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The thirst that consumed him scarred the insides of his liver. Sam couldn’t handle the thirst, not anymore. He swore to himself years ago that he would stop—he would stop for Dean’s sake. But that didn’t seem to matter any more. Not with this Dean. This Dean was his brother, yes. Yet Sam believed him to be the rawest version of his brother.
He saw it in his eyes when the body of the King of Hell fell at his feet. He scrambled then, terrified of the void in his brother’s eyes. “Who are you?” he stupidly questioned, “What have you done with my brother?”
“I am your brother, Sammy,” the Demon replied, his voice soft in comparison to its tone earlier when threatening the Fallen King. He sounded so peaceful, so righteous, “It’s just me, baby. The mark couldn’t kill me. It wouldn’t let me leave.”
Dean didn’t leave him. Sam’s greatest fear was finally resolved—Dean wouldn’t be able to leave him then with his morals corrupted to the point of no return. He thought that all would be normal with the way Dean acted at first with him. He didn’t turn down a hunt, he killed the same monsters and told the same jokes. It was still Dean, it was still Dean’s soul. Sam could still feel the pull of their bodies toward each other, it felt right.
But it never really was. Because Dean would never let Sam fall back into the arms of the metallic taste of a Demon’s blood.
He spat it out the moment he tasted it. The seemingly innocent milkshake Dean gave to him—because this Dean loved to treat Sam with food that he no longer divulged in—was coated with the blood of his brother. It had been years, millennium, since he last tasted it. But the taste of the Devil doesn’t leave you that easily. Sam remembers the taste.
“How is it, Sammy?” Dean grinned, caressing Sam’s still shoulder. “Tasty, right?”
Sam shook his head, his hands trembling as the glass shattered on the floor. He didn’t miss the sharp gaze Dean sent him. “No, no. No, Dean. Why… why would you do this?”
He knew why. “You know why, little brother,” the Demon teased. “I knew you were thinking about it. The same way you thought about coming into my bed and shoving your big, big body against mine, right, Sammy?”
“No—” Sam spluttered—”why the hell would you think that?” Demons couldn’t read minds, at least that’s what Sam hoped. The desires built inside of him were buried so deep even he forgot where he locked it. “You know I stopped drinking for you. For you, Dean. Why would you do this?”
Dean was exhausted, it seemed. “Why don’t you get it? It’s a simple thing, Sam.” His hands fought against Sam’s struggling body, pushing him down to the kitchen seat and trapping him there with his black-eyed magic. “I want you to have fun, Sam. That’s why you had that bitch to begin with, right? Why you allowed her dirty blood into your system is because you missed the way your big brother felt.” He smiled, knowing he was correct. “Well, little brother, I’m here now. And you got top-shelf Demon blood at your service.”
“Dean,” Sam sighed, “I don’t want this, not anymore,” Sam lied. “This is the past, this is something I wanna forget. Please, I’ll forget about you ever doing this just—”
It smelt of sweet iron and power.
It smelt of heaven’s tastiest sin.
It smelt of flowery death and a parasite.
Dean’s arm glimmered red from the blood that trailed from his wrist to his elbow. It called to Sam like a Siren. He, the ignorant pirate, and the blood, an enticing song. His lips were dry, his stomach growled, oh God he couldn’t resist it.
But he should’ve.
He knew he should’ve.
“Sammy,” Dean whispered, taking Sam’s face into his empty hand. Sam’s eyes never left his arm. “It’s okay, little brother. Your big brother will make sure you’re alright.”
He’s alright. He’s not a monster. He wouldn’t be a monster if he did this.
Dean said it was alright.
Sam thought his mouth had forgotten the taste on his lips. If it was evident in the milkshake, drinking from the arm felt pure. Like drinking the blood of Jesus Christ from the insides of his stomach. He could taste each drop of liquid and felt it simmer on his tongue; the burn that got him addicted in the first place, the taste that got him needing more. God, Sam needed more.
