Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5670178.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Original_Female
      Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Cannibalism, Murder, Torture, Blood, Blood_and_Gore, Incest, Extremely
      Underage, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Food_Issues, Food_Porn, Food_as_a
      Metaphor_for_Love, Food_is_People, Cooking, Bad_Jokes, Knives, Anal_Sex,
      Anal_Fingering, Anal_Play, Oral_Sex, Dark_Dean_Winchester, Possessive
      Dean_Winchester, Possessive_Sam_Winchester, Dark_Sam_Winchester, Sam
      Winchester_is_a_Little_Shit, Domestic_Dean_Winchester, Domestic_Sam
      Winchester, Caretaking, Bottom_Dean, Bottom_Sam, Top_Sam, Top_Dean, I
      Don't_Even_Know, I'm_Bad_At_Tagging, Cheating, Violence, Stalking,
      Language, Trust, Devotion, So_Married, Sorry_Not_Sorry, Not_My_Fault
  Series:
      Part 19 of Cannibalism_Aside_(Samn)
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-08 Words: 16599
****** Soul Food ******
by rei_c
Summary
     Sam reads the Hannibal Lecter books and gets -- a little inspired.
Notes
     I know it's been a few days since we've posted anything in this
     'verse but hopefully this will make up for it!
See the end of the work for more notes
A year-and-a-bit ago, back when they started killing, Sam practically inhaled
every book and magazine and newspaper article he thought might be useful. Most
of them disappeared a day or two later, not a good idea to keep stuff about
serial killing around the house when Dad was dropping in and out, but Sam
lugged Gray's around with him everywhere, loved that book the same way Dean
loves his favourite gun.
Sam had eventually complained that he was out of reading material, wanted more.
They were in bed, it was nearing sunrise, and Dean was tired, so he'd made an
offhand mention of the Hannibal Lecter books, completely forgot about it until
he came home three days later to see Sam sitting on the porch steps reading
Silence of the Lambs in his pyjamas and Dad's ratty old bathrobe. Sam read the
trilogy like they were textbooks and ever since, every once in awhile, he gets
a far-off, distant look that Dean's never asked about because he thinks he
knows the answer and he doesn't want to get his hopes up in case he's wrong.
He doesn't ask, doesn't mention it, doesn't even bring up the books to ask how
Sam liked them, and then one day, out of nowhere, Sam pauses in the middle of
reading a Latin codex about demonic ranks and exorcisms out loud, and says, I
wanna try it.
Dean's at the kitchen counter up to his elbows in bread dough listening to Sam
read, but he glances over his shoulder, asks, Try what? He's ridiculously
curious because Sam sounds hesitant, like he doesn't get that Dean is fifteen
and kneading fucking bread dough, of course he'll do anything for Sam.
People, Sam says. Eating them. If it's good, we leave less evidence. Less to
hide. Quicker.
Dean thinks about this for a moment, says, You wouldn't have a problem with it?
He's talking about Sam's reluctance to eat anything Dean hasn't given to him
with his own two hands, not the cannibalism, and Sam stiffens for a moment
before he follows Dean's train of thought, relaxes and shrugs one shoulder. One
way to find out, he says.
We could try, Dean says. Can't hurt. And hey, meat's expensive these days,
'specially the kind you like, all this organic, grass-fed, preservative-free
shit.
Sam bites his lower lip, says, softly, I wanna try. And -- and I wanna do it.
Cook, I mean. For you.
Dean smiles, holds out his arms, hands covered in dough and flour and the
slight greasiness of butter, and holds Sam tight when Sam comes to him, clings
to him, all too willing despite the mess. You say the word, Sammy, he says. But
you don't gotta.
I know, Sam says.
--
Dean lifts a couple cookbooks for Sam, the fancy kind with recipe names in
Italian and French, sometimes the directions, too. Sam pages through them, brow
furrowed as he concentrates, and three weeks before Christmas, he sits next to
Dean on the couch, leans on Dean, curling into Dean's heat and arms with a
content sigh.
Nothin' on tv, Dean says. That time of year, I guess.
Dad's in the kitchen, doesn't even notice that Dean's talking, too focused on
the research and muttering under his breath like that might help decipher
Bobby's notes.
Sam glances at Dad, then turns back to Dean, says, I wanna. I'm ready.
Dean doesn't even need to ask. He can read the trails of Sam's mind as easily
as Sam can read Dean's. He gets it, right away, what Sam's asking, what he's
telling Dean, and he shifts as he thinks of it, as his pulse accelerates and
his mouth dries and his dick hardens, echoing the need suddenly throbbing
through his veins. It's been three months since their last kill -- three months
and four states -- and Dean could go longer, probably should to be safe, but he
wants this, wants it bad enough to do it even if Dad sticks around.
When? Dean asks. He's got ideas running through his head -- distracted
shoppers, pushy johns, that asshole down the block that nearly t-boned the
Impala once -- and he hatches plans quick, discards them just as fast, trying
to come up with something perfect. They'll need a place to work, too, so Dean
should probably scout out the industrial district, maybe check down by the
river, or some of the barns sticking up over ice- and dirt-covered fields might
be abandoned, he should look into those, too, just in case.
Dad's leaving in the morning, Sam says, and he won't be back until Christmas
Eve. We've got time.
Sometimes when Sam does this, knows things he shouldn't, Dean lets it slide,
just accepts it because Sam's never been wrong. Tonight, though, the threat of
their father finding out has Dean asking, How d'y'know?
Sam grins, twines his feet in with Dean's, presses a quick, silent kiss to
Dean's shoulder, unspoken reassurance that he's not angry at the question. He's
trying to track a werewolf down, Sam says. Full moon is two days before
Christmas and you know Dad, he'll wanna make sure he's got the right monster.
He's been looking at maps of the Alleghenys, that's a 23-hour drive on the
interstate and Dad won't wanna chance Indiana highway patrol so he'll be taking
back roads through at least Indiana. That gets him home Christmas Eve lunchtime
at the earliest. Leaving tomorrow's just a guess but Dad's been home for nine
days, which I think is a new record, and he's drinking scotch. Dean shakes his
head, doesn't follow, and Sam elbows him, says, He always drinks one glass of
scotch the night before he gets on the road, idiot. Otherwise it's bourbon.
Cheap bourbon.
Dean shakes his head again, smiling this time, as he runs a couple fingertips
down Sam's cheek, scritches lightly under Sam's chin. Too smart, Sammy, he
says. Way too fucking smart.
In some things, Sam says, because Dean gets upset when Sam tries to downplay
his intelligence, his observational skills, the way his blank face and cold,
cunning eyes hide a keen mind that sees and remembers everything. So. Y'wanna?
Fuck, yeah, Dean says. 'Course I do, bitch. I'll think it over tonight, scout
out some places tomorrow, we can start hunting this weekend?
Sam nods, adds, Jerk, and doesn't say another word the rest of the night.
Dean's used to it, can read Sam's thoughts without needing to hear them, but
Dad keeps one eye on Sam until bedtime like he's not quite sure what Sam is
when it's so obvious: he's Dean's.
--
Dad's up and leaving the next morning a couple hours before sunrise. Dean sees
his father out, sleep schedule fucked years ago so he's more awake than not,
and says, "Happy hunting, Dad. Call us if you need anything."
"'Course I will," John says. His eyes flick over Dean's shoulder, into the dark
house, then back to Dean, and he says, "Keep an eye on your brother, 'kay?"
"Always," Dean replies.
Dad purses his lips like he was expecting that answer and doesn't like it one
bit. Dean waits, would give even odds on Dad saying something about him and Sam
or on Dad letting it go like he always does. It doesn't usually take this long
for Dad to let it slide but soon he just shakes his head and lets out a deep
breath. "I left some money in the kitchen. Should be enough for food and some
new clothes. Don't worry about Christmas, I'll be home by then and I'll bring a
tree with me."
Enough for food and new clothes -- probably not, but they'll be fine. They
always are, between Dean pulling tricks and Sam picking pockets. "Be safe,"
Dean says, and he stands in the doorway, watches as Dad gets into the Impala
and leaves, bright headlights piercing into the black.
When Dean can't hear the Impala anymore, he shuts and locks the door, goes back
to the bedroom, to Sam. Dean takes off his pyjamas, gets back under the covers
with Sam, tugs Sam close and plants a kiss on the top of his head.
Sam hums, snuggles into Dean, still mostly asleep, and asks, Gone?
Yeah, Dean says. Go back to sleep. It's cold enough to freeze your balls out
there; I ain't goin' nowhere 'til the sun's up.
Good, Sam says, and he shifts, drapes himself half on top of Dean, in the
perfect spot to tuck his face into Dean's neck, one thigh falling into the
space between Dean's legs, right there and ready for Dean to rut against.
Y'should, too, y'know. Get s'me sleep. Huntin'.
Dean chuckles, one hand tangled in Sam's mop of hair, the other planted firmly
under the curve of Sam's ass, and pulls Sam as close as humanly possible. He
inhales the shampoo-and-smoke scent of Sam's hair and gives in to the urge to
move, to seek out the friction of Sam's warm skin and bony hips. I will, he
says, and Sam's asleep when Dean comes over both of them.
--
Dean spends the afternoon walking around town, trying to nail down a good
place. There are a few options that are okay, but not the best, and he's deep
in thought when he gets back to the house they're renting. The first thing he
does is look for Sam -- always the first thing -- and just as Dean's taken one
step off the welcome mat, heart racing when Sam's not immediately there, not in
sight, Sam appears from around the corner. He's wearing sweatpants and one of
Dean's t-shirts, laughably oversized on him. The shirt hangs down on one side,
showing off the delicate lines of Sam's shoulder, the waifish curve of his
collarbone, and Dean's mouth goes dry as his body heats up, burns off the
outside's chill in an instant.
Yeah? Sam asks, and Dean laughs, can't help it, because he knows that was two
questions, Sam wanting to know if Dean found a place with the word and asking
if Dean wants to mess around with the crooked grin his lips form after he licks
them.
A couple spots, Dean says, shedding his boots, coat and hoodie, gloves, but
nothing perfect. It might take me a while to find a place.
Sam leans on the wall, folding his arms across his chest. Eleven and yet Sam's
already got his hip cocked out in invitation, the slight bend of his neck
showing off his collarbones, one hand reaching up lazily to scratch at his
belly and giving Dean a teasing glimpse of skin.
