Benny Lafitte had never known Dean before Purgatory. He gathered from baby brother’s hurt, cautious reactions, Dean was changed by the experience. Well, how could it be any other way?
Even so, Benny couldn’t really imagine Dean as being much different. A man’s man, a soldier’s soldier. It seemed so natural to his character, it had to have always been. Maybe the paranoia was new, the anger that was so easily at hand. Benny thought Dean’s humor around his little brother to be a might mean… His smiles were tight, gun just about always in hand. Benny understood. He near always had a blade in arm’s reach. Something. It was such a relief to be away from the constant running, the constant combat; but the body remained jumpy. The mind remained haunted, ill at ease.
It was hard to be back.
“You gonna ease up on Choctaw?” Benny asked.
Dean didn’t look up. He frowned. He was plenty hurt his little brother didn’t hunt him down, sniff out his blood. But really; how often did such a thing happen? Most dead folks stayed dead. The living, if they aimed to stay alive, had to move on.
“It ain’t like that with us.” Dean said, when Benny pointed this out. “Sam knows better.”
It was the reason they got out; getting back to Sam. Sam is what had driven Dean the whole time, and drove him, still. But now the drive was a little toxic. Or, a lot.
Benny’s loyalty to Dean had just fallen into place. It just happened, as he had a way of sniffing out truth. After awhile of having each other’s backs, Dean had returned the loyalty. He was that sort, Benny surmised. Being together in the fray bonded them, made them close in a way only those who were in combat could really know. Benny was that sort, too.
He could see that Dean expected that level of loyalty, absolute devotion, from anyone he would call family. He expected Sam to fall in line, to jump when he was told and not to question.
But that wasn’t Sam… it wasn’t his nature. That boy was full of his own thoughts, and full of questions. He was his own person… as he should be.
And he wasn’t at war. None of them were, anymore. Not like in Purgatory.
It happened once, while they were still in Purgatory. There was really no way for it to happen much more. They barely ever caught a wink of sleep, here and there… it usually went in shifts, so there was always a look-out.
But Benny let caution slide just for a moment, just once. When it was near the muted gray that passed for dawn, and cold, like always. His shift had been quiet, and he was so much colder than most. He looked at Dean, curled in a tight ball, on his side; it wasn’t the sort of place where you stretched onto your back or rolled to your belly. If you could have the armored plates of a damn armadillo, roll up snug like that, you’d do it. He slept the same way, in the same, tight curl, but it always amused him to see that Dean’s left hand ended up between his legs. He cupped his balls, encased in filthy denim, protecting them from predators.
Benny spooned up behind him, looking for warmth and a few minutes with his eyes closed. Dean was awake like that. The hand not cupping his balls was gripped to the handle of his blade, even in sleep.
“Benny?” You’d think he’d been a smoker all his life, for the gruffness that rattled in his chest.
Benny said, “Yeah.”
“My shift, again?”
“Nah, brother. Almost time to rise and shine.” That got a snort. “I just want to close my eyes a moment.”
Benny remembered that Dean made a sound… acknowledgement, satisfaction… something. It was no less a growl than anything else that came out of him, but it had wriggled inside Benny. It alerted him to a hunger he felt, part blood and part something else. On sleepy auto-pilot, he’d pressed close, pelvis to taut ass, in a way that was not exactly typical. Dean pressed back, making the sound again… a sort of appraising grunt.
There was no getting naked in Purgatory. That would only make it easier for things to eat you, without having to hack up feathers, beaks and what-not… like owl barf. What happened was a weird and very warm tease. Benny’s arm went around Dean, and Dean pressed bodily back, not only at the hips. Benny had gone hard, a surprise in and of itself. He was probably alerting various demons to his scent. There was no question Dean felt it… he was practically giving Benny a lap dance. His pelvis rocked, he dipped at the small of his back. When Benny could no longer control his breath, or his hands, Dean twisted his upper body and met Benny’s mouth.
That had been the most dangerous thing; those moments of connection, hard breath and grinding, neither of them thinking about all the things that continuously stalked them. Benny didn’t want to think about them… he wanted all that crap to be over, and to spend an eternity doing exactly this.
They stank; their breath had long since gone from foul to a sort of mutual staleness. None of it seemed to matter. Benny’s tongue felt like it was on fire, highly sensitive and thirsty, moving against Dean’s tongue. His hand gripped hard to Dean’s hip, and he was a little afraid his fangs would pop out.
