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[closed] needs a little more dead man's blood

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester and Mr. Vampire Brother (

faithlessly)
LOCATION: A hallway on the 17th of September.
WARNINGS: Little bit of gore mentioning? Little violence? Probably some cursing idk.
SUMMARY: Sam sees Dean chomp into his neck. But that can't be, can it? Well shit.

Sam sees it while he's nodding off in the kitchens -- thoroughly exhausted, gray-rimmed eyes pop open from the sudden mind-numbing pain, and then he sees it: a hallway teeter-tottering in his vision, Dean's intense expression, Sam's alarmed voice, shadows moving violently, and then the clear image of Dean ripping out his throat effortlessly, as though his teeth were razor sharp and merciless to human skin. And then there's the gurgle, the slow loss of blood --

Sam snaps into reality with a gasp, covering his head with his hands as though it'll protect him from another blast of imagery to his consciousness. He knows exactly where that hallway is; knows what might be waiting for him if he goes there to see his brother now -- knows just how horribly wrong everything is. His heart's hammering in his chest and the dawning understanding that, maybe, something supernatural got a hold of his brother. But that doesn't make sense; isn't he supposed to be the freak? Not Dean. No, shit, not Dean. He's gotta go to him and see if what he saw was true. He's got to hurry. Is that what the--

He hurries, grabs the machete Dean left, takes a few precautions, hurries as fast as he could, though he's practically blurring at the edges of his vision from the headache blasting in his skull. Jesus Christ, his head. Just a few hours of sleep -- why can't he sleep --

But he goes regardless. Heads to that hallway to intercept Dean (that graffiti he saw -- he knew that graffiti), using the wall as leverage when he's not feeling so hot. He's been killed in a vision before. It's never stopped him from going anyway.

Fuck it.

He's gotta find Dean. He'll be ready. He has to find him, now that he has the chance.

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Contrary to what some might think, Dean does actually venture outside of his hiding place. Just... you know, secretly. And why in secret? Well, if there's one thing he's learned after years and years of hunting, it's that a monster can't control its urges, its very nature, no matter what. And now... now Dean's no different. He's just like those he's hunted, just another thing that'll end up hurting someone sooner or later. There's no way around it, not on this ship, which is why he's locked himself up into the room shown to him by Castiel...

Up until now, anyway.

Sleepless, hungry days and nights have passed, and now find Dean out in the very hallway Sam sees in his vision.

Hand against the cool wall of the hallway, he's stopped there, fighting off a wave of something-- something not right, something that brings about an itchiness in his mouth, something that leaves his nerves hard with effort to keep whatever it is that his gut is screaming at him to do. It's been overwhelming lately, a scent in the air he'd been hit with the moment he'd crawled out of that pod after the jump.

But he's managed before, he can do it again.

Or thinks he can, right up until he hears that approaching hectic heartbeat he knows, just knows belongs to the one person he doesn't wan to see.

Hey, you feel like shit, Sam feels like shit, it's a bonding experience.

He finally sees Dean and his shoulders slack a bit, even knowing that could happen in the future; he hasn't seen him since... since a little after the Cyllene trip, after he got pissed about the whole 'you turn into a monster and I gotta kill you' argument he was butting heads about. As it is now, he just wants to make sure Dean's okay. Which... is he really? Looking at him now, he can already tell it's not good. There are a few things he can be... All of which hunters don't like. He swallows the lump in his throat, blinking tiredly.

"Found you. Can we talk now?"

Then he'll try to take a nap afterward. Sounds like a good plan. Because he's not sure how much longer he can stand upright. Over a week of just about no sleeping has catapulted him into cranky, miserable, half-dead-looking zombie college kid. Still. This takes precedence, and he's admittedly a bit more on edge despite the weariness draining his limbs. His heart beat quickens, but just a little. He's gotta keep a cool head about this.

"What happened, Dean?"