Dean crosses the space between them quickly, tangles one hand in Sam's hair and
yanks backwards, lifting Sam's face. Dean practically attacks his brother with
his lips, with teeth and tongue, because fuck if the sight of Sam wearing his
clothes isn't one of the hottest things Dean's ever seen. Fucking tease, Dean
mutters. Such a little fucking cocktease.
Only teasing if you ain't gonna follow through, Sam says. And I always follow
through.
He drops to his knees right there, taking off the shirt along the way. Sam
undoes Dean's jeans, little flicks of his thumb over Dean's already hard dick
as he pulls down the zipper, and as soon as Dean's jeans get pulled down his
hips, Dean's cock springs up, wet at the head. Sam looks up, licks his lips,
and then says, Use me.
How's a man supposed to resist an invitation like that, Dean replies, mind
short-circuiting because yeah, Sam's sucked his cock before, even deep-throats
him sometimes and always swallows, but this is different. Dean's never actually
fucked his brother's mouth before, prefers to let Sam set the pace. He almost
wants to stop this before it gets started but he's hard and Sam's got that
mulish look in his eyes, the one that says he's not backing down from this,
that he knows exactly what he's asking for and wants it.
Fuck my mouth, Dean, Sam says. As hard and fast as you wanna until you come
down my throat. Want you to use me, Dean. I'm yours; prove it.
Shit. Dean lifts his hands, puts them on Sam's head, twines his fingers in
Sam's hair, and says, You wanna stop, just tell me.
Sam rolls his eyes and then he opens his mouth wide, swallows to let the line
of his neck move and draw Dean's attention. He's got it -- oh, he's got it -
- and Dean slowly feeds Sam his dick, watches as he pushes and pushes until
he's in to the balls, the slightest bulge in Sam's throat. Dean can't wait to
fuck Sam, sometimes has to hold on to that rule with both hands and feet and
all the stubbornness he can maintain, but Sam's mouth, Sam's throat, is a more
than acceptable substitute.
Perfect, Dean murmurs, as he moves his hips, slow at first, gathering speed as
he starts to fuck Sam's mouth. He doesn't know how Sam is breathing, doesn't
know how he hasn't fought back, doesn't know how he can just kneel there with
Dean's hands in his hair, yanking Sam as deep on his cock as possible at the
same time he thrusts forward. He watches Sam, watches his dick slide in and out
of Sam's mouth, watches as drool gathers at the corners of Sam's mouth and then
starts to drip down his chin in a steady trail, watches as tears start falling
from Sam's eyes.
He almost stops when he sees Sam struggling to breathe -- snot's running out of
his nose, some of it already hitting his top lip, Dean's cock -- but Sam's eyes
are focused on Dean, nothing in them to suggest he's scared or unhappy or ready
to stop. Sam would tap out if he needed to, Dean trusts that, so he just keeps
his eyes on Sam and fucks until he comes, right down Sam's throat.
Dean stumbles back once he's done, cock sliding out of Sam's mouth with a wet
noise that's kind of gross, actually, and he has to lean against the wall to
catch his breath. Okay? he asks.
Sam uses his discarded shirt to blow his nose, to wipe up the drool and the
tears, and when he lowers the shirt to his knees, he's grinning. We're gonna do
that again, he says, and he sounds fucking wrecked. Just not right away. Okay?
Fine, Dean says, and he helps Sam stand up, tugs Sam into his arms and holds
his little brother. He rubs his nose on Sam's forehead, murmurs, Don't know
what I did to deserve you.
Nothin', Sam says, but you got me anyway. Forever. Now, when are you going back
out to look for a place?
Dean reaches up, smacks the back of Sam's head, then halfway drags Sam to the
kitchen -- the kid's too skinny.
--
Dean finds the ideal spot two days of searching later.
He's getting anxious, on edge, twitchy because he knows what's coming, he wants
to be there already, hunting, stalking, killing. He wants blood on his hands
and in his mouth and he wants to blood all over his brother and he's hungry, so
very hungry. Sam does his best to distract Dean, channelling all the building
energy into sex that leaves them both marked up and exhausted, giving Dean his
body in every way Dean will accept, letting Dean do whatever he wants. Dean
hates that he's taking, loathes himself for not being strong enough to resist
this need to go out and put his hands around someone's throat and squeeze until
their eyes pop out and their tongue turns black -- but Sam doesn't care. Sam
spreads his legs for Dean's fingers, opens his mouth for Dean's cock, holds
Dean and murmurs such sweet things in Dean's ear as they fall asleep curled
together and covered in each other's sweat.
They're in a small bungalow on the edge of town -- not the best place they've
ever lived but not the worst, either. The electricity and gas work, the water
runs hot, the kitchen's decent, so Dean doesn't complain about the bad
insulation or the way the whole place creaks underfoot or the fact that they're
too far out of the town for cable or city water. He's on his way back there, a
couple new fleece blankets in his hands because fuck but it's starting to get
cold at night, wind coming in through badly fitted windows and doors, when he
takes a different turn through the fields, stumbles across an old, rotting
farmhouse in the middle of a clump of trees.
The place looks like it might have been nice back in its day: wide, wrap-around
porch, frayed tyre swing rope and rusting jungle gym, tattered remnants of what
looks like a washing line. Even better, there's a barn in the back, probably
more of a shed but it's painted red and looks big enough for a tractor, so.
Dean glances around, can't see the road from here, can't see anything from
here, and he creeps through the overgrown weeds and wild rosebushes to the
barn.
There's nothing inside; whoever lived here last cleaned it out when they left
but there's room enough to work and the wooden walls feel sturdy. With the
trees around the property, they won't have to worry as much about being loud,
and if they need to, they can spend the night in the farmhouse, looked like it
had a basement from the small windows just above the dirt line that Dean saw.
Dean crouches down, touches the cement floor, and looks around the barn. A slow
smile creeps across his face and he stands up, chuckling.
--
Sam's waiting for Dean, is sitting on the couch curled up with a book and
buried under a pile of blankets. He looks up when Dean comes in and instantly
grins. Location, check, he says. Sam tosses the book to one side and makes his
way out from under the blankets. He's still warm when he gets to Dean even
though he's not wearing a stitch of clothing and the wind's howling outside.
Dean shakes his head but Sam just rolls his eyes and asks, Hunt tomorrow?
Dean's grin gets wider as he holds Sam tight, nuzzles his little brother. Let's
go shopping, Dean says.
--
They take the bus to the mall, Dean floundering in front of the driver at not
having enough change, Sam hiding half behind him, pathetic puppy-dog eyes aimed
full-force at the bus driver. They have the money to pay for the ride but Dean
likes to stay in practice and he always gets a kick out of people being taken
in by the way Sam acts. The bus driver eventually just sighs and lets them on,
and Dean leads Sam to the very back, lets Sam slide in first so Dean can claim
the space next to the aisle.
Still got it, Dean murmurs, one hand high up on Sam's thigh as he takes in the
people around them.
Sam lets his legs fall apart, says, fond, Idiot.
Dean squeezes Sam's thigh, lets his hand slide up just a little more to tease
along the inseam of Sam's jeans. You're the idiot, he mutters.
So what are we looking for? Sam asks, two stops later, Dean's thumb rubbing
back and forth over the line of Sam's dick. You got a preference?
You're the one with the five-course meal planned out, Dean says. We need
someone with fat, or are we talking good muscles, or what?
Sam leans, rests his cheek on Dean's shoulder. Whatever you want, Dean. Don't
matter to me.
Okay, then, Dean says. He closes his eyes, calls back the farmhouse and barn to
his mind, starts to cycle through the possibilities. Dark hair would show up
better against the cement but the last two have been brunettes so they should
switch it up. A redhead might be nice if they can find one, but no, hair
colour's not the essential quality here. Eye colour isn't either, nor is build,
though Dean would prefer someone a little softer: they're easier to cut apart.
A woman, he finally says, mostly because they've had three men in a row and
Dean's getting tired of it. If we're gonna eat her, not too stressed; I don't
want anything to affect the taste of the meat.
Oh, because she's not gonna be ridiculously fucking stressed when we kidnap
her, torture her, and kill her, Sam says, sarcasm coating his words.
Dean pinches Sam's inner thigh through the thin jeans Sam's wearing. We don't
want her to start off stressed, then, dork.
Sam lets out a deep breath, turns his head enough to suck Dean's earlobe into
his mouth, nibble at it for a moment. Dean, he says. It's two weeks before
Christmas and we're going to a mall. Do you really think we're going to find
anyone who isn't freaking out about the holidays?
I got a good feeling about this, Sammy, Dean says, as he slides his hand down
Sam's jeans. A real good feeling.
I got a good feeling about what you're doing right now, Sam says in return, and
he spreads his legs just that little bit wider, slouches just a little lower in
his seat, to give Dean room to work.
--
They've been at the mall sipping Orange Juliuses and eating cookies in the food
court for two hours before someone catches Dean's eyes. He stands up, Sam
following him immediately without even needing to be told, and they scurry
through the crowds like mice, Dean leading the way as he trails his next
victim, Sam right behind him, a calm and comforting presence.
The one Dean's picked out is a woman: middle-aged, blonde hair going grey,
wearing skinny jeans, tall boots, and a wool peacoat. She's moving with more
purpose than anyone else but looks confident, happy, pleased with herself. Dean
checks her out, eyes taking in the diamond-studded watch, the two- or three-
carat engagement ring and plain gold wedding band, the diamond studs in her
ears, her thin and delicate gold necklace, her immaculately-styled hair, the
heels she's wearing, the purse she's carrying.
He nods in her direction and Sam follows his gaze, narrows his eyes as he
studies her. We could pawn the jewellery, probably, Sam says. Same with the
shoes and the purse; should get a couple hundred for those at the right place.
We break those diamonds down, we can keep some for that witch trap we've been
looking at and sell the rest. Useful. Gold rather than silver, though -- we
don't need spare bullet material?
Can get silver anywhere, Dean says, taking Sam's hand and tugging him through a
particularly large knot in the crowd, kids and parents waiting around for a
picture with Santa. Can't get someone like her too many places.
Married, though, Sam says. Dean hears hesitation in his brother's voice, looks
down at Sam and sees Sam lick his lips, eyes starting to fill with the same
hunger Dean feels all the time. He's trying valiantly to be their common sense,
though, and Dean loves him for it. She'll be reported missing quickly and we're
not moving for a couple weeks. Think we can get away with it?
