Three Years Gone, Supernatural, NC-17

[phantisma]

Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Three Years Gone
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 (violence and sex)
Word Count: 7326
Summary: Sam was unable to free Dean from his deal, but that doesn't mean he'd stop trying. When Sam finds a way to get his brother back from hell, he puts them in the middle -- hunters and demons alike come after them. And Dean, he isn't exactly the same...

A/Ns & Warnings: For those of you following along from amara_m, this is the Feral!Dean story that I was NOT writing. I have finished NOT writing it. Warnings: This story contains sexual violence, though it is not graphic. There is dub-con and disturbing imagery. There is wincest here, though it is not necessarily porn. I do not glorify sexual violence in anyway shape or form.






Last Day


The door closed and Sam’s fist tightened around the feeling of the amulet on his palm. He wanted to open the door and follow, but he had promised he wouldn’t.

Dean didn’t want him to see.

He wanted to scream and beg him to come back. Just a few more minutes…just…he uncurled his fingers and looked at it…so small and wrong there on the dark skin of his dirty hand…painted in mud and blood from one more battle…one more fight…”Want to go out on top, Sam.”


Three Months Gone

“Dean is gone, Son. It’s time you let him go.” Bobby’s voice cut through the haze, the whirling images and diagrams of a thousand books and scrolls.

Sam looked up through hot, bloodshot eyes, blinking as if it could cool them or make Bobby somehow more real.

“You been holed up in here for three months. In case you forgot, there’s a war out there.”

“Not my war.” Sam said dully. “Not anymore.” He looked around him at the books, stacks and towers surrounding him.

“You haven’t eaten or slept in days.”

Sam didn’t want food or sleep. He wanted Dean.

“We need you.”

“No. You don’t.” Sam pulled a hand through his hair. His voice was ragged, raw…hadn’t been used in days, weeks maybe. “I told you I’m done. Out.”

Sam had made a promise to find a way. To make a way if he had to. And maybe he’d never said the words to Dean, but it was a promise none-the-less. All that mattered was Dean.

He stood, sending a stack of books cascading to the floor. He scooped up the ones he wanted and pushed past Bobby. “Take care of yourself, Bobby.” It was all he afforded in the way of saying goodbye, even though he might never see the man again. He was done saying goodbye.



One Year Gone

It still looked wrong there against his skin. He looked at it on his hand, still stained with blood. Dean’s blood. Sam blinked in the flickering light of the tiny bathroom and settled the amulet around his neck.

They’d lost everything in the weeks leading up to it…and when Dean left him, this was all there’d been. Sam stared at it in the mirror, trying to remember what it looked like when it was around Dean’s neck, where it belonged.

His hands were shaking too much to shave. He wandered back to the bedroom. The wall where the dresser had stood was covered with notes, diagrams. Nine months of work.

And still, he wasn’t ready.

Sam stared at the wall and held the amulet, swaying on his feet, murmuring the same incantation he did every night. “Hold on Dean, I’m going to find a way.”


Two Years Gone

Sam ducked into the hut and lowered himself to the floor. The old man eyed him, looked through him. He nodded and Sam put the book on the floor between them.

His journal. His key to Dean.

It had taken him to places he never dreamed. Each village, each witch and holy man bringing him closer.

The man lifted a quill and dipped it in a dark red-brown ink, drawing a symbol on the page. “For skin.” He pointed to his own back, on the left shoulder blade. “You to protect.”

Sam nodded. “Hold on Dean. Just a little longer.”


Three Years Gone

“You know that whatever you bring back won’t be Dean.” Bobby said.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion Bobby.” Sam replied as he finished loading his supplies into the trunk of the beat up ’74 Chevy he’d stolen. “I asked for the location of his body.”

“Damn it Sam! You know better.” Bobby’s hand caught Sam’s elbow and turned him. “Look at you. You’re barely standing.”

Sam pulled his hand away. “Tell me where he is.”

Bobby closed his eyes and shook his head. “He had me bury the ashes with your mother.”

Sam nodded. That was it. The last piece to the puzzle. It would take him most of the day to get there. He’d sleep a few hours. Maybe. Had to be set up for midnight.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t ask about the war. He’d heard about Ellen and Jo. Lots of others too. But it wasn’t his concern. Not now.

First Day

The night sky was dark with clouds, no stars or moon to light up the cemetery where he worked. He laid out his markers carefully. This was no New Age love spell. It was heavy magic, carefully weaved out of a half a dozen systems and traditions.

Nothing like it had ever been done. Nothing like it had ever been considered. It broke every rule. Changed everything. Sam was through with deals and promises and trades.

