Title: Novus amicitia familiar visio
Author: jj_apples
Fandom: Nolanverse
Pairing: None...yet
Rating: pg-13...for the moment
Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah...wish they were though.
Summary: Three months after Gordon declared Batman 'persona non grata' in Gotham he finds he misses him more than ever...but he's got a new friend now.

Three months. Conveniently acquired evidence, easier than usual busts, a crime boss and eight of his thugs bound and gagged when they burst through the door…and ‘the vigilante known as Batman’ was still at large. They all knew where the help was coming from, who was doing their job, but no one, not even the most indignant of cops whose friends had been allegedly killed by Batman, seemed to question it.

And Gordon missed him. His wife was still furious with him…for what Dent had done as Two Face in the warehouse, for taking the job as Commissioner, for faking his death. At least she and the kids were back home, back from her brother’s place. He loved his kids, and God knows he was trying with Barbara, but she just wouldn’t…listen, let him touch her, talk. Icy glares, cold dinner slammed down in front of him when or if he came home, sleeping in their daughters’ room every night. He caught himself wondering more than once why she’d bothered coming back at all.

And then there was Bruce Wayne. The kid was nice, Gordon could see that, but he was like an over-eager puppy, having taken interest in the new Commissioner mere days after the chaos created by the Joker had almost torn Gotham apart…again. He was…Gordon hesitated to use the word ‘cute’, but it was inescapable. His youthful enthusiasm and charm were undeniable, but Gordon was sick of the invitations to parties, galas, fundraisers and balls crossing his desk almost weekly.

He hadn’t been to one, using the excuse of work to avoid them, but Wayne was sitting across from him now, in his office at MCU, invite tapping against his left knee as he smiled at Gordon and looked at him from under his eyelashes.

“Mr Wayne.”

“Bruce, please Commissioner,” he sighed, standing and walking to the bookshelf against the far wall. He picked up a photo of Barbara and the kids, gesturing towards Gordon with it, “Beautiful kids.”

“Mr Wayne…Bruce,” Gordon continued when he received a reproachful glance, “What can I help you with?”

“Well,” he set the photo down carefully, “You haven’t come to one of my…little events. A guy could get the wrong idea, think you didn’t like him. After all, I did crash my car and save you…”

“You said you were trying to beat the lights.”

“So I did,” and the smile was playful this time, “But still, as the new Commissioner there is an expected…image you need to uphold.”

“I have a lot of work…”

“One night won’t make too much difference. Bring your wife…”

Gordon tensed, visibly he was sure, but the kid continued.

“Have a few drinks, mingle…I won’t take no for an answer.”

He heard himself saying yes, all the while screaming inwardly to say just the opposite, but it was done, and with a firm, warm handshake and matching smile, Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham was gone leaving Gordon to wonder if he even had a tuxedo.

***

He hadn’t even asked Barbara. He’d said he was going, asked her if she knew where his tux was, and didn’t come home that night. Much easier to get ready at work, he reasoned, after all he was already there. Had been since 6 that morning.

“Uh, sir?” came the tentative knock on his door. He finished making a mess of his bowtie and turned to find his eternally nervous secretary loitering half-behind the door frame.

“Yes?” he sighed when it didn’t seem as though she would continue without prompting.

“Mr Wayne…there’s a car waiting outside to take you to his…” she hesitated.

“His party?”

“Yes sir.”

“Thank you Eileen. How about you call it a night. I’ll see you Monday morning.”

“Thank you sir,” she backed away from the door.

Gordon grabbed his keys, knocking the files they were under onto the ground in the process. Not even bothering to pick them up (he’d be back tomorrow anyway), he took the stairs, preferring to avoid the prying eyes that assumed, correctly, that he didn’t have a life and as such, the tux would be a major point of interest. Exiting into an alley that ran down the right side of MCU he clenched his keys in his hand, and strode out onto the street. Immediately seeing the car Mr Wayne had sent, he frowned at the presumption on the younger mans' part. A chauffer was leaning on the passenger door of the black Bentley, but the moment he saw Gordon he straightened up and strode confidently towards him.

“Commissioner. Mr Wayne…”

“I’ll be taking my own car thank you. I don’t…” he stopped short of explaining his reasons, being that he intended to leave the party as soon as possible. He had work…a lot of work, and he was tired and could feel a thumping headache creeping up on him, “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

It took some convincing, but eventually the driver stood down, and Gordon followed him to Wayne Manor. The newly rebuilt Wayne Manor. Apparently an exact match for the mansion Bruce Wayne had so carelessly burnt down over a year and a half ago now. The night the city was terrorised by an airborne toxin and Batman had saved the day…the first time. Gordon sighed inwardly, something he’d been doing a lot of late, when he’d had a spare moment to think, and it generally seemed to be about the missing vigilante. If Gordon didn’t know any better he’d swear he had a crush on Batman.

That thought made him smile, a small smile, as they pulled into Wayne Manor’s immense forecourt, already filled with cars. Gordon parked his navy sedan against the building on the far side to where he’d entered along the snaking driveway, locked it, and with a deep breath, he strode towards the house.

The man in question was just inside, greeting guests in the immense white marble foyer, each receiving a smile and friendly handshake or pat on the shoulders.

“Commissioner!” he beamed and Gordon almost felt like blushing as several dozen people mingling just past the foyer turned to stare.

