Dean's a chatty bastard in his demon form, a classic case of Evil Overlord syndrome. Sam, on the other hand, knows how to conserve his energy.
Dean lets go of Sam’s face and sinks down onto his lap, straddling him. He turns the knife in his hand, letting the blade catch and reflect the light, doing his best serial-killer impression. He brings the blade closer to Sam’s face, grazing the point just under his eye, tracing his cheekbone and skimming the line of his profile as he slides the blade down to meet the newly forming bruise. The metal actually feels nice against Sam’s skin, blessedly cool against the throbbing bruise.
Dean turns the blade and slides it neatly around Sam’s jaw like he’s giving him a shave, the metal catching and scraping the bristles. Dean’s mouth twitches in amusement, and he pulls the knife away, tossing it up and into the air. He catches it neatly, wrapping his fingers around the bone handle, and this time he positions the point of the blade right over Sam’s heart. He traces the lines of the tattoo with the blunt edge, his tongue poking through his teeth as he concentrates.
The snick and cut catches Sam by surprise. The sharp jolt of pain making him wince as a small perfect bead of blood swells to the surface, right under the shiny knifepoint. He feels the itchy, hot trickle of blood run over his pectoral muscles and the cut lines of his abs, leaving a startling red stain in its wake. Dean watches its progress in fascination, then he ducks his head and licks, gathering the stream of blood on his tongue and licking his lips as he tilts his head back to meet Sam’s gaze.
"Mmm, you taste like me," he says. He grins, and Sam sees the stain of his own blood on Dean's teeth. Dean chuckles and tosses the knife aside. It lands on the nearest bed with a quiet thump.
“So, what am I going to do with you?"
The cut is still bleeding, a slow trickle down Sam’s body, and Sam’s jaw aches with dull, rhythmic beats that throb in time with his heart. He thinks that he should probably be afraid. If he still had his soul, if he was still Dean’s “Sammy”, then he might be afraid. But right now… he glances down his body and watches his cock fattening inexorably, bobbing against his belly as Dean moves… right now, he’s too turned on to care about anything else. The truth is that whatever Dean's got planned for him, Sam's on board.
Dean puts his hand on Sam's throat, spreads his fingers, flexing them like he’s about to play piano on Sam’s neck, then he squeezes. Sam coughs and splutters, and Dean's gaze narrows, his hold tightening around Sam's throat. Sam knows that Dean could kill him like this. He's seen Dean snap the necks of humans and demons and every shade of other creature on their hunts together. He watched Dean choke the life from Garth when Garth came at him with holy water, Garth’s werewolf form no match for Dean. Dean's freakishly strong and fast, and Dean could kill him if he decided that was what he really wanted.
Sam also knows that Dean won't kill him. It's not love that holds him back; they've both grown past emotions like that. It’s not family either. Dean’s old prime directive means little to either of them now. Sam can remember when family was everything to him and when Dean was everything. He still has the memories of loving Dean and of being loved by him, of being Dean’s entire world and having his entire heart. No one has Dean’s heart now, it’s a dried-up, dead thing, and Sam wants nothing to do with it.
What Sam has is more useful than that: Sam has Dean’s cooperation and collaboration. They’re allies in this fight against Crowley and other demons, against supernatural creatures and the humans that get in their way. They fit together just as perfectly as they always did when they were both humans, but they get each other in ways they never did before. They're both animals and they both need the hunt and the kills that come with it, and, Sam thinks with a flicker of a smile, the sex that comes afterward. They’re not drowning in self-loathing or guilt, they’re free and easy, and if they choose to spend their time together then they’re doing it because they want to, not because they have to.
Sam can remember fucking Dean when he was soulless last time, before Dean figured out there was a fundamental part of his little brother missing. He can remember turning up at Lisa’s door and fucking Dean in the bed he shared with her. He can remember how guilty and conflicted Dean looked before and afterward, but how easily he gave in to the soulful Sammy eyes and the declarations of love. Dean believed him because he wanted to, and because he needed it as badly as Sam did.
Sam can remember feeling angry afterward, driving away from Dean and cursing his brother because Dean had made him come harder and better than any of the dozens of barflies or hookers he’d slept with over the months he’d been topside. He vowed during that journey away from Indiana that he would make Dean come back with him. He would get Dean back by his side and in his bed where he belonged, fuck Lisa and Ben, fuck Dean's normal life, and fuck Dean.
