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Dean could immediately tell something was going on with Sam. Call it a big brother thing, call it a sixth sense, but from the moment they awoke in the damp little motel room they’d been staying at for a few days, Dean could sense that a wall had formed around his little brother seemingly overnight, shutting Sam off from the world. And from Dean.
Dean checked the alarm clock on the bedside table. 7 a.m. He groaned and ran his hands over his face as if that would rub away the ever-present tiredness he’d felt since he was a teenager. His biological clock kept waking him up before 10 a.m., which would be fine if they had something to do today, a lead, a case, anything. But in the couple of days since they arrived in Tombstone, a dusty, historical town in southeastern Arizona, they hadn’t found anything worth investigating. Which meant Dean could’ve afforded to sleep at least another 2 hours. But, of course not.
Dean scraped himself out of bed and felt the muscles in his shoulders ache. He glanced over at Sam in the bed next to his and saw him lying on his stomach, his head turned away from Dean, still sleeping. He wondered if Sam’d had a nightmare last night. One of the pillows from his bed was shucked to the floor and the blanket was crumpled up and pushed to the foot of the bed. Sam’s feet were hanging off, the monstrous size of him, and it made Dean snort to himself.
He knew something was wrong with Sam. Just one of those things he knew.
But Dean resolved to deal with that after he got his hands on some coffee, pronto. He shuffled to the bathroom to piss and get ready, thinking he might grab some donuts for breakfast, too.
***
Sam woke up and immediately wished he hadn’t.
There was this heaviness behind his eyes that felt like someone had replaced his brain with a bowling ball, and every time he blinked, they ached like a bitch. He sat up in bed and pressed his fingertips onto the space between his eyes, hoping to relieve the pressure. But already he knew it wasn’t going to go away that easily.
He thought he was better. He’d been on such a good streak that he had Dean and even himself fooled. But of course it wouldn’t last. Of course.
His mouth felt warm – hot, actually – and when he licked his tongue around the inside, he tasted blood. Little bits of skin from his lips and the inside of his cheeks were swishing around in his mouth, making him recoil at the awful feeling of the raw wounds in his cheeks. When he rubbed his bottom lip, his finger came away specked with reddish flakes – dried blood.
Great. So hungry for demon blood he’d basically started eating himself in his sleep.
Sam wasn’t gonna tell Dean about the nightmare. He couldn’t, and he hated himself for it, and he wished he didn’t have to fall into the cycle again, with the lying about the nightmares and the insatiable hunger for demon blood all the others things that made Sam a fucking freak to his brother. He was tired of being the freak. He thought the hunger’d gone away for good, ever since Bobby and Dean put him in that torture chamber to absolve him of his need for demon blood, ever since they killed Ruby and Sam had stopped getting his fix. He thought he was better.
He wanted to be good again. He did, he really did. So was it his fault he’d dreamed of Ruby again? Was it his fault he’d dreamed of slicing her open with that godforsaken knife of hers, putting his mouth to her skin, and drinking her dry?
He could taste blood and gore in his breath. Swallowing the last bits of the skin he’d bitten off his mouth, Sam rolled himself out of bed and resolved to take a shower. Scrub the blood from his mouth, scrape off the remnants of that nightmare. He just needed to get out of this goddamn bed, the sheets were practically stuck to him.
He noticed that Dean’s bed was empty – a mess, of course, since his brother never bothered to make the bed for whatever reason, but empty nonetheless – and figured he had gone out for coffee.
Good. Sam didn’t want to deal with him right now. Like it or not, Dean had an uncanny and very irritating sixth sense where he could tell something was up with Sam without Sam doing or saying anything. His Sammy Sixth Sense. It was humiliating, and Sam didn’t want to face his brother just yet. Maybe after a shower.
Sam set his bed and padded to the bathroom to piss, and shower, and scrub himself raw.
He just wanted to be clean.
***
Dean burst through the motel room door and wrinkled his nose immediately.
“God, I didn’t realize how weird this room smells. It’s like mildew.” He kicked the door closed and held up the drink carrier containing two cups of coffee in his left hand and a small box of donuts in his right. “Hungry?”
