Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I can't control the pain. I can't control in vain.

Chapter 1

“Sam, we gotta talk.”

Sam’s hands are shaking so hard he has to ball them into fists. It doesn’t help. 

Dean doesn’t talk. They don’t talk at all, really. But especially after this. 

Sure, Dean talks during. But when it’s done and he shoves Sam away, it’s just roaring silence. 

Even Dean just saying his name was enough to have Sam trembling. 

They just don’t talk. 

Sam makes sure his clothes are all fully in place before he steps around Dean and drops into a chair. He’s tired. Even the rush of demon blood through him feels sluggish. There’s no lightning in his veins, just a mild buzz. Dean let him drink his fill this time, but his head is still hurting, his guts are still cramping. 

Dean dresses fully before tugging his chair back into place with his foot and collapsing into it with a groan. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Dean buries his face in his hands for most of those minutes. 

A thousand scenarios run through Sam’s head: Dean is dying. Dean is leaving. Sam is dying - he feels ill enough. Crowley found them. Cas found them. Bobby rose from the dead and is hammering down the door to the bunker. Drinking from Dean triggered apocalypse number who-freaking-knows and the four horsemen are resurrected and are coming with Lucifer, Michael, and the entire host of heaven to smite them.   

The longer he waits, the more outlandish his ideas become. But when Dean speaks, it doesn’t even come close to any of them. 

“How do you feel?” 

Sam can feel his brain bluescreen and then try to reboot. How does he feel? He just got raped (he thinks) by his brother and he got off on it. He fucked his brother until they both came and then drank his brother’s demon blood to get high. 

Is Dean possessed? Can you be possessed if you’re already a demon? 

“Seriously?” 

Dean looks at him, face soft and looking the closest to Sam’s Dean since Sam brought him home. 

“I was just raped by my brother, even though I fucked him, and then I drank his blood. I’m fucking peachy, Dean. How about you?” 

He knows his anger won’t last. It never does these days. But the idea of punching Dean out cold is tempting as all hell.

Dean flinches, pain passing over his face before he shuts down and his eyes go cold. 

Not black, though, Sam notes. 

“Just answer the fucking question, Sam.” 

It’s sharp, angry. More like the Dean from before than any of the Dean he’s seen since his brother's eyes turned black. 

“I feel like hell. Okay? Is that what you wanna hear? My head is pounding. I’m so full of blood I wanna throw up, but my stomach feels like there’s a ball of nails in it. I’m fucking sober!” 

Sam’s voice breaks on the last word, when he realises he is actually sober. For all he drank, he’s not even a little bit high. 

Fear trickles down his spine in icy little drops. He drank so much and there’s… nothing to show for it. Even the mild buzz is gone. 

He flicks his eyes to Dean, who’s watching him; green eyes filled with concern that has no business inside a demon. 

“Dean. Why am I sober?” 

He can’t breathe. The fear has turned to panic. 

“Dean !” 

His vision is greying out. He can’t breathe. 

Without the blood, he’ll go into withdrawal. He’ll detox. He’ll die. His body can’t survive another detox. He almost died last time. He’s dying now. He can’t breathe. He can’t feel his fingers, even though he knows they’re clenched around the arms of the chair. 

Dean’s face swims into his vision, blurry and grey. He feels something on his shoulder. 

“C’mon, Sam. Breathe. You’re okay.” 

Dean’s voice sounds like Sam is underwater. The something on his shoulder is moving in circles and Sam snaps. He jumps upright, distantly hearing the chair fall behind him. The something - Dean’s hand is Sam’s best guess - moves with him and keeps up the circles. 

“...okay, just breathe…” 

Sam shoves out his hands in the direction he thinks Dean is and connects with something solid. He presses his weight forwards, pushing Dean back and breaking the connection between them. 

“Don’t fucking touch me! You did this, you bastard. You got me hooked on your fucking blood. I was clean, Dean. I was fucking clean.”