He's got the machete tucked into his belt for safe measures, but he's not planning on using it. Even with a worst-case scenario... how's he supposed to? No way.

Found you. Can we talk now. What happened, Dean.

He almost wants to laugh, would even if it didn't mean a slip on his control. It's been... over a week now since the jump, a week of no sleep, no food, and-- and it's weighing down on whatever little control he has.

Dean turns to see Sam, the exhaustion clinging to his brother obvious in the dark circles under his eyes. It's been over a year for Dean, since he's last seen Sam like this -- young, from the past, way past -- not the... version from his time. The Sam that wasn't quite right, the one who'd let him get turn-- he shakes his head. It's a rough, sudden gesture, as if he's trying to shake something but. But you can do that with sounds or smells, with fatigue and hunger.

"Turn 'round and walk away, Sam." His hand curls into a fist against the wall as he turns his back to his brother again, eyes screwing shut tighter, all in attempts to block out everything. Of course, it's not like it works, not like he can dull out the hammering of his brother's heart, or the ever growing itching of his own gums. How Sam had found him, how Sam of all people is beyond him at the moment, the memory of his brother's special mind voodoo skills under a hazy layer of lost information.

He almost wants to ask if Sam did as he'd asked, if he'd gotten what he'd requested. As much as he wants to just say it -- you need to gank me, Sammy -- he can't bring himself to, not yet.

"No. Dean -- I'm not leaving," he replies, taking a careful step forward, a little bit of cruel hope sparking in his eyes, against his will. If he could just -- there's gotta be ways around this. Sam thinks of the vision and of what Dean had him get from the locker, and he desperately wishes it would go away and leave a normal idiot big brother there instead; the one that said he wouldn't hurt Sam, and dammit all if Sam took if for granted, knowing what he knows about the vision he'd seen. "We're in this all together, right? I'm here to help. I know -- what you are. Dean, was it someone on the ship...? Did someone -- "

He doesn't want to think about it.

But... if it was back home... They were really fucked.

He's scared. He's really genuinely scared -- for Dean. This is crazy. This isn't supposed to happen. And now, they've got to figure out a way around it; they have to, because Sam's not losing his brother right now. Not here, not home.

What.

Dean tenses sharply, a rigidness forming between his shoulders that hasn't been present since the jump. After he'd managed to hide himself away from the other passengers, he'd slowly managed to relax, inch by inch. But it all gets brushed away just like that, just with a few words and from Sam. At least it gets him to turn to Sam, face pale, almost sickly looking from everything the ship is putting them both through, and the baggage from home. Any other day, and he'd toss his brother a joke about being a goddamn Cullen, but not this time.

"How--" His words cut off though, cut off because he wants them to. It doesn't matter, does it? Sam was bound to find out sooner or later, though Dean had hoped he would have found a way to off himself by then. But this-- it's all the same, no matter what the shock, apprehension and guilt in his body suddenly scream.

"Then you know what you have to do." Something steels in his eyes, turns cold and unshakable. It's a look he often wears on a particularly difficult hunt, or when Sam brings his worries to him, about the nature of his blood, his purpose.

Sam squints like he misheard Dean. By all accounts, maybe he did; he's not in a good place right now, when it comes to full capacity here. But then he just shakes his head and frowns, matching Dean's familiar steely look with a completely stubborn and unshakable one.

"I'm not killing you, Dean. We can figure something else out. Hell, there are -- people here who deal with what they got. I talked to a few myself. We don't have to do this."

You goddamn jerk. There's no way.

His head's pounding, and a hand rises to clasp at his head as the heartbeat thunders in it. Fuck, it hurts.

"I'm not hurting you. Just -- what happened?"

It's simple how easy it is for Dean to snap. He hears Sam say no, that he's not killing him, that they can figure something else out. There isn't anything to figure out though, there is no cure for what he's got, and Dean-- Dean can feel that control slipping, doesn't even know how he's fighting back the urge to sink the fangs he'd never asked for into something soft and warm and alive.

