Word count: 2722
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 9-23, demon!Dean, Sam drinks demon blood, explicit sex
Summary: Post episode 9-23. Sam is addicted to demon blood, Dean is a demon. Sexy blood drinking must therefore happen.
Also on A03: here!
Author's note This is the first place my mind went on seeing the season finale. I am not ashamed of it.
Author's note 2 There's now a companion piece to this with a demon!Dean who's a lot more demonic, and a Sam (the soulless version) who's definitely his match. Here!
There are bruises on the insides of Dean’s thighs that are shaped like teeth marks. There are cuts, all carefully sutured and dressed, on his arms, and fading purple hickeys on his neck. There are scars on his shoulders where the cuts and bruises have left permanent marks. Dean wears them as badges of honour.
Dean heals quickly now. It’s one of the advantages of his new body, along with speed and strength and a lack of hunger and thirst that he ignores. Dean’s always enjoyed food and he doesn’t intend to give it up now that he no longer has to eat to stay alive. Eating has never been about survival anyway, it’s about kicking back and relishing one of life's small pleasures. So Dean still enjoys a hamburger or a big juicy steak, and they don’t taste like ashes or cardboard or anything equally dramatic, they taste of meat, juicy, bloody and delicious.
“It’s because you’re a hedonist,” Sam says when Dean tells him this. Sam’s leaning back in the booth, watching Dean with a smile on his face. Sam’s barely touched his steak, so Dean sticks a fork in it and drops it onto his own plate. It’s not as bloody as he would order it, and it’s a damn shame that he can’t add salt, but it’s still pretty good.
Sam doesn’t eat much these days. Not that Sam ever did eat that much, but he’d usually have one of his pansy-ass salads or a chicken club. Now, he barely touches them, just pushes them around his plate and watches Dean eat. Dean would be worried if he didn’t know his brother was getting his sustenance from somewhere else.
“Damn straight,” he says. He points at Sam with his steak knife to underline his point, before applying himself diligently to sawing up his steak. He might be a demon, but it doesn’t mean he has to eat like an animal.
Sam snorts and picks up a toothpick. He’s gotten particular about keeping his teeth clean. He brushes them about six times a day, not that it seems to make much different to the permanent stain on his teeth enamel that’s set in over the last couple of years. Dean would tell him that a toothpick won't make a jot of difference, especially considering Sam’s barely eaten anything, but Sam’s working it between his teeth and he’s gotten that furrow between his eyebrows, so Dean keeps his mouth shut. He would tell him that that kind of stain is much more stubborn to erase that coffee or red wine because it’s not just skin deep. They’ve both always been stained, only now you can see it from the outside. The deterioration and rot that always lay underneath the damn fine Winchester drywall is starting to seep through.
They still hunt because they still hunt.
“Because we’re hunters,” Dean says.
Sam nods agreement, glancing at him as he wipes the chupacabra’s blood off his knife and onto the seat of his jeans. He looks pale, a little jittery, and he’s sweating despite the cool night.
“Hey,” Dean says, stepping up close.
He puts his hand on Sam’s chest and spreads his fingers, feeling his brother’s heartbeat against his palm. He doesn’t have a heartbeat anymore, and sometimes he wonders how that works. He still bleeds, he still gets hard, he even blushes, though it takes a lot to make Dean blush. All that means that there must be something pumping or transferring the blood around his body somehow, and yet his heart is as dead as the steak he had for dinner. He guesses that this is why he would be technically classified as one of the supernatural these days, rather than just the natural. He can’t help but grin at the thought.
“What you smiling at?” Sam says.
Dean shrugs. “Nothing.” Then: “You.” He angles his head to stare up at his brother.
Sam huffs out a breath and smiles a bashful kind of smile, his teeth flashing in the darkness. In this light Dean can’t see the stain, but he can make out the dimples in his brother’s cheeks, the ones that remind him of an eight year old Sammy, the ones that make his dead cold heart feel full and fat with love. He slides his hand up to cup Sam’s neck as Sam drops his hand to span his hip, and closes the last few inches between them.
Sam kisses him hard, teeth lingering, threatening to draw blood, but Dean pulls back and shakes his head. Not yet. Not until they’ve taken care of the clean up. They can’t get sloppy now.
Sam sighs, making a face as he bends to take the roll of trash bags out of his duffle. The chupacabra is in pieces – Dean tends to get a little overenthusiastic when he’s wielding the Blade – and they have to make sure they gather up every piece. They’re on a school football field after all, and Dean can just imagine what the coach and his team of football jocks would say if they found the blood and guts of a legendary goat-killing cryptid on their precious turf. Dean rolls his shoulders, slides the First Blade, still tacky with the creature’s blood, into his jacket pocket and takes one of the black sacks from Sam.