Dean seemed to have the thought at the same moment. He pulled back and smiled in a way that nearly cracked Benny’s heart open; the smile could have been forged as a weapon. In the no-glare light, his eyes were so green. He was a dirty, freckled boy. They could probably spend days grooming one another, picking nits.
“You’re not gonna get toothy on me, are you, Benny?” he grinned.
Drawing a deep breath, Benny said, “Not on purpose, brother.”
That had been the end of it. They both knew the reality… Get up, get moving. Or get deader. Then what? What happened when you were killed in Purgatory?
They didn’t talk about it. In a way, that suited Benny’s nature. In another… it seemed like that sort of thing they should talk about. But, as Dean would say, that sort of talk was for a chick-flick moment. They were too busy staying alive. Or, alive-ish.
It changed things, though. They touched each other with ease. They slammed into each other when they hugged, always a bone-jarring impact, almost always a relief of confirming the other was still kicking. Their hands seemed to always land on a shoulder, a back. When demons and their ilk showed up, Benny’s fangs made themselves known. In the first few seconds of confrontation, he always put a hand on Dean’s neck, just at his hairline. He did it, and showed his fangs. Don’t fucking touch him, his body said.
Dean felt bad for being a dick. For spoon feeding guilt to Sam, and then moving on to shoving it down, hand over fist. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it, except that he couldn’t get his head back into a pre-Purgatory place. He couldn’t get the big-eyed image of Castiel out of his head, hand reaching as he was sucked into a fissure between dimensions.
He was pissed. And he was sorrowful, which made him even more angry. He was taking it out on Sammy, and it made him hate himself all the more. It was an awful, vicious cycle, and he was stuck in it.
It was worse than he let on. He paced, back and forth, like a trapped animal. He held his gun, now just an extension of his arm, as if he’d become a cyborg. Maybe he had.
Sam said, “Dean… Why don’t you put your gun down for, say, a full minute. Or at least holster it.”
So, he’d given the dirtiest, nastiest look he could muster, something foul that told Sammy he was unreliable, unworthy; a trifling, petty little shit. It was bad, and he knew it was bad; but what he didn’t do was to slam the butt of the gun upside Sam’s head. It was the thing his arm itched to do.
Each looked at the other, stuck, as if saying; how dare you? Dean’s eyes asked Sam how he dare carry on, live his life, when Dean’s every moment in Purgatory had been looking for a way back to Sam. Sam’s eyes asked Dean how he dare find peace, loyalty in the presence of a vampire. After… everything. After Ruby.
The unspoken how dares were thick, and the unspoken answers piled up as well. Including Dean’s hateful spur that Sam had been a blood drinker. Because he was weak. Stupid. Ruby played him, like a chump.
How dare he question Dean’s faith in Benny?
It was just so tense. It was unbearable. Dean knew he was the way out… he was creating the tension; he was the one who could break it. End it. But it was so hard, within all the roiling feelings, to get to a place where he could let Sam off the hook. He worried he might beat Sam half to death before he could relent.
It was Benny who was keeping him in check. The only time he could somewhat relax was around Benny. There they were; they could share a beer, appearing to more or less lounge. Yet both tensed at the shoulder, felt hyper-alert about the back of the neck and never sat with their backs to a door. Leg muscles trembled to spring; hands kept a constant muscle memory of a weapon, and were easily triggered.
Even so, it was a huge improvement on the pacing and craziness he was exhibiting when Benny wasn’t around.
Benny soothed him. It was, in part, what they’d been through, together. Benny knew; no explanations required. But it was also just Benny. Dean knew Benny was keyed-up, but he gave every appearance of a slow, Southern laziness. A sit back and nurse your beer, let the crawfish boil and stir some pepperjack into your grits - ease and sprawl. Not that he ate.
Dean felt reassured by his thick body and the little hint of silver that sometimes flashed in his sandy-dark beard. His hands were big, thick-fingered but articulate, and sometimes Dean though unsoldierly thoughts about Benny’s fingers. His hands. He liked Benny’s eyes, that were friendly and a little sad, but could narrow to absolute menace. Sometimes they were a startling, piercing blue, and sometimes they were the color of shadows. A non-color. Benny could be a shadow; he could become non-descript and unnoticed, leaning against a wall in that deceptively lazy way, eyes cast down. (What am I doing? Just holding up this here wall.)
And, sometimes, there was no missing him. A blaze went through him, and his stance, his whole outlook was decidedly Old World. His body was powerful.
And then there were the fangs.