Midnight approached. Sam stripped out of his shirt and moved to the middle of the circle within a triangle within a circle. His skin stretched tight across taught muscles and the last of the protective marks still stung with healing. There were tattoos and two brands, and the cutting on his biceps. Sigils, talismans. They would protect him as long as he remained in the circle.

The wind was already picking up. It would be ferocious before it was over. Sam bent over, fastening the leather shackles to his ankles. They were attached to iron rods sunk five feet into the earth, to keep him grounded, keep him from being tossed around by the forces he was about to invoke.

There were incantations, whispered at first, raising the barriers, first at the outer circle, softly in Sumerian, then a little louder for the triangle in Chinese. By the time he was speaking the Latin that would enfold the small inner circle, the skies had grown darker still and the wind beat against his bare skin.

He took Dean’s amulet from his pocket, his thumb rubbing over its familiar surface. There was more Latin, more Sumerian…chants and incantations he had memorized and recited separately until he would never forget them.

The earth rumbled. Thunder quaked the ground. Sam was panting, holding a knife now over the hand with the amulet. “Blood calls to blood.” He sliced neatly into the meaty part of his hand. “This is my blood and his blood. Bring him to me.”

Lightning crashed through the sky, and the smell of ozone filled the air. Sam held his hand over his mother’s grave, letting the blood spill. The wind picked it up and whipped it around him. “Blood calls to blood. This is my blood and his blood. Bring him to me.”

Lightning struck the tip of the triangle where it touched the outer circle, setting the symbols ablaze. The sky was red, the heat intense. Sam clenched his teeth together and squeezed harder on the amulet. It was harder to stand now in the fury of the wind. He had to yell the words.

“Blood calls to blood. This is my blood and his blood. Bring him to me.”

The ground shook, knocking Sam to his knees. Lightning cracked the sky, hitting the ground in front of him, blinding him momentarily and when he could see again there was a body on the ground. Naked. Filthy.

The stench of sulfur filled the air. His hair was stringy and dark with soot and dirt, hanging over his face as he lifted it slowly from the burnt earth under him. His lips were curled in a snarl, his teeth bloody. His eyes were wild, skipping around him and coming to rest on Sam.

“Dean?” Relief flooded him as Dean pushed up, his body folding and rearranging with a disturbing grace until he was squatting, his arms hanging between his thighs, looking at Sam.

Sam tried to move toward him, only to be reminded of the shackles. He pulled at them frantically, not taking his eyes off his brother. “Dean. It’s okay.”

He finally got free and moved. Dean jumped back, away. Sam slowed his movements and held up his hands. “It’s me. It’s Sam.”

Dean cocked his head, his eyes wide and bright. He stayed low to the ground and circled around Sam, sniffing the air. When he stopped moving, Sam took a hesitant step toward him. “Dean, it’s me, Sam.”

He held out one hand, as if he were approaching a stray dog. Dean looked at the bloody hand, then up at Sam. His nostrils flared. His hand reached out, long, jagged nails scratching down Sam’s arm, drawing blood. Sam hissed and pulled his arm back. Dean mimicked the sound and brought his hand to his face, sniffing, then licking at the \blood under his nails.

He inched forward. Sam held out his hand again. Dean stuck his face close and sniffed, then licked across Sam’s bloody palm. “Sam.” Sam whispered.

“Sam.” Dean echoed, but when Sam reached to touch him he snarled and jumped away, running until he collided with the barrier. He sat down hard, rubbing at his shoulder, then stood up and threw himself at the barrier, over and over until Sam touched him.

Dean whirled, knocking Sam to the ground and pouncing on top of him, pinning him to the ground. His growl was more animal than man…like a cat. A feral cat. He leaned close, his teeth bared, growling.

“Dean.”

He stopped, the snarl on his face dimming. He tilted his head again. “Sam.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, I’m Sam. Your brother Sam. I’m going to take care of you.”


The first of the demons found them before Sam was ready. They growled with inhuman fury, tearing at the barriers with the very human hands of the bodies they had stolen. Dean crouched and growled himself, watching them paw and claw at magic that kept them apart. It wouldn’t be long before they found a way in…and more were coming.

Sam loaded the last of his things back into the duffle and hefted the shotgun loaded with rock salt in one hand and the colt in the other. He had Dean back. He wasn’t giving him up without a fight.

The first barrier fell, and Sam moved, kicking the salt and chalk line, dropping the inner barrier and catching the closest of them by surprise. Three shots from the colt and they had a clear run to the car.

“Dean!”

Dean wasn’t following him. Sam turned. Dean’s screams echoed around him, terrible and frightening. Dean squatted over a dead body, pounding on it, blood painting his naked body.

