Chapter 4

Dean finds Sam in the archives. He's flicking through boxes, muttering to himself.

Mnemonics, or something. Figures. Sam can't pull the things he needs and have them waiting, ready, because every single morning, they'd just be back here, hidden.

But he's distracted. Day after day of Dean stuck in that room and he's gotten complacent, and it's almost too easy for Dean to slip up behind him and wrap the chain of the cuffs around Sam's neck.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, holding tight as Sam flails and chokes. The box Sam was checking out comes tumbling off the shelf, and scatters papers and objects on the floor at their feet. "I'm sorry. I know I promised to gut you like a pig, but I think I'm gonna have to strangle you now. Or, I dunno. Think I could take your head clean off with these?"

Sam fights, thrashing, shoving off the floor with his feet, kicking out, hitting the stacks with such force that the shelves tip away and start to fall, in slow motion, as Dean goes flying back and hits the shelf behind.

Ancient books and cardboard file boxes shake and rattle and throw up dust. Some fall, scattering more detritus at their feet, and Dean fights to keep his footing, fights to keep hold of his prize.

His prize, his brother, who fights for air as Dean pulls the cuffs tighter, even as they cut into his own flesh, and Dean's blood runs, making everything slick and slippery. Dean growls as he pulls tighter, roars past his own pain because he has to do this. All he's gotta do is kill Sam, and this will all be over.

Sam just won't fucking give up, though. It's no less than Dean expected, hell, he knows Sam better than Sam knows himself, and he's not the slightest bit surprised that even as Sam's eyes roll back in his head he somehow gets his fingers under the chain and pulls, sucking in a great gasp of air.

With that shot of oxygen, he starts fighting again, shoving Dean back, back, against the stacks, until that shelf, too, starts to tip and fall, and Dean goes with it.

He lands on his back, winded, with Sam on top of him. This time Sam's got both hands under the chain, and as dust rises around them, he levers Dean's arms up, and over his head.

The dust settles. Sam's face is so close to Dean's, his whole body holding Dean down, a solid weight that Dean can't shift, not with his arms pinned above his head.

Dean's blood is smeared across Sam's cheek. Sam's eyes are bright and feverish, and his tongue comes out and licks a drop of Dean's blood into his mouth.

"Still a junkie," Dean says, because all he's got now, all he can do, is fuck with Sam's mind. "Bet that's all you could think about, huh? Me locked up, no one to stop you. All you had to do was take. All the demon blood you could drink on tap, and the pantry restocked every single morning."

"Shut up," Sam says, the first words he's spoken since Dean wrapped the chain around his neck. "Shut the fuck up." He gets to his feet, and he pulls Dean by his wrists.

Dean stays limp. No point in making this easy for Sam, and the more he bleeds, the better. His body slides easily over piles of scattered books, and he grits his teeth when he hits the bare floor and Sam tugs him toward the devil's trap.

Still smells like fresh paint down here. Jesus. Sam has quite the routine, repainting every single day as well as locking Dean up in his room.

Dean can still end this.

The moment Sam releases Dean's wrists, Dean springs to his feet, and he grabs Sam by the back of the shirt just before he's about to step over the threshold of the trap, and he's got a plan, throw him to the ground and stomp on his face until Sam's brains paint the floor and this is all over.

But Sam's ready, and he swings, and his fist hits Dean's cheek with an almighty crack

Dean goes down, and the floor does as much damage as Sam's fist. Dean's mouth fills with blood.

"Stop," Sam says, backing away to the edge of the trap and stepping over. "Just stop."

Dean pulls himself to his feet, and he steps up to the edge. He can't pass that threshold, but Sam is so close, they're eye to eye, only inches apart.

Dean gathers the blood in his mouth, and he spits, right in Sam's face.

Sam looks so shocked, with his face covered in blood, Dean's blood, demon blood. It coats his lips and gets into his mouth, and Dean laughs, full and hearty.

"You can't cure me," Dean says. "My blood is in your veins now. You're not pure, Sammy. You'll never be good enough, no amount of confessions will make your blood clean."

Sam stumbles back, wiping the blood from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, but Dean sees the brief flicker of Sam's tongue as it scoops a little into his mouth.

Dean's blood, and Dean's spit.

"What will it take?" Dean asks. "For you to come down into the dirt with me? The things we could do... I'd give it up to you, you know? All the blood you could ever need. And more. We'd be unstoppable."

There's a look of horror on Sam's face, but not disgust. It's fear, not revulsion, and there's Dean's way in.

Sam's afraid of what he's capable of, because he is capable. It's been written into them since creation itself. Sam and Dean Winchester, destined to become monsters if only the chips would fall the right way.

Which won't be happening today, because Sam turns and heads for the door, leaving Dean alone again.

---

Dean wakes up with his wrists cuffed together, but he's not attached to the bed this time, and there's no devil's trap on the ceiling above him.

There's no need for it, because there's a devil's trap painted on the floor of the open doorway.

Dean paces his room, and wonders exactly how much force would be required to bust right through the wall.

"Sam," he calls, when he's bored enough. "Sammy? Come on, man. Can't help but feel like you've given up on me, here. What happened to your big plans for a cure?"

There's only one reason Sam would let Dean roam free in his room. He's got no intention whatsoever of crossing the threshold.

"You summoning that angel? Without me?"

"No," Sam says, appearing on the other side of the devil's trap. "I'm taking the day off."

Sam looks like shit. He's showered, at least, but his hair is uncombed, and his eyes are bloodshot.

"You drunk?" Dean asks.

