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Sam Winchester's Guide to Blood Magic, or How the Rockies Were Made

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Dean leaned into Sam.  "Damn it's good to be back home," said Dean, which came out as "The mice have trapped me in the carpet pattern.”

He stopped at his bedroom door, hand on the knob.  "I don't think I can sleep, my head's all messed up from the fight," said Dean, which came out as, "I've planted a garden in your heart, but only you will see the flowers."

He met Sam's eyes.  He did not need words.  Stay.

Sam crowded into his space, grateful for the silent invitation. He didn’t know what he would have done, had Dean closed himself off in his room and away from him.

Sam cupped Dean’s face between his cold hands and kissed him, tasting sea-salt on his lips. He licked it away and then kissed him again, everything in him urging him to be rough and uncareful. His hands shook with the effort it took to be gentle.

Dean gripped the knob for support, letting the door take his weight as Sam's mouth trailed down his jaw and searched the shadows of his throat, hips slowly pivoting into his, body as hard and cold as if he he'd been carved from stone.  Fingers trembling, Dean turned the knob, and walked them backwards into the room.

"Lay down a while, you're not yourself," said Dean, which came out as, "He can stop me, this orbiting in time."

A single lamp burned in the corner.  The floor was ankle deep in clothes, but the bed was clear. Sam stepped back from Dean just long enough to peel off his own tattered, salt-crusted jeans and drop them in the pile. He stood still, taking a great breath, wanting to strip Dean’s pants off of him, but not trusting himself to do it without damaging Dean or scaring him away.

Sam was tense all over, muscles bunching, veins standing out on his neck and his arms. He looped his thumbs through Dean’s belt loops and nudged him toward the bed, fingers digging into the meat of his hips.

Magic had heightened Sam's natural beauty a hundredfold, the lines of his muscled body standing in sharp relief against the light.  Dean fingered a trace of sand along Sam's collar bone.  "Damn.  Are you really here?  You know I dreamed this a thousand times, but it never felt this real." Which came out as "Well.  Did my heart know?  Your face was a labyrinth, and every day I got a little closer to the monster."

He kissed Sam, lightly at first, pressing his mouth to the corner of his lips, scraping their stubbled jaws together.  "How many years have we wasted baby boy?" which came out as "What time will the clock strike on my wedding night?"

No matter what words Dean said, what words Sam heard, the affection and intent behind them were clear. Sam took it as another invitation, to get closer, to push harder, and he opened his mouth against Dean’s, cupping the back of his head and the base of his spine to hold him in place. The heat of Dean, the feel of his skin, his earthy, blood-thick, real scent had Sam groaning, the sound doubling and deepening in his throat.

Without warning, he lifted Dean by the ass and dumped him onto the bed, climbing over him, crawling in between Dean’s legs. Sam ground down against him as he scraped his teeth along the side of Dean’s neck, the bare head of his cock digging into Dean’s belly. Dean’s skin, Dean’s skin, his taste and his warmth, and Sam gritted his teeth, nose burrowing under the hinge of Dean’s jaw.

It was easier to concentrate now with Dean so close, wrapped around him like this. Sam focused, kissed his brother’s skin, and then spoke against his throat. “Dean,” he said, and the word came out clear and true.

Dean waited.  The lights did not flicker.  His name did not hang in the air in big flashing red letters.  A human word.

He ran sweaty fingers along the curve of Sam's spine, melting into the bedsprings, face tilted into Sam's for another kiss.  Vague guilt for having been with other women when really they'd been a cheap substitute, like driving cute little sedans cuz he was too scared to climb into a real machine.

"Fuck you're amazing," Dean whispered, which came out as "Fuck you're a fast ride."

And what all had gone down below the waves?  Had she...had Sam?  Somehow Sam kissing her like he was now kissing Dean was a thousand times worse than if she'd fucked him.  And damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life competing for Sam's heart with another dead girl.

He rolled Sam onto his back, grabbing a fistful of hair and sucking a lovebite behind Sam's ear until he got a noise he liked, eager to let his mouth go elsewhere.  Everywhere.  

"Now you just lay there til I sweat the taste of that woman out of you," said Dean, which came out as, "Mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine."

Mine, mine, mine, Sam thought back with a ferocity that made blue embers burn deep in his eyes. Panting for breath, Sam's hands clutched along Dean's back, blunt fingernails scoring pale red lines into Dean's skin as Dean kissed wetly down his chest. Arousal coursed through Sam, sudden and searing, and the surge of it pulsed out of him in a shockwave. The bedframe broke in a loud crack. It dropped them a foot until they bounced off one another, hard bodies crashing together, and fine cracks radiated out from the center of the room, spiderwebbing up the concrete walls.