Benny called Sam “Choctaw”, which seemed to annoy Sam a little. Dean could see it. He was used to people being surprised that he and Sam were brothers… Sam, the darker one who could fill a door-frame. Looks-wise, Sam took after their dad’s side, while Dean took after their mom’s. Temperament-wise, it was the opposite.
“You gonna ease up on Choctaw?” Benny asked, and Dean frowned.
He didn’t know. He had to, he knew it. Whatever he was trying to make Sam feel, however he was trying to make him pay… it was wrong. He knew it, even while some righteous, tormented part of himself insisted that – no! it was right – he knew it was wrong.
Bottom line; he loved his brother. He wanted Sam to be okay.
He sighed, and said, “Man, I’m trying.”
“Seem like you’re trying every whichaway not to ease up.” Benny said.
Dean looked at him. It was another thing he liked about Benny… another warm reassurance. His voice, his speech. It had the same lazy sprawl, the same ease as his body. He could make observations without sounding as though he accused Dean of something bad. Dean learned new words; loafering, whichaway. Benny had referred to a wild-eyed, wigged out demon they’d encountered as kindly tetchy.
These things; Benny; made Dean feel calm. Little else did, anymore.
Benny said, “Unless you’re looking to drive that boy wild with grief, you better get on it, son.”
It was almost something Bobby could have said, but the delivery was different. With Bobby, Dean was pinned. He was held at the eyes and the point was driven home, sharp and unsparing. With Benny, the words came with a small smile. A twinkle in the eye, the smile making crinkly lines, there. The smile said, you know I’m onto something, here. But it’s your call. I got your back.
And, kind of, Dean was looking to drive Sam wild with grief. That was exactly what his diseased brain was seeking. But as soon as Benny said the words, out loud and without malice, Dean knew he didn’t want it. If he drove Sammy over the edge, all he would feel would be the need for a take-back.
Dean took a sip of beer, then got distracted. By Benny. Benny had been blowing into his beer bottle, making an echoing, little tune. Now the bottle rested against his bottom lip, lingering there, and his thumb moved over the bottle neck. He wiped at condensed water, beads running down where his thumb traced a path. It looked unspeakably dirty.
Setting his bottle down, Dean asked, “Hey, Benjamin. Do you remember that one morning…?”
Benny rubbed the bottle lip to his, a subtle movement, and the twinkle sparked in his eyes. “What you think?” he drawled, smiling around the bottle.
Heat rose to Dean’s face, and he tried to look considering. As if he, perhaps, had a little distance from the subject. He had no distance.
“Do you think that maybe we should look at that… a little closer?”
Benny didn’t say anything, and Dean’s heart pounded. Maybe it would explode. He felt like every freckle on his face was standing out and hot, and he risked peering up. Benny was staring at him.
“We can look at that as close as you want, brother.”
Not quite able to draw breath, Dean said, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Benny’s voice was soft. He put his beer down, and said, “Come ‘ere.”
Despite receiving the invitation he’d sought, for a moment Dean couldn’t move. Benny’s hands rested on the arms of his chair, and his legs, thick thighs, were spread apart. His face was handsome in an old - fashioned way; part brute and pugnacious, part sensitive and strong. In his head, Dean heard Sam say, “Uh-huh. Daddy issues, much?”
Get out, Sammy. Now was not the time.
Dean stood up and crossed the small space, then was astounded to find himself settled onto Benny’s lap. Narrow butt perched on one, big thigh, it made him taller. He looked to Benny’s upturned face and smiled.
“No biting, though.” He said.
“Oh, you’re in it now, son. “Benny said. “I ain’t making promises.”
The sex was…. so good. Benny felt shock roll over him, watching Dean. He’d pulled Dean to the edge of the bed, legs wide apart, and he knelt between, sucking. His hand moved over Dean’s lean, muscled belly, and his eyes watched.
Dean lay back, his arms flung overhead. His body arched, neck exposed, hips rocking. Sometimes his hands moved through his hair, over his chest…. Dean touched himself, pet himself, moaning and gasping. It was driving Benny crazy.
He got his middle finger wet, and -weirdly – it was the same feeling as getting in a woman’s panties. Not wet, like that; but the same feeling that was part triumph and part disbelief. It felt like he might have to start cataloging fifty years worth of baseball scores to keep from spilling over.
