incarn_demand

TITLE: The Incarnadine Demand
TITLE (CHAPTER): Stirring Addiction
RATING: NC-17
RATING (CHAPTER): PG
SUMMARY: When Sam and Dean return to Miami in pursuit of the source of a series of strange hauntings, Sam is forced to reunite with an old acquaintance, Dexter Morgan. Meanwhile, Dean unexpectedly meets an old flame from his time down under.
AUTHORED/BETA-ED: toreadore_rose/frostbite02
PARING(S): Sam Winchester/Dexter Morgan, Dean Winchester/Debra Morgan, Dean Winchester/Brian Moser
WORD COUNT: 2727
DISCLAIMER: I do not own either Supernatural OR Dexter, and am making zero money off this!! Just for my fun and amusement, folks~
NOTES: Contains spoilers up to S04E04 of Dexter, and S05 of Supernatural =3



“Vengeance ghosts?” it always felt just a little juvenile indulging in ideas like this, even if Dexter had every reason to believe Sam was telling the truth. He’d seen what the man could do after all, and if he could steer a van with his mind there was no reason to believe he would lie about ghosts. The idea unnerved him a little though; how many angry ghosts had he created, and banished with their remains to the bottom of the ocean?

“Yeah,” Sam slipped a finger under the knot of his tie, tugging it loose. No reason to keep up the charade around Dexter; he had already seen under the mask. “The crazy thing is, it’s the same three ghosts. Daniela, Mellissa and John Trinton,” Sam pulled out a map, spreading it across the dinning room table. Dexter emerged from the kitchen, immaculate “kiss the cook” apron tied at the small of his back. He followed the crisp red lines drawn onto the map with his eyes, impressed with the complexity of the pattern.

“You tracked him all this way?” his fingers traced the elaborate lines; thirty miles this way, thirty miles back, ninety in a new direction all together. It seemed Trinity’s compulsion to do everything in threes extended farther than Dexter had ever imagined.

“It was kind of an accident,” Sam admitted, pushing his hand through his hair in a sheepish gesture. “We came to investigate hauntings, and it didn’t take us long to realize that the ghosts in all these locations were the same three ghosts.”

“How is that possible?” a beeper went off in the kitchen and Dexter’s expression soured into irritation; damn food, interrupting his puzzling. He stalked off into the kitchen and took a pot of veggies off the burner; the food preparation was mechanical, his mind focused intently on reasoning out this new information on Miami’s new star serial killer.

“We’re not sure,” Sam left his map after devoting a few seconds to scanning the lines, hoping something would jump out at him. With no spontaneous revelations he joined Dexter in the kitchen, “We think it’s some kind of ritual. Far as we can tell, your Trinity is recreating the deaths of his sister, mother, and father where ever his movement pattern says he should go. It’s probably part of the ritual.”

“Hmm… and I’m guessing that leaves you with copies of the same angry ghosts to deal with?” Dexter frowned thoughtfully, spooning the veggies into two plates, along side the reheated pork chops and scalloped potatoes. “Wouldn’t he need to leave some kind of remains to recreate the ghosts?”

“Yeah, maybe. None that we could find, and it’s hard to tell if we don’t know the details of the ritual. The best thing we can really do is find Trinity, and see what he says.”

Dexter brought the plates to the table, pulling off the apron and folding it neatly over the back of the chair. They ate quietly, papery small talk floating between them between bites, and murmurs of ‘Mmm’ and ‘this is good.’

“Your wife’s a good cook,” the words came awkwardly from his mouth, and Sam tried to smile to make up for it. “You know, I never pictured you as the type of guy to get married. Though, I guess if I could turn myself around, you could too.”

The silence between them was suddenly thick, and heavy. It may have been a mistake to assume that Dexter had stopped killing because he was married with children, or it might have been only logical. From the carefully composed smile sitting crooked on Dexter’s lips and that unnameable spark in his eyes, Sam knew that he had been wrong. Dexter placed down his fork, weaving his fingers together as he watched Sam from across the kitchen table.

“What made you assume I had stopped?” there was a leaden knot at the pit of Sam’s stomach. The words rushed his mouth at once, tripping and tangling on his tongue. Dexter averted his eyes politely to let Sam compose himself, his smile curving at the tips.

“You’re married,” he finally managed, gesturing to Dexter’s ring. “You have kids… I guess I just thought it would be… too hard. Too dangerous.”

“My addiction isn’t, and has never been a choice. I do it because I want to, and because I have to.” There was a long moment of tense soundlessness and still. It seemed they were done with eating, so Dexter stood and gathered the plates.

Sam would help with the dishes; an unspoken curtsy of fellow a neat freak. The water was near scolding, covered with a thick bubbly film as Dexter submerged the plates; he washed, Sam dried. Gentle dish-clicking and cutlery-kissing filled up the silence, moulded it into a more comfortable Quiet.

