The moon rises, fat and full above the trees, heavy like a promise and it could be, it probably is, especially the way it's tinged red.
Sam keeps his eyes on it as Dean drives, so happy to see it again, how it's yellow and white and red. It's been so long since the moon has been red; the last time was...well, someone died, but Sam doesn't remember who.
Dean shifts next to him with a surprised gasp, easily one of Sam's favorite sounds, and he's pointing, saying, Blood on the moon, Sammy, think it's for us?
Of course, Dean, when isn't it for us?
Laughing, he flings a long tempting leg across his brother's lap.
Drive faster, c'mon, maybe it really will be for us.
Such an impatient bitch, Dean says, pressing a thumb into Sam's arch.
He lets the tires slip a bit, car swerving, the trees coming close and Sam sighs with a smile on his face, resting his head against the window.
It must be the church, that must be what's got Dean so excited he looks like he's nine, and Sam wriggles his toes in his sock against Dean's thigh.
And the moon, the big fat whole red moon.
It's not every day they get to break into a church under a blood moon.
Sam's pretty fucking excited too.
A low vibration, Dean humming a song and when Sam catches it, he laughs and the car speeds up.
He loves it when there's a bad moon rising.
The church is all lit up like it's on fire, like it's the moon, yellow and white and red with edgings of blue and green.
It's a cake and Dean can't wait to dive right in and Sam's resonating when he gets a hand around his wrist, jittery, passing his energy to Dean, feedback loop, everything screeching between them.
Sam in love, with Dean, with breaking and entering, with the gun tucked in his jeans and the knife in his pocket.
All Dean's and he shoves a hand in Sam's hair, pulls him down, Sam letting out tiny grunts, then he's got his teeth in Sam's neck, just where they should be.
He leaves a bruise, hard and stark, licks at it as Sam sighs and laughs in one lazy breath.
Good luck charm, Sam says.
Luck ain't got nuthin' to do with it. We're just that good, Sammy.
One part truth, two parts bullshit, Dean, you just hope someone interrupts and you get to shoot up the place.
They both pause because Dean's imagining stained glass flying everywhere in spectacular slow-motion fashion and he knows Sam's thinking about it too, thinking how delicious they'd be in the aftermath, naked, sliding razor-edged blue over skin or maybe green or maybe that thick red, on their knees, until they were covered, unrecognizable in sweat and blood and come and glass.
Well, now you know I have to, now that you said it, Dean points out, already tilting his head to case the joint (fuck, he loves that phrase), figure the best way to break those windows.
Sam grins at him, better than any shattered stained glass.
C'mon, dumbass, we've got holy water to get.
And rosaries, don't forget the rosaries.
Now whose fault is that?
Yours, fucker, can't keep your hands to yourself.
Hunching, Dean tries the door, looks at the lock and Sam gropes him, getting a heated palm down into Dean's jeans.
See? Just proved my point, Dean says and Sam whispers in his ear that if Dean can't open the door in one minute or less, he won't get to fuck Sam for a week, he'll just have to take whatever scraps Sam gives him and then he'll beg for mercy, for Sam's fingers and cock.
The statue over the arch keeps its eyes on the skies, on the moon, keeps its hands open in prayer and supplication.
This time of night, it’s rare to see a parishioner, but he will help whomever he can and...
There’s two men. A tall one, brown hair over his forehead, he leans over the racks of votives, the red of the glass lighting up the panes of his face, shadows flickering over his skin. He gives a little chuckle, then carefully blows.
A few flames waver and go out. He laughs again, delighted, and purses his lips, blowing out candles, people’s prayers, as if he had a giant birthday cake in front of him, all one breath.
Sam, stop playing with the candles.
You’re just jealous.
Serves you right if you set yourself on fire.
Jealous, Dean, jealous.
I will come over there and set you on fire myself.
You’re the one playing in the water.
Carefully, the priest glances around the corner and a shorter man is wiggling his fingers in a font, dipping his palm. Crossing quickly, hand dripping with holy water, he says, Turn around, dorkus.
The taller man twists to look at him and reaching up, a wet thumb presses a circle into his forehead under the brown hair before the shorter man draws streaks with the water, down his temples, over his cheekbones, along his jaw.
Dude, next time, we should get war paint.
You wanna hunt in war paint?