Sam threw the duffle into the car and headed back to him. “We don’t have time for this Dean.” There were at least three more, coming at them fast. The nearest of them staggered, then fell. Sam whirled to find Bobby behind it, a blessed blade in his right hand, a bottle of holy water in his left. Behind Bobby there were other hunters. Gunshots and shouting filled the air and Dean howled at them, at Sam, smearing the blood on his hands over his face and chest.

“In the car Dean.” Sam said, his eyes watching Bobby. The older man was still coming. Coming for Dean.

Sam abandoned the shotgun to grab his brother, pushing, pulling…anything to just get him out of there.

“Sam!”

He shook his head, pushing Dean into the car and getting the door closed. Sam wasn’t even in the car and Dean was clawing at the windows and seats.

“Sam!” Bobby was nearly there, his hand on the trunk.

“Sam.” Dean echoed.

“I’m sorry.” Sam whispered as he threw the car in gear and stepped on the gas, spraying Bobby with gravel and dirt. He tore out of the graveyard and out into the dark, heading away from Lawrence all together. The more distance he got between the demons and Dean, the better.



Sam pulled off the road, behind an old abandoned house he’d scoped out. They could squat there a day or two, get Dean on his feet. Prove to the others that he was Dean.

Dean watched everything warily, moving with a slow grace as he followed Sam inside. Here, with no need to worry about people, Sam let him explore while he pulled their things in from the car and salted the doors and windows.

Sam pulled off his blood stained shirt and dropped onto the dirty floor, rubbed a hand over his face. He was going to need to sleep. Soon.

Dean crouched nearby, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking. His stringy hair hung in his face, obscuring his eyes. Sam sighed and reached for the bag with the odds and ends of food he’d pulled together before heading to the cemetery. “Are you hungry Dean?”

His head tilted, the hair falling to one side so that Sam could see his eyes. He opened the bag of beef jerky and pulled a piece out. Dean sniffed the air and moved hesitantly toward Sam.

He grabbed at the jerky and backed away, circling the room before settling on a corner where he sat and ripped the dried meat with his teeth. Sam reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of water, opening it and crossing to Dean slowly.

“Thirsty?”

Dean’s eyes flashed fear as Sam got closer. Sam stopped and poured some water over his hand, then held the hand out to Dean. He dropped the jerky and grabbed the hand, sniffing, then licking at the water. He licked Sam’s skin dry, then up to the scratch marks he’d made. His tongue pulled over the scabbing wound.

“Sam.” He looked up at Sam, as if for approval. Sam smiled and nodded.

Dean didn’t let go of Sam’s hand, just gestured at the water bottle with the other one. When Sam didn’t immediately react, Dean smacked the water bottle, splashing it all over Sam’s stomach. Before Sam could react, Dean was there, licking the water up, licking over his navel and abs.

Sam stepped back, but Dean followed, his tongue moving over Sam’s skin. “Damn, Dean. Stop.”

Dean only growled in response, hitting the water bottle again.

Sam pulled the bottle up out of reach and shook his head. He tilted it, dribbling a stream out over Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes went wide and he turned his face up, his mouth open. He grunted, letting go of Sam and swallowing rapidly. Water ran over his face, down his neck and chest.

It ran off of him, creating a puddle of water and blood and dirt, but it was a small bottle and it was empty well before Dean was anything resembling clean. Dean grunted and pulled on Sam’s arm, grabbing the water bottle.

Sam sighed and went back to the couch, sinking into it. Dean followed, his piece of jerky hanging out of his mouth, the bottle in one hand. Near the couch, he stopped, bending over to sniff the ground. Sam laid down, watching Dean put the bottle down in favor of Sam’s discarded shirt.

“Sam.” Dean poked at it, licked it, then shuffled closer and poked Sam’s leg. “Sam.”

He knew he should make sure his brother was secure. That they were safe, but Sam found it impossible to keep his eyes open.

He woke suddenly with daylight fighting through filthy windows. He didn’t immediately see Dean as he sat up, his heart in his throat. But Dean was on the floor beside him, Sam’s shirt twined through his arms under his head.

Sam swallowed and calmed himself. In the partial light, Sam could get a better look at his brother, though he was already aware that he wouldn’t like what he found. He could see scars, fading under dirt and grime and fresher wounds. Scratches, bruises, marks of weapons and tools…and that was just the shoulder and arm and hip he could see. His shoulder was thick with scar tissue, almost a figure 8 that filled Sam’s head with visions of Dean dangling off giant hooks.

He shivered, one hand moving to lightly trace the scar. Dean shuddered, growled and Sam pulled away. “I’m so sorry.” Sam whispered.