‘Mr Wayne…Bruce,” he corrected himself, extending his hand.

“No ‘plus one’?” Wayne asked, looking behind Gordon.

“No, couldn’t find a babysitter,” he lied, extracting his hand and moving towards the interior of the house.

“Find me later. We’ll talk,” Wayne called over his shoulder as more guests queued to greet their host.

***

Half an hour.

He’d lasted half an hour before retreating to one of the balconies on the second floor, making himself all but invisible by propping himself between the balustrade and the wall, shrouded in shadow.

“He’d be proud,” he muttered to himself, setting his empty glass on the ground to his right.

His reverie was interrupted by his cell.

“Gordon?”

As he listened to the voice on the other end, Detective Stephens, Wayne walked onto the terrace, closing the doors behind him.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Gordon replied, snapping his phone shut.

“Commissioner…” Wayne looked almost startled as he turned to find Gordon emerging from the shadows.

“Mr Wayne, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back, urgent business…”

“Can I help? I’ll call my car.”

“Not necessary, I brought mine,” he replied as he brushed past the taller man. He stopped as he reached the doors, “Thank you…and I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer,” he sighed, turning half his body back to Wayne.

“You’ll just have to make it up to me…I’ll think of a way,” he smiled, and Gordon, nodding his head, walked back through the house, to his car and was striding up the stairs at Arkham in record time.

“How’d it happen?” he asked, as he wrenched his bowtie loose, stuffing it in his pocket.

“We’re not sure. He’d just seen his shrink…Dr Quinzel or something like that, and when the guards came to check on him…” they reached the cell and Gordon flinched, inwardly at least.

Blood coated almost the entire floor, his wrists and neck slashed deep enough to see bone, a small razor lying near the body's extended right hand.

“So the Joker’s dead,” Gordon sighed. That headache had just become a migraine.

Title: Fair Fight
Pairing: Sam Carter/Ronon Dex
Rating: NC17
Length: 1888 words
Authors notes: Not sure why I like this pairing...something to do with them being gorgeous probably...and they're such polar opposites as characters. Written for http://community.livejournal.com/sg_rarepairings/ Fic Battle 2008
Summary: Sam spars with Ronon, things end up better than she would have thought possible

“I won’t be gentle.”

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah, I though you might,” she replied.

He smirked, twirling the banta sticks with nonchalant ease.

Sam smiled, shrugging her jacket off, and Ronon stopped.

“What?” she asked, bending to pick up her own sticks, realising he was standing stock-still.

“Nothin’,” he replied, returning her gaze with his usual intensity. He’d known she was female, and attractive at that, but being the commander of Atlantis he hadn’t really thought about it. But here she stood, her creamy skin exposed across her chest and down her lean arms and he was shocked by the strength of his attraction to her.

She knew he was staring, and on some level it made her…tingle, just a little, to think that she could hold his attention like that. The soldier in her took over, though, and she made the first onslaught. He recovered quicker than she thought humanly possible, prompting her to make the mental note that despite appearance, Ronon was not and ‘earth’ human.

Back and forth, she hit him once on the left side of his face, he hit her twice, on the right shoulder, and a second later one reverberated off her right side, thumping the air from her lungs. She collapsed to her knees, and he was there, arms encircling her, sticks under her shin, holding her head up.

“Concede?” he growled, his sweat stinging her nostrils as she fought for breath. When she didn’t answer her loosened his grip and she collapsed onto her hands as well.

“Colonel?” and he was worried, and she tried to say she was fine but she couldn’t muster the words and then John and McKay and Teyla were there, helping her up when all she wanted to do was crawl into a ball until she caught her breath and Ronon was looking worried…yes, she was sure that was it, and John was glaring at him and McKay was making inane comments about women fighting and then she blacked out.

***

It was dark when she woke and for a split second the thought she might be dead occurred, but the pain in her side seared as she shifted to the left and she knew she was very much in the land of the living. Twitching her left hand, she started when she found…hair? Thick, coarse clumps of hair and she smiled to herself.

Jack had done this once too, when he’d accidentally shot her with a tranquilliser gun while they had been hunting an animal on some planet, P3R 436, she thought, an animal that supposedly had an enzyme that could act as a powerful anti-inflammatory…and an animal that could seemingly disappear into thin air. It had taken her well over a day to wake up and he was there, head resting on her bed near her hip, just like Ronon.

“Ronon?” she sighed, hand flexing on his shoulder. He didn’t stir, so she tapped him a little more forcefully. He grunted, and shook his head as he stirred and she fought hard not to giggle, partly because of the pain it would bring.

His voice was more gravely than normal, “Colonel?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you…do you want me to get Keller? You’re…”

I’m fine Ronon. I’d like some help getting up though.”

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see his confusion.

“I want to go to my room.”

He hesitated, and she felt a little guilt for using his obedience as a soldier against him, but she was uncomfortable here and she just wanted to be alone in her room, away from prying eyes that would surely come in the morning.

Without another word he rose and pulled back the covers. The rush of cold air hit her legs and she shivered, immediately regretting it as she gasped in pain.

As they ambled down the darkened corridors, she asked “What’s the damage? Ribs?”

“Broken…three of them, and a slightly dislocated shoulder, but Keller put that back in while you were out…and Sheppard may kill me in the morning, I’m not too sure,” and there was a small smile.

“Why was I out so long?”

