gorgeousnerd: (Sam in blue.)
being blue is better than being over it ([personal profile] gorgeousnerd) wrote in [community profile] firmament2011-01-15 09:17 pm

"Your damage is done", Supernatural, NC-17, Sam/Dean.

Title: Your damage is done
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content and language.
Length: About 3000 words.
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, Samuel.
Spoilers: Season six through 6x05.

Summary: It starts as an itch in the back of Dean's skull. An AU 6x05 coda.

Notes: This is a redo of "Your blood drool attracts the flies", but it doesn't need to be read for this story to make sense. Massive thanks to [livejournal.com profile] puchuupoet and [personal profile] tsuxavier for the beta and cheerleading! Also on AO3, and author's notes here.

Your damage is done

It starts as an itch in the back of Dean's skull.

"Samuel," Dean asks, eyes lowered as he throws shirts in his duffle. "How long is this cure supposed to take?"

Samuel turns a narrow-eyed gaze on Dean and stops his own packing. "Should be done, far as I know. Why?"

"Just feeling..." He isn't sure what he's feeling, exactly. "Like something's digging in my brain" comes closest, but he doesn't think it would go over well. "Like crap."

Sam snorts quietly. "After all that? No wonder."

Dean turns to Sam, and blood thunders in his ears. He isn't hearing Sam, not like last night. Every beat of Sam's heart sang like freaking Robert Plant back then. Just the memory of it makes Dean's mouth fill with spit, and he pushes the memory away. Not helping.

The image of Sam smirking as vamp blood drips in Dean's mouth replaces it, and that's not any better.

He clenches his jaw and goes back to packing.


"I know what you need, Dean."

It's Sam's voice and Sam's body. But the tone is all Lucifer, and even though his whisper makes goosebumps roll across Dean's skin, he wants to puke.

"Give in," he says. "There's no reason to fight."

Dean opens his mouth to protest.

But he can't make the denial come out.

Dean sits up in bed, panting.

Sam isn't sleeping; his bed is completely free of wrinkles entirely. He's at the table by the window, slurping out of a cup and using his laptop. He glances up as Dean wipes his forehead free of sweat.

"Bad dreams?" Sam asked.

It sounds like Sam. It looks like Sam. But something's off, and now Dean doesn't know if it's because of Sam or because of his own screwed-up brain.

The itch is still there, pulsing in time with his beating heart.

"Something like that," Dean says, barely suppressing a groan. He feels like he got his ass kicked all night long. "Got a job?"

"Samuel gave me a couple tips before he left. I've been checking them out. Coffee?"

Dean looks at the coffee in Sam's hand. He stares for a moment before realizing he's not just looking at the cup, but at the large paw dwarfing it. He never realized just how many veins were visible underneath his skin.


He shakes his head, and his gaze shifts to the solo coffee cup on the table. "Yeah, thanks."

Dean's very careful not to look at Sam again until after he's downed half his drink.


After another day on the road, the itch has turned into something nearing pain. Dean checks into a motel sooner than usual. It's early enough that Sam gives him a questioning look, but he doesn't say anything.

Dean can't stay in the same room as Sam. It's dangerous. He knows because he kept looking from the road back to the veins in Sam's hands, and then to the veins in Sam's arms, and finally the veins in Sam's neck, and he can picture the way the blood would taste in his mouth, and...

He grabs his keys almost immediately after tossing his bag on the bed. "I'm gonna get dinner."

"Okay," Sam says, putting his own things at the foot of his bed. "Where you wanna go? I think I saw a diner on the way in, and--"

Sam's approaching the door as he talks, and Dean backs off until he hits the wall. "No, no. Check on those leads. I'll get you a salad."

It's probably in his head - Sam isn't that close - but Dean can almost feel Sam's breath on his skin. Maybe it's the way Sam looks at Dean, his face completely blank.

But after a minute of looking, Sam nods and backs away. Dean breathes a sigh of relief, and too late realizes he can still smell Sam as he is on the road: sweat with a hint of soap from the morning's shower. If Dean thinks something's missing, he's very carefully not thinking of what it is.

Dean escapes before Sam can change his mind.

Or, worse, before he does.


He sits in the parking lot of the McDonalds for twenty-three minutes, according to his cell phone.

It's not continuous. The first five minutes is spent breathing heavy and leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, willing his heart to slow down and his brain to stop thinking about Sam. Once that's mostly accomplished, he goes in the drive-thru and gets Sam his salad, complete with the wilted iceburg that McDonalds is so good at using. Then, as he checks the order in a parking space, he realizes he didn't get anything for himself, and he sits for a few minutes trying to fight the fog in his brain to decide what he could eat right now.

That isn't Sam.

He forces himself into the store after that, just so he doesn't go back to the room hungry.

There's no way they'll give him a raw burger and he knows it, so he asks them to burn it to a crisp. Just the smell makes Dean a little sick, but it's better than the itch, which has now turned into a gnawing sensation in his stomach. Dean purposely eats in the car so he can wait to leave just a little longer.

Finally, he knows he has no excuse to keep putting it off. Short of getting drunk, at least, and that is so not happening while he can't control himself. It doesn't stop him from giving the liquor stores on the way back wistful looks.

