Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Legend of the Black Shawarma ( Chapter 13 )

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Asylum
Supernatural, AU
Dean/Sam

Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.
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Ch. 13: Legend of the Black Shawarma  

Dean made his way down into the basement, following the bobbing circle of light his flashlight threw on the floor. His raid on the kitchen had been a success. He'd grabbed a canister of salt which had a convenient metal pour spout, a bottle of lighter fluid for the grill the food staff sometimes cooked on outside, and a pair of full salt shakers, just in case. He'd even scrounged himself up a pretty damn good sandwich. It was already hitting his system, clearing his head and making him feel much better than before.

The staffers had everything locked up tight, but getting in had been easy. They never had discovered the lock picks hidden inside the lining of his jacket. He'd modded the jacket years ago, finding pockets to be iffy in a scuffle and inconvenient when someone decided to search him. At the inside seam, just under the left arm, he'd attached tiny loops to the inner side of the leather, into which the picks could sit until they were needed. He'd soldered a washer onto the bottoms of the metal tools and hung them upside-down which kept them from slipping through the loops. They were short-handled, too, which, along with the stiffness of the leather jacket, made them hard to notice in a pat down. He had done the same with the other side, storing the other half of the set to make it feel even.

Metal detectors were still sort of an issue, so he'd had the buttons and snaps on the jacket switched to ones that were made of a heavily copper-based material. Like really old pennies, they would make detectors go nuts. The hand units would ping especially hard going over the closures along the front of the jacket, convincing whomever was holding it that it was probably the one and only culprit. It wouldn't work on someone who was particularly sharp or determined, who might investigate more thoroughly, but it had worked thus far. In his experience, anyone working a 40+ hour a week job was bound to get bored and unmotivated and lacking in initiative. Didn't matter if it was a secretary, a mechanic or a police officer. People were essentially all the same underneath.

Speaking of mechanics, he thought distractedly as he pulled out some of his picks for the double metal doors that led to the tunnels, I miss having a car to work on. A chain was looped through the handles, a heavy lock securing it. He set to work, the pen flashlight in his teeth providing illumination, and wondered how his father had ended up in the spook business. He'd never really talked about it. He'd just trained Dean either in that or on fixing cars, his paying line of work, and there wasn't much conversation otherwise.

Dad, you were a kind of shitty role model, you know that?

The Impala had temporarily been his, for a few years even, but John decided he wanted it back when he got out of the mental hospital. Dean had argued with him, being rather partial to the car himself, but his dad pulled the “it reminds me of your mother, and better times” card and he'd had to admit defeat. Stubborn sonuvabitch.

His consolation prize was a light teal 1974 Volkswagen Rabbit, a thoroughly embarrassing car to be seen in. It was like driving around in a freaking clown car. Tiny, no trunk, hardly any leg room. It did ride nice, though.

He was pretty sure his dad was fucking with him over the color. He'd refinished it for Dean as a birthday present, as it was down to bare metal. It was supposed to be painted dark green, black, burnt orange, or some other reasonable color. His dad claimed that his friend who was doing him a favor had just used whatever he had on hand.

Fucking light teal, he thought, shaking his head. Who the hell paints a car that color?

The lock clicked, dropping its pants for him, and it reminded him of how hard it was to get laid after anyone had caught sight of him in the Rabbit. He'd taken to walking to bars, just to up his chances. Better a poor bastard with no car, than a car like that. It was a chick car. He'd actually, mortifyingly enough, been congratulated on how `cute' it was by a few girls he'd been trying to hook up with, which was a total buzz-kill and could throw him off his game for a good week or more. After the third time it happened, he gave up and wouldn't be caught dead in the thing unless he was working.

His dad'd had a good laugh over it on more times than one.

Dad...

It wasn't all bad, staying with him. Not by any means. They'd managed to be pretty close, harassment and all. He wasn't sure how he felt about not hearing from his father in the time he'd been in the hospitals... But his dad wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type. Besides, what would he say?