He feels his throat tear on the last word. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears. The last thing Sam hears is Dean’s shout as his knees go out from under him. 

~~~

When Sam comes back to himself, the first thing he registers is the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Thick and coppery, coating his tongue and the back of his throat. He retches, his stomach contracting painfully. 

A bucket appears in his eyeline and he grabs it with both hands, seconds before his body purges everything in his stomach. His throat burns, clearly damaged from his shout earlier. 

By the time it’s finished, Sam is empty, physically and mentally. Utterly hollowed out. Like he threw up his soul into that bucket. He leans back, registering that he’s sat in Dean’s chair from earlier. He can see his, still tipped over. His face is wet, whether from sweat, tears, or both, he’s not sure.

Dean’s hand appears and takes the bucket from him, passing him a damp washcloth in exchange. He wipes his face, cleans up the various fluids, and tries to repress Dean’s cold voice from so many weeks ago. 

“Y’know, I think I preferred you before you cleaned up.”

“I like you a mess.” 

“Beautiful. But your tears won’t help.” 

“Such a beautiful mess.” 

He heaves but there is nothing left to bring up. Just cramps that burn and abs that ache. 

Dean reappears, freshly washed bucket in hand. Sam takes it, but drops it by his feet. Dean picks up the chair and drops heavily into it. He looks at Sam, but won’t meet his eye. 

“What is happening to you, Dean?” 

Sam’s voice is a hoarse whisper. It hurts to speak. 

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I don’t know. I just know I’m not a full demon anymore.” 

“That’s impossible. You either are or you aren’t. There’s no such thing as half a demon!” 

Sam’s voice rises at the end and he cuts himself off, bringing a hand up to massage his throat. 

“Well, you’re looking at the first ever one, then. I don’t know. I just know I’m weaker, my powers are weaker. My blood… it isn’t strong enough anymore.” 

Dean looks tired. Like he’s actually sleep deprived. Demons don’t sleep. 

It’s silent for a while, both of them lost in thoughts. 

“Why?” 

Dean looks up at Sam’s rasp. 

“Why what, Sam?” 

“Why drag me back into this and then try to cure yourself? Why doom us both? If you wanted me dead, a knife would have been quicker.” 

Dean gawps at him for a moment, confusion in every line of his face. 

“Wha… You think I did this?”

“Didn’t you?” 

Dean has the balls to look angry. Sam feels his own temper flare in response but it dies as fast as it ignites. 

“No! Christ no. If I’d wanted to be cured, I’d have let you complete the ritual. Fucking hell, Sam. I didn’t do this! I was happy as a demon! I didn’t want to be cured. I certainly didn’t want you dead.” 

The word ‘was’ hangs over them both. Past tense. Whatever has changed between then and now is probably due to Dean’s returning humanity. But it doesn’t answer the why.

“Coulda fooled me.” 

Dean has no response. 

Sam can hear his heart racing in his ears. There’s sweat on his temples again, dripping down the back of his neck. 

“I don’t suppose it really matters if you did this or not. It works out the same. I'll die either way.” 

Dean’s response is automatic. 

“You won’t die. I’ll find a way to save you.” 

Sam laughs. It stings in his throat. 

“Will you, Dean? Gonna find me a cushy rehab centre? Get me on a methadone program for demon blood? I don’t know if you noticed but I was pretty much dead after the last detox. It took me weeks to get back on my feet. And that was regular demon blood. What do you think coming off your blood will do to me?” 

“I’ll think of something, Sam.” 

Sam can’t help his eye roll. 

“Oh, of course. Here comes Dean to save the day. Of all the things you’ve had to fix, do you ever count how many of them only happened because you fucked them up in the first place?” 

Dean flinches in his chair and just for a second, his eyes flash empty black. 

“Guess your ‘half demon' side doesn’t like the truth, eh, Dean? You did this. You wanted me to go down with you. So you played on my addiction, hauled me off the wagon, and now you’re pissy that I’m pissed I’m going to die.” 

“Sam, I told-”

“Shut up. Just. Shut up. There is nothing you can say that I want to hear.”

Sam takes a deep breath, ready to sever this family tie and go hallucinate himself to death in peace. 

“You’ve taken everything from me. Every last thing. My body. My mind. My health. My sanity. My dignity. My self-respect. You wouldn’t let me help you and you couldn’t be damned alone. You fucking raped me. Or made me rape you. I don’t even know. I’ve given you everything I can. So you might as well enjoy taking my life, whether I want you to have it or not.” 

He stands, stumbling as his legs try to bear his weight.  

“You get to watch me go batshit insane and die. I hope it was worth it.” 

Sam turns towards the bedrooms and walks away, leaving Dean staring after him in shock. 

Chapter Text

No mercy, no remorse. Let nature take its course

Chapter 2

Dean aches with the need to help Sam. To put a cold washcloth on his head to cool him. Change the sheets where Sam has sweated through to the mattress. 

No matter what Sam says, when this is done, Dean is gonna torch that bed, mattress, and sheets. He’ll buy Sam something new, something fresh. Something clean. 

But Sam won’t let Dean help him. He shoves Dean’s hands away if Dean tries to cool him off. He fights himself upright to eat and drink without Dean’s help. 

Hell, he’ll piss in the sink in his room rather than ask Dean to help him to the bathroom. Dean doesn’t even want to know how he’s handling any other bathroom needs. But as it’s been days - almost a week now - since Sam ate anything and kept it down for more than an hour, Dean guesses that’s probably not a big issue for Sam right now. 

Every time Dean goes in with water, or less rarely now, food, he expects to find Sam being flung around the room by the demon blood or utterly comatose. He refuses to think about coming in to find Sam dead. That’s not an option. 

He’s sitting in the war room, just existing while the reel of ‘Dean’s Greatest Fuck Ups’ plays on a loop in his mind, when the first shout comes. He’s halfway down the corridor to Sam’s room before he even registers that he’s moved. He’s still faster than he was, the last bits of demon power hanging on. He’ll deal with getting rid of those once Sam is clean. 

The door to Sam’s room is open. Dean hasn’t been closing it, just to make sure he can hear Sam, and Sam is in no fit state to get up and do it himself. It slams back into the wall as Dean rushes through. 

Sam is still on the bed, thank god. He’s curled up tight in a ball, moaning through gritted teeth. He’s soaked through with sweat again, huge damp patches on his shirt. Dean can see the drops rolling down his temples. His arms are wrapped tight around his stomach, biceps bulging with the force. 

“Sam?” 

Dean has learned not to touch. There’s only so many times he can dodge a fist before he starts announcing himself before getting handsy. 

Sam doesn’t really move, but Dean can see his eyes lock onto Dean’s. Dean tries to look calm, to look like his heart isn’t trying to crawl out of his throat with fear. To give absolutely zero clue that his cock is chubbing up against his will at the sight of Sam so damn strung out and needy. 

“Dean?” 

Sam’s voice is still raspy. The skin around his eyes tightens, like it’s painful to speak. 

“I’m here, Sammy. I’m here.” 

Dean goes to stand by the bed, crouching down to be on eye level with Sam. He puts a hand on the mattress, an offering if Sam wants it. 

“Hurts. Hurts, Dean.” 

Dean grips the mattress and drops down onto his knees, hiding his lower body against the side of the bed. 

“I know. It’ll pass. Just gotta be strong for a little while.” 

He’s talking to Sam like he’s a kid again. Like this is just the flu or a stomach bug and Sam will be back on his feet in a day or so. It’s a testament to how out of it Sam is that he doesn’t tell Dean to go fuck himself. 

“Help me. Please, Dean.” 

Dean’s heart breaks a little bit more. Disgust hits the back of his throat and he swallows compulsively. Sam needs him now. He can lie in his pit of self-hatred later. 

“You want some water, Sam? Protein bar? Smoothie?” 

Sam shuffles to look at Dean face on. Dean isn’t sure what is sweat and what are tears on his face now. His eyes are feverishly bright, but glassy. There but not there all at once. 

“No. I need… Just a little bit. Take the edge off. Just a little…” 

Begging. Dean knew this would come. It happened the last two times too. He tries to keep his face open and comforting. 

“Sammy, I can’t. You can’t. You’re doing so well. You just gotta hold on a little longer.” 

Sam moans, a wounded noise. 

“I can’t, Dean. I can’t. Gonna die.” 

It’s automatic. 

“You’re not gonna die, Sammy. Won’t let you.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

“Then help me. Why are you leaving me like this? Just a little bit. A drop. Please. Dean. Big brother. Please.”

Oh, fuck. Sam had been paying attention during all those fuck-for-a-fix sessions. He knows what turns Dean’s crank and he’s playing on it. 

