It isn't suicide.
It's something they have to do.
It's a demand, a ritual, a need.
It's their whole world.
Dripping red because that's how it should be, that's how it's supposed to be.
That's how it is.
A week after Sam held his brother in bloody sunlight, a week after they left Hell broken in half behind them, a week after they ended up in bed with a knife, something was wrong.
They fucked. They fought. They didn't leave the motel room for three days and it smelled of sweat, sex, bruises on their skin, thick and heavy, drugging them, yanking them under hour after hour.
But something was sparking sideways, the edges crooked, Dean's smile a snarl and Sam's eyes blurry.
Interference, a static between them, as if the loss of Dean had shaken them loose, knocked them over and beaten them and their pieces were cracked, sharp and serrated and they were flaying themselves on each other, Sam on Dean's belly as he dragged his mouth down to suck his brother's cock, Dean on Sam's thigh as he sank his teeth and fingers into what was his to claim, again and again.
They lapped at the results, tasting and wanting and it was so black, so red, they had to fight to dispel it, each punch just foreplay until Dean was fucking into Sam, pushing him down to the carpet or Sam had tackled Dean, claiming him without waiting.
It was like disconnection, like anger, as if they were strangers who knew each other in ways they shouldn't.
Sam prowled, waiting for his moment, waiting for Dean to hesitate and Dean taunted him, C'mon, motherfucker, that last time, you got lucky, like that'll happen again, c'mon just try it, his hands curling, palms scraped, knuckles swollen.
A shattered mirror and that's all it took, Sam going down in the glass that threw light everywhere, his knees oozing and his wrist dripping sloppy.
And Dean stopped, grabbing Sam's arm, slick with blood and he pressed at the wound, Sam's eyes narrowed with that look of carnage Dean craved.
Reaching down, Sam caught a shard, spinning it in his fingers before flipping Dean's grip, their skin sliding together slippery and he said, Dean, do you know what it was like while you were gone, then he pulled the shard over Dean's wrist, tease-slow and slicing, Dean's whole body relaxing as he moaned.
Wrists against each other, their clasped hands red, painting the bathroom tiles and the glass with modern art spatters and they kissed, feeling the throb, their heartbeats lining up, heat and want and there it was, just like old times, just like always, never gone.
Brothers, wounds mingling and they liked how they tasted now, with this new redness.
They liked this new flavor.
It was like forever and violence. They couldn't stop because this had always been there, in their veins, under their skin and now they were just right, as if they'd been so split and bent before Sam lost Dean, before Dean screamed Sam's name because it was the single word he remembered in all the pain.
Connected again, irrevocably smashed together and they stumbled out of the crime scene bathroom, kissing greedily.
Because everything was fixed and Dean grinned with Sam's blood on his teeth and Sam laughed darkly, the only sound in the world.
Some sort of fucking spell, holding the entire fucking town hostage and they can't fucking leave until they fucking break it, Dean's really fucking pissed and Sam's really fucking amused as Dean waves his gun, shooting tombstones.
So the bastard fucking dumped her ass and his brother's the sheriff and he arrested her for stalking, I don't fucking care! Motherfuckers could all have a threeway in the jail and sell tickets, this is not some shitty soap opera! What the fuck, witch makes it so I can't drive my badass car right out of this asshole town, that's a dead witch! Dean aims for the angel with its bowed head and puts a bullet in its chest, stone chips flying and Sam smirks when Dean looks disappointed, as if he expected it to start bleeding, some sort of twisted miracle.
The town's clueless, going into panic mode and Sam wanted to spend the day sitting on the Impala's hood, eating popcorn and people-watching as the citizens slowly turn hysterical and rabid, but Dean's too irritable, his crabby pissy mood raining on Sam's parade.
Dude, if I wanted you to piss on me, really, I'd ask, Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes skyward, tilting his head back, muttering, Sonuvabitch.
Two options: they kill the witch (which Dean can't stop saying without imitating a Munchkin, his eyes brightening, Maybe we could drop a house on her, Sammy) and the spell breaks; or they try a ritual, here in the graveyard Dean can't stop desecrating.
Actually, it looks like fun. Sam gets sidetracked thinking of ways he could fuck Dean here: in the grass, in the dirt, bent over a tombstone, there's a bench a few grave sites over, looks like a funeral's being set up for the afternoon which would be an audience they've never had before, the living and the dead, and Sam's getting excited, his hands shaking—
I know, let's do both, for good fucking measure. Kill her, do the ritual, then get the fuck outta this town, Sam, one nice clean sweep, Dean says, gaze cutting the town into tiny pieces. 'Sides, you could use the knife work.