He can also remember how Dean looked at him when he started to suspect, how Dean drew away from him and refused to touch him, like he hadn’t been sleeping with the soulless freak this entire time. That version of Dean missed “Sammy” more than anything, and it made Sam furious. Dean refused to see how much better Sam was like this, how he was still the same person he’d always been, but faster and smarter and stronger. Oh no, that Dean insisted, (ridiculously, in Sam’s opinion), on seeing him as a different person, and Sam wasn't able to compete. He wonders if Dean ever felt like that after he became a demon, if he resented being unable to compete with the sloppy, pathetic sad-sack that was Sam’s “real” brother. He thinks it's probably unlikely.
Dean drops his hand and Sam's head falls forward as he wheezes and chokes, sucking the air back into his lungs. His eyes sting and he can feel them watering, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He lifts his head, and Dean's watching him again. He licks his lips and pushes the words out through his sore throat.
"Are you done?”
Dean rolls his eyes, looking bored, and gets slowly to his feet. He saunters across the room and retrieves the knife from where he tossed it earlier. He circles behind Sam, and Sam feels the blade against his inner arm and his wrists. Dean slits the bonds tying Sam to the chair, and Sam exhales in relief as he pulls his hands free. He brings them around to the front and chafes his wrists.
Dean moves to stand over him, and Sam tilts his head back to look at him. He puts his hand over his heart, over the place where he's still bleeding freely. It hurts to talk, his throat raw and bruised from Dean's fingers, but it's not like he hasn't been choked before. He'll get over it.
"Get me a bandage and then we can fuck," he says.
They're hunting demons. Some of Crowley's minions, which means that Dean's in the mood to be especially vicious when they catch them. Sam leans against the shelves in the men of letters' dungeon, and watches Dean carve up one of Crowley’s top lieutenants. She’s dark, attractive and sultry, the generic Crowley type, and she’s screaming for mercy as Dean forces holy water and salt down her throat, the demon knife dangling out of a hole just below her left nipple.
Dean’s wearing gloves, a visor and protective clothing. He looks ridiculous, but it’s better than the alternative. A few months back, he doused one of Crowley’s demons in holy water and salt, only for the bitch to spit a mouthful back into Dean’s face. It burned through to his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eyes, and Sam had been forced to take over the interrogation. Dean's much more careful now.
They’re still trying to find the First Blade, and Crowley, who seems to have skipped this dimension for another. Dean hasn't forgiven Sam for trading the Blade to Crowley, despite Sam's protests that he did it for Dean.
They’ll catch up with Crowley at some point. They just have to be patient. Unfortunately, Dean is still the punch-first-ask-questions-later asshole he always was when he was human, and he still hasn’t learned the value of patience. Sam sighs in annoyance as Dean gets bored with his interrogation, and slits the girl's throat. The blood splatters over his protective clothing in a graceful arc, and Dean plunges the knife into the demon's stomach without missing a beat. The wound's not quite deep enough to kill her, and the demon screams through its bloody, gurgling throat. Dean takes a step back to enjoy the view.
"Just finish it, Dean," Sam says from his corner, growing bored of watching.
Dean turns and regards him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugs, turns back to the demon, and stabs it in the gut, twisting the knife in up to the hilt. This time the body sparks, the demonic essence short-circuiting or doing whatever it is they do as it dies for good. Dean pulls the knife out, and wipes it on the sleeve of his bloody boiler suit.
Dean pulls off his headgear and turns around. “She didn't know anything," he says when he sees Sam’s face.
"So I gather," says Sam, coming forward.
Dean shrugs irritably and peels off his gloves, tossing them onto the floor, and avoiding the growing pool of blood. He strips down his boiler suit and steps out of it. “You want to burn this one?” he says, jerking his head towards the dead demon.
Sam looks at it and sighs again. “Yeah, whatever, get the accelerant.”