A laugh that isn’t his rushes into Dean’s mouth; he just manages to catch it behind his teeth. The demon is loving this. His cock is rock hard. He’s going to be sick. A smile tugs at his mouth and it takes all his effort to keep his face clear. 

Sam senses weakness and presses on. 

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to fuck you right now, big brother. But you can have me any way you want me. Want me to suck you? Know you love my mouth on your cock. I…” 

Sam stops. Shakes his head a little. Dean is trying not to combust. Sam is saying all the things Dean’s ever wanted to hear. But not like this. Fuck, not like this. 

“Wanna fuck me? Huh, Dean? I haven’t taken it in years. I’ll be so tight for you. I’ll make it so good for you. Don’t even gotta prep me, just open me up on your cock. I’ll take it any way you want me to. Anything, Dean. Anything. I just need a little bit. Take the edge off, y’know. Like… like weaning me off it. C’mon, Dean. Please.” 

Sam almost had him. Almost drew him in with the offer of that sweet ass. But like any junkie, it always comes back to the craving. 

“No, Sammy. I can’t. You can’t.” 

Dean draws his hand back from the mattress and pushes up to his feet. 

Sam’s head follows the movement, face hungry and eyes bright. It all vanishes as Dean steps back from the bed. 

“You’re fucking hard, Dean. I know you want it. So fuck me and give me my fix!” 

Dean turns his back to Sam and makes for the door. 

“Dean!”

“I’ll be back soon, Sam.” 

He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him. Sam's howl of fury and misery follows him through the bunker, down to the garage, into his baby, and onto the open road. 

Closing the door wouldn’t have helped anyway. He’s going to hear that scream in his dreams forever. 

Chapter Text

If I'm quiet, I'll slide up behind you

Chapter 3

Breaking and entering is easy. So easy. Dean’s been doing it his whole life, could pick a lock in his sleep. What was hard was finding a pharmacy that was far enough from Lebanon that it wouldn’t be traced back to him, but not so far that he’s hours away from Sam. 

He drives for an hour and stops in the first town he comes across. Doesn’t even register the name, just drives around the silent streets until he finds the local pharmacy. 

It’s so silent he wishes for a second he hadn’t driven his baby here, her beautiful rumble too loud, too distinctive, too memorable for this place. 

But he’s here now and he’s going to get what he needs. 

He pulls the car around to the back of the store, parking her in the shadows where delivery trucks would usually go. 

It takes seconds to pick the lock, and Dean finds himself in a store room of some sort. Quick glance shows no meds and another door. So far no blinking lights or screaming alarms. They’ll probably happen when he opens this next door. 

It’s also locked. Dean picks this one with ease too, and he’s inside the main store. The customer-facing shutters are down but Dean’s on the right side of the counter, thank god. 

Cameras in here and Dean ducks his head. He grabs the bandana tucked in his back pocket and ties it around the lower half of his face, trying to hide as much as possible. He should have put a hoodie on to cover up the rest, but he rushed out so quickly he didn’t think. Too late to go check the trunk of the Impala now. 

Still no alarms or any other signs of incoming law enforcement. Maybe the policy is to let him steal and catch him from the CCTV footage. It doesn’t matter. The bunker is over an hour from here and with any luck they’ll think he was just another junkie looking for a fix.  

He scans the shelves as quickly as he can, frustrated by the seemingly random organisation system. It takes a good five minutes of careful inspection to find the drawer he’s looking for. 

Liquid morphine? Check.

Liquid valium? Check.

Fistfuls of single use syringes? Check. 

Everything goes in the backpack he was so glad to find in the back seat of the car. He’s pretty sure it’s Sam’s. There’s a sense of irony there that has his lips twisting into the ghost of a smile. 

Thinking on his feet, he grabs some Pedialyte to try and keep Sam hydrated while he’s out of it. 

Dean figures since he’s already in here and undoubtedly clear as day on camera, he might as well stock up their first aid kits for free too. Bandages, gauze, antibiotics, over the counter pain meds, and anything else he can lay his hands on goes in the backpack. 

He can’t think of anything else right now and so he heads back out the way he came, closing the doors carefully behind him. Maybe they won’t realise they’ve been broken into until it comes time for an inventory. And by then it will be too late to know exactly when the break-in occurred. 

Back in the car, Dean doesn’t take a full breath until he’s back on the highway. He doesn’t get to relax for long as one, two, three squad cars come screaming down the highway towards the town he just left. Guess there was a silent alarm after all. 

He half expects to be pulled over just for being the only car on the road this late at night. That would be just his luck. But the cars pass him by, red and blue lights blinding his mirrors for a few seconds more. 

He doesn’t take his foot off the gas until the bunker is in sight. He still takes his time parking up his baby and locking the doors. No sense risking anything getting in; he’s got enough to handle right now. 

It’s quiet in the bunker as Dean comes up the stairs. But not a peaceful quiet. It’s thick. Tense. Like it’s waiting for Dean to discover something. 

He tries not to sprint to Sam’s room. He just about manages. It’s a power walk, maybe a light jog. 

It doesn’t matter what it’s called. The sight that greets him from the doorway of Sam’s room would have stopped him like a freight train to the chest no matter how fast or slow he was moving. 

Sam is naked. 

That isn’t exactly shocking; he’s been sweating through everything within hours for days now. Finding Sam stripped to his underwear is a common sight for Dean. 

What stops Dean cold is what Sam is doing while naked. 

Like in Dean’s room, Sam’s bed faces the door. Old habits die hard for them both and they can’t sleep unless they know they can’t be snuck up on. 

From the doorway, Dean can see the few steps to the foot of Sam’s bed. Can see the blanket falling off the end of it. Can see the sweat-soaked sheet over the mattress.

Can see his brother, up on his knees, chest pressed into the bed. Pillow between his teeth, muffling whines and moans that Dean can hear now he’s close enough. Sweat beading up all over his back, droplets trailing down his sides as he moves. 

And two slick fingers thrusting in and out of himself. 

Like every fantasy Dean has ever had, come to life before him.  

Sam must hear Dean. He spits out the pillow and arches his back even more. His moans are pure pornography. 

The fantasy shatters for Dean when he sees how Sam’s legs are trembling. Not with pleasure but with the effort of holding himself up. The biggest clue that this is a trick is that Sam’s cock is still soft between his thighs. 

Sam is clearly banking on Dean’s demonic side being in control, and hoping he can manipulate the demon into giving him blood. Or maybe he thinks Dean is just that much of a garbage human. He wouldn’t be far wrong, in Dean’s opinion.  

Even as self-loathing settles into his gut, Dean’s cock is hard in seconds. Sue him, he’s wanted Sam since he picked him up at Stanford. The lanky boy who had walked away from him, replaced by the filled out man who had wrestled him to the ground in the dark. 

What has been going on these past couple of months has been nothing more than jerking off with an extra step. It has been great, but compared to the fantasy of Sam being a willing participant… And to have that fantasy almost come true in front of him… He’s only (not quite) human. 

But he’s more human than not now, and saving his brother takes priority over anything else these days. 

Dean walks to the dresser, avoiding looking at Sam, and dumps down the backpack. He grabs the supplies and prepares a dose of valium. Faster acting than the morphine, it’ll have Sam down for the count in a couple of minutes. It won’t last as long as the morphine, but it will give Dean a chance to clean up and set up for the long haul. He’ll keep Sam mostly unconscious, get what liquids he can get into him between doses, and hope that Sam can sweat out the blood and get through this detox mostly unscathed. 

It’s a wing and a prayer of a plan. He’s banking on drugging Sam’s body to keep him from experiencing the more brutal symptoms of withdrawal. He’s not above tying Sam to the bed, but he’d rather not start there. He figures the morphine will help make the pain of withdrawal more bearable for Sam as well  . 

Syringe prepared, Dean takes a deep breath and turns back to face Sam. He still keeps his eyes away from the sight of Sam. His whines have turned to sharp gasps now, the slick sound of moving fingers replaced by the deeper sound of Sam massaging his prostate. 

Dean gets right to the bedside, needle in hand before he reaches out for Sam. 

It’s just one touch. To get Sam’s attention. To make him stop and lie down so Dean doesn’t have to haul 200+lbs of comatose brother around. 

Sam’s skin is burning up under Dean’s fingers. He’s covered in sweat and even that is warm and sticky. 

“Sam…” 

Dean’s vision goes black. 