Dean sat up, scuttled away, cradling the shirt to him. Sam felt the tears coming, the tears he’d kept bottled up inside him for three years, refusing to cry, refusing to admit where Dean was and what was likely happening to him, refusing to accept anything but the fact that he would get Dean back. No matter the cost.

He sobbed, the anguish of it all pouring out into his veins, into his stomach all acid and burn. Dean touched him, a tentative hand on Sam’s knee and when Sam lifted his face, Dean was staring at him intently. His finger moved, touched Sam’s tear stained face.

In that brief moment, in the look on his face, Sam saw his Dean, his brother…but it was gone, back behind the haunted, feral mask.


The afternoon sun was bright and Dean blinked repeatedly in the glare, ready to run as they moved through the tall grass behind the house. “You thought the water bottle was fun…just wait.” Sam said, leading Dean toward the stream he knew ran through the property.

When they reached it, Dean watched warily as Sam stripped out of his clothes and inched into the water. It was only waist deep, but it would get them clean. Maybe help Dean relax.

Dean crouched near the water’s edge, setting aside Sam’s shirt that he hadn’t put down since waking up to touch the water tentatively. His eyes skipped to Sam and back to where his hand was in the water. He lifted it, sniffed it, licked it. He squealed, some sound that was excitement and fear and more, then he jumped, landing beside Sam, splashing water everywhere.

He laughed and splashed and turned to Sam, his face split by a wide smile. Sam relaxed a little, squatted down in the water to wet his whole body. Dean mimicked him, slipping and falling under. He popped up quickly, yelling and splashing and throwing himself under again.

Sam soaked until he thought he was clean enough, then went to sit on the bank to watch Dean. His brother’s body glistened in the light, lean, taut. Bone and muscle. Everything else had been burned away, melted. His skin was white, under all the dirt and blood. Like it had been three years since it had seen the sun.

Sam dropped his eyes. Three years he’d let Dean languish. Three fucking years. It was suddenly quiet. Sam looked up. Dean was no where to be seen. He held his breath, watched the water. Nothing.

“Dean?”

He stood, scanning the area. The house was behind him. On the other side of the stream, a meadow ran up to a small stand of trees. “Dean?”

There, just in front of the trees, Sam saw something move, heard a yell of triumph. He waded through the water and ran toward it, ignoring his nakedness and the feeling of tall grasses against bare skin.

Sam stopped dead as he found him.

Dean sat atop a small deer, little more than a faun really. Its head was nearly torn off. Once again Dean’s body was slicked with blood, his chest heaving, his hands filled with flesh he’d torn off the body. He held it up to Sam.

“My god, Dean.” Sam took the handful of meat and sighed. Dean slammed his fists against the carcass, spraying both of them with the animal’s blood. At least they’d eat for a few days.



One Week Gone

Sometimes when Dean was asleep, he’d cry. Sometimes he’d beg…no words, just these sounds that broke Sam into tiny pieces and made him want to give Dean anything and everything. Sometimes he’d get violent and aroused.

Sam knew all of this because he watched Dean sleep. In the car or some forsaken motel room. One step ahead of Bobby and the other hunters. A half step ahead of the demons sent by the red-eyed son of a bitch that held Dean’s marker.

They caught them somewhere in Arkansas, the demons first, three of them, storming them, driving them off the road. The first of them looked like Ruby, but Ruby was dead. Sam had shot her in the head with the colt the day after Dean left him. The other two wore the bodies of truckers or farmers…big guys in overalls, their eyes inky black as they closed in on Sam and Dean.

Dean was quivering with rage as they came closer and Sam raised the colt. “How many bullets you got left, Sammy?” the girl asked. “Can you take us all? Just give us the pet and we’ll leave you alone.”

Sam watched the two guys, but turned the gun on the girl. Without warning, he pulled the trigger, dropping her. Beside him Dean screamed. The other two rushed forward, Sam swung the gun around, but Dean rushed past him, sending the gun skittering away.

The first reached Sam and knocked him backward. He pounced onto Sam, banging his head against the ground. Then he jerked backward. Sam scrambled back. Dean was riding the guy to the ground, his fingers dug into his neck. The other guy was coming now. Sam scrambled for the colt, rolled, came up on one knee.

Dean was howling, but Sam couldn’t see him through the demon. He aimed, pulled the trigger, and the big man went down, falling forward. Sam moved, stood shakily, bringing the gun up.

Dean had the last one on the ground, face first in the gravel. Still breathing, but the wounds in his neck were fatal. Sam swallowed, shaking his head. “Dean. Stop.” His brother was on top of him, rutting into him with wild abandon, screaming and grunting and as he finished, he pulled on the head, howling and pulling until there was a sickening crunch.