"Not nearly drunk enough," Sam says, and turns to walk away.

"You're jonesing," Dean realizes. "You had a little taste, and you want more, don't you?"

Sam stops, but he doesn't turn around.

"Plenty where that came from," Dean says. "I meant what I said." Dean might be able to tolerate Sam, if he was on demon blood. The potential there was untapped, and, together, they could do wonderful, terrible things.

Dean could control Sam, if Sam was reliant on Dean for his blood.

"You don't have to come in," Dean says. "Just give me a knife, a bowl. I'll bleed for you, Sammy."

Dean's not ready. He doesn't expect Sam to do anything but walk away, not really, so he's caught by surprise when Sam turns and comes at him.

Dean tries to lift his arms to block, but Sam's quicker, and no, he's not nearly drunk enough, because he's got Dean by the throat and he throws Dean back and pins him to the bed.

Dean can't breathe. He doesn't really need to breathe, but it's uncomfortable, and it induces a kind of panic and helplessness. Sam's larger body, and his momentum, has Dean stuck, like a goddamn butterfly under glass.

Dean watched Sam rip the throat out of a demon once, years ago, and that's what flashes through his mind. It fucking terrifies him, but it excites him, too.

"Do it," Dean rasps, turning his head as much as he can under Sam's grip to expose his throat. "Do it."

Sam makes a sound deep in his throat like he's choking, and then he releases Dean, stumbling back from the bed with a look of horror on his face.

Dean stretches his neck, takes a great gulp of air, but he doesn't bother getting up from the bed. He watches Sam, as Sam stares back at him, still with that look on his face.

"We're stuck," Sam finally says. "You were right. I can't cure you. My blood will never be good enough, it'll never be clean."

"You won't see me complaining," Dean says.

"We're stuck."

"Don't have to be. We still got options."

"I'm not letting you out of here. We can keep looping forever, I don't care. I'm not letting you out."

Dean rolls his eyes and sits up on the edge of his bed. "I've still got options. I kill you, Chuck gets what he wants, and I stop looping. You'll make a mistake, Sammy, and I'll kill you." Dean gazes up at Sam from beneath his eyelashes. "Look where you're standing."

Sam looks down, then glances back at the devil's trap in the doorway behind him.

In that moment, Dean bolts up off the bed, and he shoves Sam back against the wall.

To his surprise, Sam lets him.

Dean has no intention of killing Sam, not right now, anyway. But Sam doesn't know that, and it's like he doesn't even care.

Or maybe he does know, somehow. Because the way he looks down at Dean, there's no fear in his expression, and he doesn't try to push Dean away, even though he could.

Dean lifts his arms. Slowly, because he doesn't want to spook Sam. He's curious, needs to know what's going on here. He raises his arms, high above his head, and then slowly drops them around Sam's neck.

Dean's still in sleep pants and the threadbare t-shirt he wore to bed Monday night. The sleeve of his t-shirt pulls up to expose the smooth pale flesh of the underside of his arm, and he turns it toward Sam.

"Got a blade?" Dean asks, softly. "You can just have a taste. I know you want it."

Sam's eyes flutter closed. "That's not what I want."

It's gotta be. There's fucking heat flowing between them, tension that's building moment by moment, the excitement that Dean felt with Sam heavy on top of him–

Oh.

Yeah. Sometimes bloodlust and plain old lust gets a little mixed up and Dean can't tell the difference.

"I see," Dean says, and he wets his lower lip with his tongue. He shifts his body, his arms, and he pulls himself closer to Sam, rubbing up on him to connect, physically, and all the nerves in his body seem to wake up hungry. "Yeah," Dean says. "I can think of worse ways to spend eternity in a loop."

Sam's face crumples. It twists into an expression of pain, of crumbling restraint.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, his lips brushing against the corner of Sam's mouth as he speaks. He rocks his hips, and Sam's hard, holy shit, a solid, thick pressure against Dean's body. "You know, I gotta tell you something. Remember that hammer? You know I been dreaming about putting that through your skull, but it might be more fun to put my cock in you instead."

Sam grunts, and he turns his head, and his lips are open against Dean's, and he's breathing hard, but they're not kissing, not yet.

"On your knees," Dean breathes, exerting downward pressure with his arms on Sam's shoulders. "Join me in the dirt, Sammy."

He can feel Sam going, feel Sam's knees bend, buckle. Sam's head slips through the loop of Dean's arms, and Dean's looking forward to the warmth of a wet mouth around his cock, because it's been a fucking long time.

But Sam twists away, twists out of Dean's grasp, then he's out the door and gone, leaving Dean hard and aching and high and dry.

"Fucks sake, Sam," Dean bitches.

---

Dean wakes with his wrists cuffed to the bed.

He opens his eyes. There's the smell of fresh paint in his room and an overwhelming sense of relief, because it's been a fucking long time since he's been himself.

"Sam," he calls. "Sammy? It's over."

It's a while before Sam appears. He's disheveled and wide-eyed and he looks–understandably–like he's been through the wringer.

"Holy water," Dean says. "Test me, Sammy. I'm back."

Sam disappears, and this time, he's back in a flash, and he's pouring holy water from a flask over Dean's head.

Nothing happens. Sam's face crumples in relief and there are tears in his eyes when he unlocks the cuffs.

For the first time in months and months, Dean's arms are free, and he throws them around Sam and hugs him tight.

Sam's whole body is stiff. It's not surprising. Dean put Sam through hell these last hundred loops, but Dean holds on, until Sam softens in his arms, relaxes into Dean's embrace.