“Keller gave you a sedative, to keep you out. Something about it being hard for you to sleep if you woke up.”

The rest of the walk was silent.

“I won’t let him kill you,” she murmured, tiredness sweeping over her as they reached her room.

He smiled, “I know.”

“Not that he could…in a fair fight at least,” she returned the smile.

“Yeah,” and he swiped his hand across the panel, standing back to let her in. she swayed, just a little, as she reached her bed, and he caught her left elbow, guiding her down slowly.

Considering everything she’d been through over the past twelve years or so, Sam had always though she was pretty hard to shock…that was until Ronon knelt in front of her and kissed her gently. More gently than she would have thought was possible for him.

He cupped her face gently in his hands, their calluses scuffing her cheeks lightly, and breathed against her, light puffs, as he moved a tiny bit closer.

“Ronon?” she sighed as he broke the kiss, resting his forehead softly against hers.

“Yes?”

She sighed again, bringing her left hand up to the side of his head, “I hope that wasn’t because you felt guilty…about all this?”

“Nope. I beat you in a fair fight…”

Sam laughed, stopping as soon as she’d started and clutching at her right side. His hand covered hers and he kissed her cheek.

“If I had it my way I’d have you rough and sweaty, like in the sparring room today…but you’re not really up for that,” he growled in her ear, “So I…tempered my approach.”

Sam felt a familiar, if all too uncommon warmth spreading through her as he whispered in her ear.

“I’d…I’d like that…”

“Maybe another night,” he sighed, laying her back gently, “Tonight, I’ll be…”

“Ronon?”

He stopped, hovering above her.

She hated herself for the desperation in her voice, but it was out before she could stop herself, “Why?”

“Why what?” and she knew he wasn’t playing coy.

“Why me?”

“You took what I threw at you…since you got here,” his hand stroked down her left side slowly, “And you’re beautiful, which always helps. I like strong women,” he motioned to the bruise on his left cheek, “Plus this was a real turn on!”

He straddled her hips, careful not to bring his full weight down on her, a smiling spreading across his face.

“Okay,” she whispered, closing her eyes, and then he was kissing her again and it was harder than before, but still gentle and she found her arms winding around his back, despite a protesting shoulder. When his tongue met hers she moaned into his mouth, feeling him smile into the kiss, and she wondered why she was nervous.

He pulled back, and sat up, hands moving to play with the hem of her infirmary-issued top. Slipping under, his warm fingers spread across her stomach, and suddenly she wished she’d done more sit-ups, but he clearly didn’t notice or care, as his hands found her breasts. They stilled and she could hear his almost-ragged breathing.

As if reading her mind, he slipped his hands from her breasts, over her sides and settled them on her back before slowly drawing her up. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and her ribs seared and raged against the movement, but he was gentle and slow, and her top was gone, bra following soon after.

He lay her back down and kissed her again, hands massaging each breast in turn and she moaned low in her throat, left hand threaded into his hair.

He kissed a trail across her chin and down her throat, lingering at her collar bone, licking and nipping at the skin there until she was sure she’d have to ask him to move lower, but he did eventually, and his lips closed over her right nipple making her arch into him, ignoring the pain…but he stopped.

“You have to stay still, or I’ll stop. I’d hate to have to explain to Keller why you’re worse than when she left you,” with a teasing smirk and quick flash of teeth.

Sam whimpers a little, but lies still and he descends again, this time one hands splayed across her abdomen and as it sweeps lower she struggles to do as she’s told.

When his fingers find her she moans loudly, and shifts, and damn him to hell, he stops, and narrows his eyes at her, and she’s fucked if she knows when she’s been more turned on…and in more pain simultaneously.

His hand is still there, resting on her clit, and she rocks her hips, just a little, just to get him going again.

“Colonel,” and it’s a warning that she ignores. She bucks her hips and he falls to the side, caught off guard. She sits up quickly, the pain pushed aside, although she knows she’ll regret it in the morning, and somehow he’s under her, arms braced against hers.

“If you don’t want me to hurt myself you probably shouldn’t tease me,” she warns, rocking her hips down against him, biting her lip to keep from grimacing. His frown turned to a smile as his hands lowered to her hips.

“I still won’t play rough…”

‘Not yet anyway,” she smiled, pulling his shirt above his head. He finished the job for her, and sat up, arms holding her to him so she sat in his lap. Kissing her hard, he dipped one hand under the waist of her pants, finding her wet and aching. She wriggled a little in his lap, sighing against his mouth, and he groaned as he got harder under her.

He took his time undressing her, touching, kissing, licking his way across her body, stopping her every time she tried to return the favour.

Finally, he stopped teasing and settled above her, drawing her legs up so she could wrap them around his hips. She sucked in a deep breath, but when he pushed in, the pain in her ribs and shoulder was forgotten. She kissed the bruise she’d left on him, kissed his scarred chest, while he nipped at her ear, her neck, her shoulder; anywhere his mouth could reach.

She came first, moaning loudly, breathing out his name, and her muscles clenching around him and her wide-eyed orgasm took him down to, hard and fast with spots forming in front of his eyes.

He lay half on top of her for a moment, then shifted, and she whimpered at the loss of heat, but he drew her to him, settling her so she rested her head on his shoulder, his arms enclosing her, the white sheets draped over their waists.

“How long did Keller say before I’d be right again?’ she asked over a stifled yawn.