Sam smiled vaguely in his brother’s direction and pretended to be immersed in the “research” he was doing on his open laptop. He was on the internet page for the town of Tombstone, but he hadn’t clicked on any articles yet. He had just been sitting at the small, creaky desk next to the motel room’s window, lost in thought.
Dean set down a cup of hot coffee next to Sam’s laptop, told him, “Just how you like it. Sweet as a fuckin’ milkshake,” and then surprised Sam by pulling a chair up to the small desk and sitting there with the box of donuts. He opened the box of donuts, selected one with chocolate glaze and filled with some type of cream, and tore into it ravenously.
“So what’s up with you, Sammy?” His words were muffled and garbled in between mouthfuls of donut.
Sam swallowed and kept his eyes trained on his laptop, though the smell of the coffee next to him was unbearably tempting. He conceded and took a deep gulp of his drink, finding it was just hot enough to feel good going down.
“What do you mean?” Sam replied, clicking on his mousepad.
“I mean…” Dean licked glaze off his fingers, and when he was finished sucking them off he sighed as if there was a great weight on his chest. “I mean, are you… okay? Lately?”
Sam stopped scrolling on the mousepad and considered his response. He wanted to ask Dean, “Do you want the truth, or the answer that’ll scare you less?” Because truth was that Sam had dreamt of Ruby and her blood of life and the rightness of the wrongness and the power he felt as he sucked the blood right out of her, and he loved it. And that scared him, because all Sam wanted these days was to be clean and free from the burden of his desires, and Sam was keenly aware of how closely Dean had been watching him since he broke the last seal. He couldn’t tell Dean he’d dreamt of Ruby. He couldn’t fucking tell Dean that the hunger had come back to him like a faithful horse. He wanted to put the damn thing down, shoot it in the face, get rid of it for good. Because nothing could heal the wounds he caused Dean by choosing Ruby over him.
Sam wanted to be clean, he did. He wanted to be better. He never wanted to touch demon blood again and he just wanted Dean to stop walking on eggshells around him, afraid, fearing anything could set him off.
The only way that could happen was if Dean was reassured. Plainly, if Sam lied to him.
“I’m fine,” said Sam, even taking the liberty of looking his brother in the eye while doing so. “But the whole pulling-up-a-chair thing you’re doing right now is telling me you don’t believe me.”
Dean shrugged and examined another donut from the box. “Just a big brother sense is all.”
Sam forced himself to drink his coffee even though the tension in his body was making him feel sick.
“I assume you’re referring to my hankering for demon blood.”
Dean raised his brow at this. He finally selected a plain glazed donut and set the box aside, chewing somewhat obnoxiously as he stared at Sam. Sam felt too vulnerable and resisted the urge to break eye contact. He needed to convince Dean he was fine so he’d get off his back, and then Sam could figure all this out on his own, in peace, the way he needed to.
Dean devoured the donut in three bites. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
Dean seemed to be feeling just as annoyed as Sam was. He wiped his hands on his jeans and all of a sudden the atmosphere between him and Sam hardened. Became, suddenly, very serious. Dean was growing too impatient.
“Stop playin’ dumb, alright? Can you just tell me what the hell’s been going on with you?”
Sam shook his head, confused, even rolled his eyes at Dean. Trying to buy himself enough time to come up with a satisfactory answer.
Dean prodded, his voice coming out accusatory. “So … everything’s good with you, then. Normal and all that?”
Sam shrugged. “Normal as it gets with us.”
“No more salivating for demon blood.”
“Dean, what’re you trying to do here? Just tell me.”
“Guess you could say my Spidey Sense is tingling.”
“Gross.”
Dean sighed heavily and did not hide his impatience. “I need to know if you’re thinkin’ about getting back on the wagon, Sammy. ‘Cause if you are, I gotta c –”
“You gotta do what, Dean? Call up Bobby? Throw me back in the torture chamber till I’m normal again?” Sam scoffed and looked away, looked out the window, looked anywhere that wasn’t his brother’s face. “I know you don’t trust me. After… everything I did, I’ve done. And that’s fine. Okay. But you can’t honestly think I’d want to go running back to that lifestyle after what we experienced. After what I experienced, what you guys did to me.”
He hoped he sounded sincere enough.