He was panting, his skin flushed. His face was contorted with rage. He pushed the head into the dirt as he stood. “Sam.” He said the word emphatically. Like it was the reason for what he had done.

“Dean.” Sam wasn’t sure how to react. Dean came to his side, crouching beside him, sniffing Sam’s hand before lifting it to put it on his head. Sam closed his eyes, tried to wipe the image out of his mind. “It’s okay Dean. You…you…” He couldn’t say he’d done a good thing though, even if it was a demon. “We should get moving.”
One Month Gone

Even asleep he was wound up tight, his limbs pulled in close, the moonlight gleaming off his nakedness, the round of his back against the wall. There was a haunted look to his face that never left, though in sleep it softened…at least until the dreams set in.

Sam couldn’t begin to know what it was like…what he saw…what was done to him. He could guess. He looked at the scars and he imagined all kinds of horrors. It had been a month. A month since he pulled his brother out of hell. Since he broke all the rules.

A month.

And Dean was no closer to himself.

Sam shifted near the windows, casting a shadow over Dean. They couldn’t stay long. There were no signs of the hunters on their tail or of the demons hunting them, and he liked to keep it that way. He sighed and swept his eyes over the parking lot of the motel one more time.

He heard the whimper and turned. Dean’s body convulsed, his hands pulling his legs in tighter to him and his face transforming into the now-familiar snarl. Sam crossed to him, squatted and touched him. “Dean.”

He jerked awake, his eyes wild, searching. They settled on Sam and he calmed a little. “Just a dream, Dean. You’re safe.”

Safe. Right.

He moved so he was squatting, an imitation of Sam’s position. Sam’s shirt slid to the floor and he pulled Sam’s hand to his face. He sniffed the skin, licked a finger. “Sam.”

It was the only word he’d spoken since Sam had found him.

“Yeah, Dean. Sam.”

He stood and moved away, over to the table. “You hungry?” They didn’t have much. It was hard to shop when he couldn’t leave Dean alone for a second and there was no way he could take Dean anywhere with people.

He’d learned that the hard way that first week. After the demons. He’d managed to get Dean dressed and they stopped in the middle of the night at an all night diner. They’d been okay as long as it was just them and the cook, but when the waitress came in, Dean’s face had changed. And when she touched Sam’s arm, Dean had pounced, out of the booth and on top of her in a heartbeat. He’d growled Sam’s name and Sam had only managed to get him off her before he’d done more than scare her witless.

They were pretty much limited to what he could get in a drive through.

Sam opened the last of the hamburgers from the last stop, and pulled off the lettuce and tomato and took the meat to where Dean was still squatting. “Eat.” He handed it to Dean who sniffed at it before taking it and moving into the corner, watching Sam closely.

He held the meat close to him, just under his chin and tore a piece off with his teeth. Sam sighed and sat on the bed, trying not to watch. Trying not to look at his brother’s battered body.

He needed sleep. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept. He stole an hour here or there, before the dreams. He’d learned to be awake when the dreams came, to remind Dean he was safe, to make sure he was safe.

“I wish you could tell me.” Sam whispered, settling back onto the bed. He laid back, closing his eyes. “I wish I knew how to help you.”

He was exhausted. Sleep pulled at him and he fought it half heartedly. Some part of him just wanted to sleep, just close his eyes and never wake up again. Bobby warned him that it wouldn’t be Dean. Maybe Bobby was right.

There was a soft growl, not Dean’s warning or pained sound…something else. Sam opened his eyes. Dean was standing upright, looking down at Sam. “Dean?”

He put his knee beside Sam, climbed up so he was straddling over him on all fours, staring down. “Dean?”

His eyes were bright bands of green around pupils blown wide. “Sam.” He blew air out his nose and licked Sam’s chest. “Sam.” It was possessive, but not nearly as possessive as the way Dean’s mouth closed over Sam’s bare nipple, and bit.

Sam arched under him, but it only seemed to spur Dean on. Sam froze as Dean ground his erection against Sam’s thigh. “Sam. Sam.”

“Okay…okay Dean…just…” Sam tried to move, tried to get out from under his brother, but he was pinned.

“Sam. Sam.” Needy, desperate. Dean’s cock slid along Sam’s thigh. Sam took a deep breath. He’d done so much worse in his search to find Dean. Hesitantly, his hand moved to grasp Dean’s cock. The look on his face changed from the desperate to something…darker. He grunted and thrust and came all over Sam’s boxers before rolling to his side, licking at Sam’s shoulder and whispering his name. Within seconds, Dean was asleep. On the bed for the first time in the month he’d been back.