“About a week,” he huffed softly into her hair, “Think you can hold out that long?”

“Hey, I’m all for soft and gentle…especially if it’s like that was,” punctuated with a kiss just above his right nipple.

“Mmm…yeah, that’s what you say now. Just wait.”

The gravely tone stirred heat in her again, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah…thought you might.”

“Sammy!” Dean whined, pressing his angelic lips into a pout.

“You gotta wait, man,” Sam moaned, fending off Dean’s advances, as hands clawed at his jacket, trying desperately to pull it off his shoulders and reach the skin underneath.

666

It had been three weeks to the day. Three weeks since Sam had found his brother, bound and gagged, unconscious and propped against the far wall in the lounge of a filthy house, packed to the rafters with vampires. They were asleep, but Sam was nervous nonetheless. It hadn’t gone so well for them, the last few times the brothers had had dealings with the undead.

He crept slowly through the house, painstakingly ensuring that he didn’t make a sound, searching from room to room for his brother. Dean had been missing for a day now and Sam was freaking out to high heaven. Dean was the one that never screwed up, not on a hunt, and yet here was Sam, searching through the last in a long line of several equally repulsive abandoned buildings, acting off some information he had…coerced out of a vampire he had cornered in an alley last night. It was strong, but Sam had managed to stick it with dead man’s blood before it could get too many shots in and all he had to show for the struggle was a black eye.

So here he was, creeping through a vampire-infested house, thinking Dean wasn’t there either and then, lo and behold, there he was. Sam rushed to his brothers’ side, forgetting his need for silence, relief washing over him. That was until he saw the bite marks on Dean’s upper torso.

Fear quickly replaced the relief, as he realised his brother was bitten. Thoughts of how Dean could have been so careless, if he was dead, if he was turned, flooded his mind at once, the last one making him shudder visibly. Thinking as swiftly as he could, he pulled the knife and the jar of dead man’s blood from his jacket pocket, and dipping the knife in the blood, he held it to Dean’s chest, just near the bite marks.

He stopped now, his body suddenly catching up with his brains’ inability to comprehend what he was about to do, and more pertinently, what the consequences were if this was really necessary. Hands shaking, he pressed the knife down into his brother’s exposed skin, not deep enough for it to need stitching, but enough for the blood to mix and cause the sickness.

Sam released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding when Dean didn’t stir. Waiting for a few seconds to let the blood take effect, he reached out and pinched Dean above his collar bone, flinching inwardly at how cold his brother’s skin was. When nothing happened he tried again, harder still, and couldn’t help but smile, if not somewhat sardonically, at the thought of what Dean would do to him if he’d done this when he was conscious.

Deciding that his brother, alive or otherwise, was not going to stir and alert the vampires around them, he reached behind the limp form and manoeuvred him over his left shoulder, standing slowly and shakily. Carrying him back through the house and out to the waiting Impala, Sam marvelled at how heavy his older brother actually was and made a mental note to remind him not to eat so much junk when he awoke. If he awoke.

Back at the motel, Sam had cuffed Dean’s hands to the bed railings above his head, and waited impatiently for him to wake. He paced back and forth, splashed water onto his face more times than he had showered that week, chewed the inside of his lip, a nervous habit he hadn’t done in years, anything to keep his mind off the possibilities. Finally, he resigned himself to sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He had been there, still and watching, for almost ten minutes, before it occurred to him to get the knife and blood ready, just in case.

As he turned back towards the bed after rifling through his coat that hung near the door for the items, he realised he was being watched. Dean had fixed his green eyes firmly on his baby brother in the most disconcerting of ways. In a moment of panic Sam likened the look to the one a cat gave a mouse it had cornered.

“Dean,” he whispered, his voice betraying his fear.

Dean kept staring, eyes roaming Sam’s form. Sam stepped forward, a half step, wanting more than anything for his older brother to suddenly break out in one of his smart ass smiles and tell Sam to let him loose before he beat on his ass. No such luck. Dean’s mouth did move, but he licked his lips instead, and slowly drew them back, revealing a set of very pointed teeth.

“Oh God!” Sam moaned, dropping his head, “Dean…”

“Sammy, I’m hungry,” came the reply, but it wasn’t Dean’s voice. It dripped with need, lust and Sam felt very stifled, suddenly.

“Dean…you, are you…?” Sam couldn’t bring himself to ask, but tears prickling his eyes confirmed his body knew the answer. Every one of his hairs stood on end, his instincts screaming from him to act…and yet, it was his brother who lay, writhing on the bed, seemingly begging for blood. His big brother, the one who saved him from countless, faceless evils since they were little. The one who fought his battles, at school, at home, on a hunt.

“Sammy!” he roared suddenly, and his face seemed to be contorted in pain. His eyes locked with his younger brother’s, pleading as he struggled against the restraints with such force that they tore at the skin on his wrists.

As if in a trance, Sam walked to the bed, the knife dropping to the floor by the bed. He knelt next to the top of the bed, level with his brother’s eyes, which followed his every move with a feline-like precision that was magnified by their intense focus. Sam leant across, hovering just out of his brother’s reach, though he tried in vain to arch up enough, just enough to sink his teeth into the tantalising flesh that dangled above.

“Dean?”

Dean continued to struggle, smelling Sam’s coppery blood more intensely than at any stage since he had awoken. The urge for it coursed through his body, making him tingle with anticipation and need, so much so that it was painful for him to be still.