Sam was telling the truth, and at the same time he was still trying to convince himself of it. No, he honestly didn’t want to go back to that lifestyle, hiding in the shadows and sucking on Ruby to feel good about himself for once, but maybe, maybe he needed it. The demon blood had been inside him since he was a baby. To deny himself of it would be to deny himself of what his body needs, like withholding food or water from himself. Didn’t he need it? He didn’t want it anymore because of the consequences, but was it possible for Sam to live without it?
“I don’t know, Sammy, it’s not like I’ve ever dealt with this before,” Dean said with surprising honesty. “I know how to take care of you. I’ve been doing it our whole lives. But I don’t know how to take care of you when you’re like this. I don’t know how to handle you, what to say, what to do about it, damn it. I just need to know that you know what’ll happen if you go off the wagon again.”
Right. Because if there’s one thing Dean’s afraid of, it’s not being strong enough or knowledgeable enough to fix things. Especially when it comes to family. Especially.
Sam briefly saw himself through Dean’s eyes. Here’s his little brother, the only family he’s got left, the only person he never gets tired of, the only person he’s never lost faith in. Then comes Ruby, and Sam discovering the truth about who he is, and Sam going around behind his brother’s back to explore this new side of him, and suddenly Dean doesn’t have as good of a grasp on his family as he once did. Suddenly, for the first time with his brother, his faith begins to waver. And that’s fucking terrifying for him, to not be able to trust the only person he ever could trust. Sammy was the only one he had now, and as he started to morph into a mystery, a horror, right before Dean’s eyes … well, Dean wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Hot sadness burned in Sam’s chest, kindled by shame and disgust and frustration, all toward himself and his situation because Dean – big brother Dean, it wasn’t his fault Sam was a freak and a coward. That he had turned into the big, brash, hardened, painful thing sitting in front of him. Sam was always hiding but he never had to worry about hiding from Dean.
“God, Dean,” Sam began in a sort of rough whisper, “’course I know what’ll happen if I go back. Of course I do.”
“It’s like I’m playing freakin’ poker blind when it comes to us lately,” Dean admitted. “I feel like I don’t know how to handle us anymore. What we’re supposed to act like now.”
Because of the mistrust, Sam finished in his head. Because I fucked everything up. And I’m sitting here, still fucked up, and you don’t have a clue, and I don’t know if I want to tell you.
Sam’s chest tightened. His eyes ached. He felt hungry and nauseous at the same time and the conversation was not helping. He needed to find a way to get Dean off his back.
“I know. And I’m –” Sam paused, thinking too hard about how the tone of his voice was coming across to Dean, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
He let the words sit out there in the open for a moment before asking, “What can I do or say to convince you I’m never going back?”
Because if Sam knew what Dean was looking for, it’d be easier to act the part.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You just gotta talk to me, man. And keep talkin’ to me, don’t just stop after you do it once or twice, I need you to always be talkin’ to me so there’s no secrets between us.”
Sam felt like there were thunderclouds in his head, swollen with rain and about to unleash a downpour within minutes. He was so bad at this. When did it get so hard to be brothers? To be honest with each other? When did things get so fucking impossible? Sam was worried if he started talking, the corners of his mouth would tremble and it’d be cats and dogs and then he’d really be fucked because there’d be no other reason for why he was crying other than that he was itching to fall off the wagon again. The dream. The hunger in his gut, his throat. Ruby, and the taste of her. He couldn’t handle it anymore.
Sam nodded in admission, gave Dean a reassuring look that lasted long enough to be sincere and was quick enough to hide the gray-black clouds that had been coagulating behind his eyes.
It was good enough for Dean. He nodded and stood up from his chair to signify the end of their conversation. Immediately Sam released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Sam felt much too sick to finish his coffee, but out of fear that leaving half his cup would alert Dean in some way, he forced himself to drink the rest. Churning alongside the drink was fear and revulsion with himself; but even still, Sam was thankful that they were hidden there in his gut, away from Dean and the perception of others. In his gut they were safe, at least for now.
***
The aching behind his eyes did not let up for Sam throughout the day. Not as he and Dean were searching for cases, not as they piled into the Impala to check out reported poltergeist activity in a nearby Tombstone historical information center, and certainly not after they burned the remains of the spirit that was causing all the chaos and settled back into the Impala, exhausted and shaking ash from their jackets.