Dean’s grip on him was tight, unforgiving. He whispered, “That’s it, my good boy,” with a voice deeper than he ever had. He encouraged Sam to take, take, take. Pushing his head closer, pulling strands of stray hair away from his face, whispering praises that were sent to his cock.
It was almost embarrassing how easy it was to be turned on from this. Maybe it was because of the overdose of blood in his system. Sam whimpered, his legs feeling weak and tingly. He leaned forward more, his body begging for more blood. Biting into Dean’s open wound barely did anything but get a grunt from Dean’s lips. Fuck, it was hot.
Dean forced him to pull away, causing a whimper to fall from Sam. “No,” Sam whined, pleading for more, “I’ll be good. Dean, I promise.”
“I know you will, baby brother,” Dean comforted him, the wound on his arm already closed. “You’ll only need me from now on, don’t you? No angels, no hunters, no one else.”
It slipped from Sam’s mind that that morning he called for help from his friends. He never questioned as to why they didn’t respond. Or couldn’t question it. It didn’t matter.
#
It had been a week since Dean last fed him. The longest he had gone without blood was only a day—a day. He didn’t know where Dean was. He was gone. He promised he would be back. He promised he would return. But here Sam was, stuck in the bunker with nothing to feed on. Deep inside him, he already felt the hunger start to teeth against the flesh of his stomach. It begged for blood no matter whose it was. His lips were dry and he needed to drink, drink, devour, worship, worship, devour.
He thought to himself that it wouldn’t hurt to leave. Dean never told him to stay put, never. If Dean could leave, why couldn’t he as well? Step outside and find another to clench his thirst?
He heard it too. The throes of passion his brother often turned to without him. Sam heard the moans from his brother’s room. He saw the hickeys and the bites on his brother’s demonic skin. He saw it all. If Dean could do all that, couldn’t Sam be able to drink from another Demon?
Yes, of course. It wasn’t like Dean would kill him for it.
The Impala was still where it sat in the garage, dusting and unloved. Dean never used it anymore, not when he was a Demon. Sam could feel the sad moans of Baby when he turned her ignition on. “It’s okay,” he whispered to her, “I’m gonna… I’m just going to…”
He couldn’t even explain himself to the car. He swallowed, thirsty and unloved. His heart tugged him to a place he wasn’t familiar with, but it screamed of demonic presence. His mind was torn between finding Dean or another Demon. He was sure he would be satisfied either way, right? All blood tasted the same. It was all the same in his foggy head.
Sam pulled Baby into a bar’s parking lot, sitting her in a nearby spot by the entrance. She whined, feeling lonely when only one of the doors opened and shut. The passenger seat—originally the driver’s seat—was an empty space inside of her. Sam couldn’t be bothered to listen to her. He needed to get his fix. He needed it now.
The bar smelt of Demons. He knew that the Demons knew it was him too. A Winchester, the would-be Boy King of Hell. It was fairly obvious. Moments after he arrived, all the black eyes turned to him. The jazz music played in the tense atmosphere, covering the coldness that overtook the bar. To the Demons, he must look like a mess. His hair glued to his sticky forehead, his body fidgeting and shaking, and his stomach growling.
“Where’s…” he coughed out with his quivering voice, “Where’s Dean?”
There wasn’t a clear answer. Stepping forward, his legs gave out due to the energy leaving his body. “I’m… I need Dean, please?” he begged to no one in particular. He could feel his stomach finally start to eat itself. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He needed something, anything, anyone.
A hand on his back. “My, sweet boy, you are,” teased a black-eyed temptress. “The famous Winchester, all down on his knees begging for a Demon?”
He couldn’t see her face. But he smelt the blood underneath the vessel, it was delicious. “Please, I just need—” he begged, holding onto her and pleading—“Just… give me a bit, please? Blood. Blood. Just a bit.” He gripped tighter, no longer asking as he felt his stomach churn, “I’m gonna die here and I don’t wanna die!”