Why not, Sammy?
We could just use blood. That’s what they did in the old days.
And that’s what makes them the good old days.
The shorter man grins, wide like a smear, and then wanders away to another set of votives. The flames jump in response.
The priest shifts the box of communion wafers in his arms, trying to be quiet, but the cardboard scratches against his sleeves and suddenly, there’s a pair of green eyes pinning him in place.
And a gun pointed at him.
He drops the box and wafers spill out everywhere between them, broken at their feet.
Sam doesn’t even jump, just searches around for a taper and lights it before blowing all the other candles out.
It’s not the first time I’ve held a gun on a priest, padre, so don’t move, Dean says.
The green eyes don’t look away and the priest nods and he sees something in how Dean smiles, smirks actually, how his gaze is muddied and cutting and charged, as if he’s being electrified.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Is there anything I can help you with? the priest asks, jittery as the gun tracks him, shifting his weight.
The taper swings in the darkened corner and Sam lights a single candle, right in the middle.
How many you think I should light, Dean?
Behind the gun, Dean rolls his eyes.
However many you want, bitch, I don’t care. Spell out something if you want.
Shut up, asshole.
The taper goes out, single candle left burning as Sam shuffles over, wafers crunching under his shoes.
Evening, Father, nice place you got here, he says and the priest smiles, wan, feeling pale. He waves a hand to indicate their surroundings, hoping his voice doesn’t shake.
Thank you, we try to keep it that way.
Sam nods, thoughtful, and then he says, Dean, I think you can put the gun away.
But Sam, c’mon, you know I—
Fine, be my guest, Sam says, pointing at the priest.
Dean pouts for a minute, considering, then he huffs, as if he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders, and tucks the gun away in his jeans.
The priest schools his face, sends up a quiet prayer of thanksgiving.
Are you here seeking confession? the priest asks gently.
Sam laughs and Dean smirks because it's a good joke; men of the cloth should have a sense of humor.
After you've been to Hell, padre, you don't need confession, Dean says, patting him on the shoulder.
Well, um, absolution? the priest stutters, as if he's determined to help, a hand out as if to guide them.
They don’t fucking need guidance. And absolution?
When Dean glances at him, Sam's eyes are so bright, burning high, presence of God, like the huge pillar candles at the altar.
Absolution comes whenever Sam bows his head and Dean draws a line up Sam's spine with his tongue and they whisper words, nonsense prayers to each other over slick sounds.
Absolution is in the curve of Dean's throat as he throws his head back, ecstasy, Sam thrusting into him fast without warning, their eyes closed.
Absolution available in the smell of scorched rubber and spilt gasoline and smoke in Sam's hair as if he's been baptized in it.
Absolution in every drop of blood Sam smears on Dean's skin, blood of my blood; every flash of a knife, flesh of my flesh; every time Dean puts Sam on his knees with a gun to his heart, chambers clicking empty, the gun, not his heart, beating in harmony as easy as a hymn, their hearts, not the gun.
Absolution because they don't need anything else, especially from anyone who thinks they need it, what the hell else are they supposed to need besides each other.
Absolution is just a word; sometimes it sounds like Sam, sometimes it sounds like Dean.
After you’ve been to Hell… Surely he isn’t serious, how can—
The priest remembers.
An exorcism, one town over. Single mother, regular here at the parish and she’d called, frantic and hysterical. He believed she was scared, but wasn’t sure what to do with the rest she told him, the black eyes, not like bruises, the whole eye black and oily and how her son slammed her around their living room without even touching her. Just by looking at her, spitting at her as if she was a lower creature.
Between the two of them, they’d restrained him and she’d cried herself sick, retching in the bathroom before collapsing on the overturned couch downstairs.
Then two other priests arrived, laughing and joking in dark voices. They took one look around and their expressions changed to pure boredom and disgust.
We’ve wandered into the Exorcist, man, shit.
It’s a kid. Bobby didn’t say it was a kid.
He’s looks kinda like you did, all small and scrawny. Still can’t understand how you ended up so weirdly ginormous.
It’s a kid tied to the bed, Dean, this is fucked up, majorly fucked up.
Nah, we could fuck it up even more, wouldn’t even have to try, Sammy, one of the priests says, licking his lips.
The priest just hunched in the corner because these two seemed to take up all the space and light in the room.