Dean scrambles onto the escalator, their target still in sight as she steps off
at the bottom of the escalator and heads for one of the pricier stores. If
we're careful, Dean says. Been awhile since we've had a challenge.
Sam puts his hand around the back of Dean's neck, squeezes a little until Dean
looks at him. We get caught, they split us up, he says.
Dean has to bite back the instant snarl at the thought, the way his blood boils
in his veins and his vision goes red with the urge to kill, to kill everything
and everyone that would ever even dare to take Sam from him, to take his little
brother away, to keep his entire reason for existence apart from Dean forever.
Hey, Sam says, soft, now on the same step, pressing the entire length of his
body into Dean's, one hand on Dean's cheek. Nothing's happening. Deep breath. I
just -- I want you to remember that. Sam stops mid-sentence and the two step
off the escalator, loiter around one of the indoor palm trees while they wait
for their prey to come out of the store.
What were you gonna say? Dean asks, keeps his brother's hand tight in his,
willing his heart to calm, his pulse to slow. You want me to remember what?
Sam looks up at Dean, his pupils blown so wide that Dean thinks he'd see the
universe in them if he squinted or tilted his head the right way. That this
isn't a game, not really. It's fun to treat it like one sometimes, Dean, but I
will knock you out and tie you up if I ever think you're taking this too
lightly. Sam looks down, adds, soft, I'd rather hurt you like that than lose
you forever.
Any anger that Dean might have felt at Sam's reminder -- he doesn't need a
fucking reminder, Sam -- dissipates completely at Sam's words. Sometimes he
forgets that Sam's eleven, that the idea of the two of them being split apart
terrifies Sam as much as Dean, but where Dean goes hot with animalistic rage,
Sam goes cold with cruel cunning and sharp words. Dean pulls Sam close, syncs
his breathing to Sam's, and doesn't say a word or let go until their quarry is
coming out of the shop with yet another bag in her hands.
I'll be careful, Dean promises. If it looks too hard, we'll find someone else.
Swear. Sam looks up at him, puts his hands on Dean's cheeks and steps on his
tiptoes to reach up, kiss Dean chastely on the lips. Now come on, Sammy, Dean
says, grinning at Sam, the need for violence that thrums constantly under his
skin partially sublimating into lust for his brother. She's on the move.
--
They follow her in and out of stores, get close enough at one point to hear her
name as she checks out, and when she's heading for the exit, Dean looks at his
little brother.
Phone book? Sam asks.
Phone book, Dean replies with a decisive nod. We'll start there.
--
There's only one Lynn Mallory in the phone book, but there are two L. Mallorys
as well, and Dean says, We'll have to check all three and you know she's gonna
be in the last place we look, no matter where we start. He tilts his head back,
lets out a frustrated groan. It took longer to find a place than Dean would
have liked and now they have to stalk three separate houses to find where their
prey has gone to ground.
Before we do that, I need to pick up some groceries, Sam says. If we're gonna
get her tonight, I mean. Otherwise it can wait.
Dean gives Sam a look, says, Groceries mildly, like there's not a question
buried in that one word.
Sam huffs, says, Just a few things, and I lifted some cash when we were at the
mall so we don't have to steal it. It won't take long, Dean; I have a list.
You have a -- of course you have a list, Dean says. His blood is thrumming
inside of him, fingers twitching for a blade and feet ready to go out and find
Lynn Mallory, he wants to hear her screaming and watch as the hope drains from
her eyes, but Sam wants groceries. Fine, he says, grumpy and not bothering to
hide it. Let's go get your fucking groceries.
Promise it'll be worth it, Sam says, before he kisses Dean. Sam uses teeth,
leaves both of them with blood on their lips when he pulls back.
That goes a long way towards giving Dean just a little more patience.
--
Sam drags Dean through the store, throwing more than 'a few' things into their
cart. Dean's not sure how everything's going to be made, put together, and he
raises his eyebrows at all the vegetables Sam's picking out for Dean to bag -
- raises his eyebrows but doesn't say a word. Instead, when Sam's not watching,
too intent on finding the perfect onion or the right kind of lentils -
- seriously, Sam, lentils? -- Dean tosses a few other things in the cart. Sam
doesn't notice until they get to the check-out. The look on his face makes Dean
laugh, the delay in their hunt well worth it just for that expression.
They stop by the house, put the cold things in the fridge and leave everything
else on the table, Sam tucks a small bag for loot in the back of his jeans,
then head off to the first address.
--
The first L. Mallory is a single, forty-something-year-old male. Larry? Dean
asks. Or Leo?
I bet he goes by his full name, Sam says. He seems the type to insist on it.
Dean laughs, can't help it, because he's pretty sure Sam is one hundred percent
correct.
The second Mallory, Lynn, could be either the husband or wife at the next
address, no way to know. Dean's barely had enough time to wonder which one it
is before he's wincing at the sight of their family through their front bay
window. All three kids are throwing tantrums, the mom looks like she's at her
wit's end and the dad's just turning around in circles, trying to decide where
to start and not able to pick either the least upset or the most because of all
the screaming and shouting and crying.
Think we should take one of the kids just to help the parents out, Dean says.
Shit.
Bet it's not this bad all the time, Sam says. Christmas, y'know? Everything's
worse around the holidays. Kids are probably screaming for toys, dad's working
overtime to make sure they have enough, mom's got a job in retail to help and
people've been shouting at her all day.
Dean looks inside again, tries to see what Sam has. The dad's still in office-
wear, fair enough, and it's late enough in the day that he's had plenty of time
to change if he came home from a normal nine-to-five but he hasn't even
loosened his tie yet. The mom's in khakis and a red shirt, could be a
coincidence but there are half a dozen stores in town with that uniform and
it's not a stretch to guess that her day's been tough, not when she's working
retail this close to Christmas, doubly if she doesn't usually work and is just
a temp for the holiday season. The kids -- god knows. As loud as they are,
they're still unintelligible which is actually kind of impressive.
We won't take a kid a then, Dean says, reluctant. But I reserve the right to
change my mind in the future.
So noted, Sam says. Third house?
Dean jumps down from the tree, brushes bark off his ass as Sam climbs down.
Third time's a charm. Please god, let it be the third house because if her
number's unlisted and we have to start this shit all over again, I'm gonna
scream.
Just don't be like one of those little assholes, Sam says, waving at the house
across the street.
--
The third house is on the other side of town, closer to where Dad left them but
in a much, much nicer neighbourhood. Dean's pulse starts speeding up when he
notices the brand of cars parked in the driveways, the detailed iron-work of
fences and mailbox holders and screen doors, the immaculate lawns and
landscaping.
Have to be careful, he tells Sam. Anyone sees us, they'll be on us in a
heartbeat, partly because this neighbourhood looks like one of those where
everyone knows everyone else, has block parties and neighbourhood garage sales,
but mostly because Sam and Dean very obviously do not belong here.
Sam rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath, but lets Dean's words
slide, follows after his brother as they move from shadow to shadow. There are
only two lights on inside when they get to the right house, one downstairs in
the living room and then a hallway light upstairs. No car in the driveway,
garage empty when Sam picks the lock and they creep inside.
Sam heads straight for the walls and toolboxes but Dean takes in the pristine
garage floor, how organised everything is, and scoffs. Can't believe the garage
is detached, he says. People like this, you'd think they wouldn't want that,
having to go outside to get between the garage and the house.
People like this, I can't believe they don't have the garage alarmed, Sam
eventually replies, coming back to Dean with his small canvas bag full, now,
rattling and clinking with promise. No keypad or wires, though. Guess it'll
just be the house. What d'you think, should we break in now, wait inside? Or
wait for everyone to get home and go to bed?
Extra days, extra time, extra caution -- Dean's tired of it, wants the kill and
wants it now. Now, he says. Gives us a chance to scope out a hiding place and
if I trigger the alarm by accident, we'll be able to get out quick.
Sam thinks about that for a second but nods, grins wide. His teeth shine in the
dark garage, pure white brilliance just screaming for a crimson coat of blood.
--
Sam's always had the better hands, gifted in ways with lock-picks and thieving
that Dean's been jealous of more than once or twice, but Dean's the electronics
genius. Sam has the back door open as if it was never locked in the first place
but Dean's the one who's already disabled the alarm from the outside and he
slides into the house first, dismantles the keypad alarm in seconds without
setting it off. The pair of them are inside, door closed, avoiding windows, in
under a minute.
Dean takes the lead in the house, goes through each room, taking in the lush
furniture in the living room, the gleaming appliances in the kitchen, the
watercolours on the walls, the lack of anything that might separate this from a
showhome. He goes upstairs, leaves Sam safely downstairs to scope out the
contents of the kitchen drawers and cupboards, and takes in two guest bedrooms,
one master bedroom with an en-suite, all in shades of blues and greys, a large
bathroom, a small office with two walls of books, nabs a handful of jewellery
on his wanderings. The art on the walls is classy, Dean guesses, for this
social class, and the place is calming, designed with muted colours to be a
sanctuary -- cold and lifeless sanctuary, but still -- from the insanity of the
crazed, manic world outside.
Sam would love living here; sometimes Dean can't help feeling guilty that he
can't give Sam a home like this, that they're stuck in dump after motel room
after dump, having to deal with badly-fitted windows and leaking roofs and
problems with hot water and cockroaches and thin carpet. Most of the other
things Dean wants to give Sam, he can tell himself 'later,' make promises to
himself that when they're older, when they're more capable, he'll give them all
to Sam.
A home's different, though. A home means neighbours and police and jobs and
groceries. A home means settling down, giving up their life. A home means the
Impala in a garage, the sight of roads leading into the distance tugging at
Dean's restless blood, the urge to kill forced under tight control and rarely
satisfied. Dean loves the life they're already living but he loves Sam more;
Sam deserves a house, a home, everything in the entire world. If he wants it,
Dean will give it to him. Dean would sacrifice it all -- the wandering, the hum
of the Impala's tyres on highway after highway, the feel of blood drying under
his nails and cold, sharp steel in his hands -- if Sam wanted. Sam wouldn't
even have to ask and Dean would do it gladly. The manic urge to kill, the need
for movement, is nothing compared to Sam.
Knives are sharp, Sam says, standing at the foot of the steps and looking up as
Dean walks back down. That's about the only useful thing. Unless you wanna nab
a stand-mixer, too. They have all the attachments. It's kind of impressive,
doesn't look like anything's ever been used. Can't even tell whether Lynn cooks
or Doug, or if they have a housekeeper. They seem like the type of people to
have a housekeeper.
