Climb into My Arms With Blood on Your Clothes

Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~2900 words. For Dragyn!
Dean rolls his eyes, gaze ending up on Bela. She’s looking a little green around the gills and he can’t really blame her. It reeks in here.

“Since when are you the voice of reason?”

“Quit pouting.”

“I’m not pouting!” Sam says, his arms flung wide. “Seriously, since when are you all Mr. Self-Control?”

Dean rolls his eyes, gaze ending up on Bela. She’s looking a little green around the gills and he can’t really blame her. It reeks in here. The guy she came busting in with is still in a stinking, sticky sprawl on the floor, clogging up the air with the smell of blood and piss and shit.

“Look,” Dean says. “You know her. She’s got to be working some angle.”

“She stole the Colt.”

Dean just shakes his head, smiling a bit fondly. “Yeah-”

“She was trying to shoot you with it.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sammy. She was just playin’, weren’t ya, Bela?” He smiles at her. She stares stonily back at him in return. Dean shrugs it off.

A familiar bright spark of victory appears in Sam’s eyes right before he says, “She tried to shoot me.”

“Okay.” Dean’s smile evaporates in a puff of smoke. “So you got a point there.”

“Boys,” Bela interrupts, her voice a little less cultured, a little more shell-shocked than she’d obviously like. Dean’s got to give her props, though–can’t be easy holding her shit together like that when she’s chained to a chair with her buddy getting bloodstains all over her thousand-dollar pumps. “Considering I have a vested interest in this conversation-”

“You’re gonna shut up.” Sam tosses her one short, deceptively-calm glance that doesn’t match the iron in his voice.

But she clams up, spreading her fingers in a snotty placating gesture. Sam’s lips thin, his eyes narrow; tiny tingles race over Dean’s skin like champagne bubbles bursting.

Before Sam decides to end her right then and there in a fit of temper he probably won’t regret later, Dean reaches out to cup a palm against the side of Sam’s neck, thumb tracing the strong, smooth-clean line of his jaw. “If what that bozo over there on the floor said is true, Sammy, we might need her.”

“We don’t need anybody,” Sam snaps back.

Dean shrugs again. Can’t argue with truth like that. “Could be she’ll make it easier.”

She cuts in with, “I’m not helping you do a single thing. I’m sure you’re not surprised.”

Sam doesn’t spare her a blink, instead leaning harder into the press of Dean’s hand. “You really think that?”

“Hey, if I’m wrong,” Dean says, “we’ll just deal with her after. Easy as pie.”

For a brief moment, when Sam smiles, he looks so much like the carefree little kid Dean remembers beaming up at him, so happy to let Dean make the decisions, nothing but love and trust in his big brother, that it hurts. Sometimes it feels like the years haven’t changed them at all, but most of the time Dean sees in Sam’s eyes the same thing he feels clutching tight in his chest every morning: gotta take care of you, gotta keep you safe, gotta keep you here with me. Out of everything that’s happened, he wishes he’d been able to keep that responsibility all to himself. Even if he sometimes doesn’t mind so much when it’s Sam taking care of him.

“Okay,” Sam says, “okay.” His smile stays bright and solid right up until he looks back at Bela, then it falls off his face as if it’d never been. “Put her in the trunk.”

“Alright!” Dean claps his hands, rubs them together. “That mean you’re taking care of him?”

Disgusted, Sam looks at the body. “Yeah, I’ll get rid of it.”

Grinning, Dean goes over to Bela, goes down to his knees to untie her ankles. He can feel her watching as he reties the rope in a hobble, barely enough slack for her to shuffle along when he prods her out the door.

At the car, she says, “I’d have expected better from you.”

“That was pretty stupid of you, wasn’t it?” Dean opens the back door and jerks his thumb at the interior. “Get in.”

She hesitates, gaze flickering to the motel room.

“I really will put you in the fucking trunk if you don’t.”