`Sorry they got you.'?
`Nice going, screwing up a job and getting picked up by the padded wagon'?
`You disappoint me, son.'?
`Better luck next time'?

He stashed the picks back in his jacket, feeling irritation again over his massive fuck up. One mistake, and he was still paying for it years later. Consolation #1 being that he'd at least gotten to see Sam, for the first time in ages, before it happened. Consolation #2, sort of... he'd been reunited with him, here, of all places. But he still did wonder how it might have gone if he'd just walked up to him and said, `Hey, it's me.' Maybe they'd be at some local dive, sharing a beer and checking out the home-grown T&A.

Ah, but then again, Sammy wasn't the type. He'd probably shoot him that `you're pathetic', superior sort of prissy look he got sometimes. Then I could go on to point out how he has a severe lacking in knowing-how-to-have-fun. He's totally wasting his college experience.

But he liked hanging around Sam. Liked harassing him.

Something about his goody-two-shoes mentality managed to click with him, instead of bugging him, though he gave Sam all sorts of crap over it. Sam had integrity and a sort of brightness to him that was appealing. He just liked being around it.

He might look at nearly every girl with two legs and a halfway decent face, but they were forgotten just as quick. Sam was just different. He'd thought, once upon a time, that it was because they were family, but he'd known enough other people now to understand that plenty of families were about as close as enemies. They certainly didn't have some self-sacrificing martyrdom complex, or a decade long obsession.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. He was trying not to think of Sam, here. He had work to do. He didn't need to be spacing out.

He unwrapped the chain from the handles and put the lock in his pocket so it couldn't be used to seal him in accidentally, then swung the metal doors wide. They made an ungodly scraping noise that made the hair stand up on his arms. The blackened hallway they led into smelled of must and rats. He picked up the canister of salt and the lighter fluid in one hand and trained the pen light into the opening with his other. It was square, the corridor, and pipes ran along the right hand edge of the ceiling. It looked creepy as hell, even though the walls were painted white. Pitch blackness swallowed everything past the weak circle of light.

He shrugged and headed inside.

From what he'd gathered, Oak Grove Sanitarium used to be quite a well-known place back in the day. At one time, there were thousands of the mentally ill housed here. Though at a certain point, they suddenly began dropping like flies. Somehow, no one knew what was going on. It was a big fucking mystery that smelled of a cover-up.

He figured it was probably some crazy ass doctors who were more fucked in the head than their patients and were trying out various `remedies'. This was all back in the time of electric shock therapy and clumsy lobotomies. He sure as hell was grateful the reforms cut a lot of that out of the programs before he was landed here. People were capable of some freaky shit.

He scanned the hall as he walked, sweeping the light in a steady, exploratory zigzag. He noticed spots of dim, pale light from time to time near the ceiling. It was watery moonlight seeping in through glass block at regular intervals, probably at ground level on the outside.

This place would have some decent lighting during the day. Enough to see by, at least.

About 10 minutes in, he came to the first room, on the left hand side. He tried the handle and found it to be unlocked, though it was rusty and turned with difficulty. Loose dirt and debris made the door sluggish, and he had to push against it with his shoulder to force it open.

He shone his light inside, and it skimmed off of wooden chairs, a couple of school desks, and an open shower stall on the back wall, partially obscured by a ratty curtain on a rack. He eased inside, mindful of the junk that lay in piles on the floor. There were some kid's toys, some canned food stacked into a tower, an old basketball. He frowned. It was almost like a storage room. Or a doctor's waiting room, what with the odds and ends to keep a child occupied.

A shuffling scrape came from the back corner and he tensed, whipping his light over the area.

Something like whispers or the rustling of dry leaves sounded faintly to his left. No, to his right.

“Shhhhhh.”