They dump the creature’s remains in a dumpster and trudge back to the car. Sunrise is threatening over the horizon and Dean thinks about finding a quiet spot somewhere off the highway where they can lie on the hood of the Impala and watch the sun come up. He wants to see his brother’s profile lit by rose and gold, to kiss his eyelashes when he closes his eyes against the bright rays. He wants to peel the bloody and sweaty clothes off Sam’s body, piece by piece, and to kiss each ridge of muscle and bone underneath. He wants to suck Sam’s cock and use his come and only his come to fuck him hard and dry over the hood of the car. He wants Sam to come again as he’s fucking him and he wants to get hard once more inside his brother and fuck him again.
He tells Sam this as they put the high school in the rearview and head back to the motel.
Sam wrinkles his nose. “Really, Dean? Felching?”
Dean shrugs. He wants it. He’s not ashamed. And he knows Sam wants it too. He’s not sure why Sam’s pretending that he doesn't. Sam's a kinky bitch.
“Dude, don’t make out like you aren't desperate for it," he says, giving Sam’s crotch a pointed look.
Sam huffs and shifts in his seat, but he’s fooling no one, least of all himself. His hands shake as he spreads them over his knees, but Dean knows that’s not about what he just said, and he knows that it’s why they can’t linger out here and fuck under the rising sun.
Sam crowds up behind him as soon as Dean's shut the door to their room. His arms come around Dean's body, hands resting in the crook of Dean's elbows. He lowers his head to nuzzle under Dean's collar.
Dean’s body tenses, his cock twitching and starting to fatten. Sam’s mouth opens and his teeth graze Dean’s neck, mouth moving over the top nub of his spine, laying kisses across the back of his neck and around to his throat. Dean tilts his head to give Sam room, hearing the scrape of his stubble under his brother’s tongue and teeth. Sam moans and opens his mouth over one of the tendons in Dean's throat, rocking forward to grind his cock against Dean's ass.
"Hey," Dean murmurs, patting Sam's hand where his fingers are starting to dig into his arm. "Hey, Munchy, wait a second.”
Sam hesitates, giving Dean chance to shoulder him away. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him as he crosses the room, shedding his coat and his over shirt. His body feels wired and ready, his blood thickening and pumping faster with anticipation. He turns to face his brother as he peels off his undershirt and kicks off his shoes. Sam’s gaze is dark, his eyes almost as black as Dean’s as they rest on him, as heavy as a touch. Dean can see the tremors in his brother’s movements when he fumbles with the buttons of his own shirt. His adam’s apple bobs up and down and he’s sweating through the thick flannel.
Dean rests his hands on his belt, keeping his gaze locked on Sam’s.
“Ready?” he says.
Sam nods, his hands reach out for Dean as Dean unbuckles his pants and pushes both pants and boxers down his legs. He steps out of the pool of clothing and walks toward Sam. Sam latches onto him, grasping for him and curling his hands around Dean’s wrists again, fingers punching into Dean’s skin. Not that Dean minds, he likes it rough these days.
Sam spins them, and throws him onto the bed. The mattress bounces underneath Dean and he grins in anticipation as Sam pulls his favourite knife from his ankle-holster. That knife hasn't been touched tonight, it's completely inappropriate for taking down a chupacabra, which means that Sam was saving it for this. When Sam strapped it to his ankle before the hunt he was thinking about this. Sam turns the knife in his hand, admiring it as the silver glints in the lamplight. He turns his gaze back to Dean, and stares at him, running the knife lovingly over the veins in his inner arms.
Dean loves this part; he loves the anticipation, loves the suspense, loves that look on Sam's face, the way he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, the way he crumples when he gives into the need and crawls onto the bed on all fours. He looms over Dean, staring down at him with dark, hooded eyes. He's a predator like this, his powerful, long body dominating Dean completely. They both know that it's just show, that Dean could overpower Sam anytime he wants. Sammy’s not had his Wheaties yet after all and Dean’s got all that super-demon strength, but Sam is in charge right now, and Dean's just as addicted to that as Sam is.
“Do it,” Dean tells him, and Sam’s grin is as sharp as the knife in his hand. The blade dances along the skin of Dean’s inner thigh, skimming his femoral artery. The snick as the blade penetrates Dean's skin is soundless, but Dean can feel the hot thick swell of blood to the surface and smell the coppery sulphur tang of it in the hot room. Sam’s face is already nuzzling between his legs, pink bud of his tongue lapping and chasing the rivulets of blood before they drip onto the mattress, wasted. Dean shivers as his brother's tongue slides over his skin and when Sam fastens his mouth to the cut and sucks deep, Dean arches up from the bed with a long-drawn hiss.