Dean was so eager for it. So tight, right at the entrance, and then he swallowed Benny up…. He bore down on his finger; he rode it, making noises that got under Benny’s skin and had his cock jumping up against his belly. He fingerfucked Dean’s hole; Dean fucked his mouth, drowning him in a sensuality of warmth and scent. Yet Dean seemed helpless in it, arms coming to his sides to grip the sheets.
It was too much; immediate and raw. Benny let go of the flushed cock with a wet slurp, and just watched Dean. His closed eyes and open mouth. He rose from his kneel and leaned over the wide-legged sprawl of boy-man, one knee on the bed. He worked him, in and out, fast, watching the blush that over-took Dean’s face, his neck and chest.
He felt the tension in Dean’s body, the unbelievable tightening around his hard-knuckled finger, and said, “You gonna come for me, baby?”
Dean’s eyes opened, unfocused and a little wild. “I want your dick.” He gasped.
Jesus. Dirty boy. He drew his knees back, making the plea explicit. Cursing softly, Benny brought his mouth to Dean’s, still working him.
The kissing was better than before… they weren’t on high alert for attack. Benny got lost in it, his eyes closing and his world narrowing to the feeling of lips and tongue, to open mouth and heat; to the squeeze, becoming a pulse at his finger.
He saw red. He wanted blood. He would get his dick inside Dean, fuck him hard and sink sharp teeth into Dean’s neck. He could see it, feel it…. as if it was already happening. He stooped what he was doing, squeezed his eyes shut and took harsh, panting breaths.
“You okay, Benny?”
Dean seemed to get it. He sat up. He couldn’t throw Benny around, the way Benny had been doing with him, but he coaxed him onto his back. Benny felt his head clear a little, the red-heat cool down a little, and yet he was fiercely excited. He moaned as Dean kissed over his chest, his stomach. Soft, little kisses; teasing licks at his nipples. He covered his face with both hands as Dean sucked him, struggling around the thick head. It felt too good… wet suction, friction… Dean’s tongue flattening and teasing where the full head was clefted.
“You like that?” Dean asked, and Benny heard the smile in his voice. He was pleased with himself, the little shit.
Lowering his hands, he rolled his head to the side and nodded. He watched; Dean’s eyes closed as his mouth took possession again. Pretty eyelashes, pretty mouth; all blush and eager-to-please. All soft tongue and hard suckle.
A measure of control regained, Benny sat up for awhile as he watched. He stroked his shaft as Dean nursed the head. Dean looked up at Benny, big, green eyes, and that was it.
He flipped Dean onto his back, which earned him a laugh. “This is like WWE fucking.” Dean chuckled.
“Uh-huh.” Benny said, shutting him up with an open-mouthed kiss. He got himself slicked-up and got himself inside, and then Dean wasn’t laughing. He gasped, again struggling a bit with the flare of the head. Then he was pressing up to meet Benny’s thrusts, holding onto to Benny as he was ridden, relentless.
Instead of sinking a mouthful of teeth into flesh, Benny kept his mouth on Dean’s. In a rough approximation of Dean’s earlier prowess, he murmured, “You like that? Is that good?”
“Yes!” Dean breathed. His every exhalation was punctuated with a moan.
The squeeze of him… the heat. Benny folded his arms around Dean, almost lifting his upper body as his hips went into a madness of pounding. He felt Dean’s hand move between their bodies and start a rapid, urgent stroking. It set Benny’s teeth on edge, and then Dean moaned, “I’m coming!” His muscles bore down, almost hard enough to push Benny out. The bearing down turned into a soft rhythm, timing itself to Dean’s breath and the jump of his cock. In a few more thrusts, Benny emptied into him.
“Merde.” Benny breathed, which made Dean laugh, again. “Shut up.” Benny said, happily.
“I can’t help it. Beignet.”
Benny chuckled, too, and after a moment, made himself pull out.
Perky, rather than languid or sleepy, as Benny was, Dean sat up. He sat cross-legged, Indian-style, and said, “I don’t think my ass is ever going to forgive you. That was like being plowed by a bull.”
He was smiling, though, and Benny smiled back. “Seemed like you liked it, brother.”
“Yeah.” Dean admitted. “I did. I’m going to have bruised inner thighs, which is a new and completely freaky thing. But… yeah. I liked it. I loved it.”
The notion made a shiver go through Benny. He had an idea that he was going to need to see the bruises when they bloomed… to contemplate their nature and touch the abused flesh. Dean seemed way too hyper to nap… a happy sort of hyper, very different from the restless paranoia that had taken over. Benny pulled him down, anyway.
They were no longer in Purgatory. They could spread out. They could linger.