He was sobbing. Well, he would never admit that he was. But the pain was too much. He didn’t want to feel this anymore. Anything would have done it. A low-levelled Demon, a murderer’s blood, anything.
The woman’s touch was intoxicating. He heard rustling fabric but he didn’t pay mind. There was the familiar sound of skin tearing, of skin breaking, of flesh breaking. He smelt it in the air. His dazed eyes landed on the temptress’s wrist, bleeding the elixir of life.
“Oh, fuck,” the temptress moaned when his teeth bit onto her vessel’s skin. “You fucking bitch,” she grinned, gripping his hair as he swallowed around her wrist. He felt hands on him, unknowing as to whose. All he could focus on was the taste of real delicacy on his tongue. How sweet it tasted, how salty it tasted, how intoxicating it tasted.
(Sam didn’t notice that he was no longer clothed, or that his body was being used. All he could see in front of his eyes was the flesh of a Demon. Even if he had felt it, he didn’t care. Sex in turn for blood was nothing he couldn’t handle. The pleasure was too much to turn it down. Sex was nothing in comparison to the fullness he felt.
But part of him noticed the hands, the flesh, the skin. He felt the intrusion in his hole and the tightness around his erect cock. He heard the plap-plap-plap-plap of helpless vessels’ skins against his. He felt the whispers of “Fucking slut,” “A Demon’s bitch,” “Blood addicted whore,” and others of the variation behind the pleasure.)
The taste disappeared.
No.
No. No.
“No!” he screamed, whimpering as the body against him was pulled away. He tried to focus his gaze but all he could see were blurred figures and the—blood! Blood splattered all over his face, the floorboard, and the furniture. It was… it was so much. It was so fucking much, oh my fucking G—
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
The voice voice was rough, gravelly, a warning siren inside his head. Sam cried out when his body halted on instinct, yet his eyes stayed on the soaked floor.
It was a waste not to consume it. He was so thirsty, still. Maybe, just maybe, the ones on his face were—
He was pulled up with his hair and then knocked back down with a fist. Something kicked him on his bare stomach, sending him to the far end of the room. His body ached, truly ached.
“You fucking freak!” the voice yelled, sounding almost far away. “Don’t you know what you fucking did? Or are you too much of a braindead bitch to know what you’ve been doing?”
Sam tried to focus. He really did. His eyes struggled to see anything apart from the bloodshed. Bloodshed. He looked around and the bar he entered, once full of life, was now littered with the dead. There was entangled flesh everywhere, ones connected that he was sure didn’t belong to the same body. Pieces of hair, teeth, and nails. Sam knew that the Demons were still alive, stuck in the torn pieces of their vessel. The fingers crawled to hide under the cracks of the floor, the eyeballs twitched and turned, and tongues on the floor wiggled to find shelter. But it was all lost to the sea of gore Dean created.
Dean. “Dean,” he called, unable to stand but able to kneel. “I tried to find you,” he whispered, voice raw and abused. “I… I followed you here, I think. You didn’t come home.”
“Of course, I didn’t come home,” Dean’s face was bloody, the blood not his, “I was fucking the brains out of smart girls. Because my whore of a brother is too blood drunk to even think properly. Thinks that just because he’s on my watch, he could be toyed with and passed around to every Demon in existence.”
No, that didn’t happen to Sam. He shook his head in denial. “I wasn’t… No. I wanted to find you. You—you left me, Dean. You wouldn’t give me—”
“I don’t give a fucking shit,” Dean’s hands flew to him, raising him from the floor and pinning him to the wall. “I don’t give a fucking shit how long I took, because you aren’t allowed to leave like that.” He wrapped his hand around Sam’s throat, the other pushing the blood on his face to the corners of his lips. “When you do, you become a stupid bitch like this. Thrown around for the sake of a fix. You know what you’re called, Sam? A prostitute. Sex in exchange for a living.”