~~~

Sam looks around to the voice by his side and knows instantly this is not his brother. It’s not even Knight of Hell Dean. Sam has seen this look on a hundred different people. The look of the possessed. 

When he was a Knight, Dean was the demon. Now he’s just being ridden by one, like he’d split into two, Dean and the demon. 

No guessing who was currently driving Dean’s meat suit. 

The cold smirk he’s come to associate with demon Dean is back in place. 

“This little display for me, Sammy? It’s cute, but I thought we’d established I don’t want you for this? I can find a willing hole anywhere I want.” 

Sam had stopped his movements as soon as he looked at Dean. But now he pulls his fingers free with a groan. He just about manages to get his hands under him to lift his chest enough so he can roll onto his side. He knows how weak he looks, how pathetic. He hates it but he can’t do anything but lie there and pant. 

“What I can’t find just anywhere, though, little brother, is a mouth like yours. That’s a special kind of talent. One you’ve spent a long time practising, I’m sure.” 

Sam would flush, but everywhere is flushed and red already from his fever. He hates how much he likes Dean calling him a whore. It’s not true, the real Dean knows it’s not true. But damn Sam and his cock for getting off on it regardless. 

“So you get nice and comfy on your knees for me, Sammy. Suck me nice and hard and I’ll give you what you’re so desperate for.” 

Those are the magic words and Sam almost rolls completely off the bed onto his stomach. He catches himself at the last second and ends up on his hands and knees. It takes a few deep breaths to gather enough strength to sit up on his knees and shuffle over to the space between Dean’s feet. 

~~~

It’s like looking through water. Dean can see roughly what’s going on, but it’s blurry. He can hear his own voice, though, and there’s no mistaking Sam’s intake of breath before he moves. 

Dean can’t even work out how he can see what’s going on. Being trapped in your own mind is a complete mindfuck. 

He looks around the dark space for something, anything he can use to break out and take back control of his body. There is nothing. 

The visual of Sam on his knees shimmers into view. 

No. No no no no no. The demon can’t give Sam blood. They can’t start all over again. It’s been almost a week to get here. 

Dean stands in the dark and screams until his voice gives out. 

~~~

Dean twitches his head slightly - involuntarily, Sam thinks, as he looks up. It only lasts a second before Dean’s hands are firm on his belt again, sliding the leather through the buckle and letting it hang open. Steady fingers pop the button and lower the zipper. 

Dean is straining against the cotton of his shorts and Sam’s mouth waters against his will. Then Dean is pushing down the fabric and Sam is opening his mouth. 

There’s no taste of blood, just clean skin and salt. If he were more put together, Sam would have thought it odd that Dean didn’t smear blood on his cock like usual. But all he can think of is making Dean cum so he can get his fix. 