“Dean?” Sam tried again, shaky voice more forceful, but still petrified.

Dean forced himself still for the briefest of moments, perhaps wanting to lull his brother into a false sense of security, perhaps because the familiarity of Sam calmed him, soothed him.

“Dean…how much?” Sam asked, forcing the words from his mouth.

Dean seemed confused so Sam elaborated.

“How much blood…to stop this?” he sighed, gesturing at the scene in front of him.

Dean grinned, actually grinned with glee.

“Blood Sammy! I need it. Need you!” he pled.

“If I gave you a bit…would you stop? Could you?”

The head cocked, interest acquired. Sam continued slowly, his body, every natural instinct screaming for him to run, to stop thinking and talking.

“If I gave you some of my blood, could you control yourself? Just a little, so I wouldn’t have to…”

“Kill me?”

“Yes. I don’t want to Dean, God I don’t want to,” the reply came in a cry of despair, “Please, promise me you’ll try…try to be good.”

Eyes locked, green on green, the nod, followed by the husky, vaguely sultry reply.

“I’ll be good.”

So Sam presented his wrist, and grit his teeth through the pain, through the revulsion at what he was doing. Dean suckled his arm, gulping like a newborn lamb, greedily arching into the gift he was being given as his thirst was slowly quenched. When Sam pulled away, Dean whimpered like a puppy, blood leaking from the side of his mouth, but soon lapped up by his searching tongue. Sam held his wrist upright, looking in disgust at the punctures that marred his skin.

“More Sammy!” he groaned, straining towards his brother, who sat on the edge of the bed.

“No!” Sam cried, jumping up, “No,” and he disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Crashing and cursing, dull thumps of flesh and wall connecting, then nothing. Dean struggled some more, and when he finally gave in to the inevitable futility, he heard soft noises, breathy sobs.

666

Later that day Sam finally released Dean, who paced back and forth, but dared not approach his brother, who held a knife in his hands.

“Dead man’s blood,” he smiled, near feral, “Daddy would be proud Sammy.”

“Shut up!”

And he did, to both their disbelief.

“So, if I can feed you…like that, like before, could you…”

“Stay on the straight and narrow?”

“Yes. Dean, I don’t want to do it but, so help me God, if you cause trouble…” the eyes were pleading.

“What sort? Bar fights? Pranks? You’d kill me for those?” with a cock of the left eyebrow.

“It’s not funny! Jesus Dean!”

“Sorry,” and it sounded sincere.

“Could you control it?”

“Maybe,” coy tone, matched with a disconcerting stare.

“Dean…for me?”

And there it was. Something in him, deep down, rose above the want, the blood lust, and for a moment, brief though it was, he was Dean.

“Yeah,” his head dropped, “God Sammy! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be…I want to take care of you. I can’t…without you I don’t want to do this.”

So they decided. Sam would feed him, once a day, and Dean would control himself. But after a week straight of feeding him, Sam began to feel dizzy, almost permanently, and Dean, in a moment of control and selflessness, found out that he was taking too much blood for Sam’s body to handle.

“Says here that people who donate blood only give about a pint…and they can only do it every eight weeks or so…” Dean read for the laptop screen.

Sam, who was lying on the bed looking pale and feeling weak, propped himself up a little.

“Well…” he began, clearly searching for something to say, some way around the issue.

“We could always steal it,” Dean suggested, a somewhat proud look crossing his face, no doubt at the realisation that he was being reasonable and rational.

“From where?”

“Hospitals.”

Sam looked horrified.

“People need that blood Dean!”

“Better than me killing people for it Sam!” came the fiery retort.

The thought was considered, and Sam resigned himself to the fact that, like it or not, Dean was right.

“But I go…you stay here,” he ordered, restraining his brother.

Dean pouted but left it alone, realising that he shouldn’t push too far.

666

It had been excruciating, that room, the one room, not leaving except to get food, and then having to worry about Dean breaking free. The look on his face each time Sam cuffed him. Worse still the looks when he wanted blood. They watched TV, Sam read, Dean played cards, hummed to himself, and surfed the internet. Sam was amazed at how much he was still Dean. Smartass comments abounded, and they talked, for the most part, as though nothing was different.

But when he fed, he was different. Needy, excited, pupils blown wide and locked with Sam’s as he sucked. After the first week the vein in Sam’s wrist collapsed, so they tried the other, but it did too, midway through a feed. Then Dean had pinned him to the wall, ripped his shirt open, and before the buttons even hit the mouldy carpet, he was biting down on his baby brothers’ chest, right above the left nipple. Sam cried out in pain, tried to force him away, but Dean was strong, much too strong for his brother, so Sam was helpless…and very surprised when Dean pulled away, seconds later, retreating to the other side of the room, shame marring his features.

“Sorry.”

And they left it at that.

666

Three weeks later, they were on the road. Dean had cabin fever, and Sam was nervous.

Dean sat back in his seat, sulking.

“Dean, you have to wait until we get to the next motel,” Sam reasoned, “Then you can feed, but not while I’m driving.”

“But I’m starving!” he moaned like a spoilt child.

Sam looked across at him as he steered the Impala down the road, pity filing his eyes. The next chance he got he pulled over, turning off the engine. Dean sat perfectly still, waiting. Sam looked across at him finally, head tilted down, and Dean moved. Across the seat between them, straddling one leg, head bent and ready as he pushed the clothes aside, scratching the flesh a little in his haste. He descended, slowly.