“So,” Dexter didn’t even look up as he spoke, attempting to create a ‘small-talk’ feel to his impending question; it was difficult, Dexter seldom said anything without valid reason. “You’ve… turned yourself around. What does that mean, Sam?”

He almost fumbled a plate.

“It means… I’m clean. I don’t…” Sam trailed off, swallowing the knot in his throat. There had to be a more tactful way of saying ‘suck demon blood anymore,’ “… do that sort of thing, anymore.” There, that was adequate. Sam pretended not to notice the probing glance, focusing a little too intently on stacking the dry dishes on the counter for later sorting.

“Mm,” Dexter responded, turning the new information around and around in his head. “It must be… a relief,” it was a thought he found startlingly unpleasant. There had been a time when Dexter was young, that he wished he could have been normal. It would have made things easy, and now if they were easier for Sam, he should be happy for him… but he was not. Dexter found, after a few long moments of careful self-reflection, that he was not happy at all. How curious.

“Yeah,” there was conviction in Sam’s voice, but less than Dexter had expected. “It makes things easier, most of the time.”

“Except when you miss it,” Dexter responded with the wisdom only a fellow monster would have. Sam paused in his task, jaw clenching. His eyes pressed shut in a show of internal stubbornness, a spell of tension rolling through his body and clenching his muscles. It was quite the reaction, superficial as it all was.

And it was superficial, Dexter knew, even if Sam did not.

“I don’t,” he said, finishing with the last dish and stepping back. Dexter drained the sink, gliding over to the neatly stacked dishes and beginning to organize them away.

“Mm,” it was a light and unassuming smile, but it said all it needed to; Dexter did not believe him, and there was nothing Sam could do to convince him. “I would miss him, if he was suddenly gone,” Dexter’s voice was beautiful when it was blank. It was his true voice, Sam supposed, his natural state. Black ink that spelled nothing but only stained. When he spoke like that, his blood was always hotter on his tongue.

Sam shuddered inwardly, shoving the thought away.

“My Dark Passenger and I… we have far to much fun together for me to wave goodbye, if it were only that simple,” Dexter turned, leaning against the counter, ignoring the rest of the stacked and patiently waiting dishes. As Sam lingered back, bumping blindly into the kitchen table (embarrassed smile; ‘I meant to do that‘) he inwardly fumbled under Dexter‘s eyes; should he be pitied, or envied? Dexter was so sure, so confident, his killing addiction warped into something not quite good, but useful. Could Sam have ever been like him; could he have shaped his own addiction? It was too much to consider.

“With yours gone, do you ever feel…” he trailed, searching for the right word, but suddenly a spike of pain derailed him. Dexter swerved back, an irritated frown on his face quickly muffled by a look of surprise.

Blood. Seemed when his hand had wandered behind him to clutch the counter, that vicious steak knife had been waiting to bite into the flesh of his hand. Dexter frowned at the smiling cut, flexing his fingers as the blood bubbled up from the crescent wound. With a small deflation of his shoulders he drifted across the kitchen, approaching Sam.

“Dexter?” Sam paled, fumbling to back up where there was no space to do so, bumping into the table. He couldn’t possibly expect--?

Dexter gestured to the cabinet just behind the table, where the first aid kit could be seen sitting behind a glass door. His brow quirked, the corner of his mouth curling. “Just going for the first aid kit, Sam,” he said, slipping passed his guest. The smell of the blood hit Sam like a blow to the head, and before he could think he had grabbed Dexter’s wrist. He was just going to look, to breathe it in, that was all. His mouth went dry as he starred down at the wound; a tempting red grin glimmering on Dexter’s palm. It looked superimposed on his flesh. It was like gravity as he lowered his head; there was no resistance.

Sam hissed as a sharp pain doused his scalp; Dexter had grabbed his hair, hauling him up so they were face to face, nose to nose. His expression was fierce and unyielding.

“You said it was better to be clean; I’d hate to be the reason you fell off the wagon,” Dexter said, putting barely any effort into synthesising believable sympathy. This wasn’t about feeling sorry for Sam, after all.

And now that he couldn’t have it, he wanted it all the more. Sam pulled against Dexter’s grip, craning his head down towards his bleeding palm. “Let me go,” barely a snarl, his eyes warning as he glared up at Dexter, small quirk of his mouth baring his teeth.

“No,” Dexter’s grip tightened, pulling Sam away from his wounded hand, looking hard into his eyes.

“Dex--”

“No,” they were close, too close; Sam could taste Dexter’s breath.

It wasn’t clear who moved first; perhaps they moved at once. Sam’s mouth needed to be occupied, if only to take the edge off his temptation. The kiss was brutal, biting. Sam’s back was to the kitchen wall in an instant, Dexter’s hands fisted at either side of his shirt. They fought through the kiss; shoved, bit, grinded. Breathlessness settled in both their chests and constricted their throats; they sucked air through kiss-swollen lips in the brief moments between the crushing contact.