“Your fucking mouth, Sam. Christ.” 

Dean puts his hands behind his head, linking his fingers as he leans back a little. Sam watches him, watches Dean look towards the ceiling and close his eyes in bliss. 

~~~

There’s a crack in the darkness, just the thinnest shaft of light. Dean walks towards it, never really moving but somehow getting closer. He puts his hands on either side of the crack. There’s nothing there, but he still meets resistance. He shoves, but nothing gives. 

~~~

There’s a hand on his cheek, a thumb sweeping over the bone. Sam starts, choking around Dean’s cock. Dean never touches. The demon clearly doesn’t have any issues, though, and presses Dean’s hand into Sam’s face. He can feel the calluses on Dean’s palm, feel the rough skin on his fingers catch against Sam’s own. 

Sam closes his eyes. 

~~~

Dean feels like he should be sweating. He’s exerting enough energy to sweat, but dry he remains. There’s nothing to brace his feet on, nothing to push off to get more leverage. But slowly, slowly the crack of light is widening. 

Dean can only assume the demon's concentration is waning and it’s not focused on keeping Dean locked up tight. 

Dean can sympathise; Sam’s mouth is a thing of wonder. 

~~~

“Fuck. That’s it. That’s it, Sam. Gunna make me cum so fucking hard.” 

Dean is panting now, still gripping Sam’s face tight. 

“Gonna be a good slut and swallow for me? Huh? Swallow everything I give you?” 

The swoop in Sam’s guts tells him that he’d be hard if his body was capable. He never used to get off on being humiliated. Until it was Dean. 

He takes Dean as deep as he can, swallowing to calm his gag reflex, desperate for this to be over. 

“Ahh, fuck . Right there. Stay right there, Sammy.” 

~~~

The crack is wide enough and Dean bursts through. Tingles rush through him as his body comes back under his control. But he isn’t fast enough and his orgasm slams into him. He jerks back, trying to get away from Sam, trying desperately to not let this happen. But all that does is flood Sam’s mouth and spray cum over his lips and chin. Dean keeps backing up, away from Sam, until there is a good foot of space between them. 

Sam is coughing, choking, and spitting drool and cum onto the floor between his knees. The sight of Sam, painted in cum, drooling and fighting for air has Dean’s cock jerking painfully. 

He looks around for the syringe. The demon had the good manners to put it on the bedside cabinet and not just smash it. He needs this to be over now. This was never the plan, and as soon as Sam is out, Dean is going to deal with this demon. 

Tucking himself away, he steps back towards Sam, who is still on his knees, head hanging down and bangs covering his face. 

“Sam… you okay?” 

Sam doesn’t move. 

“Sam, I went and got some supplies. Gonna get you through this detox, okay? I promise. Can you just get on the bed for me?” 

He’s about to squat down to Sam’s eye level when his brother looks up. Fury is etched into every line of his face. His eyes are grey and steely. Dean almost steps back. 

“Get out, Dean. Get out and don’t you come back to this room again. Don’t you dare. Get out of here, take all your shit, your car, and leave.” 

“Sam…”

“Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth. If I die here, then I die. But I don’t ever want to see you again. Get. Ou-”

Dean jabs the needle into Sam’s neck and presses down on the plunger. He tosses the empty syringe away and drops into a squat to hold Sam upright. 

Valium is fast acting, but nothing could be fast enough with Sam twisting in his arms, trying to break his wrist and headbutt him at the same time. Thankfully, Sam is as weak as a kitten and can’t do much more than squirm against Dean’s grip. 

It’s only a minute before Sam is slurring and going limp in Dean’s arms. But a minute of Sam roaring in his face to get out is more than enough. 

He gets his shoulder under Sam’s arm and lifts, trying to at least get Sam on the bed before he goes dead weight. He succeeds and Sam moves with him. It’s a step back to the bed, Sam stumbling over his own feet, and a little angle adjustment and Sam is sitting back on the mattress. Dean gently lowers his upper body to the pillows as Sam slips into unconsciousness. 

“Should have just left me to die…” 

It’s slurred, almost indecipherable. But Dean can decipher it just fine.

Chapter Text

I can see you but you can't see me

Chapter 4

Dean checks to make sure Sam is fully on the bed and in no danger of falling off before leaving the room. 

Sam’s words don’t so much echo in his head as roar, over and over. He deserves them, every single letter, and much, much worse. If Sam lives through this, Dean will take every bit of hatred Sam has to offer him. He’s earned it. 

But right now he needs to deal with his own problem and then focus on actually getting Sam through this detox. 

Walking into his room, Dean opens his dresser drawer with all their old phones, even some of John’s still mixed in. The first few don’t have what he needs, but eventually he finds one that does. 

An old idea of Sam’s, of course. A good idea, but somehow pulling out their phones in the middle of a demon battle never seemed to cross their minds. 

He loads up the voice clip and hits play, putting the phone on top of the dresser. 

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…” 

Sam’s voice rings out clear from the speaker and for a second, Dean thinks it isn’t going to work. He is - was - a Knight of Hell. Simple exorcisms don’t work on Knights. But then, he’s been so weak recently, his demon-self so frail that it has to fully possess him to take control now. So if he’s down to being a lesser demon, there’s no reason this  exorcism won’t work.

If he lives, he should write a book: ‘How To Ruin Your Life and Destroy Your Family in Just Five Simple Steps’.

• Step One: Die 

He’s still thinking about book title puns when his chest tightens up beyond all physical possibilities. It feels like blunt nails are being dragged from his extremities into his stomach, ripping through everything they encounter. It’s white hot agony and reminds Dean of being ripped apart by a hellhound, only from the inside out instead of the outside in. 

There’s a ringing in his ears that seems to be shaking his very brain. His eyes feel like they’re about to burst. Distantly, he’s aware of falling to his knees, then the pressure in his head is too much and it robs him of sight. 

The nails collect in his stomach and start to force their way up into his throat, leaving raw, burning trails in their wake. 

His head snaps back and the burning is in his mouth, on his tongue, his lips. It lasts forever, until he’s sure he’s going to die here, on his knees, blind and deaf. 

Then it's over. Dean blinks and he can see again. The voice recording is finished but he can hear the creaks of the bunker. Everything hurts. He’s pretty sure he broke a rib, maybe two. His throat is raw, his mouth tastes of sulfur, and he knows he has whiplash. 

None of the victims he and Sam have saved ever mentioned that part. 

He’s still on his knees, though. He didn’t pass out. God knows how long he would have been out for and what might have happened in the meantime. 

It’s tempting, though, so very tempting to crawl to his bed and just sleep for days. He hasn’t slept for months. Literal months. Demons don’t sleep and apparently, no matter how weak the demon gets, that holds true. 

He allows himself five minutes, even counts the seconds off in his head. Five minutes to wallow in his hurt, his guilt, his regret. It’s overwhelming. Dean knows self-disgust, self-loathing, self-hatred. He’s shared brain space with them all for many years now. But this, this is something new. Some new level of abhorrence he doesn’t even know how to name. 

He stays on his knees in his room and drowns under the reality of the last few months. Then when his five minutes are up, he muscles all those feelings into a box and tosses it into the mental basement. 

That’s how he copes with everything: box it up and deal with it later. Later never usually arrives, but Dean has a feeling it’ll be along sooner than he wants this time. It’s not even remotely healthy, he knows that. But it’s worked for him so far, and why should he break the habit of a literal lifetime? 

His body hurt when he was still, but as he pushes up to standing, everything gets ten times worse. 

How has no one ever mentioned how much it fucking hurts to have a demon ripped out of you?

Good thing he stopped by the pharmacy. 

Dean wants to run back to Sam, to make sure he’s still okay, but all he can manage is a swift limp. Once he’s back in the room, a quick glance shows Sam is unmoved and breathing steadily. 

Dean hobbles over to the dresser where he left the backpack. Grabbing both the Tylenol and the Motrin packets, he takes a double dose of both and washes them down with one of the water bottles he’d stacked on the dresser for when Sam could still walk by himself.

Sam’s sheets need to be changed, they’re starting to stink of old sweat. But with Sam passed out on top of them, that will have to wait. 

He crosses the room to Sam’s bedside and presses the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead. Sam’s face wrinkles up a little; Dean’s hand must be cold against his fevered skin. He’s burning up still, but Dean doesn’t think it’s any worse than it was before. 

Going over to Sam’s desk, he grabs the roll of paper towels and makes quick work of cleaning up the floor where Sam coughed up cum and spit and then uses more towels as a cold compress on Sam’s forehead. 

He’s going to need to get the big first aid kit in here with the thermometer and BP cuff. 

Really, he should have taken Sam to the infirmary while he could still walk. But Sam wouldn’t go and Dean couldn’t really force him. And now? He’s not hauling a blacked-out Sam around or fighting with a semi-conscious one either. 

Sam will live or die in this bed. 

He needs to get the kit. 

But sitting on the side of the bed with Sam’s wrist in his hand, just counting off the beats of his pulse, is almost hypnotic. And Dean is so damn tired. 

It’s not a conscious thought when he topples over and his head lands on Sam’s still-naked chest. But the reassuring thump of Sam’s heartbeat, mixed with the steady rise and fall of his chest is even more hypnotic. 

Dean doesn’t even register his eyes closing. 