Then they really noticed him and the dark blonde man, a few inches shorter than the priest next to him, let out a big sigh.
Oh, motherfucker, audience, Sam, we’ve got an audience, no guns.
When has that stopped you before?
The tall man glanced at him, alarmed and concerned, and the shorter man shrugged uncomfortably, annoyed.
What, priest, kid, Exorcist, c’mon, it’s not what I was expecting, all right? Maybe we should just shoot them both and move on. That’s our usual plan; would that make you happy?
No, I wanna see you in that suit a little bit longer. I never get to see you in it anymore.
The priest had to have been mistaken because they leered at each other, the tall man’s hand slipping to the other man’s waist, fingers sliding into the waistband of his slacks.
Black eyes opened on the bed and in the corner, the priest dug fingernails into his palms; he couldn’t get over that sight. The inky gaze slid to the two priests at the door and the kid smiled, huge, insane, all teeth.
Thirteen-year-old voice, child-high, the kid said seductively, Dean, what’re you doing here? We miss you. You should come back for a reunion. We’ll set up all your favorite delights, throw you a big ol’ party. You know you loved our parties.
Dean stepped closer to the bed and the other man trailed him, keeping a hand on him.
You know, I’d love to. I miss the knives; can’t seem to find any up here quite the same. But you know what? I can throw my own parties, he said, leaning back into the tall man’s embrace, long arms winding around Dean.
The black eyes blinked, then narrowed in disdain.
Sam, Sam, Sammy. That’s right, I forgot you two were fucking now. I bet you take him on his knees, rough and hard, make him moan like a good little whore, the kid said, running his tongue over his teeth. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, Sammy boy: we made him moan first.
The priest tried to make himself smaller in the corner, praying in his head for everyone in the room, on a loop with each throb of pain from his palms.
Sam smiled, just like the boy had, wide, insane, all white teeth. But he had dimples and it made the smile even bigger. Even more insane.
Latin spilled out of his mouth, fast, and the priest couldn’t keep up; an exorcism, a complicated one, and Sam said it like he was ordering a cheeseburger.
The kid writhed, yelling and Dean laughed, said, Faster, Sammy, faster. His face brightened like he was on a rollercoaster, waiting for the next turn, the next rise, the next drop.
One long scream, the kid with his head thrown back and black smoke flew up to the ceiling, then smashed through the bedroom window, glass spraying everywhere. The priest couldn’t believe his eyes, his ears, any of his senses.
His first exorcism. He met a demon.
The kid flopped onto the bed, passed out.
The priest called Dean grabbed the tall man named Sam and kissed him, hard, open-mouthed, flicks of tongue and flashes of teeth. They stumbled out into the hallway, wrapped around each other and a door slammed not far away, the bathroom where the mother had been crying and retching.
His first exorcism. He met a demon. Maybe three. He could hear loud groans and cursing and thumps from the bathroom as he undid the knots on the boy. Then something breaking and a deep tone saying, Fuck fuck fuck, more, push deeper, you asshole, cut me more, just like that just like that just like that.
Glass winked at him from the carpet as he checked the boy’s breathing.
The priest remembers.
After you’ve been to Hell…
Holy water is what we need, Sam says and the priest nods, slow, as if he's thinking it over.
Oh and rosaries, need some rosaries, if you've got any to spare, Dean says, running his fingertips through a flame.
The priest touches his collar, asks, Rosaries?
Yeah, this one here keeps breaking them, Dean replies, jerking a thumb at Sam.
Don't make it sound like it's my fault. It's your mouth, man, how am I supposed to not touch you when you're sucking my cock, Dean?
The priest gasps and Dean shrugs, one shoulder, because he knows he's that damn good.
Not me or my mouth's fault. You're the one who lost the handcuffs.
Not lost, Sam says adamantly. They're somewhere in the trunk, I know it. And you’re the one who doesn’t like rope, Mr. It-Burns-Me! Such a pussy. You just like to string me up with the beads, admit it, you—
Eyes going to the ceiling, Dean interrupts, At least I'm not like you, all fanatical about it, muttering full of grace every time.
He turns to the priest whose eyes are as round as the scattered wafers, his face as white as his collar and says, Sam set fire to the last bed. Stupid thing didn't have a headboard with bars for him to tie me to. It took him forever to get the mattress to light.