His brother was disappointed. Sam never liked it when Dean, or even Father, was upset. Raising their voices, raising their fists, and being so aggressive was always Sam’s most hated trait of the Father-Son duo. The disappointment hurt him so much that he barely felt the air in his lungs leaving.
Dean dropped his body to the floor with a loud thud. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Dean, looking up at the Knight of Hell. “I’m sorry, Dean… I won’t do it again.”
The laugh that came out of his brother didn’t sound entertained. “You won’t, I know that,” he said, all too assured, “I’m making sure of it.”
Perhaps it was a mistake all along. Perhaps the moment Sam saw that his brother was a Demon, he should have called for help. Maybe, just maybe, the people he loved would have still replied to him. His thoughts briefly turned to his brother—his human brother. How he smiled, how he laughed, how he always did what was best for Sam.
He missed laughing at his stupid jokes during cases.
He missed hearing his singing with the roaring engine of Baby.
He missed seeing the joy that was on his face from simple things such as food.
Sam looked up into the eyes of a Demon, seeing his brother as its skin. That same Demon dragged him to the darkest part of the bunker, shutting the door and leaving the lights turned off. Sam didn’t see anything. He didn’t feel anything—
No, he did. Just the air itself changed and he felt everything that he wished was gone from his memories. The same pull all those years ago in a basement warded from demonic presence. The same basement where he felt his entire body being pulled apart.
Dean trapped him to be detoxed.
He banged on the metal door, “Dean!” Sam’s sweat pulled the clothes to his skin close—he was wearing clothes? “Dean… I… I’m sorry,” he hoped his voice was heard from the other side. “You… you dressed me, right? You still care for me, right?”
There was no answer, but Sam knew better. His brother was listening to him. “It’s okay… I’m okay. It’s because of them, right? Their—their blood was bad for me, right?” His laugh sounded empty and rather desperate in his ears, “I get it now. I was impatient. I’m sorry, Dean. It’s all my fault.”
Of course, it’s all your fault.
Sam’s eyes widened.
My little lamb, my lover.
“Dean…” he called for, feeling the presence of the Devil itself in the room. “I’m… I’m not okay in here! Dean, please? I learned my lesson. I won’t do it again.” Aren’t you a sweetheart? “No, No I’m not—Dean! Please… I’m sorry.”
There was nothing. The silence was too loud. He didn’t see anything in the room but he felt it. Like how the wardings made his body heavier, the air of the Devil polluted his entire being with dread. He felt it. He felt dread blanketing the darkness of the room and clouding his mind.
“Dean!” His throat ached. “Dean! Let me out of here!”
Aw, Sammy can’t be helped, can he? His big brother abandoned him again?
“Please, Dean!” he sobbed, feeling the sharp claws of the Devil burying itself onto his ribs. “I can’t—I can’t do this again, please—fucking stop it!”
The Devil laughed in his ears. A sharp pain pierced his stomach that was defiled by the dirty Demons he swallowed. It melted his being whole, touching all traces of evil inside of him. With the Devil’s hands, he knew nothing would be missed. It would dig, dig, tear into the flesh of Sam and never let go.
He needed to see his brother. But your brother is gone, Sammy. He needed to have him back.
“Dean. Dean. Dean.” He cried, the pull of the Devil inching closer to his heart. “I’m so—I’m so sorry,” he choked out a sob, “I won’t do it again, Dean. Let me out, please!”
My Sammy, my true vessel.
“Dean…”
You’ve always been mine. I missed you so much.
“I can’t.”
We were meant to be. You, me, the Cage our forever home.
“I won’t do it anymore—” Sam’s nails burned from scratching against the metal door—”I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.”
Sam cried for the mercy of his brother. The Devil wouldn’t let him go and he was afraid he truly wouldn’t. He realised, in the throes of madness, that he would rather be the toy of his own brother than the thing he spent a millennium with. That his brother’s blood-soaked hands, his black eyes, and his merciless words were better than this. He realized it too late. So here he was, feeling the Devil pushing the edges of his mind to submission. During this, his voice continued to call for his brother, needing to feel comfort again.