Sam arched his body up, rubbing his belly and slick cock against Dean, wanting more skin, more touch. Not trusting himself to speak yet, he grunted and reached for the waistband of Dean's damp jeans, tugged at them so hard one of the belt loops tore.

Dean made a soft shushing sound by Sam's ear, as one might a startled horse, and ran his hands down Sam's arms to place his wide hands on the cracked headboard.

"Yeah go on and kick," Dean whispered, one finger sliding toward the wiry hairs above Sam's cock, "I got all night to break you in," he said, which came out as "You got punches and I got kisses.  I will always win."

Dean straddled his hips, bluejeans blown out at the knees, head tilted back so he looked at Sam through his eyelashes.  His green eyes glittered.  "You wanna see it?" Dean asked, which came out as "Are you thirsty?"

With a deep growl and an upthrust of his hips, Sam gripped the headboard, breaking it further, and the hairline cracks in the walls spread.

Dean's cock jumped behind his zipper.  He wanted to submit right then and there, spend the rest of the night on his knees like a trembling prom date, begging to be claimed.  Instead, he smiled, running his fingers through the fine rain of plaster dust in his hair, then slowly leaned over to the side table and rifled around in the drawer without breaking Sam's eerie stare.

"You know you can't hold onto that power for long?" said Dean, which came out as "Can't you feel the spider in your chest trying to get out?"

"It always seems like the best solution, stealing from the enemy's toolbox," said Dean, which came out as "Every time the world ends, the bomb only goes off in you."

He leaned back, straight razor gleaming in the light.  "But I can give you something in its place," said Dean, though this time there were only two words.

"Human sacrifice."

Dean ran his thumb along the blade, blood welling, a thin line dripping down the length of his hand.  Set the razor on the bed.  Ran his thumb along Sam's mouth, his teeth, pressing it against his cold, cold tongue, all the while clamping hard around Sam's hips as he moved beneath him, as a lifeline was cast between his soul and Sam's, anchoring them.

Dean kissed the corner of his mouth, smearing their faces red, eyes shut tight as he focused on the right words. "I would give you every drop of blood in my body if it made you well.  If it brought my brother back," said Dean, lips stretched over his teeth, "Cuz I don't.  Fuck.  Monsters."

Sam caught Dean’s wrist in his hand and held it close, lapping and sucking on Dean’s thumb, suckling the blood out of it. He looked up at his brother, lips swollen with kisses and smeared with blood. His brother, who clearly loved him, and to whom he clearly belonged. Feeling Dean’s cock rub against his through his jeans, watching Dean’s heavy-lidded eyes, Sam wanted to fuck, wanted to rut, but more than that, he wanted Dean to belong to him, too.

Licking Dean’s thumb one more time, Sam took Dean by the nape of the neck, dragged him down, and sucked hard on the thick muscle that ran from his neck to his shoulder. Then he bit down fiercely enough to break the skin, marking Dean his own, and he sucked at the blood that seeped out of him. It was Dean’s essence, stronger than a kiss or a touch, and if Sam had wanted to burrow under Dean’s skin earlier, that was nothing compared to now.

But then Sam’s working mouth slowed as the blood flowed deeper through his system. Pathways in his mind that had previously been blocked by poison magic slipped open, allowing some clarity of thought to seep back into him in tiny increments. It warred with the furious cold inside him, warred with the alien words and the need to take, take, take.

He needed to be Dean’s brother again.

He licked the wound he’d made, and “Dean,” he said, his voice beginning to lose some of its hollow timbre.

Dean touched his neck and blinked at the bright red of his hand, flushed, breathing hard.  "I heard you, the real you," said Dean, which came out as "I hurt you, the R'lyeh you."

Dean rolled off, a little punch drunk from bloodloss, pulling Sam on top.  The whole right side of his chest was a root system of blood.  "Now we're getting somewhere," said Dean, which came out as, "Now we chase the white hare."

He shaped his left hand to the back of Sam's head.  Nightmare magic discharged from their bodies into the furniture, paint blistering, a chair leg fruiting eyeballs, yet Dean found it easier to think straight.  "Breathe in. Don't listen to the words in your head, listen to me.  Cuz this next kiss," Dean whispered, circling Sam's cock in his bloody fist before he pressed his mouth to his, "It's a deep one."

Sam gasped, then took the deep breath Dean had told him to, and he moaned as their mouths came together. He ran his hands along Dean’s side and chest, smearing the blood over Dean’s tattoo, bucking into Dean’s hand when it tightened on him. Dean’s thumb smeared over the head of his cock and Sam went rigid all over when he felt the tingle of Dean’s blood ease inside his slit.