A faint hiss, like an exhale, sounded behind him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He turned, flinging a handful of salt in the same motion, and the sensation ceased. He brought the light back up, sweeping the area again, seeing nothing between him and the rigid metal door frame that opened into the ominously blackened hallway. The walls of this room were painted white, too, like much of the facility but age and the elements had discolored the walls. The ugly orange of water and erosion damage stained them in patches near the ceiling.

He noticed a wooden chair in the back that looked strange to him, so he went to check it out. It was a stiff, unforgiving thing that had to beyond uncomfortable. There was nothing around it, really, just more of the same debris. Wadded papers and cloth here and there. More kid's toys. Metal bands were attached to the arms, that lay open in a broken circle. Looked like restraints.

He'd seen something like it before. In school once, a teacher had been discussing various states in the US and their stances on corporal punishment. There'd been an old black and white picture of a chair, dubbed “Old Sparky”. It was a lovely contraption for electrocuting people, and the nickname was good across many of the states that used electric chairs for execution. The picture was of a chair in Arkansas. It had had leather buckle restraints on it, unlike this one.

Dean stepped over a broken rocking horse toy and sat in it, resting his arms upon the arms of the chair. The curve of the metal restraints were cold under his wrists. He closed one upon his right wrist and it was tight enough that he'd never be able to slip it. Two holes lined up on the outside, big enough to slip a lock through. That had to be a horrible feeling - being trapped like that, both arms immobile, for god knows what do be done to you.

He flexed his hand and felt grooves beneath his fingers, furrows upon the arm of the chair that matched the path his fingers took if he drew them to his fist upon the wood. Gouged by someone's nails.

He shone the light upon it and the wood looked stained.

Blood?

Another scuffing noise caught his attention.

He took his hand out of the metal cuff and arced the pen light's beam out over the room. Nothing.

There hadn't been anything else in the room that looked like remains. No hair, bones, or whatnot. But the blood on the chair, if that's what it was, could certainly be a problem. It was best to burn it.

Keeping the light sweeping the room in surveillance, he reached behind him, shaking salt upon the chair. Then he set the canister down and picked up the bottle of lighter fluid, squeezing a stream upon the chair.

Still, he saw nothing, though there was a claustrophobic pressure encroaching upon the space, thick with the feel of withheld whispers.

He traded the lighter fluid for the lighter in his pocket and touched the flame to the arm of the chair. It flared as it caught fire, following the paths of fluid and brightening the room as the wood started to burn.

After a few minutes of waiting, he decided to just kick all the surrounding junk out of the way and let the thing burn on its own. The walls of the room were concrete and the door was metal. Really, the whole room could light up and it wouldn't be in danger of burning this place down.

There was a lot more to check out down here and he didn't have unlimited time.

The next room of note was a locked one. He set at it with his picks, training the pen light on the lock with his teeth. It was also severely rusted which made it take longer to crack. His jaw started to ache around the metal barrel he held in his mouth. Finally, with a crunch, it gave way.

This door also required some muscle to force open. The room itself seemed much cleaner and in less disrepair. The floor was some slick surface, reminiscent of linoleum tile. Kind of like what was in the infirmary.

He swung his light around. In this fairly barren room, there were what looked like large animal cages on stands with wheels. There were a lot of them. Maybe seven, all crowded along the right hand wall. Upon closer inspection, the floor of each one was lined with a mattress, the size of which a small child might use. Many were stained, implying their occupants were caged for long stretches at a time.

Man, he thought in disgust, people.

He'd rather deal with monsters. They made more sense.

He swung his beam of light up as he turned to go deeper into the room and jumped back as it caught upon a face just in front of him. The apparition flickered, eyes rolling and head tilting at an unnatural angle. It was a female, black, though her skin looked pale, and she wore a dated white straight jacket. Red bled through, seeping through the material like she'd been sliced all over.

Could be why this room was locked, he thought drolly.

Dean took a few quick steps back as she focused upon him, solidifying. Her face, framed by long, tightly curled black hair, bore lacerations as well. Her mouth began dripping blood as she looked up at him with curdled hatred.