~~~

It’s not a sound that wakes him a little while later. It’s the way his bed is twitching under him. His bed has never twitched before. 

Dean opens his eyes and everything is exactly where he left it. Lights on in the room and the hallway. Sink across the room from him. Door next to it. 

His bed twitches again and makes a soft moan. 

Only then does Dean remember passing out on Sam’s chest. He sits up in a rush, back screaming at him for the weird angle he slept at. 

A look at Sam shows the meds are wearing off; his face is screwed up in pain again. He’s twitching randomly, clearly trying to fight out of the sedation. 

Dean needs to move quickly. He stands and cracks his back, which is still protesting loudly. But his knees feel a little bit more like knees now and less like lead. 

Crossing back over to the dresser, he prepares another syringe, morphine this time. Longer lasting, it should give Sam a good four hours of rest. He grabs a water bottle and mixes up some Pedialyte. 

Everything is placed on the bedside table. While Sam’s eyes are still closed, Dean makes a dash for the infirmary and grabs the box of first aid supplies. 

Too used to living out of bags and boxes, they never really transferred everything into the infirmary storage. They just keep back ups and spares in the cupboards. Everything that's in use is in the box. It’s handy if they get back from a hunt and someone needs stitches as well. No hunting through cupboards and drawers. 

When he gets back to Sam, his brother is awake. Glassy-eyed and staring blankly at the ceiling but awake. 

Dean puts the box next to the bed and crouches down to be on Sam’s eye level. 

“Hey, how you feeling?” 

He doesn’t really expect a reply. Or expects Sam to tell him to fuck off. 

“What did you do?” 

Sam’s voice is hoarse. Dean cringes internally at the reason behind that.

“I sedated you. I took a quick run to a pharmacy, stole some supplies. Gonna get you through this.” 

Sam still hasn’t looked at him. 

“How do you know that will work?” 

It’s a fair question. 

“I don’t.” 

Sam doesn’t answer. 

“I just… I figured if I could keep you pain free and unconscious then you probably won’t end up on the ceiling, and your body can sweat out the… my blood.” 

It sounds like a stupid plan now he’s said it out loud. But he has to try something. 

“Can you drink this for me? Just to keep you hydrated? I don’t have supplies to set up an IV.” 

Sam takes the bottle from him. 

“Do you need a straw?” 

Sam nods and takes it, still not looking at Dean. 

While Sam is slowly draining the bottle, Dean fires up the thermometer and gently presses it into Sam’s ear. The reading comes back high, but not high enough for Dean to seriously worry. Sam is still sweating, so his body is handling the fever. 

