'Eat me,' snarls the little demon, and the thing is, Sam could.
And Sam would - he's at the end of his rope and his control isn't just worn thin, it's gone. She smells fucking narcotic and he wants to, for the first time in years, he wants to give in and rip her open and take what he wants. But he doesn't. Sam isn't in the business of travelling the same road twice, and while he firmly believes that sometimes the end does justify the means, Dean wouldn't want him to do this. Sam isn't dumb enough to think he can get his brother back like that, not any more.
So he puts his knife away and his suit on, and plays Fed instead of predator. This kind of information-gathering is allowed, and it works just as good. But when the footage on the police computer screen shows Dean's eyes up as slick black, something hot and bitter flares in the pit of Sam's stomach, and he itches for the feel of a blade in his hand.
The next demon Sam catches tells him to 'eat me' too, trying to be sassy even when the stench of fear is rolling off it in waves. And Sam's tempted. God, fuck, he's so tempted. It'd make him stronger, faster, harder - but he still doesn't.
Instead he cuts on the teenage meat suit until the demon squeals, and he can smell the rank, velvet richness of the blood, it's all over his hands and his knife and the demon, all over the ropes, the ground ... he keeps cutting long after he's got answers, just because he's angry, and this demon is the one he has, even if it's not the one he's hunting. The world fucking owes him and he's going to take a literal pound of flesh for it, out of every demon he sees until he has his brother back.
By the time he's finished, he's dripping, wet to the elbows. He could lick his fingers. It would be so easy. His tongue curls over his lower lip in anticipation, and the demon sobs just watching. It knows. It knows what he is.
He exorcises it instead. He buries a kid's body. And he washes his hands clean afterwards.
'Hey Sammy,' says Dean easily when Sam finally finds him. He's in bed. The girl clutching the sheets up to her chin, the one who'd been riding him until Sam kicked the door in, she takes the initiative to run as soon as Sam steps into the room far enough to unblock the doorway. 'Figured you'd find me.'
There's no smell of corruption as the girl passes. Human. Boring, at least compared to the way Sam can hear Dean's heartbeat, can scent the taste of iron and ash and sulphur in the back of his throat just being in the same room as his brother. Sam doesn't even bother to watch her leave.
'Been keeping up with your little road trip, Sam,' says Dean. 'You got a serial killer nickname yet? Twenty corpses in ten days, dude, not subtle.'
Sam's already on the bed, belt already in his hands, knees already either side of Dean's thighs when he tilts his brother's head back and loops the leather around his exposed throat, collaring him to the headboard. Dean's carotid pulse leaps under Sam's fingers and Sam's mouth starts to water.
'You drink any of them?' Dean asks. 'Twenty demons and still not one drop?'
Sam yanks the bedclothes off. Dean's hard, wet with girl still, and as Sam watches he stretches out, throat working against Sam's belt, body language beckoning and saying that if Sam wants it he should come and get it, fingers already at Sam's fly.
The jeans go. Sam doesn't see where, pulled off by two pairs of hands and flung away in a sick fakery of the kind of teamwork they used to have. He vaguely wonders if Dean's tattoo itches him now, or if he put his hand over that spot, would he still feel his human brother's skin there, one little patch free of evil, like the breathing space you're supposed to leave unpainted that stops you suffocating.
Sam feels like he's already choked to death. Sam wants his brother inside him like he wants to plug a bleeding wound.
Sam's fingers find his own hole, but Dean growls and pulls at his wrist, at his waist, until Sam's bearing down right on Dean's cock instead. 'That's right,' Dean says, and his voice is smooth and soothing even when Sam's spread and vulnerable and sore. 'Work yourself open on my dick, little brother, go slow as you like, we can do this all night, that's right, that's it -'
And it is right. It's heady pain, the kind Sam craves in the deep dark pit of his stomach where everything he's tried his whole life to fight still curls up and waits, and it's millimetre-by-millimetre slow, but it's what Sam wants and how he wants it. He clenches his fingers hard in Dean's hair, knows his fingernails are scratching, and slowly, slowly, pushes down on Dean's wet and leaking dick.
'First time?' Dean asks, reaching up and brushing Sam's hair out of his eyes. He actually sounds concerned, solicitous, sweet, as if he even could be those things, as if he cares. Sam looks up and glares, and takes another quarter-inch all in one go. 'Not first time,' Dean amends, but he looks kinda pissed now. Sam likes that. Dean's fingers wrap Sam's hipbones and he starts to add his own pressure. 'And here's me thinkin' all these years that little bro was saving his ass virginity for me. No?'