He had a feeling this one was going to be a problem. Where was a gun loaded with rock salt shells when you needed one?

She bared her teeth at him and the blood bubbled like red foam.

His pen light began flickering madly.

He backed up double time, aiming for the relative safety of the hall, dropping the bottle of lighter fluid to better free up his hands for the salt. Holding the pen light with his thumb, he began to pour salt into the palm of his hand as he retreated.

The image pulsed and she disappeared, reappearing at the back of the room, nose in the corner. She was still except for her heaving shoulders. The cages started to rattle around him. Slightly at first, but then increasingly harder.

Yeah, definitely not good.

He booked it out of there while she was turned, salt fisted in his palm. Glancing back as he reached the thresh hold, he jumped, heart hammering in his throat as she was suddenly less than a foot away, body twisting forward as she screamed in his face noiselessly. Her mouth was missing its tongue and was a slick mess of red and black. He flung the salt at her even as he was knocked back through the doorway, his light spinning from his hand and skittering across the floor before going out.

For a moment, all was darkness, and the straining of his lungs as he lay on the floor trying to catch his breath. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his blood roar in his ears. He hugged the canister of salt to him with one arm, grateful to have not lost hold of it, his only weapon. It was a shame he'd had to lose the lighter fluid, but he could always get more.

He couldn't sense her. And she wasn't killing him. Maybe he'd gotten her with the salt? Or could it be she was confined to that room?

Something grabbed his shoulder.

“Aaaughhh!” he yelled as he nearly jumped out of his skin. He struck at it reflexively and felt his arm connect with something solid. Well, that was a little too convenient, for a spirit. Those tricky bastards liked to go all incorporeal when you tried to fight back. Salt was about the only thing that amounted to pissing in their cornflakes. What freaked him out were the ones that popped back seconds later, usually right in your face. Ms. Tongueless seemed the type.

He heard someone let out a pained cough. “Ow, you jerk.”

“Sam?” Dean said in a shocked whisper. “Sam! What the hell are you doing down here?”

“I followed you,” Sam whispered back. “Though I'm starting to rethink the `good idea' part of doing so.”

“Where's your light?” Dean asked quickly, hoping that Sam had come bearing something. He had the sinking feeling there would be nothing. “Salt? Anything?”

“I didn't have one. I just had to feel my way along.”

Dean cursed. “So you came down here completely unprepared??” College must've rotted the boy's brain. Dad would be beside himself; all that training, down the crapper.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Did you see it?” he said urgently.

“No. I heard something, and saw your light get knocked out.”

“Great. So now we're running blind. I'll never find that flashlight in the dark and I am not patting down the entire area.” He let out an audible breath. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“Agreed. This isn't exactly my idea of a good time, even with a flashlight.”

“At least I still have the lighter.” He flicked the flame to life and peered at Sam briefly as if making sure he wasn't a zombie.

“Dean,” Sam rolled his eyes. “It's me, okay?”

Dean flipped the lighter closed, plunging them back into darkness. “Here, take this.” He pressed a weirdly shaped object with vertical ridges into his brother's hand.

“What the hell is it?”

“Salt shaker. If you see or feel something, shake it at the thing.” He grabbed the canister of salt, pulling the metal spout forward, and started drawing a line on the floor from one wall to the other, just past where he estimated the doorway to be. Aside from the carved beauty, who didn't seem to be reappearing, there was no telling what else might be roaming around. Most spirits gave off a faint radioactive glow, but some didn't. He was betting the kind that didn't would be the kind to sneak up on a guy without a flash light.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Salt line. I don't want anything trying to gank me from behind.”

“You really think that'll be a problem?” Sam asked dubiously.

Dean shrugged, though Sam couldn't see it. “Could be. It's better not to take chances.” The immediate danger did seem to be over. But he would definitely need to come back to torch whatever bit of the ghost's physical remains were keeping it here and foaming at the mouth.