Sam shook, all the way into the bathroom where he turned on the shower. It was maybe more fucked up than the way Dean had basically raped the dying demon on the side of the road. Even more fucked up was the fact that it had left Sam hard and aching. He peeled off the wet boxers and ducked under the water.

He stood under the cold water for almost fifteen minutes, thinking about anything but that look on Dean’s face as he came…lust and power and Dean. Finally he had it under control and stepped out of the shower, toweling off and stepping into clean boxers before heading back to the bed.

Dean was curled up tight, just as he’d be on the floor, arms tucked around him, head folded forward. Sam slipped in on the other side of the bed and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t sleep.

He didn’t sleep. Not until Dean rolled toward him, lay warm and close, his breath on Sam’s cheek. Then Sam slept. Deep and hard.


“Sam.”

There was an urgency in the word as Sam pulled himself up from dreams of his brother and sex. Dean stood beside the bed, shaking Sam. “Sam.”

He sat up slowly. Dean was dressed. Sort of. He wore boxers backward and a t-shirt inside out. “Yeah, Dean. I’m up.”

Dean went back to the window. Sam followed.

In the parking lot was a familiar beat up pickup, and standing beside it was Bobby.

“Shit.”

His phone rang. “Just want to talk, Sam.”

Sam licked his lips and looked at Dean. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be right out.” He rummaged around on the floor for his jeans and pulled them on slowly. “You stay put Dean. Let me talk to him.”

Not that he expected Dean would listen to him. Half the time he wasn’t sure Dean understood anything he said.

Sam pushed his feet into his boots, shoved a gun in the back of his jeans, took a deep breath and opened the door. He stopped a good twenty feet from Bobby and nodded in greeting. “How’s it going Bobby?”

“You’re a hard one to track these days.” Bobby said in way of reply, his hands in his pocket. “You okay?”

Sam shrugged. “Been a while since anyone caught up to us.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know.” There was a soft growl and Sam could feel Dean staring from the door.

Bobby’s eyes watched Dean for a minute, then came back to Sam. “I think it’s time Son.”

“You’ve said that before.” Sam said.

“Meant it then too.” Bobby took off his hat and rubbed over his face. “By now you have to know that thing will never been Dean.”

Sam shook his head. “No, Bobby. He is Dean. He’s just…a little messed up.”

“Yeah, I saw the bodies he left behind in Arkansas.”

“He’s better.” Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And I’m not going to stand here and argue with you while your reinforcements catch up.”

“I’m alone, Sam.”

“You’re hunting, Bobby. And I’m not stupid.”

Bobby came closer and Dean was through the door and at Sam’s side almost instantly. He crouched beside Sam, one arm snaked around Sam’s leg. “Sam.” He was staring at Bobby, the word growled in warning.

“Look at him. Look at him Sam. That’s not Dean. That’s half way to demon.”

Sam’s hand touched Dean’s head and Dean calmed a little. “Maybe half way Bobby, but that means he’s still half Dean. I’m not giving up.”

Bobby sighed and shook his head. “Your father would know better.”

Sam snorted. “My father is the reason all of this is as fucked up as it is. Don’t bring him into it.”

“What’s dead should stay dead. Isn’t Dean the one who told you that?” Bobby spit the words, his frustration and anger rising. “Come on Sam, I know you know this. Come to your senses. I’m not asking you to do it, just to get out of the way.”

Sam’s hand closed on the gun, sliding it free of his jeans. “Don’t make me have to hurt you Bobby.”

“Come to your senses, boy.”

Sam brought the gun around. “Do us both a favor. Get in your truck and drive away.”

Bobby looked hurt, broken. “I told your daddy I’d look after you. Told Dean I’d make sure you were okay. You ain’t okay, Sam.”

“And there’s nothing you can do to fix it, Bobby. So just go.”

“They won’t stop coming, not until he’s dead.”

Sam wasn’t sure if he meant the demons or the hunters. They stood there for a long time, then Bobby sighed, scratched his head. “Goodbye Sam.”

Sam nodded. “Goodbye.” It was a choice. A choice Sam had made a month before. Maybe even before that. Dean came first. Bobby climbed into his truck. The next time Bobby wouldn’t talk. The next time Bobby would hunt and kill.

“We need to move.”



Two Months Gone

“Shit. Dean, move.” Sam pulled the knife out of his side.

Dean circled around him. The bastard who’d gotten close enough to stick Sam was already dead, the others were scattering, trying to divide their attention. The colt was down to just three bullets, and the knife he’d taken from Ruby was in the car…which was too far away to be any good.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was a warning and then his hand was tight on Sam’s wrist, dragging him back as one of them got too close.