Sam used his thumbs to massage the spots underneath his eyebrows and groaned lightly in relief.
“Headache botherin’ you?” Dean wanted to know as he righted himself in the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, it’s been killing me all day.” Sam didn’t want to worry his brother so he added, “Probably just dehydrated or something. It’s a lot warmer here than what we’re used to.”
Dean wasn’t so sure. “Sammy, if –”
“I’m fine,” he cut in before Dean could say anything that would cause him to feel worse. “Stop worrying.”
Dean widened his eyes as if to say sheesh. He wasted no time in starting up the Impala and peeling out of the lot in which they were parked, but not before giving Sam a thoughtful, if not concerned, glance. A bitter silence settled between them. Sam, irritable beyond all measure, glared at the window and tried not to say anything else to his brother. He was frustrated with himself, and really, he wanted nothing more than to be alone right now and shed Dean’s presence like a snake skin. He felt like he was suffocating in it.
By some chance Sam realized Dean hadn’t taken the turn that led them toward their motel. “Where’re we going?” he asked.
“I’m takin’ you to get a fuckin’ drink,” was Dean’s response. Then he flipped on the radio to the classic rock station and began drumming on the steering wheel. There seemed to be no room for negotiation on the matter.
***
Dean drove them to one of those restaurants that was divided at the entrance into two parlors, a family diner on the right, and a dimly-lit bar on the left. Dean held the door open for his brother, and they both headed through the doors on the left side, straight to the bar. The air inside was warm but lively, smelling of cigarette smoke and, faintly, of the burgers from the restaurant on the other side. There were a surprisingly good amount of people inside the bar, more than Sam or Dean had expected. Most of the round wooden tables were occupied with groups of people chattering and laughing, there were a few waitresses in jeans and checkered shirts squeezing through tables collecting and refilling empty glasses, and some old country music was playing from a vintage jukebox in the corner near the bar counter. A couple got up from their seats at the bar counter, looking pleasantly toasted, and helped each other exit the bar. Dean glanced at Sam and nodded his head in the direction of the two vacant seats.
“Rum and Coke,” requested Dean as they slid onto the barstools. He looked to his right at Sam. “What’ll it be, Sammy?”
Sam’s headache was not faring so well in the busy, boisterous environment. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to drink so Dean got him a beer for starters.
“Why are we here?” Sam said dryly.
Dean took a pointed sip of his drink. “’Cause my brother’s in a terrible mood for God knows what reason, and I thought a drink would do him good.”
“I’m not in a terrible mood,” Sam replied, annoyed. “Just have a headache. I shouldn’t be drinking.”
“You need to loosen up,” countered Dean. His ears perked up as he heard the beginning of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs Robinson” and tried to figure out if he was digging the vibe or not. After another sip of his rum and Coke, he shrugged and turned his attention back to Sam. “Anyway, would it kill you to just have a drink with me?”
Sam sifted through the mess of his own misery and found it in him to regret being such a killjoy tonight. His body felt drained and his head was killing him and there was something big and dark and nasty writhing inside his gut that was preventing him from feeling like a person. But he realized he was being the freak again. Mouth dry, Sam took a deep gulp from his beer and set it down heavily.
“Attaboy,” said Dean with a grin, slapping Sam on the shoulder. “Drink up, babybrother.”
Sam exhaled and imagined that the weight of his worry was disintegrating into the air as he breathed out. He could have one normal night with Dean. His body was craving Ruby and her blood and he felt ill beyond description, but also his brother seemed to be in a good mood tonight. And it wasn’t every day that he got that luxury.
Sam finished half of his bottle of beer and willed it to stay down in his stomach.
He caught Dean scoping out the joint, locating the jukebox. His eyes lit up as if he’d just had an idea. “Got a quarter on you?”
“What’re you gonna play?”
Dean shook his head with a smirk on his lips. “Surprise. But I need a quarter.”
Holding back a quip, Sam fished through his pockets and produced a single quarter for Dean. “Pick something that won’t make my headache worse, won’t you?”