Sam drinks greedily, the artery throbbing under his lips, and Dean’s cock swells and twitches with each convulsive movement of Sam's throat. Sam pulls away with a gasp of breath and blinks at Dean. His eyes are as black as Dean’s, his lips and chin smeared with blood, and when he grins at Dean, his teeth are red.
He’s the most perfect thing Dean has ever seen.
Sam laughs out loud, breath hitching, the sound crazy and euphoric. His tongue comes out to chase every last drop and smear of blood on his lips. Dean knows the cut on this thigh is still bleeding, but Sam is done for the moment. He leans over Dean, and Dean frames his face, pushing his fingers wrist deep into his hair. He pulls Sam down into a kiss and sucks the taste of his own blood from Sam’s mouth.
Sam pulls away to grab a bandage. He’s not shaking any longer and his fingers are deft and professional as they dress the wound. When he’s done, he licks the blood from his fingers, running his tongue up and down each digit and between the knuckles to get every drop. He meets Dean's gaze with a salacious curl of his lip.
"You done?" Dean says.
Sam nods and sweeps the pile of medical supplies off the bed. He ducks down and sucks the head of Dean's cock into his mouth and Dean arches up from the bed once more.
Dean comes fast, he always does when Sam's fed from him. He lies on the bed boneless and drifting and feels Sam slide over him once more, feels the hot brand of Sam's cock nudge against his hip and the hot whisper of Sam's mouth nuzzle at his throat.
He drops his hand to Sam's head, cards his fingers lazily through Sam's hair. "You still want more?" he says, feeling the scrape of Sam's teeth over his collarbones.
"Mmm, not yet," Sam says, the hum of the words reverberating through Dean's chest.
"Want me to suck you?" Dean says.
Sam lifts his head, meets Dean's gaze with his hair in his eyes. His lips are a perfect shade of cherry red, dried flakes of blood on his chin and under his bottom lip. Dean sucks his thumb into his mouth and reaches to smear the dried blood away, the mix of his saliva and dried blood feeling tacky and sticky on the pad of his thumb. Sam grabs his hand and sucks Dean's thumb into his mouth, sucking off the last remnants of his blood.
"Wanna fuck you," Sam says when he lets Dean's hand go.
They do it doggy style, Sam's chest to his back, moulded together. Sam's hair tickles the back of his neck and Sam's mouth leaves bite marks along the edges of his jaw.
"I love you, I love you so much," Sam says as he pushes in and out of Dean with rhythmical deep thrusts. "I love you, Dean."
It's more than he used to say, and it's one of the many reasons Dean prefers things as they are now.
Dean's eyes aren't always black. If he concentrates he can make them green again, which is what he does when they're on a job. When it's just him and Sam, he forgets. Sam didn't used to like it, but he doesn't say anything now, and Dean thinks that he probably doesn't care anymore. After all, Sammy's eyes are black too sometimes. It's not like he has the moral high ground here.
Sam's more affectionate than he used to be. Dean thinks it might be because of the blood and sometimes he worries that it's the only reason why Sam hasn't left. Then he remembers Sam summoning Crowley when he thought Dean was dead, he remembers Sam trying the cure, and Sam crying when it didn't work. He remembers Sam standing over him with the demon knife and telling Dean that he should kill him, that it was what Dean would've wanted. Then he remembers Sam kicking the knife away, falling to his knees to gather Dean into his arms and saying that he couldn't, he was sorry, but he couldn't.
He can't remember anymore when Sam first drank from him, but he remembers how good it felt.
"Hey, morning," Sam says. He steps up behind Dean at the sink and drops a kiss to his shoulder, hands moving to bracket Dean's hips.
He looks over Dean's shoulder at their two reflections in the mirror. He kisses Dean's temple, then his eyebrow, and doesn't even notice his beetle black eyes. He looks good, healthy once more, his skin tan and cheeks rosy. His eyes shine and he smiles fondly when he kisses Dean's shoulder again.
"You gonna shave today?" he says.
Dean drags his hand over his chin and shrugs. "Nah. Think I look hot. Manly, Sammy."
Sam snorts and grabs Dean's ass as he moves away. He climbs into the shower and swishes the curtain closed. Dean waits until Sam's turned the shower on before he runs the hot water, and grins to himself when Sam yelps and curses him out. He leaves the bathroom still grinning, whistling Satisfaction under his breath.
Today feels like it's going to be a good day.