Sam had noticed that of late, Dean took his time, as though he was savouring it, the experience. He only feed him twice a week now, and the rest was the blood they managed to steal from hospitals and medical centres, but Dean didn’t like it as much, insisting it tasted different, awful.

Hands pinned him down, one either side of his body, pressing into the seat. Sam tensed in anticipation, a soft whimper escaping his lips as the teeth sunk in, but then the pain was near non-existent, which he would have marvelled at just like the previous few times he had noticed, except that this time he was focused more on other parts of his brother. Specifically the parts that were pressing ever-closer to his leg.

“Dean?” he warned, but it was brushed aside, so he tried again, “Dean, no. What are you…?” his next word caught in his throat as his brother planted his right foot on the floor between his, dropping his body into full contact with Sam’s.

Regaining his senses after a moment of being frozen in shock, Sam planted both arms on Dean’s chest, now very close to his own, and pushed back.

“Dean! Stop it!” he cried, forcing his brother to recede. Dean relinquished his grasp on Sam’s flesh and drew his torso back a little, looking into his younger brother’s eyes with genuine bewilderment.

“What are you doing Dean?” Sam cried, disgust evident in his eyes.

Dean’s lips curled into a semi-feral smile, and he made to lean back in to finish what he had started, but Sam bucked his knees up, causing him to lose balance and topple half onto the seat. He snarled, actually snarled, as he straightened himself up, but he retreated to the passenger side of the car, drawing his legs up under him and pressing back into the door, watching Sam’s every move with unfailing scrutiny.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam said quietly, raising his eyebrows in sympathy, “But you can’t do that. It’s wrong, and you know it is.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“So’s keeping me alive, but you’re doing that,” he replied flatly, “Imagine what Bobby would do if he knew,” he continued, smiling acerbically.

“That’s different Dean,” Sam’s voice was filled with despair as he tried to find an angle to reason, “You’re my brother. The same reason that makes me keeping you alive okay is why what you just did is wrong…and you know it. What the hell where you thinking?” he demanded, looking out the windscreen, suddenly uncomfortable in the close confines of the Impala.

“I don’t know,” came the unexpectedly humble reply, “Sorry Sammy…and I know I’ve been saying that a lot lately, but when I feed…”

“You’re not yourself,” Sam finished for him.

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a while before Sam turned in his seat a little.

“You didn’t finish,” he indicated to his bite-marked chest.

Dean looked at it longingly, but eventually closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I’m fine. Had enough,” he struggled out. It was clear that he wanted more, but he was trying admirably to control himself, “Let’s go Sammy. Sun’ll be up soon and then this beautiful porcelain skin of mine’ll get burnt,” he continued, somewhat more chipper in tone.

The sun had just begun to rise as they checked into the motel, and Dean scurried inside, drawing all the curtains closed. Sitting cross-legged, he waited for Sam to close the door before pouncing on his bag, a retreating with a small bag of blood.

Sam looked incredulous, “I thought you weren’t hungry?”

“M’not…much,” came the muffled reply as he ripped into the bag, spilling quite a lot of the claret liquid onto his hands. When he had drained the bag, he licked at his hands, lapping every trace of blood away.

Sam looked away, feeling guilty that he felt revulsion, but he couldn’t help it. And he knew that Dean knew, which made it worse.

“So, uh…I found a hunt here. Bunch of kids have gone missing, locals think it’s linked to a cult about forty miles from here…thought I’d check it out while you sleep.”

Dean looked up, empty bag falling to the floor.

“You’re gonna hunt without me?” he cocked his head to one side.

“Uh…yeah. It’s still our job, and I gotta do something…” Sam was visibly confused.

“You can’t hunt without me. We’re a team,” and there was an undertone of offence, but outwardly he seemed as though he were pointing out the obvious.

“Dean…you can’t go outside…”

“I can’t go I the sun. If it’s cloudy…”

“So we’re supposed to wait for overcast weather?”

“No,” he frowned, “No but most of our hunting is at night…”

“Dean. No.”

“What Sam? You afraid I’munna go feral and kill something…someone? That it Sammy?” he was pissed, eyes fixed on the object of his annoyance.

Sam glared right back.

“You’re a fucking vampire Dean! You tell me!”

“Haven’t killed you yet, have I?” the reply coupled with a dangerous smile.

“No…not yet.”

The second the words left his lips, Sam regretted them. A second after the regret, Dean had him pinned to the wall, body pressed into his.

“You think I would?” he whispered, but there was nothing soft in the way it was spoken, “You worried I just won’t stop one day, Sammy?” he continued, pulling Sam’s shirt open with one swift movement, hands ghosting over the little wounds that peppered the skin there, “Just a moment too long…”

Sam stood perfectly still, wanting so desperately to push his brother away, but not wanting him to hurt anymore than he already did.

Dean grinned up at him, the grin that made girls all over the mid-west jump into bed with him without a second thought.

“Don’t worry little brother, I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said, stepping back and straightening Sam’s clothes with a motherly intent, “Which is why I need to go with you on the hunt. So you’re safe. You’re not safe if I’m not there…plus, the strength that comes with being uber-evil,” he teased, throwing his hands in the air.