With speed he never had before, Dean's suddenly right there, right up close, something fierce and angry flashing over his face, words snarled. "You don't get to freakin' decide that, Sammy, not about this." And then he's move to slam Sam right up against the wall of the hallway, with strength that would be so much more impressive, so much more scary if he wasn't already so weak from the past week or so. But anger is enough to fuel the grip he has on the front of Sam's shirt, in the small shake he gives his brother.

He'll force his hand, he will, he'll do it, watch him. An insane thought -- I don't want to hurt him that way -- that seems so simple, so logical to him right there and then. He doesn't understand Sam's issue, not one bit.

"Or do you really wanna know? Do you wanna know who just stood there while that son of a bitch fed me his goddamn blood?"

Sam's head smacks against the wall, disorienting him for a moment as he instinctively reaches to grab Dean's hands. The vision he had flashes through his eyes and suddenly his eyes widen faintly, for a moment alarmed, because what if it's about to happen? No, Dean's stronger than that; he wouldn't hurt him. He wouldn't hunt him. His veins are thudding with life more now than before, as he wrenches at the grasp. "Dean--"

But then he's frozen, gaze boring into Dean's.

"What -- what're you talking about? Yeah, I wanna' know, dammit."

Why wouldn't he want to know?

Why... --

The smell of blood is stronger like this, even while it still runs under skin. But Dean's concentration is all on Sam's face, the anger he feels, how it threatens for him to lose it, is all on watching pain turn to confusion over Sam's face. He wonders if his brother will even care when he does find out about how he'd just stood there, how he'd just watched and-- and let that fucker turn him, just like that. There had been no effort from Sam to stop it, none and that hurt more than the knowledge of what he'd become thanks to it.

"You, Sam." His grip tightens then, knuckle white and trembling almost with the sheer force he keeps him against the wall, words gritted out with every inch of self control he has.

"You're the reason I'm like this, you--" Of course, what he'd seen had only been a fraction of Sam, a heartbeat's moment where anything could have happened, where hesitation could have caused his brother to falter. Nothing more, nothing less. But with his sleep and hunger deprived mind it's so much easier to place blame, especially since they always watch each other backs, always.

And yet, here they are.

"No," Sam breathes, brow furrowed, trying to even imagine a situation like that; he'd never do that. One hand drops from Dean's wrist, and he shakes his head. "No, I wouldn't--" He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't. He swallows hard and wonders if this is it. If this is how he turns into a monster, how he turns into some ugly thing dad would have to warn Dean about... and then Dean would hunt him down. Hunt him as something inhuman. Suddenly the image of his throat being torn open makes sense. "I'd never do that. There's gotta be a mistake, Dean. I'd never..."

You're wrong, that's not me, I wouldn't do that.

It had to be Dean's head playing tricks on him.

He's not in his best state of mind. That's all. His vision swims, finding the energy to shove him back hard to dredge up. He just pushes against Dean's chest, hoping Dean will find some sort of resolve to talk this through. He doesn't want to hurt him. He doesn't want this to go down like this, because the last thing Dean needs is killing his brother... right? Dean still gives a shit about that, or he wouldn't have distanced himself.

He curls a fist in Dean's shirt, stunned and afraid. At himself. At Dean. At all of this happening right now. It's too much; haven't they lost enough? Haven't they dealt with enough?

"Dean, please... I just wanna help."

Can't be true. It's all overwhelming, and he can barely even think straight, and he's so fucking tired, and he has no idea how to fix this.

Edited (ew edits bad writing) 2013-09-15 07:41 (UTC)

You really think telling Dean what he saw, how he saw it, had to have been his mistake? At a time like this? It seems to ruffle him, angers him further as he all but growls quietly at the words leaving his brother, never mind the clear shock and dawning horror written on Sam's face. It's almost funny that it would all lead down to this; Sam letting the thing they both fear the most happen to him, when it's Sam who has been the freak all along. It's ironic and disgusting, and unfair.