Then he's laughing so hard he can't talk; it was so fucking funny watching Sam be pissed off with matches in his hand, crouched naked on the bed, spitting tequila on it to try to get the fire started.
That room needed a makeover anyway. There were starfish, everywhere. You should've seen it, Dean says, shuddering. That whole motel needed the insurance money, gotta say, they should be thanking us for that. Get a fucking medal. We are heroes. Shit.
Fidgeting, the priest says, I think we have some rosaries in the lost-and-found and I might have some extras in my office.
Awesome, Dean says, squinting at the windows, making squares with his fingers as if evaluating the art or measuring. He’s excited because they’ll break beautifully and Sam mutters behind him, They’re glass, what do you expect, Dean? Of course they’ll break, dumbass.
The priest clears his throat and they glance at him, Sam’s eyes in slits and Dean snickers.
C’mon, Sam, you’re so fucking jealous.
The priest coughs this time and says, You mentioned something about Hell. It wasn’t a turn of phrase, was it? You were there? The demon said—
A knife under the priest’s jaw, Sam’s got him by the arm, holding him against the blade and Dean sighs in irritation. Sam always overreacts, the big tough bastard, though Dean likes it when he gets all rough with the civilians, pushes them around and makes them do what he wants. They’re scared of Sam which is hilarious, they should be scared of Sam, but they should be scared of Dean because he’s the one who can control Sam, not them, never them. And now his blood is prickling low, his cock twitching.
What demon? he asks and the priest splutters choked noises, attempting to pull even farther away from the stone statue Sam has become, knife following the priest’s every movement.
The exorcism over in Black, you know, the next town and—the boy, you said it was like the Exorcist, I—
The one that got away, Sam says, but he doesn’t move the knife away from the priest. You were there?
The priest wants to nod, but he can’t. Dean sees it in his eyes; he’s not really afraid, well, he’s afraid because it’s a natural response to a threat, yeah, he can recognize that they’re a threat, but he’s not really afraid of dying.
Dean likes that. He and Sammy aren’t afraid of dying either; every time they fuck, they die and every time, the blades bring them back to life only to start all over again, the fucking, the dying, the red of their blood, the living. Besides, you haven’t truly lived until you’ve almost burned down a whole town and no one should die before they get to do that.
Sammy, c’mere, step away from the priest.
Sam does, slow and lithe and Dean hums with appreciation; his brother is so fucking gorgeous like that, all wound up. As soon as Sam’s within reach, he takes the knife, presses the tip into his thumb, bead of blood.
Here, he says, offering it to Sam and Sam smiles, quick before taking Dean’s thumb into his mouth, past his lips, teeth closing around it as he licks at it. And his body relaxes a little, calm again.
Dean grins, gets Sam close enough to kiss him, thumb still trapped in Sam’s mouth.
He looks over at the priest, leaning heavily against a pew.
You want to know about Hell, padre?
Sam shivers, feeling his blood heat, and he lets go of Dean’s thumb. He slips a hand into Dean’s front pocket, fingers finding what he wants.
There, Dean hardening, steady and he teases, pushing light fingertips in the confined denim.
Hell is their story and he loves every word. Wants to fuck it into Dean, put every minute into his skin, rub it in like his blood, his come.
Dean moves so Sam has better access.
Dean remembers pain, constant and unforgiving until it’s just a throb at the base of his skull, lighting him up like a car battery.
Dean remembers when the pain turned to pleasure, when the ghosts started looking like Sam and he became nothing but a mass of blood and viscera and nerves all sparking for Sam, just for Sam, for the pain Sam would give him and leave him with spread over his body.
Dean remembers seeing his intestines, over and over, black trails shadowed by fire and it reminded him of setting things on fire with Sam, for a certain purpose he couldn’t recall, but knew that if he got out, fire would be for fun, fire would be for him and Sam to play with, could dimly remember fun, but now he felt like he was learning about fun for the first time.
Dean remembers hearing the screams and shrieks and pleading, endless pounding pleading, but the only time it sounded like his voice was if he said Sam’s name and the demons around him would laugh, so he’d laugh too.
Dean remembers being bathed in blood and fire and pain and coming out dirty, in pieces, until he was reset, then he felt clean and it was wrong.