#
Time passed so differently for Sam. He sat on the corner of the room, his clothes torn off again, his nails chipped, his lips dry, and his face beaten bloody by a wall. He couldn’t find it himself to move. He was sure that if he did, the Devil would grab onto his ankle and drag him down.
Not again, never. He couldn’t experience that again.
The sharp noise of iron scratching against cement woke him from his trance. A trance, never sleep. He couldn’t sleep.
“No,” he mumbled, “nonononononononononono—” his breath hitched, fingers pulling at his hair and his hands shielding his eyes from the monster. “Please, no, leave me alone,” he begged, “I can’t… I’ll be good, I’m saying yes. Yes. Yes.”
The monster didn’t talk to him. It was a quiet predator, slithering into the makeshift cage they made on Earth—was this truly Earth, even? Was this not just the Cage with the walls repainted? Sam scooted backwards, inching nowhere farther. He still felt the heat of fireworks, the taste of metal rods, and the intrusion of a knife. He didn’t want it anymore. No more. No more. No more no more no more no more.
“Sammy,” the voice of his brother whispered, “oh, my poor baby brother.”
Sam shook his head, hearing the Devil’s voice taunting him. “You’re not—you’re not him. He wouldn’t hurt me. Please, stop it,” he cried, unwanting to see his big brother’s face on the Devil.
But that didn’t seem to matter. In a second, familiar hands wrapped around his, forcing him to show himself. To expose himself.
“Yes,” he grinned, he a maniac as he spread his limbs to expose his shattered skin, “Yes, I say yes, Lucifer. Please, just do it. Use me. I can’t do it anymore—”
The sharp sting of a slap was rather light.
“I’m not fucking Lucifer,” groaned his brother’s voice, “mistake me for him again and I will throw you back in here with Demons who would be lucky to rape your ass.”
Sam’s vision was a blur. Looking at the vessel—the body, his brother. There was no trace of angelic features on him. No, it was simply his brother. Though, not quite. More rough, more tough, more demonic. His brother, yes. His brother who died at the hands of God’s tallest angel, the angel that the would-be-God of the new generation. This was his brother.
“Dean,” he called for, breathless, “Dean…”
He cried for his brother, pushing his tattered body on his. “I won’t do it again. I won’t leave, I promise.” His voice was a broken record, pleading for forgiveness and offering loyalty. Dean didn’t move, holding him in his arms. His strong, faithful arms. His arms that Sam found a home in. The arms that protected him from all harm, even his own.
Sam was lightheaded. That fact didn’t seem to stop Dean from toying with him. Because after Sam stopped crying and his face was covered in snot, he immediately pulled out the First Blade and sliced his arm open. Without hesitation, Sam swallowed the dripping mighty blood of Hell’s Knight—or was it King now that he murdered the previous one?
Each drop was not gone to waste. Every time he swallowed, Dean praised him. “That’s it, baby brother, such a good fucking bloodslut,” he laughed, pushing his arm further into Sam’s mouth. “You learned your lesson, didn’t you?” A nod. “That’s right. No more looking for side bitches, hm? Just me. You only need me.”
Yes, of course. Sam only needed Dean.
In this broken room, the room that mirrored Hell, was only for him and Dean. No one else. He, on his knees for his brother. His brother, a tall and mighty figure to be listened to and followed. Just the two who could never harm each other. Because if Sam played all his cards correctly, he wouldn’t be tortured by Dean. He needed to play his cards right. It was the only thing he had left.
(Metaphorically yet literally speaking, all of his cards were blank and it was held onto by Dean. Sam simply liked to hold it, Dean, too liked the sight it brought. Dean loved seeing the hope in his brother’s eyes with the choices Dean drew himself. All the cards only led to one direction—him.)