Dean grabbed the quarter and headed to the jukebox while Sam took another sip of beer and waited for the familiar intro of some Zeppelin or AC/DC song to tear through the chatter of the patrons.
Sam looked up and as Dean started making his way back to his seat. Sam gave him a questioning look but Dean just grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.
The last few notes of the old country song that was playing rang out as Dean ordered another drink for himself.
“Listen,” Dean smiled, tapping his ear.
After a beat of silence, Sam heard the resounding voice of Harry Belafonte, singing, “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-o, daaaaaaaaaay-o, daylight come and me wanna go home...”
Sam felt his heart fissure and break open into a chasm right down to his gut. “Banana Boat.” Sam was laughing before he could think of anything else to do, a heavy, shoulder-shaking kind of laugh of which Sam had almost forgotten he was capable.
Dean slapped the bar counter in triumph, happy to have broken Sam out of his funk. “Remember when we first heard this song?”
Six foot, seven foot, eight foot bunch. Daylight come, and me wanna go home...
“We heard it in the car when Dad was driving us to school,” Sam recalled.
Sam thought back to the memory, as hazy as it was. It was his and Dean’s first day of the school year and their Dad was trying to reassure them that they’d be safe there and wouldn’t have to switch schools till the end of the year, at least. Sam and Dean had a hard time believing it based on their past experiences, moving from school to school, motel to motel, never in the same place for more than a few months. And this song came on the radio, just out of the blue, and it was so unlike anything they were used to hearing in the car. Dean had snickered while Sam listened to the lyrics and started singing along to himself, “Daylight come and me wanna go home,” and it was so infectious that Dean started singing along too because he wanted to go home, wherever that was. Sam remembered seeing John’s smile in the rearview mirror and felt just a twinge of hope that carried him through his first day.
Dean took a swig of his drink. “God, that was forever ago.”
The last remnants of Sam’s laughter began to dissipate, exhausting him instantly. “Yeah. It was.”
Suddenly the thunderclouds were rolling in, threatening to storm all over the little moment Sam was sharing with his brother. He felt his throat close up, grief settling into his stomach, and tears behind his eyes not far from making themselves known.
Sam’s beer was basically finished. He didn’t want another one. He wanted to go home – back to the motel – and he wanted to be alone more than anything. His face felt hot. He felt disgusting and horrid because Dean was here trying to cheer him up, and leave it up to Sam to dampen the mood with the hurricane of his emotions and guilt. Jesus Christ when did he get so bad at this?
Sam wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now, when he was supposed to be having a good time and taking his mind off of the apocalypse and demons and blood and Ruby…
Sam feared he was gonna throw up.
And then, like an angel sent from Heaven, the gruff, older man who had been their bartender that night clocked out and switched places with a younger man, perhaps in his early thirties, with shaggy blond hair that was half tied-up and half loose around his ears and neck. He nodded at Sam and Dean and asked if they wanted another drink. Dean was immediately smitten by him and struck up a conversation like it was second nature.
Godsent, that guy was. It got Dean’s attention off of Sam, giving him a moment to breathe. He needed to get out of here. A crowded bar was not where he needed to be right now.
Sam waited a few minutes for Dean and the pretty bartender – Casey – to hit it off before he made his move.
“Hey, I'm feelin’ kinda tired,” he told Dean once Casey left to tend to some patrons. “You mind if I take the Impala back home? I can come get you whenever you’re done here.”
Dean was momentarily confused, as if he’d snapped out of a stupor. “You wanna leave?”
Sam bit back guilt. “Listen, I had a good time tonight. Thanks for bringing me here and cheering me up. I just need to lie down ’cause my head’s killin’ me.”
A crease formed between Dean’s eyebrows. “You sure you don’t have another few drinks left in you? Feels like we just got here.”
“No, I'm sure. I really had a good time tonight, Dean. Just give me a call when you’re finished and I’ll come pick you up. Okay?”
Dean opened his mouth to say something but Sam cut him off. “Plus… I think that Casey guy is into you. I wouldn’t want to drag you away just yet, y’know?”
His brother seemed placated by that statement. “Well…alright, then, I guess.” He fished through his pocket for the keys to the Impala and placed them in Sam’s hand.