Sam barely looks up from the laptop as Dean hands him the salad. "Thanks. I think I found something at this place out on Richmond. You wanna check it out tonight?"

"Sure," Dean says. He can look at Sam now, probably because his stomach's rebelling against the gross meat he choked down. He smiles with relief. He can handle this. "After dark?"


Dean goes to the trunk to get the weapons with a spring in his step. The job'll make everything better.


Except it doesn't.

There is no job, just a bunch of punks who decided to prank their neighborhood. It was like the tulpa job in Texas, minus the symbol that called the tulpa into being. Sam actually steps up and yells at the little assholes when they're giggling in his face, and normally it would make Dean worry, but he's too busy imagining how it would be to bite into the tender flesh of Sam's arm to be concerned for anyone but himself.

As they make their way back to the room, Dean knows what he has to do.

"Sam," he says as soon as the door's closed.

"Yeah?" Sam asks. Apparently, he wasn't too pissed off; he didn't seem bothered by anything now.

"You...I don't..." He clears his throat. "I don't think the cure worked."

Sam freezes. "You don't."

"I..." God. He knew he should've taken care of this himself. "There's something wrong with me."

"You're fine."

Dean blinked. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah. But I've been watching you."

Of all the things Sam could've said, that had to be one of the worst. "You have."

"Uh-huh. You've been around other people, and your teeth looked normal."

Sam's speaking sense, Dean knows he is. But he doesn't want sense right now. "No, but--"

"Did it hurt when you were in the sun today? Because we were driving in daylight."


Sam smiled. "Then it's just the crap you had to drink."

And with that, he goes back to his computer as if Dean hadn't said a word in the first place.

Dean doesn't know what to do. But he can't stand in the middle of the room and gape at Sam all night, so he climbs into bed and throws the blankets over his head and hopes tomorrow will be better.


He's lying next to Sam, who's holding a knife in the air. He draws the blade across the underside of his arm, and a thin ribbon of red trickles out.

"I know what you need, Dean."

This is Sam. Caring, worrying Sam, eyes round as dinner plates and a gentle touch on Dean's hair. He guides Dean down to his arm, and Dean lets him.

Just before his mouth touches, Dean knows he's never been happier in his life.

The gasp that escapes Dean as he wakes is so strong it makes his throat hurt.


The room is mostly dark, except for the lamp on the table and Sam's laptop, glowing blue. As Dean tries to slow his breath, he smells shampoo and soap and feels humidity on the air: Sam must've taken a shower recently.

And god, Sam. He's standing by Dean's bed now, looking mildly confused, but Dean is more concerned with the line of his neck and the rolled-up sleeves exposing his arms and...

Dean flinches and rolls away as Sam sits on his bed. "Leave me alone."

"I know what's wrong."

Dean frowns. "You do?"

"Yeah." His voice drops a little. "You think you're the only one who's ever craved blood?"

Without meaning to, Dean meets Sam's eyes with a startled glance. They're completely blank. Dean remembers how Sam's heart sounded when he was a vampire, and for the first time, he remembers how steady it was.

"It's okay. I know what you need."

Dean stops breathing. This can't be going where he thinks it is.

But Sam pulls out a dagger from the back of his jeans and unsheathes it. It catches the ambient light in the room and reflects onto Dean's face.

Dean shifts uncomfortably. It takes him a moment to realize it's because he's hard as a rock under his boxer-briefs. He leans to cover it up, but Sam doesn't seem to notice or care. Instead, he brings the dagger up to his arm, so slowly, and Dean's got his lip between his teeth to keep from moaning, and...

"No," he manages to get out in a hoarse whisper.

Sam stops. "No?"

"I..." Dean can't. He doesn't know why, so he starts talking, hoping his brain comes up with something. "Your blood."

Sam laughs quietly. "Right. The whole demon thing."

He puts the dagger away, and Dean feels his eyes sting, as if he's about to cry. He brushes at them with his hand, yawning a little to cover it up, and says quickly, "I'm gonna shower."

As he gets up and goes to the bathroom, he thinks he hears Sam say quietly, "I'll be here if you change your mind."


Dean beats off in the shower the second the water's on. He stuffs his hand in his mouth to keep from making noises louder than the water.

After he's spent and done shuddering, he looks around for his soap and realizes he left it in his bag. There's no way in hell he's going back out there to get it. But the only thing in the shower is the bar Sam left. It seems like almost as bad an idea as going outside. He could smell for a while - it wouldn't be the first time - but even with the water, he feels sticky. And he can't forget why.

He finally caves when the water starts to chill. He grabs the soap and pushes it over his skin as fast as he can, holding his breath.

But it's not enough. By the time he's finished rubbing himself down, he smells like Sam from head to toe, and he's hard again. Not even freezing water takes the edge off. He leans his head against the tile and waits, just in case.

There's a knock at the door. "Dean? You okay?"

"Fine," Dean says automatically, and he turns off the water without picking up his head. He wonders if he can sleep in the shower. Or maybe he should climb out the bathroom window, like he did when he went to see Lisa. Just so he doesn't have to look at Sam right now.