“Fine,” she snaps. She shuffles awkwardly across the seat, glaring daggers into his skull as he leans across her, too close, to untie her wrists. “What’s this, kindness?”

“No,” Dean says. He wrenches her arms apart, secures each hand to the opposite door. It pushes her breasts up and out, and once he’s sure she knows that’s exactly why he did it, he kicks her feet wide to tie the ropes underneath the front seat. “See what I said about objectification?”

“Go to hell,” she says, staring straight at him.

Dean can’t help the mean grin that splits his lips. Bela’s always played games with them, thumbing her nose, cocky and self-assured. It’s about time she learned Winchesters played for keeps.

“Oh,” he says. “Don’t waste your time hoping somebody’s gonna find you. Ain’t nobody here but us.”

Decisively, she turns away from him, chin high.

“Atta girl.”

By the time Dean makes it back inside the room, the body’s gone and so is a good chunk of the carpet. The smell still lingers, thick and heavy, so he opens a window to let the cool night air in. Over the fizzing of the streetlight outside, he listens to the rush of water as Sam cleans up.

Sam’s just a dark shadow in the doorway as he dries his hands carefully on a threadbare towel. “You really think Ruby’s helping them?”

“Dunno,” Dean answers. “She helped us before, wouldn’t put it past her. Bitch’s got her own agenda.”

“And Bobby?”

“No way. Just no way, Sammy.” Dean turns from the window, fist clenched on the glass. “He wouldn’t do that to us.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced but Dean knows. Deep down in his gut he knows it, just like he knows Sam’ll always have his back.

Slowly, Sam says, “We should’ve killed her.”


Irritation flares in Sam’s eyes. “No,” he says, but his voice pinched tight.

“Aha, Sammy. Bit by the little green monster.”

Sam wrings the towel in his hands like it’s Bela’s pretty neck before he flings it onto the sink. “She’s trouble. I’m taking care of this right now.”

Dean takes the few quick steps that’ll put him between Sam and the door. His hands slap up against Sam’s chest, rapid-fire beat of Sam’s heart hard against his palms. Grudgingly, he gives ground as Sam keeps moving forward, and then he’s out of places to go, the door solid and cool against his back.

“You are jealous.”

Sam hisses, “Yes,” at him and Dean lets what he thinks about that show in his eyes, lust boiling up thick and dark and syrupy-sweet. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Dean? Is that how come she’s still breathing?”

Rough hands grab hold of Dean’s wrists, pin them high above his head. He tries to stop the moan threatening to spill free and barely manages to choke it back to almost nothing. Sam still hears it, though, hands skimming back down along his sides, tugging and tearing at his clothes. Dean lets his head fall back, more than ready and just as willing to lay back and enjoy the ride.

Sam says, “You lazy fucker.”

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Dean shrugs one shoulder, the grin trying to curve his lips shattered when Sam grabs his ass, lifts him right up off the floor, jeans caught awkwardly on his boots. He struggles to get his legs free, kicking and shoving, but Sam smiles and the pressure grows, pins him to the door like a butterfly in a glass case with his knees bent and splayed wide.

“Couldn’t just ask, could you,” Sam whispers, liquid-hot, in his ear. Dean sucks down the stuffy, close air, wonders briefly what the fuck happened to that nice breeze. But Sam’s hands are on his hips, this maddening light caress, and he still can’t move his arms, fingers flexing uselessly against the bubbled paint. “Couldn’t just say what you wanted. Had to screw around.”

“Only ’cause- Christ, Sammy, lemme go, can’t fuck me like this.”

Too late Dean catches the calculating gleam in Sam’s eyes. “Why not?”

Dean tries to roll his hips, demonstrate, anything to get out of saying it because that’s just not fucking fair. All he gets for his trouble is a low groan breathed against his neck and Sam grinding back against him, which isn’t so bad but it’s not what he wants.