“You know what I'm gonna say about drivin’ Baby around. Not a s –”
“Yeah, not a scratch, bring her back just the way you found her, treat her like you’d treat a hot date – yeah, I know, you’ve told me a million times.”
Dean nodded and sipped the last of his drink, eyeing Casey as he made his way back over.
“I’ll give you a buzz,” said Dean. “Let you know if I'm comin’ home tonight or not.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Sam who just forced a smile and a playful roll of his eyes. Sam produced a bill from his wallet to pay for his beer but Dean stopped him.
“Told you, it’s on me.”
Something deep and painful ached inside Sam’s chest. Almost made it hurt to breathe.
“Thanks,” he said, with too much effort.
He bade goodbye to Dean and waved at Casey, then fumbled out of his seat to get the hell out of the bar before he broke down.
***
It was terrible being in the Impala without Dean. It reminded him of when Dean was in Hell, and Sam, brimming with anger and determination which were the only things stronger than his grief, was alone and had to drive himself everywhere he went. It felt so empty in there that Sam’s breaths could’ve echoed.
Of course, Sam wasn’t exactly alone during the three months Dean was in Hell. He’d been with Ruby.
Sam gulped at the thought of her, felt his throat constrict and his body flush. It wasn’t right to think back to the time he spent with her – honing his psychic abilities, downing demon blood straight from Ruby’s source, and, of course, having their way with each other in the warm shadows of seedy hotels – and miss it. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be missing the horrors from that time in his life, because where did it all lead him? Ruby was dead. Sam’d developed an addiction to and a dependency on her. And he betrayed his brother again and again and again.
Sam shouldn’t have been missing her, and yet here he was, thoughts clouded with visions of her body sliding against his, of his mouth sucking on the veins of her arm like a child starving for its mother’s milk. Sam suddenly felt very warm and sped up the Impala so as to get to the motel room faster. He needed to reconcile his desires. He needed to wash himself clean.
***
The box of donuts from that morning, now empty, of course, was still sitting on the desk along with Sam’s empty coffee cup. After turning on the lights and locking up the door, Sam crushed up the box and threw both it and the cup into the trash. The curtains were already shut. The lamp on the small dresser between their two beds bathed the furniture and walls in hazy, yellow-orange light, which made Sam feel sick at once. After stripping off his shirt and pants, he switched off the lamp and sat upright in his bed, the thick darkness blanketing his nearly-naked body.
His hands felt grimy from the bar and though he knew they were just crawling with all kinds of germs and bacteria, Sam ran them over his face, rubbing his eyes, his arms, his thighs, coating himself in filth and grime and guilt and shame. He was bathed in darkness where no one could see him, not even himself. He ran his hands all over his body and made himself as unclean on the outside as he felt on the inside.
The touch, the darkness, it reminded him of Ruby. And now without a reason to cast away his self-indulgent thoughts, Sam let himself think about how good he used to feel when he was with her. Him on his back, or sometimes his stomach, her weight on top of him, pressing him into the bed, the floor, compressing his chest and coaxing the darkness out of him one pleasure at a time. He would exhale darkness and inhale her. Ruby’s Blood of Life. She would tell him to slice the skin on the inside of her upper thigh, open her legs for him and say, “Here, slice me, here,” just beside her pussy. There was a vein there that would have the steadiest flow of blood, she said, and Sam obeyed. Sliced her there and watched her skin shiver under the knife, and he put his lips to the wound and suckled it at first, then drank from it deeply as the heat of the blood soothed his throat like honey. He would drink his fill and look up at her with blood staining his mouth and smeared over his teeth, and she’d say, “Good boy” and run her hands through his hair and Sam, knowing what to do next, would move over to her cunt and eat her out while his mouth was still slick with blood and saliva.
Her hands in his hair, her blood, her strength as she closed her legs around his head and came… Sam was straining against his underwear so hard it hurt.
His body, coated in filth as much as desire, was all but screaming out into the night, yearning for its ache to be quenched, for the hunger which he should not be feeling to be satisfied. Just a drop, he needed just a drop of her and he’d be okay.