What a waste, Dean says. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs, wraps an arm
around Sam, pulls him close and presses a kiss to the top of his head. And ugh,
Doug. Doug and Lynn, Lynn and Doug. Boring. Any idea where we should wait?
There're some good possibilities upstairs but if we're gonna take her with us
alive, it'll be easier to drag her out from down here.
Sam glances upstairs, thinking, says, There's a half-closet off the kitchen,
towards the laundry. Linen closet, maybe, I didn't look too close, and I think
it's over a cupboard they're using to store cleaning supplies, but it should
work.
Dean grins, says, Let's check it out, then. Think they'll notice if we take
snacks?
Idiot.
--
They're holed up in the closet, crammed together, and Dean's sure that if they
weren't already used to being muddled up in each other, stitched up together,
this would be uncomfortable. As it is, Sam's half-crouching, half-sitting on
Dean, and they're using the time wisely, kissing each other long and slow and
deep, Dean gently rutting against Sam, eyes closed and thinking about blood. If
only Sam was older, he could be naked right now, hole around Dean's cock, the
two of them having to gyrate instead of Sam riding him because the closet's so
small, the tiny area taken up and completely filled by the smell of sex, the
way Sam would throw his head back, rest it on Dean's shoulders as his hips
would move, mouth panting out Dean's name, Dean's fingers pressing into Sam's
hips, the cold, clean feel of anticipation for orgasm and murder building
between them.
Slut, Sam says, taking a break from Dean's mouth to suck on Dean's jaw, gently
bite the skin over the bone. What're you thinking about?
What else, Dean says, trying to pull Sam even closer, trying, maybe, to meld
them together for good, this split of their physical bodies so unnatural, so
wrong, an error Dean thinks he'll be trying to fix his whole life. Thinking of
fuckin' you, bitch. Thinking of gettin' you on my dick in a little space like
this, painting your insides with my come before we go out and I paint your skin
with blood.
Sam swallows, says, You can't -- Dean, you can't say things like that, we have
to -- what if they come home and we're -- shit.
Dean hums, bites down on Sam's shoulder, is rewarded with a sharp inhale of
breath. Then you'll just have to be quiet, he murmurs. You can do that, can't
you, Sammy? Keep your mouth shut while I get you off? No room for oral here but
I could get my fingers up your ass and you could jerk me off -- or we could do
it the other way. Your pick, sweetheart. What would you like more -- or we
could jerk each other off, get all over each other, all over this picture-
perfect little linen closet.
DNA, Sam hisses, though he's not making any move to stop Dean from unbuttoning
his jeans, first, then Dean's own. We have to be careful, Dean; we're leaving
too many messes.
Bleach on the shelf below, Dean points out. Three bottles, the clean-freak
fucks. We'll throw it around before we leave. Or we could just set the house on
fire. C'mon, little brother, he whines. Stop being fucking sensible for
once,please, and just let me touch you, wanna get my hands on you, and it could
behoursbefore they get home, I'll go stir-crazy if you won't let me just -
- please, Sammy.
Sam sighs and Dean would grin in victory if he didn't think that would
instantly make Sam change his mind. You don't gotta do me, Sam says. And I
think I can -- hold on, and he moves, wriggles in the tight space and
completely rearranges himself, ends up with his head in Dean's crotch, legs
tucked under him.
Dean doesn't have time to react to that, to think, again, how useful it is that
Sam still has a few years before he hits his growth spurt, before Sam's got
Dean's jeans open and he's tugging Dean's boxer-briefs down just enough so that
Dean's cock's free. Sam licks up one side and down the other and Dean twines
his hands in Sam's hair, hips jerking up as Sam sucks on the head. Jesus fuck,
Sam.
Sam pulls his head free, looks up at Dean, and his eyes glitter in the small,
thin stream of light coming in around the cabinet door. God, you taste so
fucking good, Sam says.
--
He doesn't say another word, not until Dean's come and his dick's gone
sensitive to the point of pain in Sam's mouth, not until after Dean's yanked
Sam up and is eating the taste of his own come off of Sam's teeth and tongue.
Dean, fuck, Sam says, barely has time to breathe out, before Dean's kissing him
again, manhandling him until Sam's straddling Dean's thighs and Dean can shove
one hand down Sam's jeans, get his fingers around Sam's dick. Oh, shit,Dean,
Sam says, and he lets his back arch and his head fall backwards, slamming
against the wall with a thunk that almost has Dean pausing until Sam says,
Don't stop, don't you fucking stop or I'll fucking, words cut off with a
strangled cry as Dean grips harder, twists more, jerks faster.
Come on, Sam, Dean murmurs, feels good, don't it? Know you want it, know you
want me, before he bites down hard on Sam's collarbone. The smell of blood
fills the closet, mixes in with sex and sweat, and it's so close to Dean's
imagination that he can feel his cock twitch like he hasn't just spilled down
Sam's throat.
Only you, Sam promises. Only ever -- no one else, Dean, swear -- always wanted
you and -- will forever, swear, I swear, and he shudders as he comes dry, going
boneless almost immediately after.
Dean licks his hand, licks the taste of Sam's dick from his skin and wonders
what Sam'll taste like -- and then the garage door opens. Sam stiffens, scoots
back a little bit further into the closet to fumble with his jeans, get them
buttoned up again. Dean's on the verge of asking Sam if he needs any help but
then he hears another car pull into the driveway, hears one door open and close
in the garage and one door outside.
Separate cars? he murmurs to Sam, frowning as he does up his own jeans, because
that doesn't fit with what they've seen of the house.
Maybe Doug had to work late, Sam says, and Dean could throttle his brother
because if he hadn't been the one with his hand on Sam's dick, he'd never know
the kid just came hard enough to melt his spine. Sam's fucking unreal
sometimes. They could've met for a late dinner, had to bring both cars home?
Not that much of a stretch. Odd they're not both parking in the garage, though.
It was big enough.
Dean nods -- Sam's got a point, after all, the asshole -- but something about
that doesn't feel right. There's more going on here and now Dean's starting to
get worried, thinking that maybe Sam was right about this one, maybe it's too
much to think they can nab her.
We'll see, Sam says, and he squeezes Dean's knee. We're here, might as well
give it some time and learn what we can. For all we know, Doug's out of town
and this one's a friend come back for a drink or something after a girl's night
out. Calm down.
That's a nice thought, two women, both of them tipsy enough to try and put up a
good fight instead of caving like weaklings or threatening to call the cops or
alarm company or anything, crying for them to just take what they want and go.
Dean harrumphs under his breath but calms; sometimes he fucking hates it when
Sam's the voice of reason.
They wait, breath so light that Dean wouldn't be able to tell they're both
still alive if it wasn't for the way they're pressed against each other, Sam
drawing circles on Dean's knee, Dean grazing his fingers over the bite mark on
Sam's collarbone, and soon enough the front door opens. The woman -- Lynn, it's
definitely her -- comes in first, laughing, and the other person follows her.
The shoes on the entryway tile, they're all wrong for another woman, too heavy,
not the same tenor as heels or flats or even sneakers. Dean looks at Sam, who's
looking back at Dean, eyes wide, as they hear very male laughter and then the
sounds of kissing, undressing, right there in the foyer.
"Come on," Lynn's saying, and from the sound of it, she's trying to drag the
other person deeper into the house, toward the den, maybe.
"Got all night, babe," the guy says, and adds, "Doug ain't gonna be home 'til
tomorrow, we got all night. Let's enjoy it while we can, huh?"
Dean's vision floods with red as his body goes flush with heat. Married and
she's cheating on her husband. Married and she's brought someone else into her
house, is planning on taking them into her bed, into her body. He shifts,
starts to move, but Sam pulls him back down.
Wait, Sam says. It'll be easier to get 'em when they're fucking.
She'scheating, Dean says, knows he sounds as feral as he ever gets without
losing the power of speech. Made a promise and broke it like it was nothing.
It's unfathomable to Dean. He's Sam's and Sam is his and even if they aren't
married to each other in the sight of god or the law, they might as well be.
They're together, always have been and always will be, they're two bodies with
one fucking soul, and the thought that someone who's made a promise to have and
to hold, 'til death do them part, is breaking that promise as easily as it
sounds like Lynn is, turns Dean's stomach. Fuck, even their father -- Dad
hasn't been with anyone since Mom died, not seriously, not in any meaningful
way. Vows are worth nothing if they aren't lived by, lived with, and this
woman's dirt, less than dirt. She deserves to die and as painfully as possible.
Not even good enough to eat, Dean mutters, lip curling at the thought of it.
All she's good for, Sam says, a gentle correction. Turn that waste of space
into something that matters. Show her how it's really done, what love really
means. Right?
Dean turns, finds Sam's mouth with his own, and the kiss is less a kiss and
more just breathing into each other's mouths, sharing air the way they share
everything else. Dean tugs Sam close, focuses on his brother instead of the
noises in the kitchen, bottles opening and closing, pouring liquid, laughs and
words that eventually turn into breathy little noises, footsteps going towards
the living room, thump of two bodies onto the couch.
Sam's the one who speaks first, who asks, Now?
Now, Dean says, and the two of them jump out of the closet, door silent and
footsteps lighter than air, knives held with casual familiarity in their hands,
sticking to the dark corners and sides of walls like shadows.
--
In the end, they don't burn the house down. Dean wants to, wants to get rid of
the asshole that this bitch was using to break her vows, but Sam stops him, a
hand on Dean's wrist as he looks over the pieces of the man scattered
throughout the living room.
We're taking this from Doug, he says. We shouldn't take the house as well.
He'll want something from here, I'm sure of it.
He won't be able to sell it, Dean points out. Better he get the insurance
money.
Sam thinks about that for a moment, shakes his head. He should know what Lynn
was doing. No chance of that if we burn the place down.
Dean reluctantly agrees but that doesn't stop him from writing a note in block
letters on the back of dinner's receipt, taken from the asshole's wallet.
SORRY ABOUT YOUR WIFE -- YOU DESERVE BETTER.
Dean leaves the note skewered into the largest piece of the guy's torso, shrugs
at Sam's look, scoffs and tries to play off a flush when Sam beams at him.
Softie, Sam teases.