“C’mon, Dean.” Sam moves just enough to get a hand between them, wrist pressed up against Dean’s balls, fingers fanned out wide.

“Fuck you, quit teasin’ me.” Wrenching at his arms, he gains half an inch and loses it almost as fast, his whole body slammed back against the wood hard enough to make the windows rattle. He tries again, and again, getting so caught up in the fight, the excitement of it, relishing the barely-contained anger that surges through him, that he almost misses the desperately hungry look on Sam’s face. He twists viciously hard against Sam’s hold, freezing in wide-eyed surprised when he’s suddenly free. He misses his opportunity, slammed back to the door, chest heaving.

“Having fun yet?” Sam asks.

Dean groans, “Motherfucker,” and licks the taste of salt from his lips. “You’re ‘sposed to be fuckin’ me senseless right now.”

“Yeah, why’s that?” Sam tilts his head, smug. “Because you asked?”

“Fine,” Dean grates out.


“Yeah, fine.”

Sam rubs his thumb in small circles on the inside of Dean’s thigh, a curious, patient look on his face.

“You gonna just stand there or do it?” A long moment of silence, Sam’s eyes fixed on his, and abruptly, Dean’s legs drop, jarring him against Sam’s hold. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Dean says, hurriedly kicking at one boot, lifting his legs up around Sam’s waist as soon at it thuds to the exposed wood floor. Sam presses in close, all long lines of lean muscle and overheated skin, whole body covering his. He mouths at the side of Sam’s neck, licks over the pulse he can taste pounding against his lips, and doesn’t bother to hold back the noise he makes when Sam’s spit-slick cock pushes between his legs, hard and heavy at his hole.

After that first slow thrust, so long and drawn-out that Dean can feel his toes fucking curl, Sam doesn’t go easy on him. He drives himself into Dean as hard as he can while filthy sorts of promises pour from his lips, hot breaths and hotter tongue pushing into Dean’s mouth. It’s exactly what Dean wanted and he knows without a doubt no matter what Sam says, Sam’s got to be pushed to be like this. There’s still this line in Sam’s head that he forgets he’s able to cross, the one that Dean wants him to step right over.

“Bela’s useless,” Dean gasps out, body shaking hard in response to the grind of Sam’s belly against his cock. Pre-come smears over his skin, hot and sticky, perfect. He’s not sure how he ever really lived without this.

Teeth scraping across Dean’s throat, Sam barely lifts his head to mumble, “I know.”

The rush of pleasure when Dean squeezes his thighs tight on Sam’s hips almost does him in. The back of his head hits the door; the second time he jerks, Sam’s hand is there, wide, wide palm cradling the back of his skull. He’s going to insist until the day the world ends that the feel of Sam’s long fingers pushing through his hair isn’t what shoved him straight over the edge.

His arms burn when Sam finally lets them down. Dean blinks sweat out of his eyes, smirking down at Sam dazed and satisfied as he belatedly realises they’re both done here, come already seeping warm down the inside of his leg.

Sam’s slippery cock smears through it as he shifts back half a step, just far enough for him get a hand back between Dean’s legs. His touch this time is soft, exploratory. A bit wondering and maybe a little awe-struck; he’s never going to take for granted that he can do this now and Dean likes that just fine. “Now you’re happy,” he says, not quite breathless.

“Fuckin’ cloud nine,” Dean agrees. He stretches once, lazily, leaning only a little into the gentle push of Sam’s fingers inside him before he quits holding himself up altogether. He’s grinning mostly to himself when Sam says, “Oof,” and stumbles to the side.

“After all that, you’re still a jerk,” Sam says, adjusting to the extra weight. “I should just leave you here.”

“Not gonna,” Dean says. Since his head’s feeling heavy and Sam’s right there, he rests it on Sam’s shoulder. If nothing else, at least Sam smells better than the rest of the room. “I’m feelin’ agreeable, so you’re gonna take me to bed and cuddle while the cuddlin’s good.”