Sam drains the bottle and hands it back to Dean. 

“So what now?” 

“You gotta use the bathroom?” 

Sam thinks for a few seconds. 

“No.” 

“Then I give you this shot of morphine and you go to dreamland for a few hours. You’ll wake up, we’ll assess how you feel, and go from there.” 

“What if I don’t want the shot?” 

Dean injects Sam in the neck before answering. 

“Not your call. You’re not dying on my watch, Sammy.” 

Sam turns to look at him then. He expects to see anger in Sam’s eyes, maybe hate, disgust. All he sees is weariness. Sam looks as tired as Dean feels. 

“I told you to go, Dean. Take your shit and leave. If I die, then I die. Hell can’t be any worse than these last few months.” 

Dean’s glad he hasn’t eaten anything in… well, months. Because all the hunger in his stomach turns to nausea and if there was anything to bring up, he’d be spilling his guts right now. 

“And I told you I wasn’t going to let you die. I know it’s my fault we’re here. God, I know that. And if you wanna leave when this is over, I won’t stop you. If you still want me to leave, I’ll go. But I can’t leave you to die, Sammy.” 

Sam’s eyes are out of focus now, the meds kicking in big time. Dean has to strain to hear Sam when he speaks. 

“Don’t… don’t call me… Sammy.” 

Sam’s eyes close. Panic seizes Dean so hard he almost breaks Sam’s arm yanking at his wrist to feel for a pulse. 

It’s there. Thank god it’s there. Strong and steady. 

Dean is still crouched down by the side of the bed as he drops his forehead to the mattress and starts to cry. 

~~~

By the time Sam wakes next, Dean has moved himself to the desk chair, pulled in close to Sam’s side of the bed. He keeps his hand on Sam’s wrist, needing the reassurance of Sam’s pulse. He doesn’t sleep this time, mind replaying those words over and over and over again.  

It’s a quicker job this time, now he doesn’t have to run to the infirmary and back: 

Sam wakes.

Dean asks how he feels. 

Sam says awful. 

Dean helps him up and takes him to the sink to relieve himself, making a point of looking at the other side of the room, then helps him back to bed. 

Sam drinks a bottle of water. 

Dean gives him another dose of morphine. 

Sam passes out again. 

There’s no extra talking this time. Everything is clinical and cold. 

Dean has no clue what time it is, but he’s exhausted. He’s starving hungry as well, but he’s pretty sure if he tries to eat, it’s not going to stick. He should probably try some of Sam’s Pedialyte to rehydrate himself. But all he wants is to close his eyes for a few hours and get out of his own head. 

His room is out of the question; too far from Sam. 

The chair is out; he’ll end up on his ass. 

The floor looks tempting; he could bring some pillows and blankets from his own bed. But again, proximity to Sam. 

Dean looks at Sam’s bed. Sam is sleeping close to the edge, not having the dexterity or energy to move himself after Dean helped him back into it. There’s plenty of space on the other side. Dean could lie there and not even be touching Sam. Just holding his wrist, keeping time with his pulse. 

It’s a risk. If Sam wakes up and finds Dean in bed with him… That’s going to be a mess. 

Dean is too tired to argue with himself. He puts Sam’s arm on his stomach, how Sam normally has it, and walks round to the other side. Doesn’t hesitate before climbing onto the mattress and arranging himself so no part of him is even close to touching Sam. He reaches out for Sam’s other arm, tugging it to lie against Sam’s side instead of also on his stomach, and wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrist. The beat of his brother's pulse is just as hypnotic this time around, and Dean is out in seconds. 

~~~

It takes a week of four-hourly shots and careful alarms set to make sure Dean is awake and out of bed before Sam wakes, before Sam responds with anything other than ‘awful’ when Dean asks how he feels. 

Another three days and Dean halves the dose so Sam sleeps a more natural sleep. 

Three days after that and he halves it again. 

Sam is going to make it through. 

~~~

During those days, while Sam is sleeping, Dean tries to get himself back on track. He gets back into regular meals. He can’t eat even half of what he used to, but that’s probably no bad thing. 

He puts his room back to rights, the demon not having been picky about clean clothes, bedding, or laundry. 

He cleans up all the bottles lying around. So many bottles. His liver should have crawled out his mouth and left by now. He should be dead. But like always, it was never his life on the line. 

He never does manage to change Sam’s sheets. Even when Sam is weaned off the morphine and sleeping naturally, he’s still weak and wanting to be in bed at all times. Dean asks for just five minutes to strip the sheets but Sam refuses. Tells Dean he will sort his own room out when he’s ready. 

And since Sam hasn’t showered, and Dean will not be offering to help, the sheets stink. It should be gross, but Dean grew up with Sam in a million motel rooms; the general funk of sweaty boy is familiar to him. Even comforting when he lies down in the dark, as far away from Sam as he can be and still be on the bed, hand twitching to wrap around Sam’s wrist and be lulled to sleep by his pulse. Reminding him of a time before this nightmare. 

~~~

The first time Sam asks for food, Dean could happily dance for joy. 

He mixes up a smoothie from the fruits Sam keeps in the freezer at all times. There is nothing else in the kitchen Sam would be able to stomach and Dean could kick himself for not anticipating this moment. 

He takes the drink into Sam and finds him actually sat up, propped against the headboard. 

Sam’s eyes light up at the sight of blended fruit. 

“Take it steady, don’t want you to get sick.” 

Sam nods and sips slowly. 

“Is it okay? We didn’t have any yogurt or anything like you usually add. I gotta make a supply run…” 

Dean trails off as Sam just looks at him. 

“It’s fine, Dean. Just what I needed. Thank you.” 

Sam has developed a way of talking to him that makes Dean want to cave his own skull in. It’s not rude or nasty or cruel. If anything, it’s overly polite. Like Dean is a faceless cashier somewhere and Sam is just observing social niceties. He says please and thank you. Doesn’t fight Dean on anything he needs help with. Even asks for help when he needs it. 