They had to get clear of these bastards and get lost again. Problem was, Sam was bleeding pretty good, and his vision was getting dark. His feet slipped. “Dean!”


He was cold, shivering. He sat up slowly and regretted it instantly. Sam’s hand went to the wound in his side. It was covered with cloth. He was on the ground near the car. “Dean?” he called softly into the dark.

He saw eyes first, peering at him from the grass of the field. Dean came warily, his eyes darting around them. He’d been sitting watch, waiting for Sam to wake. Dean poked a finger at what Sam now realized was the shirt Dean had been using as a security blanket. “Sam.”

Sam was shirtless, bloody. So was Dean. “Did you kill them all by yourself?” Sam asked breathlessly. He pushed up off the ground, leaned on the car until he was upright. He was woozy, obviously lost a lot of blood. Dean stood too, pointing to the car.

Sam nodded. He dug in his pocket for the keys. They needed to get under cover. Get him stitched up. Get some rest.


His body was beginning to have as many scars as Dean’s. He held up his left arm and checked his work. It would have to do. Sam pressed a clean bandage to it and taped in down. He sighed and turned to Dean.

Dean was on the bed, Sam’s bloody shirt held against his chest. He’d stolen it back as soon as Sam had peeled it off his wound. “You know, eventually you’re going to have to let me wash that.”

Dean’s eyes glittered in the yellow-white light of the lamp by the bed, tracking Sam’s movements across the room. Sam pulled out the bottle of aspirin and pulled six of them out. He tossed them back, and swallowed them down with the Jack he’d found in the trunk of the stolen car.

With another sigh, Sam checked the salt lines and the locks, then headed toward the bed. Dean watched every move. He clutched the shirt closer to him when Sam reached for it. “Come on Dean, it reeks. I’m not sleeping with it.”

“No.”

Sam started, looked at Dean. “Did you just say no?”

“Sam.” He tapped a hand against the shirt. He cocked his head, licked his lips. His mouth opened and closed, then he exhaled. “My Sam.”

“Your Sam?” Sam nodded, his eyes skipping over Dean’s face. There was a struggle there, as if he was trying to figure out how to communicate beyond the intonation of Sam’s name and the levels of growling and snarling. “What about me? Can’t I be your Sam?”

He held out his hand for Dean to sniff. Dean’s hand lifted, pulled Sam closer, sniffing and then putting Sam’s hand on his head. Sam held it there for a second, then pulled Dean’s hand to his bare chest. “Sam.”

Dean’s eyes flared, his fingers closed around the amulet that had found a home around Sam’s neck. His thumb rubbed over it, his eyes darting between Sam’s eyes and the amulet. “Sam.” Sam whispered.

Dean pulled, nodding. Sam reached up to pull it over his head, dropping it over Dean’s. Dean tossed the bloody shirt aside, his hands moving to hold the amulet. “Sam.” His voice was reverent, soft.

Sam slipped into bed beside him. “Dean.” Sam touched the amulet. “Sam and Dean.”

Sam turned off the light and laid on his non-injured side. He fluttered toward sleep until he felt Dean leaning over him. He opened his eyes and Dean was right there, inches from his face. “SamandDean.” Dean said, mashing the words all together like they were one, holding the amulet in Sam’s face.

Sam nodded. “Sam and Dean.”

Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, pushing him onto his back. “Dean, what—okay, wait.” Sam shifted so he wasn’t stretching his stitches. Before he was fully down, Dean was straddling over him, his hands of Sam’s chest. “Sam.”

Sam was exhausted and he hadn’t any idea what this was about, but he took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, I’m Sam.”

Dean shook his head. One fist closed around the amulet, the other hand pressed against Sam’s chest. “My Sam.”

Again, Sam nodded. “Your brother Sam.”

That seemed to content him and he threw himself back to the mattress beside Sam, curling into his tight little ball and closing his eyes.


The nightmares came before Sam was fully awake. They were bad, he could tell without even opening his eyes. Dean’s growl was fierce, frightening. Sam reached for him, but Dean only hit him. Sam rolled onto his stomach and tried again. In the dark, Dean’s face looked animalistic, his lips curled in a snarl as he squatted beside Sam.

His cock was hard and red, hanging there between his legs. Sam reached for it. Dean was always calmer once he’d come, but Dean moved away. “Let me help Dean.” Sam said, shifting. The sheet moved with him, sliding off the side of the bed. Dean pounced, pinning Sam. His hands scratched down Sam’s back, snagged on the waist of his boxers and Dean howled.

Sam tried to pull away, reaching for his underwear, but Dean already had half his ass exposed. “Dean…easy…come on.”