Just wanna make sure the poor guy ain't mournin' her, Dean says. Now, come on,
grab her feet.
--
They'd originally thought they'd steal Lynn's car, use it to get her out of the
neighbourhood undetected, at least, but the guy she was cheating with is parked
right behind her and Dean's not about to get in that son of a bitch's car. He
doesn't want to kill Lynn, not when he has the barn all ready for their fun,
wants to get as messy as he can with Sam and not have to worry about being
quiet, about neighbours.
Think you could carry her to the edge of the subdivision? Sam asks, following
Dean's train of thought with the same ease he always does. We could get a car
from one of the houses a couple streets over, maybe.
Dean rolls Lynn over with his foot, considers her. It'd be a challenge, that's
for sure, but it's either try or kill her here. You see any rope in the garage?
Sam thinks, says, Rope, duct tape, even some nylon twine, though not much. He
pauses, asks, Are we gonna put clothes on her?
The bitch deserves to be shamed, Dean snarls, mind caught on what they walked
in on: Lynn, naked, on her knees, groaning around the guy's dick; him, naked,
eyes closed, murmuring encouragement, telling her to take it, telling her that
he can give her what she needs, what she can't get from her husband; the way
neither of them had a chance to react before Dean was knocking Lynn out and Sam
had driven a skewer through the man's neck, taking out the voicebox; Sam
dragging Lynn out of the way and letting Dean just fucking destroy the guy. He
swallows, bites down the anger, the hatred, and says, grumpily, But yeah. Less
noticeable that way.
Look on the bright side, Sam says. Dean looks at his brother, raises an eyebrow
in a manner that says this better be good, and Sam grins, says, She'll be awake
when you take it all off again.
Okay, yeah, the thought of that cheers Dean up.
--
There's a close call when a cop drives past the entrance to the subdivision
just as Sam and Dean are approaching through the bushes, Lynn over Dean's
shoulder and throwing him dangerously off-balance at the sudden stop. The car
slows down, a flashlight sweeps right over the fence in front of them, and Dean
holds his breath. He and Sam are wearing black and he got Lynn into a black
pair of leggings and a black hoodie, but she's blonde and starting to wake up -
- he can feel her eyelids fluttering, feel her lips moving behind the duct
tape.
The car stays there for a moment, one that stretches out in Dean's mind, ends
up with him and Sam getting caught, getting separated, torn apart and put in
the deepest, darkest cells the government can find. He doesn't even realise
he's trembling, vibrating with crystal-clear rage, until Sam puts a hand on his
shoulder, whispers, Calm down.
Dean does, tries, and once the car moves on, Dean lets out a breath as if he's
been punched in the stomach. He dumps Lynn to the ground, yanks Sam close and
holds him, inhales the smell of him. Can't lose you, he says. God, Sammy, I
can't.
You won't, Sam says, clinging back, drawing his nails down Dean's back deep
enough to settle Dean, reassure him that Sam's here, that Sam's not going
anywhere. And if they try, we'll just kill our way back to each other. You said
you wanted a challenge, that would definitely --
I take it back, Dean says, cutting Sam off. It was a stupid thing to say.
Sam stands there, lets Dean get his equilibrium back, and then asks, You want
me to go jump a car or d'you wanna?
Dean doesn't want to leave Sam alone or let Sam go off alone; he bites back the
urge to snap, to just give up on this and let it go. They bought groceries. Sam
has a plan. They've spent time getting this ready. He's not going to give in to
the fear.
Dean can steal a car faster than Sam but if Lynn regains consciousness, he
doesn't want Sam to have to take care of her. She's Dean's, at least until
she's dead, and Dean's going to carve every moment of infidelity, every lie,
every thought out of her body before she breathes her last. Sam's not slow, by
any means, and he could use the practice; Dean can let Sam out of his sight for
five minutes, he can.
You go, Dean says. I'll wait with her.
Sam doesn't question Dean, doesn't ask if Dean's sure, just gives Dean a kiss
and melts through the bushes, over the fence with his bag, moving like he's
nothing so much as a sliver of moonlight. Dean looks down at Lynn, kicks her in
the head again, knocks her deeper into unconsciousness, and waits.
--
It doesn't take Sam long at all; barely seems like three minutes before the
sound of an older engine slows down and idles right in front of the gates. Dean
picks up Lynn, half-jogs, skirting the lamplight as much as possible, and Sam's
got the back door open, ready for her. He raises an eyebrow when Dean slides in
next to her, rather than behind the wheel, but Sam's known how to drive for a
while now, even as short as he is, and knows better than to ask questions when
they're on the move, so he just gets back in the driver's seat, closes the
door, and says, Tell me where.
Left at the stop sign, Dean says. Then out past the old gas station, a right at
the county line, and you'll see the trees.
Sam follows directions, gets them into the cover of the grove with the
headlights and engine cut off, no one around. He gets out, opens Dean's door,
and is nearly bouncing on his feet as he says, Okay, come on, we're wasting
night.
Dean laughs, can't help it, and the two of them wrangle Lynn inside, get her
set up on the tarp, use chains around her wrists and attach them to hooks on
the walls meant for horses or cows, probably, cut off the tape around her
ankles and rip off the tape covering her mouth. By the time they've got her
ready and the tools spread out, she's groaning, tugging a little on the chains.
"Wake up, wake up, little birdy," Dean sings, crouching at her side, drawing
the tip of a scalpel down her cheek. "It's time to play."
"M'head," Lynn groans. "Hurts."
Dean chuckles, says, "Gonna forget about that headache real soon, little bird.
Now come on, open those pretty grey eyes for me." He waits; when she doesn't
open her eyes, Dean clucks his tongue, says, "Don't be rude, Mrs. Mallory."
That gets her attention. Her eyelids fly open, pupils the same size,
contracting in the light like normal. No concussion, then, that's good. "Who,"
she asks, shakily, weakly, as she first sees Dean, then Sam, takes in the barn.
She tugs at her hands, looks up and sees them chained to the wall, and gets a
little more frantic. She kicks out but Sam's too far away and Dean saw it
coming.
You gonna let her tire herself out? Sam asks.
Just a little, Dean says. It'll be more fun to work her up again that way.
Sam laughs and Lynn freezes, seemingly scared of the noise. Dean doesn't know
why; he loves the sound of Sam's laugh, can't help but feel at home every time
he hears it.
"You know why we're doing this?" Dean asks. He waits for an answer, shakes his
head and taps the scalpel against her neck when she doesn't reply, staring at
him, eyes wide and welling over with tears. "See, it was actually a giant
coincidence. We saw you at the mall today -- gosh, that was this afternoon,"
Dean says, as if he's surprised. "You've had quite a day between the shopping
and the dinner and the cheating. Did you get everything you wanted? From the
shopping, I mean, not the cheating. We all know how that ended."
"Please," she says. "Please, don't, I can -- my husband's rich, we can pay you,
whatever you want."
Dean rocks back on his heels. Well, Sam, the lady offered us whatever we want.
What d'you think?
She looks between them, as if she can't even tell what they're saying, what
they're talking about, like they went to all this trouble and might actually,
seriously, think about letting her go. Sam ruins that, though, in two words
delivered so coldly, so dispassionately, that Lynn starts sobbing almost
immediately.
Not interested.
Was kinda hoping you'd say that, Dean tells him, before he puts the scalpel
across Lynn's mouth and sits on her thighs to keep her from kicking. "Shh,
little bird. Trust me, you don't want to waste all your energy this early."
Dean plays with the zipper on Lynn's hoodie, says. "Caught you fucking in the
living room," pulling the zipper down an inch. "You should be glad we dressed
you before we took you out of the house. What would your neighbours have
thought, I wonder? Do they all know you're having an affair? It's going to kill
Doug when he finds out."
Lynn wrenches on the chains, bucks underneath him, spits in Dean's face. "You
fucking kid, you think you know anything about me? What, you've been stalking
me, figured you have the right to judge me? You don't know anything, you
fucking asshole."
"Language," Dean tells her, and yanks the zipper down all the way. "And you're
lucky I'm not into you or I'd fuck you in the ass just for that, but as it
happens, I'm strictly Sam-sexual." Lynn stops struggling just long enough to
shoot Dean an incredulous look. Dean grins, gestures at Sam, says, "Lynn, meet
Sam."
"He can't be more ten," Lynn says, starts fighting again. "You're a fucking
pedophile. There's no way he's old enough to -- you talk about me but you're
the rapist. You're the one who's raping children. C'mon, kid -- Sam. Knock him
out and get these chains off of me; we can report him, get you some help, get
you away from him."
Sam steps forward and Lynn looks hopeful for two seconds before Sam stops next
to Dean, close enough to run one hand over Dean's head, settle at the nape of
his neck. "Dean would never do anything to me that I didn't want," he says, and
the faith in that, the absolute trust Sam has as he says it, fills Dean with
the kind of love only Sam will ever get, the kind of love that would do
anything and everything to earn that faith, repay that trust. "I mean, he's my
big brother. He takes care of me. And I'm eleven, thank you very much. Besides,
it's not really our sex lives you should be worried about right now. It's the
fact that we're actually serial killers and when you're dead, we're gonna cut
you up and take you home to eat you."
Lynn stares, fight starting to drain from her eyes at such a clear explanation
from such a young child. It amuses Dean how much people assume about Sam based
on his height, on the halo of curls his hair makes around his head, the
cherubic baby fat still clinging defiantly to Sam's cheeks, the angelic smile
he can wear and the warmth he can push into his eyes.
"You said -- you're eleven," she says, weakly, half a question. "What're -
- you're monsters, both of you."
You a monster, Dean? Sam asks.
Dean shrugs one shoulder. We kill the monsters and we're still alive, so -
- guess not. Besides, if we were really that bad, Dad would do it or he'd get
someone else to do it. Man's never hesitated to kill a freak since the day he
started hunting.
Sam thinks that over for a second, nods. Yeah, guess you're right. Cool. Not
monsters.
Lynn looks between them, gapes.
--
Sam finds a stool, pulls it about twenty feet away and sits down, watching with
eager eyes and his elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his palms. Dean starts
to cut off the hoodie with a pair of kitchen shears, doing it slow, thin ribbon
by thin ribbon, letting the shears pause over her nipples, her neck, the curve
of her breasts. She's still sobbing when Dean does the same to the leggings,
starting at the feet and drawing it out as long as he can, cutting sections
first to the knee, then mid-thigh, then down from her hips.