Sam shoved his hand down the front of his underwear and touched himself desperately within the constraints of the fabric. He couldn’t even let the darkness of the room see how fucking hard he was, as his thoughts of Ruby were drenched in blood and slick and spit, and he was dirty, he was so fucking dirty. The shame welled up underneath his skin, traveled through his legs to his cock to his gut to his throat… the shame just became him, and it only compelled him to jerk off with more intent, with more purpose.
Your appetite’s gotten much bigger.
Sam stroked up his shaft slowly but tightly, the muscles in his legs contracting in response.
It’s okay, Sam. Just means you’re getting stronger…
Ruby’s voice was so clear in his mind that she could’ve been lying in bed next to him. The hand on his cock could have been hers.
It means you’re strong enough to kill Lilith.
Sam freed his cock from the confines of his underwear and whimpered out loud at the relief it provided him. But the relief lasted only for a breath. Remembering Ruby’s words, remembering the catastrophe of killing Lilith and breaking the last seal, of the hurt on Dean’s face, of the weight of the guilt in his chest – he stroked his dick and remembered every sin he committed. Repented for all the strife he inflicted on those he loved.
The tears were an instant response. In the darkness of the motel room, Sam sat on his bed and jerked himself off with fervor. Heat rose to his cheeks the moment he began touching himself. That always happened, and Ruby told him it was cute, it made him fuckable to her. The thunderheads that had been biding their time inside Sam's head broke and burst and rained hot, holy tears that seemed to burn Sam’s flushed cheeks. Slipping down his skin, slick like the spit on his hand and dick, he sobbed and he grieved. This, to Sam, was his penance. An act of pleasure that he was determined to ruin by remembering the filth of the demon blood that coexisted with the humanness inside him. He wanted to be clean so badly it was hurting him, but in order to be cleansed, he needed to make himself real dirty. He needed to revel in that sin. He needed to spread it all over him till his body was sticky with it, reminiscent of the blood he used to play with during his nights alone with Ruby.
Sam spit once more onto his hand and jerked himself to the music of his own panting and sobbing, the kind that shook his shoulders and ripped cries of pathetic desperation from his throat. He was sore. His muscles ached, clenched, his chest heaving like he couldn’t breathe. Maybe Ruby's hands were there again, gripping his throat as she moved her body up and down the length of his cock. Sam would never confess it to a single soul, living or dead, but in those moments where he could see her face change with every thrust or stroke, Sam thought she looked more like an angel than any angel he’d ever seen. Like he could drown in her sin and be purified. Like the blood he relished in drinking from her body could really, truly save him.
Sam was half-transported to the weakness of his child-self. How tears would fall so easily when he missed Dad, when he was scared, when Dean looked no braver than Sam felt and was still trying to be comforting during the nights they’d spent fatherless in the motel room like orphans.
Sam’s mouth felt wet and hot, tasted salty from his stream of tears. He licked around his mouth and swallowed the tears greedily as if they had the same fulfilling properties as blood. They only tasted of disgust. They were not pure, and neither was he, and there were so many things about Sam that were unnatural that he believed he might never be as clean as he wished to be.
Sam whined out loud, he didn’t care. Cried out into the hot darkness as he sped up his ministrations, smearing his own wetness over his shaft and thinking about Ruby while he did it. He used to be able to have her against the wall, her lashes fluttering against the skin of his neck as he thrusted, his hands finding purchase in gripping the skin of her strong thighs. Bruising. Marks on his neck, on hers. They tore into each other like scavengers to a fresh carcass.
Sam’s gut wrenched and he came with a pained groan, spilling all over his hand, the breath caught in his throat. His face was drenched in heat and dampened by tears. They kept dripping from his eyelashes, kept falling as the zenith of his desire washed over him and melted right back into the darkness from which it came. Shuddering, Sam remembered to breathe and took in lungfuls of air that felt heavy in his throat. Phantom blood burned going down as he swallowed thickly, licked up his tears again, and panted out the rest of the rush.
“Fuck.”
His voice was hoarse. It barely sounded like his own. It also shattered through the emptiness of the motel room and immediately wrenched Sam from his labyrinthine thoughts and threw him into the present reality. His cock softening, his come drying all over his hand. His body coated in sweat and heat and filth. The haze began to lift from his brain by some power, calming down his erratic breathing, stopping the tears finally.