Dean remembers the moment the screams turned to yowls and the air was indignant outrage and Latin and then all the shadowy ghosts coalesced into Sam, a single bright point of pain and he couldn’t breathe.
Dean remembers waking naked and Sam was bloody, not a ghost, and that was all he needed.
He lets Sam thread their fingers together, Sam staring at him, all possession and need and fuck, the candlelight is flickering over Sam, skin glowing like the walls of Dean’s torture room.
Sam’s forever the supernova of Dean’s galaxy, exploding and dragging Dean into his destruction, into their shared oblivion, then they do it all over again, and Dean needs Sam to keep creating him and destroying him, and dammit all to fuck, but he loves his brother.
He’s such a fucking girl.
Sam remembers minutes, hours, days, weeks alone and how he was so suicidal, wanting nothing but to get back to Dean, let his body rot and be eaten away, slowly so he would feel all the pain and drown in it, wanted to be nothing but bones, like his brother’s bones, and he wanted every sin to weigh so heavily, he would sink right down to Hell.
Sam remembers a demon taunting him with a path and he killed the girl, hands smeared in her blood and he wrote Dean’s name again and again and again until it didn’t even make sense anymore, until it was part of Sam’s eyesight everywhere he looked, red and dripping and thick, like how Dean’s name tasted on his tongue.
Sam remembers hallways, burning hallways, imploding hallways, and it was like he was stuck in place, his feet treading in the same space, but everything else moved around him, burning and peeling and crackling, like skin on fire.
Sam remembers seeing rooms upon rooms upon rooms, souls ripped to shreds, but not fast, excruciatingly slow and that’s what being without Dean was like, so Sam thought that all was right with the world.
Sam remembers hearing his name, a plea, a beg, the voice sheared and dark, like his nightmares, but it was Dean, he could tell and everything became a dream, a happy happy dream, Sam running, giggling.
Sam remembers his brother spread out in front of him, naked, gorgeous; they were just pushing a odd curved knife into his chest and it was so beautiful, the best day of Sam’s life except for how the demons thought Dean was theirs, bunch of stupid dumbass shit-eating motherfuckers, Dean was his, always his, and he would only open for Sam.
Sam remembers sitting up, the smell of blood and sunshine, and Dean there, alive, licking him clean, fist keeping Sam close.
Sam is so hard it isn’t fucking funny, damn, and he can feel Dean’s body answer him, ready for Sam and his breath is ragged and shallow.
Dean is what keeps Sam from electrocuting the world, so Sam shocks him, executes him every chance he gets, then he lets Dean catch his breath and murder Sam in return, fucking each other so hard, because he loves Dean so very very much.
Yeah, this really is all Dean’s fault, talking about Hell with his pretty pretty mouth, making them teenage girls. He’ll steal Dean a glittery heart balloon first chance he gets.
The priest is horrified, nausea roiling in his stomach, bile crawling up his throat.
They’re staring at each other like a couple asked how they first met, what their first date was.
Their eyes follow each other as their lips curve in twin smiles and they’re almost flaring, crazy spelled out all over them, almost blinking neon under their veins.
Outside of the starry-eyed happiness they’re bleeding out, heat like the candles, he can see how dangerous they are, how volatile, chemicals mixing, but the demon—the exorcism—what are they, what do they—
Sam yanks Dean to his feet, hands trailing greedy over Dean’s chest, arms, waist, then he tugs on the button of Dean’s fly, eyes glowing as he drags down the zipper.
Yeah, Sammy, please.
Then Sam pulls him out, going to his knees on the church floor and his tongue finds Dean’s cock.
And he swallows him down, Dean’s fingers warm on his cheek as his brother feels himself in Sam’s mouth.
There will never be anything hotter than Sam on his knees in front of Dean, whether he’s being held a gunpoint or he’s got a knife on Dean or he’s taking Dean however he can.
Dean looks up so he can make this last and the windows glitter white and yellow and red with edgings of blue and green, the ceiling swooping high above them like wings.
There are crumbs under Dean’s feet as he rocks into Sam’s mouth and Sam teases him with flat licks and his teeth.
And Sam knows he’s killing Dean, smiles as best he can. Dean looks at him and comes, spilling down his throat, words breathed on an exhale, reverent, and Sam’s hauled up to kiss Dean, smearing saliva and the flavor of Dean into his brother’s lips.