Two strides and Sam's yanking Dean backwards, pinning his arms and sliding a long blade up under Dean's jaw. Oh really? You sure about that? Sam asks, tugging on Dean to grind them together as the knife scrapes along Dean's stubble.
Dean huffs even as he presses against his brother. Yeah, really, been awhile since I've seen you kill anything with that little toy.
And you miss it, don't you? Sam asks, tilting the knife so he can bite at Dean's neck. Didn't know you were such a romantic.
Yeah, whatever, bitch.
You scream like a girl when my cock's in your ass.
And you scream like a girl when my mouth's on your cock.
Sam lets go, still holding the knife on Dean as he turns and they glare at each other for a moment until there's the tremulous wail of sirens in the distance. The sunlight glints off the blade as Dean steps towards it, grabbing Sam's wrist, holding him still and Sam's weak in the knees as Dean licks along the metal, wet red on shining silver.
C'mon, let's go find us a witch.
She's easy to find, making a salad in her apartment and it's so fucking easy, it's boring and they're bored. Dean ties her to a chair, Sam watching closely with his arms crossed and as she spits and curses at them, he has to kiss that smirk off Dean's mouth because Dean touched someone else, someone not Sam.
Your tying skills're really going downhill, Sam says, thumb pressed hard into the side of Dean’s neck. Shitty, man, really shitty, you need some practice.
Oh, think you can do better? Dean's eyes, those fucking clear eyes, they pin Sam in place, all sly suggestion and Sam smiles.
Sam peruses her bookshelves and Dean digs through her drawers ad closets because there's gotta be something worth going there for, something worthwhile besides one less shrill hissing troublesome witch.
Eventually, after heaving a big sigh and tapping on the fish tank, Dean stands back and lets Sam do the honors, the quick slash of her throat, the warm gush of blood.
They wipe their shoes on her doormat because safety first, it's a painful bitch of a time when you slip and fall on stairs and hey, you've only got yourself to blame, walking through all that blood. And Sam doesn't want to hear Dean complain about how he broke his ass falling on the stairs; Dean only gets to complain about how Sam broke his ass with Olympic gold fucking, relay race-style, like that one time they found a horror movie marathon on one of the channels and Dean kept making jokes about passing the baton.
Back to the cemetery and it's finally getting dark. Sirens in the air and smoke on the wind. It's tempting, very very tempting to go find the sirens, the smoke's source and crash the party, but Dean's still cranky, grumbling under his breath as he drives and Sam cleans his knife.
A blood ritual under the moon, so fucking typical, but Sam hums, stretching out his legs because he knows Dean can't resist, flipping the knife in his hands because he knows Dean likes it. A blood ritual under the moon and they'll have fun, out there amongst the restless dead with the smell of dirt and blood around them.
The funeral is finishing as they drive in, the mourners looking nervous in their black outfits, the town's fear heavy like humidity.
In grief, you go a little crazy, Dean murmurs and Sam's taken aback until Dean smirks, continues, I bet we could get some of those chicks to do some wild things for us. Or to us.
I'm already more than you can handle, fucker, Sam says, climbing out of the car.
Keep telling yourself that.
I do. Every damn day.
Dean laughs, the sound broken by the tombstones. The mourners flitter past, skirting them like birds, eyes down on the ground, as if they know something, but Sam's watching Dean to see if he's checking out any fleeing tits or ass. He just cleaned his knife; he'd hate to get it dirty again before the ritual. But his brother is too busy grunting and pushing around in the trunk, leaning around the lid to leer at Sam when he finds a good length of rope.
They have time until moonrise, but don't fuck around, regardless of how much Sam whines and Dean cruelly teases, because throwing in sex with the ritual fucks things up and Dean's already fucking pissed, which he doesn't let Sam forget, I'm so fucking pissed, man, stupid fucking witch, this is bullshit, Sammy, bullshit.
Yeah, Dean, bullshit, uh-huh.
Instead, they play target practice, betting laundry and blowjobs, barfights and who tops next, who drives next and who gets tied down next though a fight breaks out on that one, Dean claiming Sam cheated, shooting the roses off that one morose grave when he distinctly said noses off the cluster of angels one grave over and Sam lets Dean wrestle him to the ground and mark up his neck with that fucking talented mouth Sam loves so much.
Moon finally and they grin, setting up candles, running their hands through the flames, sucking soot off each other's fingertips.
Taste so sweet, Dean.
That's me, a fucking lollipop.
They burn the rag Sam cleaned his knife with, the rag soaked in the witch's blood and as it catches fire, heated metallic smell, Dean licks his lips and smiles at Sam, eyes glowing arson-excited.