"Help? You've helped enough, Sam. More than enough." And look what it's made him. The pushes and shoves at him go barely noticed, his hands having settled into an iron grip.

"But you owe me, you owe me to do the right thing right now." Sam needs to man up, to take the blade and poison Dean had told him to get and to use them. He has to do it, has to because Dean's halfway off the sane track and Sam isn't faring much better. They need to do this before it's too late.

Dean's stepping back then, yanking Sam away from the wall and letting go off him with a slight shove. "Or did you think we could both be blood sucking freaks at the same time?"

Because that's not gonna happen, not even if the words are true. He needs Sam to get with the picture, wants the words to sting and hurt his brother into action.

Sam stumbles back, and his heart breaks in two against his will. But instead of being angry, shoving forward and doing what Dean wants, Sam just stares at Dean like it all has to be a huge misunderstanding; looks at Dean imploringly but can't bring up the right words for this -- because what are the right words? Everything he's ever feared is right here in front of him: Dean, turned, forced to become a monster, and Sam, a monster already, sucking down blood? Getting his brother changed? It's the bad end, one he was scared of, one he anonymously ran to the ship for, but nothing would make it any better.

Sam takes another step back and then his head throbs sharply. He thinks he's about to get hit with another dose of visions, but instead everything just blurs in and out of focus and he blinks hard -- just as his nose bleeds steady down both nostrils, plipping quietly on the floor under him. It takes him one second to realize how much he's fucked up, just being here.

He looks up at Dean with wide eyes.

This was a mistake.

Edited (i didnt edit nope) 2013-09-15 20:25 (UTC)

There's the problem with Sam being so far from the past; he young, and inexperienced despite how much he does know about hunting. They both know there's no way out of what Dean has, no curing Sammy either, but this? They can do this right here and now, do the right thing. Unlike with Sam, they can kill him. But he knows that look, knows Sam can't and it makes him angrier, frustration boiling his own blood, all ready to lash out--

Sam staggers, seems to lose himself for a minute which stills Dean completely, leaves him to watch his brother fight off whatever it is that's happening to him. There's always going to be that part of him that wants to step closer and comfort his brother, to ask him if he's okay, to promise him they'll find a way out of this. He almost has time to do that, to step closer with an outstretched hand which would find Sam's shoulder.

The drops of blood stop him. It's entirely different like this, with the smell so fresh and right there, only some feet away, ruby red and alive. The reaction is instant, no pretense of control to subdue the needle-like fangs that appear in his mouth, sheathing over his own, human teeth. They flash visibly only for a moment, as Dean's hand find and cover his mouth seconds later, a pained sound escaping him as he tries to tear his eyes away from Sam, from the blood. The smell is overwhelming though, especially after not having eaten since he'd come on board, it's like dangling the finest of foods in front of a starving man, asking them to join in, to feast.

Little does it matter that the feast is your own brother.

"Sam--" It's the only warning he's getting, his entire body jerking and stiff while every inch of his self-control is put to making sure he doesn't just leap.

Sam puts a hand over his nose like it matters, the red bleeding through over his fingers, and he starts to back away; he doesn't want to, doesn't want to leave Dean like this, but the smell is so strong even to Sam, the taste of iron on his lips. He pats around his pocket and wraps a hand around one of the syringes he'd brought, dropping the other hand from his face as he grabs the hilt of the machete. But there's no way. He knows Dean wants him to, but how the fuck is he supposed to do this to his only family? To Dean? Especially after he apparently let this all happen?

"I can't -- "

He stumbles back, ready to evade, ready to get out -- his exhaustion makes the world bob and weave, makes his head throb again, a steady heartbeat in his head that's beating wildly now, uncontrolled.

And then he turns and runs. Not sure where he's going, but Dean's close to a war path, and he couldn't stand there and watch the vision come to life, not without a fight, without changing it. But hell, maybe he should let it happen; Dean wouldn't want that; he couldn't have wanted to.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe that would've been for the best. Poetic justice.