He finished laying the line. When he was done, he started walking back up the tunnel, saying, “All right, let's go.”

They walked for several minutes in silence, with their shoes making the only noise. It was not as completely dead black as Dean thought it would be. The moonlight was just enough to navigate by without having to touch the walls to keep from running into them. He still would have preferred his flashlight though.

Sam broke the silence first. “So, uh... Is this the sort of bonding you and Dad used to do?”

“I wouldn't exactly call it bonding.”

“But saying there are things down here that could kill you,” Sam said delicately, “why in the hell would you seek it out? Isn't that kind of crazy?”

“Somebody has to.”

“Has to what?? Get themselves killed?”

“Sammy,” Dean sighed. “Look, I know you were too young for Dad to really take you out hunting, but you know what he taught you. You can't have forgotten it all.”

“What, laying spirits to rest?” He sounded skeptical. “I know, but... it seems a little unreal from over here.”

“So I guess Mom brainwashed you then?”

Sam stopped walking and let out a heavy breath. “Dean. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe everything Dad told us wasn't real?”

“What are you talking about,” Dean said dismissively. “Of course it's real.”

“But what if-” Sam stepped around in front of him, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. “What if... it's real to him, but none of it really exists?”

Dean let out an aggravated noise and batted his hands away. “Nice,” he said as he resumed walking. “So what I saw back there doesn't exist, huh?” Anger was creeping into his voice. “So what, I'm crazy now? Seeing things?”

“I don't know, Dean.” Sam was sounding a little exasperated himself. “I'm just saying `what if?'.”

“Yeah, well if you're talking like that then you must think this is the perfect fucking place for me to rot away in,” Dean said disparagingly. “You know,” he laughed humorlessly, “You better hope to hell they don't think of something to find wrong with you, or they'll have you drugged up so good you won't know your ass from a hole in the ground. Then you'll never set foot out of here, or have the Candyland kind of life Mom must've convinced you is out there.”

Sam gritted his teeth and took a moment before trying to speak. “You know that's not what I think.”

“No, I don't.”

“Besides,” Sam said shortly. “I'm not leaving here without you. Even if you are being an asshole.”

The scuffing of Dean's footfalls ceased. “What do you mean by that?” He sounded wary, on edge.

Sam sighed and wet his lips. “I'm saying that I'm going to get you out of here. And until that happens, I'll convince them I need to be here.”

“No, Sam. I won't let you.” Dean sounded adamant. “I'm telling you, if you give them even one tiny thing to poke at--”

“Dean, you can't stop me,” Sam's voice was low and steely. “It's my choice. I've been without my brother long enough. I don't want to do it anymore.”

“Goddamn stubborn...” Dean muttered under his breath as he resumed walking.

“With as much as you say that, you'd think you'd be used to it by now.”

“Don't get cute with me, Sammy,” he said shortly. The thought of Sam getting stuck in here, too... and of his own volition... it was nuts. He wouldn't let him. Sam, at least, needed to get out and live his own life. Life had more to offer him than he did, than Oak Grove did, as much as it killed him to admit that.

There was a part of him, though... a very selfish part... that held on to Sam's words, wanting the devotion they promised. He wanted Sam with him. Whether it was here or on the outside, he didn't want to lose him again. “Haven't you got friends out there that'll be worried about you? Isn't there work and school you should be thinking about?”

“Sure,” Sam said pensively, not deigning to speak further.

“What, that's it? `Sure'?” They'd reached the end of the tunnel, and entered the basement.

“Yeah,” Sam affirmed shortly, helping him shoulder one of the metal doors shut. “That's it.”

Dean felt irritation at his brother bubbling beneath the surface. He looped the chain back around the door handles by feel and replaced the lock after digging about for it in his jacket. Luckily, he hadn't dropped it. ”So you'd just throw your life away, just like that?”