C'mon, Sam, c'mon.
With an eager flourish, Sam gives the knife to Dean and can only stare as Dean licks the blade again, slow wet red against flickering silver before he presses his fingers to the skin of Sam's wrist and then slices fast, blood rising, subject to Dean's will, red and glistening and thick and every drop is for Dean.
Sam's blood spills onto Dean's hand from the knife and he's licking it clean from his skin as he passes the blade over and Sam's so hard, he's disoriented, giddy here under the moon with his brother lit up by the candles and blood on his chin as he smiles and says, Your turn, Sammy.
Laughing, Sam puts his tongue on Dean's wrist before he cuts it, fast, like Dean did his and he barely notices when Dean takes the knife back, busy pushing Dean's blood around on his arm, down into his palm, smearing it like syrup and Sam wants to taste so fucking badly, Dean's breath going harsh with every warm pulse Sam plays in.
Combined blood on the blade and they extinguish the candles by letting the blood drip onto the wicks, hiss smoke and a faint curling of heady burning.
There's a few fancy trimmings left to complete the ritual, but as he wipes their blood off the knife with his finger and puts it into his mouth, Sam glances at Dean, smiling around his fingertip and Dean says, Think that's good enough, as he pounces.
Then Dean's sucking on the wound on Sam's wrist, Sam going mindless at the sensation and Dean whispers, Taste so sweet, Sam, you always taste so damn sweet.
That's me, Dean, a fucking lollipop.
Later, they'll tear out of town on screaming wheels, Dean whooping and swerving around traffic, and Sam'll have blood on his face that Dean will try to lick away, Sam laughing, shoving his hand into Dean's jeans, as cars skitter out of their way.
But right now, they want, absolute, like they're fucking dying and it drives them to their knees under the blind eyes of the angel with the bullet hole in its chest.
When the police arrive in the parking lot, it's hard to tell what happened. It's pitch black, lights shot out, glass smashed everywhere and the bar's neon signs buzzing brokenly.
There's a car with a spiderwebbed back window, the trunk lid dented. There's a body, shot, bleeding onto the ground. Another body collapsed against the dumpster, stab wound pooling, staining everything. Another body on its back, arms flung wide, eyes open, front teeth chipped.
Rookie cop with his flashlight trips over another and another and another. Six in total and it looks like a fight, dust still hanging in the air; it looks like a massacre, but there's not enough bullet casings. Unless someone's got a damn good eye and a killer steady hand and that’s just in the parking lot and, a few blocks away, there's a high growl as a car takes a turn too fast.
Dean hurts, ripples of pain with undercurrent chasings of pleasure, adrenaline running hot and loose, but it's sweet on his tongue, dirty sugar and he licks his lips.
He's sure he looks pretty fucked-up because Sam looks pretty fucked-up, all sweaty and dirty and bruised and normally, that's one of Dean's favorite flavors of Sam, would have him holding his brother down and setting his teeth along Sam's hipbone. But one of Dean's ribs isn't sitting right and when he laughs as the tires throw gravel, it kinda makes him gasp and his breath whistle, which makes him laugh harder and Sam is smirking dark at Dean, curl of pain at the corner of his mouth, bruise rising hard on his cheekbone.
Sam winces as they take another corner in a close screeching arc and the motel comes into view, rickety little thing that Dean wants to just wipe off the map with his brother and his car and no gasoline this time, just systematic destruction, taking it apart piece by piece, they can probably find a sledgehammer somewhere and then Sam’s muttering under his breath, Stupid sonuvabitch got my jaw.
Yeah, but I think you got him back, Sammy, Dean points out as they come to a fast halt and tumble out of the car. I do believe you shut that shit-eater up, since we’re walkin’ and talkin’ and he isn’t.
That huge quickshine grin of Sam’s, the one that blows Dean’s mind like nothing else, not even a whiteout orgasm, and it’s a fucking atrocity that he doesn’t get to see it constantly, but nights like tonight bring it out in full force and when Dean grabs Sam, they almost don’t make it into the room, kissing into the pain, the door groaning on its hinges as they rock against it. Then the lock gives and Dean falls on his ass, sprawling, Sam towering over him, straddling him, and from here, Dean can see that his brother’s getting a black eye.
Can’t believe how truly stupid those fucks were, Sammy, Dean says from the floor, his ribs knocking together in a jagged way and his left knee aches when he bends it. They touched you, dumb bastards.
Yeah, but I think you got them back, Dean, I do believe you taught ‘em a lesson since we’re walkin’ and talkin’ and they aren’t. Now c’mon, I wanna see, what’d they do to you.