Dean smacked his ass cheeks in response. “Sam. Sam! SAM!” His voice rose in volume and pitch as he slapped Sam.

He could feel the dribble of pre-come as Dean moved, and Sam tried again to get away, but Dean had obviously made up his mind. Sam took a deep breath. “Okay…calm down. Calm down.” He reached behind him, touched Dean’s hand. “Easy…okay? Easy.”

Dean’s voice quieted, though he didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop. Sam closed his eyes. He could do this. He could lie still and do this. Be whatever Dean needed. It would be over soon. It always was. But it was never this. Not this.

Sam tensed as it happened, as Dean pushed inside him. He bit into the pillow so he wouldn’t scream. It hurt. Burned. His side hurt, and the warm wet told him he’d ripped stitches. Sam fisted the sheets and prayed for it to be over.

And, just like that it was. Dean howled, and his orgasm flooded into Sam. He fell away, leaving Sam shaking and unsure he could even move. When Dean curled back up, his breathing evened out and Sam rolled onto his good side, one hand pressing to his wound. It came away bloody.

He got up and went into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and letting his brother’s come drip out of him while his shaking hands reached for the med kit and ripped the bandage off.

When he was done repairing the damage, Sam stood, washed his face. He’d said he’d do anything. Compared to what Dean had been through, this was nothing.

He took a deep breath. Nothing.



Six Months Gone

“I have to hand it to you Sam. I’m impressed. My brother went on and on about you, but I never saw the attraction.”

Sam was pressed against the wall by an invisible hand. Dean was no where to be seen. The man in front of him was red-eyed, and his amused face was a front for an incredible anger.

“But you and your brother have killed more of my children than my brother ever had to lose. The whole stealing your brother from me thing? Brilliant. I’m thinking maybe my brother knew more than he was letting on.”

“Fuck you.”

“Such language Sammy. You’re supposed to be one of the good guys.” He turned and grinned at Sam. “But you’re not really, are you? You’re not one of them. You’re not one of us.” He came close, his chest against Sam’s. “Do you get hard yet when he fucks you?”

Sam turned his face away, but the demon just wrenched it back. “You do, don’t you? I bet you come like a whore.” His hand cupped Sam’s cock. “Do you watch him when he kills? When he kills and fucks his victim to death? Know who taught him that?”

Sam was going to be sick. “Just finish it.”

He rolled his eyes. “I will finish it. I’m going to take my property back.” His hand closed over Sam’s cock, squeezing until Sam saw stars. “And I get you as a bonus for the trouble. Did you think you could cheat hell and not get punished?”

There was movement in the shadows. “What do you think Dean? Want Sammy for a pet?”

Dean stepped out of the shadows. He’d been fighting. His face was bruised. His shirt torn. His jeans bloody. He cocked his head to the side, watching as the demon licked Sam’s face.

His hand came up. The hammer fell. The last bullet from the colt slammed into the ear of the demon. Dean’s arm dropped. “My Sam.”

Sam slid down the wall to the floor. He gasped for air as Dean came to help him up. “Thanks.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “My Sam.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Dean pulled a hand through his hair, pulling it off his face. Somehow it civilized him.

“Let’s go.”


Three Years Gone

Snow blanketed the ground outside the small cabin. The fire in the pot belly stove burned low, filling the space with warmth and the comforting smell of wood burning. Sam shifted, turning and pillowing his head on a bent arm. Behind him, Dean’s body was hot.

Dean’s mouth traced over the marks that covered Sam’s back. His tongue found the long line of runes that ran down Sam’s spine. Dean’s wore a matching set, hiding them, setting them apart.

Sam sighed and turned to face him. Dean’s eyes opened. They were always like that first thing, wild…feral…until they filled up with Sam, then they softened and he smiled tentatively.

“Sam.”

“Dean.” Sam touched his face. Some days it was still hard to believe. Three years.

They had fought, killed, fucked.

Some days, when Dean’s eyes went dark and his hands grew hard, and his need pushed into Sam, Bobby’s words echoed in Sam’s head…that this wasn’t Dean. That maybe he was more demon than Dean…and maybe the demon was right too…that Sam was little more than Dean’s pet…a toy to keep him calm…but then Dean would wrap his arms around Sam and whisper “My Sam” and “Thank you” and Sam would stop caring.

Because it didn’t matter if it was only half Dean. It didn’t matter if he needed Sam in ways he never had before. They were together. They were alive. They hadn’t seen a hunter in almost two years and a demon in more than one.

Three years his brother was gone.

Rumors were that the Winchester boys were gone. And if people assumed that meant dead, Sam was okay with that.

Three years. Gone.