Written for a Dean&Benny bloodlust prompt in the 2012 Supernatural Rarepair Shipfest.
Supernatural. Dean&Benny. R. ~800 words. Violence.
The closest he gets is that it’s hunting at its finest. There’s no need to worry about the innocent or of making too much of a scene; he can do what he’s good at and the only black mark is if Cas will see what this place is turning him into.
Born From It
There’s an explosion of flesh and bone, a splatter of gore where a body had stood seconds before. Blood hangs in the air like morning mist, and Dean can taste it on the back of his tongue, can feel it gather on his face and turn to droplets on his cheek.
“Brother, that was a messy one,” Benny says, breathless. Bent nearly in two, hands on his knees, he looks like he’s never fought harder. Raising his head, his gaze hangs on Dean’s jaw, at where the blood has gathered now, dripping slowly onto the fraying collar of his coat.
Once upon a time, Dean would’ve wiped the mess away and snarled a warning. He would’ve pointed his blade at Benny’s smirking face and told him to keep moving. Things change. Now he claps Benny on the back and they turn together, shoulder to shoulder, no words needed to pick up the pace and continue on through the trees. Slowly, the blood on his face dries and flakes away like ash.
For days (weeks?) now, Dean has felt something in the distance pulling at his bones to turn him like a compass needle. Maybe it’s the way out–Benny’s way–or Sam had finally found a door and lit the candle towards home. Maybe it’s only a nest of something foul and hungry, murky water writhing with sirens calling down death on their own heads. His pulse leaps, adrenaline still thick in his veins, and beside him Benny goes tense.
“You hear something?” Dean asks, eyes scanning the distance.
Benny’s smile shows teeth, the biting kind. “Only you. Still excited after the killing’s been done, I see.”
“Fuck off,” Dean says, returning the grin. Secretly, he savors the thrill of their pact, of the fear of being bitten again. All of this could be a ruse, a monster’s sick game after who knows how many years of playing the usual sort of cat and mouse Purgatory demands of its captives. This thing that they have, it’s good though, in a way Dean can’t hope to put into words. The closest he gets is that it’s hunting at its finest. There’s no need to worry about the innocent or of making too much of a scene; he can do what he’s good at and the only black mark is if Cas will see what this place is turning him into.
Miles pass, a dozen or a hundred, Dean can never quite tell. He gets tired in this place, but doesn’t seem to need to sleep. He dozes anyway with Benny warm at his back, his deep voice going slow and lazy as he tells Dean stories about what it used to be like in his day. Sleep doesn’t really get rid of the weariness, but he’s found that killing helps hone the edge of his mind. With the way creatures are drawn to them, there’s a lot of death to be dealt.
When the next wave comes, he and Benny move in formation–circling together in a dance they seem to have been born for–cutting and hacking and so damn efficient at dropping bodies that Dean wants to howl he feels so fucking good. The bodies fall in a ring, pale limbs tangled like roots while around them foulness soaks into the leaves, and the look he shares with Benny as they clasp hands in triumph is electric, hungry.
His blood is singing and Benny can hear it: the hard, thumping melody, the heavy beat that’s as black and vicious as the forest is bleak. There’s blood on Dean’s face again, streaked through the grime like camouflage paint. His fingers burn where they’re wrapped around Benny’s wrist, and Benny’s grip on his own wrist tightens to jerk him close.
“You all right, Dean?” Benny asks. His brow is creased, his eyes narrow and searching. If he’s faking the concern there, Dean can’t tell. He’s not faking the filthy joy of the slaughter though, maybe doesn’t even know that it makes him walk taller, keeps his breathing ragged like he’s rounding third base towards a marathon night of rough fucking.
Right now Dean feels ten feet tall and his lungs are ready to burst. He tightens his grip, warmth of his hand bleeding out into Benny’s chill flesh. The bodies around them begin to putrefy, skin sloughing off bone.
“More than you know,” Dean says, hefting his blade to rest on his shoulder.
With a sharp nod, Benny releases him and gestures in the direction that already pulls at his core. He turns his back to Dean, vulnerable, trusting, and Dean follows.
They’re not born to blood but born from it, and Dean licks his lip to taste iron and victory.
Onward, brother, onward.