Sam leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp with his cleaner hand. The room came alive with the light’s musty glow. Sam caught his breath. He looked around him and realized with relief that the motel room had not changed at all since he’d grappled with himself in the darkness just before. This brought him a strange sort of peace which peeked out behind the veil of fear, disgust, and exhaustion.
All of a sudden, Sam’s phone chimed from inside his jeans. He leaned down to the floor to retrieve the cell, only just remembering that Dean had promised to call him.
Sam answered the phone with a hoarse voice. “Yeah.”
“Heyyy, Sammy.”
Dean sounded like he’d done quite a bit of drinking since Sam left him at the bar, but Sam was so relieved to hear his brother’s voice that he could’ve started crying again.
“Dean. You need me to come get you?”
The music from the bar was muffled behind Dean’s voice. “Uh…nnn yeah. I’m kinda sloshed right now.”
A light laugh left Sam’s throat with almost no effort. “Yeah, okay. You’re not goin’ home with Casey, then?”
Sam could practically hear Dean's dismay through the receiver. “Sonofa bitch’s swearin’ up and down he’s straight,” Dean garbled. There was a clinking of a glass and some shuffling after which he muttered, “Whatta waste.”
“Sorry, Dean,” Sam sympathized. “I can leave in a few minutes to get you. I was just about to get in the shower.”
“What’re you showerin’ now for? Your hair was all wet this mornin’.”
“I –”
Dean barked out a laugh that made Sam retract from the phone’s receiver in surprise. “You were jerkin’ off, huh, Sammy?”
“Dean, can you n–”
“Good f’you. Attaboy.”
Sam ignored that. “I’ll call you when I’m about to leave.”
“Nnkay, Samwich. Thanks.”
The minute Sam hung up, exhaustion flooded him so quickly that he leaned his head against the wall with a thump and stared at the ceiling. His shoulders slumped. It was only just then that he realized his head didn’t ache so much. Maybe he’d cried out all the shit that was weighing on him.
Samwich. Sam smiled fondly and felt a new kind of weight attach itself to his heart. He had Dean. Why he still had Dean, after everything Sam had put him through, he couldn’t understand. But he still had Dean.
Sam’s hands were sticky. Blood and come dried the same, he noticed.
As he padded to the shower to quickly wash himself off, Sam knew that the phantom taste of Ruby wouldn’t go away so easily. Maybe it wouldn’t go away at all. Bobby and Dean couldn’t understand the part of him that thirsted for demon blood, but in Sam’s mind it made sense. It was the perfect blend of power, pleasure, and sin, and for Sam, it allowed him to get a taste of what it felt like to cast his own shadow instead of living inside that of his brother’s.
He also decided that living in Dean’s shadow could be just as addictive. And at the same time, it was preferable to the shadows that twisted and writhed along Ruby’s skin as they hid away in the darkness, feeding into each other’s carnality. It was wonderful and terrifying at the same time. Ruby was dead, and Sam still yearned for her. But Dean was still alive, still here for him. And the truth was that Sam would kill Ruby a thousand times over if it meant he could still bathe in the shadow of his big brother. If it meant he would never have to see Dean wear that look of misery and betrayal that Sam’s actions had caused, Sam would do anything.
The shower water was lukewarm. Sam adjusted the temperature so it was scalding and scrubbed himself raw under the stream. He pretended it was fire, the purifying kind. He pretended this was his purgatory here, naked and coated in uncleanliness, and he was bathing in the flames that burned up all the waywardness that writhed inside him.
Sam promised himself he would never go back to the demon blood. He would no longer resort to reanimating the corpse of Ruby in his mind and fantasizing about sucking on her till he got his fill, or entertaining himself with thoughts of her that he knew would only rile him up. Like a lamb to the slaughter, he'd been thrown into this life of hunting and being hunted. But right now, he would keep down the thirst and desire that raged in his guts. He needed to be clean. He needed his brother to see him as Sam again, and not just the boy with the demon blood.
Because Dean was right; all his life, he had taken care of Sam. And what had Sam ever done to repay him?
Well, he would get clean. If he wasn't going to do it for himself, Sam reconciled, shutting off the shower spray and standing there as the water dripped off of him, then he would do it for Dean.