They burn the body around the back of the bunker. Dean stands over it, holding out his hands as if to warm them over the blaze, and shooting amused looks at Sam from under his eyelashes. He doesn’t need the heat, but it amuses him to look like a serial killer, so Sam just rolls his eyes and lets Dean enjoy his little joke as they wait for the body to burn. He watches Dean watch the fire, watches the play of flames across his face and the shadow of his eyelashes against his cheek. He lets his gaze track over Dean's body, over the bow of his legs and his ass, his broad shoulders and the snug fit of his jeans around his crotch. He thinks idly about fucking him in the kitchen, stripping him down and bending him over the table, ploughing his ass and pegging him with his favourite dildo, the one that’s an exact replica of Sam’s own dick.
If he’s going to get Dean to agree to that little scenario then he has to make nice, so he saunters up to stand beside Dean. He knocks their shoulders together and offers Dean a swig from his hipflask. Dean takes it, uncorks it and sniffs it suspiciously.
“Dude, it’s not holy water,” Sam says.
Dean gives him an unimpressed look, and Sam watches his mouth greedily as Dean sucks down a gulp of the whiskey. His lips are wet and slick afterward, and Sam puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck to tug him into a kiss, wanting to feel that wet slickness against his own lips. Dean kisses him back, hungry and horny, pushing his hips into Sam and letting him feel the shape of his cock through his jeans. Sam kisses him back, fingers tangling in Dean’s hair, yanking aside his collar to fasten his teeth around the meat of his shoulder. He bites, feeling his teeth sink in and take hold. Dean hisses and bucks against him, clutching at his ass and drawing him. Sam bites harder and sucks through his teeth.
The burst of blood into his mouth is like a snort of poppers, making him heady and desperate. Dean steadies him with his hand on the back of Sam’s head, and his leg between Sam thighs. Sam's practically humping Dean's leg as he drinks greedily, his cock hard and his hands clutching urgently at Dean's ass. Sam pulls away when he's done and wipes his bloody mouth with the back of his sleeve. Dean puts his hand over the bloody wound, swiping his fingers through the blood. He brings them to his own lips and sucks, hollowing his cheeks around the digits and grinning at Sam. His eyes are as black as the Impala's paintwork, his cheeks flushed and feverish.
He pulls his fingers out of his mouth, curls them into a fist, and socks Sam in the face.
Sam tumbles to the ground, feet sending up sparks as he curses and scrabbles away from the fire. Dean sinks down onto him, straddling him with powerful thighs and trapping him right there, in the dirt. His fingers wrench Sam’s fly open and pull out his cock. Dean's shoulder is still bleeding, the blood soaking the flannel and grey tee, the smell of blood and sulphur overpowering and heady, making Sam's head swim.
He watches Dean through half-closed eyes, cheek throbbing where Dean’s fist landed. He could buck Dean off if he wanted, roll him into the dirt and give him a real fight. He’s got all that demon blood pumping through his body, and he’s bristling and vibrating with the power of it. This is the only time it’s fair between them, and Dean loves to fight him just after Sam’s fed. But Sam’s not sure if this is what Dean’s got in mind this time around.
Dean squeezes Sam's cock, and rubs his thumb in the precome, spreading it over the aching head. Sam curses and his hips jerk up, fucking into Dean's fist. Dean gets to his feet and strips quickly, tossing aside all his clothing until he's naked. Then he sinks down onto Sam's cock.
Sam exhales with the pleasure, feeling his cock throb and thicken inside Dean. Dean's eyes are green again, the firelight reflecting golden in the irises, and Sam thinks of the Yellow-Eyed-Demon, of his own destiny and his tainted blood. On Dean's right arm the Mark of Cain blazes as Dean works himself on Sam's cock. He grabs Sam's wrists, and yanks Sam's arms over his head, entwining their fingers. He bows his head and stares into Sam's eyes as they fuck.
One day, they will catch Crowley and find the First Blade. Of that Sam has no doubt. They're both relentless, and Dean at least, has all the time in the world. He's a Knight of Hell and only the Blade can kill him. As for Sam, well, he's not sure what he is anymore, but he suspects that's he's not entirely human. They're locked together, they're made for each other, they're fucking untouchable. It all seems so obvious now. Maybe it wasn't exactly what the angels and Yellow Eyes were expecting when they set the whole destiny crap in motion, but it's what they ended up with, and Sam can live with that.