But he forces himself to put on his jeans and t-shirt and open the bathroom door. Running away won't make it any easier.

He regrets it immediately when he nearly runs into Sam on the other side of the door. His skin flushes, and he gets the urge to bite for whatever he can get. By the look on Sam's face, he knows exactly what Dean's feeling.

"Change your mind yet?" he asks, smirking a little.

Sam's loving this, Dean realizes. Screw wanting into the vampire's nest. Sam did this to Dean for every time Dean shut him out when he used his powers, or shoved him in the panic room, or called him a monster. Dean had thought they were past it - Sam had been there when Dean had been ready to tap out, after all - but a cold snap in Sam's eyes tells Dean it's very much alive.

Fuck it, he thinks around a haze of red.

He shoves Sam against the nearest wall, hooking a leg behind Sam's knee to keep him off balance. Sam's face is blank with shock, but only briefly; he grabs back at Dean and rolls him onto the ground underneath him, putting his arm under Dean's chin to hold him at bay. The pressure doesn't hurt, but god, he can see the veins now like his eyes are microscopes.

Maybe it's that, or maybe it's the knee Sam rests just under Dean's crotch, but Dean is so turned on right now he could scream.

"Let me up," Dean grinds out.

"You started it."

"No, you did!" And Dean thrashes against Sam for a minute, knowing Sam will take it, knowing he's not trying to throw any real bruising blows. "You made me into this."

Sam tilts his head, like he's waiting for more. But Dean can't confront Sam another time. He's played this game into the fucking ground, and he's done. He's done with it all. He grabs for Sam's face, unsure what he wants to do with it.

But Sam grabs back, and their lips meet, bruising against each other.


This is exactly what Dean's body wants. He sighs at the taste of Sam in his mouth, the way their bodies are pressed together and rubbing just a little, the feel of Sam's hands grabbing at the little bit of his hair on his head. And so, for longer than Dean likes to admit, he lets himself feel every second of it.

It's when Sam moves to bite at the lobe of his ear that Dean returns to himself, and he shoves Sam away as hard as he can manage.

Dean scrambles back until he hits something solid - a bed, judging by the slight give - and gapes at Sam. Actual words are gone, both in his head and from his lips. There's waves of guilt, so strong it's more like jabs of pain, but he wants to touch Sam now, wants to feel his skin under his lips, and he can't even bring himself to regret it.

He doesn't know when wanting to fuck his brother became better than wanting to drink his blood, but it is.

Sam's still smirking with a bit of coldness to his eyes, and Dean's ready to wipe it away. He crawls back toward Sam and fists his hands in Sam's hair. When they kiss, it's hard enough to bruise, and Dean palms Sam's cock through his jeans. He's just as hard as Dean is. Even harder, maybe.

"God," Sam hisses as Dean drags his mouth down. He lifts away long enough for Sam to chuck the shirt, then bites at the skin of Sam's torso. It's only nibbles at first, but the longer it goes on, the more force he gives. He wants Sam to bruise, to feel this for days afterward. He wonders if he could get Sam to scar without actually drawing blood, but he's never tried it, and with the way his cock's straining, he doesn't think he'll last long enough to find out.

He unzips Sam's jeans and reaches down. Sam throws his head back as Dean wraps his hand around him and strokes once. He's using more pressure on Sam than Dean would ever use on himself, but by the way Sam's shivering and making wordless noises in the back of his throat, Dean figures he doesn't much care.

Dean feels his moisture on his hand as precome leaks from Sam, and he wonders what it would taste like. But the only common sense part of his head left won't let him find out; if Sam's blood isn't safe, his spunk probably isn't either. Still, just the thought of it is enough to make Dean's tongue feel bigger in his mouth, and he pumps Sam's cock faster.

The strangled cry Sam makes when he finally comes is more like a noise of pain. It's almost enough to make Dean tip over the edge, but not quite. He reaches in his pants with his clean hand and finishes himself off, squeezing his eyes as shut as they'll go.

He sees nothing but red.

When Dean opens his eyes again and the room comes into focus in the dim golden light, Sam's grinning at him, sweaty and flushed. He pushes his mussed hair out of his face.

"Feel better?" he asks.

Oddly enough, Dean does. The urge to suck Sam dry, one way or another, is gone for the first time since he became human again. "Yeah. Did I...?"

"You've left me a lot worse, trust me," Sam says.

Sam stands and puts his cock back in his pants, and Dean knows. He hasn't imagined any of it. This isn't Sam on a revenge bent.

This isn't Sam at all.

Sam goes back to his laptop, and if Dean's hands weren't dirty, it'd be easy to forget what they'd just done. Or deny it. But his hands are wet and cold. He can't wipe them off. Not because he doesn't want to - he really, really does - but because they're shaking. Because he can't make them move.

Dean wasn't wrong; Sam started this. But, Dean realizes, he didn't stop it. So if it's not Sam...

"What does that make me?" he whispers.
electricalgwen: (redhead)

[personal profile] electricalgwen 2011-01-19 02:08 am (UTC)(link)
I really enjoyed this! Chilling and lovely.