But it’s a total mask. His voice is just bland and polite. There is nothing of Sam in it at all. 

For a moment, Dean wonders if he might have fundamentally broken his brother. It would make sense. Then he sees Sam’s eyes flash with anger and impatience at Dean mother-henning him over finishing a bottle of water, and realises Sam is still in there, he’s just not letting Dean in anymore. 

~~~

Dean makes a supply run that afternoon, after leaving Sam with his phone, a bunch of the over-the-counter meds if he needs them, and reassurances that he will only be fifteen minutes away, maximum. 

Sam just settles down into the rumpled sheets and waves him off. 

At the store, Dean grabs all Sam’s usual fare, price be damned. He picks up the Sam-approved versions of his own food too, even if veggie bacon is just wrong. 

He gets some clear soups as well, just to cover all his bases. 

In the car on the way back, Dean thinks about how Sam will see right through him and know he’s trying too hard. Dean knows he’s trying too hard. What’s broken between them can’t be fixed with kale and chicken broth. But he has to start somewhere, and all he knows how to do is take care of his brother.

Sam thanks him for the food and asks for a salad for dinner later. 

Dean goes all out. And gets the same bland thank you as always. 

~~~

Slowly, Sam is getting better. Weight has fallen off him over the past few months and especially the past couple of weeks. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sam this tall and this thin. 

But he’s eating well, drinking as much water as he can stomach to stay hydrated, and even lets Dean help him to the bathroom to shower. 

Dean doesn’t have to be told he’s not welcome past the door, but can’t bring himself to leave, even to change Sam’s sheets. He hovers in the hallway, listening so hard it makes his head hurt. 

But Sam comes out half an hour later in clean clothes and slicked-back, wet hair. He leans on Dean a bit harder on the walk back, showering having left him a bit lightheaded. He must have had the water scalding hot if the steam cloud was anything to go by. 

Dean wishes he didn’t know why his brother had the water so hot. But there’s no sense in lying to himself. 

~~~

Sam makes more progress towards health, and his returning strength marks the end of Dean’s last remaining comfort. 

After the shower went off without a hitch, Sam started making the trip to the bathroom himself. Dean walked with him a few times, but when it was clear Sam could manage it alone, Dean stopped. 

He still sleeps a lot of the day away, but he’s awake for longer periods, and Dean brought in Sam’s laptop and any books as requested. 

It’s awkward to stay in the room with Sam now, so Dean retreats to the rest of the bunker during the day. He still checks in every hour or so but it’s clear his days of constant vigil are over.

Dean spends a lot of time looking over the local news. Not for any signs of a hunt, of course, but to keep an eye on the pharmacy break-in that has dominated the headlines for almost a week. 

It seems to have died down now, the cops promising night time patrols for a while to deter any other thieves. 

But it never hurts to check these things, in case they found a fingerprint or something and linked it to Dean’s official identity. That would cause some issues, what with technically being dead and all. 

He continues to lay himself out next to Sam every night, though, keeping himself still and separate, just soaking in the presence of his brother and the rhythm of his breathing. He forces himself to sleep light, alert for any noise or motion from Sam. 

So when it’s the click of the lamp that wakes him, he’s disoriented for a few seconds. 

Sam is sat up next to him, sheet pulled up to cover his bare chest. 

“Dean? What are you doing?” 

The blank voice is tinged with confusion and fear. Dean wants to double cave his own skull in.          

“Just sleepin’, Samm…Sam.” 

He tries to look as non-threatening as possible. Hell, he put clothes on before getting into the bed. Socks, jeans, belt, henley, flannel. He stopped just shy of an old hoodie, only because he was pretty sure it had been Sam’s, and that just felt like a bad idea. 

“I know you were sleeping, Dean. I have eyes. Why are you sleeping here ?” 

Dean had thought by not moving an inch, Sam would calm down. If anything, the fear in his voice is getting worse. 

“Have you been sleeping in my bed this whole time?” 

Even in the dim light, Dean can see how pale Sam goes. 

“No! No, no. No. Just since the drugs. Only when you were out of it. In case you had a bad reaction or woke up in pain or something. I needed to keep an eye on you.”

He watches the relief wash over Sam’s face. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, I just… I had to be here in case you needed me. And the floor was… well, floor. And I figured as long as I kept still, we could both get some sleep and I’d be here if you needed me. I just needed to make sure you were okay. I swear, I didn’t touch you! I stayed on the edge of this side, as far away as I could be. I just… I needed to watch over you, Sammy.”

Sam’s face hardened at the nickname. 

“I told you, don’t.” 

The bland voice is gone. But it’s been replaced by cold anger. 

Dean goes to apologise but Sam talks over him. 

“Well, since I can make it to the bathroom and back by myself now, I’d say I’m out of the danger zone. So you don’t need to keep watch anymore, do you?” 

“Sam…” 

Dean’s voice breaks on the word, even when it’s only a whisper.

“I think it’s time for you to go, Dean.” 

Sam makes a point of pulling the sheets off Dean. 

“If I need anything I can’t get myself, I’ll shout.” 

There is nothing Dean can say, nothing he can do to change this. He’d happily fall to his knees and beg his brother not to shut this last door, but Sam’s face says it all. 

Dean gets out of bed and walks the few steps to the door. He stops, not able to cross the threshold, but equally unable to turn and face Sam. 

The moment stretches out, endless and infinite. 

The soft thump of Sam’s bare feet on the floor breaks it. He’s not going to ask Dean to stay, not going to tell Dean he can crash on the floor. He’s getting ready to get out of bed and physically throw Dean out. 

Dean walks out of the room and across the hallway to his own. He leaves his door wide open, the meaning clear. 

It takes him seconds to strip down to his usual sleeping clothes and climb into his cold bed. 

It’s quiet, no steady breathing, no ticking watch, no shuffling limbs. 

Perfect silence. 

The click of Sam’s door closing seems to echo in the darkness for hours.