It hurts like a bruise. Dean's pushing now, and Sam lets him, rocks into it. 'Wouldn't've taken it,' Dean growls. 'Cos y'know, it's wrong or whatever. But I knew, Sammy. Knew the way you looked at me's not brotherly. Knew the way I watched you wasn't just cos I was watching out for you. The old me, he fuckin' loved torturing himself like that. But I've changed.'
He grins up into Sam's face. 'Yeah, I've changed,' he muses, half to himself. 'What's your excuse, Sammy?'
Sam just growls, slamming his hand over the belt at Dean's throat and pushing down. Dean's chest hitches. His heart thuds so close under his skin Sam can practically taste it.
Sam's ass is burning wide by the time Dean's bottomed out, and he's shaking, he knows he is. Dean holds him down and thrusts up, doesn't give him even the tiniest bit of a moment to adjust. 'You like that?' he asks. 'You like it hard, Sam? Because I can do harder. We're just getting started, baby brother - you don't even know. I can take you so high - you ain't never had it like me before.'
Sam grits his teeth and buries his face in the curve of Dean's throat and breathes the scent of his skin in, working his hips as much as Dean will let him, and yeah he likes it hard. He likes it rough. He likes, fuck, always has liked, being held hard and taken. Never got it much, either, because potential hook-ups always seemed to take one look at him and get ideas they couldn't shake. He's so caught up in the feeling, in the stretch of his thighs, in being full and whole and so close to the body that's always been so close to his own that he feels like he's missing a limb when it's not there with him, that it's only the cracking of wood that clues him in before Dean hurls the belt and bits of broken headboard away, and rolls them over.
'Didn't really think you could hold me like that, didya, Sammy?' he sneers, framing Sam's face with his hands, faking gentleness again because Sam can feel the leverage in the sinews of Dean's forearms, knows that if he moves wrong he could get his neck snapped. Dean noses gently at Sam's throat, kisses him softly and then nips hard at his bottom lip, forcing a gasp and taking the opening for what it is - a weakness - and licking his way in.
The kiss swamps Sam. It was fucking before. It was an animal act. It didn't have to be anything personal, but this, this is nothing but personal. Dean's scent is everywhere now, and he's breathing it in, letting Dean take control for real, of the kiss, of the position, of the way Sam's knees lock tight around Dean's hips.
Dean hitches Sam higher, pushes at his thigh until he can get Sam's leg right over his shoulder all the way, bend him in half like a pretzel and kiss him til he can't breathe, and fuck him. Sam's seen fucking-machine porn and mechanical dicks ain't got nothing on Dean, not like this - he pounds like a piston, Sam's hole finding room for him Sam didn't know he had, and he's writhing between the pivot points of Dean's dangerous hold on his neck and the thick drag of Dean's cock in his ass, pleading and sobbing.
'Use your words, Sam,' Dean says, like Sam's five years old again. Same voice and everything, and it's wrong and it makes Sam just that little bit more desperate. 'I got you strung out enough yet? You ready to take a sip? C'mon, Sam. You and me, baby brother, we could burn it all down. We already crossed every other line, you're gonna be walking outta here with my come dripping out your ass, so what's stopping you?' He's growling it all with his mouth against Sam's ear, which puts his throat, his pounding pulse, against Sam's abused lips. 'I could be yours, your Knight,' he whispers.
Sam bites. The taste of blood spills over his tongue, finally, after five fucking years on the wagon, and the rush of it sweeps Sam up into white-out orgasm. Dean rears back, rams himself in, square on Sam's prostate and his dick jerking and spilling and everything is liquid pleasure and sin, ruin and perfection and Sam knows he's lost, and feels like he's finally won.
'Why didn't you drink them?' Dean asks later, leaning naked over Sam's body and toying with a nipple, slicking his fingers over the sluggish bitemark in his neck and feeding his blood to Sam like that, drop by drop. 'I practically giftwrapped 'em for you, Sammy. Thought for sure you'd drop off the wagon.'
Sam stretches, luxuriating in the way the power's filling his veins and the feeling of being well-fucked at the same time. 'Was addicted to you first.'