Sam sighed heavily and Dean knew it would have been accompanied by an eye roll. “I'm not throwing my life away. I'm just going to be gone a little while.” His tone got a little edgy. “Or is my plan to get you out of here an inconvenience? Maybe you actually like it here? You want to stay cut off from the world, where no one can challenge your point of view or beliefs?”

Dean shook his head and headed up the stairs, to the facility's main floor. The things that came out of that boy's mouth... Like it here? Here?! He had to be fucking kidding. And it was a poor-ass sense of humor he had to make that sort of joke. “Sammy, do me a favor and shut up.”

Sam came up the stairs behind him, joining him in the visible dark at the top of the stairs. He glared at Dean. “Why don't you want anyone to help you?” he said in a hushed voice.

“Not anyone, you.” Dean said just as quietly, returning the petulant look. “I don't want you to help me.”

“Well, why not? Is it because I didn't let you--”

Dean clapped a hand over Sam's mouth before he could voice the rest. The last thing he needed to hear was some crap like that - that Sam thought he was being difficult because Sam had monkey-wrenched them getting sexually involved. “Watch your mouth,” he said sharply, “and don't you ever try saying something like that again.” Even though his was pissed, he couldn't help noting how soft and enticing Sam's lips felt against his fingers. “Sam, I've been trying to leave. I want out of here, and all the damn places like this I've been in. But I do not want you doing anything stupid which will screw up your life, okay? Not for me. I couldn't stand that.”

Sam pulled Dean's hand down from his mouth, lips trailing skin. “I've barely thought about anything outside of this place since coming here.”

“Well, you should.” Dean pulled his hand back and looked away. Sam had a knack for saying things that were questionable. Between his words and his straightforward, keen gaze, Dean was becoming taken with the urge to pull him close again and crush his mouth against those lips of his. No. Bad dog. “Come on, let's get out of here. They do patrol at night, you know.”

Sam followed him in silence as they made their way back to their room. The darkened halls were a little spooky, but were clear of any other living beings.

“Dean,” Sam said under his breath, after a time, keeping pace so he could speak in his ear. “What would you say if I told you Dad might be coming here?”

Dean shot him a perturbed look. “I'd ask you how you knew that?”

Sam's gaze drifted off of him and he looked straight ahead, his countenance a bit rigid. “I've been having these dreams lately...”

“Dreams?” Dean said incredulously. “You're telling me you believe something's going to happen because of some dream?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, hell, maybe you are in the right place after all.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, “I'm serious.”

“Yeah? Well so am I.”

Sam ran a hand over his face. “Remember when I was in third grade, and I was convinced that some black dogs were going to come after me?”

Dean laughed a little. “You were scared shitless for almost two weeks.”

Sam smacked him. “And you remember what happened??”

“Oh yeah, some old bat's Chihuahuas set themselves on you. That was a freaking riot.”

“That wasn't funny, Dean, I needed stitches.”

Dean chuckled. “Sorry Sammy, it was funny. You shoulda seen the look on your face when the three of them chased you home.”

“One was a Maltese.”

“Not helping your case, bro,” he laughed.

“Okay, whatever,” Sam said in irritation. “The point is, sometimes I kind of... see stuff before it happens. Not always as clearly as would be helpful. The dogs I saw in the dream had looked intimidating, but mostly it was just the jaws I saw snapping at me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How about in 4th grade, when I kept telling you Dad was going to get hurt?”

Dean rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, I sorta remember something about that. He got injured on a hunt and had to tell Mom it happened at the shop. Man, did she look suspicious.”

“So I'm telling you,” Sam labored to say, “I keep having dreams about the Impala, and I think Dad is coming.”

“Sammy,” he interrupted, derailing Sam's train of thought to broach something that had come to mind, “let me ask you something.” It wasn't that he believed in prophetic or psychic dreams, certainly not when coming from his kid brother, but... there was a good deal of coincidence involved here, so there must be something to it. Whether it was extra-sensory perception or uncanny intuition, he didn't know, but it raised the same question.