The idea was to hustle some pool, grope each other, raise a little hell because it’s a Tuesday and Tuesdays are so mundane anyway and the town’s just a little too quiet, like everyone’s asleep, fucking yawn, the hunt was boring anyway, another shitty poltergeist in another shitty house, and even though the wife had a great rack and baked cookies and the bed in the master bedroom was so motherfucking big, Sam and Dean had to conquer it while the family was still hiding in the basement, they were jittering, junkies for something else, something crooked and lowdown.
Apparently, some people cannot keep their fucking opinions to themselves and it was a pool table, who the fuck cares if Dean’s brother wants to spread Dean out underneath him and suck his cock, it’s not like they have to watch if they don’t want to though Dean got to learn how good his aim really is and how far he can throw a pool ball and hit something, he’s damn ninja or a sniper with a pool ball now.
Sam’s stripping his clothes off between laughter and grimaces and Dean’s doing the same, but as he sees the bruises start to appear on Sam’s body, his mouth waters at the blues and greens and purples breaking up those infinite long lines with their animal grace.
Holy shit, Sammy, I told ‘em not to touch you.
Hair falling over his face, Sam glances down at his torso. Yeah, well, I told ‘em not to touch you either.
Guess they’ll listen next time, Dean says, wanting to gets his hands on Sam, on Sam’s bruises, to see what sounds he’ll make, how deep he’ll bite, how hard he’ll fuck.
Laughing and naked, Sam stalks towards him, says, Sure, Dean, they’ll listen real well now that they’re corpses.
Least they can’t make batshit insane decisions anymore. Fixed that for ‘em.
Dean bites at Sam’s laughter and Sam’s hands search out the bruises and push on them until he’s lightheaded, moaning into Sam’s mouth because the pain is so bright and spiking, bringing Dean to life and his injuries almost burn everywhere Sam is pressed against him and he smiles, teeth set all along Sam’s neck.
They’re twisted and knotted, a crushed bundle of bruises and pain and addiction and they don’t make it to the bed and Sam’s whispering, They didn’t bleed you, they didn’t even break the skin, cut their fucking heads off if they’d cut you. His voice is all damage and brutal intent and Dean drinks it down, his little brother essential when he’s dangerous, every fucking second of every fucking day, he couldn’t take it if Sam wasn’t like this all the time, fucking beg for it if he had to, Sam with weapons in his hands and that reckless spark in his eyes.
S’ok, s’ok, they didn’t cut into you either, didn’t let ‘em get close enough, Dean says back as Sam works his fingers into Dean, their injuries meeting and striking together like flint, like fires waiting to burn down the world. Wasn’t about to let them keep their hands on you.
Sam slides home, deep and good, and the pain between them is as dark and delicious as when Sam starts to fuck him, feverish as his bruises ache and he’ll go back to Hell before he ever thinks of stopping as his ribs shift wrong and his body arches into the hurt, into Sam.
And Sam’s still talking, almost to himself, saying things about Dean, how he belongs to Sam, how Sam’s going to mark him up and his fingers find the bruises on Dean’s shoulders. Then in a voice gone hoarse and black, Dean tells him how those bruises should be Sam’s and Sam’s should be his and together, between kisses, between thrusts, they feel around for a knife in their clothes, hands finding it at the same time.
He’s split open on Sam’s cock, just how he loves, and they’re rewriting the blues and purples with their fingertips, small touches where the blood is just under the skin.
Eyes like a power surge, Sam staring down at Dean as he fucks him and he gathers up Dean’s wrists in one hand, the knife in the other. Breathing in the scent of Sam in pain, Sam so turned on he’s lost his words and his control, Dean wants, needs so badly and then Sam gives it to him, cutting both wrists, like instinct, like reflex.
He can feel the blood running wet over his skin, his heartbeat thudding unruly and Sam smiles, says, Just for me.
The knife’s sticky warm when Dean gets it, when Sam flips them and Dean sits in his lap and he takes his sweet time fucking himself onto Sam and trailing the blade over Sam’s wrists, watching them open for him, like he didn’t even need to ask.
Blood streaks over their bruises and along the way they fit together and they can’t decide what’s making them woozy, adrenaline rushes or barfight injuries or black hole orgasms or mild blood loss, but whatever it is, it’s right up there with Sam’s grin and Dean’s favorite gun and high speeds on the road and fucking on the hood of the car and Dean says, Merry fucking Christmas, I think we’ll have to try that again sometime and Sam laughs, I think you just wanna pick another fight.
They like how they taste now, with this heavy redness.
They like this new-old flavor.
It’s like forever and violence, like the world at their feet with the slide of a knife and the click of a trigger.
Pure unadulterated red happiness.