The priest is curled in on himself, trembling and startled, can’t look away and when Sam glances at him, he’s ashamed, guilty and wanting to flee, but he can’t, he can’t.
Excuse me, Father, but I really need to fuck my brother. You can watch if you want, he says, tugging on Dean’s jeans, directing him onto hands and knees.
We could make him, Sam, what’d you do with my gun?
Nah, he’s been nice and he’s giving us holy water.
Oh yeah, ok, we’ll be polite.
I knew you had manners somewhere in that caveman brain of yours.
Shut up and fuck me already, Sam.
So Sam does, the stone floor making his knees ache, but he doesn’t care, he’s fucking Dean, taking it easy, taking it slow, drawing it out because this is special, them sharing Hell again and Dean never outright says he cares, never says how much he loves Sam.
It’s like couples therapy and Sam laughs, slams into Dean hard, his brother’s breath leaving him on a moan.
Sam wants to stay like this for eternity, Dean underneath him, jacket and shirts pushed up so Sam can put bruises along his spine.
The church door opens.
Holy shit, I hoped I would catch you two fucking! It really is quite the sight!
A man strides down the main aisle between pews, tone reedy and thin, like his hair. He waves neighborly at the priest, says, Right, Father? Aren’t they delicious?
Dean sits back onto Sam and they both lose their breath, swaying, before Dean says, Who the fuck are you.
Black eyes, glistening points of tar, and the man says, Dean, I’m hurt you don’t recognize me.
Sorry, I’m a little busy right now. Take a pew and we’ll get to you in a sec.
Do I have to pay for the show?
Sam names the price in Latin and the demon laughs even as it thrashes.
That’s more like it, I knew you boys would be fun!
But Dean’s restless, wiggling on top of Sam’s lap.
Let’s just shoot the bastard and then we can get back to you fucking me, remember, Sam?
Manners, Dean, manners, remember?
Dean grabs up his gun and fires.
The man falls mid-laugh in the aisle and blood starts to pool around the nearby pews, red-black as the candles around them waver.
Better. Now c’mon, I think we were doing something…
That perfect aim always, always turns Sam on, so much and he shoves Dean down, fucking into him with a brutal rhythm.
The priest is lost in his prayers. He knows there’s a lesson here somewhere and he’s going to learn it because so far he’s lived through all of this, all of it and he knows he’ll be changed, made better for it.
Then he opens his eyes and the two men—brothers, they’re brothers—are groaning together, sweaty and whispering to each other.
They remember their manners.
After Sam comes and Dean comes again because Sam, smug bastard, he is such a fucking overachiever, they clean up any possible messes they caused.
This includes the dead body in the aisle and the priest fetches them a mop.
Then he brings them holy water.
And the rosaries.
Thanks, we keep leaving them everywhere. You wouldn’t believe the water systems you can bless, padre, Dean says, grinning.
Cuffing him over the head, Sam says, Hey, Dean, I’m making you check the trunk. I swear the handcuffs are in there. That’s where I put them last.
Dean shakes the priest’s hand as if he’s borrowed a cup of sugar, tells the priest to keep on keepin’ on while Sam looms close, suspicious, before also offering his hand and a friendly slap on the back.
The priest knows, sort of. He wants to bless them; they need it, he thinks they’ll need it every day until Judgment Day, but when they smile at him, crooked and sideways, thanking him, he doesn’t know how they’d take it.
He finds himself staring at the single lit candle in the darkened rack of votives.
Maybe it’s for you, Father, Sam says.
He’s exhausted into his bones when they leave.
He blesses them anyway.
The church is all lit up like it's on fire, like it's the dawn, yellow and white and red with edgings of blue and green.
Dean sighs over the stained glass, greedy for the possibility of jagged color on Sam’s body, but then Sam kisses him, sucking on his lower lip and everything else can wait for another time.
Sam whispers, Good luck charm, and Dean laughs, tipping his head for Sam’s mouth.
The statue over the arch keeps its eyes on the skies, keeps its hands open in prayer and supplication.
Dean’s driving again and Sam is content, kicking his feet into Dean’s lap, stretching out.
The sun rises blood-red under a thick line of clouds and the sky is split, blue-black and red until the clouds are being taken over, red red red.
It’s a very good morning.