“What?”

“You've been having these freaky fortune-telling dreams of yours...” Dean trailed off with a frown, not sure exactly what he was trying to say. He gave Sam an uneasy, speculative look.

“...uh, yeah?” Sam prompted.

Dean chewed at the inside of his lip, picking words. “Was that the kind of dream you had when you said you were dreaming about me?” It kind of wigged him out, wondering what kind of truths his brother was uncovering if this mumbo jumbo had any merit.

Sam froze, suspiciously stock still for a moment, eyes wide. “No,” he said too quickly. Then mumbled, “I don't know.”

“Liar,” Dean said, rounding on him. “What did you see?”

Sam backed away, shaking his head, “Nothing. I didn't see anything.” He was trying to cover for it, but he looked spooked.

Dean moved forward, dogging him until his back hit the wall, making Sam jump. “Sammy,” he warned. “I'm prepared to force it out of you.”

“Just let it go, Dean,” he said as he looked away, his brows drawn together. “It doesn't matter.”

“Oh really?” Dean said. “So you had some dream involving me, which had quite an interesting effect on you, and you say it was unimportant?”

Sam's face flushed and he could see it. “I dreamed about a lot of things.”

Dean violated Sam's personal space threateningly, his gaze hooded and focused. Inches away from his brother's face, he said, “You specifically mentioned me.”

Sam looked shifty and he wet his lips. “Yeah. I... saw you trying to kill Gordon.”

“And?” he drifted closer, wanting to make Sam talk by putting the pressure on. Though if Sam decided not to, he could follow through on the threat and feel that mouth against his again. He tried to put such thoughts aside, but they kept bobbing to the surface of his mind. “That can't be all,” he murmured, watching as Sam got even more twitchy, and his face colored further. It was a game. The closer he drew, the more frequently Sam's dark grey eyes flicked to him and the darker they got.

“You shot him,” Sam said, eyes almost solidly on him now. “You said he was a monster, but he was only human.”

Dean put that away to process later. He was entirely too focused on this game of cat and mouse at the moment. “Unless seeing someone get killed gets you off, there was something else.”

Sam's heart was beating in his chest like it was trying to bust through his ribs as Dean leaned in, close enough that he could feel soft breath on his lips. His thoughts were going hazy as he tried to focus and resist giving up the truth that would damn him. His body was like one live nerve, pulsing with electricity. He'd been set on defying Dean's prediction, so he had not given in to relieving the pressure in his system from earlier. It was coming back to haunt him now.

“Sammy?” Dean prompted, his voice dipping lower and skating through Sam's belly.

“You...” he said hoarsely. “You, uh.... kisse--”

And then Dean's mouth was brushing against his, quickening his desire and sealing it in with the slow melding of lips and tongues.

His eyes drifted closed as Dean pressed against him, deepening the kiss, passion throttling him senseless.

Why was it so hard to say no to this?

He knew it was wrong, in so many ways... but then, why did it feel so right?


---
TBC

A/N: Chapter title from:

Infected Mushroom - “Legend of the Black Shawarma”

[music]

[vocal distortions]

[music]

Ahhaah

Ahhhhaaaaah

Take one look at yourself, and realize
Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise
And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes
How you treated your life, it wasn't too wise
Cause its getting closer
[x2]

Cause it's getting closer
Cause it's getting closeeeer
Cause it's getting closeeEeer...eeahr...Eeaaarh... eAaahr... [vocal distortions]

[music ramping up]

Cause it's getting closer
[x9]

Cause it's getting cloSeeeR!

[music -break-]

Take one look at yourself, and realize
Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise
And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes
How you treated your life, wasn't too wise
Cause it's getting closer

[x3]

[music]

Take one look at yourself, and realize
Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise
And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes
How you treated your life, wasn't too wise
Cause its getting closEER