The tears are annoying but the begging is worse, once Dean picks up a couple
good, sharp knives, and starts slicing her skin to mirror the zipper, the seams
of her ruined clothes. He pries open her mouth and looks consideringly at her
tongue.
Cut that one clean, if you're gonna take it out, Sam calls out. I have plans
for her tongue.
Aw, Sammy, Dean says, taking his eyes off of Lynn long enough to shoot his
brother a wide, brilliant smile. Gettin' me all tingly over here.
Sam snorts but doesn't say anything else. Dean's smile softens and he leans
forward, asks Lynn, "You see why I love him, right? Why he's the only for me?
Shame you made that promise to your husband and didn't even have the courtesy
to get a divorce before breaking it."
Lynn cries, silent crocodile tears and snot running down her face. Dean's
careful when he cuts her tongue out at the root and doesn't punish her for
trying to bite him while he's working. Sam's there with a baggie when Dean's
done, and he bends down, gives Dean an open-mouthed kiss once Dean's dropped
the tongue into the baggie and sealed it.
Perfect, Sam says.
What, you or the tongue? Dean replies.
Sam laughs. Your tongue, he says, and squeaks when Dean pinches his ass.
--
Dean kind of goes a little crazy after that. The ruined, gaping maw of her
mouth spurs him on, the scent of her fear and despair pushing him deeper and
deeper into the kill. He cuts her, slices her everywhere, scoops out her eyes
and pulls out her teeth and mutilates her nipples and cuts off her clit. He
stabs the sharpest scalpel they own through every one of her nails, as deep
into the nail-bed as he can push, saws off her ears, carves her nasal septum
away and then each of her fingers and toes, knuckle-by-knuckle.
There's blood, so many wounds and amputated limbs, pieces of Lynn scattered on
the tarp around them. He hasn't cut into her skin too deep, has held onto
enough of himself to keep from ruining any of the organs inside, but he wants
more, needs more, needs to see the life leave her eyes the same way any hope of
survival did.
WIth a snarl, Dean slices her throat in one long, deep stroke, and when the
blood comes spraying out, he lets it cover him, carve out tracks on his face
and flirt with his lips before he licks it up, eyes closing at the taste, the
feel, the smell -- the kill.
--
'Kay, Dean says, once he's come back to himself, breathing back to normal. What
stuff?
Sam's at his side, holding a baggie open under Lynn's neck to catch what blood
is still trickling out. Lungs, heart, liver, he says. Leg bones and kidneys; we
got the tongue already. And as much blood as we can salvage.
Sammy, Dean says, smile bright and beaming, you know I love you, right?
Sap, Sam replies, taking the baggie away now that the blood's stopped weeping
from her neck, has slowed down to droplets. He kneels by the body and is
cutting it open to get to the organs in seconds, fingertips sweeping lightly
across Dean's work before he pries open the chest.
Dean grabs the coolers, pulls them over, and kneels on the other side of the
body. Bitch, he says, but he says it quietly, reverently, as his hands slide
into the corpse, knuckles bumping Sam's as he helps Sam cut through veins and
muscles. There's nothing in the world like having him and Sam leaning over the
same body, dripping with the mess of torture, digging in and touching each
other as their fingers are surrounded by blood and viscera and death.
Sam looks at Dean, shakes his head to get his bangs out of his eyes, and Dean
knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sam loves this too. It's more than the
slight smile, more than the happiness shining out of Sam's eyes like a flare in
the dark, more than the way Sam cuts the corpse apart with quick, clean
movements that speak of precision and adoration. It's the way Sam's so perfect
-- perfect for Dean like they were handmade for each other, especially when Sam
packs the liver in saran-wrap and sets it in a cooler before he licks up the
mess on his hands, leans over the body and kisses Dean soft and warm, someone
else's blood in his mouth.
Dean groans, has one hand tangled in Sam's hair before he remembers he's just
been elbow-deep in a dead woman's chest, and he opens his eyes, looks at Sam,
takes in the streaks of blood in Sam's hair and the way it gleams in the dim
light of the barn. God, he breathes out.
No, Sam says, in that strange tone of voice he gets every once in awhile, the
one that gives Dean shivers and goosebumps with want so intense he nearly
shatters apart just from hearing it. But close. Sam stops there and it's a
handful of seconds before he blinks, shakes his head, says, We should hurry
before this starts to go bad.
Right, Dean says. He shifts on his knees, bites back the urge to jack off, and
mutters, Shit, little brother.
Sam laughs, says, Your fault, y'know. You take back the age limit, we can fuck
right here, right now.
There's half a challenge in Sam's eyes, the mocking yet desperately hungry look
he gets when he makes fun of Dean for standing firm on this one, particular
thing, and Dean narrows his eyes, says, Pushin' the limits of what I can take,
Sammy.
For a moment, Dean can see Sam think about it, think about goading Dean into
going wild again, into giving in to the itch that just wants to take and take
and take. Dean doesn't know if he wants Sam to or not, he's hard as diamond and
wants nothing more than to drive his dick as far into Sam's body as it'll go,
but this is Sam's move now.
Sam weighs the options, takes his time doing it, but then softens his face,
gives Dean a sheepish smile, says, Sorry.
Dean's not sure whether he should feel disappointed or relieved, so he settles
for both and thinks about coming over Sam's dick and then licking up his mess,
sucking Sam's cock until Sam's begging for release -- and then just a little
bit more. Sounds like a good way to spend the night.
--
Dean wakes up the next morning, rolls over to tug Sam close, maybe rub off on
him or see if Sam's awake enough to suck Dean's cock or fuck him. Sam's not
there, though; Dean's hand lands on sheets that aren't even warm anymore. He
sits up immediately, half in a panic, but soon hears noises coming from the
kitchen that he doesn't think a burglar would be making: pots and pans clanging
while other things sizzle on the stove, the smell of fresh citrus and warm
bread. Dean rubs his eyes, gets out of bed with a muffled curse as his big toe
pops, and scratches his balls as he pads down the hallway and into the kitchen.
He's greeted by an odd sight: Sam in the middle of the kitchen, dancing along
to whatever he's listening to in his headphones, wooden spoon in one hand,
filet knife in the other, apparently conducting whatever's happening on the
stove. He's naked, of course, and Dean thinks of reminding his little brother
about hot oil splatters but figures there are some lessons a person needs to
learn for themselves.
Sam tilts his head, then turns around, beams when he sees Dean. I didn't wake
you up, did I?
Wouldn't care even if you had, Dean says. What's cooking?
Breakfast, Sam says, and gestures with the utensils in his hands, shooing Dean
away. So go jerk off in the living room or something until it's ready. I'll
bring it out to you.
It's not that Dean doesn't think Sam can cook -- he's made sure Sam can take
care of himself -- it's just that Dean can see the cookbook propped open on the
ledge above the sink and from what he can make out, whatever Sam's trying to
make seems pretty fucking complicated. Dean has the feeling that this is
supposed to be a present for him, Christmas or otherwise, and he doesn't want
Sam to freak out if one or two things don't go according to Sam's plans. Sam
always gets a little snippy when things don't go the way he wants.
Dean, Sam says. Seriously. It'll be fine. Please -- please let me do this for
you, please don't ask me to stop, please don't doubt how much I love you.
Faced with a request like that, Dean can't do much but go as he's been
directed. He sprawls on the living room couch, turns on the tv and cycles
through a few game shows, talk shows, and infomercials before he turns it back
off and lets the sounds of Sam's cooking send him back to sleep.
--
The first thing Dean notices is the lack of noise; he'd fallen asleep to
sizzling and chopping, even the half-aware noises of Sam singing along to -
- something -- and now there's nothing save the faint noises of bubbling and
boiling in the kitchen. He opens his eyes, sees Sam standing above him, tray in
his hands, soft, fond smile on his face. Hey, Dean says, voice husky enough to
make him clear his throat next, try again. Breakfast?
Breakfast, Sam says, and as soon as Dean sits up, yawns obnoxiously once and
settles, Sam hands over the tray.
Tell me what I'm looking at? Dean asks, because holy fuck, the shit on this
tray looks fucking gourmet, one of those meals you'd get at a restaurant that
you'd pay a hundred bucks for and end up with one bite of food and some weird
sauce dripped around the plate.
Sam perches next to Dean, rubs his cheek on Dean's shoulder before he starts
pointing at things on the tray and naming them. Blood pudding, seared heart
with warm apple compote, roasted marrow spread on fresh bread, fruit salad,
coffee.
Dean pokes at the fruit salad, gives the pineapple and papaya a skeptical look.
Tryin' to poison me here, Sammy? Fruit?
Don't even pretend you don't like it, Sam says, elbowing Dean in the ribs -
- thankfully gently. You're the one that threw them in the cart when I wasn't
looking. Forgive me if I thought that meant you'd like to eat them.
Yeah, yeah, Dean grumps. Got a reputation to uphold. Serial killers and
cannibals, eatingfruit saladfor breakfast. What's the world coming to. Ignoring
the fruit for now, Dean cuts off a bite of the blood pudding -- looks more like
sausage patties than anything, but he's not about to argue the name with Sam -
- and smells it, has to inhale twice because the first sniff isn't nearly
enough, the smell of blood and oats, dark with onions and earthy spices, cumin
and rosemary.
Hoping the taste is even half as good as the smell, Dean takes his first bite
and instantly falls in love, eyes rolling back in his head and eyelids closing
outside of his control. Fucking hell, Dean says, once he's chewed the bite to
liquid, swallowed and felt the warmth of it slide down his throat. You get to
cook from now on. Everything. Jesus, Sam.
Sam shifts, asks, You like it, then? as if he hasn't seen the way Dean's
attacking the rest of the pudding, barely civilised enough to eat it with knife
and fork when he wants to pick it up with his hands and shove it in his face.
It's okay?
Dean scarfs down the last bite, says, Please tell me there's more of that.
Yeah, Sam says, squirming a little with happiness. But you can't have any more
or you'll spoil your appetite for lunch.
You have got to be, Dean starts to say, then meets Sam's eyes and sighs. Sam
might only be eleven but he's got the steel-firm look of a man eight times his
age; Dean's never been able to argue with that look when he's wearing it, never
really wants to. Okay,fine. But how long do I have to wait for lunch?
Sam glances at the clock above the television, thinks for a second, then says,
Noon.
Dean groans, thunks his head back on the couch while being careful not to
jostle the tray, and says, Seriously? Noon?