There’s a small hitch of hesitation before Sam says, “If she’s still there tomorrow-”

“No problem.”

Dean’s eyes are closed but he knows exactly what Sam’s smile looks like. It warms him straight through to his bones.

In the morning, Dean’s surprised to find Bela right where he left her. Even in sleep, she looks pissy and uncomfortable, the dark circles showing under her eyes betraying her exhaustion.

Sam slides into the front seat, twists around to watch her and says, “Wake up.”

Her eyes snap wide and frightened before she settles back, masking it like a pro. “Good morning, Sam.”

“Where’s Bobby?”

“Safe,” she says, risking a glance at Dean where he’s leaning on the open door, arms folded over it. Neither one of them miss her wince when Sam says, point-blank, “Are you holding him hostage?”

“Sam, please. Bobby’s an old friend, I wouldn’t-”

“Yeah, Bela,” Dean says. “Save it.”

Her jaw hardens, eyes going flinty. It’s a good act except for the mile-wide cracks in it. “I’d think you’d realise anyone who sides with you isn’t going to be well-received in certain circles.”

“Hey!” Roughly, Dean shoves Sam out of the way, throwing himself into the driver’s seat to crank the key. “Nobody touches a hair on that man’s head, you got it? Nobody.”

Bela isn’t watching him, though. Her wary gaze is fixed on Sam, who’s sliding out of the car, opening the back doors one after the other to untie the ropes. Even after she’s free, she doesn’t move, visibly weighing her options like an animal backed into a corner.

“Tell me the truth, Bela,” Sam says. Her eyes slide down to the fresh mark purpling Sam’s neck, shoot back up in shock to meet Dean’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Bela.”

“What,” she says flatly, a new sort of disgust coating her voice.

Leisurely, like he’s got all the time in the world (and he does, Dean’ll make sure of that), Sam lets exactly what he thinks of Bela and her bravado boil up in his eyes in a sick twist of cloudy yellow-black. He fists a hand in her hair and drags her out into the empty parking lot, the streetlight still fizzing in broad daylight. Dean eases his legs out of the car, turning in the seat to watch through the open door.

“Is Ruby helping you make weapons that’ll kill us?”

Bela says, “Yes,” her face shocked as if she can’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth.


“Hostage.” She swallows convulsively, trying to keep the words down. “You made him a target.”


“Your protection,” Bela says. “It’s a black mark on his soul,” she adds, a perfectly willing afterthought. “One he didn’t ask for, doesn’t deserve. Just like it is on Dean’s.”

When Sam breaks out into a smile, when he laughs, loud and joyous, she can’t hide the confusion etched across her face. She pulls against the hold on her hair and ends up on her knees on the pavement as Sam shoves her away.

“Gee, Bela,” he says, bending over with his hands planted on his thighs to look her in the face. “You don’t know?”

To her credit, Bela keeps facing him head on.

“Dean doesn’t have a soul anymore.”

Dean pushes up out of the seat to come stand behind her. He’s happy things are back on track–Bela’s spilled her guts, Sam’s practically glowing and Dean’s got warmth still bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, body well-used and sated. They’ll get rid of her, track down Bobby, take care of the assholes that kidnapped him and they’ll be back on the road in no time, landscape streaming by and the music turned all the way up.

Still, he lets Bela take one last look at him as she wishes he were before he lets the emptiness well up; he can’t feel it but he knows the exact moment the blackness takes his eyes because Bela jerks back just like he’d slapped her, her pretty mouth gone slack.

“He sold it,” Sam says. “To me.”


4 Responses to “Climb into My Arms With Blood on Your Clothes”

  1. Okarama Says:

    I love this! I really do. I would love to see this turn into a series! :3 Keep up the good work!

  2. velvetmagras Says:

    I like that.

    Killer last line.

  3. rj Says:

    just.. so awesome. oh man.

  4. Alexa_Dean Says:

    Mind . . . is . . . blown.

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