“Dean, don’t joke about that.”

“What?” he busied himself with rifling through his bag.

“You’re not evil.”

Turning, he smiled again, “Oh really. I thought, being a fucking vampire and all…”

“Damnit! Why do you have to make this so much harder?” Sam cried, vision clouding a little as he turned away, not wanting his brother to see his distress.

“Oh, right, because this has been a goddamn picnic for me! I mean, top of my fucking to-do list, becoming a vampire…yeah, right up there with becoming a law-abiding, tax-paying functional member of society!” Dean spat, “Damnit Sam! I need this. Sometimes,” he stopped, and walked up behind his brother, “Sammy look at me,” he pled.

Sam turned, wiping the tears furiously from his face. Dean didn’t even comment, just looked straight at him, eyes earnest.

“Sammy, sometimes I feel like I could kill you…and it scares me, because I don’t want to, but it hurts so much not to, to fight it, keep it inside. It’s…it’s like this hidden thing in me and it comes up and…if I could hunt I could maybe feel better sometimes.”

Sam was rendered speechless, not by the admission that his brother felt this way, but by the admission itself. There was a time not too long ago Dean would have never shown his frailty to Sam, yet here he was pouring it out at his feet.

“We don’t always kill stuff Dean.”

“I know, but the ritual of the hunt, the action, the adrenaline rush…I think that might help, might keep this feeling down,” he said, stepping back, but never breaking eye contact, “Please Sam.”

666

Dean hadn’t lost any of his hunting finesse. If anything, Sam noticed, he was more precise, more accurate when it came down to the physical side of things. They had no trouble with monsters and hell beasties escaping their grip anymore, as Dean had a sixth sense for where they’d be.

“Evil connection thing Sammy. You wouldn’t get it,” he joked after they had found a werewolf lurking in a mall.

Sam frowned, but let it go. The ‘evil’ jokes had become more frequent, and Sam realised it was just Dean’s self-depreciating way of dealing with their current situation.

Dean had behaved himself for the most part, except for once at a bar, three states back, when a guy had tried to rough Sam up for spilling his beer on his shoes and Dean had thrown him across the bar and into a jukebox that had been, until that point, blaring Elvis. They scurried, out, Sam furious, Dean maintaining it was like killing two birds with one stone, because he hated Elvis.

Sam had also, albeit reluctantly, allowed Dean to kill some of the things they hunted using methods that made Sam’s stomach turn. Watching his older brother drain the life out of a dying, formerly possessed man had been enough to make him flee the room, waiting outside until Dean emerged, triumphant.

“You…did you…?” he asked tentatively.

Dean looked confused, as often happened immediately after he fed.

“Did you turn him?” Sam moaned, head in his hands.

“No!” Dean spat out, pausing for a moment with a withering scowl on his face before stalking off to the car.

Sam followed, undeterred.

“Well geez, sorry to offend your fine sensibilities, but in case you hadn’t noticed, you just killed a man, Dean! In a way…”

“Vampire!” Dean snarled, pointing to himself, “It’s what I do…or would be doing if your ass wasn’t all over me every second of the day!” he stopped abruptly, instantly regretting his words, but from the look on Sam’s face he realised his younger brother had forgiven the comment already, “Besides, Sammy,” he continued, tone softer, “The guy was gonna die anyway. That demon really put him through his paces.”

Sam agreed silently, and that was the end of it, but he never watched Dean kill another like that.

666

Sam had, predominantly unconsciously, allowed Dean to get closer to him physically, first while feeding, but increasingly in their general day-to-day life also. It wasn’t uncommon for Dean to curl up on Sam’s bed at his feet, head resting on the youngest legs’, as they watched TV. He reasoned with himself that it was because Dean was hurting, and keeping him close, allowing him the contact he craved, would ease that but deep down he was worried.

When he feed Dean, it took longer, and he began to feel…like he was slipping, until Dean finally drew back each time. He knew he should be controlling it, stopping Dean after a minute or two, but he found it harder and harder to accomplish. It had taken weeks of this, happening once or twice a week, before Sam had stumbled upon the realisation that Dean wanted to turn him.

And then there was the more disturbing thought, the one he pushed down every time it arose, the one that whispered that he enjoyed the closeness, Dean pushing against him softly, Dean needing him. It revolted him, and yet he knew it was true. He had let Dean, on more than one occasion, lie almost flush against him while he fed, straddle him as he had in the car, and with that boundary blurred it was only a matter of time.

666

That time came after their latest hunt, a black dog, which Dean had relished blowing up with a rifle loaded, for once, with ordinary shotgun shells. They were back in the motel, and Sam had just showered, because he was covered in exploding hell beastie. He emerged from the steaming bathroom, towel wrapped across his hips.

“What the…?” he began, finding himself pinned to the wall next to the door. Dean smiled up at him.

“Dean! I fed you yesterday! Use a blood bag,” he moaned, annoyed that the relaxation of the steaming hot shower was depleted so suddenly.

“Not hungry,” came the reply, and his lips crashed onto Sam’s. Arms pinned to his side, Sam was rooted to the spot. Only the towel slipping to the floor jarred him back into the here and now. Wrenching his head to the side, he broke the kiss.

“Dean!” he breathed, looking at him sideways.

Dean’s lips latched on to the expanse of heated skin on Sam’s neck, and he suckled vigorously. Sam tensed, expecting him to bite down, but the lips moved lower, ghosting over his collar bone and down to his chest.

