Anonymous said: Can you do a fix where Sam is addicted to Dean's blood now that he is a demon and Dean takes advantage of that? (Love your writing)
Dean smiles. Sam is taut. He can hear his muscles sing. It’s a purr, low and long, a vibration that chills and heats, sweats over his skin.
Sam swallows. He eyes Dean’s wrist, that easy green that nips under the skin. It draws up, a map through a body tainted. He’s hungry. Dean takes the knife and grins, opens imself in a line of red, twists his arm to tease him.
He can’t fight, doesn’t. Each step is laboured. There’s a war behind his eyes that Dean has yet to fix. Still, he collapses to his knees and ends between Dean’s legs, parted just for him. Dean offers the blade and that first drop. Sam shakes, he’s so careful, tongue against the flat until metal warms.
Dean pulls it away. He throws it behind him and hears it clatter. Sam stays tense, still does after weeks of the same dance, but Dean grins and strokes his hair.
"Don’t stop of my account, kiddo."
He doesn’t speak. Sam latches onto the wound and sucks, hard to start the flow, then softer when the trickles come.
They relax. Sam’s head turns so he can lean against Dean’s thigh, and Dean massages through his hair.
"I was thinkin’, Sammy."
"Thinkin’ you’d wanna stretch that mojo a little, kick some ass, huh? Yeah. Make this a good thing."
Dean thinks of a house they’d passed, daughter on the step and parents on the lawn. Barbecue, laughter, words to neighbours.
"There’s a case. Real nasty fucks, but I reckon we can take ‘em."
Sam grunts. His muscles are soothed.
"Better get you fed, big guy," he says, "we gotta lotta work to do."