You've been saying you wanted to get some stuff done around the house, Sam
says. I'll let you turn up your music loud enough for the whole neighbourhood
to hear.
As far as bribes go, that's pretty decent, and Dean had wanted to take a look
at some of the windows, maybe rig a way to keep the wind out now that winter's
hit for real. There's the garage to clean up, too, and how he'll want to give
the Impala an oil change when Dad brings her back, maybe see if he has time to
replace the spark plugs. He needs to go through the things Sam lifted last
night, too, and he should probably get Lynn's jewellery ready to pawn.
Zeppelin, Dean offers, because that's the one band they can both agree on
wholeheartedly.
Perfect, Sam says. He leans over, kisses Dean on the cheek, says, Finish your
breakfast, and scampers back into the kitchen before Dean has the chance to
come up with any kind of witty response.
--
The marrow spread is just as good as the pudding, meaty taste of bones roasted
with fat still on them, seasoned with pepper and garlic and the salty taste of
-- come? Maybe the faintest hint of come, or Dean could be imagining it, mind
pulling up flavours of things he really wants to be tasting, eating; jesus, he
can't wait for Sam to hit puberty. The toast is fresh, too, bread made this
morning, by the taste of it, with spices baked in to give it the warm, herb-
green taste of parsley and oregano and rosemary.
Dean pokes at the slices of heart, a little skeptical at the sight of them
because they look just like pan-seared pork steaks, smell sort of like it, too,
under the cinnamon-honey tang of the apple compote. The surface is crusted on
every side with sea salt and cracked peppercorn; when Dean cuts the first piece
open, the inside is rare, leaks pink juice onto the plate and sends the warm
smell of meat into the air.
Okay, Dean calls out, once he's eaten the first bite of heart and is staring at
the plate. Seriously. Why didn't we try this before? Christ, this shit's
fucking awesome.
Sam's head pops around the wall, the smile on his face blinding. Don't get used
to it, Sam says. Special occasions only. Dean's nodding frantically even as
he's cutting the rest of the heart up, stuffing it into his mouth faster than
is probably healthy. Good, Sam says, and disappears again.
--
Dean cleans his plate, even eats the fruit salad with a smile on his face.
--
He putters around the house the rest of the morning, tries to ignore the noises
coming from the kitchen and mostly succeeds. Dean does try sneaking a taste
when Sam takes a bathroom break but Sam yells I know what you're doing, jerk
just about the moment Dean's got a wooden spoon of broth halfway to his mouth.
Put the fucking spoon down.
Dean eyes the spoon, thinks about not listening, but Sam's doing this for him,
has been up and in the kitchen today for god knows how long, so Dean sighs,
puts the spoon down.
Thank you, Sam murmurs, and Dean turns, gathers Sam up in his arms and peppers
kisses all over Sam's face. Hey!
Gettin' hungry, Dean says, nibbles on Sam's neck. If I can't eat the food yet,
might as well eat you.
Sam wriggles, gets out of Dean's hold but doesn't go far, just takes a couple
steps backwards and jumps to sit on the kitchen table, legs spread. Eat me
oreatme? Sam asks.
It takes Dean a second to follow but then he groans, looks up at the ceiling.
It was a joke, he knows, and a bad one at that, but the thought of eating Sam,
eating his Sam, is -- uncomfortable. Oh, Dean has no doubt that his brother's
delicious, he's bitten enough of Sam's skin and licked up enough of Sam's blood
to know that, and to have Sam like that, eat him up and keep him forever, a
part of Dean that will always be there, be safe, it's tempting. But the other
side of that is Sam less than whole, maybe even dead, and all because of Dean.
That will -- he'll never allow that to happen. No, Sam's going to stay alive
forever, Dean will do whatever it takes to make sure of it, and he'll stay
alive, too, because he won't ever leave Sam alone.
Thinking too hard, Sam says. Want me to bleed in the soup? Or are you thinking
about a little more? I could probably do without a toe or two. We'll have to
negotiate for anything bigger.
Dean gets to Sam, stands between Sam's spread legs and clings to his brother.
Don't even joke about that, he says, as Sam hooks his feet behind Dean's legs,
wrap his arms around Dean's waist and gives in, entirely, to the hug. Don't -
- no, Sam. No.
Sam glides one hand over the curve of Dean's skull, digs in his nails with just
enough force to make sure Dean feels it without bleeding. Okay, Sam says, light
and easy. No joking about it. He pauses, then adds, carefully, What about the
other kind of eating? Lunch has a while to simmer before I need to do anything
with it. We have time to fuck if you wanna.
If I wanna, Dean echoes, snorting. He loosens his grip on Sam just enough to
lean back, look Sam in the eyes. When don't I want to? When do either of us not
want to?
Stupid question, Sam says, smiling before his tongue darts out, touches the tip
of Dean's nose. But you didn't answer.
Dean scoffs, wipes spit off his nose and smears it down Sam's cheek, instead.
'Course I wanna, doofus.
Idiot.
Bitch.
Jerk.
Shrimp.
Want me to suck you?
Dean blinks, the question stopping him mid-retort. Yeah, he says. When don't I
want you to -- if I ever answer that question with a 'no,' Sam, it's not me.
Got it?
Sam laughs, unhooks himself from Dean and hops down from the table, holds out a
hand. Got it. Now come on, gotta get my mouth on you. 'M hungry.
Dean thinks about teasing but decides that he better not, not if he actually
wants Sam to go through with this instead of leaving him to jerk off by
himself. He takes Sam's hand, lets Sam tug him back to the bedroom.
--
Lunch is at noon on the dot. Sam brings Dean a tray again, this time to the
bed; Dean's blissed out on sex and Sam and more sex and Sam and his legs are
still a little shaky, his head too pleasure-light to focus enough on movement.
Sam looks proud of himself when he settles next to Dean, crosses his legs.
That for the food or for the fact that you sucked my brains out through my dick
and then broke my spine with your fingers up my ass? Dean asks, can't resist.
Both, Sam says, and when he leans in to kiss Dean, he tastes of Dean and smells
of blood. It's heady, addictive, always has been and always will. Okay, I want
you to try this and tell me what you think.
Dean looks down at the tray, to the steaming bowl of what looks like stew. He
picks up the spoon, gives the stew a stir, takes in bacon and mushrooms and
onions and carrots, asks, What's the meat?
Lung, Sam says. Lung stew. I put a little blood in there too to thicken the
sauce. Turns out that works just as good as cornstarch or flour.
Lung, huh, Dean says, pokes at one of the pieces and then fills his spoon with
lung and broth. It smells good, rich and thick, faintest tang of alcohol as
well, and the flavour is simple when it hits Dean's tongue but delicious. He
takes another bite, this time getting some of the vegetables as well, and he
can feel it warm him down to his toes when he swallows. Might have to remember
this one when we get sick, he says. Feels like goddamned chicken soup.
Sam smiles, leans on Dean, head on Dean's shoulder. I'll show you the recipe,
he says. The lungs were a bitch to work with, though. We'd have to
bereallysick.
Dean picks up one of the croutons in his other hand, looks like the same bread
from this morning, now in long, toasted and dried-out slices, and dips it into
the stew, lets the broth soften the bread, then shoves the whole thing in his
mouth. The bread practically dissolves on his tongue and dissipates like
cotton-candy; Dean groans around the taste of it. Jesus, Sam, he says. Where've
you been hiding this?
Well, Sam says, sounds a little sheepish. It's just a recipe; I can follow
directions when I want to. I've been planning this out for a while, too. And
y'know, I've been watching you cook for years. Speaking of which, he says, tone
changing, eyes narrowing the slightest bit, this shit is fucking exhausting,
Dean. Why didn't you ever tell me? I could've helped.
Didn't need to, Dean replies. I don't make anything half as involved as this
probably way. Besides, I like it. Like cooking for you. Without it, without
Dean, Sam would've starved to death a long time ago. There's something heady
about knowing that Dean is keeping Sam alive, something precious about knowing
that Dean is the one person on the planet that Sam trusts with his continued
existence.
It's like Sam can read the paths of Dean's thoughts; he full-on snuggles into
Dean, tucking himself under Dean's arm, all that naked skin pressed up against
Dean. I appreciate it, Sam says, softly. More now than ever, but I always have.
I've never taken it for granted.
Dean nuzzles Sam's hair, says, I know you haven't. He lets the moment rest for
a little bit, enjoys the feeling of Sam close to him, of their minds and bodies
in sync, and then says, I'm gonna fuckingchugthis stew, Sam.
Sam laughs, says, Don't forget to eat your vegetables, and leaves a kiss on
Dean's shoulder, a kiss with the slightest hint of teeth. I gotta go check on
dinner. He gets up, leaves the bedroom and disappears around the corner. Dean
sinks back into the pillows.
One of these days, Sam is gonna fucking kill him.
--
'Vegetables' turns out to be some kind of stir-fry, peppers in three different
colours and fresh green beans and onion and broccoli and bacon. It tastes odd -
- not bad, but other than Dean had expected, and it takes him a few minutes
before he realises what the difference is. Sam sauteed everything in fat -
- human fat. This is better than bacon grease, holy shit. Dean's immediately
thinking of how it might change the taste of a roux, how human grease would
affect gumbo or mac-and-cheese or just fucking pan-fried chicken.
We got more of the fat? he calls out.
Leftovers of everything, Sam yells back. Enough to feed us the rest of the
week, almost.
Thank god.
--
Dean sits in the kitchen the whole afternoon, pries diamonds out of earring
settings, divides the rest of the jewellery into piles for different pawn
shops, sharpens knives, goes through the odds and ends Sam picked up last
night, and tries not to watch his brother cook. It's difficult, a little
because Sam's naked and that's always distracting, a lot because it's Sam, and
some because he's only ever seen his brother like this when they're cutting
people apart. There's something clinical about the way Sam cooks, everything in
some kind of order that only Sam knows, a specific pattern and system of doing
things. Dean doesn't cook like that, never has, and he thinks that this, along
with how they kill, demonstrates the differences between them: Dean revelling
in the journey, putting himself wholeheartedly into getting messy, getting grit
under his fingernails and all over his face, and Sam so precise, so
meticulously controlled, always a step back from giving in completely.
He's not supposed to be watching, though, so he ducks his head down every time
Sam looks like he's about to turn, focuses on the knives. They've been needing
a good sharpening lately, even more after yesterday.