He doesn't know. He's not sure how this happened.

Edited 2013-09-15 21:23 (UTC)

Dean should let him go, let those footsteps and that hectic, panicked heartbeat hammer away until he can't hear it anymore. He should do so much, like gank himself somehow, and yet he can't. No, instead he starts after Sam, after that smell, the need to finally feed driving out any sense. This is what it's all about, the pure instinct that makes a monster dangerous, the lack of control which makes them anything but human. Dean hasn't felt this since Hell, not since he'd lost himself cutting those tied to the rack into pieces, over and over again.

It takes him no time at all to catch up with Sam, one hand shooting out, fingers gripping tightly down before he's flicking his entire arm off to the side, all meant to throw Sam off balance. The smell of blood is a rush in its own right, empowering every other sense in the tight hallway, and forcing Dean to move closer without so much as a beat of hesitation; all fangs and--

"I'm sorry--" It's muffled, not quite right the rows and rows of inhuman teeth in his mouth, said to no one and for both their sakes at the same time.

Just a little bit, just enough to calm down the hunger--

Something in him is glad Sam's so out of it, maybe it'll make all of this easier, more accessible -- quicker.

"Hold still." Is said as he advances, everything focused on that red trickle of blood which still steadily leaks away, like a beacon of rightness that he can't let go of.

"Dean, stop!" he cries out, feeling the fingers curl too-tight around his arm.

Sam does nearly fall flat on his ass with that motion. Instead he hits the wall again, this time fully on his shoulder, and turns quickly at the danger -- the hunter instinct finally drives him and he kicks out aiming for Dean's stomach. But Sam saw this before, in his head; he knows Dean's gonna intercept, and then he'll close in, and then it won't be enough control and he'll gouge his teeth deep into Sam's esophagus --

'Hold still.'

So he draws the dead man's blood, ready for Dean to close that gap. And then when Dean inevitably bridges it, aiming for Sam's exposed long neck, Sam stabs him in the shoulder and injects him without hesitation. Because the other option is him dying, and as much as he's hurting and thinks maybe that's the point, Sam can't let it happen.

Edited 2013-09-15 23:08 (UTC)

It's too late to stop now, too late to change how everything goes down. Dean'll have what he wants, what he needs, and if it's from Sam? Then so be it. He'd told Sam to back off, to not come find him -- but here they are and Dean's seconds away from getting what he's been thinking about since the jump.

Dean intercepts the kick easily, all movements fluid and aimed for one simple goal; the blood. Teeth flash, the sound the leaves him being nothing human, nothing nice-- dangerous. Just like in Sam's vision, he's closing in then, aiming for Sam's neck because that's where the blood flows thick and heavy, close to the surface of his skin and so, so easy to access. Instead of fresh, gushing blood though, all Dean feels in the next half second is something piercing his shoulder--

and then pain, burning, searing pain. The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a scream and a cry, nothing human as he flings himself away from Sam and into the opposite wall of the hallway, the sensation nothing like he's ever felt before. It lags him instantly, acid in his veins.

"Fuck, fuck--"

Sam just watches, frozen against the wall, knowing Dean's not going to be much for attacking with that pumping into his system, and the sight's enough to make his eyes burn hot and achingly. He has to go, though. He's caused enough problems here, did enough to ruin any chance of helping his brother personally. He swallows hard, his stomach ice, his throat clenched painfully.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice cracking, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't know where he should bother going. He can't go back to his room, can't flee to the bar or a library for this. Even if he wanted to -- he looks at the coagulating blood on his palm, horrified at what had just happened (it was a nightmare, this is a fucking nightmare) before he blindly runs. He doesn't know where he's going. Doesn't really care.

His brother's a monster, and it's his fault. He chokes on words but inevitably disappears around the corner, and as the halls grow darker and darker he's just gone.

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[closed] needs a little more dead man's blood

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