Sam could almost taste it on Dexter’s tongue (probing hungry inside his mouth); the darkness, that thing that was born inside him all those years ago. Dexter’s Dark Passenger wasn’t something he invited inside but it was there, and it liked the taste of Sam’s mouth.

“Dex--” his mouth was covered in a biting kiss, Dexter’s hands snatching at his wrist. A gasp worked it’s way through Sam’s clenched jaw, his eyes near rolling back as a knee pressed firm between his legs. Somehow, he found his senses in the haze.

“Dexter,” his wrists wormed free of the elder man’s powerful grip, hands diving into his hair, fisting. Dexter paused, a blurry look in his eyes as if he were just waking from a very vivid dream. It was the same look that glossed his features when he finished a kill, and his darkness slid sated to the backseat, allowing Dexter back at the wheel. He was panting lightly, pinked lips parted. His fingers twitched like he was trying to gain the feeling in them, and unravelled numbly from Sam’s shirt.

And even as Sam waited for Dexter to come down, he grappled with the gnawing urge to haul him forward by the hair, and crush their mouths together.

“Dexter… I don’t want to do this again, we can’t.”

“Yes, I know.”

~*~*~*~

It was a few hours later that Sam slipped into the dark hotel room, his body aching and exhausted. A quiet groan fell from his lips on a sigh and the familiar feeling of withdrawal kneaded his bones like a sharp-clawed feline, settling in for the long hall.

It frustrated him, though he tried to push the feeling back; why would there be withdrawal for the blood he didn’t drink? Perhaps his addiction to Dexter’s tainted blood was so powerful the withdrawal was residual; his body simply remembering the ache Sam’s denial to indulge in his vampiric (parasitic) urges left carved into him.

He was shaking, pale, and out of breath. The sound of Dean shifting and sitting up in the dark nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“Shit, Sammy it’s just me,” Dean flicked on the bedside light, blinking at Sam with dark sleep-laden eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he arranged a relieved smile on his face, stepping out of the doorway and peeling off his jacket. The paleness had seeped into his arms, the shaking rattling his hands. Sam set his jaw, forcing himself into a state of untelling still. “You just startled me.”

“You sure?” Dean pushed himself up, shedding the sheets from his shoulders. He noted the paleness, the shaking, the tiny beads of sweat clinging to his brow. If it were any other place, Dean may have smirked and asked Sam if he had gotten laid, but not Miami. The last time they had been here, Sam had left with something Dean could only now recognize as a wicked case of demon blood withdrawal. At the time he couldn’t name what was wrong with his little brother, but now that he new what Sam had been going through it was all to clear. Warning bells buzzed inside Dean’s head as he watched his brother struggle to hide the same symptoms he had left Miami with four years ago (only then, they had been ten times as bed). Sam shifted his shoulders uncomfortably under Dean’s heavy gaze, walking towards his own motel bed and flopping down.

“I’m tired,” he said in his best nonchalant voice, in no mood to deal with his brother’s probing questions.

“Where were you, Sammy?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out,” the silence was growing tense, and Sam could feel Dean’s eyes hard on his back.

“Sam--”

“Out with Dexter, okay? Now can I go to sleep?”

“Fine,” Dean muttered, rolling onto his back. He listened to the ceiling fan whirr above his head, and the sound of Sam’s breathing. He was forcing it slow, so Dean would think he was asleep; there was something he didn’t want to talk about, something he was keeping from Dean. Was he with Dexter at all? A good way was to ask him…

But as Dean pulled out his cell phone, he stalled. Dexter… they’d met him and his sister the last time they were in Miami, investigating the disappearance of over thirty missing people. Not long after the Winchesters arrived, a cash of bodies was found and they ruled the disappearances as the work of a human killer and therefore, none of their business.

But while Sam and Dean were digging around for information, that had discovered that one Dexter Morgan had a habit of withdrawing cold case files from the vault, and the subjects of those files were more often than not the people that had disappeared. Dean had volunteered to interview Debra for information on her foster brother, leaving Sam to tail Dexter himself. He had followed him all the way to an Narcotics Anonymous meeting, and then… Dean hadn’t heard from him for the rest of the night.

After that point, Sam had not been around much at all, until a few days later when they decided to leave.

Maybe there was something Dexter wasn’t telling him. It made sense, now that Dean thought about it. He looked back at his brother (now really asleep) and let out a tense sigh. Well, it was worth investigating either way.

Dean stumbled into a clean set of clothes, waiting until he was out the door before dialling Dexter’s number (which Debra had insisted he might need, luckily).

“Hey, Dex? I got some new info on the case, where was you live again? I need to review the details with you… yeah, right now.”

~*~*~*~

And there is chapter four! Hope you all enjoyed, and thank you to those who reviewed the previous chapter!! The next chapter will have Brian in it, just a sneak peak >3 Thanks for reading!!