Not fooling anyone, y'know, Sam says at one point, the sun setting into
twilight outside, Sam bending down to poke at something in the oven.
Dean's eyes have been glued to Sam's ass and he jumps at Sam's words. Not
tryin' to, Dean says, playing off the startlement. Dunno what you're talking
about.
Sam snorts, says, Sure, you don't, and stands up again, closes the oven door
and fiddles with the temperature gauge before he turns around and leans against
it, soaking up the heat like a cat might. Been sittin' there watchin' me all
afternoon.
And if I was? Dean asks, half a challenge but no admission of guilt.
I wouldn't care, Sam says, smile playing at his lips. I mean, s'not like I
don't do the same thing; we both do. You think I mind that you can't keep your
eyes off me?
Dean grins, sets down the whetstone and leans back in his chair. Wanna keep
more than just my eyes on you, Dean says, and makes a show of looking Sam up
and down, head to toe and back again, slow, assessing. Few more months and then
I'll keepinyou, too.
Sam's eyebrows furrow, just for a moment and just enough for Dean to notice. He
can tell what Sam's thinking -- that Sam wants to say waiting is pointless,
that Sam wants to challenge Dean's unshakeable determination yet again now that
Dean's not so much on the edge, that Sam's thinking of Dean inside of him, more
than just his tongue or fingers. Dean waits, curious to see how Sam responds,
and is a little surprised when Sam just says, thoughtful, like he hasn't
considered the idea before, We're going to need to get some plugs, aren't we.
Yeah. Huh.
Jesus fucking christ, the kid's trying to kill him.
Might be a good birthday present, Dean suggests, lightly. I want something good
this year; a man only turns sixteen once.
Man? Sam asks. Really?
Dean gets up, prowls to Sam, presses the length of his body against all of
Sam's naked, hot skin, hands squeezing Sam's ass. Really, he says. I provide
for you, take care of you, fuck you. What else is there?
A thought runs through Sam's mind; Dean can see the flash of it, the split-
second of consideration, but before he can ask, Sam says, Fine, with a put-upon
sigh. Man. Just don't get stupid about it.
Ain't never gonna happen, Dean says, and when Sam raises an eyebrow in
question, he says, No one else is lucky enough to have you. If there's one
thing in the world I can count on, it's that you won't ever let me get stupid.
That the only thing? Sam asks, and he rubs against Dean, slots a thigh between
Dean's legs.
Dean laughs, can't help it. You little slut. Seriously?
Sam pouts and Dean wants so badly to lean down, kiss that pout right off Sam's
lips, leave Sam grinning mindlessly. You got off three times before lunch, Sam
says. Think it's my turn. Food'll wait.
Mindless grinning sounds about right, especially because that kind of mindless
grinning is guaranteed to shut Sam up for at least five minutes. You're sure
about the food? Dean asks. He knows how much this day's meant to Sam, wouldn't
want to ruin it for something they have decades of time for, will probably
spend decades of time doing.
Positive, Sam says. He cocks his head to the side, looks up at Dean through his
eyelashes, says, coquettishly, Please fuck me, Dean, please?
Beg so pretty, Dean growls, picks Sam up and carries him to the living room,
spreads him out on the floor and kneels between Sam's legs. Beg, Sam. Wanna
hear you, hear it. Beg for me.
Sam does not disappoint.
--
Needless to say, dinner's pushed back a bit. Dean worries for a moment that
Sam's going to be pissed his timetable got fucked with, but Sam's practically
waltzing around the kitchen as he puts dishes and pans on the counter, gives
one or two things a quick sear in the cast-iron skillet, plates things up.
Dean's not gonna ask or apologise, not when Sam looks as happy as he ever gets
outside of bed, but he does give Sam an apologetic look when Sam turns,
question in his eyes as if he's sensed Dean's guilt but doesn't know where it
came from.
Starving, Dean says, an implicit request for Sam to leave it.
Not my fault it's late, Sam says, but there's laughter in his tone, nothing but
fucked-out satisfaction.
Dean lets out a laugh, doesn't push the issue. So, chef. You gonna tell me what
I'm eating before I eat it or are you gonna make me try it out first?
Sam brings over two plates, both of them steaming, and sets them down in front
of Dean. One has what looks like thinly-sliced steak on it, with a big spoonful
of lentils and cherry tomatoes, the other is pasta, tossed in spinach and what
Dean's guessing is olive oil, some meat-and-tomato sauce on top.
Thank god you're only giving me small servings, Dean says, or I would've put
on, like, thirty pounds today.
Probably burned off all the calories fucking, Sam points out, and Dean grins at
the reminder of how they've spent a good portion of their day, can't help it.
Oh, for -- just try the food.
Dean goes for the pasta first, wraps linguini around his fork and stabs a bit
of the meat and sauce, smells it before he eats. Garlic, a little flour, more
hints of that rendered fat, the outside texture similar to the heart earlier
but a different taste, sweeter, almost, soft and creamy to the point of melting
in Dean's mouth. He hums, goes for another bite, savours the way everything
goes together: al dente pasta a good match to the softness of the meat and
stewed tomatoes and wilting spinach; tomatoes a good, sharp bite of acid
against the creaminess of the meat and the fat -- not olive oil -- clinging to
the pasta; that fucking meat.
He looks up at Sam who merely nods at the other plate, though he does look
pleased, standing on the other side of the table with his arms folded across
his chest. Dean rolls his eyes but does as directed, cutting a bite of the
thin, crispy meat and tasting it. Thick, firm, but not tough, and Dean's
getting the distinct taste of fat and red wine. He wants answers but knows Sam
won't be satisfied until he's tried everything, so Dean gets a bit of the
lentil salad on his fork, shoves it in his mouth. He'd thought it was going to
be cold but it's warm as well, the tomatoes bursting on his tongue, bringing
out the faintest hint of blood.
Dean swallows, thinks that as much as he likes Sam's cooking, it's going to
have to be for special occasions only or otherwise he's going to get spoiled.
Okay, he says. Tell me.
Liver florentine, with linguini tossed in fat, Sam says, and tongue, marinated
in wine and fat most of the day before pan-searing it until crispy, with warm
lentil salad, tomatoes roasted in the hollowed-out bones, and a light sauce of
red wine and blood. Dean shakes his head, can't believe it, and Sam asks,
hesitant, It's okay?
Sam, Dean says. Do you really have to -- this is all fucking amazing. I can't
believe you did this all in a day, that's nuts. And are you serious, there
arerecipesfor this?
Sam smiles, a line of tension leaving his shoulders in the face of Dean's
praise. Recipes for beef and lamb organs, really, but I improvised, Sam
replies. I'm glad you -- eat up, there's dessert.
Dean blinks, can't do more than that, and then he realises, eyes narrowing. You
found a recipe for that thing in the Hannibal books, didn't you.
Sanguinaccio dolce, Sam says with a nod. And I've tasted it and it's unreal;
you're gonna love it.
Love all of it, Dean says, and he pretends not to see the way Sam's eyes go
soft, the way Sam's smile lights up the room, as Sam turns around and starts to
clean up.
--
As much as Dean's looking forward to dessert, he's not about to rush through
dinner. He takes his time, relishes every single bite, catalogues the tastes,
tries to think of how he can do anything half as good with beef or chicken and
comes up wanting. By the time he's done, the kitchen's spotless; Dean hates to
think of how many dishes Sam's washed today, cleaning up as he went along,
knowing that they don't have many things to begin with. There's a fridge full
of leftovers, though, and a jar of fat slowly setting on the counter, and Sam's
sliding a bowl of pudding right under Dean's eager face.
Blood and chocolate, Sam says, and you will never want anything else for
dessert ever again.
But pie, Dean says, and he's gonna hold firm to that forever because nothing
beats a good pie, but then the first hit of sanguinaccio gets into him and
Dean's resolution is swept away like dust in a hurricane. Sweet, slightly
metallic, the touch of iron that Dean instantly recognises as blood, bitter
chocolate turned rich with cream and sugar, it all melts together and Dean's
not ashamed to admit that this pudding is actually, literally, sexually
arousing him. Fuck.
Sam laughs, seeing Dean shift in his chair, adjust himself in his pyjama pants.
Easiest thing in the world to make, too, he says. Tell you what: I'll make it
for you anytime you want it as long as you bring me the ingredients.
Deal, Dean says, instantly, completely unwilling to ignore that offer. Blood I
can do. The organs.
He stops there but Sam finishes his thought, says, Need to be taken out
carefully, which means less mess, which means less fun, I know. But blood's all
right.
Dean scoffs, says, More than fucking all right, and doesn't say another word
until after his second helping of sanguinaccio.
--
They go to bed early, naked and curled together, smelling of meat and blood and
sweat and sex, the day's food and activities following them, lingering on them.
Sam falls asleep quick, exhausted after a long day of cooking, and the light
whuffs of his breath on Dean's chest keep a steady rhythm as Dean trails his
hand through Sam's hair.
He never thought he'd see the day when Sam turned into a five-star gourmet
chef, but it's come and gone, his little brother a better cook at eleven than
most people ever dream of becoming. It's a surprise, sort of, but not really,
because Sam's amazing, can do anything he puts his mind towards and why should
this be an exception. He wonders, idly, if Sam's going to be disappointed with
what Dean offers him now, all the normal shit that Dean's been feeding him for
years, and Dean floats in that fear before he shakes it off. People go out for
fancy dinners on their birthdays and for big holidays all the time; Sam brought
that home for Dean, fed Dean life and love, took the usual end-product of their
killing and turned it into something magical. Fancy's good once in awhile but
not every day, which will make every time Sam gets it in his head to cook
special, important.
Sam is perfect, knows how Dean feels about cooking, about feeding Sam, showing
Sam that he needs Sam, and Sam's gift of unparalleled trust is the same in
reverse, showing Dean that Sam needs him, that Sam will never need anyone in
his life, for his life, as he needs Dean. Such a complex thing, food, even
though most people will probably never think of it the way they do, something
intrinsic to their survival that proves, once more, how much they need each
other, belong to each other, love each other, want each other, can't live
without each other.
Dean smiles into Sam's hair, inhales deep, and closes his eyes. He's going to
sleep well tonight.
End Notes
     I once swore I would never end up writing anything long for this
     'verse but here I am, a few weeks later, posting something that is
     *almost* bigbang length. *Facepalms* Fingers crossed you enjoyed it!
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