“Dean! Stop it!” Sam yelled, placing his hands firmly on either shoulder and pushing with all his strength, but to no avail. Dean did stop and look up though.

“What Sammy?” he teased, pressing into his little brother, “Isn’t it nice?”

“No!” Sam roared, “It’s not.”

“But it is,” Dean countered, grinding into Sam a little, and Sam flushed, the heat creeping from his groin upwards, “See,” he added with a lecherous grin.

“It’s not because you’re my brother!” Sam pled, “This is wrong Dean, just like in the car,” he added, hoping his brother would remember and back off.

One look in Dean’s eyes, pupils blown wide with lust, and he knew there was no such chance.

Dean went back to where he had started, lips latching onto Sam’s again, and in a deep recess of his brain Sam mused that Dean was quite good at kissing. He only broke the kiss again when he felt his body reacting further to his brothers ministrations.

Dean would have none of it, however, and he forcibly threw Sam’s hulking naked frame across the room, landing him squarely on the bed, but Sam’s body weight caused him to bounce and he ended up sprawled half on, half off the bed with Dean bearing down over him.

“Won’t hurt Sammy,” he soothed, running strong fingers through the think chestnut hair, “And we’ll be together.”

“It will Dean! It’ll hurt like hell and after…”

“You’ll be like me.”

“Who’ll control you?”

“Won’t matter.”

“It will! It’ll matter damn it!”

“Nope,” said as though that ended the argument.

Part of Sam knew it was inevitable, told him, implored him to surrender while his brother was in a good mood, while it would be relatively painless. And the rest screamed and raged against his impending end. How could he possibly be okay with becoming that which they hunted? Everything that was synonymous with what they had grown up hunting and destroying, relishing the kill of every evil son of a bitch that roamed into the sights. He would be like Dean, and they would have no controls, no boundaries. They would be hunted, chased and tracked, until they too met the same fate as countless had at their hands.

“Dean,” and it sounded too pathetic, too pleading to have been his voice, but he pressed on, “Please Dean, don’t hurt me.”

Dean locked his eyes with Sam’s, and Sam knew it was over. There was no compassion, no remnants of self control that had saved him before. Dean was won over by the lust and power coursing through his body and Sam was finished.

And then there was a knife protruding from his brothers abdomen, and Dean grunted, falling backwards onto the threadbare carpet, hands clutching at the hilt nestled into his cold flesh. Before Sam could react someone appeared in the corner of his eye, machete glinting in the dull lamp-light, as it was raised high above them all.

He would never know why, but in that last second, watching his brother lying helpless on the floor, overcome by blood-sickness, Sam felt a great surge of pity. He hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t registered who the other person in the room was, but as the blade fell through the air, aimed at his brother pale neck, Sam moved…and then no more.

The blade lodged in his back, inches from his heart, and as he opened him mouth to cry out in pain blood gushed down his chin and onto his brother beneath him, and he saw nothing.

666

Sam had stirred, eyes cracking a little, vision clouded with the remnants of sleep that his body clung to desperately. Dean was there, perched above him, eyes wide with concern, and Sam knew he was dead, that they both were and that they were in purgatory while the man upstairs tried to decide whether they were worthy, or whether he should bump them down a few levels.

But he was hungry, painfully so, and he was so sure the dead had no further need of food and water and then it hit him, right between the eyes, and he roared in pain, lunging for Dean and pinning him under him. Dean smiled.

“What have you done to me?” he growled after he had fed greedily from his brothers chest.

“We’re the same now.”

“Why?” he roared, smashing the mirror next to him with his fist then throwing the frame across the room at his beaming brother, who ducked effortlessly. He felt uncomfortable, like his skin was stretched too thin, his bones ached, his head pounded, and all he wanted was more blood.

“You were dying Sammy. He killed you,” Dean sighed, gesturing to Gordon’s lifeless body, the head resting at an odd angle from everything else.

“So you brought me back as a vampire?” he advanced on Dean, who didn’t move an inch, until Sam was flush against him.

“Sure looks like it.”

And Sam hit him.

Dean stumbled back a few steps, but Sam flew at him, hands closing around his throat before he steadied himself. They toppled onto the bed, each throwing the other off balance, and in the ensuing struggle, Dean managed to land on top, Sam trapped between his thighs, just like every time they had fought since childhood. Except Dean had never, until recently, pressed against his little brother, and Sam had never, ever enjoyed it like he was now.

“We’re together Sammy, you and me. Just like always, like it should be. When you left for college…when you died, Sammy, I didn’t know what to do. You’re all I’ve ever had and…this really isn’t so bad either. Please be okay Sammy,” the eyes bored into his, imploring him to accept this, and Sam, leaning up, nestled his head into his brothers neck gently.

He knew Dean needed him, always had, and if he had to be damned, doing it with his big brother seemed to be the way to go. He had spent his life putting Dean through hell, almost quite literally, and looking into those desperate green eyes, filled with fear and earnest longing, he couldn’t refuse. It wasn’t like it could be reversed, so he resolutely decided to make the best of a seemingly bad situation.

Dean sighed as his brothers thick hair tickled his skin, and he pushed him back with his hands, leaning over him so all Sam could see was Dean.

Lips closing in on Sam’s, he whispered, “Together forever, little brother.”