He let Dean touch him, Dean’s hands moving over his cock and stroking up his back as their mouths moved together, lips sticky with blood and tongues wet with spit. Sam stroked his thumb over the wound on Dean’s shoulder. He buried his thoughts inside his brother, and a moment from hours past stood out to him with absolute clarity.

He’d been drunk on new power at the time and unable to process it. But now he heard Dean’s words as if he were saying them directly into his ear.

Because of us, people hear  'Winchester' and they don't think of the gun, they know that help is on the way.  That they're going to live. And if we could turn a word that meant taking lives into something that means saving lives, then you can take whatever damned name that bitch fed you and make it human again.

Sam’s hips stilled as revelation came over him. His magic was destructive. The very language of it was harmful, spiky and dangerous. Yet with Dean’s help, Sam had once found a way to turn it into something better.

Hoping Dean wouldn’t try to stop him, that he would understand, Sam pressed his lips against the stubbled edge of Dean’s jaw and his hand over the wound on his shoulder, and he whispered the smooth, gentle word he’d made that meant ‘Dean’ in that other language.

When he took his hand away, the bite mark was gone. He looked down to see the red lash-marks on Dean’s body made by the tentacles fading, the bruises turning from purple to green to yellow to gone. Blood and sand dried off of their bodies and flaked away into the air.

Sam placed his hand over Dean’s heart and said the word again, louder. He closed his eyes, and he could feel Dean’s body knit itself up, could feel a tiny fracture in his elbow mend, a strained tendon in his knee heal itself, could even feel his liver renew. There was movement and creaking, and he opened his eyes to see that the bed had remade itself, that the cracks in the walls were snaking downward, leaving behind unbroken brick and plaster.

His head was clearing, the cold inside still slithering through him, but it was less intense.

Eyes closed, he kissed the corner of Dean’s mouth, soft and sweet, lips lingering before he pulled away.

Carefully shaping the words, he said, “Dean. I have to… heal. Make... things good. Kiss me.”

Sam was close.  Dean could feel it.  He wanted to finish him, watch Sam's beautiful face twist until hot ropes shot across his chest and Sam collapsed on him like some beached sea monster.  But not yet.

"Hold onto it," Dean whispered, "Don't let it go, wait til you got your balance."  Wait til we can be together, he thought.

They kissed and a pressure built behind Dean's eyes, his hand letting go.  He didn't need to touch Sam.  The magic was so thick they weren't even in their own bodies anymore, a light in Sam's mind merging with his like two rivers, like stars colliding, and any words Dean might have had for it burned away in a wash of white noise.


Dean forced himself to look at it.  At his brother's soul.  He didn't know if he'd ever be able to look away.

Buoyed up by this new connection, Sam held tight to the bonfire of Dean's soul, let it sear and burn and purify him.

"Just... hold onto me," Sam whispered, meaning with your body, with your mind, with your heart. He felt Dean's arms wrap warm around him, felt Dean envelop him entirely.

He had to heal what he'd destroyed. Had to make things better. He plucked words out of his head, finding them as easily as keys on a typewriter. Kneaded them together and rolled them in the tumbler of his mind, humanized and gentled by Dean's essence, until they were as smooth and polished as stones at the bottom of a riverbed.

With his brother's arms around him, his brother's very soul entwined with his, he held the words in his mind, held them tight, and let his consciousness drift away from his body. It spiralled out, finding troubled sleepers in Lebanon and soothing them into sweet dreams. Then it shot like an arrow east until he found Arkham.

He held tight to the human part of his mind, body going tense against Dean's, soul vibrating, barely aware of Dean's hand smoothing through his hair.

Arkham and the land miles around it were wrecked from the surface to deep underground, and it would take an enormous expenditure of energy to put it back together. One so huge that it might take everything Sam had in him.

Sam concentrated, gathered Dean up against himself and spoke the words, and watched through a blue-tinted lens as buildings righted themselves, streets became whole, windows pieced themselves back together, the corpses of monsters burned to ash which blew away. He healed those townspeople who had been injured, quieted their unquiet minds.

Sam was panting now, sweating, his body warming against Dean's. He remade the hole in the sea, the bridge, the destroyed gas station. Clouds parted and the stars shone above the town as Sam delved into the sewers and repaired the cracks and fallen masonry, dug deep underground to mend profound rifts in the earth.

Breathing as if he'd run a marathon, Sam surveyed Arkham, his vision getting blurry and going white as his power finally leached out of him.

It was done.